Battling Archetypes

Decoding Trolls's "Battling Archetypes" podcast applies the Twelve Tools of the Disinfolklore analytical method (see Disinfolklore.eu) to the folklore-like structures hiding inside modern propaganda, memes, and geopolitics. Each episode decodes how Russia, MAGA, and other Disinfolklorists archetype reality. Infolklore, by contrast, is a first-order creative practice: the active, conscious, Code of Positive Trolls-observant deployment of folklore-like archetypes in the service of generosity, right, patience, creative Mana, focus, and insight. This channel helps us learn to see the immanence of Infolklore and Disinfolklore in our information streams. www.disinfolklore.net

  1. 6d ago

    Podcast | The Plight of the Sorcerers: Putler and the Chef, Zelensky and Fedorov; and

    Putin’s Chef Problem: The Plight of the Sorcerer So on the 26th of May 2023, I published a piece called Putin’s Chef Problem, the plight of the sorcerer. And I posed the question: how can Sorcerer Putin survive if he passes the reins to the Chef, the creature he trained and empowered? Yet how can Sorcerer Putin survive if he doesn’t stand aside to enable his sorcerer’s apprentice to take over? This is the plight of the sorcerer, and it’s featured in Indo-European stories for millennia. And since early March 2022, Putler’s magical, manipulative powers have been noticeably on the wane. Nothing has gone right for him — even for those who dutifully surrendered to his bespelling needs. I first noted how President Zelensky’s magical powers to curse, outwit and humiliate the sorcerer Putin were growing, in proportion to Putler’s loss of power, by the end of March 2022. And as I wrote then, on the 23rd of May 2023: until recently I had ignored Putler’s apprentice, the Chef, who is now at the height of his powers. Every day since 2012, the Chef’s trolling Disinfolklore has featured across global media. His Disinfolklore even got Trump and Brexit voted in. Only now, instead of the Chef’s Disinfolklore being the concealed trolling output of his St Petersburg Disinfolklore war-magic production factories — the Internet Research Agency — the Chef today is the star of the show himself. Why, and how, has this happened? The answer is simple. So I wrote, on May 26th, or 23rd, 2023: Putin’s Rasputin, this turbulent priest of the St Petersburg underground, is ready to take over the chariot. These days the magician apprentice doesn’t even disguise himself, or his ambition. Just an iPhone and grainy footage, and his every muttered thought — and trolling grandfather glasses — is front-page news across the earth. The Chef Saucerer has sacrificed 100,000 Ukrainians’ lives since 2016. And like every Indo-European monarch for millennia, he boasts of the human sacrifices he’s made. From these sacrifices his power and authority emanates. The magician Chef has vaporised entire cities in central Europe — Popasna, Bakhmut, and the rest. Seventy-five thousand Ruschists have died at his command in six months of Bakhmut. And before this, his Nazi-worshipping soldiers, in his Nazi-branded Wagner Group, had murdered hundreds of thousands of Syrians. Yet the Chef’s power as the Apprentice Magus is such that the New York Times and the rest breathlessly quote, and report verbatim as truth, his every bespelling utterance — like they did before with the butcher Putin of Grozny. Then, now, they do with the Chef. Unknowingly, Western leaders and opinion formers promote the Chef, as before they promoted his sorcerer master, Putin. Every Western website reference eulogising the butcher of Bakhmut, with his trolling grandpa glasses, is echoed back into Ruschist information spaces as evidence that the West respects the Chef and will accept him as the new sorcerer monarch. The Chef’s Internet Research Agency bespelled America and England. That was his time as Putler’s apprentice. Now the sorcerer master, Putler, who created him, cannot destroy the Chef without destroying himself. Nor can Putler promote the Chef while being certain that, once promoted, the Chef won’t destroy Putler. That is the plight of the sorcerer. So: the Chef Saucerer against the Chief Sorcerer. Why I Bring This Up: Two Tellings of One Story So why do I bring this up? Two summers ago I wrote about Putler’s plight, and it’s the oldest story we have about power changing hands, and Putler was living out its darkest version. Now, in the past few weeks, Volodymyr Zelensky has stepped into the same story. He’s living out the bright one. The two tellings sit at opposite poles of a single tale that is 6,000 years old, and watching them side by side tells us almost everything about the difference between the two countries. Georges Dumézil. A master holds a power, and an apprentice grows into that power. One day the apprentice is ready to make his own way, and the master still needs him. How do the two part without one destroying the other? That is the whole plight, in one question. The young one always rises — that was never in doubt. The only question the story ever asks is whether the rising costs a life. The Mahabharata gives the good answer, and it’s worth holding in mind. The demons free the apprentice from the master’s belly, and they do it without killing the master. Both men honour the bargain. Nobody dies. The power moves, and