«It was a Saturday morning…»

The markets were closed — as they always are when someone decides to pull the trigger. Coincidence? Almost never. The timing of a military strike is never accidental, and attacking on a weekend, when financial markets can’t react in real time, is one of the oldest tricks in the geopolitical playbook.

I had been waiting for this moment for months. And I want to be precise about that word: waiting. Not hoping. Not celebrating. Waiting — the way you wait for the inevitable, for something that was written long before the first missile left its launcher.

And yet, when it finally happened, something still surprised me. Not that it happened. But how fast it moved.

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“Finally” — And No, I’m Not a Warmonger

When I said finally, people pushed back. Hard.

So let me explain.

This is not about enthusiasm for destruction. It’s about recognising that what we witnessed was not the beginning of a conflict — it was closer to its final act. The opening shot of this broader confrontation was fired over four years ago, on February 24, 2022, when Russian helicopters crossed into Ukrainian territory heading south toward Kyiv.

Since then, the map of conflict has expanded — quietly, methodically — to Gaza, to Lebanon, to Venezuela. Each theatre different. Each narrative sold to the public as isolated, local, contained.

But here’s the question nobody seems to be asking: what if they’re not isolated at all?

What if we’ve been watching, for four years, a single war fought on multiple fronts — and we just didn’t have a wide enough frame to see it?

What Actually Happened Over Tehran

Let’s be concrete for a moment.

For weeks before the strikes, US naval and air assets had been quietly massing across the Middle East. Meanwhile, negotiations — the most hypocritical and theatrical negotiations in recent memory — continued in parallel. A performance designed not to succeed, but to demonstrate, on the record, that diplomacy had been attempted.

Then came the missiles.

Multiple cities and installations across Iranian territory were hit within hours. Including Tehran itself — the seat of power, the real target. Because in operations like this, the military objective is almost always the same: decapitate the leadership. It happened in Venezuela. Russia attempted it in the early days of Ukraine. And the declared goal of this campaign was precisely to neutralise the Ayatollah and the Iranian presidency.

Iran’s response was swift — and revealing.

Four Gulf nations were struck: Qatar, Kuwait, the UAE, and Bahrain. All of them home to critical American military infrastructure. And missiles were launched toward Israel, sending civilian populations underground as sirens wailed across the country.

But then something else happened. Something that, to me, said more than any official statement.

Drones Over Dubai — And What They Really Meant

A drone was filmed circling the Burj Khalifa.

The video went viral within hours. People were shocked. Dubai? Really?

I wasn’t shocked. I was reading it as a signal.

I was talking to a Turkish friend around that time. He was stunned — he couldn’t understand why anyone would send drones over one of the most visible, most photographed skylines on earth. I told him: “It’s a good sign. Trust me.”

Here’s why.

Rational geopolitical actors don’t play their best cards first. When you see a state resorting to gestures that are more symbolic than strategic — drones over luxury skyscrapers, strikes on tourist areas alongside military ones — it suggests that the better options are no longer available.

It reminded me of an army switching from tanks to motorcycles mid-battle. You don’t do that because motorcycles are better. You do it because the tanks are gone.

The drone over Dubai looked, to me, like a regime making last moves. Impulsive ones. Decisions taken not from a position of strength and calculation, but from something closer to panic.

And it was precisely in that context that the reports about Khamenei started to feel credible.

If the Head Falls First

At first, the news was dismissed as disinformation. Fake news. Propaganda.

But the behaviour on the ground told a different story.

If the US military did succeed in neutralising the Iranian leadership in the very first wave of strikes — and that remains an open question — it would mean they managed to eliminate everyone with real decision-making power within a matter of hours. That’s an extraordinary outcome if true. And it would explain a great deal: the erratic responses, the symbolic gestures, the absence of a coherent Iranian counter-strategy.

A system doesn’t start playing desperate cards if it still has good ones.

Will the war continue without Khamenei? Almost certainly yes. Power structures don’t evaporate overnight — especially ones that have survived four decades of sanctions, isolation, and internal repression. But a regime that has lost its head is not the same regime it was before. The question is no longer whether it will fall, but what it takes to finish the job.

And this is where most Western analysis gets it badly wrong.

Why the Missiles Will Not Be Enough

Let’s state it clearly: bombing a country is not the same as conquering it.

Look at Ukraine. Four years of continuous bombardment — drones, cruise missiles, glide bombs. The kind of firepower that should, theoretically, break a nation’s will. And yet the government in Kyiv is still there. The army is still fighting. The country has not collapsed.

Why?

Because destroying infrastructure is not the same as taking control of territory.

Syria is perhaps the clearest example. For years, the Assad regime survived wave after wave of strikes, pressure, and destabilisation attempts. It held on — until ground forces, specifically Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, began taking cities one by one, physically occupying space, replacing one power structure with another.

The same pattern played out in Libya. In Iraq. The script is always the same:

• Air power degrades. It destroys equipment, kills commanders, disrupts logistics.

• But air power alone does not govern. It cannot hold a street, replace a bureaucracy, or convince a population that the old order is gone.

To topple a regime, you need one of two things: boots on the ground — which in Iran’s case would be an extraordinarily costly and politically toxic undertaking — or a population ready to fill the vacuum left by the strikes.

Invading Iran? Practically speaking, it’s not on the table. The country is massive, the terrain is brutal, the human cost would be staggering, and the political blowback would be enormous.

So what does that leave?

The only real variable is internal collapse. The hope — and it is a hope, not a certainty — is that the chaos generated by the strikes opens cracks in the regime that ordinary Iranians can exploit. That the pressure from outside finally ignites what has been simmering inside for years: the discontent of a population that has endured decades of repression, economic misery, and isolation.

Until that happens, we will continue to count destroyed targets and eliminated generals.

Not fallen regimes.

The Real Reason Nobody’s Telling You About

Now. Why is all of this happening?

The official narrative is straightforward: Iran is developing nuclear weapons, and the United States and Israel are determined to prevent that. This is true. But it is also, in the grand scheme of things, almost irrelevant.

Nuclear weapons are an excellent public justification. They’re visceral, they’re frightening, they require no further explanation. They’re the kind of reason you give your population when you need their support for something far more complex.

So let’s go deeper.

Iran is not just a regional power with “nuclear ambitions”. It is — unofficially, but unmistakably — a node in a broader alliance system. A system aligned against the United States. And at the centre of that system sits a single actor: China.

Think about it this way. Italy is part of NATO. Iran is part of something structurally similar, just less formalised. It has supplied Russia with the drones that have struck Ukrainian cities. North Korea has provided troops and ammunition. Venezuela, until recently, offered another foothold for Chinese influence in the Western hemisphere.

These are not coincidences. They are pieces of a strategic architecture.

Over the past four years, the United States — working through proxies and allies — has been systematically dismantling that architecture, piece by piece:

• Russia is being bled dry in Ukraine, financed by European money and sustained by American weapons, draining its military capacity for a generation.

• Hamas and Hezbollah, Iran’s main regional proxies, have been severely degraded by Israel.

• Venezuela has been politically and economically neutered.

• Iran itself is now the target.

Each move serves the same ultimate purpose: to isolate China.

The logic is coldly simple. China is the only power capable of genuinely threatening American global primacy. A future conflict over Taiwan — whether hot or cold — will be determined not just by military hardware, but by alliances, by resources, by who stands with whom.

If China enters that confrontation surrounded by strong, resource-rich allies, the balance shifts. If it enters isolated — without Iran’s oil, without Russia’s arms industry at full capacity, without proxy networks across the Middle East — it enters weak.

And a weak adversary thinks twice before attacking Taiwan.

The Bigger Picture We Keep Missing

We’ve been watching this war wrong.

We’ve been tracking individual battles — Bakhmut, Rafah, Tehran — as if each one were its own story. As if the world were a collection of separate crises happening to coincide in the same news cycle.

But zoom out, and something different appears.

What we are watching is a single, sustained Western strategic effort to reshape the global balance of power before the defining confrontation of the century. Every conflict, every proxy, every proxy of a proxy, is a move on the same board.

Iran is not the endgame. It’s the second-to-last piece.

The endgame is much further east.

And until we understand that, we’ll keep being surprised — by missiles on a Saturday morning, by drones over Dubai, by regimes that fall faster than expected and others that refuse to fall at all.

The frame matters more than the headline.

It always has.

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It was 2002 when Danish soldiers first arrived in Afghanistan. A quiet deployment, far from the spotlight, yet one destined to leave a profound mark on Denmark’s recent history.

The year before, the United States had launched what we now remember as the American war in Afghanistan: a conflict that lasted twenty years and ended in 2021, under the Biden administration, in the worst possible way. The Western withdrawal paved the way for the Taliban’s return to power, handing the country back to the very force that the United States and its allies had spent two decades trying to defeat.

