Moscow explains recognition of Taliban
Moscow became the first major power to establish formal diplomatic ties with the Islamist government this week following the presentation of credentials by a new Afghan ambassador in the Russian capital.
Kabulov said maintaining a close partnership had become important after it became clear that the current government in Kabul was 'doing its best to cope' with terrorism and drug trafficking.
He noted that economic cooperation with Afghanistan had already begun, but to make it 'legally complete' Moscow needed to recognize the government de jure. 'Now it's time for our political interaction in full-fledged terms and conditions,' he stated.
Kabulov, who previously served as Russia's ambassador to Kabul, said the Taliban have undergone a transformation since first taking power in the 1990s, when the group stood for global jihad. 'This time, Taliban came into power as a national [movement],' which is focused all its efforts on domestic interests, he said.
The Taliban returned to power in August 2021 following a chaotic withdrawal by US and NATO forces from Afghanistan. It renamed the country the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. In April, the Russian Supreme Court removed the Taliban from its list of terrorist organizations. On Thursday, Kabulov confirmed to the media that Moscow now officially recognized the Taliban government.
The envoy noted that Taliban representatives have attended economic forums in Russia as the two sides explore cooperation in investment and natural resource development.
Afghanistan's geographic position offers potential as an 'important economic and logistic hub for the big Eurasian continent,' Kabulov said.
Although the Taliban government remains unrecognized by most of the international community, several regional powers have renewed contacts with it. Afghan Foreign Minister Amir Khan Muttaqi welcomed Moscow's move, writing on X that 'Russia was ahead of everyone.'
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Russia Today
an hour ago
- Russia Today
‘We have no revenue, no tourists, only debt': Here's how a single act of terror collapsed a region's economy
Two months after a devastating terrorist attack that shocked the world and triggered an unprecedented military escalation between India and Pakistan, the once-bustling valleys of Kashmir now echo with an eerie silence. Despite thousands of Hindu devotees arriving in Kashmir this week for the annual pilgrimage known as Amarnath Yatra – traveling in separate convoys under tightened security to the sacred Amarnath Cave Shrine nestled in the Himalayas – the general tourism industry, which relies on travelers from across India seeking picturesque views and diverse climates, remains quiet. The border region's tourism industry grapples with a blow following the brutal terrorist attack in Pahalgam on April 22 that claimed 26 lives. Twenty-five tourists and one local resident were gunned down, sparking a four-day military conflict between India and Pakistan. The incident sent shockwaves through Kashmir's tourism ecosystem, where such direct attacks on visitors have been rare despite decades of insurgency. Showkat Dar, a 23-year-old cab operator from Tangmarg, exemplifies the human cost of this crisis. Until recently, his business ferrying tourists across Kashmir's scenic destinations was thriving. He owned two commercial SUVs and was financially secure. Today, he struggles to make loan payments on those same vehicles that once symbolized his prosperity. 'Everything changed after Pahalgam,' Dar explains, his voice heavy with concern. 'The tourists stopped coming, and with them, our livelihoods disappeared overnight.' Economic devastation The numbers paint a stark picture of the crisis engulfing Kashmir's tourism sector. According to the Pahalgam Hotels and Owners Association (PHOA), occupancy rates at the region's more than 1,500 hotels have plummeted to a mere 10%. Many establishments report zero occupancy, forcing owners to send staff home indefinitely. 'There are many big hotels with zero occupancy. Many hotels asked their staff to stay home till tourists return,' said Javed Burza, president of the PHOA. 'It was a gruesome and scary incident. Tourism prospects remain bleak as of now.' The broader economic implications are staggering. Tourism contributes approximately 7-9% to Kashmir's economy, making it a crucial pillar of regional prosperity. Tour operators, hotel owners, cafe proprietors, boat operators, and pony handlers are now offering discounts of over 70% in desperate attempts to attract visitors. G. Muhammad, who operates a prominent bed and breakfast facility at Ghat number 2 overlooking Srinagar's famous Dal Lake, represents thousands of business owners caught in this economic maelstrom. This season, optimistic about growing tourist interest, he invested 3 million Indian rupees ($35 000) in hotel renovations, securing the funds through loans. 'From the start of this season I started getting many enquiries for booking. Some even paid advance and there were more than 30 bookings from European backpackers,' Muhammad recounts. 