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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Atlas grows out of that question.

Chapter One: Through the Static

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

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

Information could simply be drowned out by static.

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

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

Noise became the new censorship.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two: The second silencing of Sinn Sisamouth

Imagine if your favourite song disappeared, forever. 

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

I had never heard of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happened again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Additional research by Masho Lomashvili and Irina Matchavariani

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It's fair to say Trump probably didn't give a damn about Misley Mandarin’s opinion. But the self-styled “interim first minister” of Chagos, who recently upped sticks from Britain in a “super, super secret” mission to take up residence on the long-deserted Peros Banhos atoll, gave Washington his official “blessing” anyway.

I spoke via WhatsApp to the 47-year-old Chagossian in his base camp: basically a few tents, with a solar generator and a Starlink satellite connection enabling him to beam reels to his 10,000 Facebook followers. He quit his job as a bus driver in London to come here, determined to halt Britain’s plan to hand over what he considers to be his land to Mauritius after a long-running decolonization battle.

“We’re British citizens here. We’re not moving,” he said.

Mandarin wants the land of his forebears to remain under the rule of Britain, the former colonial ruler that booted out about 1,500 native Chagossians, including his own father, to make room for the U.S. military base in the late 1960s. The removal consigned Chagossians to a miserable fate in newly independent Mauritius.

Now on home turf, Mandarin, his 72-year-old dad, and two other Chagossians have dodged immediate deportation: they’ve obtained an injunction from a British court allowing them to stay until a hearing on March 13. Since their arrival, two more Chagossians have joined them. “We can do self-determination right now. We don't want to cut any links with Britain. We're not looking for independence,” Mandarin says.

“The next generation will decide on independence.”

Marriage of convenience

Life on Île du Coin, the largest island on Peros Banhos, is simple. The daily routine revolves around catching fish and finding a supply of fresh water. The new residents collect overnight rainfall in tarpaulin sheets to drink. Bathing involves a dip in the sea to wash off dirt, followed by a splash of precious rainwater to rinse. 

Mandarin appears to be relishing the experience. Soon after his arrival, the former army cook, who has bags of swagger, posted a video of himself cooking up “naan fromaaz”, or cheese naan, in a skillet on a makeshift stove. “Pa bizin madam isi mwa!” he jokes. I don't need a wife here!

The Chagossians arrived on the island on 16 February, accompanied by former army officer Adam Holloway, a former Conservative MP who recently defected to the radical right Reform UK party.

Reform, which is surging in the polls, is leading opposition to a bilateral treaty that would see Britain cede sovereignty of Chagos to Mauritius, while paying an average of £101-million ($135-million) per year to maintain a lease on Diego Garcia over the coming century. Negotiations began after the International Court of Justice ruled in 2019 that Britain should transfer sovereignty of Chagos to Mauritius “as rapidly as possible.”

The sleek yacht that brought the group on the five-day journey from Sri Lanka and travels back and forth with supplies was paid for by British-Thai businessman Christopher Harborne, a mega-donor to Reform. Its name is No Excuse – as in, “no excuse for us not to stay on Chagos,” says Mandarin.

Reform UK and the Chagossians make for curious bedfellows. On the one hand, there's a political party that has floated plans to create a Trump-inspired, ICE-style agency to carry out mass deportations in Britain. 

On the other, there’s Mandarin’s dad, finally back home after being brutally evicted from his atoll at the age of 14. “I will not go back to England. I want to die here,” said Michel Mandarin, as he set foot on his cherished Chagossian soil.

The unlikely pairing has had cause for joint celebration. Two days after they arrived, Trump withdrew his approval for the UK-Mauritius transfer treaty, which was supposed to provide legal certainty for the base in a hypothetical world governed by the rules-based international order. 

It turned out the president was annoyed at British Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s refusal to sanction the use of Diego Garcia for the Iran offensive. “DO NOT GIVE AWAY DIEGO GARCIA!” he told the British prime minister. The treaty was paused. Then war broke out and a beleaguered Starmer agreed to “defensive” strikes from Diego Garcia.

On Île du Coin, war seems like a distant prospect, even if it is potentially less than 200km (about 125 miles) away in Diego Garcia. As Tuesday drew to a close, there had so far been neither sight nor sound of the US’s deadly B-52, B-1, and B-2 bombers in the slightly overcast skies.

Kicking the can

Mandarin left Mauritius at age 22. He joined the British army in a bid to improve his lot and later became a bus driver in south London. He says he always felt like a second-class citizen in Mauritius, with “no opportunity to progress”.

Rights groups have charted how evictees from Chagos struggled to cope in Mauritius, many of them ending up trapped in an urban nightmare of poverty, mental illness, and addiction — with little sympathy from their hosts. Many Chagossians left for Britain after securing citizenship rights.

Now the fate of their homeland is being decided by a treaty negotiated over their heads. Last year, a UN committee on racial discrimination warned that the treaty could perpetuate “long-standing violations” of Chagossian rights.

The treaty says Mauritius is “free” to resettle islanders on any of the Chagos islands — except Diego Garcia. But there is no binding obligation for it to do so and the exclusion of Diego Garcia rankles. The deal also includes a £40-million trust fund to be managed by Mauritius, which has been criticised as a ruse by Britain to avoid paying proper compensation. 

“People talk about decolonisation, but if Britain did the wrongs, Britain should have to repair the wrongs — not kick the can to Mauritius,” says Mandarin. “Or they will get away with it.”

One of the reels he has filmed on Île du Coin features an industrial oven that was used by colonial officials to burn the islanders’ dogs before they were evicted. Officials threatened the islanders with the same fate if they refused to leave. Britain must pay compensation, he says.

'Belongers'

Mandarin’s joint odyssey with Reform UK has provoked mixed feelings among the Chagossian diaspora in Britain, Seychelles, and Mauritius. 

“He’s put us back in the centre of the story, but will we be overshadowed by Reform’s agenda?” asked one Chagossian in the English town of Crawley – home to a 3,500-strong Chagossian community — who is also opposed to the deal.

As the treaty was being negotiated, Chagossians’ concerns were largely swept under the carpet as a complicating factor in a pragmatic decolonization drive.

The hard right has capitalized on the deal’s major flaw, positioning itself as the main champion of Chagossians, just as their ancestral land finds itself embroiled in a conflict that could upend the global order.

One video recently posted by Reform leader Nigel Farage saw him express outrage after being “denied access” to Île du Coin for the delivery of “humanitarian” supplies to Mandarin and his men, racking up a cool 4.7 million views on X. 

Asked whether he is being used by Reform and its supporters, Mandarin is sanguine. He says he also contacted the left-wing Green Party for support, but it never replied. “Only Reform responded. At the end of the day, it’s politics. You have to make your own judgements for the sake of your people,” he says. 

He views the upcoming hearing as a potential “turning point in our fight”. The injunction barring their removal was granted on the basis that their location was too far from the base to pose a security threat. “If the court says they can’t remove us, then maybe more people will come,” he says. “This is our people. This is our time. We’re not visitors — we’re belongers.”

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Albertans queuing to sign a petition, even one to secede from Canada, could never compete for attention with the tragic, disorienting developments that filled the first long month of 2026: the ICE shooting in Minneapolis, Donald Trump's bombastic threats to annex Greenland, and Canadian prime minister Mark Carney's tense warnings from Davos about middle powers ending up "on the menu." 

But for those who've tracked how sovereignty collapses, these winter queues had an eerie resonance.

Almost as soon as he took office for his second term, Trump began calling Canada "the 51st state," declaring that the country "only works" if it becomes part of the United States. He'd refuse to use proper titles, referring to Canadian prime ministers as "Governor Trudeau" and later "Governor Carney." He posted altered maps showing Canada as U.S. territory. It played as crude humor, vintage Trump bluster designed to dominate the news cycle and unsettle an ally he viewed as weak. But by January 2026, as Trump’s threats to annex Greenland dominated headlines, his drip-drip taunting of Canada had calcified into something concrete on the ground in Alberta, had given shape and momentum to a once low-key secessionist sentiment.

The Alberta Prosperity Project needs 177,732 signatures by May to trigger a referendum on secession from Canada. Their representatives claim they've made "repeated visits" to Washington to meet with senior Trump administration officials, meetings they say took place inside the kind of secure facility reserved for discussing classified intelligence. 

Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent publicly declared that Alberta should "come down into the U.S." as a "natural partner." Republican Congressman Andy Ogles told the BBC that Albertans "would prefer not to be part of Canada and be part of the United States because we are winning day in and day out." According to the separatists' own materials, their vision includes a "common market" with the U.S., zero tariffs, adoption of the U.S. dollar and construction of two oil pipelines through American territory. Spokesperson Jeffrey Rath has claimed the U.S. would potentially provide a $500 billion line of credit to the newly independent Alberta.

Widening the Overton window

A referendum on Albertan secession, should it happen, appears almost certain to fail. Polls show only 24% of Albertans support joining the U.S., with 65% strongly opposed. Most media outside Canada has treated this as a fringe story. But the language being used by the Trump administration in support of secession is becoming a textbook example of how the Overton window shifts: say the outrageous thing, let it be dismissed as mischievous troublemaking, and then watch as domestic actors race to occupy the newly opened political space. Repeat until the "absurd" becomes debatable, and the debatable becomes negotiable. When a U.S. Treasury Secretary publicly advocates for a Canadian province to secede and join America, he's not predicting the future — he's manufacturing a present in which such conversations become possible. There’s no master plan; the chaos itself creates opportunity.

The timing matters. Mark Carney has emerged as the strongest voice pushing back against Trump's increasingly aggressive rhetoric, most notably in his Davos speech warning that middle powers risk ending up "on the menu." Daniel Béland, a political scientist at McGill University who studies Canadian federalism, sees Alberta separatism as potentially serving a strategic purpose for the Trump administration: "Mark Carney is standing up to Trump. We saw what happened in Davos, right? So maybe they see that what's happening in Alberta is weakening both Canada and Carney."

The reason this story matters has less to do with the petition itself than with the narrative infrastructure being built around it. Recently, the exiled Russian news agency Meduza obtained a manual that the Kremlin had distributed to state-owned and pro-government media outlets instructing them how to cover Trump's Greenland standoff. The directives were explicit: emphasize that territorial expansion is what "strong countries" do, that Trump is "aiming for Vladimir Putin's success," that conflicts with European countries "will be forgotten, but the territories will remain." Journalists were told to frame NATO as "collapsing" and Putin as "forcing America to engage in equal dialogue" while European leaders "halfheartedly protest on social media."

For Russian and Chinese state outlets, coverage of Albertan separatism is in keeping with the broad narrative that Western alliances are fracturing and sovereignty is negotiable for resource-rich regions. Former Trump adviser Steve Bannon, meanwhile, has spent the past year articulating what he calls a doctrine of "hemispheric defense," framing Canada not as an ally but as territory that needs to be controlled. A "rapidly changing" Canada, he has said, in which 25% of the population is "foreign-born" means "these people are hostile to the United States of America." Canada, Bannon claims, “is the next Ukraine."

While Bannon has spoken extensively about hemispheric defence and Canada’s strategic value as a U.S. protectorate, there's been no official movement towards such a goal — no Pentagon study, no Congressional authorization hearings, no legal pathway to annexation. Trump can troll, Bannon can theorize, Bessent can advocate, but no one appears to be seriously suggesting executing a plan. The damage isn't in the doing, it’s in the destabilization, it’s in normalizing the conversation.

A parallel playbook doesn't mean identical outcomes. There will be no little green men, no masked special forces in Calgary. But in 2014, when Russia entered Crimea, it wasn't military occupation alone, it began with the systematic deployment of narratives that made annexation appear inevitable, even locally driven, before troops ever arrived. And now the Kremlin argues hypocrisy when the United Nations Secretary General says the principle of the “self-determination of peoples has a number of requisites.” 

Déjà vu

My view is shaped by what I've witnessed: Russian-backed separatists taking over my grandparents' house in Abkhazia in the 1990s, years of reporting from South Ossetia before Russia seized it in 2008, and standing outside a Ukrainian military base in Perevalnoe in 2014, watching Russian soldiers in unmarked uniforms take control while Moscow denied they were even there.

The annexation of Crimea showed how the ground for seizing sovereignty is laid through manufactured political theater. A politician whose party won 4% of the vote in 2010 was installed at gunpoint and held a referendum under occupation that reported 96.7% of people supported joining Russia. He's still in charge.

Provinces and regions challenge sovereignty regularly. In Scotland's 2014 referendum on whether it should be independent of the United Kingdom, nearly 45% voted ‘yes.’ Catalonia's 2017 referendum saw 48% back independence from Spain before Madrid blocked it through force, both physical and legal. Quebec came within 1% of secession in 1995, a margin so narrow it prompted federal legislation defining how provinces could leave.

What distinguishes Alberta isn't the referendum mechanism, it's the involvement of a foreign power. In every previous case, challenges to sovereignty remained internal disputes. Spain's government opposed Catalonia, but secessionists didn’t visit France to seek €500 billion in credit from the French government. Canada addressed Quebec's grievances, but the U.S. Treasury Secretary at the time didn't suggest that Quebec should "come down into the U.S."

The overt encouragement of Albertan secession is without precedent among Western democracies. Canada faces provocation by a superpower neighbor whose cabinet officials actively encourage provincial secession, whose political figures meet separatist leaders in secure intelligence facilities, and whose state apparatus treats a G7 ally's territorial integrity as negotiable. "This is something that, at least to my knowledge, is unprecedented," says Béland, referring to US State Department meetings with Alberta separatists. 

The architecture of erosion

The conditions in Alberta and Crimea are, of course, fundamentally different: no troops, no armed separatists, and Alberta is a democracy in which roughly 76% oppose joining the U.S., if not necessarily Albertan independence. What's comparable though is the vocabulary being used in the U.S.: the systematic framing of sovereignty as conditional, resources as rightfully belonging to a more powerful neighbor, and local grievances as requiring external "solutions." 

The rhetorical architecture that made Crimea possible is now being constructed around Alberta. That architecture requires foundation stones, and Alberta has them. When the province joined Canada in 1905, Ottawa retained control of Alberta’s natural resources though Ontario and Quebec got to keep theirs. This inequity was corrected in 1930, but the resentment lingered. In 1980, Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau imposed a 25% federal tax on Alberta's oil and seized control of pricing. The backlash was fierce: unemployment soared, projects collapsed, and "let the eastern bastards freeze in the dark" became a rallying cry. Separatist movements have flared and faded for decades, always returning to the same core grievance: Alberta produces 90% of Canada's oil, Canada sells 95% of it to the United States, yet Alberta feels like a resource colony for Eastern Canada's benefit.

Russia exploited similar dynamics in Crimea: real economic marginalization, language politics, the feeling of being a colony for Kyiv's benefit. External powers don't create these grievances, but they weaponize them. And just as in Crimea, it's indigenous populations raising the alarm first. The Sturgeon Lake Cree Nation filed a lawsuit arguing that Alberta cannot hold a referendum without indigenous consent, and explicitly warning that a referendum "will enable foreign interference from the most powerful neighbor to the south." In Crimea, the indigenous Tatar population boycotted the 2014 referendum and suffered systematic repression afterward.

Alberta's premier, Danielle Smith, has walked a careful line, speaking about her desire to stay a part of Canada while defending the need to hold a referendum. She met Trump at Mar-a-Lago days before his inauguration last year, speaking of the "need to preserve our independence while we grow this critical partnership." But when the referendum petition was approved, she framed it as a democratic duty: "You need to have a pressure-release valve on issues that people care about." According to the Globe and Mail, Canadian defense officials have recently modeled a U.S. invasion scenario for the first time in over a century: a theoretical planning exercise, not an operational war plan. The modeling assumed American forces would overcome Canadian positions in as little as 2 days, prompting examination of asymmetric responses: sabotage, drones, dispersed resistance. Officials stressed an invasion remains highly unlikely. But allies don't conduct theoretical exercises in fratricide unless something fundamental has shifted.

The shifting burden

Stories matter. The current collapse of Europe's post-Cold War security arrangement began with narratives that made that collapse imaginable.

From the mid-2000s, Russian state television started hosting marginal voices questioning Ukraine's right to exist. In 2008, the Russian daily Kommersant reported that in a private meeting, Putin told George W. Bush that Ukraine was "not even a state" and that the Kremlin would be encouraging secession in both Crimea and eastern Ukraine. Six years of this rhetoric made Ukrainian sovereignty negotiable before a single soldier crossed the border.

Trump has spent over a year declaring Canada "only works" as part of the United States while his Treasury Secretary publicly advocates for Alberta's secession and Bannon, whose finger is frequently firmly on MAGA’s pulse, calls the country "hostile" and "the next Ukraine." Béland warns that the damage from this process extends beyond the referendum's outcome: "Even if the ‘no’ wins, the remain side wins, and even if it's an easy victory... having a referendum campaign is highly divisive in and of itself, and it opens the door to potential U.S. interference."

Sovereignty doesn't collapse with a single referendum. It erodes in the accumulation of moments when defending it appears unreasonable, when maintaining it requires constant justification, when the burden of proof shifts from those who would divide to those who would preserve.

With additional reporting from Masho Lomashvili

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The post Imagining the unimaginable annexation of Alberta appeared first on Coda Story.

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Over the past week, the world has been fixated on Venezuela. On the spectacle, the shock, the fallout. We have been watching something else too: Southeast Asia.

The Philippines chairs ASEAN this year. For months, Manila has anchored its South China Sea strategy in international law — the same law a UN tribunal used to rule in the Philippines’ favor against Beijing’s territorial claims. It is the foundation of everything: diplomacy, deterrence, legitimacy.

Then last week, the Philippines’ closest ally carried out a military operation in Venezuela, captured a sitting head of state, bombed the capital, and announced it would “run the country” to secure access to oil reserves. International law scholars are already calling it one of the most serious violations of the UN Charter in decades.

In Manila, opposition politicians and foreign policy commentators are warning that this leaves the Philippines strategically exposed. Not because they sympathize with Nicolás Maduro, but because you cannot invoke international law against China on Monday when your ally demolishes it on Friday.

This is exactly the vulnerability the Kremlin has spent years trying to manufacture: a world in which Western appeals to law sound selective, self-serving, and hollow.

For decades, Vladimir Putin has worked to exploit the gap between what the West says and what it does. Between the values it preaches and the compromises it makes. Between the “rules-based order” it defends and the shortcuts it takes when those rules become inconvenient.

In 2019, Fiona Hill — then Donald Trump’s Russia advisor — testified that Moscow had floated the idea of a Venezuela–Ukraine “swap.” If Washington wanted Russia out of its backyard, perhaps it should reconsider its position on Ukraine. At the time, many Western analysts dismissed this as bluster or fantasy.

What was missed is that this idea was not confined to back channels.

Around the same time, Russian state media  was openly socializing the same logic — discussing Venezuela and Ukraine as interchangeable pieces on a geopolitical chessboard, normalizing the language of trade-offs and swaps. Not as scandal. Not as provocation. As realism.

Russia’s message was clear: this is how grown-up power works.

The swap was never really about Venezuela and Ukraine. It was about training audiences — at home and abroad — to accept that smaller countries are negotiable. That sovereignty is transactional. That influence is something you barter.

Putin was playing a long game.

Nearly seven years later, Donald Trump invoked the Monroe Doctrine and sent Delta Force into Caracas. Russia may have lost a client state. But it gained something more valuable: validation of its operating thesis that this is, in fact, how the world works.

Hours before the raid, Nicolás Maduro was hosting a senior Chinese envoy, discussing energy deals. Among his last public words before capture: “It’s the year of the horse and we gallop onward in perfect union.” Now China’s UN ambassador is denouncing “serious violations” at the Security Council. Meanwhile, in London, Keir Starmer — a former human rights lawyer who calls international law his “lodestar” — is biting his tongue to keep Trump onside. In Southeast Asia, diplomats are privately calling Venezuela a “dangerous precedent.”

Many pundits argue that Venezuela humiliates Putin by showing he is an unreliable ally. I think this misses the point.

Putin’s goal was never to be reliable. It was to prove that reliability, like sovereignty, is conditional. That the “rules-based order” was always just American hegemony with better marketing. That when push comes to shove, power trumps principle — and everyone knows it.

The logic is brutally simple: You cannot defend Kyiv’s sovereignty while “occupying” Caracas.
You cannot invoke international law against Russia while kidnapping heads of state yourself.
You cannot lecture Beijing about rules while rewriting them in real time.

The piece we are sharing with you today was written a year ago, on the third anniversary of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. It traces how Putin dismantled Western moral authority step by step. What looked like isolated episodes — Georgia, Crimea, Syria, election interference — were in fact components of a single strategy: to expose and widen the gap between Western democratic ideals and how they are practiced.

That gap was not created by the Kremlin. But it has been effectively weaponized.

Democracy, individual rights, and the rule of law remain powerful ideas. They still mobilize people. They still inspire resistance. But from Manila to Caracas to Kyiv, we are now living in a world where the West’s failure to defend its own values has turned a Russian autocrat’s worldview into a global reality.

If this feels sudden, it isn’t. The piece below shows how carefully this moment was prepared.

Essay by Natalia Antelava

Three years ago this week, as Russian tanks rolled into Ukraine, an extraordinary wave of global solidarity swept across the world. Hundreds of thousands took to the streets in cities from London to Sydney. Tech giants blocked Russian state media. Even Switzerland abandoned its neutrality to freeze Russian assets. Only five countries voted against a United Nations resolution calling for Russia to withdraw its troops from Ukrainian territory, compared to the 141 who voted in favor of it.

Today, that solidarity has been replaced by something no one could have imagined in February, 2022: the United States has refused to back an annual resolution presented to the UN General Assembly that condemns Russian aggression and demands the removal of troops. Instead, the leader of the world's most powerful democracy now repeats the Kremlin's false narrative that Ukraine started the war.

This stunning reversal of the U.S. position represents Vladimir Putin's greatest victory - not in the battlefields of Ukraine but in a war that most of us thought ended over 30 years ago: the Cold War. 

Putin's win is no accident. For decades, he has been explicit about his ultimate goal: to return to the world of 1945, when the leaders of the U.S.S.R., U.S. and Britain sat around a table in Yalta to divide the world between them. The invasion of Ukraine three years ago was never about Ukraine - it was about reclaiming lost power and forcing the West back to the negotiating table. Putin’s success stems from the collective failure of the Western establishment, convinced of its own invincibility, to recognize his systematic dismantling of the order they claimed to defend.

It would be too simple to blame Donald Trump or any single political leader for finally giving Putin his seat at the table. This failure belongs to the entire Western establishment - including media organizations, think tanks, universities, corporations, and civil society institutions.

The values the West claimed for itself - defense of individual rights, rule of law, democratic values - were worth fighting for. But having “won” the Cold War, Western establishments grew complacent. They assumed the moral high ground was unassailable, dismissing those who warned it could be lost.

When Putin called the Soviet collapse "the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the century," Western analysts dismissed it as rhetoric. When he told George W. Bush that Ukraine was "not a country," they treated it as diplomatic bluster. When he used his 2007 Munich speech to declare ideological war on the Western-led world order, they saw a tantrum.

Each subsequent action - from the invasion of Georgia in 2008, to the annexation of Crimea in 2014, from the downing of MH17, also in 2014, to the killing of opponents throughout Putin’s reign - was treated as an isolated incident rather than part of a carefully orchestrated strategy. When Georgian leaders warned that Ukraine would be next, the Obama administration ignored them, dispatching Secretary of State Hillary Clinton to Geneva to meet her Russian counterpart and present him with the infamous "reset" button. When Baltic and Polish leaders pleaded for increased NATO deployments and warned about the Nord Stream pipeline's security implications, they were dismissed as paranoid.

"The Western Europeans pooh-poohed and patronized us for these last 30 years," former Polish foreign minister Radosław Sikorski told Politico in 2022. "For years they were patronizing us about our attitude: 'Oh, you know, you over-nervous, over-sensitive Central Europeans are prejudiced against Russia.'"

The lost victory

Meanwhile, inside Russia, Putin was perfecting the playbook that would eventually transform the West itself. His ideologues, like Alexander Dugin, weren't just discussing Russia's future - they were designing a blueprint for dismantling liberal democracy from within. Dugin, and the influential Izborsky Club think tank, understood that the key to defeating Western values wasn't to challenge them head-on, but to turn their contradictions against themselves.

It wasn't that Dugin had anything particularly compelling to offer. His vision of a post-liberal world order where traditional values trump individual rights was hardly original. But when he sat down with Tucker Carlson in April last year to present Putin as the defender of traditional values against the decadent West, his message resonated with conservatives because too many Westerners felt that liberal values had become hollow promises. 

Many studies, like this from the Pew Research Center, showed that Americans were rapidly losing faith in their institutions. Rather than addressing these grievances, the Western establishment preferred to blame disinformation and foreign interference, dismissing citizens’ concerns and creating resentments that Putin proved masterful at exploiting.

Putin was also methodically building a global coalition that extended far beyond the West. While Western media focused on Russia's influence operations in Europe and America, Moscow was crafting a different narrative for the Global South. In Africa, Russian embassies bombarded newsrooms with op-eds positioning Russia as the successor to the Soviet Union's anti-colonial legacy. The message was simple but effective: Russia was fighting Western imperialism, not waging colonial war.

Engineering the West's downfall

While Western governments spent billions setting up fact-checking initiatives and disinformation monitoring centers - always reacting, always one step behind - Putin was methodically building loose, agile networks that tapped into genuine popular anger about Western hypocrisy and double standards.

Putin's triumph lies not in offering better ideas or values - democracy, individual rights, and rule of law remain powerful ideals. His genius was in exploiting the growing gap between these principles and people's lived experiences"

The West's reactive stance allowed Putin to continuously set the agenda. The vast "counter-disinformation" industry - now effectively destroyed by Trump’s aid cuts-  focused on debunking individual claims but consistently missed the bigger picture. From RT Arabic's dominant position in Lebanon to coordinated social media campaigns across Africa, Putin crafted narratives that positioned Russia as the champion of all those who felt betrayed and marginalized by the Western-led order.

"Russia's message lands well and softly," one editor from Johannesburg told me during a gathering of African editors in Nairobi in 2022. "The challenge for our team is to objectively navigate overwhelmingly pro-Russian public sentiment." 

The success of this strategy is now undeniable. And yet, Putin offers little in return for his repudiation of the West. Democracy, individual rights, and rule of law remain powerful ideals. His genius was in exploiting the growing gap between these principles and people's lived experiences, a gap that Western establishments proved unwilling or unable to address.

This blind spot - coupled with the West’s inability to imagine losing - became the so-called free world’s greatest vulnerability. While liberal establishments were congratulating themselves on the "end of history," Putin was methodically working to rewrite its ending. While they dismissed the appeal of traditionalist values as backwards and parochial, he was building a global alliance of like-minded leaders and movements. 

Putin's victory was never inevitable. At each step, Western institutions had opportunities to recognize and counter his strategy. Instead, their conviction in their own righteousness led them to consistently underestimate both the threat and the extent of their own failures.

Today, as Russian state media hosts celebrate their triumph and Trump prepares to negotiate Ukraine's surrender, the scale of Putin's achievement is breathtaking. He has succeeded where generations of Soviet leaders failed: not just in resisting Western influence but in fundamentally transforming the West itself. 

The Cold War’s new ending is exactly as Putin scripted it. Not with the triumph of Western liberal democracy, but with its possibly fatal weakening. The Kremlin's guiding framework—where power is truth, principles are weakness, and cronyism is the only real ideology—now defines the White House as well.The question isn't how we got here - Putin told us exactly where he was taking us. The question is whether we can finally abandon our arrogant certainties long enough to understand what happened - and what comes next.

Read More

The Club That Wants Russia to Take Over the World: Our 2018 investigation revealed how the Izborsky Club, a self-described "intellectual circle" of philosophers, journalists and Orthodox priests, was working to dismantle Western liberal democracy. Read how they laid the groundwork for today's reality.

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By 2013, he moved to eastern Germany to live in what he thought was an eco-commune project. The commune, though, was made up of a group of German ethnonationalist settlers determined to resurrect the German “Volksgut,” a reference to shared heritage and communal living off the land. The shared heritage was code for white and heterosexual and the plan was to buy up enough land so each family could cultivate and live self-sufficiently on their own plot. What might at first glance have appeared an idealized, bucolic homestead had unmistakable echoes of the Nazi concept of “blood and soil.”

The ethnonationalist identitarian movement, which emerged in Europe around 2012, propagates the Great Replacement conspiracy theory about the deliberate supplanting of white populations across the West with immigrants. Remigration, a core tenet of the movement, its answer to the so-called Great Replacement, has now become a political buzzword in both Europe and the United States. In October 2025, the Department of Homeland Security, either oblivious to or uncaring about the connotations, posted “remigration” and a link to its self-deporting app on X. And earlier in 2025, the Donald Trump administration proposed the setting up of an “Office of Remigration” as part of a revamped U.S. State Department.

Back in 2013, though, Felix was an early participant in what was still a nascent, if growing movement across Germany — the revival of an insular rural fantasy life as the answer to the disorienting, alienating, global megapolis. Already by 2015, identitarian activists were holding demonstrations in Berlin, unfurling a banner from the top of the Brandenburg Gate that called for “secure borders” as necessary for a secure future.

It was the year former German chancellor Angela Merkel would famously say “Wir schaffen das” (we can do this), adopting a compassionate, welcoming approach to migrants crossing into Germany. Between 2015 and 2016, an estimated one million refugees were allowed into Germany from Syria alone. 

Ten years later, her party’s tone, as it seeks to deport many of those Syrian refugees, is markedly different. 

Germany’s domestic intelligence agency, BfV classified the Identitarian Movement and groups associated with it as “extreme” in 2019. “These verbal firestarters,” said BfV president Thomas Haldenwang, who left office in 2024 and has yet to be replaced, “question people's equality and dignity, they speak of foreign infiltration, boost their own identity to denigrate others and stoke hostile feelings towards perceived enemies."

