WHY THE WEST CANNOT BE SOLE GOVERNOR OF HUMANITY'S DESTINY

The power and therefore influence of the West and its elites has become institutionalized. Successive ranks of these elite individuals have taken this and the precepts that go with it as a given. After so many generations their status has been taken for granted, at least by them. The power they have wielded decade after decade is not a matter of debate or question, it is an obvious fact. Alongside the evidence of the wielding of this power come the mythologies which justify it, or are seen to by those who wield the power and hand it on to subsequent generations of officials.

That the origins of this unquestioned power are questionable does not trouble the western elite mind. That they sprang from such dubious roots as privilege, slavery, occupation, colonialism, violence and oppression is not a subject for discussion n polite, or indeed in any, company. The power became theirs to wield as they saw fit and the mythologies of their goodness, civilized values, probity and good judgement overlaid all else. This position of benevolent dominance is held as a sacrosanct principle from which all else flows.

Western elites conceive that they are incapable of selfish or harmful intent. They consider their motives and actions to be self-evidently correct and above reproach and can see no earthly reason why this should be questioned. Even when hundreds of thousands die based on flawed intelligence and exaggerated claims made by their most prominent leaders they conceive of no requirement to atone or be subject to judgement. All was done with the very best of intentions even if some mistakes were made, mistakes which do not require fundamental changes in approach to either thinking, analysis or action.

The view from the upper echelons of western power is that the entire world is their domain to do with as they see fit, justified by the fact that they are the just, the righteous, the civilized, democratic, freedom-loving judges and arbiters of all that is good and appropriate and all that is bad and requiring elimination. This group-thought view is vital to hold the matrix of western power intact and any weakening of it among the rank and file members of its officialdom is seen as tantamount to treason. No quarter is given to any member questioning this status or impugning its right to exist in perpetuity.

Given all of the above we can see how those nations who do now kowtow to the power invested in the serried ranks of western elite officialdom would become objects of western anxiety and potential targets for West-generated change. We can see also how the protests arising from such nations regarding western influence/interference in their affairs would be dismissed. When an elite considers it has universal right on its side and believes invested in it are the inalienable rights of all populations everywhere then we can see that only submission to these facts will serve. All resistance to the required submission to the western righteous in such cases will be ignored as distractions.

But we are now on the cusp of momentous changes which will sweep away all such beliefs and considerations held for so many generations by western elites. And those elites are well aware of this fact and are now fighting a rearguard action to stave off the day when almost all their influence has gone. The rise of powers which the West was formally able to contain, manipulate and dominate is progressively upsetting the status quo that has been for so long beneficial to the West and which western elites have sought to portray as essential and beneficial. This threatens the entire structure of western power and the national interests of every nation allied to the West.

China is the main nation rising to challenge the power of the West. Russia also is providing the second bulwark that is inhibiting the reinforcement, increase and perpetual nature of the West's status as ultimate arbiter of right and wrong. This has never happened before to the western world, so long the proven major world power capable of exerting its influence worldwide and according to those within it, to the benefit of all. This situation is considered to be an absolutely existential threat to "good order" as seen by these elites, a threat so great that 'western liberal values' and a 'rules-based international order' could be erased and replaced. That the rising powers could bring benefits to the world cannot be contemplated or even admitted as a possibility.

Only by continuing to rise can the alternate geopolitical paradigm be assessed in terms of benefits and drawbacks, however, to the elites of the western world the possibility of positive outcomes is anathema. Just as questioning the sacrosanct goodness of the West is outlawed so too is consideration of the potential benefits arising from an alternate form of global influence. But this attitude cannot win out in the long-term as the power of the Eurasian nations rises inexorably to a point where certain realities demand to be confronted.

Russia, in its demand to have its national security requirements acknowledged, has been confronted with the western elite belief system that only its requirements and its alone have any validity. China too is confronted with the selfsame attitude from western elites determined to be proactive in making changes within any and all spheres of influence worldwide. Western elites are being confronted with the fact however that their vision of the world which they believe they have a duty to enforce on all centres of power is unsustainable in the context of the rising national powers of China and Russia.

The old unquestioned superiority held by all western elites is being challenged as never before. Yet they continue to assert their right to wield their waning power, to judge others and punish them when they contravene the precepts held as sacrosanct by themselves and their allies. They find this intolerable and this is why we have arrived at the most dangerous moments for the developed world since the height of the Cold War, arguably since the conclusion of World War II. The danger will only be over once one side or the other achieves victory.

