Extreme Joy Leads to Sorrow

If there was a perfect illustration of self-contradiction, it was exactly what the U.S. government did in the past three days. First, it loudly praised itself as a country "where God blesses America" — a free land where people speak openly without fear, a sharp contrast to the "largest authoritarian state in Europe." Yet just three days later, after only one day of broadcasting, the Soviet propaganda film "Who Is the Dictator?" was ruthlessly banned by the U.S. government.

The official reason: it maliciously smeared and defamed the American regime. TV stations were ordered never to air it again. Though some stations grumbled, they complied.

Only one station, in Texas, pushed back. They declared it their right and freedom to broadcast any program not violating the Constitution. After all, the film merely told the true history of the United States. Why should it be censored?

The tough Texans said bluntly: as long as U.S. government agents could outgun the laws of Texas and the weapons in the hands of the people, they would obediently pull the film.

What the Texans did was a loud slap in the face of the U.S. government — and it revealed to the world that American media freedom was no more than a veneer, strictly controlled by the state.

Who could still claim freedom of speech in American news media?

"First, take my communist punishment," seemed to be the message.

The Bush administration suffered at least two blows: first, it blatantly broke its promise to protect free speech; second, it dared not force the defiant Texas station to comply. A humiliating defeat for the U.S. government.

Far away in Moscow, Soviet General Secretary Comrade Yanaev sent a congratulatory message with evident glee, calling the people of Texas the true hope for freedom and democracy in America.

Poor Director Robert became the target of President Bush's wrath again. This time, not just a reprimand — a harsh scolding. Bush accused him of incompetence, saying it would be better to have a pig in the CIA director's chair.

At last, the mission to mock the United States was accomplished. Comrade Surkov, who hadn't slept for days, finally exhaled and rested at home for two days.

On the third day, Yanaev called, asking Surkov to bring his team. A celebration banquet awaited them in the Kremlin.

The team was flattered. None of them had ever met senior Kremlin officials other than Surkov. They were uncertain how to dress or behave for a relaxed gathering with the country's top leaders.

Surkov reassured them: "Don't worry, just relax. You'll meet the most easy-going leader ever." But they had heard Kremlin leaders were cruel tyrants, and doubted it.

What greeted them surpassed all expectations.

Yanaev's friendliness stunned them. These young intellectuals, often lost in literary classics and ignoring Soviet politics, suddenly saw a leader not as a cruel monster, but a kind elder sharing life stories.

This was no grand ceremony. Only Surkov, his team, Yanaev, and Pavlov attended — but the weight of those two officials was immense.

"Everyone, lighten up," Yanaev said. "This is a gathering of friends. Apart from Comrade Pavlov and me, there are no outsiders here. Don't let people say the Kremlin's master is a rigid, boring man."

He raised his glass. His easy demeanor calmed the nervous young people.

"Your achievements are clear. You struck a heavy blow against arrogant U.S. imperialists and bolstered Soviet confidence. On behalf of the country, I thank you. We don't credit any one leader, but you work hard for our ideals and socialist construction."

Yanaev saluted — a rare sight from a Soviet leader.

For decades, people are forgetting one thing: their regime came from the people and depended on them.

"President Yanaev, you're not as cruel as the legends say," one young man blurted out — dangerously taboo.

Surkov almost spit out his wine. Pavlov chuckled silently, eyes gleaming at the anticipated response.

Yanaev paused, then smiled warmly.

"Young man, you are brave to ask what everyone thinks but no one dares say. Whether I am cruel depends on who I face. To the enemies of the Soviet people, I am a cold tyrant. To those I protect, an amiable leader."

His answer was flawless — a belief he truly held.

Surkov relaxed, his gaze meeting Yanaev's. The General Secretary smiled back, unbothered.

Raising his glass, he said, "Let us toast to the first step of our great victory."

"Cheers!" everyone clinked glasses, the atmosphere now light and friendly.

As the party continued, Yanaev looked at these energetic youths and thought: If only I were younger — maybe even Putin in my place — we could accomplish so much more.

But his joy was cut short.

Suddenly, Defense Minister Yazov burst in, face grim.

"General Secretary Yanaev, sorry to disturb, but something's happened in Chechnya."

Yanaev's wine glass slipped, shattering on the floor.

He could hardly believe it — Chechnya rebellious now, at such a critical moment.

"Let's talk," Yanaev said, his expression hardening as he followed Yazov out, the door closing behind them.