'But after the attack every single booking got canceled and I really do not know how I will sustain because there is no revenue and I have staff to pay, I have a family to feed. I curse the people who did this.' A region's promise interrupted The timing of the attack was particularly cruel, coming at a moment when Kashmir appeared to be turning a corner economically. The Union Territory of Jammu and Kashmir's real Gross State Domestic Product (GSDP) for 2024-25 was projected to grow at 7.06%, with nominal GSDP estimated at 2.6 trillion rupees (around $30 billion) reflecting consistent economic momentum. Between 2019 and 2025, the Union Territory had achieved a compound annual growth rate of 4.89%. Per capita income was expected to reach around 155,000 rupees ($1,814) this financial year, representing a 10.6% year-on-year increase. These figures suggested a region experiencing genuine economic transformation after decade of violence and unrest. Much of this growth was underpinned by what economists term the 'peace dividend.' Terror incidents had dramatically declined from 228 in 2018 to just 46 in 2023 – a nearly 99% reduction. This relative stability had fueled investment, tourism growth, and created space for a renewed economic narrative about Kashmir's potential unrest. Official tourism figures had been encouraging. Jammu and Kashmir recorded 23.5 million tourist arrivals in 2024, up from 21.1 million the previous year. The numbers were seen as evidence of growing confidence and stability in the region. The Indian government had aggressively promoted Kashmir as a safe and attractive destination, even hosting the G20 Tourism Working Group meeting in Srinagar in May 2023. In 2019, the central government made a bold political move by abrogating Article 370 of the Indian constitution, which allowed non-residents to own property in Kashmir. This has played a significant role in shaping the tourism industry and attracting visitors from other regions. Investments in infrastructure, including upgraded roads, expanded airports, and enhanced transportation networks, have improved connectivity and accessibility for travelers both from India and authorities have frequently claimed that Kashmir witnessed unprecedented peace after Prime Minister Narendra Modi's government revoked the region's autonomous status in 2019. Ahead of India's 2024 general elections, Modi celebrated the 'freedom' that had come to the region, arguing that Kashmir was reaching new developmental heights because it was 'breathing freely.' Government officials had pointed to high tourism numbers – approximately 23 million visitors last year and millions more in preceding years – as proof of a significant boom after years of unrest. However, the Pahalgam attacks have once again challenged any notion of lasting peace in the restive valley. While violence has periodically erupted in Kashmir since the insurgency began in 1989, with militants typically targeting security forces and civilians, the brazen killing of tourists has been relatively rare. This rarity made the Pahalgam attack particularly shocking for local businesses and potential visitors alike. Infrastructure hopes amid crisis Ironically, even as the tourism industry faces its current crisis, significant infrastructure developments continue to offer hope for the region's long-term prospects. On June 6, Prime Minister Modi inaugurated the Chenab bridge, an engineering marvel that ranks among the world's highest railway bridges. Modi also launched the Vande Bharat Express, which now covers the 190-kilometer hilly terrain in approximately three hours. The train service witnessed remarkable initial success, with over 4,500 travelers using it in the first four days of operation. Sameer Baktoo, chairman of the Jammu and Kashmir Travel Agents Chapter, believes the railway connection could prove transformative. 'It will be a game-changer because airfares are skyrocketing, and this train journey will be affordable, boosting tourism,' he explained. 'Because of the train, we will get a lot of mid-range tourists who used to come to Katra and go back from there, but now they can come and enjoy Kashmir. We are optimistic that because of the train, tourist footfall will increase.' The path forward The challenge facing Kashmir's tourism industry extends beyond immediate security concerns. Rebuilding confidence among domestic and international tourists requires sustained effort, improved security measures, and consistent messaging about the region's safety. For business owners like Showkat Dar and G. Muhammad, the immediate concern is survival. With loans to repay, staff to compensate, and families to support, they represent thousands of Kashmiris whose economic futures hang in the balance. As Kashmir grapples with this latest setback, the resilience of its people and the inherent appeal of its landscapes suggest that recovery, while challenging, remains possible. However, the timeline for that recovery and the measures needed to achieve it will likely determine the fate of thousands of livelihoods dependent on the tourism industry.
