I can’t shake these lines from Stasik’s “Lullaby for the Enemy”:
You wanted this land
Now mix with it
You are my land now
Sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
Independent Historian / Freelance Editor and Translator
I can’t shake these lines from Stasik’s “Lullaby for the Enemy”:
You wanted this land
Now mix with it
You are my land now
Sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
Fifteen years ago, I wrote a short post encouraging students to write for themselves on a regular basis:
Writing is hard work for almost everyone, no matter how talented or inspired. Writing is thinking. Good writers do not usually have finished ideas that they then type out. The process of writing and revision is an act of thinking and discovery. . . .
A couple days ago, a tweet by a disaster historian came across my timeline that summed things up perfectly:
That Scott Knowles expressed this thought on Twitter reminds me that tweeting can also be a form of writing as thinking. This felt particularly true to me back in the 140-character-limit days; however, even with 280 characters and easy threading, Twitter can foster regular reflection, concise expression, and ongoing rephrasing and revision. Moreover, it affords plenty of opportunities to practice these things in conversation with others. Maybe that is what keeps me coming back, especially whenever times feel more topsy-turvy and worrisome than usual.
Harvesting potatoes on a collective farm near Kyiv in 1959, via the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/
Perhaps Putin’s phrase “special military operation” should be seen as something more insidious than a euphemism for war. At the very least, it is consistent with Russia’s genocidal aims and practices in Ukraine.
If we take the Clausewitzian metaphor of war as a duel somewhat literally, the Russian invasion of Ukraine becomes a struggle between two equals, two entities with the same dignity, the same right to exist. After all, duels have traditionally been fought between two parties capable of giving satisfaction for a perceived injury by one to the other’s honor. An officer could duel another officer, but not a sergeant, a lowly conscript, or a civilian occupying a more modest social position.
By calling its invasion a “special military operation,” Russia denies Ukraine’s worthiness and sovereignty. It casts Ukraine and Ukrainians as other, fundamentally inferior, or devoid of honor, so to speak. Rejecting Ukrainian statehood outright, the term “special military operation” facilitates what the talking heads in Russia discuss openly on state TV: genocide, the elimination of Ukrainian culture, ethnicity, and language.
At the same time, the term “special military operation” renders Ukrainian resistance illegitimate in Russian eyes. Thus, Russia brands the soldiers who defended Mariupol to the end “terrorists.” And its leaders become apoplectic when Ukraine dares to fire on targets inside Russia and Russian-occupied Crimea.
Given the logic of Russia’s rhetoric and violence, the problem with “special military operation” becomes one not only of euphemism hiding war from Russians. The euphemism also creates space for, even favors, genocidal rhetoric and policy.
The following cartoon and comment, which I posted on February 5, 2017, did not age well.
After the latest Spiegel cover and all the news it embodies, this cartoon by Sam Machado feels really good, particularly with its use of gender against the U.S. chauvinist-in-chief.
In case you missed it, this report from July 5, 2022, sums up all the damage: “The U.S. Supreme Court term in review .”
My brother took the above photo on his trip to New Hampshire last month. It’s the old barn at the house we grew up in, viewed from a dirt road. Below is a picture he took of that house. It was badly in need of paint nine years ago, when my parents sold it, but it looks like it’s in good shape now. The biggest maple tree out front had to be cut down, but the smallest one isn’t looking so small anymore.
It feels strange to be back home in DC after nine months away in rural New Hampshire. And I’m driving back up next week for my father’s memorial service—driving because flying sounds like a terrible option these days.
My father was able to live at home for most of these past months. Facilitating that was a two-person job, mine and my octogenarian mother’s. During his last month, he went from hospital to rehab, which I thought might become long-term care, but his old body had other plans.
Fortunately I already knew his wishes, so all three of us were on the same page when it came time. He was at the hospital when we switched him over to hospice care, a small one in the White Mountains, and the staff was brilliant.
My son made it up the last week, as did my sisters and one brother-in-law. Even my brother, who I hadn’t seen in thirty years, flew in. On one of the last days the old man could speak, a nurse told him he was lucky. “I know,” he replied.
So it goes.
Early last fall, during a drive down to a different hospital to pick up my father, my wife called me. Our first grandchild was coming. And then another call: she was there.