For years, far right extremists have been buying up land in rural parts of Germany, like the village of Wienrode in the Harz mountains. Here, they hoped to build their “traditional” off-grid communes and to recruit villagers for their cause. Felix was now a member, a part of the attempt to take over Wienrode. Their group, called “Weda Elysia” was led by Maik Schulz and, as they moved into Wienrode, they handed out flyers promising to “bring back the soul” of the rundown local bar that they’d bought. An undercover reporter recorded Schulz claiming that his intent in buying the bar and land in Wienrode was to turn it into a center “for German customs” and German families.” It was, Schulz allegedly said, “the last chance to save the race.” Wienrode, in effect, turned into a place of chosen exile where those dissatisfied with what Germany had become could create their own version of the ideal German nation. 

Despite the BfV’s classification of Weda Elysia as right-wing extremists in 2024, the group continues to base itself in Wienrode. When I visited in 2025, some of the group’s remaining members had rented the house of Steffen Hupka, a notorious neo-Nazi who had moved to the area decades ago to turn a local castle into a training center for right wing parties. Hupka failed, but Weda Elysia has had more success. They’ve made inroads in local politics, with Schulz’s wife Aruna and another member winning seats on the local council (there was hardly any competition; they had previously bullied the town’s mayor into resigning.) Aruna even appeared on an Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) campaign poster in Wienrode. 

AfD, which has also been classified as a right-wing extremist group by German intelligence, is currently the country’s main opposition party. The AfD’s newly formed youth wing is led by a 28-year-old who has long been associated with identitarian figures and who has rejected the official labelling of the movement as extremist. 

Since its 1871 founding as a state, Germany has been a country of migration and seen several waves of widespread migration. At the same time, an ethnonationalist idea of citizenship was institutionalized by Germany’s 1913 citizenship law, which was drafted in a time where racism against Eastern European migrants was rampant. Here, unlike in other Western European countries like France and the UK, German citizenship was granted according to the “principle of descent by blood” and not by birth on German soil. This law was not reformed until 1999. 

In the 1990s, fringe far-right parties got voted into some state parliaments, amidst post-reunification economic uncertainty and conservative chancellor Helmut Kohl’s anti-immigration policies. Today, polls show that the ethnonationalist AfD is on course to get 40% of the vote in Saxony-Anhalt's state elections. There are several well-known neo-Nazis representing the AfD in local government in the Harz region. 

Despite the attempt in 2019 to emphasize the threat represented by the identitarian movement, the rise of AfD has made those concerns politically mainstream. In some polls, AfD is now the most widely supported political party in the country. It has forced more moderate politicians to amp up their rhetoric. In October, Germany’s current chancellor, Friedrich Merz — who has been a longtime challenger of Merkel for the leadership of the center-right Christian Democratic Union — talked about “large scale deportations” of migrants and the “fear” Europeans feel in public spaces because of migrants who “do not abide by our rules.”

Of the Syrian refugees welcomed into the country by Merkel in 2015, Merz has said: "The civil war in Syria is over. There is no longer any reason for asylum in Germany, and, therefore, we can begin repatriations." Merz’s language was vague enough to make it sound like he was effectively threatening forced deportations of tens of thousands of people, which would be a legal and logistical impossibility. But his words were not merely what pundits have described as a far right dog-whistle. Deportations between January and October 2025 were up 18% from the corresponding period in 2024 and up 45% from 2023. The German government is also trying to set up “voluntary” schemes that critics have described as a pressure tactic. 

Of course, the return of ethnonationalist identitarianism, or at least identitarian talking points, is not just a German phenomenon. Identarianism, a label first coined in the 1960s in France, reemerged in France with the formation of the Bloc Identitaire in 2003. The youth wing, Génération Identitaire, was banned in France in 2021 for inciting hatred and violence. But as in Germany, in France too once fringe identitarian views are part of the political mainstream. With the French government narrowly surviving a recent no-confidence vote, polling suggests the far-right National Front candidate would easily win a presidential election, despite its leader Marine Le Pen being banned from standing.

In Britain too, Identitarian bugbears — particularly its anti-Islam and anti-migration stances — have been made mainstream by the likes of far-right activist Tommy Robinson. Incidentally, earlier this month Robinson said his legal bills as he fought off a terrorism charge in the British courts were paid by Elon Musk. More than an echo of European identitarianism can also be found in the recent emergence in the U.S. of a whites-only settlement in Arkansas called “Return to the Land.”

Back in July, 2020, the US-based non-profit Global Project Against Hate and Extremism released a report that white supremacist groups such as Generation Identity (GI) ran practically unchecked on social media, “despite their proliferation of propaganda such as the Great Replacement, which similarly inspires terrorism and argues that white people are being genocided in their home countries. ”The report found at least 67 Twitter accounts for GI chapters in 14 countries with over 140,000 followers. 

In an example of once fringe identatrian conspiracy theories becoming mainstream, Donald Trump last year alleged that white South Africans were victims of “genocide,” and allowed Afrikaner farmers to claim asylum in the United States. And in September 2024, even before Trump began his second term, Stephen Miller, the current deputy chief of staff and homeland security adviser, posted that “remigration” was the “Trump plan to end the invasion of small town America.”

When I first spoke to Felix Krauss, he told me he’d left Weda Elysia in 2018 because of in-fighting. But, judging from his self-published memoir, he’d internalized the group’s extreme right views. His ideas, like those of many who were part of Schulz’s Weda Elysium group, can be traced not just to identitarianism or European ethnonationalism, but more directly to Anastasianism — a movement created by the fans of a 1990s fantasy book series. 

In the chaos of the post-Soviet ‘90s in Russia, a former riverboat tour guide called Vladimir Megre published a fantasy series called “The Ringing Cedars,” which he promoted as autobiographical, the product of an epiphany. He, a businessman, had been lost in a forest where he met a scantily-clad woman, the survivor of an ancient fictional culture put to sleep centuries ago by “the priests,” whom the series describes in grossly antisemitic terms. The woman bore his child and they lived on a magical self-sustaining farm. But he felt called to return to society to tell readers that they too could reclaim their lost connection to the natural world if they lived self-sufficiently on one hectare of land in a (heterosexual) family unit.

The first Ringing Cedars book was published in Russia in 1996. The books captured the zeitgeist. “Russian bookstores in the ‘90s were filled with illustrated fairy tales and myths about the history of Russia,” says Kaarina Aitamurto, a senior researcher at the University of Helsinki’s Aleksanteri Institute with expertise in contemporary paganism in Russia. After the collapse of the Soviet Union and a wave of devastating accounts about Soviet crimes, “alternative” history books were popular. Megre’s books sold 11 million copies worldwide. Since then, fans in various countries have tried to build the “ancestral estate” he described. 

By September 2020, a Ringing Cedars settlement registration page in Russia claimed 389 settlements had been built, inhabited by about 6,000 people. Anthropologist Veronica Davidov, who came across a Ringing Cedars settlement in 2011, called the movement “reactionary eco-nationalist.” Disillusioned with the post-Soviet deregulated state, she wrote, Megre’s pseudohistory offered readers an alternative “heroic” narrative where they could live apart from the state and its services.

Megre, the author of the Ringing Cedars books, is now 75 years old. He runs an international online distribution service that sells bags of cedar nuts, cedar oil, and the Anastasian books, which have been translated into 20 languages. Environmentalist Nara Petrovic, who translated the Ringing Cedars books from Russian to Slovenian, told me she had run into Megre at several conferences for aspiring translators and publishers of the series. They met in Prague in 2002, Egypt in 2006, and Turkey in 2008. 

“I’ve seen people from other cultures interpret [the books] to suit their own traditions,” he told me. In Slovenia, Petrovic said, he heard a theory that Megre’s fictional ancient civilization is based on the Vinča culture of southeast Europe which dates back to 5400 BCE. “I’m not 100% buying it,” Petrovic says, “because it’s so hard to go back that far and know how they lived, but as an idea it's very emotional and touches people strongly.”

Anastasian settlements spread from Russia through much of eastern and central Europe. In Ukraine, the book series enjoyed a boom in the 2000s. At festivals, fans invented rituals to cosplay Megre’s fictional ancient civilization. Some tried to live as the books commanded, without electricity and growing their own food. People I spoke to said their priority was for straight couples to have babies in nature. 

But then Russia invaded Ukraine, in 2014 and again in 2022. In one Anastasian village outside Kyiv, Kristina, whose parents’ settlement was caught in a crossfire between the invading Russian army and Ukrainian soldiers in 2022, told me that she and her neighbors do not talk about Megre’s books anymore. Some, she said, still cling to the idea of being part of a movement from Russia that will bring harmonious ecovillages to the entire planet. But “it’s an angry joke,” Kristina told me. 

In other parts of Europe, the Ringing Cedars books’ romanticized back-to-the land narratives still have an enduring appeal. In Germany, by 2022, there were at least 17 such settlements, the biggest of which spanned over 200 acres. In Telegram groups, settlers (or wannabe settlers) posted conspiracy theories and videos about “Germanic culture”, including references to a myth, associated with the Roman historian Tacitus, and adopted by German ethnonationalists and Nazis that Germanic tribes were literally “born of the soil. And they also posted pictures of recipes and their gardens. 

For a while, mostly before the media started covering Anastasianism’s German far right links, the books resonated at health and wellness events and in alternative agriculture circles. One German eco-villager told me that in the late 2010s, he would often meet people in his network looking for alternative communities and ways to connect with nature, who were convinced that the books offered solutions for “peace, for living away from materialism and an environmentally-friendly future” — People who wanted to opt out of the globalized, growth-dependent economic system sending us towards climate catastrophe. One of the people he spoke to was Felix Krauss. 

In a 2021 essay for the Journal of Populism Studies, Heidi Hart wrote about the “tensions that emerge in neo-pagan media and practices, when they appeal not only to far-right enthusiasts but also to those with a left-leaning, environmentalist bent.” Ultimately, she concludes, “any group that follows a purity mentality, seeking deep, unadulterated roots in nature, risks nativist thinking.” I tried to get back in touch with Felix to discuss when his environmentalism shaded into nativism and how Anastasianism bridged the two. But he told me he didn’t want to speak to me anymore.

When Weda Elysia first moved into Wienrode around 2018, the village pastor told constituents not to go to their coffee and cake events, unless they wanted to wake up one day to police everywhere because “100 neo-Nazis next door are celebrating Hitler’s birthday.” Seven years later, on the surface it looked like little had changed. Hardly any villagers have officially joined Weda Elysia. And while the group may own the village inn, they don’t have self-sufficient homesteads and don’t farm their own food. 

Still, the pastor and other critics of Weda Elysia are quieter now. Some anonymously, say they received threats, suffered damage to their property and were accused of “dividing” the local community. Weda Elysia may be the objects of state surveillance, but they are still in Wienrode as an entrenched part of the German far-right ecosystem, with AfD politicians and known neo-Nazis often spotted at their headquarters. At the 2025 edition of their annual winter market, I watched as straight-looking couples waltzed to the Nutcracker soundtrack and held candles aloft. One attendee openly described it to me as an "ethnonationalist Weihnachtsmarkt," referring to a seasonal street market common across Germany in the month leading up to Christmas.

Ruth Fiedler, a representative of the Die Linke party (The Left) in the district, told me that the participation of Weda Elysia members in village and district councils was one example of how power dynamics in the region were shifting. “It is getting harder for people to distance themselves from right-wing extremism,” she said. “When it is their neighbors, people they work with.” In a recent town hall meeting, Aruna, the wife of Weda Elysia leader Maik Schulz, told Fiedler that it is the extremist right-wing group that “are the real democrats.” 

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Tuggar’s mention of Sudan was a reminder of what religious war and genocide looks like and how little the international community has done to stop it. He cited Nigeria’s “constitutional commitment to religious freedom” and its status as Africa’s largest democracy as reasons why it was “impossible” that the government would look away from the kind of violence Trump described. Trump did not cite any statistics when he told reporters on Air Force One that “record numbers of Christians” are being killed in Nigeria. A multifaith country, Nigeria has the sixth largest Christian population in the world. Numbers from the Pew Center show that about 93 million Christians live in Nigeria, compared to 120 million Muslims. 

The U.S. president seems to be taking his lead from Texas senator Ted Cruz. The latter posted on X last month that “officials in Nigeria are ignoring and even facilitating the mass murder of Christians by Islamist jihadists.” In his ‘Nigeria Religious Freedom Accountability Act,’ Cruz said 52,000 Christians have been killed in the country since 2009 and over 20,000 churches and religious institutions have been destroyed. These numbers have been described by the Nigerian government as “absolutely absurd” and “not supported by any facts whatsoever.” Cruz called for sanctions on Nigerians officials. In his bill Cruz also called for Nigeria to be designated a “Country of Particular Concern,” a designation reserved for states that tolerate “egregious religious freedom violations.” And on Monday the Trump administration did exactly that, arguing that the designation was necessary because Nigerians were being prevented from freely expressing their beliefs. 

But speak to people in Nigeria and you will get a different analysis depending on whom you ask. The violence, perpetrated by Islamist groups like Boko Haram, Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), and others is indiscriminate, claiming the lives of both Christians and Muslims. Tens of thousands of people have died and millions have been displaced as a result of the security situation in Nigeria. Many of these are residents in northern Nigeria, especially in the northeast and northwest, where the population is primarily Muslim.

In north-central Nigeria however, it is true that Christian communities have been targeted. Their demands for government action to stop the killings have fallen on deaf ears. I live for some of the year in Kwara State, a state in north-central Nigeria. In October, a distant relative was kidnapped with his entire family. My friends, family members and I have had to move house on short notice due to vicious attacks and kidnappings near where we live. But it’s hard to argue that Christians are being singled out when so many Nigerians of every background are dying. 

“The irony is rich enough to choke on,” writes Elnathan John, a Nigerian novelist. “Trump’s America, where school boards ban books and churches preach ethnic purity, has appointed itself the saviour of our pluralism… One imagines a global exchange programme: our clerics and their preachers meeting to compare notes on how to weaponise God most efficiently.” Nigerians, broadly, acknowledge the insecurity in the country, and frequently debate the role of religion in the widespread violence. But everyone agrees that Trump’s motives are suspect. Before this recent outburst, Trump’s reputation in Nigeria, while mixed, consisted of support from a strong Christian base. The threat of military action over an internal issue has sparked widespread indignation and accusations of neocolonial overreach.

Trump’s Africa strategy is a decisive pivot away from traditional development aid and democratic institution-building toward hard-nosed commercial diplomacy, centered on U.S. access to critical minerals and African compliance on accepting deportees in exchange for financial incentives or favorable trade terms. Nigeria, notably, is one of the countries that has refused to take in deportees and was recently hit with 15% “reciprocal” tariffs. Ghana, which was also hit with 15% tariffs, just accepted 14 West African deportees. 

Trump’s other approach to Africa has been to interfere in highly charged internal politics based on narratives that appeal to his base. This summer, Trump accused the South African government of enabling a “genocide” of white farmers, a highly politicized and disputed claim rooted in white nationalist rhetoric. While Trump said he would give special dispensation for white Afrikaner refugees from South Africa (tellingly, very few have actually taken advantage of his offer), he did not threaten violence on a sovereign country for its internal troubles as he has against Nigeria. 

While Vladimir Putin has stayed quiet over the issue, Andrey Maslov, head of the Center for African Studies at Moscow’s Higher School of Economics said Trump is deliberately leading the U.S.  down a path of isolation and focusing on the country’s internal problems. “He works for his core electorate and the future electorate of [Vice President] J.D. Vance, specifically its religious segment,” Maslov told Russia’s state-controlled media RT.

Does Trump’s foreign policy continue to help China position itself as the more reliable global partner? Expressing support for the Nigerian government, a Chinese foreign ministry spokesperson said Beijing “opposes any country using religion or human rights as a pretext to interfere in other countries' internal affairs.” China has invested billions in Nigerian infrastructure and minerals in recent years, and the value of its trade with Nigeria now outstrips that of the U.S. Has the global pattern been set – China now offers the carrot, while the U.S. wields the stick?

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

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The post Do Nigeria’s Christians need a savior? appeared first on Coda Story.

I was at a park near where Florida A&M University and Florida State University campuses overlapped in Tallahassee some forty years ago, enjoying the warm air and easy company of friends, when I overheard a white student waxing nostalgic about the Civil War.

“The South should have won,” he said wistfully, as though mourning a missed opportunity rather than a moral catastrophe.

My friends and I exchanged glances. As the outspoken one in the group, I called back, “We beat you last time, and we’ll do it again.”

At the time, I was a sophomore at FAMU, an Historically Black College and University, immersed in African and U.S. history, surrounded by a vibrant, intellectual, Pan-African community that shaped my view of the world.

It was an oasis—an environment where I could think deeply and freely about the past and its implications for the present.

That encounter seemed trivial then, but in hindsight, it revealed something festering beneath the surface of American life: a refusal, especially among some white Americans, to reckon with the legacy of the Civil War.

A family that defied the script

Years later, I would revisit that moment when I went to pick up my daughter at school. She bears the richness of two heritages—mine rooted in Haiti’s resistance, her mother’s Midwestern sensibilities.

Upon seeing me in the courtyard, one of her friends called out that her nanny was here to pick her up. Irritated, she shouted, “That’s my daddy, not my nanny.”

I smiled at her spunkiness. But I also knew that moment crystallized what I had always sensed: our very existence as a family disrupted someone’s idea of what America should look like.

In 1996, I wrote about our marriage for Essence Magazine. The stares. The quiet bewilderment. The feeling that our presence broke an unspoken rule. “Our very existence,” I wrote then, “disrupted someone’s idea of what America should look like.”

It still does.

A fire long smoldering

Four decades after that afternoon in Tallahassee, I’ve come to believe we’re in the midst of the Civil War’s final battle—not a clash of soldiers on a field, but a sociopolitical and cultural war threatening to tear the nation apart.

A fire is roaring through America’s foundations. It didn’t start yesterday. It wasn’t sparked by Black Lives Matter or the 2020 election or any single migrant crossing a border. No—this fire has been smoldering for generations, lit by the unfinished business of the Civil War.

“This is not a war between North and South or red and blue. It’s a war within whiteness itself.”

It’s a reckoning between two factions of white America:
– One trying to build a country where power is shared and history confronted.
– The other desperate to preserve a fantasy where they remain the sole heirs to the republic.

People of color are the excuse, not the cause. The rest of us are just trying not to get burned.

The arsonists and the alarm sounders

January 6 wasn’t just a riot—it was a flare from a deeper blaze.

When white Americans stormed the Capitol waving Confederate flags, Jesus banners, and Trump signs, they weren’t attacking a building. They were rejecting a future that no longer centers them.

They were not fringe. They were family—teachers, cops, veterans, neighbors—willing to overturn democracy to preserve supremacy.

On the other side are white Americans lighting different kinds of fires: truth-telling ones. They’re teaching real history, confronting privilege, tearing down monuments to lies.

But they’re outgunned by grievance—weaponized, monetized, and televised grievance. And nothing in America spreads faster than white grievance wrapped in the flag.

A fire fueled by fear

What drives this isn’t just racism—it’s fear.
Fear of losing centrality.
Fear of becoming “just another demographic.”
Fear that the stories they were told about greatness might be myths.

Equality feels like oppression when you’ve never experienced either.

This fear is tangled with economic despair and a longing for a past that never truly existed. As the promise of American prosperity falters, anger searches for a scapegoat. Immigrants. Black people. Queer youth. Anyone but the systems that failed them.

The refrain becomes familiar: “America is changing too fast.” But the truth is, America is finally starting to look like itself.

Witness from the margins

I write this not only as a journalist who has covered American democracy for decades, but as a Haitian immigrant who has lived its contradictions.

I arrived as a Black boy with a French accent, navigating the strange hierarchies of race in America. Later, I married a white woman from the Midwest. We raised biracial children in Brooklyn—a borough that celebrates difference in a country that often doesn’t.

For those of us not born here, the message is double-edged: assimilate into a crumbling house, or help rebuild it from the foundation up.

The Currency of Whiteness

For generations, whiteness has been an invisible currency—buying safety, authority, dominance. Now, that currency is losing value. The country is changing its exchange rate.

Some white Americans are hoarding what they can while they can. But people of color aren’t seeking revenge; we’re seeking balance. We don’t want to become what whiteness once was—we want to build something better.

But we can’t rebuild while one faction is holding a flamethrower.

The front lines

Go to any school board meeting, and you’ll see it. Parents shouting about “indoctrination,” demanding books be banned, LGBTQ kids erased.
Go to any legislature, and you’ll see laws crafted to silence, restrict, and erase.
Go online, and you’ll find young white men radicalized by digital preachers of hate.

This fire is not spontaneous—it is fed, stoked, and monetized.

Redefining whiteness

“What does it mean to be white in America without being supreme?”

That’s the question white Americans must face.
Without supremacy, whiteness becomes a blank page. Some see emptiness. Others see possibility.

The hope lies with those writing a new script: one rooted in solidarity, not superiority. But this new identity won’t be born in classrooms—it’ll be forged in discomfort, in truth-telling, in choosing democracy over delusion.

America’s burning house

America today is a house on fire. The flames were set long ago—some rooms built on slavery, others on exclusion, others on stolen land.

Some white Americans are the arsonists, some the alarm sounders, and the rest of us are tenants wondering whether the fire will reach our floor before the builders arrive.

This is the metaphor of our time: a burning house still under construction. We can let it collapse—or rebuild it stronger and fairer.

The Final Battle

The final battle of the Civil War is here.
Not with bayonets but ballots.
Not with cavalry but algorithms.
Not in Gettysburg but in Georgia, Michigan, Texas—and in living rooms across the country.

And now, with the reins of power once again in his hands, Donald Trump is no longer shouting from the sidelines.
He’s using the full weight of his office to bend democracy to his will—purging dissenters, weaponizing institutions, rewarding loyalty over law.

He has become less a president than an arsonist-in-chief, pouring accelerant on the nation’s divisions and daring America to burn.
Each provocation—each threat, each insult, each abuse of power—is another match flicked at the dry timber of grievance that’s been piling up for generations.

The question now: Will America finally douse the flames—or stand mesmerized as the house collapses around us?

The memory returns

Sometimes, I think back to that afternoon in Tallahassee, when a college kid wistfully claimed the South should’ve won.
I wonder where he is now—did he grow out of that fantasy or dig deeper into it?
Is he among those cheering today as Trump fans the flames from inside the house?

I’ll never know. But I do know this: the war he romanticized never ended—it just changed its weapons and its uniforms.
And now, as the smoke thickens and the fire climbs higher, we are all living in the house they built.

Whether it stands or burns will depend on who chooses to rebuild—and who keeps feeding the fire

A version of this article was first published on Garry's Substack and Coda's Sunday Read newsletter. Sign up here.

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The dictatorship I was born in – the Soviet Union – was old and senile, much like the succession of its fossilized leaders who would appear at a plenary session one day and drop dead the next. By then, the bankrupt communist system was in its final throes, allegorically lampooned in film and literature while the nomenklatura played a desperate game of whack-a-mole with the ideas of freedom and nationalism that popped up in every corner of the exhausted empire.

Now in my forties, I’m watching a dictatorship return, watching it metastasize across the body of my country, Georgia, and eat away at the precious freedoms gained in the intermission.

“Georgia will never be Belarus,” was our presumptuous little mantra. We Georgians were too rambunctious, too freedom-loving to allow autocracy back in our midst. Since 1991, Georgia has had several  presidents and a dozen prime ministers. The Belarusians have had one bewhiskered man in charge for the last 30 years. Perhaps our post-Soviet peers up north are simply not feisty enough to put up a proper fight. But to put us temperamental southerners under some mustachioed strongman’s thumb? Ooh, we’d like to see you try.

We even chanted this Belarus refrain when we poured into the streets of our capital, Tbilisi, last fall to tell our all-powerful oligarch, Bidzina Ivanishvili, that he does not own our country. We do. Squaring up to riot police, we held up posters and shook our fists, denouncing the oligarch-controlled government’s betrayal of the constitutionally-mandated pathway towards integration with the European Union and, with it, the betrayal of the promise to build a modern democracy.

After many arrests and fractured facial bones, we no longer chant that mantra with the same certitude in our voices. Dozens of young protesters are locked away in prisons, some still showing signs of the brutal beatings they suffered while in custody. Meanwhile surveillance technology, including facial recognition software, has been used to track down demonstrators and drown them in hefty fines.

Courts churn out guilty verdicts robotically and an opposition-free parliament is cranking out repressive laws to choke off dissent. From the prime minister down, Georgian government officials kowtow to Ivanishvili, the oligarch-in-chief and founder of the ruling party, who does not sport a mustache or have a formal position in the government but does own this country.  

IIt is true that Georgia was never a blossoming democracy. My country was indeed institutionally ill-equipped to resist privatization by one (extremely) rich man. But most of us also thought that we were way past the stage when a regress into authoritarianism and isolation was possible. Ironically, it was in fact a democratic breakthrough that brought us to this juncture. 

Thirteen years ago, when the nation’s richest son came down from his futuristic, hilltop castle in Tbilisi to announce his political ambitions, too many were fooled by his promises of freedom and prosperity. Political groups of every hue and stripe joined the army of the discontented that Ivanishvili raised to unseat President Mikheil Saakashvili, a pro-West reformer who caught the autocracy bug toward the end of his rule.

The oligarch’s alliance, Georgian Dream, became an unstoppable juggernaut as it rolled towards parliament, with respectable opposition figures and intellectuals hopping onboard in anticipation of key posts in the prospective new government. The billionaire’s manner suggested that he was not, as Russians are wont to say, exactly scarred with intellect. So his complacent new allies assumed that he did not have the experience, the sophistication, and the vocabulary to run the country on his own or bend it to his will. 

A few Cassandras did offer routine warnings that behind a simpleton’s façade was a tough man with a Machiavellian mind. It shouldn’t have been hard to guess. After all, Ivanishvili managed to make his fortune in the dog-eat-dog world of 1990s Russia and, unlike many from that crop of oligarchs, lived to tell the tale.

Aware of Ivanishvili’s penchant for philanthropy, voters across our cash-strapped nation were overcome by hope that the billionaire’s riches would trickle down to them. He encouraged these expectations. In one campaign stunt, his lieutenants placed glass boxes in the streets, asking passers-by to write their wishes on little cards and put them in the boxes for the wealthy Santa Claus to review at his leisure. Lines quickly formed and the boxes brimmed with Georgian dreams.

Saakashvili, though, was not going down without a fight. But Georgia’s American and European friends took him aside for a lecture on democracy. You can’t be serious about joining the democratic club, they said, without ensuring something as basic as the peaceful transfer of power. Saakashvili accepted defeat. And Ivanishvili took note: maintaining friendships with the West and accepting their rules was problematic to anyone planning to acquire and hold onto power.

The election of 2012 resulted in Georgia’s first-ever democratic transfer of power – previously, revolutions and civil wars were the preferred modes of operation. The country soon came to boast of a highly pluralistic environment. Groups and individuals of all backgrounds and political persuasions filled legislative and executive seats. A cacophonic multitude of media outlets became free to pursue every story and angle.

In contrast to Saakashvili, who shunned critical media, Ivanishvili spoiled us journalists with hours-long, everyone-is-welcome press conferences, where he fielded every question and told awkward jokes. Soon the EU agreed visa-free and customs tax-free deals with Georgia, and the popular desire for membership in the bloc finally seemed within reach. Freedom and democracy were here to stay and there was no going back. 

Fast-forward a decade and you will find journalists and opposition politicians in prison. Critical media, human rights groups and corruption watchdogs are harassed and demonized. Politicians with values and minds of their own are banished from governance, and the Georgian Dream party has been reduced to a featureless monolith of yes-men.

The bid for EU membership is suspended. Georgia’s longtime partners, the EU and U.S., have been shown the door and requested to end their long-running support for democracy-building in Georgia. Moscow, once public enemy number one for Georgia, has become a source of inspiration for repressive ideas and pinches Tbilisi’s cheek in affectionate approval. 

Kremlinesque laws raise the cost of political dissent and threaten to scatter Georgia’s once vibrant civil society – a key driver of democratic change for years. One of the laws that Georgian Dream borrowed from Russia’s playbook requires international donor-sponsored civil-society organizations and media to register as foreign agents – a label that in the local sense primarily connotes a foreign spy – or go to prison.

In a classic authoritarian move for this part of the world, the oligarch’s government styles itself as a guardian of the heterosexual integrity of the nation in the face of gender confusion and sexual incontinence supposedly foisted upon our proud Christian nation by the West. Homophobic laws and rhetoric further demonize and disenfranchise Georgia’s long-suffering LBGTQ community. 

Somewhere in the corridors of power in Tbilisi, gathering dust, are the glass boxes full of Georgian dreams written down on cards by ordinary people filled with hope. A source with access to Georgian Dream’s offices managed to extract a handful of these cards and hand them over to me.

In these cards, people ask the oligarch for jobs and apartments, to sponsor tuition fees and medical treatment. Reading through these requests, I began to see how easy it was for one absurdly wealthy man to trick a whole country into surrendering itself to him. 

Perhaps the most painful part of Georgia’s rapid descent towards dictatorship is that you now see people you know – friends, relatives, colleagues – becoming a part of the system, or at least refusing to resist it. 

When the dictatorship of my childhood imploded, an entire generation, including university professors like my parents, found themselves lost and unneeded in the strange new world that the shattered superpower left in its wake. That world belonged to opportunists like Ivanishvili, who made fortunes in murky waters. Those who could not, migrated, streaming abroad to make a living. They drove cabs and cleaned homes in foreign cities, complaining to their eye-rolling clients that they were educated professionals – teachers, engineers and musicians – back in their obscure homeland.   

Maybe people in those cities, even now, look at Georgia and say “that could never happen to us.” They have, they reassure themselves, democratic traditions that go way back and institutions in place to guard against encroachments on their freedoms. “We will,” they might say, “never be a Georgia.” They would be wrong.

