Today, Ukraine has its own very different kind of “witches.”

They don’t fly wooden aircraft through the night. They use smartphones, encrypted messaging apps, hidden cameras and deception.

One operation reportedly began with a woman who didn’t even exist.

A Ukrainian intelligence officer posed as a lonely housewife and spent months messaging a Chechen commander in Russian-occupied southern Ukraine. When the commander sent a photograph from his barracks, he unknowingly revealed a detailed map of his location in the background.

The information was passed to Ukrainian handlers. The coordinates were eventually targeted by drones.

It is a glimpse into how resistance in occupied Ukraine has changed.

In the early months of the invasion, resistance could be seen openly in streets and public squares. But as Russian surveillance, arrests and repression intensified, that became increasingly dangerous.

The resistance moved underground.

Women have become particularly important to these networks because they can often move through occupied communities with less suspicion. Teachers, nurses, clerks, aid workers and local officials can observe Russian positions, track movements and pass information to handlers outside the occupied territories.

Their work rarely makes headlines.

A photograph of a convoy.

A location sent through an encrypted app.

A seemingly harmless conversation.

A detail noticed inside a building.

Separately, these fragments may appear insignificant. Together, they can become battlefield intelligence.

The nickname “warrior witches” captures the strange combination of old-fashioned resistance and modern technology. The weapons may now be drones and digital communications rather than bombs dropped from biplanes, but the objective remains the same: operate unseen, gather information and strike from the shadows.

And that may be the most important evolution in Ukraine’s underground war.

The modern battlefield is no longer confined to trenches and front lines.

Sometimes, it begins with a message from someone who doesn’t exist.

She was born in Munich in 1937, the daughter of Hans Ertl, a celebrated German filmmaker and wartime cameraman who had worked within Nazi Germany’s propaganda machinery.

After the war, her family eventually settled in Bolivia.

There, Monika grew up far removed from the poverty and political instability surrounding her family’s comfortable life. But as she grew older, she increasingly rejected the world she had inherited.

By the late 1960s, she had embraced revolutionary politics and joined Bolivia’s National Liberation Army, the ELN—the same movement that had attempted to continue Che Guevara’s failed guerrilla campaign after his death.

Her transformation was striking.

The daughter of a man associated with Nazi Germany had become a revolutionary fighting against what she saw as imperialism and political repression.

Then came Che’s death.

In 1967, Guevara was captured and executed by Bolivian forces. One of the officers associated with the operation was Roberto Quintanilla, who ordered that Che’s hands be removed after his death so his identity could be confirmed through fingerprints.

For Monika and other ELN militants, the humiliation became inseparable from Che’s killing.

Four years later, Quintanilla was serving as Bolivia’s consul-general in Hamburg.

On April 1, 1971, a woman wearing a blonde wig and glasses entered the consulate.

She asked to see Quintanilla.

Then she shot him.

The woman escaped, leaving behind the disguise and a message associated with the ELN.

Investigators eventually connected the killing to Monika Ertl.

But the mystery surrounding her only grew.

She disappeared back into the underground, reportedly moving through revolutionary networks in Chile and Cuba. Bolivian authorities eventually placed a bounty on her.

In 1973, security forces tracked her down near La Paz.

She was killed at just 35 years old.

Her body was never returned to her family, and her final resting place remains unknown.

That disappearance helped transform Ertl from a historical figure into something closer to a legend.

Her story is difficult to fit into a simple category. She was born into privilege but abandoned it. She came from a family connected to Nazi-era Germany but became a communist revolutionary. She was celebrated by some as an avenger and condemned by others as an assassin.

And unlike Che Guevara, whose face became one of the most recognisable images of revolution, Monika Ertl largely disappeared from public memory.

Perhaps that is what makes her story so fascinating.

Che’s death created a mythology of its own.

Monika Ertl became one of the people who lived inside that mythology—and, according to the accounts surrounding her, was willing to kill for it.