the two who carried it are both still standing when it settles. That is the rare ending. The plight is dangerous precisely because that ending is rare. The Dark Telling: Putler and the Chef Look first at the dark telling, because you already know it. Putler was the chief sorcerer. Yevgeny Prigozhin, the Wagner Chef, was his apprentice — the alchemist who turned mercenaries and African gold into power the master could use. By the summer of 2023 the apprentice was ready, and the master would not let him. Prigozhin forced the question the crude way, with a mutiny: the march on Rostov, a column pointed at Moscow, and for one evening the master submitted to the apprentice in front of the whole world. Then the plight resolved the way it resolves when there is no honour in the room. Two months later, Prigozhin’s plane fell out of the sky — allegedly. The master kept his power by destroying the apprentice. That is what the passing of power looks like when a society is sick at the top: paranoia in the palace, blood on the runway. It is the serpent’s answer to the question. This story offers a far better answer, too. The Bright Telling: Zelensky and Fedorov Now the Ukrainian side, and the same story turned to the light. Mykhailo Fedorov — whom I never forget — comes from Vasylivka, which is right on the contact line in Zaporizhzhia. He has stood at President Zelensky’s side for seven years. He built Diia, and the state that fits into a phone. He built the Army of Drones, and he’s the face of the modern, un-Soviet way of fighting this war. Six months ago President Zelensky moved him to defence, and he moved him there to do a hard thing, which was to break the paralysis with the old command. On the 15th of July, President Zelensky dismissed him. The official reason was a cabinet reshuffle. The real reason was a fight that had frozen the top of the war effort, between Fedorov and the commander-in-chief, the last powerful man of the Soviet military generation. And here the ancient story shows its shape, because the people did not accept the dismissal. Crowds filled the squares, three generations deep. Fedorov’s trust rating leapt from 35 to 65 per cent in a single week, and 72 per cent of Ukrainians said the dismissal was wrong. Within days, President Zelensky dismissed Syrskyi instead. Well — the crowds had their scalp. They stayed in the squares anyway, and they remain in the squares, although I look forward to hearing an update from Lexicon, still calling for the young man to be given his seat back. Magister and Minister: The MN Vocabulary of Rule Read that through the old frame, and every piece falls into place. Zelensky is the Magus I have been archetyping him assince the end of March 2022 — the magister, the master. In Dumézil’s map of our societies, the first function is the one who holds the magic and the law of rule. And the ministers — the magister, minister — the ministers serve directly under it. That’s hardwired into our language and into our governance for 6,000 years, since this idea of organising community was formed in Mykhailivka, which is the village about 20 kilometres south of where Mykhailo Fedorov grew up, and the place where Alexey Nikitin’s paper, published in Nature on the 5th of February 2025, put beyond all reasonable doubt the origins of the Yamna, from whom all living Indo-European languages emanate — in that community, on the Dnipro. The words themselves carry the story: magus, magister, minister, monarch, mandate. The whole vocabulary of who may rule carries the MN sound, because that is the sound our language family has carried its idea of sovereignty on since before writing. Fedorov is a minister under the magister. That is not a clever overlay on the news; it’s the story’s own word for where he stands. Fedorov is also the apprentice, and his seat is the warrior’s seat: defence is the strong right arm every sovereign needs and every sovereign fears. He is ready. He is trusted. He carries a power the master cannot make for himself. That is the apprentice of the plight, exactly. The Demons Whispering And the demons are whispering. On the Ruschist side I named them once as the men of the Ozero Cooperative, the grey figures around the throne. On the Ukrainian side they are the wily remnant of the Soviet-era power bloc — and every adviser who leans to the master’s ear to say the young man is too popular; that a minister the people love is not a minister but an heir; that the one who broke the old command will one day break you. And I remind you of Veronica, who runs under the callsign Luna, and whose father was an Opposition Bloc councillor and now, it is reported, serves the occupation administration. Veronica, whom Yermak consulted over the past few years on every major appointment in government, supposedly because he believes in her authority, her capacity as a medium — though some of us might be quite sceptical about a lawyer doing that, and perhaps might suggest, or suspect, there’s a certain amount of tradecraft about it. We’ve now seen the texts between Yermak and Veronica from after Yermak was defenestrated, metaphorically speaking, at the end of the year. She advised him to speak to our friend, President Zelensky, and suggest to President Zelensky that Fedorov, if he takes Yermak’s seat in the presidential administration