It was in this context that, in 2002, the Danish government chose to respond to the American request for assistance, sending its troops to the other side of the world. This decision was driven less by a desire to fight a distant enemy than by the intention to support a historic ally—one that, decades earlier, had played a decisive role in restoring Denmark’s freedom by defeating the Nazism that had engulfed the entire European continent.

Between 2002 and 2013, around 9,500 Danish soldiers were deployed to Afghanistan. Of these, 43 never returned home. A figure that may seem modest when viewed in isolation, but which takes on enormous weight when measured against the size of the country: Denmark has just under six million inhabitants. Proportionally, it was the country with the highest number of casualties per capita among the NATO allies involved in the Afghan conflict.

Behind those numbers lie 43 families who permanently lost a son, a parent, a sibling. Irreversible losses that cut deep into the social fabric of a country generally perceived as peaceful, stable, prosperous, and among the happiest in Europe.

Much of this prosperity was also made possible by the American protection from which Denmark, along with other European countries, benefited during the Cold War. Italy, West Germany, and many other nations built their stability in the shadow of that security guarantee.

For a significant segment of European public opinion, the United States is not merely a clumsy giant or the sensationalist statements of Donald Trump, nor is it defined solely by the shadows of Guantánamo’s torture practices or the embargo on Cuba. The United States has been—and in part remains—a protector: an older brother who guaranteed freedom, prosperity, and rights to a continent that, at several points in its history, risked losing them forever.

In this sense, the war in Afghanistan was not only a hunt for the Taliban. It was also a political and symbolic message: proof that Europe, when it chooses to act, shows up. Perhaps with limited resources, perhaps with inadequate means—but it shows up.

The highest price, as we have seen, was paid by the Danes. And it is Denmark that today, years after that conflict, once again finds itself at the center of a media storm of threats, statements, and potential negotiations. A heavy legacy, rooted in choices made more than twenty years ago.

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Greenland is a vast expanse of land and ice—much smaller than it appears on maps, yet still immense. A territory that formally belongs to the Kingdom of Denmark, often perceived as remote and marginal, and yet destined to play an increasingly central role in global power dynamics.

This seemingly desolate land lies close to the Arctic Circle, one of the most inhospitable regions in the world for human life. Ice has historically hindered both the development of many forms of life and the regular circulation of commercial shipping. But what for centuries was a constraint may soon turn into a strategic opportunity. Climate change, with the gradual melting of the ice, threatens to open up new maritime routes, enabling not only the passage of merchant vessels but also the projection of naval and military power into an area that has so far been shielded by its own natural hostility.

Let’s connect the dots.

February 24, 2022, marks a turning point. The first Russian helicopters cross into Ukraine, heading south toward Kyiv. From that moment on, the world embarks on a different trajectory. Less than four years later, at the beginning of 2026, the global landscape has changed profoundly compared to what it was before that February.

In those days, many would have bet on a swift Russian victory—I included. And yet, fewer than four years on, we are faced with a scenario that would have seemed unthinkable at the time: Assad’s Syria has collapsed, Iran is shaken by internal unrest and has lost its two main regional proxies, Russia has suffered enormous human losses, and even Venezuela—once considered a stable piece on the Chinese chessboard—now appears as a relic of the past, more symbolic than real.

In this context, a “threatened” Greenland is far more than a simple territorial claim by the hegemon of the moment. It is not an imperial whim or an isolated episode. Rather, it is yet another segment of a much broader structure: a strategic wall that the United States, in cooperation with its allies, is gradually building on a global scale.

A kind of new Maginot Line.

Donald Trump, now a seasoned political figure—strange as that may sound—is someone that those who have followed him closely over time have learned to read differently. His words are rarely accidental, his actions follow a precise logic, and, contrary to what is often believed, they are neither improvised nor driven by madness.

Over the past four years, significant steps have been taken to strengthen this anti-Chinese barrier, working on multiple levels and involving the entire American alliance system. On the front line are strategic partners such as Israel and Ukraine.

Today, a direct clash between Europeans and Americans would mean not only burning the progress built over this four-year period, but also undermining at its very foundation the relationship of trust forged in the aftermath of the Second World War. A bond that led countries like Denmark to intervene in Afghanistan not to fight a distant enemy, but to support an ally—a protector, a liberator.

The United States earned the consent of much of Europe not through cannons and bombardments, but by exporting freedom and rights. Not out of altruism, but to ensure a stable presence in a continent that, during the Cold War, was preparing to return to the center of the world.

A confrontation at this stage would not only weaken efforts to keep Ukraine as a free, Western outpost. It would also represent an enormous strategic gift to those countries that, precisely in these years, the West has helped—deliberately and with considerable skill—to weaken or bring down.

Everyone knows this: Europeans, Danes, Americans alike.

And that is precisely why the question becomes unavoidable.

So what is Trump’s real game?

Perhaps we will find out in forty years. For now, what I feel able to say is that we may be looking at the same pattern already seen with tariff policy. A now well-tested dynamic: a 10,000% tariff is proposed—deliberately provocative, almost grotesque—only to then negotiate it down to 15%. The final outcome is still an increase in tariffs, yet those who bear the cost end up almost grateful, convinced they have avoided the worst.

Applying the same logic, proposing the invasion of Greenland may not be a genuine objective, but rather a tool of pressure. A way to force Denmark and Europe to grant the United States greater freedom of action, without ever actually reaching open confrontation.

Another, equally plausible hypothesis is that threatening territories such as Greenland is meant to push Europeans to invest more resources in their own defense. In recent years, the United States has effectively delegated the management of the Iranian dossier to Israel and the Russian one to the Europeans—or, to be precise, to the Ukrainians, kept artificially afloat thanks to rivers of €uros. Fragrant, gleaming yellow or purple banknotes.

In the same way, threatening a highly strategic area could further encourage Europe to take responsibility for its own security and to strengthen its key outposts.

The pattern is already familiar. Threatening to leave NATO or to withdraw support for Ukraine has led many European countries to increase military spending. Within this logic, Greenland becomes another instrument of pressure, not a final objective.

Personally, I find it hard to believe in a violent military intervention in Greenland. Creating hostility between Europeans and Americans would probably be the one thing we need least. And, above all, the last thing that could benefit both continents.

The two systems are now so deeply interconnected that separating them and forcing them into conflict with one another would mark the beginning of the end: the end of the American pax, the end of U.S. hegemony, the end of the Western world as our grandparents built it and as we are living it today.

I consider an open clash between Europe and the United States highly unrealistic. Perhaps this is mere wishful thinking, but I cannot identify a single strategic or long-term advantage that would stem from dividing Western consciences, economies, and military structures.

In practical terms, Europe is an integral part of the American empire. To think of it as a truly autonomous entity today is a misleading simplification. The hegemon of the moment would have no interest in handing such a central continent over to Russia or China, nor in pushing Europeans—driven by resentment or a sense of betrayal—to move closer to Moscow or to forge even tighter ties with Beijing.

Even within an empire, no people remains loyal if it is not satisfied. The history of the Poles and Ukrainians under the USSR demonstrates this clearly, as does what is happening in Iran in these very days. The United States has governed and influenced Europe not through tanks and cannons, but through consent, commitment, and recognition.

I would like to conclude this article by urging readers not to be misled by sensationalist statements or bellicose slogans. At the same time, however, it is impossible to ignore a historical truth: no empire and no civilization has lasted forever. Every empire has made irrational and foolish choices that, in the long run, accelerated its decline.

As much as I hope this analysis is correct, the risk of finding ourselves faced with the greatest strategic gift to China does exist, however small it may be.

Only time will tell whether we were right or not.

Per aspera ad astra.

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A year ago, for the first time in my life, I bought a lottery ticket.

I’ve never been a gambler, and that was the only time I ever decided to try my luck.

I’m an adult, a university graduate, and I consider myself a rational person. I know perfectly well that the odds of winning are infinitesimal—that the house always wins.

And yet, that day I felt particularly happy for a personal reason, and that ticket displayed behind the counter seemed to be looking right at me.

“What if that’s the winning one?” I thought.

“Impossible,” my logical side replied.

But just a few moments later, when the clerk asked what I wanted to buy, I said:

“A pack of gum and… that lottery ticket, please.”

Of course, I didn’t win anything. But for the first time, I felt that thrill millions of people feel every day: the vertigo of gambling, the hope of defying the odds.

That feeling comes back to me now whenever I think about the war in Ukraine.

War as a gamble between powers

Roughly 1,350 days ago, two major powers decided to take a gamble:

on one side, Vladimir Putin’s Russia; on the other, Joe Biden’s United States and its Western allies.