Her story ultimately raises a more uncomfortable question than whether she was a hero or a terrorist: What happens when political conviction turns revenge into a mission?

Few realize that one of the war’s largest battlefields wasn’t in Vietnam at all.

It was Laos.

Bound by the 1962 Geneva Agreement, Laos was supposed to remain neutral. Yet behind closed doors, the CIA and the U.S. military were fighting a secret war to block North Vietnamese supply routes, support the royal government, and weaken the communist Pathet Lao.

Because the operation was covert, there was no formal declaration of war and no large deployment of American ground troops.

Instead, Washington relied on spies, proxy forces and overwhelming air power.

At the heart of this campaign was the CIA’s Secret Army, largely made up of Hmong fighters under General Vang Pao. Trained and supplied by the agency, they fought some of the war’s fiercest battles while operating from Long Tieng—a hidden base that became one of the busiest airfields in the world despite officially not existing.

Above them, American aircraft carried out an extraordinary bombing campaign.

Between 1964 and 1973, the United States dropped more than two million tons of bombs on Laos, targeting communist forces and the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The scale was so immense that, on average, bombs fell every eight minutes for nearly a decade.

The bombing eventually stopped.

Its consequences did not.

Millions of unexploded cluster bomblets remained buried beneath fields, forests and villages. Even today, farmers and children continue to encounter explosives left behind more than fifty years ago, making Laos the country most heavily affected by unexploded cluster munitions.

The Secret War also left another legacy.

Thousands of Hmong fighters who had fought alongside the CIA were forced to flee after the communist takeover, with many eventually resettling in the United States. For decades, their role remained largely absent from public memory because the war itself had been officially denied.

Today, the story of Laos is no longer completely hidden.

The United States has acknowledged the scale of the bombing and continues to support efforts to clear unexploded ordnance. Yet the country still lives with the physical reminders of a conflict many outside Southeast Asia barely know existed.

The Secret War in Laos is more than a forgotten chapter of the Vietnam era.

It is a reminder that some wars don’t truly end when the fighting stops.

Sometimes, they continue for generations—one unexploded bomb at a time.

Then the animal suddenly turned.

It charged at him.

Putin ran.

The lesson, he later said, was simple:

“You should never drive anyone into a corner.”

It is a small childhood story. But over the years, it has become something much larger.

The anecdote has effectively become part of Putin’s political mythology—a story about survival, fear and the dangers of leaving an opponent with no way out. Some analysts see in it a broader worldview that has appeared repeatedly in Putin’s speeches and in the way Russia’s leadership describes the post-Cold War world.

The expansion of NATO.

Western military support for Ukraine.

Sanctions.

Diplomatic isolation.

From Moscow’s perspective, these are often presented not simply as individual policies, but as part of a larger effort to surround and weaken Russia. Putin has repeatedly spoken about Russia being threatened, humiliated or pushed into a corner.

That is where the rat story becomes politically useful.

It offers a simple explanation for a complicated worldview: an opponent who feels trapped may become more dangerous.

But there is another possibility.

The story may not only be a warning about other people.

It may also be part of the image Putin has built of himself—a man who began as an underestimated boy from Leningrad, survived hardship, entered the KGB and eventually rose to the top of the Russian state.

A man who does not retreat when challenged.

A man who believes weakness invites attack.

Whether the rat story genuinely shaped Putin’s worldview or was later polished into a perfect origin story is impossible to know.

But its power lies precisely in its simplicity.

A frightened animal.

A blocked escape route.

A sudden attack.

And a lesson about what happens when there is nowhere left to go.

For decades, that idea has hovered over debates about Russia’s relations with the West.

How much pressure can be applied before pressure begins to look like entrapment?

How far can an opponent be pushed before compromise becomes impossible?

And what happens when the country involved possesses the world’s largest nuclear arsenal?

The rat story may be nothing more than a childhood memory.