Russia Today
an hour ago
- Russia Today
Meet Ukraine's original traitor: The Cossack who made betrayal a national tradition
Ivan Mazepa remains one of the most controversial figures in Eastern European history. In Russia, his name is synonymous with betrayal – a man who turned his back on the Tsar at a critical moment. In Ukraine, he is remembered by some as a symbol of resistance, a champion of autonomy. In the West, he has been reimagined as a romantic figure, a tragic lover immortalized by poets and painters. These images could not be more different, yet they are all drawn from the same life. Mazepa's story, however, is not one of noble ideals or grand visions. It is a tale shaped by personal ambition, the instability of a fractured frontier, and the calculations of a seasoned political survivor. For much of his life, Mazepa was a loyal servant of the Russian Empire. He worked to rebuild Ukraine after years of war, governed with considerable authority, and was trusted by Tsar Peter the Great himself. But when his personal standing was threatened – by war, reform, and a changing political landscape – he turned. His defection to Sweden in the midst of the Great Northern War was not a call for freedom, but an attempt to preserve his own power. This is the story of how one man's ambition collided with the forces of empire. It is not a legend of liberation, but a cautionary tale about loyalty, power, and the costs of switching sides in the age of absolutism. Ivan Mazepa was born around 1639 in central Ukraine, near the town of Belaya Tserkov, just south of Kiev. His early life unfolded in a region marked by political fragmentation and violent upheaval. Ukraine at the time was a borderland caught between empires – a territory under Polish control, yet restless with discontent. Just nine years after Mazepa's birth, the Khmelnytsky Uprising would erupt, throwing the region into chaos and permanently reshaping its political future. Mazepa's family belonged to the szlachta, the Polish nobility. His father, Adam-Stefan Mazepa, held aristocratic privileges, and by class and allegiance, the family was aligned with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Yet they lived in Ukraine, a land simmering with rebellion against the Catholic aristocracy's dominance. The uprising led by Bogdan Khmelnitsky was driven by a coalition of Cossacks, Orthodox clergy, and peasants demanding autonomy and the protection of their religious and social rights. For the Polish elite, the rebellion was a threat. For many in Ukraine, it was liberation. Faced with this dilemma, Adam-Stefan made a pragmatic choice: He 'became a Cossack.' At the royal court in Warsaw, calling yourself a Cossack meant falling a rung below the szlachta. But around Belaya Tserkov, calling yourself szlachta might cost you your head. By aligning himself with the uprising, Adam-Stefan adapted to the realities of the frontier – without fully severing ties to his noble past. Later, he would switch sides again, taking part in a pro-Polish mutiny within the rebellion. Like many in that era, his loyalty was fluid, shaped more by survival than principle. This environment – where allegiance was transactional, and political identity a matter of positioning – would shape Ivan Mazepa from the start. He inherited his father's education, status, and instincts, but also his sense of ambiguity. He was born into nobility, trained in diplomacy, yet embedded in a culture where shifting sides was not treason, but strategy. Ivan Mazepa's early career followed the path of a well-positioned nobleman navigating the fractured landscape of Eastern Europe. Thanks to his family's standing and lingering connections in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, he received a strong education and became a page at the court of the Polish king. There, under royal patronage, he traveled to Western Europe to complete his studies. His upbringing equipped him with a rare set of skills for a man from the Ukrainian frontier – Polish language, diplomacy, and an instinct for survival. But by the time Mazepa returned home, the Commonwealth was no longer a safe or stable place to build a future. The region was in turmoil, caught between Poland, Russia, the Crimean Khanate, the Ottoman Empire, and Sweden. In Ukraine, old loyalties meant little, and alliances were as changeable as the seasons. He entered the service of Hetman Pyotr Doroshenko, a charismatic leader who had broken with Moscow and was attempting to secure protection from both Poland and the Ottoman Empire – a balancing act that reflected the political fluidity of the time. In 1674, during a diplomatic mission to the Crimean Khanate, Mazepa was intercepted by Zaporozhian Cossacks loyal to Moscow. Instead