It’s not fair to compare the two leaders to compulsive gamblers—just as I didn’t become an addict for buying a single ticket.

Still, there’s a point of contact: we all chose to take a risk, without truly knowing where that choice would lead us.

Nearly four years into the conflict, I’m no longer so sure that the United States and its allies are actually winning this bet.

Because—what has changed?

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A war many still fail to understand

Many still believe this is a war of territorial conquest.

It’s often repeated that Putin has lost his mind and decided to annex territory out of imperial ambition, while the West remains a passive observer—or at most, a collateral victim.

But that’s an overly simplistic view.

From the very beginning, Russia’s main goal wasn’t so much to seize Kyiv as to pull Ukraine out of the Western orbit, preventing its entry into NATO and the European Union.

Since 1991, more and more Eastern European countries have chosen to move closer to the West.

NATO has expanded eastward, and the European Union has integrated many of the nations that once lived beyond the Iron Curtain—reaching all the way to Russia’s borders.

Countries like Finland, Poland, and Romania leave no room for doubt: they are, and want to remain, Western nations—firmly anchored in NATO and far removed from Soviet or Russian influence.

For the Kremlin, Ukraine could not become yet another “traitor nation.”

Over the years, Ukrainians have repeatedly shown their willingness to follow the same path as others before them—a path that would take them away from Russia and closer to the West.

Russia could not allow that to happen.

Putin’s initial gamble: failed, but not lost

Putin’s original plan was straightforward: intimidate Zelensky, force him to flee, and install a pro-Russian puppet government.

The Russians attempted what Western powers had managed to do recently in Syria—advance steadily toward the capital, instilling fear until the leader finally fled.

The Turks, by supporting local militias, succeeded in that strategy.

Putin, with his army, failed to frighten Zelensky or to capture Kyiv.

That gamble went badly for him.

His lottery ticket turned out to be a losing one… just like mine.

Since then, the war has become a long and grinding stalemate.

The Russians have focused on the eastern part of the country, while Putin has told his people that “the inhabitants of Donbas must be liberated and the conquered territories secured.”

Russia now controls much of Donbas, yet it remains far from fulfilling the territorial promises made to its own public opinion.

As of today, about 6,000 square kilometers are still missing.

The West has seized on this stalemate to supply Kyiv—not so much to make it win, but to make Russia’s advance as costly as possible—a strategy similar to the “porcupine doctrine” adopted by Taiwan to deter a potential Chinese invasion.

The United States and its allies do not aim for Zelensky to win, but for him to survive long enough to exhaust Russia.

This strategy, often employed by visibly weaker nations, seeks to make any potential attack unbearably expensive—economically and in human lives.

If the Taiwanese use this approach as deterrence, the Ukrainians—already in the midst of conflict—use it to limit the damage, hoping that sooner or later Russia will run out of the resources needed to continue.

What does the west gain from all this?

If you’re wondering what purpose there is in exhausting and weakening Russia, the answer is quite simple.

Washington’s strategic goal is clear: to weaken Russia in order to isolate China.

Depriving Beijing of its main ally serves to limit its global influence.

The United States is pursuing this strategy not only with Russia, but also with Iran—this time not through Ukraine’s hand, but Israel’s.

Have you noticed?

While the Ukrainians wear down Russia, Israel wears down Iran.

And if Venezuela has been making headlines lately, that’s no coincidence either: that country belongs to the group of nations on which China relies—and we can no longer afford to let Beijing lean even on a rusted crutch.

But like every long-term strategy, this one comes with a cost, and it may not be sustainable forever.

How long can we in the West keep playing the game this way?

And above all, are we sure it’s even working?

As 2026 approaches, I must admit that my doubts are growing.

When the gamble begins to creak

Until recently, I was convinced that the Western strategy was working—

that Russia was paying an enormous price, both economic and human, one that would eventually lead to its collapse.

Today, however, I’m no longer so sure.

Russia shows no significant signs of breaking down.

Its economy has gradually adapted to a state of permanent war; unemployment is at historic lows, largely because the working-age population keeps shrinking.

Industrial production is growing—though almost entirely in the defense sector.

Inflation remains high, interest rates are exorbitant, yet the state machinery keeps running.

In Russia, it has become nearly impossible to borrow money—stifling any chance of entrepreneurship, and with it, innovation.

Moscow does not seem ready to accept its fate; on the contrary, it appears to have embraced it.

History offers no shortage of nations that refused to surrender, even when defeat was inevitable.

One need only think of Hitler’s Germany, which chose to endure forty years of occupation and division rather than negotiate with its enemies.

And from Germany, we can draw another lesson.

During World War I, Germany seemed unstoppable—strong, organized, disciplined. Yet within a matter of weeks, that immense military and political apparatus collapsed in on itself, like a sheet of glass suddenly shattering.

Glass, after all, doesn’t bend gradually: it holds, it holds, and then it breaks all at once.

In a remarkably short time, Germany lost World War I—even though, only months earlier, nothing had seemed definitively lost.

Perhaps Putin’s Russia finds itself in a similar position today.

Under pressure, it holds out—hoping that it will be the other side, the West, that breaks first.

But if the tension keeps rising, it’s possible that, just as happened to Germany a century ago, the “crack” will come suddenly—when no one expects it.

Or perhaps that crack will come from Ukraine—or worse, from us.

Today, Russia is no longer fighting against Ukraine alone.

Russia is fighting the West, in Ukraine. The Ukrainians are the instrument, the blood, and the will.

Their dream of following the same path as the Estonians or Lithuanians is leading them, inexorably, to live through what may one day be remembered as the Ukrainian War of Independence.

Russia that doesn’t collapse: resilience or denial of reality?

Russian factories now operate around the clock, even as the working-age population continues to shrink.

Yet, the Kremlin keeps projecting an image of stability, as if nothing could shake its internal order.

Propaganda does the rest: it builds a narrative of strength, endurance, and normalcy—one capable of sustaining public support despite fatigue and sanctions.

Perhaps the economic and social situation is far worse than it appears. Or perhaps it is the West that has overestimated its ability to wear the enemy down.

Just as I did with that lottery ticket, the United States and its allies may soon discover that their “winning hand” was never really a winning one.

As much as I’d like to believe that Western intelligence is the best in the world, no apparatus can predict the outcome of a war with precision—especially one that drags on for three, four, or five years.

The war in Ukraine was desired, perhaps provoked, and certainly exploited to our advantage—at least since the conflict shifted to the Donbas.

No American official—not even the most clear-sighted or well-informed—could have foreseen the situation we face today.

The variables were, and still are, too many.

And this, rather than a coldly calculated strategy, is simply a gamble.

A situation so advantageous that not even the most optimistic general could have dreamed of it.

The gamble continues—at least for now

It’s been about 1,350 days, and Russia has not collapsed.

1,350 days in which Ukrainians and Russians continue to die.

1,350 days in which drones keep taking lives, like in the most disturbing episode of Black Mirror.

After all this time, Ukraine still resists, but Moscow has not yielded either.

This is not a war that will produce a winner and a loser, but rather a loser—and an even greater loser.

For now, the only ones who might be gaining from this situation are we, citizens of the Western world, watching from afar—protected, or perhaps numbed, by our borders.

As at any gambling table, everyone keeps raising the stakes, convinced the other side is bluffing more.

But the danger, as always, is that the true loser is not the one who bets too much—but the one who no longer knows how to stop playing.

And as time passes, we wait to see whether we will truly manage to bend Russia, to cripple it just enough to make it useless as an ally for China.

In the meantime, I keep writing.

I do it driven by a desire for truth, and by love for a way of life built on freedom of thought and expression.

And now that this sentence has probably made some of you uneasy, I invite you to read more about me: only then will you understand that this line is neither propaganda nor political paradox.

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Per aspera ad astra.

About fifteen days ago, a new Ukrainian weapon was presented — more or less officially: a cruise missile — or perhaps a drone, as we’ll see later — with characteristics that calling them “astonishing” would be an understatement.

We know its dimensions, weight, explosive payload, and range. Not only that: photographic and video evidence shows the vehicle in action, as well as the factory where it was allegedly produced. Or perhaps, more accurately, assembled.

Ukrainian authorities have claimed they intend to produce several units per day. Mind-boggling numbers for a weapon that already has seemingly science-fiction capabilities. But does it really add up?

I chose to wait two weeks before discussing it. Why? Because I wanted to look past the announcement, dig into the contradictions, and observe international reactions. Here’s a heads-up: nothing is as it seems.