This is why we can see that World War III has been in progress for at least a decade and a half when it became clear to western elites that their time as patrician shepherds of the world was ending. The facade of that power will be maintained to the last and will only fall when the reality of Eurasian power (primarily exhibited by China and Russia) becomes too great to ignore. At that point a significant and obvious change of tone will emerge where the rising powers begin to gain respect, their views on their national sovereignty heard and acted upon and a level of mutually beneficial dialogue and agreement is finally reached.

The elites of the western world will continue to maintain their facade of total righteousness, goodness and beneficial dominance right to the bitter end. Only after fully disabusing them of the group-thought concepts holding their matrix of obedience and myopic view of themselves and their "rights" will they begin to acknowledge that they are not the sole governors of humanity's global destiny.

 

 

FICTION: THE HOUSE OF DREAMS

Surrounding us are dense woodlands. All around are ancient trees. Mist enshrouds the treetops and hovers above a nearby pond which is encircled by bullrushes. Birds call in the distance. Branches hang low and all is still. Spanish moss hanging from branches and the grasses underfoot are all damp with dew.

The month? September. The time, morning. The hour, twelve before five.

We are within an area of vast dimensions, green with wild nature all safe from human hands. Within this green paradise lies a well-manicured estate of tended parklands; an English park of architecturally placed trees designed to outdo nature. Here the old style attempts a harmonising of home and heath. Within this estate lies a palatial home, stately in its patinated archaic grandeur. And within the home lie dreamers.

Caressing the stone of the upper storey as we pass we peek into a window framed by red velvet. On the bed lies a sleeping form. The name of this form is Lizzie. She does not stir, deep in her slumbers, she sees beyond the life of this house to realms far beyond.

Shall we see what Lizzie sees for a moment or two?

The path over the hill is strewn with white pebbles of quartz. Atop the hill lie two or three stunted willows, the cold breeze causing their dry leaves to rattle. Lizzie is not alone. In her skirt pocket, she carries a frog, lately fished from the nearby stream. She recalls a dream long ago when she was too young for conscience and watched a smaller frog crawl in fear into a gap in the stream bank. She took a stick and prodded the gap until white liquid spilled out. Thinking nothing of it but slight annoyance at the unfriendly frog she wandered on in her childhood day.

Within her dream, Lizzie now feels sorrow for her act of callous cruelty and caresses the wet head of her frog friend. No one will harm her Prince Charming while she protects him.

Through the wall is Mr Johnson-Deedes, he is on a beach in the Bahamas, dozing to the sound of nearby calypso drums. He opens his dreamy eyes to find a young Nordic beauty staring down into them. “Would you like a massage perhaps?” He would as it happens. His old soul warms to the powerful Nordic hands now softly pummeling his back. He will soon awake to find himself caressed by these memories and almost ancient memories, of a life long gone.

We proceed next door to Mrs Johnson-Deedes where a very different affair is in progress. She is mounted on the horse most royal being the central attraction as she officiates at ‘Trooping the Colour’ in all her undoubted dignitary. Her hand shakes a little as her brain signals a slight wave is in order. Mrs Johnson-Deedes is in a seventh heaven of royal wonderment and will wake supremely satisfied.

A light rain is falling, trickling down moss-covered tiles to gutters running out to the gravel paths that circle the house. Above, the sky is light grey, the sun wan, shining like a substitute moon down on the grand home of the Lawsons. Oh yes… this home is not owned by the Johnson-Deedes, their line ran out of cash in the Thirties. This is the baronial residence of Lordon Lawson of Lundin Links, grandson of the former baronet of Longthorne no less.

Now it is time to visit the twins. They are housed in the adjoining annexe due to their rather boisterous nature. Granny Hopkins cannot abide their noise, that’s why they’re there. Safe and sound and out of earshot.

Who is Granny Hopkins? Granny is the head bottle washer, dogsbody, nanny and meal-arranger. She appears very ancient but is in fact only fifty-two. She was born as the sun set on the British Empire. How can that be you ask? What year is it, anyway? All will be revealed… but not just yet.

