Why the West Hates Russia

Nancy O'Brien Simpson

Photo: Дмитрий Плотников Pravda.Ru by Нейросеть

Бойцы армии РФ

Howl of the Motherland, Howl of the West, ghost-whispers of Cold War prophets screeching through congressional hallways, senators foaming, nostrils flared, gnashing teeth against the specter of Moscow, a Red nightmare reborn in the shape of an old man with iron lips, a suit, a smirk, a bomb in his pocket.

The Empire of the Free shakes its fist at the frozen steppes, where great-grandfathers marched with bayonets and banners, where smokestacks once belched steel for tanks that rolled to Berlin, now rusting, now reborn, now hissing back at the Atlantic with supersonic growls. The Capitol shrieks, the Pentagon writhes—

Russia has risen, the gas station with nukes flexes its sinews, shrugs off the drunken decade, the Chicago Boys gone home, the McKinsey whispers fading. Yeltsin crawled, but Putin stood. The West expected a beaten dog, but a bear emerged, licking wounds, sharpening claws, staring down Brussels and Washington with eyes of cold Siberian dawn.

They shook hands once, they embraced, Reagan and Gorbachev, vodka and Coca-Cola, jeans in Red Square, capitalism in St. Petersburg, the old lions laughing in Reykjavik, playing nuclear chess with a flick of the wrist. But the bear remembers. The walls fell, but the cages remained. NATO crept eastward, boots stamping over treaties, over promises whispered and forgotten like cigarette smoke curling into the night.

First Poland, then the Baltics, then whispers of Ukraine, Georgia, the Black Sea trembling under American sails, missiles sprouting like weeds in Warsaw, in Bucharest, in the lands where Soviet ghosts still wander, muttering curses in broken German.

The bear growls. The old Cold War vultures squawk. The world spins, dizzy, drunk on sanctions and counter-sanctions, on rubles and dollars, on pipelines running lifeblood through frozen soil, arteries carrying the heat of Eurasia to the cold-blooded bureaucrats of Berlin and Paris. But the Empire does not sleep. The Empire does not forgive. The Empire watches with hungry eyes.

2003, the world shakes, Baghdad burns, Washington laughs. France and Germany frown, Russia scowls. The first fracture, the first rift. The tanks roll, the bombs drop, but not with Moscow’s blessing.

2014, Kiev erupts, the Maidan seethes, the chessboard shudders. The Crimean shores hear whispers of old wars, the echoes of Khrushchev’s pen scratching a fateful signature, a land gifted and now reclaimed. Sanctions, sanctions, the Empire screeches, the West flails, but the pipelines still flow, the bear still breathes.

And now? Now war. Now fire. Now steel. The old ghosts rise again, their bones rattling in the fields of Donbas, their voices carried in the wails of drones, the shriek of artillery, the crack of rifles in the snow. The Empire demands blood. The bear does not kneel.

This is why Ameria hates Russia—not for democracy, not for freedom, not for the great and noble cause of nations. They hate because the chessboard turned, the pawns revolted, and the king did not fall. They hate because the bear still stands, because Moscow’s towers still glint in the sun, and because the Motherland sings, and they cannot silence the song.