Or it may be one of the clearest windows into how Vladimir Putin wants the world to understand him.

Either way, the warning is difficult to ignore:

A cornered opponent does not always surrender. Sometimes, it turns around.

Who actually ruled Russia—the president or the parliament?

Just two years after the USSR disappeared, the new Russian state was already fighting over its own future.

President Boris Yeltsin wanted to transform Russia rapidly through free-market reforms. The parliament, dominated by opponents of his policies, saw those reforms as an economic catastrophe. For millions of Russians, the transition meant inflation, unemployment and collapsing living standards.

The political conflict eventually became a constitutional one.

On September 21, Yeltsin announced that he was dissolving parliament. The problem was that he did not have the constitutional authority to do so.

The lawmakers refused to leave.

From inside the Russian White House, they declared Yeltsin’s decision illegal and voted to remove him from office. They then recognised Vice President Alexander Rutskoy as Russia’s acting president.

For a few extraordinary days, two rival authorities claimed to represent the Russian state.

The crisis might still have ended through negotiation.

Instead, the streets exploded.

On October 3, armed supporters of parliament broke through police lines and seized government buildings. The confrontation escalated rapidly, and the Russian military was eventually ordered to intervene.

The following morning, tanks took positions across the Moscow River.

Then they opened fire on the parliament building.

The images were extraordinary: the White House of Russia burning as smoke rose over the capital. The building that housed the country’s legislature was being shelled by the country’s own military.

When the fighting ended, at least 147 people were officially dead and hundreds more were wounded. The true toll remains disputed.

Yeltsin had won.

But the victory came with a profound political consequence.

By the end of 1993, Russia had a new constitution. It created a powerful presidency and a much weaker parliament—an arrangement that made it far easier for executive power to dominate the political system.

This is why the events of 1993 continue to matter.

The crisis is often remembered as a violent episode during Russia’s chaotic transition from communism. But it was also a decisive moment in the country’s political evolution.

A president had used military force to defeat an elected legislature.

And the constitutional system that emerged from that confrontation gave the presidency extraordinary power.

Decades later, Vladimir Putin would inherit that system and strengthen it further.

That does not mean the political Russia of 1993 and the Russia of Putin are identical. But the institutional foundations of a highly centralised presidency were laid during those chaotic days in Moscow.

The question left behind by October 1993 is therefore larger than the fate of Boris Yeltsin or Alexander Rutskoy.

What happens to democracy when political disagreements are settled by tanks?

Russia’s parliament lost the battle.

But the consequences of that battle shaped the country for decades to come.

It is a history marked by mistrust: the 1953 coup that reshaped Iran’s politics, the 1979 Islamic Revolution, the U.S. embassy hostage crisis, decades of sanctions, and the continuing dispute over Iran’s nuclear programme.

But long before those defining moments, there was another chapter—one that has largely faded from international memory.

It is the story of Howard Baskerville, a 24-year-old American who travelled to Iran expecting to teach history and Bible studies, only to become one of the few foreigners remembered as a hero in the country’s struggle for democracy.

At the time, many Iranians were demanding something unprecedented: a parliament, a written constitution and limits on the absolute power of the shah. The movement briefly succeeded, but royalist forces soon launched a brutal crackdown. Tabriz became one of the revolution’s last strongholds, enduring months of siege, famine and violence.

As Baskerville watched his students struggle through hunger and political repression, neutrality became increasingly difficult.

When the American consul ordered him not to interfere, Baskerville famously replied:

“The only difference between me and these people is the place of my birth, and that is not a big difference.”

He resigned from the mission, organized a volunteer rescue force—many of its members were his own students—and joined the constitutionalists.

On April 19, 1909, just days after turning 24, Baskerville was killed by a sniper while leading an attempt to break the siege around Tabriz.

His funeral drew thousands.

Iranian poets wrote elegies in his honour, and constitutional leaders sent his mother in the United States a rifle wrapped in the Iranian flag—a symbolic gesture that her son had become one of Iran’s own.