Now we must visit Granny in her cell. Yes, that’s right, cell. Long before when Lawson of the Links lived here there was an uprising among the peasantry. This necessitated the construction of a number of cells in the servants’ quarters high up in the north wing. In one of those we will find Granny… and her dreams.

She is an angel winging this way and that toward a lighthouse in the distance. Below her the sea is a torment of high flying waves and crashing foam. The sky above is black with storm clouds with a whistling wind beating Granny’s wings making her wheel and pivot out of her control. But, she must reach the lighthouse. Albert is waiting there for her, an old albatross of her youthful acquaintance. She knows he likes her to be prompt and no excuse will do. Granny visualizes him, beak thrust out defiantly daring the wind or the spittling rain to touch him. Oh but she loves that creature so! She WILL fly to his wings, nothing will stop her…

The twins have arrived in the pantry among the gleaming copper pots and pans, grinding machines, thick white plates and long forks and knives. They stab the wooden table with these latter utensils making loud screams as they do so. Two more terrible little banshees you have never seen. They are Alf and Alice and mean to make their mark, on this table if nothing resembling a human passes by.

Meanwhile, Lizzie stirs and searches for a frog in her nightshirt pockets before staring bleary-eyed at her reflection in the sideboard mirror facing her. She wrinkles her nose at the state of her hair and reaches for the large chord dangling from the ceiling to her right.

In the corridor leading to the kitchen are the bells. Granny doesn’t hear Lizzie’s bell ringing at first due to the loud screaming emerging through the kitchen door. Then, in a gap between loud thuds and screams she hears it tinkling, turns and makes for the stairs.

“Tea. Eggs as usual. Toast. Tomato ketchup. The Middlesborough Herald. Thank you Granny.”

Granny turns on her heel and retreats downstairs growing ever closer to the sounds of pandemonium coming from the kitchen. As she reaches the door all noise stops and there is perfect silence. Opening the door she found all in order within… except for a butcher’s cleaver stabbed deep into one of the windowsills. With a shrug of her shoulders, she sets to work.

Mr Johnson-Deedes is sitting up in his bed with a broad smile on his rather haggard face. It gives the impression of two blue blackbird eggs stuck in a haystack. But this is a much nicer visage than his usual early morning look, believe me. He has awoken from one of those dreams where the smile or laugh within it emerge unscathed to greet the new day. He rises and beats his chest with some vigour while striding to the window where he takes a very big breath into his somewhat creaky old lungs.

Gazing at the fringe of trees to his left and the well-spaced oaks and pines across the English park he has one of those moments when all seems right with the world. This lasts until he hears the twins galloping laughing and grimacing while they toot some tiny horns they’ve found. A frown turns his fragile smile down before it edges back up again unfazed. Twins will be twins he thinks to himself, sighs and heads for the bedroom door.

Upon exiting he shuffles grandly along to the pink and rose door of Mrs D. As usual he softly scratches down the door panel before letting himself in. Mrs Deedes greets him with her usual, “Good morning dear” and, he observes in a gayer note than usual. “I see we have both had happy dreams my dear, that’s nice”. She smiles evenly toward him and on hearing this her smile broadens and she brings her arms up above her head to invite a hug. He acquiesces, sitting down beside her on the bed then half falls into her arms.

Far off in the distance, a somewhat discordant note of a tiny horn is heard. Their heads rise for a moment before they laugh in happy synchronicity.

Just at that moment in the estate cottage Tayler the gardener is getting his wellington boots on. His hair is splayed in every blond direction atop his hoary old head. His breakfast of thick slices of bread with butter, banana and strawberry jam washed down with a huge mug of tea, is over and done with and sustained against the day he barges out through the front cottage door. The apple trees in the orchard are his target today. Pruning and sweeping, weeding and tending are his tasks, tasks he has repeated endlessly each year that comes. And a great many have come and gone before his eyes, those white circled eyes of Tayler who have seen sunrises and sunsets aplenty and ready for yet more.

The milk cart now rattles into view. Tommy on top of course, every now and then caressing Topsy’s hindquarters with his otherwise useless whip. Creamy red top milk is deposited with a pull at the knob of the old bell ringer by the front door. Granny can be heard shuffling toward the door and he awaits her.

“Top of the morning to you Granny!”

“Same to you Tommy… and to you Topsy”, she calls.

Topsy stands immobile though on hearing Granny’s voice she shakes her mane a little and raises one hoof… just slightly mind you.