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He gifted the island a mausoleum and a castle that is architecturally foul even by late-Victorian standards (“nothing that a good fire and subsequent demolition couldn’t rectify”), but us Bulloughs have to take what we’re given, so I dragged the family off to have a look, even though we are – at least as far as I know – completely unrelated to him. 

In its glory days, Kinloch Castle – which looks vaguely like a sandstone version of Shawshank prison reimagined by someone who’s read too much Walter Scott – was quite something. Sir George imported 250,000 tonnes of topsoil for the gardens, built heated greenhouses for his collections of hummingbirds, alligators and turtles, and installed one of Scotland’s first electricity generators. He paid his gardeners extra if they wore kilts, and built the laundry on the uninhabited north side of the island because his wife didn’t want anyone to see her knickers drying on the line.

Like the Titanic, the castle is a monument to the hubris of the European ruling classes in the years before World War One. Built at vast expense, it relied on a reserve of cheaply-paid labour that vanished with the arrival of hostilities, and – as with the European empires of the time – never recovered.

“There were only the boys left, of which I was one, to maintain the gardens and the greenhouses,” remembered a gardener in a passage quoted in a book on the Bulloughs. “The grapes, the peaches and the orchids vanished, gradually sliding into the wilderness of weeds and broken glass that marks their position today.”

Sir George and Lady Monica’s wealth never recovered either. In her old age, Lady Monica sold the island at a knock-down price to the Scottish government, which has let the castle slip into disrepair, and I can’t say I blame it.

This feels symbolic too. The decades after 1914 marked a collapse in wealth inequality, and a playboy’s crumbling mansion was an apt metaphor for how profligate that whole generation looked to those who came later.

However, the wheel keeps turning: wealth inequality started to grow once more in the 1970s, and is now – including, worryingly, in the United Kingdom – approaching previous heights. “At the top of the American economic summit, the richest of the nation’s rich now hold as large a wealth share as they did in the 1920s,” it says here.

This is bad news for democracy and risks sending us back to a future when those of us whose net worth does not include multiple commas have to live in an isolated hovel in a midgy, rainswept bay and wash oligarchs’ underwear. But bad news for democracy could be good news for Sir George’s folly. Kinloch Castle is on the market for 750,000 pounds, although its new owners are unlikely to be able to move in immediately. “It requires significant refurbishment to return it to full residential or hospitality use. Repair and redevelopment costs are likely to be in the region of approximately 10 million pounds or more,” the estate agent notes. 

Having looked at it, and considering its isolated location, I would say 20 million is a more reasonable estimate but, whatever the cost, surely some of my readers have a few quid they can chuck at the one material legacy left to this world by a Bullough? And since you ask: yes, once you’ve patched the roof, restored the orchestrion and employed some decent chefs, I’d be more than willing to come and stay. The island is absolutely stunning. In buying Rum, if in nothing else, Sir George showed excellent taste.

A NEW AGE OF INEQUALITY

It is sadly easier to spot sell signals after a market has crashed. To his contemporaries, Sir George’s castle – along with the other extravagances of the Gilded Age – presumably looked like a perfectly reasonable thing to spend money on, rather than a symbol of excess and frivolity. I would challenge anyone, however, to look at Trojena and not think that it is a gigantic flashing stop sign for civilisation.

A proposed ski resort in Saudi Arabia, it is being built in mountains where there is almost no precipitation, so all the water must come from the ocean, which is at a distance of 200 km laterally and 2.6km vertically. Once the salt has been removed (at a vast cost in both money and carbon), the water is to be pumped uphill through a metre-diameter pipe, and then stored in an artificial lake, which will provide all the resort’s needs, including for the manufacture of the snow required for its 30km of runs. The 140 meter-deep lake requires three separate dams and will cost $4.7 billion to build, according to Italian company Webuild. Just filling it up will take two years of pumping.

“Webuild will also create the futuristic Bow, an architectural structure that will extend the surface of the lake beyond the front of the main dam. It will be shaped like the prow of a ship suspended over the valley, and will house a luxury hotel, as well as a residential area and a large central atrium, with accommodation and hospitality facilities,” the company stated.

This is part of the Neom project and, like all the other bits, looks like a snazzy futuristic vision in the architects’ renderings, when in fact it is a deranged climate-destroying hellscape, which even Mohammed bin Salman is struggling to afford. Trojena is supposed to be hosting the Asian Winter Games in 2029, but apparently Riyadh has been sounding out whether another city could step in so they can do it four years later. 

My optimistic prediction is that, in a century’s time, regardless of whether Trojena ever hosts a skiing competition or not, someone will be looking at its ruins and making notes for a sarcastic newsletter about the excesses of this age of inequality. My pessimistic prediction is so depressing it doesn’t bear thinking about.

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

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On August 7, 2008, Maguli Okropiridze, almost nine months pregnant, fled her village of Ergneti in the Georgian region of South Ossetia.

For Maguli, who had become used to a life lived in the backdrop of bullets and artillery shells, it took a week of heavy shelling to push her out of her home. She had finally decided to flee what was now a war zone. But the stress of evacuating herself and her four children sent her into labour. With just a quarter of an hour to go before midnight, in a hospital in the small nearby town of Gori, Maguli gave birth to a baby girl, Keto. 

Just two days later, on August 9, Russian planes began bombing Gori. Maguli, still dressed in a hospital gown, grabbed her newborn daughter and, without hesitation, jumped out of the second floor window. 

"Keto is as old as the war", Maguli told me. “Every year on her birthday, I first mourn and then I congratulate her”.

Like Maguli, many Georgians believe the war began on August 7, when Russian troops crossed into South Ossetia. In Moscow, the start of the war is said to be August 8, when Russian troops apparently responded to Georgia’s shelling of Tskhinvali, 30 kilometers from Gori and now the capital of disputed South Ossetia. But Maguli’s own government disagrees with her.

In the ruling party’s version of events, the Russo-Georgian war broke out on August 8, just as the Kremlin says. 

A day’s difference might seem minor, but it flips the script. It reverses the roles between victims and perpetrators. It changes how Georgians will describe the war to future generations. And it calls into question the national memory and, in part, Georgia’s national identity.

When I was 10-years-old, wondering why fighter jets were hovering in the skies above us, my grandmother told me that Russia had invaded Georgia and annexed 20% of the country. I’d stand behind her chair, as the women gathered in her kitchen would curse Russia between sips of tea. Many had sons who were on the front line. These women, whose words I absorbed, are now being told that it wasn’t Russia’s fault that their sons had to go into battle. Since 2012, when Georgian Dream came to power, the party has maintained that its predecessors brought the war upon themselves by provoking Vladimir Putin.

As recently as April this year, Georgia’s prime minister told a government-friendly TV station that the 2008 war was the fault of former president Mikheil Saakashvili, acting on orders issued by a shadowy, nefarious Western cabal. The Georgian government has authorized a public commission to investigate “the circumstances surrounding the start of the 2008 war in South Ossetia,” particularly the role of the former government, the party of war as Georgian Dream characterizes it, while referring to itself as the party of peace even as it has spent months brutally suppressing street protests since October last year.

My country is now effectively putting itself on trial, 17 years after suffering an invasion from a foreign force. 

Georgia, a tiny country in the Caucasus region, wedged between eastern Europe and western Asia, has always been at a crossroads. For centuries, its location along the Silk Road brought both prosperity and peril, with invaders chasing the same riches that trade delivered.

For the past 200 years, the invader has been Russia. And resistance against those invasions has formed a core part of Georgian identity. “For us, the field in which we have lived is non-traditional and foreign,” noted the Georgian philosopher Merab Mamardashvili. This, he added, “is the field of Russian power which took shape, let us say, around the 17th century and reached its culmination under Soviet rule. The main idea of this field is that the state stands above all, and the person is nothing more than a servant of the state and of the state’s idea.”

The stories of Russian conquests and local defiance show up in textbooks, films, and casual dinner conversation not just as historical events, but as a lens through which the present is understood.

For much of Georgian society, the effort to preserve the memory of Russia’s past aggressions is about staying alert to patterns and remembering the lessons that help us make sense of what it means to live next to a former colonial master that never truly left. In the words of the writer Grigol Robakidze, “no one has inflicted as much harm – moral and intellectual harm – as Russia has.” The Russians, he wrote, “once they came to Georgia, immediately reached into the very soul of the Georgian people and set about corrupting it, erasing its uniqueness.”

It is this antipathy and foundational mistrust that the current government of Georgia must contend with as it sets about rewriting the story of the 2008 Russo-Georgian war.

At 27, I have lived under the same government for nearly half my life. And every protest I’ve ever attended against this government (and there have been many) has, in some way, circled back to Russia. The Kremlin’s reach, most protestors agree, extends to the highest levels of the Georgian government.

Georgian Dream emerged in 2012 as an alternative to the pro-western Saakashvili’s increasingly authoritarian rule. It had momentum and money to spend. Founded and funded by the oligarch Bidzina Ivanishvili, who made his billions in Russia's post-Soviet maelstrom, the party promised citizens democracy, stability, and integration into the European Union and NATO. 

While many were wary of Ivanishvili’s intentions, given his background and ties to Russia, citizens were ready for change and his party emerged as the only viable option after absorbing much of the disjointed opposition.

The story of Ivanishvili’s authoritarian takeover is familiar across post-Soviet republics. A billionaire appears out of nowhere, cloaked in populist promises about creating wealth, stability, and in Ivanishvili’s case, giving away literal ‘free money’. He wins, and then begins to capture state institutions one by one. Only then does he reveal the long game – absolute power. By the time the public sees the full picture, the tools they might use to push back have already been taken away.

During its first term, and even for several years after, Georgian Dream largely maintained the appearance of a somewhat democratic, West-facing government. It was a necessary performance in a country where the overwhelming majority of citizens support Euro-Atlantic integration, and where openly pro-Russian politicians have had little to no chance of mainstream success.

My own doubts about Georgian Dream started around two years into its rule. I was 17, interning at a fact-checking organisation. It was 2015, the year when Russia’s ‘borderization’ policy was at its peak. 

Borderization was a euphemism for what was basically a land grab, the slow but inexorable expansion of Russian territory within Georgia. Russian forces, often in the middle of the night, would move fences or put up new “border” signs, inching the occupation line further into Georgia. Sometimes it was a few meters, sometimes more. Either way, people would lose access to their farmland, water, and sometimes wake up to a completely different reality, with their house now inside occupied territory, unable to access the ‘Georgian side’. 

One day, I was tasked to fact-check a quote from then-Defense Minister, Tina Khidasheli. She said: “20% of our country is occupied, and if Russians move the ‘border’ by two kilometers, it’s bad, but it’s also just a continuation of the same political line that has been happening in the country for a long time.”

I remember being baffled by this. For two reasons. First because she referred to the occupation line as a border. If you call the occupation line a border then you’re legitimizing it, you’re going along with Russia’s talking points. And second because she made it sound like moving the line by two kilometers was nothing, but try telling that to the people who went to bed in Georgia and woke up in Russia, or at least subject to Russia’s rules.. 

This was my first sign that the government was softening its stance on occupation. But folks older than me remember pro-Russian rhetoric surfacing even earlier.

For instance in 2013, Ivanishvili claimed Russia was not, in his view, an imperial nation interested in rebuilding its empire.  

“I don’t think and I don’t believe that Russia's strategy is to conquer and occupy the territories of neighboring countries. I don't believe that,” he told an interviewer and then went on to boast about his superior analytical skills. 

The same year, he spoke of forming an “investigative commission” on the causes and triggers of the 2008 war. In 2018, during the presidential election, the Georgian Dream-backed candidate, Salome Zurabishvili claimed that Georgia had started the 2008 war and even suggested the previous government may have struck a covert deal with Russia.

In the face of a swift backlash from the public, most Georgian Dream politicians either avoided commenting on the matter or distanced themselves from Zurabishvili’s remarks. Tea Tsulukiani, the Justice Minister at the time, even said: “Georgia’s position is singular and unchanged: it is the position we present in Strasbourg and at The Hague: that Russia started the war against Georgia.”

But in the years that followed, that “singular and unchanged” position would very much change.  

While the international community eventually understood Russia’s 2008 invasion of Georgia to be a dress rehearsal for the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022 – a connection the world failed to heed in 2014 – Tbilisi took the opposite tack. On the international stage, criticism of Russia was avoided, and Georgian officials blamed NATO’s eastern expansion for provoking Moscow into war. 

Back home, Georgian Dream doubled down on a worldview seemingly lifted straight from the Kremlin.

In this world, every critic, every opposition party, and every Western-backed NGO or media outlet was just another node in a vast international plot. Georgian Dream officials and affiliated media claimed that the entire opposition was controlled by Saakashvili and his party, the United National Movement, which took its orders from a “global war party”  run by elites in Brussels and Washington. 

The goal? To create a submissive regime in Georgia which would realize the elites’ covert plans to drag Georgia into war with Russia and open another front in a perpetual war against the Kremlin. On the civic front, these same Western elites were working to erase Georgian culture — to undermine the church and traditional values, and to advance a “liberal ideology” which includes “gay propaganda.” 

Georgian Dream, rather like Vladimir Putin does for the world at large, casts itself as the last line of defense in Georgia, a guardian of peace and sovereignty and traditional values. And for these reasons, they claim, the West, particularly the EU, wants them gone.

And while the phrase “global war party” originated in Russian propaganda, similar rhetoric is part of a wider, international authoritarian playbook. When Georgian Dream saw a familiar narrative about globalist elites gaining ground in Donald Trump’s America, it rebranded its “global war party” as the “deep state”.  Soon after, soundbites from U.S. politicians began appearing regularly in propaganda outlets.

In the run-up to the 2024 parliamentary elections, Georgian Dream’s central promise was peace with Russia. Fearmongering about war saturated the media landscape. And this is when the narrative turned once again to 2008.

Party officials said that the same Western cabal that had manipulated Saakashvili into war with Russia was at work again. Georgian Dream campaigned on prosecuting Saakashvili for his “well-planned treason”. Then, Bidzina Ivanishvili declared that Georgia should apologize for the war.

This story became central to the state-sanctioned version of recent history, one in which Russia was recast not as the aggressor, but as a misunderstood neighbor. And Saakashvili was not a flawed leader defeated in elections, but a Western puppet. And the 2008 war not as an invasion, but a provocation. 

Given the violently contested election results and rampant allegations of fraud, it’s hard to measure how effective Georgian Dream’s historical revisionism was. But in December 2024, a large part of Georgian society made its position clear: when Prime Minister Irakli Kobakhidze announced Georgia was halting its EU accession negotiations for four years, the response was immediate.

Outraged, Georgians flooded the streets demanding a reversal of the decision in what became the largest protests in the country’s modern history. 

The government responded with an unprecedented crackdown.

In just six months, the no longer independent courts passed reams of repressive laws, citizens were brutally beaten by police not only at the protests but also on their own doorsteps, and attacks on independent media and civil society organizations intensified. More than 60 political prisoners now face long jail terms, and at least eight prominent opposition politicians are already behind bars.

Yet, while the already tight authoritarian screws in Georgia have been further tightened, Ivanishvili has not yet engineered a full ideological takeover. The battle over Georgia’s minds and collective memory is still being fought. 

For more than 250 days, Georgians have been fighting to preserve their versions of the truth and for their visions of the country’s future. 

The view outside my windows in Tbilisi reflects that fight. In just the last year, the building in front of me now features a portrait of Maro Makashvili, a teenage nurse killed in the 1921 Soviet invasion of Georgia. A neighboring building features a mural of Giorgi Antsukhelidze, a Georgian soldier tortured by Russians during the 2008 war. And a third building features Georgian and Ukrainian flags.

This isn’t just a fight against authoritarianism for many of us. It’s the latest episode in a 200-year struggle against Russian imperialism and it’s a struggle for the rights of Georgians to write our past and, by extension, our future. 

As the 2008 war once again became a staple of daily conversations, I found myself drawn into discussions about assigning blame. What surprised me most was hearing even those who regularly protest against the government repeat Georgian Dream’s official talking points about the conflict.

It left me wondering if I was misremembering the war, or if there was an actual coordinated effort to rewrite the past. 

We tend to think of rewriting history as reinterpreting distant events, reworking details buried in time to fit a particular cultural or political moment. But what does it mean to reshape the memory of a war that nearly every Georgian remembers?

I set out to answer two questions: What really led to the 2008 war? And how deeply has Georgian Dream’s version influenced the national memory? I spoke to former government officials, international experts, and, most importantly, the people living along the occupation line – those still living with the war’s consequences day in and day out.

My first stop was Kirbali, a village notorious for being a focal point of Russia’s borderization policy, including the kidnapping of residents. Here, the occupation line is mostly invisible, there is no barbed wire, fence, or  natural boundary, it’s only marked by occasional signs, making it largely impossible to know where the line is actually located.  

This is deliberate. It sets up  Russia’s so-called “kidnapping” tactic—with Georgian citizens allegedly snatched from their land to sow fear among the population and pressure whole communities into abandoning their homes, clearing the way for borderization. 

In a village as small as Kirbali, outsiders don’t go unnoticed. As soon as I arrived, the police flagged my car. They asked about the purpose of my visit and insisted that a patrol vehicle accompany me wherever I went.

Authorities knew whom I spoke to and which homes I entered.

I started by heading to the central square. The first thing you see is a portrait of Tamaz Ginture that appears to float in the sky. He was shot and killed by Russian troops in 2023 while attempting to visit a local church. Right below the picture, people gather to chat and play dominoes or backgammon. But as soon as I mentioned the 2008 war, their openness vanished. Most refused to talk. Two men who were willing to speak simply parroted government propaganda.

After an hour, one man who had initially brushed me off quietly invited me to his home for a coffee.

“Everyone’s afraid to talk,” he told me as soon as we sat down. “You won’t get any answers out there.” His wife nodded in agreement, as she set the table.

He explained why: one of the men I’d spoken to in the square was a Georgian Dream coordinator. No one dares to contradict the party line when he’s around.

These “coordinators” are informal, sometimes semi-formal, representatives of Georgian Dream. They’re local operatives embedded in public institutions who help the party monitor communities, manage voter turnout, and shape opinion. In election season, they mobilize supporters. Outside of it, they track who says what.

The fear they instill is real, especially in rural and tight-knit communities. Speaking out can mean losing government benefits, being fired from a public-sector job, or, in some cases, facing physical threats.

That’s the setup in most villages. But in Kirbali, the constant police surveillance made it even harder to get people to chat, to reveal their thoughts or opinions. A patrol car followed my every step.

So I moved on to Ergneti – the first village Russians troops crossed when they entered undisputed Georgian territory. It’s also where a river overlaps with the occupation line, meaning fewer kidnappings and less police presence.

It gave me a little more space to listen and for others to speak.

Around much of the world, the 2008 Russo-Georgian war came to be known as the “five day war”, the fighting taking place from August 7 to August 12, when a ceasefire agreement was brokered by the French President Nicolas Sarkozy.

But in Georgia, people don’t often refer to the “five-day war”. Here, the war did not feel like it lasted only five days. All the chaos, death and suffering of war were not contained in just those five days.

While the term captures the war’s most intense phase, it flattens the reality on the ground. It erases the escalation that preceded August 7, and the devastation that continued after the ceasefire was signed – when Russian and Ossetian forces looted villages, set homes ablaze, and remained on uncontested Georgian territory for many more weeks.

For those living along the occupation line, the idea that the war lasted only five days is absurd. When they speak about the war, their timelines stretch far beyond a single week – and often, far beyond 2008. 

“We have been living with this war for 35 years now,” Nadika told me as she showed me the occupation line from her window. “Many first heard about guns being fired in 2008 and the first bomb was a shock. But that was nothing new for us,” she added. 

Nadika, now in her 50s, has spent her entire life in Ergneti, a village that borders Tskhinvali, the de facto South Ossetian capital. Today, Ergneti is eerily quiet. The closer you get to the occupation line, the more houses you see standing empty. Nadika and Maguli live in the strip closest to the line, their families among the few who remain. Ergneti has no shops or pharmacies, and many residents commute to Tbilisi for work. 

Only one bus runs twice a day, covering several villages on its way. It often starts full, with people sitting on makeshift chairs, but few passengers make it all the way to Ergenti where the last stop is right in front of the Georgian patrol post. Before the 2008 war, Ergneti was not a ghost town even though for Nadika, Maguli and other residents, gunfire and shelling were so frequent they became part of the day’s sounds, like a rooster crowing in the morning. It’s why Nadika doesn’t talk of 2008 alone, when she talks about the war. She traces it back to the Soviet Union’s collapse and the wave of violence that followed in its wake, culminating in the 1991 war between Georgian government forces and Russian-backed South Ossetian separatists.

Others trace it back even further. 

On the one bus that takes you to Ergneti, I met Tamara Kviginadze, a soft-spoken philologist in her 60s who grew up in Tskhinvali. She travels to Ergneti almost every week to visit the graves of her parents who wanted to be buried close to their hometown, Tskhinvali. 

For her, the war began in the beginning of the 19th century, when the Russian Empire first arrived in Georgia.

By the end of the 18th century, Georgia was a fractured land. In the west, minor kingdoms operated under heavy Ottoman influence. In the east, King Erekle II had recently managed to shake off Persian rule, taking advantage of a succession crisis in the Qajar dynasty. But he knew the peace wouldn’t last. With another Persian invasion looming, Erekle had few options. He sent appeals to Europe. No one answered. The only door left open was to the north. Russia, then expanding southward, presented itself as a Christian ally and protector. 

So, in 1783, Erekle II signed an agreement with Russia. Moscow promised to safeguard Georgia’s independence and territory. Georgia, in return, renounced any allegiance to Persia or the Ottoman Empire.

On paper, the deal seemed beneficial to Georgia but when the Persian army came marching, there were no Russian troops in sight. And when the smoke cleared, Russia came, not to help, but to annex. By 1801, Georgia was no longer sovereign.  

For the next two centuries, Georgia only managed to gain independence only once: in 1918, after the Russian Empire crumbled. Its independence lasted just three years.

That year, 1918, also marked the first outbreak of violent clashes between the Georgian army and separatists formations in the regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia. 

After the February Revolution in Petrograd in 1917, which precipitated the end of the Romanovs, Ossetians and Abkhazians set up National Councils which advocated for the creation of organs of self-rule in Abkhazia and  Ossetian-inhabited areas. The councils in both regions, dominated by Bolshevik ideology, became deeply intertwined with Bolshevik forces inside Soviet Russia. 

For the Georgian authorities, these uprisings were viewed not as a fight for autonomy, but as a Soviet-backed attempt to destabilize the fragile new republic. The Georgian army eventually crushed the rebellion, but the violence left deep scars, fueling a legacy of mistrust and ethnic tension. The victory was also short-lived. In 1921, the Red Army invaded from the north and the country was forcibly absorbed into the newly forming Soviet Union. The promise of independence was snuffed out, replaced by 70 years of authoritarian rule, during which the roots of many future conflicts, including the war in 2008, took hold.

“The empire has one rule,” Tamara told me on the bus. “Divide, indoctrinate, rule. That’s it.” 

After the Soviet Union collapsed, Georgia’s first decade of independence was defined by economic ruin, crumbling institutions, and civil war in the streets of Tbilisi. A newly independent nation was rejecting its former master and looking towards the West for protection. 

In Abkhazia, separatists emboldened by Moscow started calling for independence. In South Ossetia, the goal was unification with Russia. “By the late ‘80s,” Tamara told me, “you could feel it changing – when it came to politics, we were divided.” She recalls Ossetian militias appearing in Tskhinvali around 1988. 

In Tbilisi, Zviad Gamsakhurdia, a former Soviet dissident, came to power. As demands for autonomy grew, so did his nationalistic rhetoric. By 1990, in Tskhinvali, ethnic tensions were rising. Tamara’s family now slept with their suitcases packed. 

“They started marking Georgian houses with a Z – just like in Ukraine now,” she told me as she recalled her encounter with a young Ossetian boy who came to her with a warning: “He told me that he was at the base and overheard a conversation about which Georgian families were in line to be terrorized.” Seal the windows, Molotovs are coming, he said and left.

Soon, South Ossetia declared independence, Gamsakhurdia responded by revoking its autonomy. A year-long war followed. Over 1,000 people lost their lives and tens of thousands were displaced, including Tamara’s family who are still unable to go back to their home. 

Abkhazia saw even more devastation. The separatists captured Sukhumi in 1993. The war left 10,000 dead and over 250,000 Georgians ethnically cleansed – one of the largest population displacements in the post-Soviet space.

Just like in 1921, the support for separatist movements came from Russia but this time, it played the roles of both arsonist and firefighter: arming separatists, providing air support, and deploying irregular fighters who would later become a staple in Russia’s foreign wars, all while offering to broker peace.

By the end of 1990s, Georgia ended up with two breakaway regions, and Russian peacekeepers on the ground. 

Meanwhile in Tbilisi, a political transformation was underway. In 2003, mass protests – known as the Rose Revolution – toppled the old regime and brought Mikheil Saakashvili to power. Young and U.S.-educated, Saakashvili was a reformer with a clear message: Georgia would no longer orbit Moscow. Instead, it would pursue modernization, with EU and NATO membership as the ultimate goal.

Russia hit back. It banned key Georgian exports, cut gas supplies, and illegally deported thousands of Georgian migrant workers. On the ground, it expanded support for the separatist regimes, quietly increased its military presence under the cover of peacekeeping and issued Russian passports to their populations, a move that would later enable Moscow to claim protection of Russian citizens as a pretext to invade Georgia. 

In 2007, Vladimir Putin stood before an audience of Western leaders in Munich and delivered what many thought was a theatrical outburst. He railed against U.S. hegemony, accused NATO of encroachment, and warned that a unipolar world was unacceptable. The speech was blunt – but few in the West took it seriously. Instead, it was viewed as a nostalgic rant from a former KGB man still mourning the Soviet collapse.

But the Kremlin wasn’t bluffing. The Munich speech was a statement of intent. And the West’s underestimation turned out to be a strategic miscalculation.

By mid-2008, Russia was in a position of unusual strength. Oil prices were soaring. European states – particularly Germany, France, and Italy – were deeply entangled in energy deals with Gazprom. 

In Washington, George W. Bush’s presidency was limping to an end. His foreign policy legacy – Iraq, Afghanistan – had sapped both credibility and political capital. Barack Obama, still a candidate, was already talking about a “reset” with Russia. The West wasn’t ready for a confrontation, and Moscow knew it.

While the Baltic states and some Eastern Europeans were sounding alarms about Russian aggression, Western Europe remained fixated on maintaining business as usual.

Russia, though imperfect, was still seen as a partner – a regional power with whom the West could reason, negotiate, and, when needed, do business. Against that backdrop, Georgia’s young, Westward-looking president was easier to caricature. Saakashvili’s warnings of further Russian aggression were brushed off as alarmism.

So when war broke out in August 2008, that pre-existing perception – a stable, reactive Russia versus a hot-headed, unpredictable Georgia – shaped how the story was told. Western media fixated on the question of who fired the first shot, not who had laid the groundwork or moved troops into another sovereign country. And Western leaders, unwilling to jeopardize fragile ties with Moscow, leaned into the narrative that Georgia bore at least partial blame.

This mindset shaped the “Tagliavini Report”, the EU’s official post-mortem on the war written by a team led by Swiss diplomat Heidi Tagliavini and published in September 2009, just over a year after the war. While the document acknowledged years of escalating provocations, Russia’s disproportionate use of force, and the presence of the Russian army in Georgia  prior to August 8, it also placed significant responsibility on Tbilisi for launching the first full-scale military assault on Tskhinvali. It was a legal framing that ignored the broader political climate – in which Russia had been undermining Georgian sovereignty through proxy forces, passportization, and military buildup for years.

The result was a narrative that satisfied diplomatic caution: both sides bore blame, so the West wouldn’t have to choose. And by the time Russian troops settled into new military bases deep in Georgia’s breakaway regions, the world had already moved on. Obama went on to push the ‘reset’ button, while EU countries continued selling military equipment to Russia, some of which would later appear on the frontlines in Ukraine. 

Subsequent reporting and analysis would complicate that picture with Western analysts later publishing satellite images that appeared to support Georgia’s timeline, showing large Russian convoys already moving through the South Ossetian mountains on August 7. But first impressions are hard to shake. For many outside observers, the image of Georgia shelling a breakaway capital – regardless of the context – became the war’s defining moment. That framing, cemented in early news coverage and echoed by the Tagliavini report, continued to shape international opinion.

The international view of the 2008 war shifted only after 2014, when Russia annexed Crimea and backed separatists in eastern Ukraine. Suddenly, Georgia was seen less as an isolated case and more as a test run. Yet even this re-examination was half-hearted. It wasn’t until Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022 that the implications of Russia’s actions in 2008 became impossible to soft pedal.

Governments that had once blamed both sides for the Georgia war now spoke of “patterns”. Think tanks drew direct lines from the Roki Tunnel to the Donbas. Many experts in the West now saw 2008 as the opening move in a long campaign of revanchist warfare. But while the international community was re-contextualizing 2008 as the beginning of something larger, Georgia’s own government was trying to prove otherwise. Georgian Dream has organized what they call a “Nuremberg trial” in Georgia that will show that it was the previous government, in other words the Georgian state, which bears primary responsibility for starting the war.

For hours on live TV, retired generals and ex-officials have been grilled on minute details, on exact locations, timelines, on who participated in what meeting. Each session was packed with people spewing dense detail about military plans and discussion inside the corridors of Georgian power at the time. The questions being asked appeared laced with accusation and insinuation. The aim seemed to be to lay the blame squarely on Saakashvili and his allies, while also absolving the military of guilt. 

Several politicians who refused to attend the hearings have been arrested.  

For now, it seems the government's efforts are already paying off. On what is now the 17th anniversary of the war, people remember those five days in starkly different ways, shaped not just by their lived experience but by competing narratives. 

