The way I've thought about the thing has always been. Racism might be bad, but nobody can (should be able to) stop you from kicking someone out of your own house because you don't like their race. So it is with abortion - it's your body, you get to cut it off from anyone you want from any reason you want.
Next site, is a four beautiful religious buildings in Kyiv. 1, Saint Sophia Cathedral. 2, the Holy Dormition Kyiv Caves Lavra. 3, St. Nicolas Cathedral. 4, St. Volodymyr’s Cathedral.
Illia Ponomarenko shows us one of the many gems Kyiv has to offer: The Kyiv Pechersk Lavra (or the Kyiv Lavra of the Caves). It is considered the most significant and holiest of places in Eastern Slavic Orthodox Christianity. This is an example of what is at stake for Ukraine as Russia continues its efforts to eradicate Ukrainian history and identity.
So, about 1,000 years ago, Kyiv was living its golden age as the center of a large medieval kingdom of Rus under Prince Yaroslav the Wise—very possibly the greatest ruler of Kyiv ever.
The official residence of the rulers of Kyiv Rus was located in the town of Berestove outside Kyiv (it’s now where Kyiv’s Park of Eternal Glory is).
The Berestove priest Illarion sought comfort and solitude, so he dug a lonesome cave in the hills at the Dnipro riverside, where he could spend his time alone in prayers. That happened around 1051 A.D.
That guy soon became the head of the Kyiv Church and left, but more hermits followed his suit and established their shelters in those caves. Over many years, they burrowed long mazes of catacombs and established churches and monastic cells.
The monastery gradually became a grandiose Lavra, a magnificent center of religious and cultural life, the greatest in this corner of human civilization.
As early as 1073 A.D., the Cathedral of the Dormition (or the ‘Great Church’) was established (and you can see the modern iteration of it, the magnificent white cathedral bearing images of the saints on its walls.
Just like Kyiv, the Lavra was ruined and resurrected from ashes several times over its 1,000-year history. Mongolians seized and desolated Kyiv in 1240, and the Lavra was devastated so hard that it spent well over a century in empty ruins.
Yet, it would always rise again in all of its glory.
During WWII, the Great Church was blown up just as many other iconic locations of Kyiv, such as Kherschatyk Street (in my opinion, what happened was that the Soviets planted bombs at the Lavra upon their withdrawal from the city in 1941 and failed to detonate them on time; and Nazis took out the treasures of the Lavra and got rid of the Soviet bombs by blowing up the cathedral.
Like many other significant treasures of Kyiv, the Great Church of the Lavra was resurrected by independent Ukraine by the 2000s.
The Lavra is indeed a city within a city—I’m only showing you a tiny part of it that is popular with tourists. Unfortunately, the ancient monastery caves have been closed to visitors for over a year.
Technically, the Lavra is a giant museum with many art exhibitions, collections of historical artifacts, and recreation zones for anyone. Right now, for instance, the Lavra Historical Museum exhibits ancient Scthyntian gold from Crimea that was recently returned to Ukraine.
At the Lavra, you can easily find the resting places of many historical figures of the past, such as the one of Kostiantyn Ostrozky, the legendary ultra-rich magnate of the 15th and 16th centuries and the Lavra’s lavish sponsor, or Petr Stolypin, the Russian imperial prime minister who was assassinated at the Kyiv Opera House in 1911.
Of course, the Lavra is about the iconic Great Bell Tower, one of Kyiv’s most legendary landmarks. The tower is 96 meters high and can be seen from around 30 kilometers away from the Lavra.
It takes over 370 stairs to reach the tower’s top – but I’m telling you, it’s 100% worth it as the Great Bell Tower shows you a truly stunning view of Kyiv, especially when the weather is fine. Fucking legend.
For centuries, until recently, the Lavra was under complete control by the Russian Orthodox Church, which is fundamentally loyal to Russia. In 2023, amid the war against Russia, Kyiv authorities and the Zelensky administration tried (and failed) to terminate the Moscow clergy’s legal presence at the Lavra in 2023.