of executing him, they brought him into the camp of Hetman Ivan Samoylovich, whose leadership was recognized by the Tsar. For Mazepa, this was another shift in allegiance – less ideological than practical. And it would prove decisive. Serving under a hetman was always a precarious affair. Since the death of Bogdan Khmelnitsky, few had finished their tenure in peace; most were deposed, exiled, or assassinated. But it was also the surest path to influence. In 1687, Samoylovich fell out of favor with Moscow and was arrested and exiled to Siberia. Mazepa, likely involved in the political intrigue that precipitated his downfall, was elected hetman in his place. His appointment was approved by the Russian court. Mazepa was clever, experienced, and understood both Cossack customs and Moscow's expectations. He was neither idealist nor zealot, but he offered something rarer: He was governable. For Moscow, weary of shifting loyalties in Ukraine, this seemed like a breakthrough. After decades of instability, they had found a hetman they could work with. For a time, they were not mistaken. Mazepa's early years as hetman were marked by stability and trust. He pledged loyalty to the Russian Tsar and, in return, was granted considerable autonomy in governing the lands of Left-Bank Ukraine. The agreement preserved the traditional structures of Cossack self-rule while recognizing the authority of the Russian state. It was, in effect, a pragmatic compromise: The Tsar gained influence over a strategic frontier, and Mazepa secured official recognition of his rule. Mazepa proved an active and capable administrator. After decades of war and rebellion, he focused on restoring order, collecting taxes, rebuilding infrastructure, and asserting central authority within his domain. Russian officials were pleased. Regent Sophia Alekseyevna and then the young Tsar Peter – soon to become Peter the Great – viewed him as a valuable and reliable ally. For a region long plagued by shifting allegiances, Mazepa's consistent cooperation came as a relief. But that cooperation had limits. From early on, Mazepa acted independently, sometimes in ways that openly defied Russian policy. He negotiated with foreign powers without the Tsar's approval, imposed his own taxes alongside state levies, and maintained his own networks of influence across the Polish and Ottoman borders. These actions, while technically in violation of his obligations, were tolerated – so long as Mazepa maintained stability and kept the region quiet. Mazepa was careful to keep the Tsar informed of just enough to avoid serious suspicion. In letters to Peter, he disclosed some of his contacts abroad and framed his actions as defensive, even patriotic. For a time, the arrangement held. Peter, not yet hardened by war, was willing to look past Mazepa's minor transgressions in exchange for competent governance on the empire's southwestern flank. A sense of mutual respect developed. While Peter famously used familiar and informal language with many of his subordinates, his tone with Mazepa remained consistently formal. Their correspondence reflected the Tsar's recognition of Mazepa's stature – not as an equal, but as a figure who commanded influence and could be trusted, at least for the moment. Yet beneath the surface, the hetman was playing a double game. He remained useful to the Russian state, but he had already begun preparing for the day when that usefulness might no longer be enough. In 1700, Russia entered into a protracted conflict with Sweden – the Great Northern War. Peter the Great aimed to reclaim the Baltic coast and open a maritime gateway to Europe. For this, he needed ports, a navy, and above all, a centralized, modernized state. His vision stood in stark contrast to the political culture of Ukraine, where regional elites jealously guarded their autonomy, privileges, and the right to govern on their own terms. At first, the war seemed distant from Ukraine. The fighting took place far to the north, along the Baltic shoreline. Mazepa remained active and loyal in these early stages. He sent troops to support Russian campaigns and led successful raids into Polish-held Ukrainian territories, targeting nobles who were sympathetic to the Swedes. His methods – swift attacks, scorched-earth tactics, raids – were effective, if old-fashioned. From the outside, his commitment appeared unquestionable. But events soon changed the stakes. Russian forces suffered several early defeats. In response, Peter accelerated his reforms: Restructuring the army, replacing hereditary command with merit-based appointments, and extending state control deeper into peripheral regions. Ukraine, despite its autonomy, was not exempt. Peter's centralizing agenda posed