Russian-Ukrainian solidarity from one of Konstantin Simonov's wartime Stalingrad stories: "Viktoriya and one of my traveling companions turned out to be from the same area. They spent half the crossing trying to outdo each other’s stories about Dnepropetrovsk, chattering... 1/4
....about the city’s streets, about the building my companion had lived in, and about the building where Viktoriya had studied. They recalled every last detail of their hometown. 2/4
It felt that, in their hearts at least, they had refused, and would always refuse, to surrender Dnepropetrovsk. It felt that, come what may, they believed that their town could never belong to anybody else." 3/4
How awful that eighty years later Putin's regime has decided that Russian-Ukrainian solidarity is to be sacrificed on the altar of ethnic hatred. 4/4
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Big 🧵: We constantly hear that Putin is a master media strategist, but here’s a thread on WW2, national heroes, myth, and why he cannot win the media war at home.
In short, enthusiasm for the war is going to crater because Putin's propagandists have an impossible task.
The key way in which Soviet writers - I've written an entire book on this - created a hugely popular myth of national self-sacrifice in WW2 was by focusing on people, not events. The papers were filled with stories of ordinary people laying down their lives for the greater good.
This was a hugely effective approach even as the country was in the depths of torment.
In short, readers connect with humans, not with tactics, strategy, or even which towns and cities are under attack.
Beautiful, tragic words from Mikhail Bulgakov on war in Kyiv. From his novel "The White Guard": 'A year after her daughter Elena Turbin had married Captain Sergei Talberg, and in the week in which her eldest son Alexei Turbin returned from years of grim and disastrous... 🧵
...campaigning to Ukraine, to the city of Kiev and home, the white coffin with the body of their mother was carried away down the slope of St. Alexei’s Hill towards the Embankment, to the little church of St. Nicholas the Good.
Their mother’s funeral had been in May, the cherry and acacia blossom brushing against the narrow lancet windows of the church. His cape glittering and flashing in the golden sunlight, their parish priest Father Alexander had stumbled from grief and embarrassment.