Currently, the Russian church and its monks remain in control of the so-called Lower Lavra.
In the Upper Lavra, which has most of the iconic places and locations, the recently re-established Orthodox Church of Ukraine, the de-facto successor of the old original Christian church of the Kyiv Rus, now has its divine service again.
This realistic watercolor painting depicts the world-famous Kyiv Pechersk Lavra of the early 1980s with exquisite detail of its architectural elements and religious atmosphere. Painted on paper, this original artwork is a timeless part of Kyiv’s history and urban cityscape.
The Dormition Cathedral in the Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra (Собор Успіння Пресвятої Богородиці Києво-Печерської лаври, originally built in the 11th century, destroyed in 1941, rebuilt in 2000) as seen and photographed by Theophan-o in 2013.
The ruins of the 11th century Dormition Cathedral of the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra, after being destroyed by the Soviets during the September 1941 Khreshchatyk explosions as part of their scorched-earth plan for Ukraine.
Cathedral of the Dormition - Kyiv Pechersk Lavra, Ukraine
The original main church of the Monastery of the Caves was built in the 11th century. It was completely destroyed during World War II, either by the advancing troops of Nazi Germany or the retreating Soviet troops, depending on who you believe. It was not rebuilt until 1995, after Ukraine obtained independence. The reconstruction was completed in two years.
The Dormition Cathedral of the Cave Monastery in Kyiv [Собор Успіння Пресвятої Богородиці Києво-Печерської лаври]. My own photograph taken in September 2013.
“doesn’t target civilians” they regularly torture and execute their own people, and that’s without accounting for the fact that they do, indeed, target civilians on purpose.
the Islamic Republic/IRGC murdered over 30,000 Iranians in January, and we must refuse to allow the world to forget that, no matter how misguided and badly handled/conducted the war has been, no matter how much we may individually oppose it, no matter how many criticisms we may have of the Israeli or US governments.
Reminder to donate to the candidates directly and not the party.
I’m glad they’ve removed him. But they should’ve done this as soon as it came out that he was a neonazi.
It’s more duplicitous than that. They removed his name and image because he’s affecting donations to the rest of the Senate candidates in the Flip the Senate Fund, but if you donate to that fund, your money will still probably be going to his race in Maine.
Before World War II, the town of Chmielnik, Poland’s population was about 80% Jewish — and after the Holocaust, only four Jews remained. Very few relics of the town’s Jewish population were known to have survived the war, including a synagogue, which now functions as a museum commemorating the town’s Jewish history. Now, another sacred site has been uncovered in a surprising location: the basement of an abandoned strip club. For decades, a mikveh, or Jewish ritual bath, sat hidden beneath the building in surprisingly good condition. Learn more about this stunning “time capsule” from pre-war times at the link in our profile.
this is all so goddamn unprecedented when you think of what conservatives have held against democratic presidents and politicians like wearing a tan suit or not wearing a suit but a military uniform and yet the east wing of the White House has been completely destroyed and we have the front of the White House holding a UFC fight sponsored by the PRESIDENTS CRYPTO COMPANY and nary a word the mainstream media does not see the corruption
He’s gonna die and I need to be alive when it happens
On March 1, a new Russian law came into effect targeting “propaganda of narcotic drugs, psychotropic substances, their analogues and precursors,” and psychoactive plants, particularly all public utterances judged to promote “tolerance toward” or the “attractiveness or necessity” of using these substances. Formally, the bill, which the Russian Duma passed back in 2024, amends existing regulation on narcotics. But hiding in the small print of the new law is an unprecedented attempt to rewrite the entire cultural history of post-Soviet Russia.
The most significant part of the amendment is the widely broadened scope: While the online promotion of drugs was previously restricted, the amendment retroactively subjects all “works of literature and arts” to a review for compliance. In other words, it affects anything in the entire post-Soviet archive of Russian print products, music, and film that could be vaguely interpreted as promoting drugs. Content deemed offensive under the new law must bear a special visible warning. Offenders face large fines and even prison time for repeat offenses.