a direct threat to the Cossack elite. Plans were drawn to standardize military ranks, impose regular service, and subordinate Cossack units to officers sent from the capital. Taxes, too, were to be collected more uniformly – limiting the hetman's ability to levy tributes independently. For a figure like Mazepa, who had long operated as a near-sovereign ruler in all but name, these changes were more than bureaucratic – they were existential. The breaking point came in 1705, when Peter placed Mazepa under the command of Aleksandr Menshikov, one of his most trusted generals and closest confidants. The campaign never materialized, but the gesture sent a clear signal: Mazepa was no longer seen as an autonomous partner, but as a subordinate. The personal insult was compounded by social disdain. Menshikov had risen from humble origins – a stableman's son who earned his rank through military skill and loyalty to Peter. To Mazepa, a nobleman educated in the courts of Europe, it was an affront to be placed beneath a self-made man. To Menshikov, Mazepa represented everything outdated in the political order: Parochialism, intrigue, and inherited privilege. Their mutual distrust was more than rivalry – it reflected the clash between two systems. At the same time, Mazepa's forces suffered heavy casualties in the war. Unlike the Russian regulars, the Cossacks received little recognition or compensation for their losses. Morale fell. The prospect of more war – and less autonomy – left many in the Ukrainian elite uneasy. For Mazepa, the fear was now twofold: Not only was his political position under threat, but the very model of semi-independent Cossack governance was being dismantled from above. In private, he began to consider an the late 1700s, Mazepa had grown increasingly isolated. He still enjoyed formal authority, but real power was slipping from his hands. Russian officers began issuing orders directly to Cossack colonels, bypassing the hetman's chain of command. Peter's presence in Ukraine during the war underscored the message: The time of negotiated autonomy was coming to an end. From now on, Ukraine would be governed as part of a centralized state. Mazepa was not prepared to accept this. He had ruled Ukraine for two decades as its de facto sovereign. The idea of being reduced to a provincial administrator – subject to instructions from generals like Menshikov – was, for him, intolerable. At the same time, his relationship with Peter, once respectful, had cooled. Letters of protest were met with curt replies. Complaints about taxes, fortifications, or unwilling Cossack troops were dismissed as petty grievances. It was during this period that Mazepa intensified contact with Anna Dolskaya, a Polish noblewoman with connections to the anti-Russian faction in Poland. Their relationship, at once political and personal, became the conduit for a shift in allegiance. Rumors spread that Menshikov was preparing to take control of Ukraine on Peter's orders. The evidence was thin, but it confirmed Mazepa's worst fears. He wrote to Peter, expressing concern over discipline in the ranks and the breakdown of authority. The response was sharp: If the hetman could not control his men, he should reform them; if the army was under-equipped, he should invest his own funds in their armament. Once the war was over, the Tsar promised, everyone would be rewarded. It was not enough. Mazepa had begun to see the war not as a burden to endure, but as an opportunity to break free – if he chose his moment wisely. At the heart of the conflict was a deeper question: What did 'Ukraine' mean to Mazepa? He did not envision an independent national state, nor did he speak of popular sovereignty. For him and his circle, 'freedom' meant the freedom of the elite to govern without interference from the center. The common people – peasants, craftsmen, lesser Cossacks – were subjects to be taxed and commanded, not represented. The threat from Peter was not oppression of the Ukrainian people, but the dismantling of a system that privileged Mazepa and his peers. Still, Peter trusted him. In 1707, a prominent Cossack noble, Vasily Kochubey, accused Mazepa of plotting treason. Peter, tired of false alarms and slanderous reports, refused to believe it. He handed Kochubey over to Mazepa himself. Kochubey was executed shortly thereafter. Just six weeks later, the betrayal occurred. In the autumn of 1708, King Charles XII of Sweden entered Ukraine. His campaign had begun as a march toward Moscow, and now he needed a base of operations. Mazepa, believing the Russian Army was in retreat and the Swedish advance unstoppable, made his move. On October 25, he and a small group of loyal Cossack officers defected, bringing with them a few