From the very first days, it was noticeable how shamelessly this missile echoes the infamous Nazi V1. But there’s more: the design appears almost identical, in shape, technical features, and even in name, to a system developed by a well-known defense company specializing in drones. Coincidence?

According to some sources, the British reportedly contributed significantly to its development. Yet the official narrative claims the device is entirely Ukrainian.

Now, let’s think this through: what would you say if I told you that a cruise missile capable of carrying 1,000 kilograms of explosives over 3,000 kilometers is not in the arsenals of either the United States or Russia? What if I told you that Kyiv claims to have developed a weapon that even America — one of the most technologically advanced countries in the world — does not possess? Would you really believe it?

So what is true? Am I right to be skeptical, or am I just a catastrophist?

After fifteen days of waiting, today I want to clarify and explain why this device — the so-called Flamingo — in my view, may not be a cruise missile at all, but rather a mass distraction weapon.

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A Brief Technical Explanation

Let’s start with what we already know. In recent days, this new missile has been discussed everywhere, and if you’ve been following the story, you probably know some of its main characteristics.

The Flamingo has been presented as a cruise missile. But what does that actually mean?

Cruise missiles are a specific type of weapon that should be distinguished from ballistic missiles. Before diving deeper, however, it’s useful to clarify a fundamental point: what is the difference between a rocket and a missile?

A rocket, in its essence, works similarly to a cannonball. Once launched, it cannot change its trajectory: it lacks guidance systems or movable fins. This means the target must be defined with precision at the moment of launch, just as was the case centuries ago with traditional artillery.

Missiles, on the other hand, are equipped with guidance systems — for example, GPS — and fins that allow course corrections in flight, much like airplanes do. This is not a minor detail: this capability makes them vastly more precise and effective. Notably, in the videos released so far, the Flamingo appears to be equipped with these movable fins.

Now we arrive at the crucial point: what is the difference between a ballistic missile and a cruise missile?

This distinction is decisive because it concerns not only the trajectories but also — and above all — the strategic purposes for which the two types of missiles are employed.

Ballistic missiles, as the name suggests, follow a ballistic trajectory, meaning a path that closely resembles that of a cannonball. Imagine a dome that rises, reaches its apex, and then falls toward the target: this is the underlying logic of their operation.

As we can see from this image, the blue line represents the trajectory of a ballistic missile, while the red line depicts the trajectory of a cruise missile.

Cruise missiles tend to follow the contours of the terrain, remaining within the atmosphere. Ballistic missiles, on the other hand, exit the Earth’s atmosphere and spend most of their “journey” in space.

These two types of missiles come with different advantages and disadvantages and must be employed strategically depending on the objectives to be achieved.

But what are the most significant operational differences?

If the target is at a long distance, the ballistic missile becomes the preferred choice. This is because, in space, the absence of air eliminates aerodynamic resistance, drastically reducing fuel consumption and allowing the missile to cover enormous distances.

Conversely, to strike closer targets, a cruise missile proves far more effective: flying at low altitude and following the terrain, it is less visible to enemy radar and thus has a higher chance of reaching the target without being intercepted.

Isn’t it fascinating to note that the choice of weapon doesn’t depend solely on power, but on a sophisticated calculation of distance, context, and strategic objectives?

Characteristics of the Flamingo:

I hope the previous explanation wasn’t too technical, because it will now be extremely useful in understanding the absurd characteristics of the Flamingo.

As we know, this missile is a true colossus: about 13 meters long, weighing 6,000 kilograms, and reportedly capable of carrying over 1,100 kg of explosives up to 3,000 kilometers. Impressive numbers — at least on paper.

Let’s compare it with one of the most advanced and feared missiles in the world: the American Tomahawk. The Tomahawk weighs around 1,600 kg, carries a 450 kg warhead, and has a range of 1,600 km.

Do you see the disproportion? The Tomahawk weighs almost four times less, yet its explosive capacity is less than half, while its range is about half that of the Flamingo. How is that possible? Would the Americans — pioneers of missile technology — really have overlooked such potential?

The answer is clear: it’s not incompetence, but logic. Cruise missiles, after all, fly entirely within the atmosphere and must constantly overcome air resistance. This leads to enormous fuel consumption: the farther they need to go, the more fuel is required. More fuel means gigantic tanks, which in turn means larger and heavier missiles.

This is why the Flamingo is so massive: it is nothing more than the direct consequence of a questionable design choice.

The United States doesn’t have a cruise missile with such characteristics for a very simple reason: it wouldn’t make sense to use one. For distances of 3,000 km, it is far more rational to employ a ballistic missile, which is lighter, more efficient, and already proven.

So, the real question is: why would Ukraine develop a device so disproportionate, when better and widely available alternatives already exist?

Commentary and Inconsistencies of the Flamingo:

There are many things about the Flamingo that don’t add up. But the most striking issue, as anticipated, concerns the role it is supposedly meant to play — a task that, by definition, is not suited for cruise missiles.

Attention: this doesn’t mean it’s physically impossible to build such a device. It’s entirely plausible that the Ukrainians have indeed developed a missile with these characteristics. What doesn’t hold up, however, is the economic sustainability.

A cruise missile of this size and capability would be incredibly expensive to produce, especially for a country with a weakened economy, battered by years of war. Making the story even harder to believe is the declared figure: Kyiv reportedly aims to produce around seven units per day before winter. Given the costs, this goal sounds more like science fiction than reality.

I certainly don’t claim to have the ultimate truth, nor do I want to arrogantly assert that the Flamingo doesn’t exist. But I think it’s legitimate to ask questions, analyze the data, and reflect together on what might really be behind this story.

Here are some possible considerations:

1. The Ukrainians, lacking the technology to build ballistic missiles today, may have opted for a cruise missile, even though it is unsuitable as a long-range weapon.

2. It’s possible they have indeed built such a device, but cannot sustain mass production due to exorbitant costs.

3. The data on range and payload might be misleading or contradictory: the Flamingo may reach 3,000 km, but not while carrying 1,100 kg of explosives; or it can carry that payload, but not over that distance.

4. Mass production could exist, but only by scaling down the specifications: shorter range and smaller payload, reducing engine costs and lowering the unit price.

In short, however you look at it, the blanket is too short: somewhere, a lie must have been told.

It is impossible for the Ukrainians to produce, on an industrial scale, an extremely expensive weapon that travels extremely far and carries such a massive payload.

Yes, and what next? Does it go to the moon? Make your coffee in the morning? Drive the kids to school?

An interesting detail comes from one of the most famous videos depicting the Flamingo. In those images, the missile is compared to a Shahed, the Iranian drone widely used by the Russian army. But drones and cruise missiles only have one thing in common: low-altitude flight. Can we really consider this comparison sensible?

If that were the case, the Flamingo should be interpreted not as a strategic long-range weapon, but as an advanced drone: useful for striking nearby targets, with reduced explosive loads, lower costs, and more realistic mass production.

Ultimately, today there is only one certainty: we have many questions, but no clear answers yet.

What if the Ukrainians… Are Playing Us?

At this point, the real question is no longer whether the Flamingo truly exists in the miraculous form we are told about, but why this narrative exists. Why would a country devastated by war, with limited resources and constant reliance on external aid, invest energy, time, and money in a weapon so disproportionate, so inefficient, and ultimately, so unbelievable?

Perhaps the secret isn’t in the missile itself, but in the story being built around it. It wouldn’t be the first time that propaganda is used as a weapon in a conflict. Creating the myth of a revolutionary device captures the world’s attention, sparks debates, and fuels expectations. Meanwhile, what happens behind the scenes?

Imagine analysts, journalists, governments, and the public focused on the Flamingo, calculating weights, measurements, and range. Everyone absorbed in dismantling or defending numbers that may not even exist, while elsewhere — away from the spotlight — something much bigger could be taking shape, something that must remain unseen. A strategy, a technology, a plan hidden precisely because the Flamingo distracts us.

And what if this is the real weapon? Not the missile itself, but its legend. A psychological weapon, a smokescreen that leaves no craters, but diverts attention, shifts focus, and changes the debate. Isn’t it ironic? The most talked-about device of the moment might never explode, yet its purpose would already be fulfilled: keeping us occupied elsewhere.

So let’s think carefully: those who support Ukraine should be the first to talk about the Flamingo, to share its images, to praise it, to turn it into continuous news. Because the more it’s discussed, the more perfect it becomes as a screen hiding what really matters.

The conclusion is unsettling: the Flamingo may not be a weapon of war, but a weapon of mass distraction. And if that’s the case, the real question is no longer “how much explosive does it carry?” or “what distance can it cover?” but rather: while we are watching the Flamingo, what is happening in the shadows?

And perhaps, right there, far from cameras and headlines, the decisive move is being prepared.