Nadika remembers the shelling and the chaos. But her memories are laced with suspicion. She’s come to believe that the war was staged; part of a plot by Saakashvili’s government. “They were bought off,” she says. “From the very first day, they were on TV boasting about how the army took this village or that one.” She thinks Georgia provoked Russia, maybe even invited the invasion. “Why did the commanders run?” she asks me, citing a conspiracy theory that is not rooted in any evidence. More recently, she’s begun echoing another popular Georgian Dream line: that the West once again tried to pull Georgia into another war in Ukraine. “They were pushing for a second front,” she says. “Even Ukrainians were calling on us to join.”

But not everyone in Ergneti buys into that version. Maguli, who gave birth during the bombardment, says she has no loyalty to Saakashvili, but she remembers who shelled her town. “I’m not a supporter of this government or the previous one,” she says. “But I had to jump out of a hospital window with my hours-old baby while the town was being shelled. And I’m still the one to blame?” She wants peace but not historical revision. “I can’t go along with people rewriting history,”she tells me, adding that she’s been trying to bring together historians, researchers, and neighbors to revisit what really happened.

Tamara, meanwhile, outright rejects the notion that Georgia could have started the war. “How can we be the ones to start a war on our own land, while bombs are falling and the [Russian] army is invading?” she asks, incredulous. She remembers, she tells me, what she saw, what she witnessed happen – bombs going off and Russian soldiers crossing into Georgia on August 7. 

Three women. Three versions of the same war. Three memories shaped by where they lived, what they lost, and increasingly what they’ve been told happened. Their stories show how even recent history can splinter under the weight of competing truths. Their stories show how collective memory can be pulled in competing directions by politics, fear, and the calculated reconstruction of events long after the bombs stop falling.

Authoritarian leaders have long understood the power of history. It is by recasting the past that authoritarians reinforce their hold on the present and even the future. 

While the details of stories differ, the playbook is often the same: simplify the past, claim things were once great until the bad people ruined it. For Georgian Dream, it is the previous government that brought the 2008 war with Russia to Georgia. But its narrative has the effect of blaming Georgia as a whole for poking the bear.

I spoke to the American historian, Timothy Snyder, who has long warned of the authoritarian tenor and tone of Donald Trump’s presidency. Referring to Georgian Dream’s version of the 2008 war, he said: “The problem with the story is that Georgia is not really the subject. The story is about how Russia is innocent and how poor Russia was provoked by Georgia. This is not a native authoritarian phenomenon, but a foreign one being reproduced as a native story.” 

So how does this story benefit Georgian Dream? The most common explanation is that they are using their version of the past to discredit local rivals and prolong their rule. If Russia is rational and only violent when provoked, then Saakashvili’s government appears irrational, reckless, and responsible for the war. And remember, in Georgian Dream’s political rhetoric, all opposition to it is affiliated with Saakashvili. 

But it’s hard to believe that this is the entirety of Georgian Dream’s intent. To me, the larger goal seems to be dismantling anti-Russia sentiment in Georgia – a goal that’s reflected in other attempts at rewriting history.

Take, for example, the ruling party’s adoption of a new political icon: the 18th-century king, Erekle II who signed a treaty with Russia that effectively led to Georgia’s subjugation. 

Since 2022, Erekle’s name has been intrinsic to Georgian Dream’s slogans. And a statue of Erekle II is set to rise on the Kakheti Highway, near the headquarters of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Erekle is being celebrated as a symbol of pragmatism, a savior of Georgian Christianity, and proof that alignment with Moscow is Georgia’s historic path. But Georgian Dream ignores Erekle’s pro-European efforts, until he felt he had little choice but to turn to Russia for protection from Persia, and Russia’s betrayal of that very treaty. 

Another example is the rewriting of the April 9 tragedy in 1989, when Soviet troops violently suppressed a peaceful Georgian protest, killing 21 people. This year, the government’s official statement replaced the word “Russia” with “foreign power,” the term officials often use for the West. Putin’s Russia, the argument seems to be, must not be conflated with the Soviet Union.

But why might some Georgians go along with the idea that we started the war?

Because memory is fragile. Every time we recall the past, we reshape it, filter it through what we’ve heard, what we’ve lost, and what we choose to believe. Repeated messages from those in power can overwrite what we thought we knew. Even if it’s victim-blaming on a national scale. “No one, no serious future historian is ever going to contest that Russia invaded Georgia, or Ukraine,” Snyder told me. “But if you can make it hard for people to say basic truths, because you have another big narrative in the mix, then you make it hard for people to recognize one another.” 

Tamara, whom I met on the bus to Ergneti, said something about this collapse of shared reality that continues to haunt me: “This is truly the feeling I have, that I’m walking around looking for a homeland inside my homeland. I need help because I feel lost.”

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The post Erasing August: How Russia rewrites Georgia’s story appeared first on Coda Story.

Thirteen years ago, a group of American do-gooders tried to do something about this. 

The NGO Invisible Children published a 30-minute YouTube video with high hopes. With their film ‘Kony 2012’, they sought to stop the Lord’s Resistance Army, which had kidnapped, killed and brought misery to families across several Central African nations since the late 1980s. The video opens with our blue orb home spinning in outer space as the director reminds us of our place in time. “Right now, there are more people on Facebook than there were on the planet 200 years ago,” he says. “Humanity's greatest desire is to belong and connect, and now, we see each other. We hear each other. We share what we love. And this connection is changing the way the world works.” In other words,  the technology of connection will solve this problem.

Despite the uber virality of the film,100 million plus views nearly overnight, Kony remains a free man, though much more infamous, and his victims didn’t get all the help they needed. The campaign seemed to embody slacktivism at its most poisonous: the high hope that you can change the world from your sofa.

“Hope,” Gloria Steinem once wrote, “is a very unruly emotion.” Steinem was writing about US politics in the Nixon era but the observation holds. Hope is at the core of how many of us think about the future. Do we have hope? That’s good. It’s bad if we have the opposite – despair, or even cynicism. 

Former CNN international correspondent, Arwa Damon knows this unruly quality of hope firsthand. For years she worked as a journalist in conflict zones. Now she helps kids injured by war through her charity called INARA. She discussed this work last month at ZEG Fest, Coda’s annual storytelling festival in Tbilisi. In war, Damon has seen how combatants toy with hope, holding out the possibility of more aid, less fighting only to undermine these visions of a better tomorrow. This way, she says they snuff out resistance. This way they win. 

In seeing this, and in surviving her own close calls, Damon told the Zeg attendees, she realized she didn’t need hope to motivate her. “Fuck hope,” she said to surprised laughter. 

So what motivates her to keep going? “Moral obligation,” she said. After everything she has seen, she simply cannot live with herself if she doesn’t help.  She doesn’t need to hope for an end to wars to help those injured by them now. In fact, such a hope might make her job harder because she’d have to deal with the despair when this hope gets dashed, as it will again and again. She can’t stop wars, but she can, and does, help the kids on the front lines. 

Most of us haven’t crawled through sewers to reach besieged Syrian cities or sat with children in Iraq recovering from vicious attacks. And most of us don’t spend our days marshalling aid convoys into war zones. But we see those scenes on our phones, in near real time. And many of us feel unsure what to do with that knowledge because most of us would like to do something about these horrors. How do we deal with this complex emotional reality? Especially since, even if we are not in a physical war zone, the information environment is packed with people fighting to control the narratives. In this moment of information overload and gargantuan problems, could clinging onto hope be doing us more harm than good? 

Emotion researchers like Dr. Marc Brackett will tell you that instead of thinking of emotions as good or bad, we can think of them as signals about ourselves and the world around us. And we could also think about them as behaviors in the real world. Dr. Brackett, who founded and runs the Center for Emotional Intelligence at Yale, said hope involves problem solving and planning. Think about exercising, which you might do because you hope to improve your body. In those cases hope could prove a useful motivator. “The people who only have hope but not a plan only really have despair,” Dr. Brackett explained “because hope doesn't result in an outcome.”  

Developing a workout plan seems doable. Developing a plan to capture a warlord or stop kids from suffering in wars is a good deal more complex. The 2010s internet gave us slacktivism and Kony 2012, which seems quaint compared to the 2020s internet with its doom scrolling, wars in Ukraine and Gaza and much more misery broadcast in real time. What should we do with this information? With this knowledge? 

Small wonder people tune out, or in our journalism jargon, practice news avoidance. But opting out of news doesn’t even provide a respite. Unless you’ve meticulously pruned your social media ecosystem, the wails of children, the worries about climate change, the looming threats of economic disruption or killer machines, those all can quickly crowd out whatever dopamine you got from that video of puppy taking its first wobbly steps. But paradoxically, the pursuit of feeling good, might actually be part of the problem of hope. 

I took these questions about hope to Dr. Lisa Feldman Barrett, an acclaimed psychologist and neuroscientist. She too talked less about our brains and more about our behaviors. The author of, among other things, How Emotions are Made, Dr. Barrett noted that we might experience hope in the moment as pleasant or energizing and it helps with creating an emotional regulation narrative. Meaning: we can endure difficulty in the present because we believe tomorrow we will feel better, it will get better. However, Barrett said hope alone as a motivator “might not be as resistant to the slings and arrows of life.” If you assume things will get better, and then they don’t, how do you keep going? 

“I think people misunderstand what's happening under the hood when you're feeling miserable,” she added. “Lots of times feel unpleasant not because they're wrong but because they're hard.”

I told Dr. Barrett about Damon’s belief that she keeps going because of moral obligation and she again looked at the emotional through the behavioral. “There is one way to think about moral responsibility as something different than hope,” she said, “but if hope is a discipline and you're doing something to make the parts of the world different you could call it the discipline of hope.” This could be a more durable motivation, she suggested, than one merely chasing a pleasant sensation that tomorrow will be better.  “My point is that, if your motivation is to feel good, whatever it is you are doing, your motivation will wane.”

After ‘Kony 2012’ shot to astonishing success, in terms of views, the creators raised tens of millions of dollars but achieved little on the ground – an early lesson in the limits of clicktivism. Once upon a time American do-gooders hoped they’d help Ugandan children simply by making a warlord infamous, now the viralness of  Kony 2012 feels like a window into a cringey past, a graveyard of hopes dashed. But maybe we just grew up. Maybe our present time and this information environment full of noise and warring parties asks more of us. Maybe hope has a place but among a whole emotional palate of motivations instead of a central pillar keeping us moving forward. Because let’s be honest: we may never get there.  Hope, as the experts told me, doesn’t work without a plan. And, raising hopes, especially grand ones like changing global events from your smartphone, only to have them dashed can actually prompt people to disengage, to despair maybe, or even to embrace cynicism so they don’t have to go through the difficult discipline of hope and potential disappointment.  

One day, during the start of the pandemic, when my home doubled as my office, I got a piece of professional advice I’ve held tight. A therapist who works with ER doctors shared with a group of us journalists that when we work on tasks that seem never ending, burnout is more likely. To prevent it, he advised that we right-size the problem. Put down the work from time to time, celebrate our achievements (especially in tough times), develop rituals and build out perspective to nourish us as we keep doing the work.

The pandemic ended but we bear the scars and warily look out at a horizon full of looming troubles, most of them way outside the control of any one of us. Both Dr. Marc Brackett and Dr. Lisa Feldman Barrett reminded me: emotions are complex and humans aren’t motivated by just one thing. But no matter what mountain we want to climb we would all do well to adopt this conception of hope as a discipline rather than just a feeling. Because in this environment, there’s always someone on the other side betting we’ll give up in despair.

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

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The three nations of the South Caucasus: Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia, have long occupied a place of strategic and symbolic importance for Russia. The region is a vital transit corridor linking Europe, Asia, and the Middle East, making it a coveted prize for energy routes and geopolitical influence. For Moscow, the South Caucasus has always been more than a neighboring periphery, it is an enduring obsession. And perhaps more so now, as Russia’s position in the Middle East has weakened following setbacks in Syria and its diminished sway in Iran. Today, the Kremlin’s desire to assert control in the South Caucasus is as strong as ever. Yet in each of these three countries, Moscow’s efforts to shape events and narratives are meeting unprecedented resistance. The divergent responses—ranging from defiance to accommodation—highlight how the authoritarian playbook is being adapted, contested, and exported across the region.

So what constitutes this playbook? Legal weaponization through foreign agent laws, criminalization of dissent with disproportionate penalties, systematic impunity for state violence, economic warfare against independent media, and international narrative manipulation. Below are three examples:

Armenia: Hybrid war and the Kremlin’s shadow

Armenia, once Moscow’s closest ally in the South Caucasus, has openly expressed disillusion with years of Russian inaction during regional crises. Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan now warns of “hybrid actions and hybrid war” from Russian circles, without directly blaming the Kremlin, while the EU and France step in to support his decision to jail clergymen in defence of Armenian democracy. The clerics were accused of plotting a coup. Fingers were also pointed at Russian-Armenian businessman Samvel Karapetyan, the alleged orchestrator. It was, in one analyst’s words. Moscow’s “Ivanishvili 2.0 operation”, a reference to Bidzina Ivanishvili, the billionaire founder and de facto leader of Georgian Dream, Georgia’s ruling party since 2012. Georgian Dream, under Ivanishvili, has steered Georgia in an increasingly illiberal and pro-Russian direction. But for a couple of years now, the Armenian government has been gradually distancing itself from Russia, hedging its bets rather than relying on Moscow to guarantee security. In the aftermath of the alleged coup attempt, Armenia’s Foreign Minister bluntly told Russian officials that they “must treat Armenia’s sovereignty with great respect and never again allow themselves to interfere in our internal affairs.” Pashinyan has of late made conciliatory gestures towards both of Armenia’s arch-rivals, Azerbaijan and Turkey. The loss of Nagorno-Karabakh to Azerbaijan — while Russian peacekeepers stood by — largely drove Armenia toward European integration as an existential necessity. Armenia's experience with alleged coup plot, and its possible Russian backing, shows how the playbook adapts to different political contexts, exploiting religious institutions and diaspora networks to destabilize governments that drift from Moscow's orbit.

Azerbaijan: Asserting independence, testing the edges 

The raid on Russian state media offices in Baku last  week sent an unmistakable message about the limits of Moscow’s influence in the region. The targeting of Sputnik journalists came after violent police action in Russia in which two Azerbaijani nationals were killed, an incident Baku condemned as ethnically motivated. For years, Azerbaijan has been systematically moving out of Moscow’s orbit, growing closer to Turkey and unafraid to assert itself in disputes with Russia. The arrests of Russian journalists represent more than bilateral tensions; they signal how even traditionally Moscow-aligned states now calculate that defying Russia carries fewer costs than submission. Russia’s response — summoning the Azerbaijani ambassador and protesting the “dismantling of bilateral relations” — revealed Moscow’s diminished leverage. Azerbaijan’s confidence stems from military victories in Nagorno-Karabakh, increased energy exports to Europe, and strategic ties with Turkey that provide alternatives to a subservient partnership with Russia. Azerbaijan's bold move illustrates another dimension of the regional dynamic: how countries with strong alternative partnerships can successfully resist Russian pressure tactics, even when those tactics include media warfare and diplomatic intimidation.

Georgia: The authoritarian laboratory 

Georgia presents the starkest illustration of both the Kremlin’s enduring shadow and the systematic deployment of authoritarian tactics. The ruling Georgian Dream party has implemented what Transparency International calls a “full-scale authoritarian offensive,” with eight opposition figures jailed in just a single week. The crackdown follows months of mass protests against the foreign agent law — a carbon copy of Russian legislation designed to crush civil society. Among those arrested is Nika Gvaramia, the former head of the country’s leading opposition TV channel, who spent a year in prison, received the Committee to Protect Journalists’ International Press Freedom Award, and emerged to found his own political party. Now Gvaramia faces another eight-month sentence plus a two-year ban from holding office, an example of how the repressive state systematically eliminates viable opposition while maintaining a veneer of legal process. 

The foreign agent law itself has become a remarkably successful Russian export — a tool used from Nicaragua to Egypt to stigmatize independent civil society as “trojan horses” serving foreign interests. In Georgia, the law forces organizations receiving over 20% foreign funding to register as entities “pursuing the interests of a foreign power,” enabling harsh monitoring requirements and the systematic isolation of critics.

Since Russia pioneered the foreign agent model in 2012, it has been adopted by countries including Nicaragua, where it has been used to shut down over 3,000 civil society organizations, and Hungary, where officials explicitly cited the US FARA law as justification when facing international criticism. The model's appeal to authoritarian leaders lies in its appearance of legitimacy — claiming to mirror democratic precedents while systematically dismantling civil society. The chilling effect extends beyond legal restrictions.

Physical attacks on journalists have become routine, with not a single perpetrator facing accountability. Instead, the state's message is unmistakable: challenge us, and you will pay. According to the 2025 World Press Freedom Index, economic pressure has become a critical threat to media freedom globally, with the economic indicator hitting an “unprecedented, critical low” of 44.1 points — Georgia exemplifies this trend through its systematic economic warfare against independent outlets.

Mzia’s story 

The story  of one Georgian journalist Mzia Amaghlobeli, founder of two independent newsrooms Batumelebi and Netgazeti, is a textbook case of how modern authoritarianism operates through seemingly proportional responses to manufactured crises. 

Amaglobeli was taken into custody for placing a solidarity sticker reading “Georgia goes on strike” and subsequently slapping Police Chief Irakli Dgebuadze after hours of degrading treatment, including watching colleagues being beaten by police. 

Amaglobeli was arrested for assaulting a police officer, but many suspect her journalism was the real target. The charges against Amaglobeli — from “distorting a building’s appearance” for the removable sticker to “attacking an officer” — could mean seven years in prison. Evidence has been manipulated, timelines don’t match, and the authorities’ narrative shifts with each wave of international criticism. During detention, she was subjected to degrading treatment — insulted, spat upon, and denied access to water and toilets.

“It’s not only her being on trial, it’s independent media being on trial in Georgia,” said Irma Dimitradze, Amaghlobeli’s colleague who is now leading the global campaign to free her. She was speaking at Coda’s annual ZEG Fest along with Jodie Ginsberg, CEO of the Committee to Protect Journalists; human rights barrister Caoilfhionn Gallagher, and Nobel laureate and co-founder of Rappler Maria Ressa. All three argued that the systematic nature of the persecution of Amaglobeli reveals the broader strategy that’s similar the world over. Her case demonstrates how authoritarian systems create conditions where any human response to injustice becomes criminal evidence. 

As Caoilfhionn Gallagher put it: “You are not dealing here with a rule of law compliant system... there’s a whole series of absolutely farcical things which have happened in this case so far. The criminal investigation was headed by the officer who was the alleged victim. I mean these are…you couldn’t make this stuff up, really... it is clear that in Georgia you are not going to get a fair trial. She hasn’t had due process yet and really what's going to make the difference here is ensuring that the world is watching and that there's a proper international strategy.”

After a 38-day hunger strike, Amaglobeli remains defiant, standing for hours in court, refusing to sit, determined to show she cannot be broken. Her symbolic gesture of holding up Ressa’s book, “How to Stand Up to a Dictator”, during court appearances has become an icon of resistance. 

“We know,” said Ressa, “that journalism around the world is under attack.” With 72% of the world’s population living under authoritarian rule, added Ressa, “the time to protect our rights is now.” Gallagher spoke about the “power of international solidarity,” how what authoritarians fear is “journalism with a purpose, with an editorial line which is designed to undermine the false narratives and the gaslighting on a grand scale.”

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

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The post Resisting the Authoritarian Playbook in the South Caucasus appeared first on Coda Story.

 Living in an authoritarian state is a performative juggling act, an act of camouflage, of deflection, of concealing your true preferences, opinions and thoughts. Blending in, rendering yourself invisible increases your odds of leading a functional life.

Since Donald Trump returned to the White House, watching from London where I now live, I find myself reminded of the self-censoring and isolationist culture of 1980s Bulgaria. Every time I ask friends in the U.S. how they are doing, I receive remarkably familiar, self-distancing responses. “I’m trying to steer clear of all the information,” says one. “I guess I’m going insular and trying to focus on my family and what I can control,” says another. “I can’t cope with the news”, says a third. “I know that sticking our heads in the sand is not helpful,” a fourth one tells me, “but I feel helpless and scared and I’m not sure what I can do. Call it self-preservation.”

And there it is. The antibiotic-resistant superbug I and everyone around me grew up with. I sense it. Smell it. Feel it. Fear.

At my school in Sofia, no one was spared from scrutiny. For girls, three conformity boxes had to be ticked: aprons not too short; nails not too long or painted; hairstyles deemed neat and, if you were particularly unlucky, unceremoniously, publicly checked to be certified free of nits. If the staff decided you had failed on any of these parameters, you were reprimanded. Too many of these and you would find yourself with a reduced mark for “behaviour” at the end of term. If you graduated from school with a less than “excellent” behaviour mark, you could not apply to university, even if you’d achieved the highest possible academic grades. A short apron, fancy nails, messy hair or a smart mouth could cost you your future.

I have always been one to talk back. An ambassador’s daughter who grew up in Bulgaria, Switzerland, Afghanistan and Ethiopia before being accepted into the only English-teaching selective high school in Sofia at the age of 14, I insisted on speaking my mind at every opportunity. It was a bad, even dangerous habit. Freedom of speech in any shape or form was not a concept anyone dared entertain. The periods of terror in the late 1940s and ‘50s had made sure of that, though at the time I knew nothing about them. The terror and multiple purges were a state secret, undiscussed in books and not a topic for even private conversations. Their legacy was an atmosphere of inherited fear and mute obedience.

In hindsight, I realize that what I struggled with most at school was the uniformity of thought and the unwillingness to question the status quo that the teachers demanded from us. The rules were understood, without being explicitly written down – “never talk politics, even with friends and extended family”; “never be heard criticising Todor Zhivkov,” Bulgaria’s leader from 1954 until his eventual removal from office in 1989. There was always a certain distance between people. What we said at home, mild as it was, could not be repeated outside, which meant always being guarded around others. And that is exactly how the ruling Bulgarian Communist Party (BCP) wanted it.

With sorrow, I see now that my American friends, who grew up on the progressive side of the iron curtain, suddenly have much more in common with me than we ever imagined we would. It is hard to comprehend that the United States of America -- that most coveted destination for young Bulgarians who dreamed of basking in unrestrained freedom, self-made wealth and the coolest pop, rap and grunge music scenes of the 1990s – could be clamping down on self-expression in the 21st century. 

Like me, Americans now know what it is to feel an insidious fear of the state. To experience that ever-present fear of punishment and retribution, a fear that incessantly obstructs and eventually destroys social cohesion. A fear that is evidently penetrating deep within the ranks of even the Republican party. Lisa Murkowski, a longtime Republican senator from Alaska, recently made a startling public admission: “We are all afraid,” she confessed at a conference in Anchorage. A courageous statement that reflects the mood of the nation. A national poll from the Institute of Politics at Harvard Kennedy School conducted among 2,096 18 to 29 year-olds between the 54th and 66th day of Trump’s second term revealed astonishing levels of fear among young Americans across gender and education status. Six in 10 of those surveyed, whether college-educated or not, admitted to being fearful for the future of America.

In Bulgaria, the trust in those around you, which is the social glue in every society, was stripped away, destroyed through the repeated post-1945 purges. Like Musk’s DOGE purges of the federal government across multiple sectors, these had eliminated or rendered destitute thousands of “bourgeois”, police and civil servants, military personnel, workers and anyone who opposed the ruling party. Informants were encouraged, not unlike Trump’s administration threatening government workers to either report DEI initiatives within their departments or face the “consequences”.

The news of immigrants being deported to El Salvador despite having no criminal records, as well as the recent disappearance of a Venezuelan legal immigrant who had been detained in Texas reminded me of Bulgaria’s Belene labor camp, an island on the Danube whose existence I only learned about long after the communist regime was gone. Thousands of people targeted by the regime were marooned there over the decades, sometimes disappearing altogether, never to be seen again.

Fear of the state affects everything, every relationship. I know, because in my adolescent years it even crept into my relationship with my late father. The son of ethnic Bulgarian refugees from Greece, who had settled in a small southern Bulgarian town in the early 1900s, my father finished his professional career as an ambassador, which placed our family within the small minority of privileged Bulgarians allowed to travel abroad.

Like all those in governmental or high-profile jobs, my father was a member of the BCP. But he was also a compassionate man who truly believed in the ideals of equality and social justice. Unlike many others, he did not use his status to profiteer, taking pride instead in the integrity reflected in our two-bedroom apartment, which I shared with my parents and sister. My parents had no holiday villas, no second flat, and none of the other substantive material possessions typically enjoyed by the nomenklatura.

Kind though he was by nature, my father could be uncharacteristically hard on me. He was particularly critical of my outspokenness and worked hard to tame it during my teens. For years, I took his harsh words at face value and felt somewhat deficient. At the turn of the century, I became one of the hundreds of thousands of young Bulgarians who left Bulgaria to move to the West – the land of freedom, democracy and self-expression. I transformed my deeply instilled feeling of deficiency into hard work and determination to succeed in the most libertarian city of all - London.  I explored unfamiliar ways in which humanity was celebrated in the U.K., including practicing critical and creative thinking, and attending gigs and personal growth courses to name a few. Following a ruptured marriage, I even embarked on personal therapy, which was and perhaps still is a somewhat foreign concept in Bulgaria.  

In therapy I frequently explored the wound that my father’s judgements had inflicted on me, along with my distorted relationship with power, control and visibility derived from the regime with which I grew up. For some time I blamed the patriarchy for my father’s harshness towards my younger self. After all, feisty girls and women have never been in fashion anywhere, at any time.

It was only recently that it dawned on me that this was far from being the whole story. My father wasn’t just conditioned by patriarchy but by authoritarianism too. What he had feared above all was that my desire to name things as they were, to say it as I saw it, would endanger my future in a country that demanded unquestioning loyalty, obedience and conformism. He had been trying to protect me. I was surprised I hadn’t made the connection earlier. As the authoritarian regime in Bulgaria fell at the end of 1989, so did my father’s harsh stance towards my way of expressing myself. He softened dramatically, encouraged me to study, to develop professionally, and travel, his natural kindness coming to the fore as he got older.

Since Trump returned to power in January, many journalists, columnists, political pundits and academics have been stunned by the speed and brutality with which he has grabbed American society by the scruff of the neck and is marching it head down towards what some call authoritarianism, others autocracy, competitive authoritarianism, oligarchy,  patrimonialism, kleptocracy or more pejoratively kakistocracy. Whatever the exact version of the oppressive regime Trump is thundering towards or will be allowed to settle on, the one thing he is already circulating is the currency of fear – the currency in which all authoritarian regimes trade.

To succeed, repression requires submission. What more efficient way to achieve it at national scale than by instilling widespread fear of loss of income, status and freedom, and personal reprisal? In the words of the prominent Bulgarian political commentator Ivan Krastev: “Make people fear the future and democratic institutions are paralysed.” Once fear sets in, the boundaries that protect us from the state’s all-encompassing control can completely crumble.

In authoritarian Bulgaria the state held sway over how you looked, what you learned, and how you behaved, all with a view to ensuring that you complied with the party’s need for a surrender of individual agency. My friends and I still lived our teenage lives, fell in love, slacked on homework and had fun, but we, and our parents, were always looking over our shoulders.

To avoid the danger of any form of organised resistance or independent thinking, extracurricular clubs, beyond the odd choir or orchestra, did not exist in our high schools. Art and music and critical thinking were not part of the curriculum. What was mandatory, however, was introductory military education (IME) in which students were taught how to handle a Kalashnikov.

Reading through the journals I kept between the ages of 16 and 18 has revealed many of the tensions I held deep inside. Amidst the predictable descriptions of my relationships’ peaks and troughs, I discovered much yearning for freedom and longing for resistance and courage. I also discovered fear, humiliation and disempowerment - the polar opposites of freedom and courage. The humiliation and disempowerment did not belong to my generation, but had been inherited, creeping into my worldview through the buried experiences of those before me. My 1989 journal was peppered with quotes from books I had read, alluding to freedom and courage or fear and cowardice:

 “If I am fear-struck and sensible enough

And yet I still die

Do not look for bullets in my skull.

Do not look for a knife in my belly.

Do not look for potassium cyanide in my blood.

Pay attention to my knees.

If you find scars from crawling –this was my death.”

[my translation]

I had copied this from the 1962 poem “The Real Death” by Stefan Tsanev. 

A Bulgarian saying warning against resistance also found its way into the pages of my journal: “Many ahead of their time have been forced to wait for it in very uncomfortable places.” Another Tsanev quote also warns of the cost of rebellion: “The murdered quietly lay under the pedestals, the murderers stood on the pedestals.” But I also copied down a Bulgarian saying condemning the meek acceptance of one’s fate: “Like a bomb hidden in your pocket, silence is dangerous.”

In recent years I have been pondering the damage that Bulgaria’s almost half-century of authoritarianism (preceded by centuries of enslavement under the Ottoman empire) has caused subsequent generations. The three greatest barriers to societal and individual flourishment I have identified are these: the inherited terror of visibility, passed down through the generations, that perpetuates self-repression; the severed trust in institutions and each other which makes democracy permanently volatile; and the underdeveloped ability to ask each other meaningful questions for fear of “prying”, which is a prerequisite for intimacy and social cohesion. Sometimes I close my eyes and fantasise about where Eastern European societies might be if they hadn’t inherited authoritarianism’s straitjacket.

And then I turn my gaze to the U.S. in the hope that this traditionally free society can avoid this crushing straitjacket, no matter how bad things seem now. Having grown up in a regime which institutionalised voicelessness, I find myself in imaginary dialogue with all Americans, and my friends in particular, pleading with all those who understandably feel fearful, worried and consequently apathetic not to mute their voices just yet.

Having lived through authoritarianism with its controlled planned economy, I remain optimistic that the US, the oldest democracy functioning within a free economy, is well placed to resist the Trump administration’s brisk march towards authoritarianism. This would require more individuals, whether CEOs, academics, lawyers, business owners, news journalists, ordinary Americans or any other civil society actors, to be brave and to choose to resist (overtly or covertly), despite feeling fear. In fact, robust research of over 300 violent and nonviolent campaigns from 1900 to 2006 which resulted in government overthrow or territorial liberation shows that a successful campaign for political change requires a remarkably small proportion of the population: just 3.5 percent. In the US this would still amount to over 11 million people mobilising.