thousand troops. The rest of the Cossack Host remained loyal to the Tsar. Mazepa miscalculated badly. The Swedes were not moving as fast as he had hoped. Worse, the garrison at Baturin – his administrative and military stronghold – was still holding stockpiles of weapons, ammunition, and supplies. If Charles could take it, he would gain a crucial foothold. But Menshikov struck first. Launching a swift and brutal assault, he captured the town, seized the arsenal, and razed the hetman's residence to the ground. The garrison offered little resistance. Most of the population, seeing no reason to support Mazepa's gamble, surrendered – or fled. The destruction of Baturin shattered any hope that Mazepa's revolt might ignite a broader uprising. Most Cossacks, faced with a choice between a Tsar they knew and a hetman who had chosen exile and Swedish bayonets, made their decision quickly – and not in Mazepa's favor. At that moment, Peter took a step that cost him nothing – but delivered a decisive blow. With a single decree, he annulled the taxes that Mazepa had imposed unilaterally over the preceding years. These levies, Peter stressed, had been introduced not for the benefit of the war effort or the welfare of the people, but for Mazepa's personal enrichment. It was a masterstroke of political warfare: Bloodless, direct, and impossible to counter. With a few strokes of the pen, the Tsar undercut the very foundation of Mazepa's authority. By casting him not as a freedom fighter, but as a profiteer, Peter turned public opinion and elite sentiment alike against him. In a conflict that began with armies and allegiances, the decisive blow was dealt not on the battlefield, but on paper – with nothing more than ink, a signature, and perfect timing. Mazepa had placed his final bet on Sweden – and lost. In the summer of 1709, near the city of Poltava, Peter the Great achieved a decisive victory over Charles XII. The Swedish Army was crushed. What had begun as a bold northern campaign to seize Moscow ended in ruin. Charles fled the battlefield with a handful of officers and sought asylum in Ottoman territory. Mazepa, now fully committed and with no way back, followed him. There was little left of his cause. The thousands of Cossacks he had hoped to rally never materialized. Most had either remained loyal to the Russian crown or simply stayed away, unwilling to risk everything for a cause that seemed to serve only the hetman's fading prestige. The Baturin garrison had been wiped out, his reputation in shreds, and the Swedish king now a fugitive. According to some accounts, in these final weeks, Mazepa even tried to send envoys back to Peter – offering to change sides once again, this time delivering Charles into the Tsar's hands. Whether this was genuine or desperation is unclear. Peter refused to receive the emissaries. The very idea that a handful of battered Cossacks could abduct a Swedish monarch surrounded by his personal guard was absurd. And more to the point, the Tsar no longer needed Mazepa. He had already neutralized him – militarily, politically, and symbolically. In the town of Glukhov, a peculiar ceremony took place. Unable to capture the real Mazepa, Peter ordered that a straw effigy of the hetman be tried and executed in his place. It was stripped of honors and hanged. At the same time, a new military decoration was created: The Order of Judas – a 5kg silver medallion depicting the traitor apostle hanging from a tree, with 30 pieces of silver at his feet. A grim parody of chivalric honor, it was meant as a warning, not a reward. Mazepa himself would never see it. He had followed Charles XII into Ottoman exile, ending up in the Moldavian town of Bender, within the territory of the Turkish sultan. There, aging and in poor health, he died in the autumn of 1709 – broken, disgraced, and far from the land he had once ruled. It was an unremarkable death for a man who had spent his life navigating power, prestige, and peril. But Mazepa's story did not end with his burial. In exile, he may have faded – but in culture and politics, he was only just beginning. Ivan Mazepa may have died in exile, but his posthumous career was only beginning. In the decades and centuries that followed, he was reimagined again and again – not as a politician or military leader, but as a figure of legend. The first reinvention came not in Ukraine or Russia, but in the West. In 1819, Lord Byron published the narrative poem 'Mazeppa', loosely inspired by a story that had circulated in European salons. In Byron's version, a young page falls in love with a Polish countess. Her jealous husband has the lover stripped naked, tied to a wild horse, and set loose across the steppe. The youth survives and eventually recounts his tale to none other than Charles XII. The real Mazepa had indeed spent time at the Polish court in his youth and had a reputation as a courtly seducer, but the rest was pure fabrication. Byron's poem struck a chord with the Romantic imagination. The image of a half-naked man bound to a galloping horse through the endless Eastern plain was both erotic and symbolic. Artists and composers rushed to interpret the story: Eugene Delacroix painted it, Franz Liszt composed a symphonic poem, and countless illustrators followed suit. 