Remember the advance in Kursk last summer? That happened in silence; there can be no warning. If you have an ace up your sleeve, you don’t broadcast it to the world. If you have a miraculous weapon like the Flamingo, you keep it to yourself and use it quietly, without much fanfare.

In any case, regardless of the truth, I hope this Flamingo works — whether to explode or to distract — and I hope the Ukrainians can make the most of it.

Stay alert, don’t get carried away by euphoria.

Per aspera ad astra.

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Have we ever stopped to ask ourselves what we’re really watching when we follow the latest headlines from the front every single day? The advances in Kursk, the breakthrough above Pokrovsk, the so-called Ukrainian flamingo, Operation Spiderweb. Headlines designed to grab attention, no doubt. But are we sure they actually help us understand?

Chasing details, year after year, we’ve lost sight of what truly matters: the bigger picture.

Isn’t that the case?

Just go back a few years and it becomes obvious. A few months after the war began, the media obsession was Bakhmut: months and months of debate focused on a pile of rubble that used to be a city. But while we were busy arguing about that, what was really happening behind the scenes?

Don’t we see the danger here? By fixating on marginal events, we risk losing our ability to connect the dots. And without connections, without a comprehensive design, what’s left is not clarity and understanding—but just noise.

And yet, if we listen closely, something significant has already happened: Putin stopped talking about Kyiv almost immediately. Today, it’s only about Donbas.

How many of us noticed that? How many asked why?

Simple questions, maybe even trivial—but fundamental. Because forgetting the big picture means abandoning strategic thinking. It means letting ourselves be dragged along by crumbs of information handed to us, instead of searching for the signal.

So let’s go back to the key question: how do we distinguish signal from noise? Can we really make sense of events without building a framework to interpret them?

Let’s take a concrete example: the summit in Alaska between Trump and Putin.

• What was its real purpose?

• Was it just a show, or did it serve a precise strategic goal?

• Why did the conquest of Kyiv disappear from the Russian narrative, while Donbas remained the core of the discourse?

If we don’t ask these questions, if we don’t learn to zoom out and look at the whole chessboard, we’ll keep chasing headlines without ever understanding the game.

That’s why today we’re taking a hundred steps back. Not to drift away, but to see more clearly. It’s like using Google Maps when planning a trip: at first, you get a general overview, then you zoom in on every single exit. Right now, we’re just following turn-by-turn directions. But after three and a half years of war, we’ve forgotten both where we started and where we’re headed. These turns are now out of context, and we no longer understand their purpose.

Only with a broad vision can we reconnect the dots, read events for what they really are, and build a solid network of understanding—instead of settling for the crumbs scattered across the airwaves and the headlines.

By the end of this article, you’ll be better equipped than ever to interpret information and connect it all together.

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U.S. Strategy: Containing China, Expanding the West

In his first eight months at the White House, President Trump tried to play the role of the peacemaker, presenting himself as the man capable of launching a dialogue process between Ukraine and Russia. But was that ever really possible?

Let’s not forget that Donald Trump spent years working in the world of advertising. His flair for drama, his instinct for showmanship, make him a seasoned performer. But international politics is not a stage: in reality, the U.S. acts very differently.

And here’s the point: the United States is an integral part of this conflict—perhaps even more so than the Ukrainians themselves. Washington has financed, and continues to finance, Kyiv, providing economic, political, and military support. Can we seriously believe that the party supplying arms to one side can, at the same time, present itself as the mediator?

So why do they do it? What is the United States’ real interest in Ukraine? Why spend billions to keep it alive and sustain it?

The answer is not to be found in Kyiv, but much farther east. For years—probably since the Obama era, if not earlier—the United States has been preparing for what many analysts now consider inevitable: a major confrontation with China.

The Island Chain: A Maritime Trench

How is Washington preparing for this potential war?

American moves are visible to all—if you know how to read them. A striking example is the maintenance and strengthening of the so-called “island chain” surrounding China, preventing it from freely projecting its military power across the Pacific.

Through a dense network of alliances—with the Philippines, Japan, Taiwan, and many other regional actors—the United States has built a kind of maritime trench. A defensive line composed of archipelagos, military bases, and strategic agreements, designed to physically block China’s naval ambitions.

This is not a new strategy; it has been employed throughout human history. History teaches us that whoever controls the seas controls the world. The Romans, by dominating the Mediterranean, built an empire. Centuries later, the British Empire, master of the oceans, became the undisputed global power.

The Chinese have not forgotten the Opium Wars, British domination, and the humiliation inflicted by foreign powers. These remain open wounds in Beijing’s historical memory.

Controlling the sea is essential.

Today, however, it is the United States that exercises near-total control over the oceans: monitoring straits, controlling chokepoints, and maintaining strategic bases across every corner of the globe.

Isn’t this perhaps the real key to understanding their involvement in Ukraine?

AUKUS

AUKUS—an acronym for Australia, United Kingdom, and United States—is officially presented as a military alliance “aimed at promoting a free, secure, and stable Indo-Pacific.” A polished definition, no doubt.

But is there more? Yes.

If we strip away the niceties, it’s clear that this is an agreement born with a precise objective: to contain China within its own sphere of influence.

Australia, which until a few years ago was not considered a major player on the global military stage, now sits at the heart of the U.S. strategy thanks to AUKUS. Washington provides it with advanced technologies, including nuclear-powered submarines: essential tools for patrolling the vast Indo-Pacific Ocean and limiting the maneuvering capabilities of the Chinese navy.

And that’s not all. Just look at Washington’s moves over the past few years: tariffs imposed on Beijing, bans on exporting sensitive technologies, and a renewed arms race. Isn’t it telling that just two years ago the B-21, the bomber designed to replace the B-2 and specifically intended for high-intensity conflicts, was unveiled?

The United States is preparing, and they’re not even hiding it. In getting ready for a confrontation with China, they are not merely reshaping and reinforcing classic alliances—they are doing so in a more eastern, less European orientation, because the formidable adversary is no longer the Soviet Union, but Communist China.

Strengthening Their Own Alliances and Weakening Others’

If it is true that the United States is preparing for a confrontation with China by reinforcing its own alliances—think of the “island chain” or the AUKUS agreement—it is equally true that they can prepare for this conflict by working in the opposite direction: weakening China’s relationships with its strategic partners.

And this is where things get truly interesting.

Unlike Washington, China does not have a network of historical, deep-rooted, and structured alliances. It cannot boast anything comparable to the long-standing ties linking the United States to the United Kingdom, Canada, Europe, Japan, or South Korea. So, who can Beijing count on?

The answer is simple: on very few, very limited “friends”—or perhaps better described as convenience allies.

In recent years, there has often been talk of a sort of silent, informal, yet recognizable bloc known as CRINK:

• China

• Russia

• Iran

• North Korea

These are the only partners China can realistically trust—at least to a certain extent. Three regimes that share with Beijing temporary interests, rivalries with the West, and a common opposition to American hegemony. But can they truly be considered solid allies?

This is why it seems almost inevitable that Washington will do everything it can to undermine this fragile axis. With what tools? All of them: military, economic, diplomatic.

The question we should ask ourselves is:

Is this alliance holding? Are Ukrainian pressures on Russia and Israeli pressures on Iran yielding any results?

Ukraine, Russia, and the Alaska Meeting

If the United States truly wants to contain China, then strengthening its own alliances while simultaneously weakening Beijing’s becomes a strategically desirable objective. It is within this framework, in my view, that we must place the events unfolding in Ukraine—stripped of the camera-friendly show that constitutes noise, not signal.

Since 1945, Washington has never stopped expanding its network of alliances. Every new member, every new accession, is simply another piece in a strategy founded on a clear principle: the more friends you have, the greater your deterrence. Who would dare openly challenge such a vast bloc? Within it, you dominate your allies or vassals and dissuade others from initiating conflict.

In my opinion, this is precisely the logic that, year after year, has driven the European Union—and especially NATO—to expand eastward.

In Europe, the declared objective has always been Moscow. During the Cold War, the USSR was the primary enemy. Today, Russia has become a secondary target: an indirect one. Striking Moscow primarily serves to send a message to Beijing: “You are alone, I am weakening your friends. Don’t make a mistake—it’s not in your interest.”

It is no coincidence that when NATO tried to include countries such as Georgia and Ukraine, Moscow reacted forcefully: invading Georgia in 2008, occupying Crimea in 2014, and launching a large-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022. The goal was to wrest Ukraine from American influence by changing the regime in Kyiv. When that attempt failed, Russia turned its focus to the war in Donbas.

The likely idea was to start by retaking Kyiv, and then, after terrifying half of Europe with a blitzkrieg, bring the Baltic republics back into its orbit, limiting American influence.