Tommy laughs.

“She knows you know.”

“I know she does Tommy lad.”

“G’day.”

“G’day.”

The slight rain has stopped and the sun begins to shine brighter through the cloud cover. Birds, at first quite distant in their twittering can now be heard more frequently. Unseen a hundred tiny lives begin their day.

Let us now peruse the upper living quarters. Most are completely empty and unused now. There is quiet there as the sun glances and dances, sparkling on the side of a green bottle nestled within a cabinet, now fluttering in a lost corner, now caressing the myriad motes that float gracefully all around. The soughing of the wind is all that is heard… not even the tootling of a tiny horn breaks the silence of the room, the twins being otherwise occupied down by the lake.

Just beyond the window, beyond the ivy that graces either side, past the sandstone walls, out just some inches into the warming morning air a shimmer has begun. It wafts and waves, tiny rainbows caught within it. A car is heard. A voice. Several voices reply. Then a sound like a roof collapsing, a mechanical grating, a horn blares, and overhead there’s a droning sound. Voices and noises multiply, a boom is heard, then some child shrieks in either pain or joy. A growling undertone hum seems to envelop the air by the window before silently a thin wisp of grey smoke floats nonchalantly into the room.

Outside, John and Dawn with their children, Mark and Veronica are greeted by Mr Godfrey from the estate agent’s in town.

“Here it is. What do you think? First impressions?”

“It’s rather nice. A pity about the area, it's a noisy very road, isn’t it?”

“I know. When my Dad was a boy it was all fields and greenery around here he says. Hard to believe, I know. ‘Used to be a country estate by all accounts. Very pretty it was apparently.”

The couple look at each other with something akin to scepticism and then slightly purse their lips.

Paul spoke first.

"I can't picture that I'm afraid."

Dawn looked at her husband wistfully. Then looked up at the house before looking back to the street and all around them as they stood at the doorway.

“What a pity, it’s a real shame So much has changed, so much has been lost. But I think I can imagine it though, as it was. With my eyes closed, if I try really hard, I'm sure I can just about do it…”

Dawn looked at her husband wistfully. Then looked up at the house before looking back to the street and all around them as they stood at the doorway.

“What a pity, it’s a real shame So much has changed, so much has been lost. But I think I can imagine it though, as it was. With my eyes closed, if I try really hard, I'm sure I can just about do it…”

Surrounding us are dense woodlands. All around are ancient trees. Mist enshrouds the treetops and hovers above a nearby pond which is encircled by bullrushes. Birds call in the distance. Branches hang low and all is still. Spanish moss hanging from branches and the grasses underfoot are all damp with dew.

The month? September. The time, morning. The hour, twelve before five.

We are within an area of vast dimensions, green with wild nature all safe from human hands. Within this green paradise lies a well-manicured estate of tended parklands; an English park of architecturally placed trees designed to outdo nature. Here the old style attempts a harmonising of home and heath. Within this estate lies a palatial home, stately in its patinated archaic grandeur. And within the home lie dreamers.

Caressing the stone of the upper storey as we pass we peek into a window framed by red velvet. On the bed lies a sleeping form. The name of this form is Lizzie. She does not stir, deep in her slumbers, she sees beyond the life of this house to realms far beyond.

Shall we see what Lizzie sees for a moment or two?

The path over the hill is strewn with white pebbles of quartz. Atop the hill lie two or three stunted willows, the cold breeze causing their dry leaves to rattle. Lizzie is not alone. In her skirt pocket, she carries a frog, lately fished from the nearby stream. She recalls a dream long ago when she was too young for conscience and watched a smaller frog crawl in fear into a gap in the stream bank. She took a stick and prodded the gap until white liquid spilled out. Thinking nothing of it but slight annoyance at the unfriendly frog she wandered on in her childhood day.

Within her dream, Lizzie now feels sorrow for her act of callous cruelty and caresses the wet head of her frog friend. No one will harm her Prince Charming while she protects him.

Through the wall is Mr Johnson-Deedes, he is on a beach in the Bahamas, dozing to the sound of nearby calypso drums. He opens his dreamy eyes to find a young Nordic beauty staring down into them. “Would you like a massage perhaps?” He would as it happens. His old soul warms to the powerful Nordic hands now softly pummeling his back. He will soon awake to find himself caressed by these memories and almost ancient memories, of a life long gone.

