If you thought Russia’s presidential election was going to be held in March 2018, you were wrong. The voting began today.
Every couple of days, the Twitter account for the King’s Russia Institute gets a ping, thanks to this tweet sent by the Russian Embassy in London back in early January:
There are two puzzles here. First, why did @RussianEmbassy – which has become something of a legend in the world of diplomatic trolling – copy the @KingsRussia into their tweet? Second, why are people still retweeting and replying to it, almost two months later? I’m no closer to solving the first question, but I might have discovered the answer to the second. (I’m not even going to try to figure out the significance of that frog.)
This has to stop now.
The thousands of Americans who have come out to say a resounding ‘no’ to the Trump regime’s attack on hundreds of thousands of Muslim travelers do not need me to tell them that. The shame instilled in me by my government is truly surpassed only by the pride I feel in my compatriots. They seem intuitively to understand the nature of what we’re dealing with.
Part of the problem with the whole debate around the role of ‘fake news’ in contemporary politics is that we sometimes have difficulty distinguishing between purposeful fakery and sloppy reporting: thus, Trump can claim Clinton got 3-5 million ‘illegal’ votes while lambasting reporters who mistakenly wrote that he had removed the bust of Martin Luther King Jr from the Oval Office.
Unfortunately, the problem is even worse in the world of academic research: while careful reading and a bit of thought can often uncover bad or disingenuous work, most non-academic readers – including a lot of the journalists who report on it – don’t go to those lengths.
A case in point is a Bloomberg article making the rounds, citing academic research purporting to prove that fake news had little or no effect on the US election. I’ll leave the journalist out of it (though he should know better, about which more later) and focus instead on the study, by economists Hunt Allcott and Mathew Gentzkow. It’s timely, important and methodologically advanced. It’s also spectacularly bad social science.
Let’s get one thing straight: No one knows what Donald Trump is thinking. Not Tom Friedman. Not David Rothkopf. Not even me.
No one knows what Donald Trump is thinking because there is no way to know what he is thinking. There is no window into his head, no wire from his brain to the wonkosphere. His tweets, scrolling by like a rolling commentary under his wobbly little chins, are not necessarily the same as his thoughts. Which doesn’t stop the likes of Friedman and Rothkopf from trying to convince us all that they – and only they – know what Trump is really thinking, and because we don’t know what they know, we’ll never get this administration right.
Sound familiar? It should: I wrote exactly the same thing about Vladimir Putin two years ago. Word for word, save for the names and the chins and the Twitter. Paragraph three of that old post works pretty well, too:
Here’s the thing: Whenever the world (or some part of it) thinks it has a grip on what Trump is thinking, he’ll surprise us. Not because he’s so inscrutable, but because there’s profit in it. And that’s my point: we cannot possibly know what he’s thinking, but we do know what his incentives are. And if we stop deluding ourselves with ad hoc psychoanalysis, we might actually figure something out.
Tomorrow, it happens.
Tomorrow, the reality towards which we have been building for so many weeks, so many months, so many years, is consummated. Tomorrow, that man takes office. Takes charge. Takes over.
And then tomorrow will end, and we’ll be one day closer to the time when he will, finally, be gone.
Between tomorrow and that other day – perhaps four years into the future, or eight, or less – something else will happen. Between tomorrow and that other day, we will have to make a decision about who we are. What we’re doing. Where we’re going.
One of the most damning critiques of the argument that Russia cannot democratize, that it is an atomized society incapable of coming together around common humanistic values, lies in the simple fact of Russian philanthropy.
According to the best estimates, some 50% of urban Russians give to charity every year. The bulk of this money goes to help children – sick children, orphans, victims of violence or catastrophe – with smaller but still significant amounts going to help at-risk adults, religious organizations, health-care institutions and environmental preservation. And the numbers grow every year.
No one has done more to establish philanthropy in the fullest sense of the word – charity, kindness, generosity, humanity, mercy and care – than Elizaveta Glinka. Her work on behalf of cancer patients and the homeless, in the creation of the Russian hospice movement and in other fields has brought life and comfort to thousands. But the example she set has done much more than that: it has helped drive home the message that, even in the most uncooperative of circumstances, so much can be achieved.
Dr Liza, as she came to be known, died today, when a Russian aircraft crashed in the Black Sea. Where that plane was headed, how she came to be on it, and why it fell from the sky are, frankly, of little import, at least to me. Nearly a hundred lives were lost, all of them valuable. But among them was one woman who has done more than almost anyone to prove that every Russian life is valuable.
Russia has lost one of its greatest modern heroes.