More than a century later, Baskerville’s legacy still endures. His grave is maintained in Tabriz, his bust stands in the city’s Constitution House museum, and generations of Iranians continue to learn about the young American who gave his life for their country’s freedom.

Perhaps what makes his story so remarkable is not simply that he died in Iran, but that he represents a version of U.S.–Iran relations that is almost forgotten today.

Before coups, sanctions and decades of hostility, there was a moment when an American was embraced by Iranians because he stood beside them rather than above them.

Iranian-American author Reza Aslan once described Baskerville as “the road not taken” in relations between the two countries—a reminder that history is rarely inevitable.

Baskerville could not change the course of the 20th century. The Constitutional Revolution eventually faltered, and relations between Tehran and Washington would become increasingly adversarial.

But his story survives because it reminds us that history is often more complicated than the headlines suggest.

Even between countries that now see each other as rivals, there was once a young teacher who believed freedom was worth defending—regardless of where he was born.

And more than a century later, Iran still remembers him.

Trump says he “wasn’t worried,” describing his response as calm and controlled even as security intervened. He praises the Secret Service response, dismisses concerns over vulnerability, and insists the event should continue despite the incident.

But the interview turns sharply when questions arise about the attacker’s manifesto. Trump rejects the framing, clashes with the interviewer, and accuses the media of amplifying claims he calls false.

The exchange raises broader questions:

Is this about managing a crisis or controlling its narrative?

This report breaks down how Trump is positioning the moment, what he emphasises, and what he leaves out - from political violence to media accountability.

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Arriving early in the morning at Kyiv’s central railway station via an overnight train from Poland, the Duke of Sussex emphasized the importance of maintaining global awareness of Ukraine’s ongoing struggle. Speaking shortly after his arrival, he said, “It’s good to be back in Ukraine,” describing the country as one that is “bravely and successfully defending Europe’s eastern flank.”

Prince Harry’s visit is part of a broader two-day trip during which he is expected to attend the Kyiv Security Forum, a high-profile gathering of political leaders, policymakers, and security experts. His participation underscores continued Western engagement with Ukraine’s political and security landscape, even as geopolitical priorities evolve.

During his visit, the Duke is also expected to reinforce a key message: that Ukraine’s war is not only about territory but about broader democratic values. According to reports, his speech will urge the international community not to become “numb” to the conflict, framing it as a defining struggle with implications beyond Eastern Europe.

Prince Harry highlighted that Ukraine’s efforts carry wider significance for Europe’s stability. “It matters that we don’t lose sight of the significance of that,” he said, stressing that Ukraine’s defense plays a crucial role in the continent’s overall security architecture.

In addition to political engagements, the visit includes humanitarian elements. The Duke is expected to meet with the HALO Trust, a charity long associated with his late mother, Princess Diana. The organization has been actively involved in clearing landmines and unexploded ordnance in conflict zones, including Ukraine, where such hazards remain a major threat to civilians.

He is also scheduled to spend time with Ukrainian participants of the Invictus Games Foundation, which he founded to support wounded, injured, and sick service personnel and veterans through sport. The foundation has included Ukrainian competitors in recent years, reflecting the human cost of the ongoing conflict and the importance of rehabilitation efforts.

This is not Prince Harry’s first visit to Ukraine. He reportedly visited the country twice in the previous year, maintaining a consistent presence and signaling ongoing support for those affected by the war. His continued engagement distinguishes him among international public figures who have maintained direct contact with Ukraine beyond official diplomatic channels.

The timing of the visit is particularly notable. With global headlines increasingly dominated by other conflicts, Ukrainian officials have repeatedly warned of “attention fatigue” among international partners. High-profile visits such as this are seen as a way to refocus global awareness and reaffirm political and humanitarian support.