It’s been rewarding to witness the power of the free market economy and the voice of the consumer in action in the United States. They have already made a difference by punishing Elon Musk’s Tesla for his widely damaging leadership of DOGE. Market analysts have recently concluded that the 71% year-on-year drop in Tesla profits has been driven at least in part by Musk’s role in the White House, causing a branding crisis for Tesla. Consequently, he will be curtailing his role in DOGE which is exactly what those giving up their Teslas or Tesla orders wanted. This development could have never happened in any planned economy, like the one in Bulgaria during the second part of the 20th century. I hope this news serves as a strong impetus for ordinary Americans who deem themselves powerless to take a stand. For example, what better way to resist than supporting the free press by donating/subscribing to news outlets or to non-profit organisations like CPJ and ICFJ whose mission is to protect press freedom and the truth. In an act of defiance, Sheryl Crow not only publicly discarded her Tesla but also chose to donate to NPR who have been continuously attacked by Trump’s administration.

Under deep state surveillance, you learn not to ask questions or share much about yourself as a way of staying safe. Now I consider it a joyful expression of a free existence to ask questions.

In hindsight I realise that what helped my parents to not profiteer from the corrupt communist system was having moral clarity and actively choosing to act with integrity. In the current context this means choosing whether to be a Harvard or a Columbia University, a Murkowski or a silent Democrat or Republican senator. For remaining neutral is choosing a side, the enabler’s side. The anti-democratic assault Trump is inflicting on American society cannot survive without the apathy of every citizen who chooses to remain silent. To feel more resolute I remind myself of Martin Luther King Jr.’s wise words that “our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”  

One of the most efficient ways in which authoritarianism in Bulgaria managed to maintain obedience was through destroying the existence of small communities. Those who were afraid, worried, or anxious lacked not only town halls to turn to but also local communities where they could just speak to one another. We had no way of finding out what the true preferences of those around us were because we did not meet regularly in bigger groups. So to me, the single most defiant and joy-inducing action an American citizen could take would be to create or participate in activities that strengthen social cohesion at the local level. Whether it’s joining local community social events, choirs, sports activities, arts or other clubs, participation strengthens the social glue that keeps democracy alive at a grassroots level and has the potential to weaken false narratives and government control.

Whenever I went back to Bulgaria during my first decade of living abroad, I was often surprised by how few questions everyone asked each other. At times I felt frustrated and was judgemental, rolling my eyes every time I heard someone admitting to not having asked an important question for fear of being deemed nosy. I had mistaken this underdeveloped skill to ask questions for a lack of interest in those around them. Until one day I realised that this too had been a legacy of authoritarian times. Sharing or finding out the “wrong information” in an era of deep state surveillance could cost you your freedom. You therefore learned not to ask questions or share much about yourself as a way of keeping yourself and your family safe. This insight ignited my passion for deep conversations. Now I consider it a joyful expression of a free existence to ask profound questions. In times of a heightened threat of authoritarianism, asking deeper questions is a way of truly understanding yourself and connecting with those around you. Practicing the art of conversation is a defiance of authoritarianism.

Being creative, producing any form of art (and yes, everyone is intrinsically creative!) and supporting arts institutions is another powerful form of resistance against authoritarianism. To keep us subservient, my generation of Bulgarians were deprived of the opportunity to express themselves creatively throughout high-school education. This came at a high cost to us all, the cost of believing that being creative was the preserve of the lucky few.  By its very definition, creativity resists conformity and repression while neuroscience tells us that creativity is also an antidote to anxiety. Embracing our creativity is a way of maintaining a free spirit.

The lack of freedom of speech in authoritarian Bulgaria was reflected in the news media being reduced to a propaganda machine. Its sole role was to legitimise those in power every day and in every way. For this reason, I feel a twinge of sadness every time I hear my friends anywhere in the world voicing their temptation to completely switch off from the news. Knowing the truth is not a given, but a consequence of tenacious and hard-fought journalism operating in a functioning democracy. Turning away from the news is exactly what authoritarian leaders like Trump want us to do because it enables them to act without restraint. While I understand the need to limit the consumption of breaking news as a way of protecting our mental health, I know too well how profoundly discomfiting a world with no truthful news can be. Not switching off the news is perhaps the most subtle yet powerful way to defy authoritarianism.

Like many around me, I too sometimes find it challenging not to feel defeatist and to remain hopeful for the future of my children. When such moments descend on me I take solace in their transience and, more importantly, in history. I look back and remind myself that no dictator, tyrant or autocrat has ever irreversibly crushed the human spirit or won the long-term battle for a better world and greater justice.

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As sunlight filtered through glass onto worn stone walls, Cambridge Analytica whistleblower Christopher Wylie recounted a dinner with a Silicon Valley mogul who believes drinking his son's blood will help him live forever.

"We've got it wrong," Bryan Johnson told Chris. "God didn't create us. We're going to create God and then we're going to merge with him."

This wasn't hyperbole. It's the worldview taking root among tech elites who have the power, wealth, and unbounded ambition to shape our collective future.

Working on “Captured: The Secret Behind Silicon Valley's AI Takeover” podcast, which we presented in that church in Perugia, we realized we weren't just investigating technology – we were documenting a fundamentalist movement with all the trappings of prophecy, salvation, and eternal life. And yet, talking about it from the stage to my colleagues in Perugia, I felt, for a second at least, like a conspiracy theorist. Discussing blood-drinking tech moguls and godlike ambitions in a journalism conference felt jarring, even inappropriate. I felt, instinctively, that not everyone was willing to hear what our reporting had uncovered. The truth is, these ideas aren’t fringe at all – they are the root of the new power structures shaping our reality.

“Stop being so polite,” Chris Wylie urged the audience, challenging journalists to confront the cultish drive for transcendence, the quasi-religious fervor animating tech’s most powerful figures. 

We've ignored this story, in part at least, because the journalism industry had chosen to be “friends” with Big Tech, accepting platform funding, entering into “partnerships,” and treating tech companies as potential saviors instead of recognizing the fundamental incompatibility between their business models and the requirements of a healthy information ecosystem, which is as essential to journalism as air is to humanity.

In effect, journalism has been complicit in its own capture. That complicity has blunted our ability to fulfil journalism's most basic societal function: holding power to account.

As tech billionaires have emerged as some of the most powerful actors on the global stage, our industry—so eager to believe in their promises—has struggled to confront them with the same rigor and independence we once reserved for governments, oligarchs, or other corporate powers.

This tension surfaced most clearly during a panel at the festival when I challenged Alan Rusbridger, former editor-in-chief of “The Guardian” and current Meta Oversight Board member, about resigning in light of Meta's abandonment of fact-checking. His response echoed our previous exchanges: board membership, he maintains, allows him to influence individual cases despite the troubling broader direction.

This defense exposes the fundamental trap of institutional capture. Meta has systematically recruited respected journalists, human rights defenders, and academics to well-paid positions on its Oversight Board, lending it a veneer of credibility. When board members like Rusbridger justify their participation through "minor victories," they ignore how their presence legitimizes a business model fundamentally incompatible with the public interest.

What once felt like slow erosion now feels like a landslide, accelerated by broligarchs who claim to champion free speech while their algorithms amplify authoritarians.

Imagine a climate activist serving on an Exxon-established climate change oversight board, tasked with reviewing a handful of complaints while Exxon continues to pour billions into fossil fuel expansion and climate denial. 

Meta's oversight board provides cover for a platform whose design and priorities fundamentally undermine our shared reality. The "public square" - a space for listening and conversation that the internet once promised to nurture but is now helping to destroy - isn't merely a metaphor, it's the essential infrastructure of justice and open society.

Trump's renewed attacks on the press, the abrupt withdrawal of U.S. funding for independent media around the world, platform complicity in spreading disinformation, and the normalization of hostility toward journalists have stripped away any illusions about where we stand. What once felt like slow erosion now feels like a landslide, accelerated by broligarchs who claim to champion free speech while their algorithms amplify authoritarians.

The Luxury of Neutrality

If there is one upside to the dire state of the world, it’s that the fog has lifted. In Perugia, the new sense of clarity was palpable. Unlike last year, when so many drifted into resignation, the mood this time was one of resolve. The stakes were higher, the threats more visible, and everywhere I looked, people were not just lamenting what had been lost – they were plotting and preparing to defend what matters most.

One unintended casualty of this new clarity is the old concept of journalistic objectivity. For decades, objectivity was held up as the gold standard of our profession – a shield against accusations of bias. But as attacks on the media intensify and the very act of journalism becomes increasingly criminalized and demonized around the world, it’s clear that objectivity was always a luxury, available only to a privileged few. For many who have long worked under threat – neutrality was never an option. Now, as the ground shifts beneath all of us, their experience and strategies for survival have become essential lessons for the entire field.

That was the spirit animating our “Am I Black Enough?” panel in Perugia, which brought together three extraordinary Black American media leaders, with me as moderator.

“I come out of the Black media tradition whose origins were in activism,” said Sara Lomax, co-founder of URL Media and head of WURD, Philadelphia’s oldest Black talk radio station. She reminded us that the first Black newspaper in America was founded in 1827 - decades before emancipation - to advocate for the humanity of people who were still legally considered property.

Karen McMullen, festival director of Urbanworld, spoke to the exhaustion and perseverance that define the Black American experience: “We would like to think that we could rest on the successes that our parents and ancestors have made towards equality, but we can’t. So we’re exhausted but we will prevail.”

And as veteran journalist and head of the Maynard Institute Martin Reynolds put it, “Black struggle is a struggle to help all. What’s good for us tends to be good for all. We want fair housing, we want education, we want to be treated with respect.”

Near the end of our session, an audience member challenged my role as a white moderator on a panel about Black experiences. This moment crystallized how the boundaries we draw around our identities can both protect and divide us. It also highlighted exactly why we had organized the panel in the first place: to remind us that the tools of survival and resistance forged by those long excluded from "objectivity" are now essential for everyone facing the erosion of old certainties.

The Power of Protected Spaces

If there’s one lesson from those who have always lived on the frontlines and who never had the luxury of neutrality – it’s that survival depends on carving out spaces where your story, your truth, and your community can endure, even when the world outside is hostile.

That idea crystallized for me one night in Perugia, when during a dinner with colleagues battered by layoffs, lawsuits, and threats far graver than those I face, someone suggested we play a game: “What gives you hope?” When it was my turn, I found myself talking about finding hope in spaces where freedom lives on. Spaces that can always be found, no matter how dire the circumstances. 

I mentioned my parents, dissidents in the Soviet Union, for whom the kitchen was a sanctuary for forbidden conversations. And Georgia, my homeland – a place that has preserved its identity through centuries of invasion because its people fought, time and again, for the right to write their own story. Even now, as protesters fill the streets to defend the same values my parents once whispered about in the kitchen, their resilience is a reminder that survival depends on protecting the spaces where you can say who you are.

But there’s a catch: to protect the spaces where you can say who you are, you first have to know what you stand for – and who stands with you. Is it the tech bros who dream of living forever, conquering Mars, and who rush to turn their backs on diversity and equity at the first opportunity? Or is it those who have stood by the values of human dignity and justice, who have fought for the right to be heard and to belong, even when the world tried to silence them? 

As we went around the table, each of us sharing what gave us hope, one of our dinner companions, a Turkish lawyer, offered a metaphor in response to my point about the need to protect spaces. “In climate science,” she said, “they talk about protected areas – patches of land set aside so that life can survive when the ecosystem around it collapses. They don’t stop the storms, but they give something vital a chance to endure, adapt, and, when the time is right, regenerate.”

That's what we need now: protected areas for uncomfortable truths and complexity. Not just newsrooms, but dinner tables, group chats, classrooms, gatherings that foster unlikely alliances - anywhere we can still speak honestly, listen deeply, and dare to imagine.

More storms will come. More authoritarians will rise. Populist strongmen and broligarchs will keep fragmenting our shared reality.

But if history has taught us anything – from Soviet kitchens to Black newspapers founded in the shadow of slavery - it’s that carefully guarded spaces where stories and collective memory are kept alive have always been the seedbeds of change.

When we nurture these sanctuaries of complex truth against all odds, we aren't just surviving. We're quietly cultivating the future we wish to see.

And in times like these, that's not just hope - it's a blueprint for renewal.

The post The capture of journalism and the illusion of objectivity appeared first on Coda Story.

Two questions into the interview, Shapiro confronts Zelensky with a conservative talking point. Is Ukraine persecuting members of the Russian Orthodox Church? It is a view that is frequently aired in Christian conservative circles in the United States. Just two months ago, Tucker Carlson interviewed Robert Amsterdam, a lawyer representing the Ukrainian Orthodox Church. Amsterdam alleged that USAID, or some other U.S. government-sponsored organization, created an alternative orthodox church "that would be completely free of what they viewed as the dangerous Putin influence." This, Amsterdam said, is a violation of the U.S. commitment to religious freedom. Trump-supporting talking heads have frequently described Ukraine as killing Christians, while Vladimir Putin is described as a defender of traditional Christian values.

On April 22, Putin met with the Patriarch of the Serbian Orthodox Church and Patriarch Kirill, his Russian counterpart. The Serbian Patriarch told the Russian president that when he met with the Patriarch of Jerusalem, the latter said "we, the Orthodox, have one trump card... Vladimir Putin." It was the Serbian Orthodox Church's desire, the Patriarch said, that "if there is a new geopolitical division, we should be... in the Russian world." It is Orthodoxy's perceived political, rather than purely spiritual, link to Russia that the Ukrainian parliament was hoping to sever in August last year by passing legislation to ban religious groups with links to Moscow.

The Russian orthodox church, which is almost fully under Kremlin’s control, is one of Moscow’s most potent tools for interfering in the domestic affairs of post-Soviet countries. Its ties to Russian intelligence are well-documented and run deep. Patriarch Kirill, head of the Russian Orthodox Church, spent the 1970s spying for the KGB in Switzerland. Today, he blesses Russian weapons and soldiers before they’re deployed to Ukraine.

While Christian conservatives in the U.S. accuse Ukraine of violating religious freedoms and "killing" Christians, Zelensky says that it is, in fact, Russian forces that are persecuting Ukrainian Christians. On Easter, Zelensky said 67 clergymen had been "killed or tortured by Russian occupiers" and over 600 Christian religious sites destroyed. I spoke to the Emmy-winning journalist Simon Ostrovsky who said Russia targets Christian denominations.

"If we're talking about an evangelical church," he told me, "then the members of the church will be accused of being American spies. And if we're talking about the Ukrainian Catholic Church, they'll consider it to be a Nazi Church.” But, Ostrovsky added, "Russians have been able to communicate a lot more effectively than Ukraine, particularly to the right in the United States. Russia has been able to. make the case that it is in fact the Ukrainians who are suppressing freedom of religion in Ukraine and not the Russians, which is absurd."

Back in 2013, Pat Buchanan, an influential commentator and former Reagan staffer, asked if Putin was "one of us." That is, a U.S.-style conservative taking up arms in the "culture war for mankind's future". It is a perception Putin has successfully exploited, able to position himself as the lone bulwark against Western and "globalist" decadence. Now with Trump in the White House, propelled there by Christian conservative support, which has stayed steadfastly loyal to the president even as other conservatives question policies such as tariffs and deportations without due process. With the Christian right as Trump's chief constituency, how can he negotiate with Putin free of their natural affinity for the president not just of Russia but arguably traditional Christianity?

The battle over religious freedom in Ukraine is not just a local concern – it’s a global information war, where narratives crafted in Moscow find eager amplifiers among U.S. Christian conservatives. By painting Ukraine as a persecutor of Christians and positioning Russia as the last defender of “traditional values,” the Kremlin has successfully exported its cultural propaganda to the West. This has already had real-world consequences: shaping U.S. policy debates, undermining support for Ukraine, and helping authoritarian leaders forge alliances across borders. The case of Ukraine shows how religious identity can be weaponized as a tool of soft power, blurring the line between faith and geopolitics, and revealing how easily domestic debates can be hijacked for foreign influence. In a world where the persecutors pose as the persecuted, understanding how narratives are manipulated is essential to defending both democracy and genuine religious freedom.

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

The post The Christian right’s persecution complex appeared first on Coda Story.

These seemingly eccentric obsessions with exotic animals reveal a fundamental truth about how power itself works. The zebra collection isn't merely decorative – it's emblematic of a system where the arbitrary whims of the powerful become reality, where resources that could serve many are instead directed toward personal indulgence. Orbán admires Ivanishvili's Georgian Dream party, which has steered the country away from EU integration. Trump openly praises Orbán. These men create a web of mutual admiration, exchanging not just tactics but symbols and sometimes even PR consultants – as we learned when Israeli media revealed that Benjamin Netanyahu’s advisers had orchestrated a covert campaign to counter negative discourse around Qatar. Those same advisers were also tasked with cleaning up Serbian president Aleksandar Vučić's public image.

Years ago as a BBC correspondent in Central Asia, I remember staring with bemusement at a massive golden statue in Turkmenistan of the former president, Saparmurat Niyazov, the self-styled ‘Turkmenbashi’, the ‘father of all Turkmen’. The statue rotated to always face the sun. We journalists used to dismiss it as the eccentricity of a dictator in a little-known corner of the world. These weren't mere quirks, though, but  early warning signs of an authoritarian pattern that would spread globally.

Last weekend, we gathered voices who have witnessed authoritarianism's rise across continents for our event "The Playbook." Their unanimous observation: the patterns emerging in America mirror what they've already witnessed elsewhere.

Nobel laureate Maria Ressa, who has faced multiple criminal charges and arrest warrants in the Philippines for her journalism, described her own sense of déjà vu watching events unfold in the United States. Democracy dies not in one blow but through "death by a thousand cuts"—media capture, then academic institutions, then NGOs, until the entire society bleeds out, Ressa warned.

Bill Browder, the architect of the Magnitsky Act that holds Russian leaders to account for human rights violations – which he lobbied for after his lawyer Sergei Magnitsky was murdered in Russian custody – mapped how Vladimir Putin perfected symbolic terrorization through selective targeting. He saw this pattern being repeated in the U.S.: "This attack on law firms, as an example, going after Covington & Burling, Perkins Coie, and Paul Weiss... what's the message to every law firm in America? Don't go after the government." He pointed to judges facing impeachment threats and green card holders being threatened with deportation as classic examples of the Putin playbook unfolding in America – striking fear into entire sectors through selective prosecution.

Many audience questions focused on resistance strategies, with particular frustration directed at the Democratic Party's seeming inability to mount an effective opposition. "Why are they so quiet about this?" Armando Iannucci asked, voicing a common concern about the lack of a coordinated response.

Yet Browder managed to see a bright side in America's chaotic, decentralized resistance: "The Putin model is to find the leader of the opposition and then destroy them," he noted. "But if you don't have a leader and resistance comes from everywhere, there's no way to stop it." He pointed to student-led protests in Serbia and Georgia, where grassroots movements without central leadership proved remarkably resilient.

Few know more about resistance than anti-apartheid era South African activist Kumi Naidoo, who served as head of both Greenpeace and Amnesty International. While he offered practical resistance strategies, Naidoo also emphasized something crucial: "We have demonized people who do not agree with us," he cautioned. "We cannot move forward in this moment where we find ourselves unless we consciously build bridges to the people that are not with us." This doesn't mean compromising on principles, but rather understanding the genuine concerns that drive people to support authoritarian figures.

"The worst disease in the world that we face,” Naidoo said, “is not HIV/AIDS or cancer or influenza—it's a disease we can call affluenza." This pathological obsession with wealth accumulation creates the perfect environment for would-be dictators, as ordinary people mistakenly see oligarchs not as threats to democracy but as aspirational figures. The zebra-collecting billionaire becomes someone to admire rather than fear.

Every speaker at our event expressed a haunting familiarity with America's unfolding crisis – they've all seen this movie before, even though no one, right now, can possibly predict how it ends. Iannucci, creator of “The Death of Stalin” and “Veep – so, someone who has, literally, written the script – said the current reality might put him out of the job. How do you parody something already so absurd? 

“Trump,” he said, “is a self-basting satirist in that he is his own entertainment." Still, Iannucci underscored why humor remains vital in dark times: "Dictators and autocrats hate jokes because laughter is spontaneous, and they hate the idea of a spontaneous reaction that they have no control over."

Far from mere entertainment, Iannucci argued that storytelling itself becomes essential resistance. He challenged us to move beyond speaking only to those who already agree with us: "We must tell authentic stories which are rooted in reality. And understand that to stand a chance to get through this moment we're in, we have to invest equally on the objective side as well as the subjective side."

As authoritarians build their global networks of mutual admiration, from private zoos to public policy, the countering networks of resistance become all the more crucial.

Maria Ressa's powerful assertion that "when it is a battle for facts, journalism becomes activism" particularly resonated with me. As a journalist, I've been trained in objectivity and balance. Yet we now face a moment where the foundations of free thought that my profession relies on are themselves under direct assault. This isn't about choosing political sides – it's about recognizing when factual reality itself is being deliberately undermined as a strategy of control.

I also found myself enthusiastically agreeing with Kumi Naidoo who emphasized that we must genuinely listen to those who support authoritarian figures, not to validate harmful policies but to understand the legitimate grievances that fuel support for them. From Manila to Moscow to Washington, the pattern is clear but not inevitable. The script is familiar, but we still have time to write a different ending – one where free thought and factual discourse prevail over manipulation and fear.

If you would like to become part of conversations like this one, we have news: we have just launched a brand new membership program connecting journalists, artists, thinkers and changemakers across borders. Join today to receive the recording of this event and access to future gatherings where we'll continue connecting dots others miss.

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As we navigate the whiplash-inducing headlines emerging daily from Trump's Washington, I often find myself thinking of Oksana Baulina, who joined our team in 2019 to produce a documentary series about Stalin's Gulag survivors. By then, Russia's state media was actively rehabilitating Stalin's image, recasting the Soviet dictator as an "efficient manager" who had made necessary sacrifices for the motherland. We felt an urgent need to preserve the testimonies of the few remaining survivors—men and women in their eighties and nineties whose first-hand accounts could counter this historical revisionism.

It was no longer safe for me to travel to Moscow to work with Oksana on developing the project, so we met in neighboring Georgia, in Tbilisi, my hometown. She arrived dressed every bit as the fashion magazine editor she had once been at Russian Vogue before pivoting to become an opposition activist and journalist.

Over wine one evening, she described the constant cat-and-mouse game she had experienced working with Alexei Navalny's anti-corruption foundation. She talked about how Navalny's team had to constantly reinvent itself, adapting to each new restriction the Kremlin devised. When the authorities blocked their websites, they migrated to YouTube and social media. When officials raided their offices, they decentralized operations. When the government froze their bank accounts, they found alternative funding methods. The space for dissent was shrinking daily, she explained, and with each new constraint, they needed to innovate, come up with fresh tactics to continue exposing corruption in Russia and holding Putin accountable.

"The walls are closing in," she told me, "and most people don't even notice until they're trapped."

Her words have acquired an unsettling resonance as I watch the American political landscape transform. When I draw these parallels to my American friends, I often see a familiar resistance in their eyes. Some will say comparing America to authoritarian states is alarmist, that the differences between these societies are too vast. "These are apples and oranges," they'll argue. But the anatomy of repression—the methods used by the powerful to dismantle democratic institutions—remains remarkably similar across time and borders.

There's a reason why those who've lived under authoritarian systems recognize the warning signs so clearly. For Americans, this trajectory feels unimaginable – a departure from everything they know. But for people like Oksana, those who've witnessed democracy crumble, it's more like going back to the future – a painfully familiar pattern returning in new forms.

Recently, a friend in Georgia received a summons that captured the essence of life in an authoritarian state: show up to a state commission hearing and risk becoming a target, or don't show up and face jail time. A decade ago, this would have been unthinkable in Georgia, a country that once exemplified the possibilities of post-Soviet democratic transformation. But that's the thing about authoritarianism—it advances by turning the unthinkable into the inevitable.

Authoritarianism often takes a precise, technical approach to dismantling democracy. It's not always about sudden, violent takeovers. Usually, democratic backsliding is a careful process of erosion, where each small step makes the once outrageous appear normal. What makes this process particularly insidious is how it subverts democracy's own tools – elections, parliaments, courts, and media – turning them against the very systems they were designed to uphold.

Since Coda's inception, we've been tracking the changing landscape of power: the expanding geography of authoritarianism, the abuse of technology, the rise of oligarchy, and the weaponization of historical narratives. Our unique editorial approach identifies "currents" – the patterns bubbling beneath the daily headlines – allowing us to detect emerging trends before they become apparent. Through this lens, we've observed that while authoritarian regimes deploy varied tactics, three essential elements of the playbook repeat themselves with remarkable consistency across different contexts and continents.

The first move is always the manipulation of memory and nostalgia. Vladimir Putin understood this better than most. His regime didn't just recast Stalin from tyrant to "efficient manager" – it undermined organizations like Memorial that documented Soviet crimes by branding them as "foreign agents" before shutting them down entirely.

For Oksana, like many others on our team, the Gulag documentary project was deeply personal. Her family had directly experienced political repression under Soviet rule. For the Russian-language version, she chose a different title than "Generation Gulag." She called it: "The Repressions Don't End."

This same pattern is visible in the United States, where the "Make America Great Again" movement taps into a yearning for an imagined past—one in which power structures went unquestioned and concepts like racial equity didn't "complicate" the natural order. This isn't just a political slogan; it's a carefully crafted narrative that creates social conditions that make challenging the mythical past dangerous. 

We've seen this play out in Viktor Orbán's Hungary, where school textbooks have been rewritten to glorify the country's imperial past and minimize its complicity in the Holocaust. In India, where Narendra Modi's government has systematically reshaped history education to center Hindu nationalist narratives and diminish Muslim contributions. And in Florida, where educational restrictions on teaching African American studies and racial history follow the same playbook – controlling how societies understand their past to make it easier to reshape their future. 

But rewriting the past is merely the first act. The next phase is to transform this nostalgia into a weapon that redefines loyalty to the nation. Once the mythical golden age is established, questioning it becomes not just disagreement but betrayal. In Russia, this meant that anyone who questioned the revered myths about Soviet glory suddenly became suspect – a potential traitor or foreign agent.

As Oksana traveled across Russia filming interviews with Gulag survivors, many said how distraught they were to see that at the end of their lives, the narratives they thought had been discredited were gaining traction again. The perpetrators of the crimes against them – their executioners, their prison guards – were being glorified once more in state media and official histories.

It's the ultimate form of injustice, echoing what many of my Black American friends tell me they feel today as they watch decades of hard-won progress toward equity being reversed. After fighting so hard to dismantle statues of Confederate generals and slave owners, they now witness white supremacist narratives being rehabilitated and those who challenge them branded as unpatriotic.

Of course, these aren't direct comparisons. Each country follows its own path. Perhaps America's market economy will prove resilient against authoritarian capture. Perhaps its institutions will withstand the assault better than their counterparts elsewhere. Perhaps the federalized system will provide firewalls that weren't available in more centralized states.

But, thinking back to countless conversations with friends who lived through authoritarian transitions, I'm reminded of how gradually the water heats around us all. Each small capitulation, each moment of silence stems from a perfectly reasonable thought: "Surely it won't affect me personally."

Among the 35 victims of Stalin’s Gulags that Oksana interviewed was Irina Verblovskaya. It was a love story that landed Irina in jail "I never thought they would come for me," she told Oksana, her voice steady but her eyes still showing the pain of decades-old wounds. She never thought she was political enough to be noticed. 

American friends often ask me what to do, how to respond once these patterns of repression become evident. I hesitate to answer with certainty. The cases I know most intimately are cases of failure. Nearly everything my dissident parents fought for in Georgia has been reversed in my lifetime. Yet paradoxically, their fight continues to inspire – precisely because it never truly ended. In Tbilisi today, people have stood in the freezing cold for more than a hundred nights, protesting laws that mirror authoritarian Russian legislation.

After years covering wars and political crises, I've noticed that soldiers on the ground often understand which way a battle is turning before the generals do. A taxi driver frequently has a better grasp of city dynamics than the mayor. My first rule is to always listen to people in the thick of it, to pay attention to those who may be at the margins of power but who are the first to feel its effects. Our failure is rarely in lacking prophets, but in refusing to heed their warnings.

Who are America's prophets today? They're the people routinely dismissed as alarmists – constitutional scholars warning about judicial capture, civil rights leaders identifying voter suppression patterns, journalists documenting the normalization of extremist rhetoric, and immigrants who recognize repressions they became familiar with in the countries they fled. Their warnings aren't political hyperbole – they're based on rigorous research, reporting and lived experience. And just as they are the first to detect the warning signs, they're often the first people to be targeted when the final act of the play unfolds.

The last, game-winning tactic from the authoritarian playbook is the criminalization of dissent. This process begins with words – the increasing use of terms like "enemy of the state", “threat to national security”, or "treason" to describe one’s political opponents. See how these labels proliferate in the far-right media. Note how disagreement is increasingly framed as betrayal. To anyone who has lived through authoritarianism, this language isn't merely rhetoric – it's preparation. Project 2025's blueprint for reshaping the Justice Department follows this pattern – creating systems where political loyalty supersedes institutional independence. 

The mechanisms may have evolved but the fundamental approach remains unchanged. In Russia, no one embodied this three-act progression more clearly than Alexei Navalny. In 2014, he was still able to mobilize hundreds of thousands in Moscow's streets against Putin and the Kremlin’s corruption. His warnings about Russia's growing authoritarianism were largely dismissed in the West as exaggerated. Yet the noose tightened around him – first arrests, then poisoning, imprisonment, and eventually death. He posed too great a threat, and the system couldn't tolerate his existence.

