Bardzo mnie szarpią emocje na okoliczność nowego traktatu monachijskiiego - zdecydowanie za dużo podobieństw pojawia się w tej sytuacji.

W razie (formalnego czy nieformalnego) rozbioru Ukrainy możemy mieć jeszcze na głowie scenariusz "Palestyny Europy", bo nie sądzę, żeby Ukraińcy w kraju i na emigracji dalej trzymali uszy po sobie, wobec oczywistej zdrady "sojuszników". Zachodowi może się wydawać, że będzie ich rozgrywał bez końca, ale to w pewnym momencie się skończy.
Jedna trzecia kraju pod butem Rosji, reszta skolonizowana gospodarczo przez "sojuszników". W końcu ludziom puszczą nerwy.

Państwo polskie, nie mając specjalnego wyboru, będzie grało w drużynie NATO, bo alternatywą jest pójście za przykładem Słowacji czy Węgier, czyli powrót w objęcia Moskwy. Jest to możliwe, ale korzystne byłoby tylko dla wąskiej grupy oligarchów.

Tak że nie jest dobrze. IMO optymistyczna wersja jest taka, że będziemy mieć do wyboru Chińczyków albo Rosjan - i to nie my będziemy wybierać.

#AiKiDo #Story #Liberated from FW

Listen.

The train car was a fragile bubble of silence, floating through the chaos of Tokyo.
The afternoon light spilled weakly through the windows, casting long shadows over the passengers.

Among them sat a young man, his posture straight, his hands resting lightly on his knees. In his bag, neatly folded, was his gi—a symbol of the discipline he’d devoted himself to. Aikido. The art of harmony. The art of peace.

He’d trained for years, learning to redirect force, to turn aggression into calm. But today, he would learn that peace wasn’t about technique. It was about something far deeper.
The doors hissed open at the next station, and the bubble burst.

He came in like a storm—a mountain of a man, his face flushed red, his eyes wild and unfocused. The stench of cheap sake rolled off him, thick and suffocating. He swayed on his feet, his boots thudding heavily against the floor, and let out a roar that shattered the fragile quiet. The passengers froze. A woman clutching a baby pressed herself into the corner, her breath shallow, her eyes wide with terror. A salary man in a threadbare suit glanced up, then quickly looked away, his hands trembling in his lap.

The young man’s body tensed. His training kicked in, his mind racing through techniques—wrist locks, throws, pins. He could take this drunk down. He should take him down. The man was a threat, a danger to everyone in the car. His fingers twitched, ready to move. But then, like a whisper in the back of his mind, he heard his teacher’s voice: “Aikido is not about fighting. It’s about reconciliation. It’s about finding peace.”

He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest.

Before he could act, the elderly man stood up.

He was small, frail, his back slightly stooped. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp, filled with a quiet strength. He stepped into the aisle, moving with a calm that seemed to defy the chaos around him. The drunk turned, his eyes narrowing, his fists clenching. The young man held his breath, ready to intervene, but the old man didn’t flinch.

“Hey,” the old man said, his voice soft but steady. “You look like you’ve had a rough day. Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

The drunk blinked, his face twisting in confusion. For a moment, it seemed he might lash out, but instead, he staggered forward and slumped into the seat across from the old man. The tension in the car didn’t ease—if anything, it grew heavier, more suffocating. The young man stayed ready, his body coiled like a spring, but the old man showed no fear. He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees, and began to speak.
“I used to drink too,” the old man said, his tone gentle, almost tender. “My wife and I, we’d sit under the persimmon tree in our garden and share a bottle of sake. She planted that tree, you know. Her great-grandfather brought the seeds from Kyoto. It’s still there, even though she’s gone now.”

The drunk stared at him, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. “What’s it to you?” he growled, though the edge in his voice had softened.

The old man shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. But it sounds like you’ve lost something too. Am I wrong?”