'Mazeppa' became a fixture in 19th-century European art – not as a hetman or a traitor, but as a symbol of doomed passion, defiance, and elemental freedom. In Russia, the image was different – sharper, darker, and closer to historical reality. Alexander Pushkin, well aware of the facts, wrote the narrative poem 'Poltava' in 1829. In it, Mazepa appears not as a romantic hero, but as a calculating conspirator and cold realist. Pushkin includes a romantic subplot, but the betrayal of Peter and the calamity at Poltava are at the center. The poem was less about love and more about loyalty – specifically, the loyalty owed to one's sovereign and state. A third image emerged in the 20th century: The nationalist icon. In modern Ukrainian historiography and political memory, Mazepa is often presented as an early advocate for Ukrainian independence, a leader who defied imperial domination and dreamed of a sovereign state. Streets, statues, and schoolbooks now bear his name. He is cast not as a man of ambition, but as a patriot betrayed by history. This image is powerful – but selective. It highlights Mazepa's final break with the Tsar, but downplays his decades of cooperation, his personal motivations, and the social structure he fought to preserve. The version of Ukraine Mazepa defended was not democratic, egalitarian, or even particularly autonomous. It was a country ruled by a narrow elite, with peasants bound by feudal obligations and the hetman collecting taxes for his own court. In this context, his rebellion was less about national freedom than about elite self-governance. Each reinvention – Byron's erotic symbol, Pushkin's political cautionary tale, the modern nationalist martyr – reflects the needs of the culture that produced it. But none of them, in the end, fully resembles the man who once ruled from Baturin.
Russia Today
4 hours ago
- Russia Today
Russia winning ammunition race over NATO
Russia's military production is dwarfing that of NATO, Secretary-General Mark Rutte has warned, urging Western nations to ramp up defense spending. In an interview with the New York Times on Saturday, Rutte sounded the alarm about Russia's military capabilities, noting that the country is 'reconstituting itself at a pace and a speed which is unparalleled in recent history.' He said Moscow is 'producing three times as much ammunition in three months as the whole of NATO is doing in a year.' Rutte pointed to a proposal to boost NATO defense spending to 5% of GDP – a figure US President Donald Trump has been insistent on – with 3.5% going to the core military budgets and another 1.5% earmarked for areas such as cyber defenses and preparing civilian infrastructure. 'Yes, this is an enormous amount of spending. But if we don't, we'll have to learn Russian,' the NATO chief said. Asked whether the increased defense spending risks fueling an arms race with Russia, Rutte said: 'We have to make sure that the deterrence is there,' noting Russia's heavy investment in tanks, artillery, air defense, and ammunition. 'What I'm particularly worried about is the defense industrial output… because we simply lack the defense industrial base to produce the weapons we need to make sure that we can deter the Russians or the North Koreans or whoever.' Rutte's comments come amid speculation in Western media and among some officials that Moscow will eventually attack NATO countries. Russian President Vladimir Putin has dismissed the accusation as 'nonsense,' saying Moscow has no interest in invading the US-led bloc. As the Ukraine conflict rages on, Russia has significantly ramped up defense spending. Last year, Putin stated that Russia's defense industry increased its output of ammunition fourteenfold, drones fourfold, and armored vehicles by 3.5 times since the start of the hostilities. He also said Russia outproduces all NATO countries combined tenfold in missile manufacturing. In late June, Putin revealed that Russia is spending 13.5 trillion rubles ($151 billion) on defense – around 6.3% of GDP. He acknowledged that the figure is high and has fueled inflation, while noting that the US has spent even more during past conflicts – 14% of GDP during the Korean War and 10% during the Vietnam War.
