For the Love of Russia

For the love of Russia (for that matter, be it for the love of democracy), it is appalling that the seasoned men's magazine, GQ, has deliberately halted print abroad of a September-edition article by a veteran correspondant investigating ten-year-old terrorist attacks in Russia. Scott Anderson compiled a report on the various inaccuracies and questions pertaining to the decade-old Moscow terrorist attack- a very prominent and somber attack in recent Russian history- that will only see the light of day in the United States.

As NPR's Morning Edition feature explains, GQ's owner Conde Nast (who also owns Vanity Fair and publishes both magazines in the States and abroad, including in a Russian language version) decided to pull the article from the Russian GQ version due to its sensitive investigative nature. While NPR and other reports were unable to obtain interviews with GQ and/or Nast, they were able to discover that the piece was pulled through no fault of its author or his journalism standards. To the contrary, reports suggest that Anderson took great pains with the sensitive issue he was investigating and was able to find at least one insider (a former KGB agent who was involved in the Chechen terrorist investigations and later imprisoned rather unexpectedly) who was forthcoming with information. That information suggests a link between the Russian government, then led by Putin, and the atrocious terrorist attacks which were said to be from Chechen terrorists. Obviously, this rather unorthodox and contrary view of the terrorist attacks has given rise to a plethora of conspiracy theories, of which I'm not here to debate about.

It is speculated that GQ decided against publishing the article in Russia for fear of financial retribution from the Russia government if not worse. Perhaps more telling of their fear is that the American edition itself has been all but shelved (it is not featured on its cover, nor has it marketed it in a typical fashion, preferring instead to hide it between the pages). If a Western magazine is able to quietly shelve investigative material for fear of retribution (financial or otherwise) what then, may we ask, is the state of journalism in this country let alone in Russia?

While much of the blogosphere and forum talk on the article includes rants and raves about the corruptions of modern-day Russia, I suggest we look further. There have been many quick-witted types who understand what this says about the state of journalism in our country, but I have yet to see anyone suggest what this says about America's perception of Russians and how that will impact our relations with them. I am speaking of real Russians, not Putin or those in government, but everyday citizens of the Russian Federation. Do we believe that they are not worthy of reading alternative viewpoints and investigative journalism on topics that directly relate to their country let alone the world? Are we questioning their ability to decipher truth? Are we silently encouraging the dillution of the fledgling Russian democracy through a discouragement of freedom of the press out of fear, thus acknowledging the supreme power of heavy-handed politics and the recent killings of Russian journalists? We acknowledge our failures to many Russian neighbors as we hastily made amends with Stalin for victory in WWII, yet we never came to terms with Russians themselves. Unlike the Poles, the Balts or the Finns, we viewed the Russians as a contentedly dominated people played like puppets by a maniacal dictator. All of these years later, do we see them in much the same light?

While it is true that those in power (*government and otherwise) will be directly responsible for what is censored or squelched, ultimately it may be in our hands alone to provide the information. It is imperative that we recognize the age of immediate dissemination of information in which we live and the intricate democratic web in which we must play a great role. In truth, then, the failure of GQ to publish this article abroad speaks more to our willingness to accept Russia as a neo-USSR rather than keep open dialogue, debate and conversations going. In not risking ourselves (ie. GQ, media money, etc) in the circulation of investigation, we take away from Russians one fundamental avenue for democracy that might be the only thing we have to give them.

Revival of the Armbands

Admittedly, I don't have the time I once did to spend hours each day perusing the many insightful blogs and posts on the web. Feedblitzes make life so much easier, and one blog I eagerly await news from is Sean's Russia Blog . I've been following it for some time and the shear amount of snippets and articles that he gets his hands on amazes me. This morning, cup of joe in hand, I checked into my email and grinned wide at the latest feed from his site.

Not that it's anything to grin over, mind you. As Sean's blog reports, Nashi, the Russian youth organization (that ought to be 'THE' in capital letters), has higher plans than simply providing teens with something to do after school. Nashi is in the process of apparently forming a youth militia to keep the streets clean (not talking about 'green' clean, either). No, this isn't exactly the local chapter of Boys and Girls Club. Groups of teenagers in armband colors of red and yellow may well be directly reporting to local police in attempts to clean up the streets of any irksome elements. Particulars are very important here, and Sean's blog provides a wealth of previous and current information for those of you like myself who anxiously eat up every little detail. Nonetheless, my blog is not here so much as an informational form of journalism but rather a place to spew some thoughts without false pretense (and anyone who suggests blogs aren't just that are dearly foooling themselves).

Let's flash back to the Soviet Komsomol- a youth organization that also sported red bandanas and military garb. Many a fine Leninist devotee anxiously lined up outside of the proper meetings day in and day out, hoping to prove their allegiance to the state and motherland. The process of confirmation into this most hallowed organization was not an easy one, but entry would nearly guarantee future success in the Party and consequently in life. Not only had the youth better prove themselves as good communists, but their friends and family best be members of the Party, as well. Under the purges of Stalin and throughout a healthy smattering of years from the 30s-70s, Komsomol members ought to be willing to play the rat role, supplying vital information on the whereabouts, happenings and even thoughts of those around them. This, of course, was a necessary component of ensuring youths play active roles in society rather than wallow in teenage angst. What's more, it kept them off the streets and made them into productive members of society. In a nutshell, it was in the best interest of the state.