That night in Tbilisi in 2019, Oksana talked a lot about what it was like to work with Navalny's team, to mobilize Russians against Putin. We argued about whether or not Navalny was racist. For all his bravery fighting corruption, Navalny had made derogatory remarks about people from Central Asia and the Caucasus, calling Georgians "rodents" that should be "exterminated." Like her, I had grown up with the Soviet collapse as the backdrop of my youth—we were the same age—but my experiences came from a Georgian movement that fought not just the Soviet system but Russian colonialism too.

Our wine-fueled argument eventually settled into a consensus that Western liberal democracy, for all its flaws, remained the best system available—the fairest and freest option we knew. It's only now that I recognize my own slight condescension toward her because she was proudly an activist. After years working in Western media, I had been almost vaccinated against the idea of being an activist myself—journalism had to be pure, objective, detached.

I was wrong. Oksana understood something I didn't yet grasp: in environments where truth itself is under assault, journalism inevitably becomes a form of resistance. For her, this wasn't theoretical—it was daily reality. The boundary I so carefully maintained was a luxury she couldn't afford, and it is now one I no longer believe in.

The Final Warning

A year later, after we filmed about 30 interviews with survivors of Stalin’s purges all across Russia, Oksana went back to show a few of them the result of our work. We have a video of Oksana visiting Olga Shirokaya, a 96-year-old Gulag survivor who had been arrested when she was 27. They sit down on Olga’s couch to watch the film, Olga's eyes widen as she sees her own story reimagined through animation. 

"I feel like I can breathe again," she tells Oksana, her voice trembling. "I didn't think in such a short piece you could so truthfully find the essence of all the things I told you."

I'm haunted by that footage now. Oksana sits there, bright and elegant, while this survivor of Stalin's terror watches her own testimony. By then, Navalny was already in prison. The full scale invasion of Ukraine  was just weeks away. Did Oksana sense what was coming? Did she know she was documenting not just Olga's past, but her own future?

When Putin launched his invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Oksana left Russia. She went to Kyiv to report on the war for an independent Russian outlet – her final act of resistance. On March 23, almost exactly a month since the war had begun, while documenting civilian damage from Russian bombing, Oksana was killed in a Russian missile strike. She was 42.

"The Repressions Don't End" wasn't just the title she chose for the Russian version of our documentary project. It was how she understood history's patterns – patterns that would claim her own life.

We've seen this movie before across different contexts and continents. The script is familiar, the plot mostly predictable. But we don't yet know how it ends – especially in a country with America's democratic traditions, constitutional safeguards, and decentralized power structures.

And so, when friends ask me "what do we do," I tell them: Look to those who've been there before. Democracy isn't saved through grand gestures, but through thousands of small acts of courage. Through showing up, speaking up, and refusing to turn away from what is happening before our eyes. Through recognizing that the authoritarian playbook works precisely because each small tactic seems too minor to resist. 

We've seen this movie before. But we're not just a passive audience—we're also actors. And we still have the power to change the ending.

All illustrations and videos in this article are from Coda Story's Generation Gulag

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Having spent most of my life watching Putin's Russia take shape, I recognize familiar patterns in American politics today. There is a theory, expressed only half in jest, among some who analyze Donald Trump—as he undermines traditional alliances and creates havoc within the federal government—that he must be a Russian asset. I understand what they mean. Trump consistently parrots Putin talking points, and Russian state media celebrates Trump with unusual enthusiasm. As American presidents, whether left or right, are rarely cheered in Russia, one might suspect some kind of collaboration.

But there is a simpler explanation: Trump and Putin are remarkably similar men who naturally understand each other. No conspiracy required—Trump would feel right at home in Moscow.

This isn't to suggest moral equivalence. Trump, after all, has not waged a genocidal war claiming hundreds of thousands of lives. He aspires to dictatorship but hasn't succeeded in achieving it—yet. He hasn't killed his political opponents or nationalized major companies to enrich his friends. Given America's robust institutions, he is unlikely to ever have the opportunity to do these things. In any case, he likely doesn't harbor such aims—he seems much more jovial than Putin.

Still, the parallels between them are unmistakable:

Both men emerged in the moral ambiguity that followed World War II's short-lived moral clarity. They share a worldview in which only large, feared countries deserve respect. Trump famously told Bob Woodward that “real power is… fear.” In both domestic and foreign affairs, neither operates appears to believe that promises matter or that empathy should guide decision-making. While many politicians behave similarly, few presidents so openly belittle neighboring countries and their leaders as Trump and Putin routinely do.

Both men consider loyalty—even feigned loyalty—to be the only true virtue. Trump's pardoning of the January 6 insurrectionists demonstrates his adherence to this principle. Unlike in his first term, when staffers frequently defected or expressed dissatisfaction, Trump now trades competence for loyalty in those he employs, exactly as Putin does. 

Just observe JD Vance's transformation. During Trump's first term, he was a clean-shaven intellectual on a book tour who compared Trump to Hitler. Now, he resembles a Central Asian heir to the throne and his almost comically masculine posturing mimics his boss’s style. This shapeshifting ability shouldn't surprise anyone who read Vance's memoir, “Hillbilly Elegy,” in which he described his childhood talent for adapting to different father figures. "With Steve, a midlife-crisis sufferer with an earring to prove it,” Vance wrote, “I pretended earrings were cool... With Chip, an alcoholic police officer who saw my earring as a sign of 'girlieness,' I had thick skin and loved police cars." For men like Trump and Putin, loyalty isn't optional, it's existential, and Vance has mastered the art of becoming whatever his current patron requires.

Both Putin and Trump harbor a profound distrust of democratic institutions. Trump's fixation on the "stolen election" of 2020 mirrors Putin's trauma from his failed bid to manipulate the 2005 Ukrainian election to his advantage. For both men, personal political losses were transformational. In Putin’s case, every challenge to his authority has turned him into a different, usually worse, person. 

It may seem paradoxical that a man who never faces competitive elections changes with each successive term, but it's true – and each iteration is more dangerous than the last. Trump too has changed since his last term. He may still be erratic, may still be a lying, megalomaniacal, overconfident salesman. But those of us who have seen authoritarian evolution up close recognize a fundamental transformation. Trump’s rage at institutional betrayal has calcified into conviction, into a doctrine founded on distrust. The trauma of defeat in 2020 didn't just wound Trump's ego; it convinced him to view the entire democratic apparatus as illegitimate. This shift, this hardening of his position should not be underestimated.

Another thing Trump and Putin have in common is that both believe corruption is universal. I recognize in Trump a mindset common in Russia—indeed, it's fundamental to how power operates in Moscow. Trump doesn't just call opponents "crooked” as a joke, he seems to genuinely believe that graft, and graft alone, motivates everyone. For Trump, corruption is not merely personal enrichment but is the only effective means of governance, of exerting control. This approach makes dealing with Putin convenient—negotiations are simpler when you believe everyone has a price. But I’ve seen in my country how such transactionalism ultimately backfires, creating whole new avenues of institutional corruption that involve orders of far greater magnitude than simple personal enrichment ever could. 

Apart from an intrinsic understanding of corruption, both Trump and Putin also understand, crave and deliberately create chaos. Whether through war, nuclear threats, dismantled treaties, or bureaucratic upheaval, disorder provides leverage. When Elon Musk is tasked with destroying the civil service, the goal is to make government employees more pliable for whatever comes next. The damage, of course, will extend beyond Trump's tenure—after he leaves office, American civil servants will have lost their trust in the entire American system, the whole edifice of government, and it won’t be easy to restore that faith.

And now If Trump and his all-too-loyal allies seem detached from reality, then the joke is on reality.

Many American observers now hold out hope that constitutional guardrails and democratic institutions will do their job. These observers believe checks and balances will contain Trump's excesses until the midterms or the next presidential election bring relief. They're not entirely wrong—America is certainly better positioned to withstand authoritarian creep than Russia was in Putin's early years. 

America's independent judiciary, free press, federalized power structure, and long democratic tradition provide genuine protective layers that Russia lacked. But I've also seen how institutions crumble not through frontal assault but through slow erosion, as bureaucrats, judges, and legislators become complicit through fear, ambition, or simple exhaustion. 

When I read pundits like Ezra Klein argue we shouldn't believe Trump's threats because his power is more limited than he pretends, I recognize a familiar pattern of wishful thinking. Klein suggests that since Trump lacks congressional control and broad public support, his power exists mainly in our collective imagination of it. This analysis assumes Trump operates within the traditional boundaries of American politics. But that's precisely what authoritarians never do. Those who dismiss Trump's ability to transform America make a fundamental error of perspective. They judge his capabilities by the system's rules, while he succeeds by dismantling those very rules. 

Trump has few constitutional powers, true. But autocrats rarely acquire power through constitutional means—that's precisely why they want to become autocrats: to avoid this hassle. They find cracks in the system—a corrupt judge here, a sycophantic legislator there, a couple of overworked bureaucrats willing to look the other way.

Worse, those who can most effectively prevent state capture are least equipped to recognize it. Trump isn't trying to subdue coastal liberals and activists; he’s going after unelected civil servants, military officers, and corporate stakeholders. Whatever their qualifications, these aren't people prepared for civil disobedience—that's not in their job descriptions. They advance their careers by executing orders without overthinking them, not by questioning authority. Whatever resistance they might offer has been further diminished by Musk's crusade against the "deep state."

Meanwhile, the elected officials who can resist often voluntarily surrender. Many Republican congressmen, whatever their real feelings and opinions, have meekly knelt before Trump's throne. Autocratic systems actively select for the unprincipled and obedient. Compare Trump's second administration to his first—adverse selection is already evident.

And now If Trump and his all-too-loyal allies seem detached from reality, then the joke is on reality. 

So far, Trump has twice won the most competitive elections on the planet, and Musk is officially the world's richest man, having built businesses few thought possible. JD Vance, in addition to becoming VP by 40, wrote a bestseller at 31. They all have a history of making their ideas come true. If you think the world isn't crazy enough to follow them further into the abyss, you might want to reconsider your assumptions. In my part of the world, at least, it's always been just crazy enough.

Even though nearly every statement Trump makes is false, he remains deeply true to those falsehoods. His fictions, which share so much with those invented by Putin, have given both men control of their nations’ narratives – false or not. So, when evaluating Trump's threat, consider Pascal's wager: If we spend four years on high alert over dangers that never materialize, we've endured unnecessary stress. If we relax and let his worst ambitions come to fruition, we face a potential catastrophe. The first scenario is clearly preferable.

Americans often ask how ordinary Russians can support Putin's regime. Perhaps now you're getting a clearer picture. The path from democracy to autocracy isn't marked by tanks in the streets but by the slow erosion of norms, the replacement of competence with loyalty, and the methodical exploitation of institutional vulnerabilities.

Trump has given us plenty of advance warning. Authoritarians announce their crimes long before they commit them. Even the most unprincipled men hold deep convictions and manifest character traits that rarely change. That's not advanced political theory—it's Russian History 101. The question remains, though, now that we know – what are we going to do?

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For nearly a decade, our team has documented how anti-LGBT legislation and rhetoric has migrated from Russia to Central Asia to Turkey to Georgia, Brazil, and now the United States. 

Trump's speech was instantly recognizable to those who have followed this trail. He took us on a tour of its classic landmarks: presenting anti-transgender policies as "protecting women," framing gender-affirming care as "mutilation," and positioning this politicized language as a return to common sense rather than an attack on civil rights. 

But to understand how we got here, we need to look back more than a decade to when the Kremlin first deployed anti-LGBT rhetoric not as a moral stance, but as a tactical weapon.

A Russian export

In 2012, facing mounting protests over corruption, Vladimir Putin's government desperately needed to change the agenda and refocus national anger elsewhere. As our contributing editor Peter Pomerantsev later wrote: "Putin faced a mounting wave of protests focusing on bad governance and corruption among the elites. He desperately needed to change the agenda and refocus national anger elsewhere."

The opportunity came when self-declared feminist provocateurs Pussy Riot performed their "punk prayer" in Moscow's central cathedral. Putin seized the moment. Suddenly Russian state TV shifted their attention from corruption scandals to tabloid rants about witches, God, Satan, and anal sex. Europe, previously a symbol of the rule of law and transparency, was rebranded as "Gayropa."

This wasn't about deeply held religious beliefs. As Pomerantsev noted, "Putin was probably telling the truth when he told a TV interviewer he had no problem with homosexuals. His administration is said to contain several, and some key members of the media elite are themselves discreetly gay." Russia's social culture is, Pomerantsev wrote, "hedonistic and, if anything, somewhat libertine; rates for abortion, divorce and children born out of wedlock are high. Church attendance is low. The US Bible belt it certainly isn't." 

But if Putin had no personal problem with homosexuality, he saw the potential of playing to prejudice. Russia's 2013 "gay propaganda" law banning the "promotion of non-traditional sexual relations" to minors became the template. Soon, nearly identical laws appeared in former Soviet countries—first in Lithuania, then Latvia, then across Central Asia. The language was often copied verbatim, with the same vague prohibitions against "propaganda" that left room to criminalize everything from pride parades to sex education to simply mentioning that LGBT people exist.

The creation of a global axis

What began as a deliberate distraction from Putin’s failure to rein in corruption evolved into a transnational movement. Russian "family values" defenders organized international conferences, bringing together American evangelicals, European far-right politicians, and anti-LGBT activists from Africa.

Those meetings bore fruit. The most powerful connections happened through the World Congress of Families, where links between Russian Orthodox activists and American evangelical groups were forged. These meetings created pathways for rhetoric and policies to travel, often through multiple countries in other continents, before reaching the mainstream in Western democracies.

"Homosexual propaganda is the disease of a modern anti-Christian society."

When Trump spoke about banning "gender ideology," he echoed language first deployed by the Kremlin. When he announced that he had "signed an executive order to ban men from playing in women's sports," he was repeating almost word-for-word the justifications used for Russia's bans on transgender athletes.

From Russia to Brazil to America

By 2020, this Christian-inflected, homophobic, family values playbook had made it to Brazil, where President Jair Bolsonaro deployed its tactics to appeal to a wide swathe of religious conservatives. In May 2020, at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, Bolsonaro attempted to divert attention from his mishandling of the crisis by posting on Facebook that the World Health Organization was encouraging masturbation in children as young as four.

The post was bizarre, quickly deleted, and made little sense—but it wasn't the product of some Bolsonaro fever dream. Anyone who had watched Russian state television was already familiar with the crazy conspiracy theory about WHO encouraging childhood masturbation.

It first appeared on Russian state TV channels around 2014, when Putin's traditional values crusade had really picked up momentum. The whole theory was based on a WHO document on sex education that mentioned early childhood masturbation as a normal psychosexual phenomenon that teachers should be prepared to discuss—an obscure, academic point distorted by Russian media into evidence that European children were being forced to masturbate from the age of four.

Bizarre as it was, the story had legs, repeated so often that it migrated from Russian television to the Brazilian president’s social media to Christian conservative talking points in the U.S. and Britain. 

Watching the Edges

What happens on the periphery—both geographical and narrative—eventually moves to the center. Eight years ago, we were documenting anti-LGBT legislation in Kyrgyzstan that seemed fringe, distant, and surely far removed from established democracies. Today, similar laws are being implemented in countries like Hungary, Georgia, and even the United States.

"People [who] call themselves traditionalists rise up. If you are gay, lesbian, especially transgender, you will be not only beaten, you will be killed."

Georgia, my own country, is a fascinating case study in how such rhetoric takes root. Once the most promising democracy among the former Soviet republics, Georgia has regressed. With the Kremlin-friendly Georgian Dream in power, and despite determined and vocal opposition, the ruling party pushed through a "foreign agents" law modeled directly on its Russian counterpart and “family values” legislation that targets LGBT rights, including banning Pride parades and public displays of the rainbow flag.

The pattern is unmistakable and what makes it particularly dangerous is how these policies are laundered through increasingly respectable channels. Phrases that began on Russian state TV like "gender ideology" and protecting children from "propaganda" have become mainstream Republican talking points.

Russia's Blueprint: Unleashing Violence

The consequences of this exported blueprint are devastating. It gives license to religious conservatives everywhere to act on  their prejudices and then point to them as universal. In Indonesia, for instance, which has been mulling changes to its broadcast law that single out investigative journalism and LGBT content, two young men in conservative Aceh were publicly flogged under Shariah law for gay sex. Vigilantes burst into a flat to find the men allegedly mid-embrace.   

In Russia, the gay propaganda law unleashed unprecedented violence against LGBTQ people. As Lyosha Gorshkov, a gay Russian professor who fled to the United States, told us in 2016:  "people [who] call themselves traditionalists rise up. If you are gay, lesbian, especially transgender, you will be not only beaten, but you will be killed. Government keeps targeting LGBT population because it's easiest target.”

Before fleeing Russia, Gorshkov was targeted by the Federal Security Service (the modern version of the KGB). An agent at his university called him into his office and demanded he identify communists and homosexuals. "He would follow me every single week, calling me, looking for me at the university," Gorshkov explained. When a bogus article circulated claiming Gorshkov was "promoting sodomy," he knew he had to leave.

In St. Petersburg, which became the epicenter for Russian homophobia, LGBT people faced increasing danger. Nearly nine years ago, journalist Dmitry Tsilikin was murdered in what police believed was a homophobic attack. Local politicians like Vitaly Milonov, who masterminded the city's gay propaganda law that later went national, routinely used dehumanizing language that inspired vigilante violence.

"We have to face moral dangers,” Milonov told our reporter Amy Mackinnon. Homosexual propaganda, he said, is “the disease of a modern anti-Christian society," Milonov told our reporter Amy MacKinnon.

Coming Full Circle

President Trump's speech this week represents a concerning milestone in this journey of authoritarian rhetoric. When he promised to bring "common sense" back by recognizing only two genders, he was echoing Putin from a decade earlier, though no one acknowledged the source.

Particularly troubling is how within the United States such rhetoric is becoming law. Iowa's legislature recently passed a bill to strip the state's civil rights code of protections based on gender identity—the first state to explicitly revoke such protections. Georgia's state legislature, meanwhile, passed a bill to cut off funding for gender-affirming care for minors and people held in state prisons. Georgia had already passed a bill banning transgender athletes from school sports.

These are the legislative fruits from rhetorical roots planted over a decade ago. I'll never forget the May afternoon in 2016 when I sat in Tbilisi's main concert hall, watching Josiah Trenham, an Eastern Orthodox priest from California, take the stage at the World Congress of Families conference. The hall was packed with hundreds of guests, many of them Americans who had traveled to the Georgian capital to discuss ways to "save the world from homosexuality." What still haunts me is how warmly the audience applauded Trenham’s words.

"I have witnessed my nation disgrace itself before God and men," he thundered. "My counsel to beloved Georgians is this: stand firm in your faith against the LGBT revolution. Do not give in or your cities will become like San Francisco, where there are 80,000 more dogs in the city than there are children. Tell the LGBT tolerance tyrants, this lavender mafia, these homofascists, these rainbow radicals, that they are not welcome to promote their anti-religious anti-civilizational propaganda in your nations."

Later, when I confronted Trenham, he insisted he hadn't encouraged violence, claiming instead that the people "who are for provocation and violence are the LGBTs themselves." Outside, hundreds of Georgian Orthodox activists were gathered with religious icons and signs that quoted Biblical scripture. They were free to express their hate. But when my phone rang, it was an LGBT activist calling in panic because ten of his friends had been arrested for writing "Love is equal" on a sidewalk only a few blocks away.

Cynical Kremlin propaganda coupled with genuine religious fervor had created this monster, and more monsters were being bred everywhere. The success of the Russian playbook lies in its incremental nature. First, you frame the issue as one about protecting children. Then you expand to education. Then to adults. At each step, those opposing the restrictions can be painted as ideologues who don't care about protecting the vulnerable.

Setting Trump's speech alongside those made by others, from political leaders to religious preachers, reveals that the U.S. is just the latest domino to fall. Solid family values as a contrast to the licentiousness of the decadent West  was a campaign that began in the Kremlin's halls of power as a distraction. It has now become a cornerstone of authoritarian governance worldwide.

In Tbilisi, at the World Congress of Families conference, a Polish anti-abortion activist explained: "You have to understand that in the west politicians are thinking in four-year terms... but in Russia they think more like emperors." The Kremlin’s long game has paid off.

For years, we've documented how authoritarianism travels across borders, now that story is becoming America’s story.

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Today, that solidarity has been replaced by something no one could have imagined in February, 2022: the United States has refused to back an annual resolution presented to the UN General Assembly that condemns Russian aggression and demands the removal of troops. Instead, the leader of the world's most powerful democracy now repeats the Kremlin's false narrative that Ukraine started the war.

This stunning reversal of the U.S. position represents Vladimir Putin's greatest victory - not in the battlefields of Ukraine but in a war that most of us thought ended over 30 years ago: the Cold War. 

Putin's win is no accident. For decades, he has been explicit about his ultimate goal: to return to the world of 1945, when the leaders of the U.S.S.R., U.S. and Britain sat around a table in Yalta to divide the world between them. The invasion of Ukraine three years ago was never about Ukraine - it was about reclaiming lost power and forcing the West back to the negotiating table. Putin’s success stems from the collective failure of the Western establishment, convinced of its own invincibility, to recognize his systematic dismantling of the order they claimed to defend.

It would be too simple to blame Donald Trump or any single political leader for finally giving Putin his seat at the table. This failure belongs to the entire Western establishment - including media organizations, think tanks, universities, corporations, and civil society institutions.

The values the West claimed for itself - defense of individual rights, rule of law, democratic values - were worth fighting for. But having “won” the Cold War, Western establishments grew complacent. They assumed the moral high ground was unassailable, dismissing those who warned it could be lost.

When Putin called the Soviet collapse "the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the century," Western analysts dismissed it as rhetoric. When he told George W. Bush that Ukraine was "not a country," they treated it as diplomatic bluster. When he used his 2007 Munich speech to declare ideological war on the Western-led world order, they saw a tantrum.

Each subsequent action - from the invasion of Georgia in 2008, to the annexation of Crimea in 2014, from the downing of MH17, also in 2014, to the killing of opponents throughout Putin’s reign - was treated as an isolated incident rather than part of a carefully orchestrated strategy. When Georgian leaders warned that Ukraine would be next, the Obama administration ignored them, dispatching Secretary of State Hillary Clinton to Geneva to meet her Russian counterpart and present him with the infamous "reset" button. When Baltic and Polish leaders pleaded for increased NATO deployments and warned about the Nord Stream pipeline's security implications, they were dismissed as paranoid.

"The Western Europeans pooh-poohed and patronized us for these last 30 years," former Polish foreign minister Radosław Sikorski told Politico in 2022. "For years they were patronizing us about our attitude: 'Oh, you know, you over-nervous, over-sensitive Central Europeans are prejudiced against Russia.'"

The lost victory

Meanwhile, inside Russia, Putin was perfecting the playbook that would eventually transform the West itself. His ideologues, like Alexander Dugin, weren't just discussing Russia's future - they were designing a blueprint for dismantling liberal democracy from within. Dugin, and the influential Izborsky Club think tank, understood that the key to defeating Western values wasn't to challenge them head-on, but to turn their contradictions against themselves.

It wasn't that Dugin had anything particularly compelling to offer. His vision of a post-liberal world order where traditional values trump individual rights was hardly original. But when he sat down with Tucker Carlson in April last year to present Putin as the defender of traditional values against the decadent West, his message resonated with conservatives because too many Westerners felt that liberal values had become hollow promises. 

Many studies, like this from the Pew Research Center, showed that Americans were rapidly losing faith in their institutions. Rather than addressing these grievances, the Western establishment preferred to blame disinformation and foreign interference, dismissing citizens’ concerns and creating resentments that Putin proved masterful at exploiting.

Putin was also methodically building a global coalition that extended far beyond the West. While Western media focused on Russia's influence operations in Europe and America, Moscow was crafting a different narrative for the Global South. In Africa, Russian embassies bombarded newsrooms with op-eds positioning Russia as the successor to the Soviet Union's anti-colonial legacy. The message was simple but effective: Russia was fighting Western imperialism, not waging colonial war.

Engineering the West's downfall

While Western governments spent billions setting up fact-checking initiatives and disinformation monitoring centers - always reacting, always one step behind - Putin was methodically building loose, agile networks that tapped into genuine popular anger about Western hypocrisy and double standards.

Putin's triumph lies not in offering better ideas or values - democracy, individual rights, and rule of law remain powerful ideals. His genius was in exploiting the growing gap between these principles and people's lived experiences"

The West's reactive stance allowed Putin to continuously set the agenda. The vast "counter-disinformation" industry - now effectively destroyed by Trump’s aid cuts-  focused on debunking individual claims but consistently missed the bigger picture. From RT Arabic's dominant position in Lebanon to coordinated social media campaigns across Africa, Putin crafted narratives that positioned Russia as the champion of all those who felt betrayed and marginalized by the Western-led order.

"Russia's message lands well and softly," one editor from Johannesburg told me during a gathering of African editors in Nairobi in 2022. "The challenge for our team is to objectively navigate overwhelmingly pro-Russian public sentiment." 

The success of this strategy is now undeniable. And yet, Putin offers little in return for his repudiation of the West. Democracy, individual rights, and rule of law remain powerful ideals. His genius was in exploiting the growing gap between these principles and people's lived experiences, a gap that Western establishments proved unwilling or unable to address.

This blind spot - coupled with the West’s inability to imagine losing - became the so-called free world’s greatest vulnerability. While liberal establishments were congratulating themselves on the "end of history," Putin was methodically working to rewrite its ending. While they dismissed the appeal of traditionalist values as backwards and parochial, he was building a global alliance of like-minded leaders and movements. 

Putin's victory was never inevitable. At each step, Western institutions had opportunities to recognize and counter his strategy. Instead, their conviction in their own righteousness led them to consistently underestimate both the threat and the extent of their own failures.

Today, as Russian state media hosts celebrate their triumph and Trump prepares to negotiate Ukraine's surrender, the scale of Putin's achievement is breathtaking. He has succeeded where generations of Soviet leaders failed: not just in resisting Western influence but in fundamentally transforming the West itself. 

The Cold War’s new ending is exactly as Putin scripted it. Not with the triumph of Western liberal democracy, but with its possibly fatal weakening. The Kremlin's guiding framework—where power is truth, principles are weakness, and cronyism is the only real ideology—now defines the White House as well.The question isn't how we got here - Putin told us exactly where he was taking us. The question is whether we can finally abandon our arrogant certainties long enough to understand what happened - and what comes next.

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Trump had said that by his deadline Israel should demand the return of all 76 of the remaining Israeli hostages (including the remains of the 35 or so believed to be dead), or "let hell break out". Hamas had earlier threatened to call off the scheduled release of another three hostages unless the Israelis lifted the curbs it said they had imposed on the flow of aid into the battered enclave, especially shelter items. 

Egyptian and Qatari mediators ironed out the problem, as they had done with previous hitches. But, in the meanwhile, Benjamin Netanyahu's far right government took up the baton Trump had handed to it. In preparation to unleash hell, if "our hostages" were not freed by the deadline, Israel massed troops in and around Gaza. It was left unclear whether Israel was demanding the release of all 76 hostages, or just the 17 due to be freed over the current 42-day first phase of the Gaza agreement, or just the three originally meant to be freed on that Saturday in line with the accord.

In the event, the sixth hostage handover of Phase 1 went ahead smoothly, with three Israeli men, looking as fit and healthy as could be expected given their ordeal, handed over to the International Red Cross and thence back to Israel in exchange for the release of 369 Palestinian prisoners, 36 of them serving long-term sentences and the rest Gazans picked up at random with no charges. 

Netanyahu hates the Palestinian Authority at least as much as he does Hamas, because the PA wants a two-state solution. "There will be no Hamas and no PA in Gaza after the war," he said.

As before, and against the wishes of the Red Cross, Hamas turned the handover into a spectacle aimed at conveying the message that it is still strong and in control, with hundreds of heavily-armed, smartly-uniformed fighters, some toting advanced Israeli combat weapons probably seized in the October 7 2023 attack, cordoning off a large square and displaying the hostages on a stage festooned with Hamas banners and slogans. 

With the closing stages of the first phase set to continue (14 more days, 14 more hostages) did this mean that some daylight was opening up between Netanyahu and Trump, who had railed against the release of hostages in "dribs and drabs"? Not really. Trump is clearly in tune with the more vocally extreme elements in the Israeli cabinet, Itamar Ben Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich, but Netanyahu could not simply junk the elaborately-negotiated and signed agreement, especially as the highly-emotive issue of hostage lives was at stake. At the security cabinet meeting where the exchange was approved, he is reported to have told his ministers not to give interviews or mention the Trump plan, to avoid appearing to act counter to the volatile US president.

So the focus shifted to the second phase of the accord, which was supposed to see the release of all Israeli hostages and many more Palestinian prisoners, and the complete withdrawal of Israeli forces from the Gaza Strip. It would mean the end of the war, with preparations for a third phase devoted to reconstruction. 

Negotiations on Phase 2 were meant to start on February 4, but two weeks went by before movement started in that direction, and the process was clearly going to be fraught. The issue of who would control and govern Gaza had been left open. As the TV screens glaringly showed, Hamas was still very much there and in charge. All attempts had failed to encourage an alternative local leadership, or to posit a takeover by the discredited Palestinian Authority from the West Bank. 

Netanyahu hates the PA at least as much as he does Hamas, because the PA wants a two-state solution. "There will be no Hamas and no PA in Gaza after the war," he said on February 17. "I am committed to U.S. President Trump's plan for the realization of a different Gaza."

"Any plan that leaves Hamas in charge of Gaza will be unacceptable to Israel," said Trump's Secretary of State Marco Rubio. After talks with Netanyahu, he added : "Hamas cannot continue as a military or government force. It must be eliminated or eradicated."