Disguised as a routine legal measure protecting public health—who would be opposed to making drugs less attractive?—the new law will put an enormous burden on Russian songwriters, film producers, and writers, as well as on record labels, publishing houses, and online streaming platforms.
The new law follows a familiar pattern of Russian censorship, most notably the 2013 ban of “propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations,” which effectively outlawed any depiction of gay or lesbian life. Famously, a biography of gay Italian writer and film director Pier Paolo Pasolini is sold in Russian bookshops with whole pages blacked out, and much of the character arc of Vito Spatafore in The Sopranos has been altered or edited out on Amediateka, a popular Russian video streaming service.
The new law adds to the already sprawling minefield of restrictions that content creators and publishers in Russia must navigate, including restrictions on anything related to suicide, “childfree lifestyles,” onscreen smoking, criminal subculture, “extremist” content, anything that might be seen as “discrediting the armed forces,” and many other subjects that do not align with the ideological requirements of the Putin regime. What these prohibitions—some enshrined in law, others unwritten—have in common is that they are always vaguely defined, thus leaving creators unsure of what offends and what does not. What’s more, there is no one to tell you in advance: The responsibility for compliance is pushed onto media publications, book publishers, film distributors, and other platforms, creating a widespread culture of preemptive self-censorship. The law tasks the Russian Ministry of Digital Development and the Ministry of Culture with keeping lists of violators, while the Ministry of Internal Affairs can issue takedown orders based on vague criteria. There is no judicial review.
The anti-drug law retroactively applies to all content produced since Aug. 1, 1990. Note the date: That was the day the Soviet Union officially abolished censorship and disbanded Glavlit, the feared communist agency that could decide the fate of every cultural work. With its choice of date, the Putin regime makes an unmistakable statement: Effective immediately, a censorship-free period in Soviet and post-Soviet Russian history did not exist. The two eras are now seamlessly joined in the crushing of cultural expression, retroactively legitimizing the Soviet censorship apparatus. The burst of free, uncontrolled artistic expression in the 1990s is being expounded from the Russian cultural memory.
The editor of the literary magazine Yunost, Sergei Shargunov, described the situation in simple terms: “What I see can only be described as a witch hunt.”
The result, as one journalist toldForbes, is that “there will be two realities”: one version of every song, every book, every film that exists on legal Russian platforms and another version that will be preserved as pirated downloads or in private archives. The piracy that the Russian publishing industry spent two decades trying to suppress has become the only mechanism for Russians to maintain access to their own cultural history in its original form. The artifacts being preserved and shielded from government suppression include much of the popular culture long enjoyed by the Russian middle class, just as the Soviet samizdat (the underground publication network to evade the official censors) included not only highbrow forbidden literature like Gulag Archipelago but also smuggled yoga manuals, sewing patterns, and erotica.
Thirty-two years after the release of “Opium for Nobody,” band member Vadim Samoylov—who has spoken in favor of the Ukraine war and anti-LGBT laws, rationalized the song’s removal to a radio interviewer: “We will soon make some changes. Just cross out some words.” He said it without apparent distress, even adding that the law struck him as sensible. This must be how Soviet self-censorship worked too: Don’t offend the powers that be, just make sure you can get back to work. Meanwhile, the band’s audience is stocking up on old MP3 players and firing up Torrent clients to assemble a samizdat archive at the point in time when contemporary Russian culture splits in two: the raw and intact version that existed before March 1 and the sanitized version approved by the Kremlin.
Something unusual has entered the grammar of U.S. foreign policy. Under President Donald Trump’s second term, the language of strategy has given way to a heightened language of civilization: warnings of “civilizational erasure” in Europe, invocations of a “Judeo-Christian” heritage under siege, and threats to Iran destroy the Iranian civilization. This is not incidental rhetoric. It signals a deliberate turn toward what may be called imperial civilizationalism—the use of civilizational identity as an instrument of aggressive populist foreign policy.
