In March 2023, one year after the full-scale invasion started, I wrote this poem. I found it today, hidden in an anonymous folder on my desktop. I never imagined that more than three years later we would still be in this position, and that people would still be dying on both sides:
There is that new mad despot in the Kremlin,
Who dreams of owning all nations, fifteen,
But a former good comedian,
A very sharp-witted Ukrainian,
Upon the Tsar, he vents just bitter spleen.
The velvet curtains of the fortified stronghold’s grandest briefing room were drawn tight, shutting out the outside chill. Indoors, the air was heavy with smoke and the nervous sweat of a dozen generals.
At the far end of an absurdly long, solid wood table sat He.
The Tsar did not call himself that out loud, of course, but in the quiet, shadowed corners of his mind, he wore the crown. He stared at a massive, antique globe spinning slowly under his fingers. Fifteen, he muttered to himself. Fifteen pieces of a grand puzzle that had shattered decades ago. He wanted them all back. He wanted the world to tremble at the mention of his name, a mad despot reshaping geography by sheer force of will.
‘The campaign progresses?’ the Tsar barked, his voice flat and cold as a Siberian winter.
The Minister of Defence swallowed hard, adjusting a collar that suddenly felt far too tight. ‘We are… asserting pressure, Your Excellency. But there is a complication.’
The Tsar’s eyes narrowed into slits. ‘A complication. Is it a grand coalition? A new defensive shield?’
‘No, sir,’ the Minister whispered. ‘It is… the comedian.’
Less than a thousand miles away, in a dimly lit bunker beneath the resilient streets of the capital city, the “comedian” was drinking lukewarm coffee.
A couple of years ago, his biggest worry had been missing a cue on a comedy sketch show or landing a punchline. Now, he wore olive green every single day, and his audience was the entire world. He had not forgotten how to make people laugh, but these days, his humour was forged in iron and tempered by fire.
An aide hurried into the room, holding a tablet. ‘Sir, they have just released another broadcast, claiming that you have fled the country. They are calling our sovereignty a historical mistake.’
David looked at the screen. He watched the stern, unblinking face of Goliath spinning his webs of grand delusions. A lesser man might have despaired. A more traditional politician might have issued a dry, multi-page diplomatic protest. But he was a sharp-witted Ukrainian. He knew that the only thing a tyrant fears more than a bullet is a mockery he cannot control.
He grabbed his phone, walked out into the open air of the night, defying every security protocol, and hit record.
Back in the citadel, the Tsar watched the response on a secure monitor.
The comedian was not hiding. He was standing on the pavement, the beautiful architecture illuminated behind him. He looked tired, but his eyes were bright, dancing with a dangerous, mocking intelligence.
‘Good evening to you all,’ the Ukrainian President said into the camera, a wry, sharp smile tugging at the corner of his lips. ‘We are all here. Our soldiers are here. Our citizens are here. We are defending our independence, and we will stay here.’
Then, he addressed their neighbours directly. He did not use the language of fear; he used the language of absolute, biting scorn. With razor-sharp wit, he dismantled the Tsar’s grand illusions of owning fifteen nations, turning the despot’s terrifying threats into the pathetic ramblings of a man afraid of his own shadow. He vented a bitter spleen so potent, so perfectly aimed, that it pierced right through the citadel’s thick stone walls.
The Tsar watched the video clip rack up millions of views in minutes. He looked down the long table at his generals, who were desperately trying to mask their smirks, and slammed his fist onto the innocent table, rattling the teacups. He had columns of tanks, thousands of missiles, and a nuclear arsenal, but he was entirely defenceless against a comedian with a smartphone and a devastating punchline.
For in this modern echo of David and Goliath, the ultimate victory would not just be measured in shattered delusions. Still, we look to the day the weapons fall silent, and the killing of defenceless people finally stops.
Editor’s Note:
The theme of this article perfectly reflects our magazine’s founding motto, featured in the accompanying illustration: Support Books, Not Wars.