"The next phase of the hostage deal remains under great threat," concluded Amir Tibon in Haaretz. "It is clear that Netanyahu wants the deal to collapse and the war to resume, and that he is doing everything in his power to make that happen." The collapse of the deal with Hamas would be the only way to enable Trump's "plan" for the US to "take over, own and cherish" a Gaza flattened beyond redemption and devoid of its Palestinian inhabitants, who would be rehoused happily and permanently in "beautiful communities" elsewhere while their Gaza was reborn as an incredible Riviera for others. 

It's a real estate hustler's fantasy that collides head-on with every sanctity and imperative in Arab history and politics. Egypt and Jordan immediately rejected Trump's suggestion that they take in Palestinians from Gaza. Trump was presumably assuming that the several billion dollars both receive in US military and economic aid would leverage obedience. But there are some issues that are beyond pressure and bribery. It would be an existential threat for King Abdullah's Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan in particular. He knows that if the Gazans are displaced, the much closer and more numerous inhabitants of the West Bank, where things are already hotting up dangerously, would not be far behind. 

No Arab leader can go down in history as collaborating in a second Nakba, the first being the displacement of Palestinians by the creation of Israel in 1948. The Saudis, who Trump is counting on to join Israel in an expanded Abraham Accord despite Gaza, know this as well as any, and have long made it unequivocally clear that there is no way normalisation will happen without a clear pathway to a Palestinian state. They were further irked by Netanyahu's facetious suggestion that if they were so keen on that, why not establish it in the Kingdom? 

Riyadh set about rallying the Arabs behind a plan to counter the Trump scheme, with Egypt and others working on the details of a formula for reconstructing the Strip without displacing its inhabitants. The key issue is whether Hamas could be induced to stand aside, and who would take political and security control. Whatever the arrangement, Hamas would still be the power behind the camouflage. Would Israel accept such a cosmetic ploy, or, with Trump's backing, go all out to complete its stated war aim of destroying Hamas? 

That would complete the conversion of Gaza into a totally unlivable hell on earth, to which it is already pretty close. If that were to happen and the doors were opened, the bulk of the population might have no option but to stream out for the sake of simple survival. "Give them a choice. Not forcible eviction. Not ethnic cleansing," as Netanyahu said.

If the Gaza issue might produce some Arab pushback against Trump's wilder notions, Israel's ambition to deal with Iran is less contentious, though further conflict is unlikely to be welcomed by the Gulf countries. The Saudis, UAE and others roundly condemned Israel's large-scale attack on Iran on October 26 last year – their relations with Tehran have improved considerably since Trump's first term. 

But Iran is certainly in the crosshairs. After meeting with Secretary of State Rubio on February 16, Netanyahu said that with President Trump's support, "I have no doubt we can and will finish the job." While Rubio said that Israel and the U.S. "stand shoulder to shoulder" against Iran, it remains to be seen whether Trump, who supposedly prefers making deals to making war, would prefer to squeeze Iran into quasi-submission rather than encouraging or engaging in conflict. 

The effect of Israel's devastating blows to Iran's regional allies is being felt strongly in Lebanon, where the new government formed by PM Nawaf Salam onFebruary 8 clearly reflected a new balance of power, with Hezbollah losing its ability to veto decisions it doesn't like. 

The day after the new Lebanese cabinet held its first meeting, Israeli warplanes broke the sound barrier over Beirut, rattling windows and nerves throughout the city. It was a clear message aimed at Beirut airport, which the Israelis (through the US) threatened to bombard if it allowed flights from Tehran to land, on the accusation that such planes were bringing in cash and possibly weapons for Hezbollah. The airport cancelled the incoming flights, prompting protest demonstrations by Hezbollah followers around the airport in which vehicles of UN peacekeepers were attacked and burned. The Salam government then went further, and cancelled all flights to and from Iran until further notice.

Under the November 27 ceasefire agreement last year between Israel and Hezbollah, Israeli forces were supposed to leave Lebanon by January 27, but the deadline was pushed back to February 18. Though the accord's co-sponsor France insisted the Israelis should then pull out fully, the U.S. did not oppose Israel's decision to retain five strategic hilltop positions in southern Lebanon. Israel also continued to carry out strikes on what it deemed Hezbollah targets in the Beqaa Valley, and on February 17 assassinated a Hamas officer with a drone strike on his car in the Lebanese city of Sidon. The concept of "ceasefire" seemed to be somewhat relative.

Netanyahu hailed Trump as the best friend Israel has ever had in the White House. The question now is whether the American president can treat the Arab side of the equation as amounting to nothing.

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PayPal and Palantir co-founder Peter Thiel must have thought the bet he made on Vance in the 2022 Ohio Senate race had paid off in Paris. Thiel, alongside fellow venture capitalists David Sacks and Elon Musk, is the money behind the rise of JD Vance to the vice presidency of the United States. And in the French capital, Vance gave his investors the returns they've been banking on, making the argument that even the tamest regulation would stifle the AI industry and kill innovation.

"The AI future is not going to be won by hand-wringing about safety," Vance lectured assembled global leaders. "It will be won by building." Perhaps inevitably, given the tone being taken, the United States (alongside the United Kingdom) refused to sign an innocuous pledge at the end of the conference to "reduce digital divides" and "ensure AI is open, inclusive, transparent, ethical, safe, secure, and trustworthy." Nearly sixty other countries did sign.

Trump, it seems, doesn’t do multilateral, global treaties, having already pulled the U.S. out of a panoply of international agreements on health, climate change, justice, trade and taxation. And as the U.S. refused to play ball, China declared its intent to collaborate freely with other countries, to play its part in creating "a community with a shared future for mankind".

Vance’s first speech abroad as vice president showed how the Trump administration is looking to force everyone - allies and adversaries alike - to react while the U.S. sets the tune. Clearly, by countering American abrasiveness, China senses an opportunity to strengthen its soft power.

Not long after Vance’s visit to Paris, it was Hegseth’s turn to lecture the U.S.’s European allies. “Make no mistake,” he said in Brussels, “President Trump will not allow anyone to turn Uncle Sam into Uncle Sucker.”

Hegseth told reporters that the “peace dividend has to end.” Europe needs to spend more on its own defense because there are “autocrats with ambitions around the globe from Russia to the communist Chinese.” Either the West, he added, “awakens to that reality… or we will abdicate that responsibility to somebody else with all the wrong values.” 

The Trump administration is looking to force allies and adversaries alike to march to the beat of America's drum. By countering American abrasiveness, China senses an opportunity to strengthen its soft power.

Meanwhile in Washington, DC, Donald Trump was demonstrating the extent to which the United States seemed to be marginalizing NATO, by claiming to have already agreed with Vladimir Putin to begin negotiating a peace deal over Ukraine. No European leader had been clued in; neither had the Ukrainian president, Volodymyr Zelensky. If Europe was getting the stick, it very much seemed as if Putin was getting the carrot. “I know him very well,” Trump said about Putin. “I think he wants peace. I think he would tell me if he didn’t.” Trump also expressed his hope that Russia could rejoin the G7 (formerly G8) bloc of the world’s wealthiest nations.

“Europe must be part of any negotiations,” a group of European foreign ministers said in Paris, insisting plaintively on a seat at the table even as Trump seems intent on pulling that seat out from underneath them. A meeting between Putin and Trump has been mooted to discuss Ukraine – it will be held in Saudi Arabia and, as of now, nobody else has been invited. Though, as Vance prepares to meet with Zelensky at a security conference in Munich at the weekend, at least the U.S. acknowledges that Ukraine will need to be a part of the process. But an indication of the terms on which a peace deal with Russia might be agreed was provided by U.S. defence secretary Pete Hegseth who said that neither NATO membership nor reclaiming all its land occupied by Russia were “realistic” goals for Ukraine. 

China, reportedly, has also offered to host Trump and Putin for a summit to discuss a peace deal. Speaking in London, Wang Yi, the Chinese foreign minister, said “China is willing to work together with all parties, including the European side, to continue to play a constructive role in this regard.” The “rationality” of China’s position, he maintained, has been borne out by recent developments. Last year, China and Brazil said it could broker a peace deal, an offer Zelensky dismissed, questioning both countries’ motivations. “You will not boost your power,” he said, “at Ukraine’s expense.”

Since Trump returned to the White House, China’s approach has been to remind the world that it is a responsible global power. As the U.S. puts the world on the defensive, "China will increasingly be seen as a reliable global partner," noted one state magazine. The article was a reaction to the USAID freeze and argued that Beijing could now persuade other countries that its model "provides a more predictable and lasting choice for cooperation." 

Russian commentators, even as they welcomed Trump’s return, have been more cautious about any strategic benefits Russia might accrue. "The liberal agenda of previous administrations was something we learned to counter effectively," wrote an RT columnist. "But this conservative agenda, focused on patriotism, traditional family structures, and individual success, could prove more difficult to combat." Moscow must now compete with a Trump administration that can’t be attacked for being “woke,” that addresses the world from a vantage point that Russia thought was theirs, through conservative rather than progressive values and through Big Tech and trade tariffs rather than aid.

But with Trump intent on posturing as the lone gunslinger in town, Russia might take comfort in its alliance with China. What of Europe, though, and Western consensus?

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

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The encounter was jarring not just for its surreal nature - a discussion of political theory amid artillery fire - but for what it revealed about Russian propaganda's evolving sophistication. When I researched the Overton Window after our conversation, I discovered that Russian state media had long been obsessed with the concept, transforming this Western analytical framework into something more potent: both an explanation for social change and supposed proof of Western cultural warfare. Russian commentators didn't just cite the theory -  they wielded it as both explanation and evidence of Western attempts to undermine Russian society.

Over the next decade, I watched this once-academic term slide from Russian state TV screens and the trenches of eastern Ukraine into mainstream Western discourse - embraced by commentators on both the far left and far right of the political spectrum. What began as a framework for understanding social change became a blueprint for engineering it.

Now we're watching this process play out in real time.  For instance, Elon Musk's handpicked team running DOGE - the new Department of Government Efficiency - are inexperienced young men between the ages of 19 and 24 with unfettered access to federal systems. A decade ago, putting Silicon Valley twenty-somethings in charge of critical government functions would have sparked outrage. Today, it's celebrated as innovation.

What began as a framework for understanding social change became a blueprint for engineering it.

The transformation extends far beyond Washington. When America's president proposes to "take over" Gaza and turn it into "the Riviera of the Middle East," when Musk tells Germans to "move beyond" Nazi guilt, they're deliberately expanding what's politically possible. From Joe Rogan to Tucker Carlson, from African opinion writers praising Trump's aid cuts as "liberation" to conservative thinkers reimagining solutions for Gaza - each pushes the boundaries of acceptable discourse a little further.

The shift manifests across every domain of power. Inside federal agencies, tech executives now make decisions once reserved for career civil servants, normalizing private control of public functions. On the global stage, raw deal-making has replaced diplomatic principles, with decades-old alliances discarded in favor of transactional relationships. El Salvador's president offers his prisons to house American inmates. Ukraine, fighting for survival against Russia, signals its willingness to trade military support for mineral rights. Even humanitarian aid, long seen as a moral imperative, is being recast as a form of dependency that needs to be eliminated.

BlackRock, the world's largest asset manager, has already adapted to this new reality. Their latest analysis simply divides nations into "winners and losers" based on their ability to navigate this new transactional diplomacy and stay on Trump’s good side. No moral judgments, no democratic values - just raw negotiating power.

The Overton Window - or "Окно Овертона блядь" as the Russian commander put it in 2014, mechanically adding the profanity at the end of each phrase like a full stop - offers a powerful framework for understanding how societies transform - not through sudden upheaval but through the gradual shifting of what people consider acceptable.  Whether through the brutal recalibrations of war or the calculated provocations of political theater, the Overton Window is always in motion, reshaped by those willing to push its boundaries.

This systematic normalization of the extreme is a core tenet of the authoritarian playbook - a calculated strategy of gradually expanding what society will tolerate, inch by inch, controversy by controversy. The goal is not just to push boundaries, but to exhaust resistance, to make the previously unimaginable seem not just possible, but inevitable.

The same mechanism operates in political discourse, where deliberate provocation becomes a strategic tool for reshaping collective perception. Donald Trump is the master of this approach. 

Whether through the brutal recalibrations of war or the calculated provocations of political theater, the Overton Window is always in motion, reshaped by those willing to push its boundaries. This systematic normalization of the extreme is a core tenet of the authoritarian playbook.

His political methodology isn't about achieving specific outcomes, but about continuously expanding the boundaries of acceptable discourse. Each provocative statement serves as a strategic instrument, deliberately designed to recalibrate social and political norms. When he suggests purchasing Greenland or proposing radical reimaginings of geopolitical landscapes like in Gaza, the actual feasibility becomes secondary to the act of introducing previously unthinkable concepts into mainstream conversation.

The genius of this approach lies in its relentlessness. By consistently proposing ideas that initially seem outrageous, extreme positions gradually become reference points for future discussions. Each controversial statement doesn't just distract from previous controversies; it fundamentally reshapes the political imagination. The goal is not immediate implementation but permanent transformation - moving the entire conceptual framework of what society considers possible.

Russian propagandists were early to grasp its significance, weaponizing the Overton Window theory itself as supposed evidence of Western cultural imperialism. That commander in Donetsk was just echoing what Russian state media had been claiming for years: that the West was deliberately expanding society's boundaries to impose its values on Russia.

A decade later, we're watching this process unfold in reverse. As transactional relationships replace values-based alliances, as oligarchic control displaces democratic institutions, as the unthinkable becomes routine - the transformation of our societies isn't happening by accident. 

Through the years of Brexit, Trump's first win, Orbán's rise, and the growing global polarization, that conversation in the ruins of Donetsk has stayed with me. There was something chilling about a commander discussing political theory between artillery fire - not because it felt academic, but because he embodied how thoroughly manufactured narratives could drive real-world violence. He was willing to fight and die for a worldview constructed by Russian state media about "traditional values" under attack. 

In the end, we are all unwitting participants in this grand narrative shift, our perceptions subtly recalibrated by the very forces that seek to reshape our understanding of what is possible, acceptable, and true. And whether we are shocked by those in power or find ourselves applauding them, we are simultaneously the observers and the changed.

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

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The post Shattering the Overton Window appeared first on Coda Story.

AfD has become a serious threat to Germany’s political establishment, with its leader Alice Weidel even leading the race  in one recent poll to become the country’s next chancellor. Weidel, a once obscure figure, enjoys the very loud and prominent support of Elon Musk, who interviewed her for over an hour on X last month and appeared at an AfD rally via video link last week to tell the crowd that there was “frankly too much of a focus on past guilt. “ He exhorted AfD supporters to “be proud of German culture and German values and not to lose that in some sort of multiculturalism that dilutes everything.” 

Many AfD members have in the past called for an end to Germany’s “cult of guilt” over the Holocaust. And Weidel herself, while endorsing that phrase, has said German politics should not be about its past but about “confidence and responsibility for the future.”

When Musk told thousands of Germans they need to "move beyond" Nazi guilt, I reached out to Erica Hellerstein, a brilliant reporter who has spent months investigating Germany's complex relationship with historical memory. In 2023, her story for Coda dived into  the little-understood opposition to Holocaust remembrance inside Germany. 

"What's interesting to me is seeing that view migrate from the fringe of German society to one of the most powerful shadow politicians in the US," Erica told me.

"Children should not be guilty of the sins of their parents, let alone their great grandparents," Musk declared to cheering AfD supporters, just hours before the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. Musk’s own grandfather was reportedly a pro-apartheid, antisemitic conspiracy theorist in South Africa - another country that, like Germany, has been celebrated for its post-conflict reconciliation efforts.

To understand today's shifting power dynamics, you have to understand how leaders manipulate our view of the past. The battle over historical memory has become one of the most potent weapons of modern authoritarianism, though it often goes unnoticed in daily headlines. Whether in school textbooks, political speeches, or family stories, the rewriting of history isn't really about the past at all. It's about who gets to control the future. 

No one understands this better than Vladimir Putin, who has written the playbook that authoritarians around the world are now following: Close the archives. Rewrite textbooks. Silence historians. Transform perpetrators into heroes.

What makes this tactic so effective is how stealthily it works at first. The rewriting of history begins in intimate spaces - in family silences, in selective remembrance, in subtle shifts of narrative.

We sent Erica to Germany in the wake of America's racial justice protests because we wanted to understand what Europe's model for historical reconciliation could teach a nation grappling with its own buried past. What Erica uncovered was revealing: even as Germans publicly embraced their culture of remembrance, many maintained a studied silence about their own family histories during the Nazi era - much like the buried stories of racial violence she found reporting across the American South. It was in these intimate gaps between public commemoration and private amnesia that she found the seeds of today's shift.

"Silence distorts memory..." wrote Erica Hellerstein in Coda nearly three years ago. She had traveled to Germany to report on its lauded culture of remembrance. Now with Elon Musk telling Germans to move on from their guilt, Erica's prescient piece reminds us why we must interrogate the horrors of history so as not to repeat them in the future. READ THE FULL STORY HERE.

"I don't think it's particularly surprising that someone with Musk's particular brand of grievance politics would gravitate to the AfD's brand of grievance politics," Erica told me, "but it does make me wonder if it will give license to other authoritarian movements to more vocally reject movements to reconcile with the past."

It’s already happening: Argentina's new president Javier Milei is actively whitewashing the country’s brutal period of dictatorship in the late-1970s and early-1980s. And in Hungary, historical revisionism has been essential to Viktor Orbán maintaining his grip on power.  While, in the United States, conservative politicians continue to rail against the 1619 Project and any attempt to teach accurate history in schools.

In Russia, where 70% approve of Stalin's role in Russian history, nearly half of young people say they've never heard of the Great Terror. Years before Russian tanks rolled into Ukraine we saw how the Putin regime began to implement its meticulous, systematic erasure of Soviet crimes: “cleansing” history books, culture, music, film, media.  By rewriting the past, Putin's regime cleared the way for future atrocities. When he finally declared Ukraine's statehood a historical fiction in 2022, the groundwork had been laid over decades of perpetuating carefully constructed historical myths. 

Now, as Musk amplifies a view that was once barely whispered in German living rooms, we're seeing  the results of the same erosion of historical memory burst into the mainstream. It’s evident in the support for extreme right wing groups across Europe,

What makes this moment particularly dangerous is how it weaponizes a very human impulse - the desire to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths about our past. As one Gulag survivor told us, of wrestling with this challenge in Russia: "How do you hold people accountable when there are millions of interrogators, millions of informants, millions of prison guards... These millions were also our people."

This selective amnesia creates exactly the kind of buried tension and grievance that authoritarians exploit. From Moscow to Buenos Aires, from Mississippi to Munich, we see how silence about the past can pave the way for power grabs in the present. When Musk aligns himself with Germany's far right, he's not just making an inflammatory speech - he's giving global legitimacy to a movement that understands what Putin has long known: controlling society’s memory is the key to controlling society.

Today, as we witness what Erica calls "the global ripple effect of this kind of embrace of a once-taboo interpretation of history," I'm struck by how the grand sweep of politics often begins in the quiet spaces of our homes. 

The stories we tell our children, the silences we maintain at family gatherings, the questions we dare or don't dare to ask about our ancestors - these intimate choices extend outward, shaping not just our personal narratives but our collective future. 

As Erica put it: “I think it’s so important to start with our family stories - because over time, memory gaps can mutate into memory wars.” And so, perhaps our most important task begins at our dinner tables: facing up to the stories we've been afraid to tell.

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On Chinese social media, the crisis in California is being treated as conclusive evidence that US society is broken. Some of the criticism cuts uncomfortably deep - for instance, Chinese commentators have pointed to the stark divide between rich and poor Californians and how they have faced different fates after losing their homes. "Even the world's largest economy still does not have the ability to protect the safety of its citizens when disasters occur," wrote academic Lu Qi. Another blogger put it more bluntly: "So, do you know why the wildfire in the United States is out of control? Because there is no one in control. Of course, they didn’t put out the fire or save anyone"

Chinese state media drew flattering comparisons between China’s response to catastrophe and that of the U.S. government. Look at last week's Tibet earthquake, Chinese media crowed, where over 14,000 rescue workers were deployed on search and rescue operations. And remember the 2022 Chongqing wildfire, they added, reposting videos of locals transporting extinguishers, supplies and emergency workers to remote areas on mopeds to fight the fires. Writing in the state-owned Beijing Daily, columnist Bao Nan described the fires as a “completely man-made disaster.” The fire chief, he alleged, borrowing far-right tropes, “seemed more focused on LGBT initiatives.” Proclaiming the superiority of China’s governance and capacity for collective action, Nan argued that  “superheroes in American blockbusters may stir up some passion for a moment, but when facing actual disasters, we don't need solitary heroes.” What’s more effective, he wrote, is “the power of group solidarity."

Russian coverage of the California wildfires took a different but equally calculated tack. Rather than dwell on comparisons between the United States and Russia, they amplified American political conflict and the ongoing corrosive blame game. Russian state media, such as RIA Novosti, has extensively reported Elon Musk's condemnation of the California government and its supposed mismanagement of federal resources. 

Meanwhile, the Russian-appointed governor of occupied Kherson, opted for some straight-up trolling. “The California fires have left many ordinary residents homeless,” he told the state-run news agency TASS, “therefore, our region is ready to welcome any American citizen who has lost their home and livelihood. Naturally, this applies only to those who have not financed the Ukrainian army or supported the current Kiev regime, which has caused far more civilian casualties through its actions than the fires in LA.” 

What's consistently been missing from Chinese and Russian coverage is, of course, context, balance and introspection. When it comes to holding up mirrors, both Moscow and Beijing make sure that theirs only point outward. Each regime is crafting a self-serving narrative. China positions itself as the champion of collective action and social cohesion, while Russia seizes every opportunity to show the United States as fundamentally flawed and dysfunctional. What both Beijing and Moscow get is that the most effective propaganda isn't necessarily about creating fake news - it's about distorting truths to exacerbate genuine societal tensions.

What makes this type of propaganda so effective is the marshaling of selective facts and manipulation of issues that resonate with people, playing up any polarizing political implications. While we often focus on detecting "fake news," authoritarian states have mastered something more sophisticated: using social media to exploit points of conflict, appealing to users’ prejudices to effectively turning them into useful idiots. Silicon Valley's platforms have handed these states an unprecedented ability to influence communities worldwide with propaganda narratives. 

And they don’t even need to make up stories about inequality or government dysfunction. Because the most effective propaganda is the kind that is grown from kernels of truth.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Coda Currents newsletter. Sign up here for more insights like these straight into your inbox.

The post How California’s wildfires are fuel for propaganda appeared first on Coda Story.

Now the United States could become the latest nation to pass an anti-terror law that will effectively stifle dissent.

Undeterred by a failed attempt earlier this month, the U.S. House of Representatives tried again last week to pass H.R. 9495, a bill that gives the treasury secretary the authority to designate non-profits as “terrorist supporting organizations.” This time, with Donald Trump poised to take office and retribution on his mind, the bill passed. It gives, noted Human Rights Watch, “the executive branch broad and easily abused authority.” 

Gravely titled the “Stop Terror-Financing and Tax Penalties on American Hostages Act,” the bill enjoys broad bipartisan support. No one objects to the parts of the bill that seek to alleviate tax burdens and deadlines on “U.S. nationals who are unlawfully or wrongfully detained abroad or held hostage abroad and their spouses.” Or the “refund and abatement of tax penalties and fines paid by hostages, detained individuals, and their spouses or dependents.”

But, bundled together with its uncontroversial sections, the bill also announces its intent to “terminate the tax-exempt status of terrorist supporting organizations.” How such organizations are designated appears to be entirely up to the treasury secretary who is appointed by the president. According to Human Rights Watch, the bill does not “clearly define” criteria by which organizations can be deemed to be enabling terrorists, nor does it “require the government to provide evidence to support such a decision.” Instead, it requires the nonprofit to prove to the government that it does not support terrorism.

In a letter to the House of Representatives, civil society groups asked why such legislation was necessary when it is already a federal crime for nonprofits to provide “material support to terrorist organizations.” Such a law, the letter argued, would hand the U.S. executive “a tool it could use to curb free speech, censor nonprofit media outlets, target political opponents, and punish disfavored groups across the political spectrum.”

Shoved off the news agenda by the intense speculation and reporting over President-elect Trump’s cabinet picks, the bill has received scanty mainstream media coverage. Its impact, however, could be outsized, particularly on free speech. “A sixth grader would know this is unconstitutional,” said the Democrat Congressman Jamie Raskin as the bill was debated on the House floor. It is, he said, “a werewolf in sheep’s clothing” giving the American president “Orwellian powers and the American not-for-profit sector Kafkaesque nightmares.”    

Democrat Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib said the bill was “part of a broader assault on our civil liberties.” Introduced in the wake of protests on American campuses over the war in Gaza, the bill, Tlaib warned, is not “just about Palestinian human rights advocacy organizations, this is about the NAACP, the ACLU and Planned Parenthood.” It criminalizes social justice organizations, she added, the “folks that have been trying to make it safe for our kids to go to school away from gun crisis and violence.” 

Less than 10 days before the House passed the bill on November 21, it had been voted down, failing to secure the necessary two-thirds majority. Earlier this year in April, a version of the bill gained overwhelming support in the House only to be stalled in the Senate. Now in its third iteration, the bill may yet languish in the upper house of Congress, though most analysts expect it to be brought before Congress again next year if necessary when the Republicans will have a majority in both houses.

Across the globe, legislation aimed at the funding of civil society has had an inevitable chilling effect on dissent. “The misuse of anti-terrorism legislation,” observed the European commissioner for human rights in April, “has become one of the most widespread threats to freedom of expression, including media freedom, in Europe.” Why would the United States, even with its much vaunted protection of free speech, be any different?

The post The tool Donald Trump might use to crush dissent appeared first on Coda Story.

Much debate has focused on the many complex causes of the famine. One of the main factors, of course, was war. Britain had declared war on Germany on behalf of its colony India—enraging many nationalist Indian leaders who had not been consulted. After the Pearl Harbor attack of December 7, 1941, Britain was also at war with Japan.

For the masses of rural Bengalis who were struggling to survive in impoverished India, war had already touched their lives. Inflation had made the price of rice—Bengal’s staple food—soar. Once Burma fell to the Japanese in early 1942, Japan’s cheap rice ceased to be imported.

Even before this, the rice supply was greatly curtailed, as hundreds of thousands of Allied soldiers in Calcutta (now Kolkata) made their way to and from the Asian front fighting the Japanese. They, along with  factory workers in wartime industries, needed to be fed. They had priority status because of their role in the wartime effort.  

With the fall of Burma, the Japanese were on the border of Bengal. Having seen the Japanese’s rapid advance across Southeast Asia, colonial authorities feared that if Japanese forces were to invade British India, they would commandeer local food supplies and transport to fuel their incursion. The empire needed to be defended, so drastic action was taken. Boats from thousands of villages along the Bengal Delta were confiscated or destroyed. So, too, was rice. This was called the “denial” policy: to deny the enemy access to supplies. Not surprisingly, this scorched-earth policy strained the already fragile local economy. Without their tens of thousands of vessels, fishermen could not go to sea, farmers were not able to go upstream to their plots, and artisans were unable to get their goods to market. Critically, rice could not be moved around. The price of rice thus spiraled even further, and it was hoarded, often for profit. Then in October 1942 a devastating cyclone hit one of the main rice-producing regions, and crop disease destroyed much of the rest of the supply.

A famine code was initiated by colonial authorities to prevent mass starvation, but it was wartime, and few abided by it. Famine was never officially declared in Calcutta by the regional government or colonial authorities in Delhi, which would have compelled imperial authorities to send aid to the countryside. In fact, the word “famine” was not allowed to be reported in newspapers or pamphlets because of colonial “Emergency Rules” passed during the war. Britain feared that knowledge of the extent of hunger could be used by its enemies.

However, Indian journalists, photographers, and artists defied the censor. Chittaprosad Bhattacharaya was one. He traveled around Midnapore district using ink to sketch victims of the famine. The images are detailed and harrowing, of bodies being eaten by animals, humans who no longer look like humans. But the artist affords them dignity, writing their names when he could, and giving a sense of who they were, what they did, and where in Bengal they came from. He published the pamphlet in 1943 as “Hungry Bengal: A Tour Through Midnapore District.” Nearly all 5,000 copies were immediately confiscated by the British.

It was at this time, too, that Ian Stephens, the editor of the British-owned Statesman newspaper, was in Calcutta. As head of one of the largest English-language newspapers in India, Stephens faced a supreme moral dilemma: was his job to patriotically support the colonial authority during the war and not report on the famine? Or was his duty to tell his readers the truth about the horror unfolding on Calcutta’s streets, the famine that was sweeping across Bengal?

Stephens made his decision on August 22, 1943. He used a loophole in the censorship rules and published photographs showing emaciated people, close to death, on the streets of Calcutta. Papers soon sold out. It wasn’t long before news of the catastrophe unfolding in British India reached London and Washington. The famine in Bengal was now impossible to contain.

And this is where we get to the heart of the bitter controversy about the Bengal famine: the role of Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and whether, once he knew about the famine by the summer of 1943, he did all he could to alleviate it. There are questions over whether his views on Indians—documented particularly by his Secretary of State for India Leo Amery—affected his response to the disaster. Discussions center on whether Churchill and the war cabinet could have released more shipping to send food aid, in the middle of the war, when they were fighting on many fronts. It’s an incendiary debate. Google the words “Bengal famine,” and you’ll see just how divisive the subject is.  

While people argue over the causes of the famine and Churchill’s response—both of which are important and necessary to explore—it has obscured discussion of the three million people who died. Three million. Think about that number. My work has been to excavate the stories of the last remaining survivors who have rarely been asked to tell their own stories. Eighty years on, it is a race against time to record them. There are eyewitnesses, too, who recall the cry of phan dao—asking for the starch water of rice, not even rice itself. They still recall with horror the scenes they saw, their helplessness, and sometimes the guilt they felt over not being able to alleviate all the suffering.