Yet, ironically, Russian attempts to break the American grip on Europe have had the opposite effect: they ended up strengthening it. Today, the United States controls Eastern Europe with an even firmer grip, while Russia is bogged down in a conflict that drains manpower, resources, and international legitimacy.

So, what options remain open to Moscow? In my view, only two:

1. Capture all of Donbas and declare victory—mutilated, certainly, but still a victory.

2. Concede something to the Americans in exchange for reduced support to Kyiv, thereby ending the conflict more quickly, claiming victory, and limiting damage.

The problem? Every option appears risky. The Alaska meeting very likely served this purpose as well: to probe the terrain. To understand what the Americans really want in order to relinquish Kyiv and leave the Russians a free hand in Donbas.

But what could the United States demand in return? Money? Territory? Influence in Europe? Too little.

The truth, if you’ve followed the line of reasoning, is that Washington may only want one thing: to force Moscow to abandon Beijing and turn into an American ally.

An ally, yes… but with a gun to its head. An ally who, at the first mistake, would be thrown back into chaos by new border conflicts: perhaps in Finland, Romania, or Poland. Flooded with sanctions and turned into a European North Korea. A place where even electricity is scarce, and in the past people literally starved.

So let us ask: can the Russians really afford such a leap into the void?

My opinion is no—they cannot.

Ukraine and Israel: Different Wars, Same Enemy

Do you know why I’m convinced that this is the correct framework to use for understanding the war in Ukraine and distinguishing signal from noise? Because the U.S. is not only weakening Russia, but also another key Chinese ally: Iran.

The weakening of Russia by Ukrainian forces is not so different from what is happening in the Middle East. The dynamics are similar, almost mirrored: on one side, Iran, China’s ally; on the other, Israel, a strategic partner of the United States, tasked with wearing down Iran’s strength and limiting its influence.

Notice the similarity? In Ukraine as in Gaza—from Avdiivka to Bakhmut, from Khan Yunis to Rafah—what happens on the ground is not just a local war, but part of a broader strategy. Ukraine and Israel, two different actors in different contexts, are pursuing the same goal: to fracture China’s network of friends, weaken Russia and Iran, and thus leave China more isolated.

Atop this large strategic pie sits the cherry: Syria, no longer in the hands of Assad—ally of Iran and Russia—but controlled by a shady figure who nonetheless strikes deals with the U.S. and Saudi Arabia.

And what is the message intended for Xi Jinping? Simple: your allies are fragile, not strong enough, not reliable enough. And if they fall one by one, you remain alone.

Is it really worth risking a global war under these conditions?

Wars, after all, almost always break out because one side believes it is stronger than the other. It worked this way in schoolyard fights, and it works the same way among nations.

So how do you prevent a war? With only two moves: become stronger than the threat… or make the threat weaker.

And that is exactly what the United States is doing: on one hand, forging new alliances like AUKUS and consolidating control over the island chains that block China; on the other hand, through Ukraine and Israel, wearing down Russia and Iran, hollowing out Beijing’s relationships with its most inconvenient partners.

At this point, the picture becomes clear. It’s no longer just about Donbas or Gaza, not even just about Moscow or Tehran. The stakes are much higher: preparing for the true confrontation of the century, the one with China.

And so the final question is inevitable: how many of these “local” wars are we willing to watch without realizing that they are actually part of a global game?

And most importantly: when China realizes it is left alone, will it truly choose to back down… or will that be the moment it decides to risk everything?

Per aspera ad astra.

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No noise, no fanfare—just footage quietly rolling by, showing all—or maybe only some—of the strikes carried out on June 1st against Russian military airfields.

Over the past few days, I was among those reporting around ten aircraft destroyed.

A cautious estimate, based on what we could actually verify.

The Ukrainians, on the other hand, were claiming forty aircraft hit.

But without proof, it was hard to believe.

Propaganda?

Now, with this video, the picture shifts.

We now know that at least twenty aircraft were attacked.

Is that the final count? Or are there more clips yet to be released?

But perhaps the most intriguing part isn’t that ten confirmed hits are now joined by ten more.

The key detail lies elsewhere.

A subtle moment, easy to miss—but potentially huge in its implications: the video shows two A-50s being targeted.

Two A-50s: strategic aircraft, the electronic eyes in the sky, a rare and hard-to-replace asset for the Russian Air Force.

Were they actually destroyed?

And if so, were they in service—or were they just husks? Aircraft the Russians weren’t even using anymore?

Is this truly a major blow for Moscow?

A lot of questions remain unanswered.

And there are some key points to reflect on.

Before diving into the details, let’s watch the video.

What you’re about to see isn’t just a flashy edit—it’s a high-stakes, five-minute sequence of 22 separate strikes on aircraft.

Each clip is a fragment of war, recorded through the very eyes of kamikaze drones, flying straight toward Russian bombers right up to the fatal moment of impact.

But don’t expect classic action footage.

The explosion ends the broadcast abruptly, leaving us with a haunting question:

Did the hit land?

To find out, the real-time video isn’t enough.

You have to wait—sometimes for hours, sometimes days—until high-resolution satellite images finally reveal the true outcome of the strike.

Here they are. Twenty-two steel silhouettes gone up in smoke.

In the image above, you can count them one by one:

• 7 Tu-95

• 12 Tu-22M3

• 2 A-50

• 1 An-12

• 1 Il-78M

A massive haul—at least on paper.

But how much is this strike really worth?

That’s where things get interesting.

In my last article, I analyzed the first 10 confirmed aircraft.

Today, I want to go further and tackle a question no one seems to have the guts to ask:

What if these $7 billion worth of "damaged assets" are just an illusion?

I keep hearing it repeated everywhere as if it were gospel: “$7 billion in damage to the Russian Air Force.”

And yet no one bothers to ask what kind of aircraft were hit.

Were they operational? Flight-ready?

Or were they just parked wrecks, abandoned for months, useful only for scavenging spare parts?

Because yes, here’s a detail many overlook—or pretend not to see:

Russia keeps dozens of bombers sitting in its military airfields like museum pieces, often grounded, sometimes partially dismantled, just waiting to be cannibalized to breathe new life into other aircraft.

So the question is legitimate:

How many of these 22 were actually ready to take off?

How many were actively bombing Ukraine?

The truth is, we don’t know. Not yet.

But that doesn’t mean the strike was pointless—far from it.

Even if they were nothing but scrap metal, the embarrassment is massive.

Russia got hit at home, with surgical precision, by drones that made it exactly where no one was ever supposed to get.

It’s a slap in the face.

A humiliation.

A deep crack in the narrative of invincibility the Kremlin so desperately tries to maintain.

But... there’s a but.

If those bombers were in fact active, if they were exactly the ones dropping death over Ukraine… then we’re looking at a military earthquake.

A sharp blow to the heart of Russia’s strategy.

A message as clear as it gets:

No aircraft is safe anymore. Not even your favorite one, Vladimir.

And now let’s move on to another target: the A-50s.

Let’s talk about it—the most talked-about aircraft of the moment: the A-50.

It has an almost alien look—bulky, with a massive radar dome on its back that makes it look like it came straight out of a Soviet sci-fi movie.

But don’t be fooled by the weird appearance: this plane is the flying brain of the Russian Air Force.

To be clear: the A-50 is the radar that sees everything.

It tells other planes where to go, who to strike, when to dodge.

It’s the eye in the sky of the Russian Federation.

It can detect aerial movements hundreds of kilometers away and, most importantly, it warns of incoming threats before they arrive.

For Moscow, it’s not just useful—it’s vital.

And here comes the twist.

The video released today by the SBU (Ukraine’s Security Service) shows something staggering: two A-50s hit.

Now let’s do some math together.

How many A-50s does Russia have?

Simple question, much trickier answer.

Short version: We don’t know.

Long version: Before the invasion of Ukraine, it was estimated that Moscow had around 10 A-50s.

Out of those, at least 3 were already out of service—parked, maybe beyond repair.

That would leave 7.

Here’s what happened to 2 of those 7:

• January 14, 2024 — A-50U shot down over the Sea of Azov

• February 23, 2024 — A-50U shot down in the Krasnodar region

Result: we’re down to 5 left.

But to be generous, let’s round it up to 6—maybe they dragged another one out of a hangar and patched it up as best they could.

Now pay attention: if satellite images confirm that the two A-50s shown in the video were indeed destroyed on June 1st,

Russia could be left with only 4 operational A-50s.

Possibly 5, if they pull off a miracle.

A loss they simply can’t afford.

Not when your entire air defense system—from missiles to interceptors—relies on them.

So that’s it, right?