The civilization-state concept has become one of the defining rhetorical tools of our era’s populist leaders. In the past decade, leaders in China, India, Russia, Turkey and elsewhere have turned to civilizational identity to construct national cohesion, assert cultural distinctiveness, and justify both domestic authority and foreign-policy ambition.
President Xi Jinping invokes the idea of China as the world’s oldest continuous civilization. During a visit the Forbidden City in 2017, Xi told Trump that although “Egypt is a bit more ancient,” China was “the only continuous civilization” of that age. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi draws on Hindu civilizational revival. President Vladimir Putin promotes a distinct Eurasian-Russian identity rooted in Orthodox Christianity. Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan reaches back to Ottoman and Islamic heritage. Each leader cherry-picks from a selective and internally contradictory historical archive to produce a usable, politically mobilizing myth of civilizational continuity.
Now Trump has joined them full scale. But Trump’s version differs in important respects. Where the others assert distinctiveness from the West, Trump claims to defend it. His 2017 speech in Warsaw, Poland, posed what he called the “fundamental question of our time,” which was “whether the West has the will to survive.” His administration’s 2025 National Security Strategy warned of “civilizational erasure” in Europe due to migration and the erosion of national identities, predicting that Europe risked becoming “unrecognizable in 20 years or less.”
Vice President J.D. Vance delivered the sharpest version of this argument at the 2025 Munich Security Conference, warning that the greatest threat to the Western civilization came “from within”—from European tolerance of immigration, retreat from religious orthodoxy, and restrictions on free speech. He later spoke explicitly of European “civilizational suicide.”
Some might argue that the United States under Trump does not fully qualify as a civilization-state in the sense that China, India, and Russia fit the designation. Those cases rest on claims of ancient, premodern civilizational continuity—a civilizational depth that predates and exceeds the nation-state itself. U.S. identity, by contrast, has historically been constructed around the nation-state exceptionalism, liberal universalism, civic rather than ethnic or civilizational foundations, with a record of absorbing immigrants more openly than most other Western settler states.
Yet Trump’s civilizationalism is more consequential, not least because it is backed by military, economic, and technological power that is yet to be surpassed by any other nation. It is not merely a defensive nationalism dressed in civilizational language.
The most important consequence of Trump’s imperial civilizationalism is the growing multiplexity in world order: not a simple multipolarity among a handful of great powers, but a more complex configuration in which middle powers, regional organizations, nonstate actors, and overlapping institutions each exercise meaningful agency in different domains.
If there is a silver lining in all this, it could be the end of the “West-versus-the rest” divide. Our ideas of the “West” and the “rest” are recently invented, reflecting an artificial divide that has caused much mistrust and conflict. Ending this divide would mean cooperation that cuts across the divide.
This is already materializing. The EU-India trade agreement—described as the “mother” of all trade deals by European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen—cuts across the West-rest divide. India is also rapidly expanding trade ties with the Association of Southeast Asian Nations, Japan, and the United Kingdom. The EU-Mercosur agreement created a 700 million-person market without U.S. participation. The Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership in the Asia-Pacific includes U.S. allies—Australia, Japan, and South Korea—without the United States. The yuan is gaining traction as an energy settlement currency, with Deutsche Bank describing the Iran conflict as a potential “catalyst for erosion in petrodollar dominance.”
These are not anti-American formations born out of a visceral dislike of the United States as a nation. They represent what I have previously called “world-minus-one” cooperation: consequential multilateral action that proceeds despite one power’s absence, with the door left open for future U.S. participation.
In some respects, it is reminiscent of ancient Rome. Rome in its imperial phase was indeed a “civilization-state” of sorts: a political entity that understood itself as the carrier of a superior civilization and whose expansion was justified in civilizational terms. Modern comparisons between the United States and Rome have long circulated in both popular and academic discourse. Trump’s rhetoric maps onto the late Roman pattern more than the early one—a civilization asserting its exceptionalism defensively, from a position of perceived decline rather than confident ascent.