We proceed next door to Mrs Johnson-Deedes where a very different affair is in progress. She is mounted on the horse most royal being the central attraction as she officiates at ‘Trooping the Colour’ in all her undoubted dignitary. Her hand shakes a little as her brain signals a slight wave is in order. Mrs Johnson-Deedes is in a seventh heaven of royal wonderment and will wake supremely satisfied.

A light rain is falling, trickling down moss-covered tiles to gutters running out to the gravel paths that circle the house. Above, the sky is light grey, the sun wan, shining like a substitute moon down on the grand home of the Lawsons. Oh yes… this home is not owned by the Johnson-Deedes, their line ran out of cash in the Thirties. This is the baronial residence of Lordon Lawson of Lundin Links, grandson of the former baronet of Longthorne no less.

Now it is time to visit the twins. They are housed in the adjoining annexe due to their rather boisterous nature. Granny Hopkins cannot abide their noise, that’s why they’re there. Safe and sound and out of earshot.

Who is Granny Hopkins? Granny is the head bottle washer, dogsbody, nanny and meal-arranger. She appears very ancient but is in fact only fifty-two. She was born as the sun set on the British Empire. How can that be you ask? What year is it, anyway? All will be revealed… but not right now.

Now we must visit Granny in her cell. Yes, that’s right, cell. Long before when Lawson of the Links lived here there was an uprising among the peasantry. This necessitated the construction of a number of cells in the servants’ quarters high up in the north wing. In one of those we will find Granny… and her dreams.

She is an angel winging this way and that toward a lighthouse in the distance. Below her the sea is a torment of high flying waves and crashing foam. The sky above is black with storm clouds with a whistling wind beating Granny’s wings making her wheel and pivot out of her control. But, she must reach the lighthouse. Albert is waiting there for her, an old albatross of her youthful acquaintance. She knows he likes her to be prompt and no excuse will do. Granny visualizes him, beak thrust out defiantly daring the wind or the spittling rain to touch him. Oh but she loves that creature so! She WILL fly to his wings, nothing will stop her…

The twins have arrived in the pantry among the gleaming copper pots and pans, grinding machines, thick white plates and long forks and knives. They stab the wooden table with these latter utensils making loud screams as they do so. Two more terrible little banshees you have never seen. They are Alf and Alice and mean to make their mark, on this table if nothing resembling a human passes by.

Meanwhile, Lizzie stirs and searches for a frog in her nightshirt pockets before staring bleary-eyed at her reflection in the sideboard mirror facing her. She wrinkles her nose at the state of her hair and reaches for the large chord dangling from the ceiling to her right.

In the corridor leading to the kitchen are the bells. Granny doesn’t hear Lizzie’s bell ringing at first due to the loud screaming emerging through the kitchen door. Then, in a gap between loud thuds and screams she hears it tinkling, turns and makes for the stairs.

“Tea. Eggs as usual. Toast. Tomato ketchup. The Middlesborough Herald. Thank you Granny.”

Granny turns on her heel and retreats downstairs growing ever closer to the sounds of pandemonium coming from the kitchen. As she reaches the door all noise stops and there is perfect silence. Opening the door she found all in order within… except for a butcher’s cleaver stabbed deep into one of the windowsills. With a shrug of her shoulders, she sets to work.

Mr Johnson-Deedes is sitting up in his bed with a broad smile on his rather haggard face. It gives the impression of two blue blackbird eggs stuck in a haystack. But this is a much nicer visage than his usual early morning look, believe me. He has awoken from one of those dreams where the smile or laugh within it emerge unscathed to greet the new day. He rises and beats his chest with some vigour while striding to the window where he takes a very big breath into his somewhat creaky old lungs.

Gazing at the fringe of trees to his left and the well-spaced oaks and pines across the English park he has one of those moments when all seems right with the world. This lasts until he hears the twins galloping laughing and grimacing while they toot some tiny horns they’ve found. A frown turns his fragile smile down before it edges back up again unfazed. Twins will be twins he thinks to himself, sighs and heads for the bedroom door.

