War of Words

The Soviet Union and the United States both issued formal statements regarding the Bosnian War, but Romania was the first to leap out ahead of the diplomatic pack. It condemned the escalating violence and warned that the conflict would result in massive civilian displacement—particularly of Muslim populations—and trigger devastating unrest across Europe. Perhaps it was the shadow of the Beslan tragedy still lingering over them, but the Romanian public had developed a deep wariness toward a certain kind of refugee crisis.

Romania's official government bulletin was unusually blunt:

"We are one of the poorest countries in Europe. If you come here seeking the wealth of Sweden or the jobs of Germany, you will be disappointed. We have no jobs—not even for our own people. And if you come here, you will be unemployed too."

They didn't stop there. Polls showed overwhelming domestic opposition to accepting Muslim immigrants. The release continued:

"More than 99% of Romanians are Christian. Muslims account for less than 0.2%. Romania's culture, protected by law, is firmly rooted in gender equality. Our national cuisine is pork-based. Halal options are scarce. Most of our national heroes rose to fame defending this land from Muslim invaders."

That last line—almost poetic in its brutality—even drew applause from Surkov, who chuckled and muttered, "A rare moment of honesty in a world choking on 'peace and tolerance.'"

In a time when the Western world was falling over itself to wave banners of inclusivity, Romania's raw defiance was like a slap in the face to Brussels. If Prince Mihai could see his people today, Surkov mused, perhaps the old king would finally rest with a smile.

Meanwhile, at the UN Security Council, both superpowers played the game more delicately. The Soviet Union proposed a peaceful resolution to the Bosnian conflict. The United States, in contrast, argued that the war was an internal matter—"a civil conflict in a sovereign state."

"If Saddam Hussein were here," someone whispered, "he'd be spitting curses. 'You suddenly care about sovereignty now?'"

The room was soon divided into familiar ideological blocs. Britain, France, and Germany formed the NATO Interventionist Wing, pressing for immediate air strikes. The Soviets led the pro-Serb camp, demanding respect for ethnic self-determination. The U.S. awkwardly backed the Croats, claiming to seek balance. And the rest—mostly African and Asian nations—simply watched, bemused.

"This war must end!" barked the German envoy, his voice echoing through the chamber. "No matter who wins, Europe as a whole loses. This is a war without victors."

Then the Soviet representative, Kozlovich, rose and calmly fired back—not at the Germans, but at his American counterpart, Komanda.

"Comrade, you and I have more in common than we admit. We must support the Bosnian Serbs' right to self-determination. This is a civil war—not a pretext for NATO to wade deeper into Eastern Europe."

It was a classic Soviet play: stir paranoia and suspicion. The Soviets knew full well that most Eastern European states were now leaning Westward. But Kozlovich's role wasn't to reflect facts—it was to twist them into knives.

"The preservation of peace," the French envoy countered, "is the sacred duty of the United Nations. To stand in our way is to abandon humanitarianism and human rights!"

Kozlovich smiled thinly.

"Interesting," he said. "Because our KGB dossier shows that the Chechen militants were funded by individuals tied to your own governments. Is that your definition of humanitarianism?"

The French delegate opened his mouth but said nothing. Kozlovich pressed on.

"Perhaps the issue isn't the war—but the system producing it. How many republics have you gone through since sending King Louis to the guillotine?"

The French ambassador sat down, red-faced and stunned.

Then, Komanda—the U.S. envoy—spoke again, this time with surprising assertiveness:

"Let me be clear: the United States opposes NATO bombing of Serbian positions. This is a civil conflict. If NATO intervenes, it will turn a regional fire into a continental one."

The room froze. France and Germany exchanged glances. Even Britain looked uneasy. Was Washington siding with Moscow?

Komanda continued, glancing deliberately at Kozlovich.

"We propose a limited arms embargo and economic blockade. If the Serbs are cut off from war funding, they'll be forced to negotiate."

To everyone's shock, Kozlovich nodded.

"We support the American proposal."

That moment of superpower synchronization shattered the NATO bloc's momentum. Britain and France realized—with creeping dread—that they were now isolated in their advocacy for military intervention.

In the final vote, two permanent members—the U.S. and the USSR—vetoed the bombing initiative. China abstained. Britain and France were left alone.

NATO air strikes were halted.

UN "peacekeepers"—underfunded, underequipped, and uninspired—were dispatched to Bosnia. The embargo was technically in place, but Croatia and Serbia still received arms through their benefactors. The Croats from Washington. The Serbs—this time—not just from Moscow, but with covert assistance from China.

With that, Europe lost control of the battlefield. It no longer mattered who won militarily.

The strategic loss belonged to the EU.

Yanaev, watching this unfold from Moscow, simply smirked.

"Let London, Paris, and Berlin weep. As long as our goals are met, they can choke on their own humanitarian hypocrisy."