The parallel is both revealing and disquieting: Some of the loudest assertions of civilizational legitimacy, in both republican and imperial Rome, occurred during a period of strife and decline, when the ruling elite resorted to populist civilizational rhetoric to hold onto power. In 284 A.D., for example, Emperor Diocletian assumed the position of a divinely sanctioned dictator, even requiring prostration by officials before him. The glorification of civilization with its pomp and rituals became necessary for the glorification of the ruler.
But the deeper point is that all civilization-state claims—U.S., Chinese, Indian, Russian—are myths in the analytical sense: politically constructed, historically selective, and internally contradictory. Civilizations are inherently diverse, hybrid, and contested. No living civilization has been ethnically or culturally pure. Chinese civilization absorbed Buddhist, Mongol, and Manchu influences. Indian civilization blended Austroasiatic, Harappan (Indus Valley), Jain, Buddhist, Indo-European, Persian, and Islamic elements, creating layers that sometimes sit uneasily beneath any unifying Hindu narrative. Russian civilization draws on Tatar, Byzantine, and European threads. The claim to a singular, defensible civilizational identity is, in each case, an instrument of power rather than a description of reality.
What Trump, Modi, Xi, Putin, and Erdogan share is not some real civilizational heritage, but a common political logic: the mobilization of cultural identity to deflect attention from institutional shortcomings, to consolidate domestic authority, and to assert distinctiveness in a multipolar world where the old ideological certainties of the Cold War no longer organize international competition.
The deeper paradox at the heart of Trump’s civilizationalism is that in claiming to defend Western civilization, he has done more to fracture the Western alliance than any external adversary. What has driven this rupture is not simply policy disagreement but also civilizational provocation. When Vance told European leaders that their greatest threat was internal—their own cultural permissiveness and humanitarian commitments—he was not negotiating with allies but lecturing them about their civilizational deficiency.
This is the inverted face of Trump’s civilizationalism: It claims to champion “the West” but defines it so narrowly and so aggressively that most actual Western nations fail to qualify.
“The West” as Trump and Vance deploy it is not the trans-Atlantic community of liberal democracies but a specific populist-nationalist cultural formation—Christian, ethnically defined, suspicious of pluralism—that excludes precisely the institutions and values—NATO’s mutual defense commitments, the European Union’s multilateral architecture, universal human rights—that gave the postwar West its operational content.
No episode has concentrated Trump’s civilizationalism more vividly than the military assault on Iran. U.S. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth framed the operation in explicitly theological terms, invoking “a direct through line from the Old and New Testament Christian gospels to the development of Western civilization.” Trump threatened to destroy Iran’s “whole civilization,” and return Iran to the “Stone Ages.” This is the most extreme expression of civilizational rhetoric in U.S. foreign-policy history.
The response from Europe was striking. France blocked Israeli planes from flying weapons through its airspace during the Iran war. Italy refused to give last-minute permission for U.S. bombers to land in Sicily. Spain denied the United States use of its bases and airspace. Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney’s January state visit to Beijing—after years of frozen Sino-Canadian relations—signaled that traditional U.S. allies will no longer subordinate their interests to Washington’s demands.
There is a further irony in the Trump administration’s civilizational framing of its attack on Iran. The administration violates every requirement of the Christian “just war” doctrine, as Pope Leo himself has clearly stated. The war did not have a “just cause”; there was no imminent Iranian threat to U.S. forces; and the conflict did not meet the “last resort” principle since negotiations were ongoing. What’s more, the declared goal of regime change and civilizational destruction cannot be reconciled with “proportionality” or the aim of restoring peace.
By Hegseth’s own theological standard, the assault on Iran fails the test of civilization that it claims to uphold. The civilizational language serves not as a moral framework but as a substitute for one—a way of elevating a war of choice into a crusade and concealing its absence of legitimate justification beneath the grandeur of millennial conflict.
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