Upon exiting he shuffles grandly along to the pink and rose door of Mrs D. As usual he softly scratches down the door panel before letting himself in. Mrs Deedes greets him with her usual, “Good morning dear” and, he observes in a gayer note than usual. “I see we have both had happy dreams my dear, that’s nice”. She smiles evenly toward him and on hearing this her smile broadens and she brings her arms up above her head to invite a hug. He acquiesces, sitting down beside her on the bed then half falls into her arms.

Far off in the distance, a somewhat discordant note of a tiny horn is heard. Their heads rise for a moment before they laugh in happy synchronicity.

Just at that moment in the estate cottage Tayler the gardener is getting his wellington boots on. His hair is splayed in every blond direction atop his hoary old head. His breakfast of thick slices of bread with butter, banana and strawberry jam washed down with a huge mug of tea, is over and done with and sustained against the day he barges out through the front cottage door. The apple trees in the orchard are his target today. Pruning and sweeping, weeding and tending are his tasks, tasks he has repeated endlessly each year that comes. And a great many have come and gone before his eyes, those white circled eyes of Tayler who have seen sunrises and sunsets aplenty and ready for yet more.

The milk cart now rattles into view. Tommy on top of course, every now and then caressing Topsy’s hindquarters with his otherwise useless whip. Creamy red top milk is deposited with a pull at the knob of the old bell ringer by the front door. Granny can be heard shuffling toward the door and he awaits her.

“Top of the morning to you Granny!”

“Same to you Tommy… and to you Topsy”, she calls.

Topsy stands immobile though on hearing Granny’s voice she shakes her mane a little and raises one hoof… just slightly mind you.

Tommy laughs.

“She knows you know.”

“I know she does Tommy lad.”

“G’day.”

“G’day.”

The slight rain has stopped and the sun begins to shine brighter through the cloud cover. Birds, at first quite distant in their twittering can now be heard more frequently. Unseen a hundred tiny lives begin their day.

Let us now peruse the upper living quarters. Most are completely empty and unused now. There is quiet there as the sun glances and dances, sparkling on the side of a green bottle nestled within a cabinet, now fluttering in a lost corner, now caressing the myriad motes that float gracefully all around. The soughing of the wind is all that is heard… not even the tootling of a tiny horn breaks the silence of the room, the twins being otherwise occupied down by the lake.

Just beyond the window, beyond the ivy that graces either side, past the sandstone walls, out just some inches into the warming morning air a shimmer has begun. It wafts and waves, tiny rainbows caught within it. A car is heard. A voice. Several voices reply. Then a sound like a roof collapsing, a mechanical grating, a horn blares, and overhead there’s a droning sound. Voices and noises multiply, a boom is heard, then some child shrieks in either pain or joy. A growling undertone hum seems to envelop the air by the window before silently a thin wisp of grey smoke floats nonchalantly into the room.

Outside, John and Dawn with their children, Mark and Veronica are greeted by Mr Godfrey from the estate agent’s in town.

“Here it is. What do you think? First impressions?”

“It’s rather nice. A pity about the area, it's a noisy very road, isn’t it?”

“I know. When my Dad was a boy it was all fields and greenery around here he says. Hard to believe, I know. ‘Used to be a country estate by all accounts. Very pretty it was apparently.”

The couple look at each other with something akin to scepticism and then slightly purse their lips.

Paul spoke first.

"I can't picture that I'm afraid."

Dawn looked at her husband wistfully. Then looked up at the house before looking back to the street and all around them as they stood at the doorway.

“What a pity, it’s a real shame So much has changed, so much has been lost. But I think I can imagine it though, as it was. With my eyes closed, if I try really hard, I'm sure I can just about do it…”

Dawn looked at her husband wistfully. Then looked up at the house before looking back to the street and all around them as they stood at the doorway.

“What a pity, it’s a real shame So much has changed, so much has been lost. But I think I can imagine it though, as it was. With my eyes closed, if I try really hard, I'm sure I can just about do it…

IS THERE AN ALTERNATE PURPOSE TO THOSE STATED BEHIND WESTERN AGGRESSION AGAINST RUSSIA?

There are two most common but mutually opposed opinions on the present situation regarding the West and Russia.

Western political and media elites say Russian aggression makes it essential that all European nations join together in defence against it.

Russia says that the western powers through NATO are posing an existential challenge and threat to Russian sovereignty and national interests.

There is a third option related to the Russian analysis summarized above which I would like to explore.

