Steve Rosenberg: The View from the Kremlin

​Who would want it?

Who would choose to be the BBC’s Russia Editor in Moscow,

acting as a senior foreign correspondent,

covering all the internal machinations of the Kremlin

and the relentless toll of the war in Ukraine?

​Working for the BBC in Moscow - reporting the "wrongs"

is a precarious path to follow!

Being the voice of a world-renowned broadcaster,

but being so clinical at it;

his work is widely praised and resolutely objective.

He operates with a rare blend of courage and control,

all within the high stakes of a tightly monitored,

hazardous environment.  

​But who'd want it?

​Steve Rosenberg:

Born in Epping, 1968; raised in Chingford.

Educated at Chingford Senior High, 

then the University of Leeds,

where he earned a first-class degree in Russian Studies.

Driven by his Russian-Jewish descent, he moved to Moscow,

initially teaching English at the Moscow State Technological University, 'Stankin'.  

​His BBC career began in the Moscow bureau as a producer.

Then came New Year’s Eve, 1999.

With no journalists in the office when Boris Yeltsin resigned,

Steve stepped into the breach to write and broadcast his first dispatch.

The producer became a correspondent,

going on to cover the Kursk submarine disaster,

the Nord-Ost theater siege, and the Beslan school massacre,

as well as securing rare interviews with oligarchs like Roman Abramovich.  

​But who'd want it?

​As the air grew thin,

concerns for his safety in such a hostile climate have intensified.

State media personalities have publicly targeted him;

figures like Vladimir Solovyov have branded him an "enemy of Russia,"

leveling personal insults at his appearance.

Rosenberg himself acknowledges the shifting sands,

noting that the risks must be "regularly reviewed."

​Who'd want that!

​A BBC Panorama documentary laid bare the reality:

the physical attacks on his crew,

the constant,

suffocating

scrutiny!

Yet, he remains committed to staying "on the ground"

to interpret the real Russia and its people.

​His continued presence feels like a calculated move by the Kremlin,

a decision to allow a handful of Western journalists to remain

to project an air of strategic indifference.

He stays,

he watches,

and he reports.

​...but who would want it?

The Echo of the Fen

​Only one person shed a tear.

The woman who wove his bones,

the woman who finally reached out a hand

to flick the switch and silence the machines.

A savage end delivered by a member of the same trade - one dark shadow striking another

all within the high-walled silence of the state.

Even a mother’s mercy had run dry.

She whispering to the air that it was for the best,

given the hollow shell that remained.

​And so, the public ledger closes.

We, who paid for the iron bars,

Now pay for the fire and the urn.

A final tax on a devious life.

The man who thought a change of tyres

could wash the blood from his hands.

​The man beside who; stood the shadow of a shadow.

a woman of the classroom,

a keeper of children who kept his secrets instead.

She who wore her lies like a second skin,

trading her freedom for a traitor’s peace.

Now carrying a borrowed soul

with a borrowed name,

just a ghost bought and paid for by us; the people,

vanishing into the crowd behind a brand-new face.

​

​Does a case like this exhume our best side or our worst?

When the monster falls, 

the old cry rises,

"An eye for an eye - a life for a life!"

The gallows haunt the public squares once more.

For; in the quiet of the heart - the questions ache.

What would I crave if the children were mine,

if the lights of my life were snuffed out in such a manner?

​And what of the one who killed the killer?

Does a murder in a cell wash the world clean,

or do we just need another yard rope?

Is the rage of Anthony Russell a different shade of black

darker than the darkness that fired those first blows?

​

​Who could break someone's world so completely?

Who could steal the breath of two ten-year-olds?

The mind is a labyrinth of mis-meshing gears

a fever-fed nightmare of power; pride and screaming ghosts.

It is a cocktail of the conscious and the void,

where empathy is a language never learned,

and control is the only god to be served.

​In the end there are no winners in this mess.

A murderer is murdered by his mirror image

behind a locked door in a darkened hall.

All we are left with is the heavy weight of forgiveness - a bridge too far for many to cross.