Prince Harry’s trip, though unofficial, carries symbolic weight. By combining political messaging, humanitarian outreach, and personal engagement, the Duke’s visit reinforces the narrative that Ukraine’s struggle remains a central issue for international security and democratic values.

The report, citing anonymous sources, claimed Patel’s alleged drinking and absences raised concerns among officials at the FBI and the Department of Justice. Patel has strongly denied the allegations, calling the story “a lie” and accusing the publication of spreading false information despite being presented with his response before publication.

“Bring it on, I’ll see you in court,” Patel told reporters, warning others against repeating what he described as defamatory claims.

The lawsuit, filed in the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia, argues that while media outlets are free to criticize, the article crossed legal boundaries with what Patel’s complaint calls “fabricated allegations.”

In response, The Atlantic said it stands by its reporting and will “vigorously defend” its journalists.

Reuters noted it could not independently verify the claims made in the article or the reasons behind changes to its headline.

The case sets up a high-profile legal and media battle, raising broader questions about press freedom, accountability, and the limits of investigative reporting.

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Speaking after the vote, Peskov also warned against “illusions” over the European Union’s proposed €90 billion aid package for Ukraine, suggesting the bloc would find ways to deliver the funds despite opposition.

The package, backed by countries including Germany, aims to support Ukraine through 2026–2027 but has faced resistance from Hungary.

Hungary’s prime minister-elect Peter Magyar, whose Tisza Party won a majority, signaled a more pragmatic approach toward the EU while confirming Budapest will not join the financing scheme.

Outgoing Prime Minister Viktor Orbán had long clashed with Brussels over sanctions on Russia and support for Ukraine, maintaining closer ties with Moscow.

The election campaign was also marked by allegations of foreign interference, which were denied by the EU and Kyiv.

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As the United States launches major strikes against Iran’s military and nuclear infrastructure, analysts are debating whether the North Korea precedent justifies preventive military action—or serves as a warning that military pressure can push regimes to accelerate nuclear weapons development in the name of survival. The central question now is whether the Iran war will stop nuclear proliferation, or ultimately repeat the same strategic outcome seen in North Korea.

For nearly a decade, Trump’s power hasn’t come from strategy or ideology. It’s come from performance. From branding. From emotional manipulation packaged as patriotism. Trump is not a leader—he’s a salesman who never stops selling.

And America, time and again, keeps buying.

The Grift Behind the “Greatness”

Every Trump promise follows the same pattern:

• Create a crisis

• Cast himself as the savior

• Cash in on the fear he created

It’s the oldest trick in the con artist handbook—control the narrative, control the crowd.

From “Mexico will pay for the wall” to “I alone can fix it,” Trump has built an entire political identity on promises that were never meant to be kept. The goal was never solutions—only leverage.

Why the Con Works

Because Trump understands something most politicians don’t:
Fear is profitable. Victimhood is addictive. Outrage is currency.

His supporters don’t follow him because of what he achieves. They follow him because of what he represents: a permission slip to say what they feel without apology, without shame, without consequence.

And in that emotional economy, facts are useless. Only feelings matter.

The Cost of the Illusion

While Trump plays his greatest-hits album—“witch hunt,” “rigged,” “deep state”—America is left with:

• A political system exhausted

• Institutions eroded

• Loyalty tests replacing governance

• A country fractured into spectacle vs. reality

Trump’s con isn’t just about power. It’s about survival. He knows that once the narrative slips, the entire persona collapses. So he keeps feeding the outrage machine, hoping his followers never look behind the curtain.

The Real Question

The problem isn’t just that Donald Trump is a con man.

The problem is how many Americans prefer the con to the truth.

Because the truth requires responsibility. The con only requires belief.

And that’s why the story isn’t over.

Not because Trump is extraordinary—but because the climate that made him possible is still very much alive. Until America confronts that uncomfortable reality, the con will continue. Maybe with Trump. Maybe with someone even more skilled.

The show goes on—because the audience keeps clapping.