Time to congratulate the Ukrainians!

Well… not quite.

Because there’s one small detail that complicates everything:

we don’t know if the two A-50s hit were among the five operational ones—or among the three (or more) that were already out of commission.

That’s the riddle.

So how do we solve it?

One possible way is to check how long those two aircraft had been parked on the tarmac.

If they’d been sitting there for months, lifeless, maybe they were already dead.

But if they were active, in rotation,

then yes—Russia may have just lost the last “eyes” it had left.

There they are — the two A-50s, photographed on May 3rd, 2025. About a month before the attack.

We can clearly see them parked on the runway, but there’s a problem: I can’t find any reliable earlier images that confirm they were there before that date.

And more importantly, we have no evidence that either of them ever took off during that month.

If any of you have information, tips, or better sources: drop it in the comments.

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Now let’s get to a detail that — surprisingly — many seem to have missed.

Take a close look at the two radar domes.

Notice anything odd?

Both show a lighter stripe down the center, while the edges appear dark, dirty,

Cluttered.

I’m also including an archival image of an A-50 shot from above, just for comparison.

That aircraft is black, with two stars on its wings, but — and this is key — its dome isn’t dirty.

It’s clean, uniform, well maintained.

And this raises a question as big as the A-50 itself:

Were the two A-50s that got hit actually in service... or were they just left there to rot?

Because — let’s not sugarcoat it — they look like junk.

Cloudy domes, grimy fuselage, zero maintenance.

Sure, maybe this is standard practice in the Russian Air Force when it comes to handling their most sensitive assets, but to me — and maybe to you too — these two planes look like they’d been abandoned for quite a while.

And that changes the picture yet again.

Because if those airborne radars were already out of commission, if they were just hollow shells collecting dust, then the strategic impact of the strike drops dramatically.

The symbolism remains, the embarrassment for Moscow is undeniable... but the operational loss?

Still up in the air.

In this frame, taken from the video, we get a close look at the radar dome.

Your eye is immediately drawn to that dark, unsettling section.

At first glance, it looks like rust. But that’s unlikely. That part shouldn’t be metal — it should be polymers or composite materials, specifically designed not to interfere with the radar.

So what is it? We don’t know.

Dirt? Wear and tear? Neglect? It’s hard to say for sure.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t an isolated case.

The entire aircraft looks neglected.

They look abandoned.

Like carcasses, left to rot on the tarmac.

And if that’s what they really were… maybe there wasn’t much left to destroy.

There’s another detail that raises eyebrows: the two A-50s appear to be missing their engines.

And at that point, let’s be clear: they might not be total junk, but they were certainly not ready for takeoff.

Even though, in the satellite images from May 3rd, the two planes appear to have engines, maybe they were removed?

Maybe they're not the same planes? Hard to say.

Given what we know today, it’s hard to believe these aircraft were being used regularly in operations over Ukraine.

They don’t look airworthy, or combat-ready.

Let me know what you think in the comments.

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Because if they really were out of commission, then they’re not worth 300 million dollars each, as I keep reading.

They’re worth whatever value a derelict hull has for the Russians — something to be stripped for spare parts.

In other words: close to zero.

Yes — despite the five-minute video, despite the 22 direct hits, this attack — on paper so spectacular — might turn out to be a massive swing and a miss.

That said...

Even if they were just old wrecks, what the Ukrainians pulled off remains impressive: infiltration, planning, surgical precision.

They got in. They struck.

And they did it right under Moscow’s nose.

Credit where it’s due.

But in practical terms...?

One thing, though, needs to be said.

In other frames of the video, you can spot some bombers with what appears to be a Kh-101 hanging under the wing.

We’re talking about a stealth, subsonic cruise missile, designed to strike targets from long range.

If it really is a Kh-101, then yes — at least one of the aircraft hit was operational.

Not a scrap heap, but a live platform, armed and ready to cause damage in Ukraine.

I’m not 100% convinced that’s what the missile actually is.

The video quality is low, and as they say, truth is the first casualty of war.

Propaganda flies faster than drones, and that’s why I prefer to tread carefully.

I suggest you do the same.

What do you think?

I’ll be reading the comments — and replying to all of them.

Per aspera ad astra.

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What happened at several Russian military airbases a couple of days ago falls squarely into that category.

In my previous articles, I’ve often analyzed how the ongoing conflict is, in many ways, playing to the advantage of Western countries.

I stated it from the very first piece I wrote: the longer this war drags on, the more the West stands to gain.

But today, we’re facing something different.

A turning point.

Perhaps the most delicate one so far.

Here’s the news: Ukrainian forces managed to destroy around 10 Russian strategic bombers.

This wasn’t a symbolic gesture.

It was a direct strike at one of the most sensitive nerves of Russia’s deterrent power: its strategic air force.

And according to the Russian Federation’s nuclear doctrine, an attack on its nuclear capabilities — even potential ones — is enough to justify a nuclear response.

In other words: never since the beginning of this war have we come this close to the edge of a possible nuclear escalation.

But it won’t happen.

Not now.

Paradoxically, an escalation on that level would end up playing into Ukraine’s hands.

Because the world would be left speechless, shocked by the images — casting Ukraine even more clearly as the victimin the eyes of global opinion.

And Vladimir Putin, for all his contradictions, is no fool.

I know — I’ve put a lot on the table.

Now let’s start by breaking down the event, and then we’ll unpack what it means

Let’s do this the professional way: we start with the facts, then we analyze.

On June 1st, 2025, several trucks approached five major military airbases in Russia.

The drivers said they had no idea what they were transporting, convinced they were simply carrying out a routine delivery.

It’s likely they were deceived by the Ukrainians.

In this image, we see several containers parked inside what appears to be a warehouse — or perhaps a large garage.

These are the very same containers that were later loaded onto trucks and driven by unsuspecting drivers to the vicinity of the airbases.

But these weren’t ordinary containers: they had been modified and featured a hidden structure — a sort of “double roof.”

In the upper section, there was a concealed compartment housing small remote-controlled drones, each equipped with explosive charges.

In this image, we can see one of the containers with its roof open, revealing several drones inside.

Once the roof was opened, the drones began to take off and fly over the airbases.

In the video, you can clearly see the same containers we mentioned earlier: from one of them, a drone is seen taking off and heading straight toward the airbase.

Lined up side by side were several strategic bombers — aircraft that are absolutely essential to the Russian air force.

To understand their importance, it’s enough to know that for decades these planes have represented a constant threat to all of Europe.

They’re capable of carrying nuclear warheads and are regularly used for bombing missions over Ukraine — albeit with conventional weapons.

Back to the drones: these small flying devices specifically targeted those planes, hitting them and triggering devastating fires.

Ukrainian sources report having destroyed around 40 aircraft in total.

At the moment, however, we have concrete evidence confirming the destruction of about a dozen planes.

Still, it’s entirely plausible that the real number is higher.

The bombers, after all, weren’t housed inside hangars — they were parked out in the open, side by side, making them extremely vulnerable.

We’ll see, with upcoming updates, whether it becomes possible to determine the exact number of aircraft that were actually hit.

To wrap up the account of what happened — before I explain why this operation is, at the same time, extraordinary but pointless — let me show you this image (yes, a bit propagandistic): it shows Vasyl Malyuk, head of Ukraine’s security service, studying maps of the five airbases, alongside two images of the aircraft models involved.

What are the implications? (spoiler: none)

The first thing to say is that this operation is unprecedented in history.

The Ukrainians pulled off something that no one thought was possible.

Like it or not, that achievement deserves recognition.

For now, we can only speculate on how such an attack was even feasible.

One of the more credible theories is that the materials needed to assemble the drones and containers were brought into Russia via Kazakhstan — using the same kinds of trade triangulations the Russians rely on to evade Western sanctions.

This is an operation destined to end up in history books.

And it won’t be forgotten any time soon.

For Russia, this is a blow to its image: it looks vulnerable, exposed — almost powerless.

In the headline, I called this action “remarkable but pointless” — and that wasn’t clickbait.

It’s pointless in the context of the war.

The Russians are not, at least for now, running short on aircraft.

They’ll be able to keep deploying more without much difficulty.

40 aircraft were not destroyed — at least, there’s no evidence supporting that number yet.

And no, the damaged planes weren’t worth $7 billion: we’re talking about very old models, inherited from the Soviet Union.

Estimating their value is impossible, as they’re no longer in production.

With this article, I also want to make a call for caution: don’t blindly trust the propaganda.

Not Russian, not Ukrainian, and certainly not Western.

Always read critically, check your sources, and ask questions.

Many claim that an A-50 AWACS was also destroyed — but as of now, there’s no proof.

