published in Eastern Economist #411, December 18, 2001
Water babies
I’ve been avoiding the VR cafeteria of late. Something there doesn’t agree with my stomach. Could be the interior. But this week I had to go to wrap up some business. The walls were actually spic and span, quite a change from the food fights back in late May, when debate of the Land Code finally got serious and the Communists realized that they were about to lose their bowl of soup [see RC#7].
Things were nice and quiet and I was sipping my coffee (no sugar), waiting for news of the Medvedchuk vote when suddenly the door flew open and there he was. None other than Tovarish Charodeyev – the Charmer, as it were, in Russian. Only this time, it was not messy mayonnaise on the deputy’s shirt front but obviously an entire pitcher of water soaking him from head to foot.
“Oi, oi, oi,” I cooed in his direction. “Must be those beastly Ruhkivtsi,” I added, oozing sympathy.
“That’s exactly what I said,” sputtered Ukraine’s dripping answer to Vladimir Zhirinovsky, “and they leapt on me like a bunch of pit bulls. Doused me with water, can you believe it!”
“Dear me,” I muttered, “thank your stars it wasn’t a pitcher of compote.”
Our friend was undoubtedly getting his shorts all into a knot – and those of some all-Ukrainian patriot as well, from the sounds of it. This is the man who has called deputies “pederasts” and worse, who’s been known to tip compote on people in the cafeteria.
Good old Charodeyev. Maybe Yabluko boss Mikhail Brodskiy pays him to do this stuff, I thought. Broad-skiy, as I personally think of the 120 kg dude who once owned Kyiv’s favorite tabloid, Kiyevksiye Vyedomosti, and suckered half of Kyiv with his pyramid schemes, has never been averse to a little well-placed publicity – of whatever kind.
“So what, now, pane Charodeyev,” I asked him after a couple of sips, watching his disgruntled face as he shook his sleeves and hair out like a dripping bear just foiled by a pack of salmon on the run.
“They want to exile me from the Rada for 10 days.”
“Only 10 days?” I murmured. “Why worry, it’s winter recess anyway, if I’m not mistaken. It’ll give everyone a little break. Time to think of more pleasant things, like New Year's presents and Sviat Vechir.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” came back the woeful reply.
“You don’t? Oh my, I’m sorry, pane Charodeyev,” I said in my most dulcet tones. “How about Channukah?”
“Nope, not that either.”
“Maybe it’s time you reconsidered and got into the spirits of the season?” I suggested gently. Poor soul, he knows how to get attention, but not presents wrapped in colorful paper and cute ribbons. What the VR really needs is an annual gift exchange. I should drop that bee in Ivan’s little bonnet, I thought, folding my paper and getting up from my table.
Just then, I remembered the momentous decision before the legislature that morning.
“What about the Medvedchuk vote?”
“He’s history.”
Well, I thought, the year is ending with a bang, after all. And it wasn’t the passing of a law allowing journalists to carry arms.
Rubber souls
There’s been such a kafuffle over journalists being attacked and killed this past year, making Ukraine the shame of Europe in terms of press freedoms. Last summer, after a Sloviansk TV producer was beaten with bats and died July 7 of his injuries, Ukrainain police warned journalists not to carry on their own investigations in order to not put their lives in danger. But this kind of saves the lives of journalists at the cost of killing the most important – and most interesting – function of a free press in the first place. Not to mention that it looked like an effort to silence the work of investigative journalism, so sorely lacking in any real way in Ukraine.
But while Mr. Oleksandrov was known to have been involved in exposing local corruption and organized crime, local police did not think the murder was connected. In September, Deputy PG Serhiy Vinokurov announced that a suspect had testified that Mr. Oleksandrov had been killed “by mistake.” How many other attacks against journalists, including possibly Georgiy Gongadze – who apparently owed money, hung out with strange people in dangerous parts of the world, and was having an extramarital affair – are only coincidentally related to their professional work, and sometimes only accidentally related to them at all, is hard to say. After all, Ukraïnska Pravda was never shut down for even a nanosecond. Nor does Grani’s Tetiana Korobova, who vituperates everyone from Kuchma on down, have trouble being published.
Nevertheless, the Interior Minister felt he had to offer some gesture. So Gen. Smirnov issued an order Dec. 8 allowing journalists to bear arms. No one was surprised – or particularly impressed. Possibly wanting to avoid complete mayhem, with mini-skirted blondes carrying pearl-encrusted pistolettes to interviews with rude lawmakers, the order limits the weapons to handguns of domestic manufacture that use rubber bullets. A kind of low-grade stun gun that can take someone out at close range and is powerful enough to knock a man off his feet at 10 meters.
Now, that might prove useful against assailants with bats, but what good will it be if the attack really is a contracted murder, complete with guns that fire real bullets? What about the point that you have to not only know how to use a weapon, but be psychologically prepared to actually fire it at someone? Perhaps what journalists and other people at risk had better do is take up basic martial arts training. This would help them to develop greater alertness when they are taking out the garbage. After all, most of the assaults have taken place near the victims’ homes or offices. •
–from the notebooks of Pan O.
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