Youths who were already on a troubled path (orphans left over from the Great Patriotic War, those whose parents were imprisoned in the vast gulag system and other riffraff) were of course natural targets of state sponsored help. When the world shunned these lost children, Papa Stalin took them in. They were perfect candidates for the menial jobs of the Gulag where warm bodies were always much welcomed and (rather, because) they were just as readily disposed of. It is just these youths who Solzhenitsyn wrote about in his Gulag Archipelago, describing the children like a naturalist would describe a pack of hyenas, making their own destiny in a world of survival of the fittest- at any cost. Forming roaming packs, the kid gangs in gulag and in freedom patrolled the streets, keeping watch over anything that didn't please them. While Comrade Stalin hoped that they might be used to the State's advantage, ultimately they were only out for their own good (we are talking about teenagers, afterall). They would have no coralling by local authorities and often made it a sport to undermine their superiors. In large numbers, they represented what many dubbed the Thieves- those who often took an oath and lived by the Thieves Law (a code which is still evident in Russian organized crime). And so a generation of Soviets came to be grouped into one of two categories for the most part: those who conformed to the State and those who rebelled in their own interest. The third group-humanists- perhaps the weakest of them all, ironically would survive to see the disentegration of the Union. But perhaps they don't have the last laugh, afterall.

Flashing forward, we have the possibility of new roaming band of teens with legal justification and political affiliations. Certainly we could argue that this is better than the roving bands of anarchist kids and extreme leftists who never fail to leave their marks when the time is right. I'm not entirely certain that Nashi street patrols will be detrimental to Russia, though that depends on our assumptions of Russia and its future. Nashi, afterall, views itself as a protectorate of modern Russia, in all of its often diverging and contradicting charm. What's more, Nashi is well organized, trained and ultimately beholden to a greater power outside of themselves. Whether or not that power runs amuck amidst a a problematic legal landscape remains to be seen. Just food for thought for the day, courtesy of the wide world of blogging.

Bug Splats on a Saturday

Few things compare to the adrenaline rush that comes when you start up the engine of your two-wheeled friend and take to the pavement for a day of riding bliss. If it's been two months since the last opportunity to do this, the sweet sound of the engine revving is enough to give you goosebumps and get your heart thumping.

After a lengthy move southwards this summer, my Moto Guzzi 1100 S had been eyeing me with disdain as she sat idle in a carport. Each time I drove by her spot cramped between strange vehicles, I glanced over hoping that she was still upright- or even there. Several times I might have sworn she was gone, if only for a fraction of a second. My mind was playing tricks on me, showing me the glistening sun reflecting off her fire red coat one minute and a vague void of nothing the next.

Painted and parted meticulously in the foothills of the Italian Alps twelve years ago by someone named Mario or Iacopo or Vincenzo, surely, my Goose is nothing less than perfection. Not the kind of perfection that comes replete with shined up wheels, a greased up clutch and a purr. Sure she's got the Marchesini wheels and Brembo brakes, but she's no dream for a new rider (not far off from where I found myself when I first encountered the beast). Contessa- as I christened her from Day One- has always been rather on the demanding side, rumbling away as untidily kept things fall from precarious perches nearby. Her massive body weight of some 500 lbs. reminds you that this is not just any little sportie that can be knocked around. Weighing in at 125 lbs, I had to quickly adhere to a new doctrine: submit to the Guzzi because there simply is no other way. Her clutch requires the forearm strength of a sailor - the kind that would cuss and sport an anchor tattoo- which is enough to scare off most weekend riders or urban dwellers. Her throttle likes extra juice, but too much and you'll be straddling with all your strength while the bronco hauls off, smirking her way through the straights as if to say, 'Can you handle me?'

After riding Kawasaki Ninjas (500 and 250 respectively), this 1100 beauty could have been more of a burden than a joy. Yes, there were times admittedly when I wondered how I might manage her through the tight corridors of downtown. I second guessed my abilities- as a rider and as a do'er. As it had been a while since our last suare, I had some trepidations about taking her out now. Would she start up fine? Would she react differently? Would I even know where I was going in my new hometown? A sea of 'What-If's' flooded my brain. While my Contessa keeps me aware of my riding skills at all times, demanding that I pay attention to every corner, lean in on each curve and practice her clutch more than I care to, she also brings me a great sense of accomplishment. I was ready to put that to the test all over again.

I started up her rumbling twin on Saturday. Suited up in my leathers, I slowly pulled my Arai down over my head, opening its lid to take a few deep breaths of fresh air while a knot was starting to form in the pit of my belly. The key went into her ignition smoothly (a nice surprise for a change) and I kicked her into neutral as easily as I can remember doing. After ample coaxing with the throttle, she held steady for me and putting the lid down to shield my eyes I pulled her out of her dark spot under the roof for the freedom of the sunsoaked open road. We travelled on roads that I'd never been on before- ahh the simple pleasures of moving a great distance! One mile turned into several more and I found myself wandering through a perfectly lined road with no traffic and even a few other riders smattered about. A slight peace wave brought that smile that I had longed for back, and soon my grin was wide as I glided through the scenery of the golden hills.

Through thick and thin, my old Goose didn't let me down and I tried my best to not disappoint her. While I'm not exactly sliding puck in the twisties, I think I managed to impress her still. All she wanted was some attention and blacktop. All I needed was a little reminder that the best way to get over procrastination is to simply do it.