If it turns out to be true, that would actually be even more significant than the destruction of the bombers.

And just as I write these lines, news breaks of a third Ukrainian attack on the Kerch Bridge in Crimea.

All we know for now is that about 1,000 kg of explosives reportedly detonated underwater, near the bridge’s main support pillars.

This is fresh information and should be treated with the appropriate caution: nothing has been confirmed yet.

I’ll end with a personal reflection.

It almost feels like the Ukrainians aren’t just trying to blow up Russian depots… but Russian tempers.

The more time passes, the more Moscow seems to be losing control.

Crack by crack.

A fracture that no one can ignore anymore.

Three years ago, no one in the Kremlin would have bet on a war this long.

Three years ago, no one in the West believed Kyiv could hold out.

And yet, here we are.

In the fourth year of war.

With airbases in Siberia hit by drones launched from shipping containers.

With Russia burning through billions trying to cover up the fact that, yes, it’s stumbling.

And with every passing month, it stumbles a bit more.

The Ukrainians, on the other hand, don’t seem tired.

On the contrary.

They seem to be snarling.

They seem to be growing.

And maybe the question is no longer if they’ll win…

…but how much they’re willing to lose to make it happen.

In Italy, there’s a saying: “When two people quarrel, the third one wins.”

Guess who the third is.

Per aspera ad astra.

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The Invisible Thread Between the Europe and Middle East

In this article, I talked about the West’s new enemies.

Russia, Iran, China and North Korea.

These aren’t just any rivals.

These are countries that are growing increasingly close.

Not through words, but through action.

They’ve been working in the shadows for years, trying to overturn the world order we live in.

Their goal is crystal clear: to weaken the West.

To strip us of power.

To bring us to our knees.

They haven’t openly declared war on us yet.

But just listen to what they’re saying—it’s all there.

Every single move they make points in the same direction: to take us down.

In my article, beyond explaining how they’re doing it, I also took a clear stance:

In my view, the war in Ukraine and what’s happening in the Middle East after October 7 are not two separate events.

They’re part of the same plan.

On one side, we see Russia pushing forward,

on the other, tensions erupt with Israel at the center.

Two different fronts, but deeply connected.

As if someone, behind the scenes, is pulling the strings.

But who? Them—or us?

And how are we responding to these threats?

Let’s start with the European Union.

More than three years have passed since Russia launched its invasion of Ukraine.

Troops moved in from Belarus aiming for Kyiv.

Those stationed in the Donbas pushed toward Mariupol.

Much has been said about the motivations, the justifications.

Russia gave its own: liberate the Donbas, denazify Ukraine—whatever that’s supposed to mean.

But it doesn’t take much common sense to see these are just excuses.

Pro-Russians blame the West.

And to be honest, they’re not entirely wrong.

In my view, Russia invaded Ukraine for a much deeper reason:

It’s trying to become something it no longer is.

On the international stage, Moscow has mattered little over the past thirty years.

And that, for them, is unbearable.

They see themselves as an empire.

They act like an empire.

They want to be treated like an empire.

I’m Italian—we know we don’t carry that much global weight.

And that’s fine. We don’t dream of world domination.

But for Russians, it’s different. For them, it’s a wound.

They want to be feared again.

And it hurts them to see countries that once revolved in their orbit now freely choosing the West.

Estonia, Poland, Romania—they chose their side the moment they had the chance,

and the West didn’t hesitate to take them in.

We integrated them, brought them “into the system,” even militarily.

Today in Romania, the largest NATO base in Europe is being built—bigger even than Ramstein, the historic one in Germany.

These countries wanted to be like us, and we didn’t hold back.

Ukraine was next—its transformation had already begun,

and Russia simply couldn’t accept it.

Pride, strategy, imperial ambition.

They couldn’t afford to lose another one.

I don’t hate them for that—every major power looks out for its own interests.

And I respect the Russians for their boldness.

They made their move.

Took a risk.

Put themselves on the line.

From the start, the objective was clear: eliminate Zelenskyy, install a puppet,

drag Ukraine back into Russia’s sphere of influence,

and prove to the world that Moscow was back.

A global force.

An adversary to fear.

But now, three years later, one thing is clear: it didn’t go the way they hoped.

In my view, Russia is weaker today than it was before the invasion.

At first, they bet everything on Kyiv—but they never got there.

So they pivoted to the Donbas, and that’s when everything changed.

The West woke up.

We saw the colossal mistake they had made, and we acted.

We started sending weapons to Ukraine.

Not to win outright—but to wear them down.

To trap them in a war that’s long, slow, and expensive.

A war where, today, Moscow is just trying to save face.

The U.S. offloaded old weapons from storage.

Europe didn’t have much to send, but it put billions of euros on the table.

We are paying the price—true.

But it’s a price serving a clear purpose:

To drain Russia.

Force it to burn through resources.

To lose ground.

To grow weaker.

And let’s be honest—did we really have a choice?

Russia—and the whole CRINK group—is trying to overthrow the global order.

Could we really turn a blind eye?

Yes, we’re spending a lot.

But we’re also hitting an enemy who, with every move,

tries to undermine peace and prosperity in the free world.

The real question is whether this strategy is delivering.

The answer is yes.

Russia, though far from collapse—despite what some Western propagandists claim—is in a tight spot,

and even they admit it.

The EU, slowly but surely, is managing to turn Russia into a poorer nation than before.

A more isolated nation.

More heavily sanctioned.

…And more widely despised than ever.

Let’s go back to October 7, 2023.

We’re in the Middle East, in the Gaza Strip.

Dawn breaks with the howl of sirens and the roar of violence.

Dozens upon dozens of militants breach the border.

This isn’t a raid — it’s a massacre.

Men, women, children: killed, butchered, kidnapped.

I’ll spare you the images of spilled blood,

Of flames engulfing homes,

Of mutilated bodies.

You can find it all on X, if you wish.

Some of them are still hostages in Hamas’ hands.

In the Strip, the war changed form within hours:

What, in the first days, felt like a celebration — rockets fired into the sky, cheers and singing — turned into a nightmare of rubble, hunger, and despair.

Civilians went from celebrating to fighting for survival.

I won’t open a debate here on the ethics of Israel’s military response, nor will I judge whether what Gaza has become is right or justifiable.

This article looks elsewhere.

It talks about how Israel — and with it, the European Union — is confronting the true puppet master of this conflict: Iran.

Because Hamas is not alone.

Behind the organization that controls Gaza, one can see the long reach of Iran.

Funding, supplies, training: Tehran is the beating heart of a network that includes Hezbollah in Lebanon and, in the past, Assad’s Syria.

All declared enemies of Israel. All connected by an invisible thread leading eastward.

But time has passed.

More than a year has gone by since that infamous October 7, and the picture has changed dramatically.

Hamas is now a shadow of its former self.

Hezbollah is on its knees.

Assad has abandoned Syria, taking refuge in Russia after Ankara forged alliances with local groups to reclaim portions of territory.

What did Iran and Hamas expect after that attack?

Perhaps they thought Israel would simply watch, or that the international community would limit itself to condemnation and debate.

But that didn’t happen.

Israel saw the crack — and drove straight through it.

Just like the European Union did with Russia after the invasion of Ukraine, Israel seized the opportunity to eliminate its enemies.

First Hamas.

Then Hezbollah.

The Houthis in Yemen remain, but they’re more of a nuisance than a threat.

The real loss is elsewhere: Iran has lost its two most powerful proxies and, with them, its control over Syria — once a vital corridor to supply Hezbollah in Lebanon.

That corridor is now sealed off.

Or at the very least, severely narrowed.

And Israel shows no sign of stopping.

Unlike Trump, who favored caution in this arena, Tel Aviv wants to keep striking.

Because it knows the Iranian threat well.

Because it knows Tehran has never hidden its darkest ambition: to acquire nuclear weapons.

We don’t know what’s next.

Perhaps Israel will stop.

Or perhaps, alongside the United States, it will find a way to strike again — harder.

But one thing is certain: Iran will be Israel’s problem, just as Russia has become Europe’s.

And then there’s something bigger.

Quieter. Further away.

Across the Pacific, China watches.

It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t move. But it sees.

And in its gaze is something ancient — the old Chinese Empire.

Like Russia, it sees itself as an empire.

But unlike Russia, it’s in no hurry.

It is a giant that remembers.

It remembers the humiliation dealt by European powers in the 1800s.

It remembers the pain of crushed pride.

And now, it prepares. Silently. Ruthlessly.

Trump was clear with the Europeans:

“You must arm yourselves. You must stand on your own.”

Because when that giant rises, the United States will have eyes only for it.

And Israel will be left alone to deal with Iran.

…Because America will have bigger things to worry about.