In Britain, the Bengal famine of 1943 is little known. Nor are the other famines that took place during the hundreds of years of Britain’s presence in India. It is an ugly chapter in Britain’s colonial history, one that mars the nation’s righteous narrative of fighting Axis powers. A deeper reckoning with the country’s imperial past has begun, however. The Imperial War Museum in London recently opened new World War Two galleries, and a small corner is dedicated to the Bengal famine, framing it within the context of the war. As of yet, though, the teaching of the Bengal famine does not figure in English students’ curriculum.

In India and Bangladesh, the memory of hunger remains and is relevant in policy-making. The story of the Bengal famine is told in literature and film, sometimes by eyewitnesses, but it has seldom been told by the survivors. One man, 72-year-old Sailen Sarkar, has been trying to record testimonies, pen and paper in hand, of those who endured the worst. Yet there is no official archive in India or Bangladesh for them—as there has been for those who lived through the partition of India, which took place four years later, in 1947, an event that arguably overshadows the famine in collective memory. War and colonial authorities are to blame for the absence of any official commemoration of the famine, but while Indians starved to death on Calcutta’s streets, other Indians never wanted for food, carrying on their lives as normal. Others profited from the situation. For some, this is difficult to acknowledge, even after all this time.

It’s over 80 years on now, and the interview of eyewitnesses compiled for the podcast Three Million has started a conversation in Britain. Within families it is emerging that people were witnesses or British families had ancestors who saw those distressing scenes too. It is a shared history, albeit a difficult one. But we are just at the beginning of coming to terms with it, and seeing it as part of Britain’s imperial presence and our war story. In India and Bangladesh, the famine is remembered as a legacy of Empire, but the survivors’ stories have been almost completely overlooked.

The British left India in 1947. Today, in 2024, we are still just beginning to learn what it meant individually, generationally, and collectively, as well as why it happened, and what were the forces responsible. There is one gaping hole that is probably too late to recover meaningfully, and its absence from the archive will be forever felt: the millions who were lost and survived the famine of 1943, one of the most devastating events of the 20th century. 

Three Million can be heard on BBC Sounds or wherever you get your podcasts.

Niratan Bewan

Niratan was married at the age of eight or nine. She believes she was around nineteen at the time of the famine. She was living in Nadia district in a village called Durgapur. 

After the cyclone and floods (in October 1942) everyone stopped eating rice. On good days, we would get boiled red potatoes for lunch. We used to forage greens from the ponds and canal sides and from the forests nearby and eat those as well, boiled and with salt. We were at least better off than many others. We had a bigha or two of land. The men worked on that land, and sometimes on the landlord’s land too. Those were one-anna, two-anna days. Like I said, we were better off than many others. At least we had something saved up. That’s why, even without rice, we had boiled aairi, boiled musoor dal or bhura to eat. It was a kind of grass seed that we threshed until we got little balls like sago and then boiled. That’s what bhura was.

In those days, the children who were born suffered a great deal. Mothers didn’t have any breast milk. Their bodies had become all bones, no flesh. Many children died at birth, their mothers too. Even those that were born healthy died young from hunger. Lots of women committed suicide at that time. Many wives whose husbands could not feed them went back to their father’s houses. If they weren’t taken back, then they killed themselves. Some wives ran off with other men. When their husbands couldn’t feed them, they went with whichever man could. At that time people weren’t so scandalized by these things. When you have no rice in your belly, and no one who can feed you, who is going to judge you anyway?

Amartya Sen

Amartya Sen was nine in 1943, living in Santiniketan with his grandparents, 100 miles north of Calcutta. He’d been sent there from Dacca to avoid potential Japanese bombings. 

A couple of my friends and I were told that there is a man who is being teased by some nasty kids. And so, we went there and tried to intervene. He was enormously emaciated, starving for many weeks, and he arrived in search of a little food for our school. Clearly he was not in good shape, mentally. And that is often the case when there is starvation. I hadn’t seen anyone really starving like that before where I would even begin to wonder whether he might suddenly die.

Amartya wanted to do something to stop the suffering. He asked his grandmother if he could give them rice. 

I asked “how much can I give?” So she took her cigarette tin and said up to half of it you can give but if we try to share a larger amount among all the hungry people that you will see in our street, you will not be able to cope with feeding them all. I gave it to people, sometimes even violated the rule of going beyond half a tin. It was a situation of nastiness of a kind that I had never encountered before.

One of those who came to the house was a young boy — just a few years older than Amartya.

He’d walked from his village. His name was Joggeshwar, and he was given some food.

He was an enterprising young boy from a very poor family from an area called Dumkar, that’s about 40 miles. And he said that unless I escape, I’m not going to get any food. And by that time, he was totally exhausted. He sat underneath a tree, with a little utensil and some food and ate it with the greatest of relief. And then he stayed a few days. And then he stayed on. He was a very good friend of mine. Very good friend. Yeah, he lived with us to the age of 88 when he died I think.

Pamela Dowley Wise

Pamela was sixteen and a member of the British colonial class. She lived off the busy Chowringhee Road in a large white art deco building, full of Indian servants. 

The house was an English sort of house, beautifully built and everything. We entertained people there because it had a lovely veranda where we’d have lovely meals and things like that. The Victoria Memorial is where we used to go because of the grounds. We used to have evening picnics there and we would have sandwiches and all things were done very properly, you know.

She remembers Calcutta filling up with Allied soldiers. She became friendly with some of them, as her parents would have an open house for British soldiers. She often took British soldiers by rickshaw to the local market and helped them barter. 

They couldn’t speak Urdu — and I could. And so if they wanted to buy something, I would go with them and bargain for them and help them to buy things. I remember [...] American and British soldiers were in our home and they used to come have dinner with us. And afterwards, we’d play the piano and sing the old songs, and happy days they were.

During the summer of 1943, the city of her birth completely changed, though her life of picnics at the Victoria Memorial, eating in restaurants, and going to her private club was unaltered.

There was no place you could go where you didn’t see dead bodies and vultures, it was revolting, actually. Because the vultures used to come down and eat these dead bodies. No, I mean, you couldn’t say I’m not going to the Victoria Memorial because there are dead people everywhere. There were dead people all over Calcutta. And when they died, they seemed to stay there. 

It was dreadful, dreadful. Yes, poor things. There’s nothing we could do about it. Because it was so vast, you see, but that’s what happened.

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Historical debates are unusually important in this case, especially between Europe and its former colonies. South Africa’s ruling African National Congress party has long identified itself with the Palestinian cause, due in large part to South Africa’s history of apartheid. Germany said its role in the Holocaust obliged it to intervene on Israel’s behalf, describing the South African case as the “political instrumentalization” of the Genocide Convention. That move elicited a swift rebuke from South Africa’s neighbor Namibia, whose Herero and Nama communities were victims of the genocide perpetrated by Germany between 1904 and 1908, three decades before the Nazi Party grabbed power. 

To understand what’s happening at the ICJ, I spoke with A. Dirk Moses, professor of international relations at the City College of New York and senior editor of the Journal of Genocide Studies. His book, “The Problems of Genocide,” explores the history of the concept and its shortcomings in preventing states from harming civilians. 

Israeli officials have said that Israel’s bombardment of Gaza is morally equivalent to the Allied bombing of Dresden in 1945, which killed about 25,000 people. The confirmed death toll in Gaza is now roughly the same. What do you make of Israel’s justification?

It's clearly Israeli policy to run that line with the Americans and the British and say, “You did this during the war in fighting the Nazis. We're also fighting Nazis, so, ergo, we can do the same.” That language is prevalent through [Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin] Netanyahu’s speeches. The implication is clear: “The Palestinians are the Nazis and they committed genocide on October 7. We're just defending ourselves in the same way as the Allies did in World War II. It wasn't pretty, a lot of German civilians were killed, but these things happen in war.” 

They're trying to avoid the narrative structure where the Israelis are the perpetrators of genocide and are then somehow related to the Nazis by process of association. Associating oneself with Allied bombing does not place you on the side of angels, however, as we now recognize that much — or at least some — of the Allied bombing of German cities like Dresden would be now classed as war crimes. These officials more or less admitted, “Well, we’re committing war crimes but not genocide in what we do in Gaza.”

A senior Israeli lawyer at the hearing said, “The Genocide Convention was not designed to address the brutal impact of intensive hostilities on the civilian population. The convention was set apart to address a malevolent crime of the most exceptional severity.” What’s the reason for this distinction? 

Firstly, I think the Israeli lawyer accurately depicted the intention of many state parties when the convention was negotiated, but we’d have different views on the context. Legally, there’s no hierarchy between crimes against humanity, war crimes, ethnic cleansing, genocide. But in public opinion, there is — and genocide is seen as “the crime of crimes.” The liberal view is that that's a good thing, that we need this exceptional crime for these most exceptional cases. My view is that this is an extremely problematic situation because "that which shocks the conscience of mankind" — language traditionally used in these humanitarian documents — is something that needs to resemble the Holocaust in order to truly shock us and therefore to trigger the genocide charge. But if the Holocaust is considered unique or exceptional, then, by definition, how many cases are ever going to approximate that? In other words, you define genocide out of realistic existence.  

The aim of the [U.N.] delegates — and they said this, if you read the transcripts of 1948 — in creating this very high threshold of exceptional violence is precisely so states can engage in the kind of warfare that Russia is engaging in, that Israel is engaging in and that America engaged in in Korea in the early 1950s, where they killed 2 million North Koreans and later killed millions with bombing and Agent Orange in Vietnam — and not be prosecuted for genocide. 

The delegates made a very strict distinction between military intention and genocidal intention. The military intention is to defeat, whereas genocidal intention is to “destroy as such.” That “as such” in the [U.N. Genocide Convention] definition means to destroy a group solely because of that group's identity attributes. I call this a nonpolitical reason because the group doesn't have to do anything — it just is. They’re being attacked just for being Jews, for example, not for anything they’ve done. The archetype of genocide is a massive hate crime, whereas the military or security intention is that you attack a group or members of a group that are engaged in a rebellion or an insurgency, like Hamas. 

The Israeli logic is quite consistent with traditions of international thinking: “We're engaged in a security operation and we're entitled to self-defense, and we're not attacking Palestinians as such just for being Palestinian. What we're trying to get at are these Hamas fighters, which have commingled themselves with the population or underneath it in the tunnels. If civilians get in the way, that’s regrettable, but international law allows proportionate collateral damage.” States have gotten away with this reasoning for most post-World War II conflicts.  

Shortly after the hearings began, the world began to take sides. Germany’s already offered to join Israel’s defense, which Namibia — its former colony — has condemned as hypocritical. How is there such disagreement over what constitutes genocide? 

Genocide is a legal concept. Although its archetype is the Holocaust, the purpose of it is to be applicable broadly. But it has an archetype, or an ideal type, known as the Holocaust. Because of this, and because the Genocide Convention was born at a particular time and place with one case in mind, the Holocaust is in the background when people use the concept of genocide. It's entailed, even subconsciously. You can't accuse Israel of genocide because it's the successor victim nation of the biggest genocide in world history. By definition they can't commit genocide. 

There’s a standoff between Global South and Global North in this respect. The Global South has always linked genocide and colonialism, whereas in the Global North, they haven't. Why would they resist the link? Genocide is tethered to the image of the Nazis there. France, Belgium, Britain and Germany were colonial empires, so the last thing they want to do is to say they have genocidal histories. They say: "It was only the Germans who had genocidal history, and now the Russians because of Ukraine, but the rest of us have clean hands historically. Yes, there were some dark sides to our colonial empires, but they were motivated by high-minded humanitarian ideals, bringing progress to people." Whereas people in the Global South, like Namibians, think that's just window dressing on the vicious, extractive, violent project of colonialism. They'll say there were colonial empires in Africa and the Nazis were a colonial empire in Europe — a very radical one, but nonetheless in the same flow of history. So you've got big framing contestations going on here, which you alluded to in your first question.

What's happening in Israel in a sense is the unfinished business of decolonization. In this case, the Indigenous people are still there — a lot of them — and resisting, some of them violently, notwithstanding the Israeli self-understanding that they are the real Indigenous ones. But that's not unique in world history. Name me a nation state in which there wasn't tremendous founding violence. Australia? The United States?

The dilemma for Israel with Gaza was that the refugees from [the Nakba in] 1948 were just pushed across the border. It means they want to come back. Gaza is not home. Neither is the Sinai, obviously. Right-wing Israelis realize that, which is why they want to deport Palestinians from Gaza. 

By bombing orchards, trees and agricultural territory, which have no military value, they are making northern Gaza uninhabitable — by design. I've seen the reports. It is also leading to famine because people can't feed themselves. Israeli forces are corralling people in the south to create a humanitarian catastrophe so that pressure builds up on the international community to do something. At the moment, the political pressure hasn't built up to that extent. Egypt won’t let in Palestinians and neither will other states. But what about in six months’ time, when we’ll have mass starvation if Israel doesn’t abide by the ICJ measures? Given the campaign against [the U.N. agency for Palestinian refugees known as the] UNRWA and reports about the rate of aid entry, experts are predicting famine before too long. And right-wing Israeli politicians are openly calling for starvation as an incentive for Palesitnians to “voluntarily emigrate.” There'll be global outcry and pressure applied on Egypt. Because they're a debt-ridden country, their debts will be forgiven. "We'll pay for the city in the Sinai," say the Americans. Then you get the solution that Israel wants, which is to empty Gaza, or at least "thin it out." 

Do you think the archetypal status of the Holocaust drives states to speak in certain ways in order to have serious attention paid to formative national tragedies?

Exactly. In the public consciousness of international law, you have a hierarchy with genocide at the top, so obviously victim groups want to go for the gold standard. This is appalling because crimes against humanity are themselves extremely serious. That’s why they were a major indictment in the Nuremberg trials — they covered what is now called the Holocaust. Genocide wasn't one of the indictments at Nuremberg, it was crimes against peace, aggressive warfare, crimes against humanity and war crimes. 

I’m curious about your idea of “permanent security.” In the current war in Gaza, does this concept apply? How?

Security is legitimate. Permanent security is illegitimate. It's a utopian idea of absolute safety. What makes permanent security aspirations so problematic is that that can only be achieved by violating international law, by indiscriminate attacks on the civilian population. To make sure that groups like Hamas or Islamic Jihad can never again pose a threat to Israel, the only solution is to remove the population, the entire population, which, of course, is what Israeli government ministers are saying.

The well-known book by Tareq Baconi, “Hamas Contained,” shows how there was a modus vivendi between the Israelis and Hamas. We know that Netanyahu was allowing in money to strengthen Hamas in order to weaken the Palestinian Authority. The last thing Netanyahu and the majority of the Israeli political class since the second Intifada [between 2000 and 2005] wanted was a functioning Palestinian state-like entity in the West Bank, lest it merge with Gaza into a single state. If Hamas is a monster, its “success” in Gaza is partly a creation of Israeli policy. 

As a scholar of genocide, what do you make of the ICJ case? 

Now that we have the court’s judgment on provisional measures, I think it’s overall a win for South Africa, as it finds their claim plausible that genocide is taking place. 

The U.S. and Germany had claimed that the case was meritless, but the decision referred to clear examples of incitement to genocide from the Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant, President Isaac Herzog, and then-Minister of Energy and Infrastructure Israel Katz which had been pointed out by independent experts and members of working groups affiliated with the U.N. Human Rights Council. The court is suggesting these officials should be punished. It will be interesting to see the reaction in Israel.

The court avoids the issue of armed conflict by focusing on genocide. Instead of mentioning South Africa’s request for a ceasefire, it says “The State of Israel shall ensure with immediate effect that its military does not commit any acts” listed in the Genocide Convention, which implies that its armed forces are committing them, namely: killing members of the group; causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; and imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group.

I see international lawyers interpreting this omission in different ways — either that Israel should cease its campaign other than in directly repelling attacks, or continuing its campaign while allowing in humanitarian aid and reducing civilian casualties. Ultimately, the court is suggesting that Israel’s campaign could be genocidal and thus that it needs to cease those modes. This is an extraordinary judgment whose consequences we are yet to fully understand.

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“I was very afraid,” Ashraf said. “My kids were crying.”

Since May 29, there had been unrest in Purola. The local chapter of India’s governing Bharatiya Janata Party, along with several other right wing Hindu nationalist groups, had staged a rally in which they demanded that local Muslims leave town before a major Hindu council meeting scheduled for June 15. On June 5, Ashraf’s clothing shop, like the shops of other Muslim traders, was covered with posters that warned “all Love Jihadis” should leave Purola or face dire consequences. They were signed by a Hindu supremacist group called the “Dev Bhoomi Raksha Abhiyan,” or the Movement to Protect God’s Land.

The rally in Purola was the culmination of anti-Muslim anger and agitation that had been building for a month. Earlier in May, two men, one Muslim and one Hindu, were reportedly seen leaving town with a teenage Hindu girl. Local Hindu leaders aided by the local media described it as a case of “love jihad,” a reference to the conspiracy theory popular among India’s Hindu nationalist right wing that Muslim men are seeking to marry and convert Hindu women to Islam. Public outrage began to boil over. The men were soon arrested for “kidnapping” the girl, but her uncle later stated that she had gone willingly with the men and that the charges were a fabrication.

It mattered little. Hindu organizations rallied to protest what they claimed was a spreading of love jihad in the region, whipping up the frenzy that had kept Ashraf’s family up at night, fearing for their safety.

What is happening in Uttarakhand offers a glimpse into the consequences of the systematic hate campaigns directed at Muslims in the nine years since Narendra Modi became prime minister. Hindu nationalists believe that the Hindu-first ideology of the government means they have the support necessary to make the dream of transforming India into a Hindu rather than secular nation a reality. Muslims make up about 14% of the Indian population, with another 5% of the Indian population represented by other religious minorities including Christians. In a majoritarian Hindu India, all of these minorities, well over 250 million people, would live as second-class citizens. But it is Muslims who have the most to fear.

Not long after the events in Purola, Modi would go on a highly publicized state visit to the United States. “Two great nations, two great friends and two great powers,” toasted President Joe Biden at the state dinner. The only discordant note was struck at a press conference — a rarity for Modi who has never answered a direct question at a press conference in India since he became prime minister in 2014. But in Washington, standing alongside Biden, Modi agreed to answer one question from a U.S. journalist. The Wall Street Journal’s Sabrina Siddiqui was picked. “What steps are you and your government willing to take,” she asked Modi, “to improve the rights of Muslims and other minorities in your country and to uphold free speech?”

In his answer, Modi insisted that democracy was in the DNA of India, just as it was in the U.S. For daring to ask the question, Siddiqui was trolled for days, the victim of the sort of internet pile-on that has become a familiar tactic of the governing BJP and its Hindu nationalist supporters. In the end, a White House spokesperson, John Kirby, denounced the harassment as “antithetical to the principles of democracy.”

Modi has received warm, enthusiastic welcomes everywhere from Sydney and Paris to Washington. In every country he visits, Modi talks up India as a beacon of democracy, plurality and religious tolerance. But as India prepares for elections in 2024, and Modi expects to return to office for a third consecutive five-year term, the country is teetering between its constitutional commitment to secular democracy and the BJP’s ideological commitment to its vision of India as a Hindu nation.   
In a sharply worded critique of Modi’s state visit to the U.S., author Arundhati Roy, writing in The New York Times, noted that the State Department and the White House “would have known plenty about the man for whom they were rolling out the red carpet.” They might, she wrote, “also have known that at the same time they were feting Mr. Modi, Muslims were fleeing a small town in northern India.”

Roy was referring to the right wing Hindu rallies in Uttarakhand. On May 29, a thousand people marched across Purola, chanting “Jai Shri Ram” — a phrase once used as a greeting between observant Hindus that has in the recent past become a battle cry for Hindu nationalists. During the rally, the storefronts of Muslim-run shops were defaced and property was damaged. The police, walking alongside the mob, did nothing to stop the destruction. Several local BJP leaders and office-bearers participated in the march. A police official later told us that the rally had been permitted by the local administration and the town’s markets were officially shut down to allow for the demonstrations.

As the marchers advanced through the town’s narrow lanes, Ashraf said they intentionally passed by his home. His family, one of the oldest and most well-established Muslim families in Purola, has run a clothing shop in Purola for generations. Ashraf was born in the town and his father moved to Purola more than 40 years ago. 

“They came to my gate and hurled abuse,” he said. “Drive away the love jihadis,” the crowd screamed. “Drive away the Muslims.” 

Among the slogans was a particularly chilling one: “Muslim mukt Uttarakhand chahiye.” They wanted an Uttarakhand free of Muslims, they said in Hindi. A call, effectively, for ethnic cleansing. 

Ashraf’s three young children watched the demonstration from their window. “My 9-year-old,” he told us, “asked, ‘Papa, have you done something wrong?’”

Forty Muslim families fled Purola, a little under 10% of its population of 2,500 people. Ashraf’s was one of two families who decided to stay. “Why should I leave?” he asked. “Everything I have is here. This is my home. Where will I go?”

The campaign in Purola spread quickly to other parts of the state. On June 3, a large rally took place in Barkot, another small mountain town in Uttarakhand, about an hour’s drive from Purola. Thousands marched through the town’s streets and neighborhoods as a loudspeaker played Hindu nationalist songs. “Har Ghar Bhagwa Chhayega, Ram Rajya Ab Aayega” — Every House Will Fly the Hindu Flag, Lord Ram’s Kingdom Is Coming. 

Muslim shopkeepers in the town’s market, like the Hindu shopkeepers, had pulled their shutters down for the day, anticipating trouble at the rally. As the mob passed by the shops, they marked each Muslim-run shop with a large black X. The town’s Muslim residents estimate that at least 43 shops were singled out with black crosses. Videos taken at the rally, shared with us, showed the mob attacking the marked-up Muslim shops to loud cheers from the crowd. The police stood by and watched. 

One Muslim shopkeeper, speaking anonymously for fear of retribution, described arriving at his shop the next day and seeing the large black cross. “My first thought was ‘Heil Hitler,’” he said. “I have read Hitler’s history. That’s how he had marked out Jews. It is the same strategy. That’s how we are being identified.”

We spoke to dozens of people who identify with and are members of Hindu nationalist parties, ranging from Modi’s BJP to fringe, far-right militant groups such as the Bajrang Dal, analogous in some ways to the Proud Boys. Again and again, we were told that just as “Muslims have Mecca and Christians have the Vatican,” Hindus need their own holy land. Uttarakhand, home to a number of important sites of pilgrimage, is, in this narrative, the natural home for such a project —if only, the state could rid itself of Muslims, or at the very least monitor and restrict their movement and forbid future settlement. Nearly 1.5 million Muslims currently live in Uttarakhand, about 14% of the state’s entire population, which exactly reflects the proportion nationally. 

Hindu nationalists told us how they are working to create and propagate this purely Hindu holy land. Their tactics include public rallies with open hate speech, village-level meetings and door-to-door campaigns. WhatsApp, Facebook and YouTube are essential parts of their modus operandi. These were tools, they said, to “awaken” and “unite” Hindus. 

Their attempts to portray Muslims as outsiders in Uttarakhand dovetails with a larger national narrative that Hindus alone are the original and rightful inhabitants of India. The BJP’s ideological parent, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, founded in 1925, argues that India is indisputably a “Hindu rashtra,” a Hindu nation, nevermind what the Indian constitution might say.

With a population of 11.5 million, Uttarakhand stretches across the green Himalayan foothills. It is a prime tourist destination known for its imposing mountains, cascading white rivers and stone-lined creeks. It is home to four key Hindu pilgrimage sites — the sources of two holy rivers, the Ganges and the Yamuna; and Kedarnath and Badrinath, two temples dedicated to the Hindu gods Shiva and Vishnu respectively. Together, these four sites, high up in rugged mountain terrain, form a religious travel circuit known as the Chota Char Dham. According to state government figures, over 4 million pilgrims visited these sites in 2022 alone. Downhill, Haridwar, a town on the banks of the Ganges, is of such spiritual significance that Hinduism’s many seers, sages and priests make it their home. For Hindus in north India, Uttarakhand is the center of 4,000 years of tradition.

The state of Uttarakhand is also one of India’s newest — formed in November 2000, carved out of Uttar Pradesh, a huge, densely populated north Indian state. Its creation was the result of a long socio-political movement demanding a separate hill state with greater autonomy and rights for its many Indigenous peoples, who form just under 3% of the state’s population and are divided into five major tribal groups. These groups are protected by the Indian constitution, and their culture and beliefs are distinct from mainstream Hindu practice. But over the last decade, Uttarakhand has seen its identity shift from a mountain state created to better represent its Indigenous population to one molded and marketed primarily as “Dev Bhoomi,” a sacred land for Hindus. 

Since becoming prime minister, Modi has made at least six trips to the state’s key pilgrimage sites, each time amidst much hype and publicity. In May 2019, in the final stages of the month-long general election, Modi spent a day being photographed meditating in a remote mountain cave, less than a mile from the Kedarnath shrine. Images were beamed around the country of Modi wrapped in a saffron shawl, eyes closed, sitting cross-legged atop a single wooden bed. The symbolism was not lost on Hindus — the mountains and caves of Uttarakhand are believed to be the abode of the powerful, ascetic Shiva, who is often depicted in deep meditation on a mountain peak. 

Like other Muslims in Purola, Zahid Malik, who is a BJP official, was also forced to leave his home. We met him in the plains, in the town of Vikasnagar, to where he had fled. He said Hindus had threatened to set his clothing shop on fire. “If I, the BJP’s district head, face this,” he told us, “imagine what was happening to Muslims without my connections. For Hindus, all of us are jihadis.” 

Malik emphasized that Muslims have lived for generations in the region and participated in the creation of Uttarakhand. “We have been here since before the state was made,” Malik told us. “We have protested. I myself have carried flags and my people have gone on hunger strikes demanding the creation of this state, and today we are being kicked out from here like you shoo away flies from milk.”

For Malik, the irony is that it is members of his own party who want people like him out of Uttarakhand. 

Ajendra Ajay is a BJP leader and the president of the Badrinath Kedarnath Temple Committee, an influential post in a state dominated by the pilgrimage economy. “In the mountain regions, locals are migrating out," he told us, "but the population of a certain community is increasing.” He means Muslims, though he offered no numbers to back his claims. Nationally, while the Muslim birth rate is higher than that of other groups, including Hindus, it is also dropping fast. But the supposed threat of Muslims trying to effect demographic change in India through population growth is a standard Hindu nationalist trope. 

“Uttarakhand is very sacred for Hindus and the purity of this land, its special religious and cultural character, should be maintained," Ajay said. His solution to maintaining interreligious harmony is to draw stricter boundaries around "our religious sites" and to enforce "some restrictions on the entry of non-Hindus into these areas."

On our way to Purola, the thin road snaking around sharp mountain bends, we stopped at another hill town by the Yamuna river. Naugaon is a settlement of approximately 5,000 people, many of whom are rice and potato farmers. The town’s center has a small strip of shops that sell clothes, sweets and medicines. In another era, it might have been possible to imagine a tiny, remote spot like this being disconnected from the divisive politics of the cities. But social media and smartphones mean Naugaon is no longer immune. While technology has bridged some divides, it has exacerbated others.

News of the public rallies in Purola in which Hindu supremacists demanded that Muslims either leave or be driven out spread quickly. In Naugaon, a new WhatsApp group was created. The group’s name, translated from Hindi, was “Hinduism is our identity.” By the end of June, it had 849 members. Deepak Rawat, a pharmacist in the Naugaon market, was among the participants. “People are becoming more radicalized,” he said approvingly, as he scrolled through posts on the group.

People we met in Naugaon told us there had already been a campaign in 2018 to drive Muslims away from this tiny rural outpost. “We chased them out of town,” they told us.

Sumit Rawat, a farmer in Nuagaon, described what happened. According to him, a young Hindu girl had been kidnapped by a Muslim waste-picker and was rescued by passersby who heard her cries for help. (We were not able to independently corroborate Rawat’s claims.) He told us that Hindus marched in protest at the attempted abduction. Their numbers were so great, said Rawat, that the rally stretched a mile down the market street. With little reporting of these incidents in the national press, people in cities are largely unaware of the rage that seethes in India's rural towns and villages. "We want Muslims here to have no rights," Rawat told us. "How can we trust any of them?"

In Dehradun, the Uttarakhand capital, we met Darshan Bharti, a self-styled Hindu “saint” and founder of the "Dev Bhoomi Raksha Abhiyan," or the Movement to Protect God’s Land. He was dressed in saffron robes and a string of prayer beads. The room in which we sat had swords hung on the orange walls. His organization was behind the posters pasted on shops in Purola owned by Muslims, ordering them to leave town. 

On June 7, with the anti-Muslim demonstrations in Purola still in the news, Bharti posted a picture on his Facebook page with Kumar, the state's police chief. Even as Bharti spoke of inciting and committing violence, he dropped the names of several politicians and administrators in both the state and national governments with whom he claimed to be on friendly terms. In the room in which we met, there was a photograph of him with the current national security adviser, Ajit Doval, among a handful of figures believed to wield considerable influence over Modi. 

Bharti also claims to have met Pushkar Singh Dhami, the Uttarakhand chief minister, the highest elected official in the state, on several occasions. He has posted at least two pictures of these meetings on his social media accounts. He described Dhami as his disciple, his man. “All our demands, like dealing with love jihad and land jihad, are being met by the Uttarakhand government,” Bharti said. Land jihad is a right wing conspiracy theory that claims Muslims are illegally encroaching on Hindu land to build Muslim places of worship.  

We met Ujjwal Pandit, a former vice president of the BJP’s youth wing and now a state government functionary, at a government housing complex on the banks of the Ganges in Haridwar. It didn't take long for him to claim that Muslims were part of a conspiracy to take over Uttarakhand through demographic force. In Uttarakhand, he said, guests were welcome but they had to know how to behave.
Pandit claimed, as have BJP leaders at state and national levels, that no Muslims had been forced to leave Purola, that those who left had fled on their own accord. As the red sun set behind us into the Ganges, he said quietly, “This is a holy land of saints. Sinners won’t survive here.”

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