​If we say they are sick - we acknowledge the wound.

If the wound cannot be healed,

then let the walls stay high; bars shut and the locks stay fastened,

keeping their darkness at bay

for all our sakes

and for the length of their natural days.

In case you don't know

Toads in cars
fought drunks in bars

whilst walking dogs

on leads with frogs

as the strain took the train

full with fish - a first class dish

there in the sky

learning to fly

the music plays

a skirt hem frays

Could; gales

be the farts of whales?

Black and tan

cocktail - or hard man?

You choose 

which one to loose

a peaceful dove

or a purple foxglove?

Options had - some good; some bad

black or white - neither's right

avoiding the fools

'Google' the rules,

an annoying half rhyme

like "frog on the Tyne"

or clanking one

like "a hot-cross-bun"

the lamb had Mary

an ending quite scary 

Little Miss Muffet

had to look-up; 'A Tuffet'

and; what is 'Myrrh'
do confer!

Myrrh is an sweet scented, bitter-tasting, reddish-brown; resin

well that is what an internet search came back and; says-in case you don't know

I say; in case you don't know!

Conflict - the perfect recipe

Ingredients:

​A revolution, aged and volatile.

​Falling markets.

​A large selection of well-educated people.

​A bitter slice of the Iran–Iraq War.

​A whole country transformed into a theocratic state.

​A pinch of the death of a president.

​Billion-dollar B-2 bombers.

​A severe economic strain.

​The entirety of the I.R.G.C.

​A century of cold distrust with the West.

​Several spikes in oil prices.

​Drone attacks, garnished with counter-attacks.

​A large supply chain shock.

​Tensions, specifically with the U.S. - ground to a fine powder.

​Cancelled flights and intercepted missiles.

​Reparation flights in hand.

​Hundreds of deaths.

​Failed plans intending to liberate a people - now shaken liberally around the world, left to find whatever life they can.

​Missiles, for both sides to launch.

​Seasoned with death and misery.

​A handful of despair to decorate.

​Method:

​Preheat the area (it’s already warm). The ships alight in the Straits of Hormuz will help with that.

​Marinate a people with a deep and ancient heritage. Place them into an impossible situation.

​Simmer half of the million-dollar Tomahawk cruise missiles in the skies above the capital - save some for later.

​Reduce to total chaos. Choke the shipping lanes until the oil thickens.

​Say no to nuclear missiles. Julienne the borders until the humanitarian, economic, and security consequences spill out.

​Search for the end game. If one can’t be found, simply whisk up widespread displacement and increased migration, then dribble on risks of global financial instability.

​Moisten with a squadron of F-35 jets if required.

​Rest for five minutes. Iranians can’t.

​Blanch a civilization which goes back thousands of years.

​Warm aircraft carriers ready to dispatch and knock back this rich tapestry of a country. Pull it apart—bit by bit.

​Add destroyers, warships, and maybe a few "boots on the ground."

​Turn out this objective of a deranged President onto an unprepared work-surface.

​Finally, cobble together a complete regime change—from the skies above, if necessary.

​Serve:

​Pour out this once-proud culture, once profoundly shaped with poetry, hospitality, and a complex social etiquette of politeness and deference. Display a rich, diverse culture with a mix of Persian, Azeri, and Kurdish traditions.

​Alternatives:

​Try replacing the war with a long-lasting and comprehensive two-state peace deal.

​Try ensuring security for Israel and a viable, sovereign state for the Palestinians.

​Add a splash of regional stability and the cessation of proxy conflicts.

​You might even try a couple of crumbs of humanitarian recovery.

​Nutritional Warning:

​Ask yourself: Who am I fighting? Who am I in a conflict with? Surely not the ordinary Iranian people—haven’t they suffered enough?

Warning: May contain traces of lost generations. Results are permanent. Not suitable for human consumption.

(Haiku)

Eight cans of cider

and another air fresh'ner.

Who is he fooling?

(Haiku)

Frozen mud softens.

Green glass shards, signs of rebirth,

crack the earth's shell.