The drunk’s face crumpled. He looked down at his hands, calloused and scarred from years of hard labor, and let out a shuddering breath. “My wife left me,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Took the kids. I lost my job. I got nothing.”

The old man nodded, as if he’d heard it all before. “That’s hard,” he said simply. “But you’re still here. That means something.”

The drunk didn’t answer. He just sat there, his shoulders shaking, tears streaming down his face. The old man reached out and placed a hand on his arm, a gesture so small but so full of understanding that it seemed to pierce the very heart of the moment.

The young man watched, his own hands trembling now. He had been ready to fight, to prove himself, but the old man had disarmed the drunk in a way no technique could. There had been no violence, no grand display of skill—just a quiet act of compassion. And in that moment, something inside the young man broke. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision. He had been so focused on the physical aspects of Aikido, on the idea of controlling an opponent, that he’d missed the true essence of the art. It wasn’t about force or dominance. It was about connection. About seeing the humanity in someone, even when they’d lost sight of it themselves.

The train slowed as it approached the next station. The drunk stood up, wiping his face with his sleeve, and stumbled toward the doors. He didn’t say goodbye, but the old man didn’t seem to expect him to. He simply watched him go, his expression calm, almost serene.

As the doors hissed shut and the train lurched forward again, the young man sat back, his chest aching with a strange mix of awe and shame. He had been ready to fight, to assert his strength, but the old man had shown him what true strength looked like. It wasn’t about winning. It was about understanding. About love.

The old man remained seated, his gaze fixed on the passing cityscape. The young man never learned his name, never saw him again, but the lesson stayed with him, etched into his soul. Aikido wasn’t just about physical technique. It was about finding harmony, even in the midst of chaos. And sometimes, that meant putting your ego aside and showing love and compassion instead.

The train rolled on, the city blurring past the windows. The young man closed his eyes and let the tears fall, feeling the weight of the old man’s wisdom settle over him like a second skin. In that moment, he understood. True strength wasn’t in the hands or the body. It was in the heart. He understood the true meaning of Aikido.

---

This is inspired by a Real Story from Sensei Terry Dobson.

#USpol #Trumpizm #HimNotUs #SmokeAndMirror #ResidentEvil #Dictatorships #SelfDelusion #AsymptomaticCarrier

News:

State department signs off on bombs and missiles sales that the US claims would help Israel ‘defend its borders’

Comment:

Course not. He has no interest in ordinary people, as all his other policies demonstrate.

If the latter could be your comment, I need to say something to you.

Here, in Europe (especially at the "wrong side of The Iron Curtain"), we are pretty well-versed in dictatorships. Franco, Mussolini, Hitler, Stalin, now Łukaszenka and Putin... They come and they go like in a political Hurricane Alley of sorts, so we know them well (those who chose to know, at least).

And there is a particular takeaway lesson I want to convey here:

It is not him. It never was. It is us.

Whoever's name and face appears as the figurehead of the current edition, is just a token. The dictatorship is us all. It is the crew that makes the ship.

If you work for him, you are him.
If you respect people who are him, you are him.
If you talk to your neighbour, who is him, you are him.
If you let your children play with his children, you are him.
Even if you fight him, you are still him.

Dictatorship is a highly contagious disease, and no one within its realm stays untouched.

BUT one glorious day, it is gone.
Halleluyah! We Are Saved And Redeemed!
We can go back to be our great good selves!

Because it was just him. Or maybe few scoundrels and misled simpletons, who are already dangling from the lamposts or hiding in Argentina.

We were never part of it. True?
TRUE?

Not. It was not just him. It never was. It was us.

If you worked for him, you were him.
If you respected people who were him, you were him.
If you talked to your neighbour, who was him, you were him.
If you let your children play with his children, you were him.
Even if you fought him, still. You. Were. Him.

Unless you accept the fact, confront it, and find the way to control this resident evil in you, you will be just another asymptomatic carrier, waiting for just another unexpected outbreak. Which is going to happen.