That is, that this whole current scenario, initiated by the western powers, built up and progressed at least from the year 2007 until the present day, has an alternate purpose to those usually speculated upon.

To start with, I discount the possibility of war, except through unforeseen circumstances, due to unintended consequences. A hot war suits neither of the two great powers involved. A skirmish or limited military confrontation of some kind might certainly suit Ukraine but certainly not either of the two main power centres involved.

My third speculative purpose behind the western campaign of verbal attacks upon Russia does not include a hot war, this was always to be avoided at all costs. Why then push such a constantly aggressive narrative against Russia? Why do we see no truly valid attempts to minimise tension through diplomatic means and no ratcheting down of the rhetoric used? An example of the unhelpful use of words occurred yesterday when Jen Psaki, the current White House Press Secretary talked in terms of ‘typical Russian disinformation’ or words to that effect. This kind of talk concerning Russia has been heard so often in the West that it has become a constant refrain.

Why might this constant repeating of the same negative message regarding Russia signify?

On the face of they are an almost a comical series of tirades. To all intents and purposes, Russia sits where it is, relatively inactive on the world stage while every manner of “Russia Did It” statement, meme and trope is rolled out. Why? What might the ultimate purpose be behind this seemingly well organised and widely spread campaign to blacken Russia’s name across the western world?

Might the game plan be not about eventual regime change in Russia (though of course this would be welcomed) but about something else entirely, and something which used to be mentioned quite a lot in the past, an effort to isolate Russia, predominantly from Europe, but not only there.

Whether Ukraine and Georgia join NATO may not matter ultimately regarding military threats to Russia. If only the isolation of Russia through comprehensively blackening its name is the goal. Naturally, there would be many side effects to this detrimental to Russia and the interests of Russians, but the possibility of military conflict as a goal would fade almost completely away. As I say, no major power wants war. What the West wants is to keep its economic position of dominance across Europe and not have it reduced by the acceptance of Russia and China into the fold.

If the impression can successfully be given across Europe and across the entire planet if possible that Russia is untrustworthy, has evil intentions and should be feared, never embraced, then this could be made to infect all trading considerations in connection with Russia. We can see that outside of Europe this goal (if such it is) is failing. Turkey, India and others are agreeing major projects with the Russian state and with Russian companies. The rhetoric concerning ‘big, bad Russia’ is quite obviously being brushed off as nonsense by most nations outside Europe’s borders.

But within Europe, if you listen to any of the TV debates between western politicians or pundits you hear not one iota of verbiage taking Russia’s side. Not in the least. The perennial diatribes hold fast to a fixed dogma concerning the ‘Russian Threat’, ‘Russian Aggression’ and how to counter these. It is too noticeable and constant to seem anything other than a rabid mania, one that is exclusively affecting Europe and U.S. allies such as Britain, Australia and a few Middle Eastern states. Everywhere else Russia appears to be taken as simply another nation with which to make trading agreements and partnerships.

Odd. Isn’t it? Except for the fervent need of the USA and others in its cabal of European allies to maintain the trading dominance they have known forever… up to this point.

This is the third and primary purpose I believe behind the waterfall of angry assertions and accusations regarding Russia which have gone on for so long now and which show no sign of abating. Generate sufficient bad-mouthing that enough opprobrium sticks that it becomes subconscious and generates an automatic reluctance to contemplate any possible positive relationship with Russia. If this can be done then you have achieved the mission. Getting all European nations into NATO simply reinforces the group-thought, subconscious aversion into an agreed formula.

War is incredibly messy and outcomes can be unpredictable, extremely bad in terms of economic disruption, share values apart from all the human tragedies (which are the least of political elite concerns). The constant bad-mouthing of Russia I suspect is not because they want war with Russia but because western elites need to isolate Russia out of their own economic self-interest and to permanently retain Europe as their own exclusive fiefdom.

Principles such as ‘Freedom’, ‘Democracy’ and ‘Human Rights’ as justifying reasons for this struggle are mere charades hiding the true motivations involved.

It is in fact a modern rendering of the ‘Monroe Doctrine’ whereby the USA claimed the whole of Central and South America as its ‘back yard’ in which no other economic interests were allowed. U.S. political and corporate elites see Europe as their now vastly expanded backyard and it seems to me that their prime goal is to protect their corporate and national interests by keeping Russia (and China if possible) permanently excluded.