    Podcast | The Plight of the Sorcerers: Putler and the Chef, Zelensky and Fedorov; and
  2. Jul 30

    Podcast | The Bridge at Stanytsia, and the Kindness of the Captor

    This week I’ve been doing a lot of work on linguistics, which is amazing. But I’m going to turn back to the first character, really, in this entire story. The bridge at Stanytsia Luhanska. I’m aware that for the first thirty episodes I mentioned this bridge a lot. I’m equally aware that for the past thirty episodes I haven’t mentioned it a lot. And it’s a really important character in the story. The story of Disinfolklore, and the story really of anywhere anyone you know exacts a toll. Whether that is an emotional toll or a literal toll. We see the structure of the toll troll at the moment in the Strait of Hormuz, in a geographical location. But we also see the structure of the toll in anyone we know who is, basically, a lot of work. Anything you have to do to get through that resistance in order to do your job, or get the cats out, or get the children to school. This is the structure of the bridge at Stanytsia Luhanska. Of course, I didn’t arrive at this understanding straight away. It’s taken me years and years and years. As some of you know, I was a diplomat there, working for the international community, between 2015 and 2018. And the bridge at Stanytsia was a real bridge and a metaphorical bridge. On one side were the Russian occupiers, the bridge trolls. On the other side were the Ukrainian defenders. So I’ve been doing this series, one of the several series I have ongoing here, which I started a few weeks ago. We’ve gone through three episodes so far, and this is the fourth. It’s called The Bridge at Stanytsia. The bridge at Stanytsia Russia’s occupation administration in Luhansk cast itself as a kindly guardian of a broken bridge it had helped break. And that inversion of the bridge troll, the gatekeeper posing as protector, is how a crossing gets used to rewrite who you are when you walk across it. There is a bridge at Stanytsia Luhanska, and for years it was the only legal way to cross the contact line into Luhansk region. A long wooden walkway, part of it blown out, with steps and ramps that pensioners climbed in the heat and the cold to reach the other side. I stood on the bridge. I filed reports from it. So when I tell you what was done with it, I am not reading you a theory. I’m telling you what I watched. And then I’m going to show us the words that were published about it by the occupiers. The old story comes first. In folklore there is a creature called the bridge troll. It lives under the crossing and it demands a toll. A riddle, a coin, a piece of you, before it will let you pass. Three Billy Goats Gruff. The troll does not build the bridge and it does not own the river. It simply controls the one narrow place where you have to cross. And from that one place it controls everything. Whoever holds the bridge holds the story of who you are when you cross it. Are you a refugee or a returnee? A citizen or a separatist? You do not get to say. The one at the crossing says it. And this is the position, for example, both Donald and Netanyahu find themselves in. Donald launched this illegal war against Iran thinking that he was the bridge troll. And now it turns out that the Iranians are much more experienced, with millennia of experience and understanding of this essential structure. The bridge Donald wants to cross at the moment is simple. He just wants the war to be over, because it is an absolute catastrophe, for all the reasons most of us know. I think the figure is something like thirty billion dollars’ worth of American materiel destroyed by Iran in the last two weeks, according to satellite imagery that was released by Iran but taken from China. Because, again, Donald has exacted a toll on Planet Labs. Planet Labs grew out of an entrepreneurship project at my business school in Oxford, around 2010, when someone had the idea of building shoebox satellites. It was incomprehensible a year ago that this satellite imagery would not be available to the world. But it is unavailable to us. We can’t see it. The Chinese have helpfully released it. And so the toll which Iran is now exacting on Donald, as they escalate with perfect tempo, works like this. They know Donald is desperate to get this war over with. But every time he is ready to pay a price, the toll goes up. And he gets trolled. The arch troll gets trolled into doing another action, bombing somewhere. Yesterday, bombing Iraq with Saudi Arabia. And then the toll goes up. This is an essential archetypal structure in international relations. And it plays out in the micro and the macro. Here in Stanytsia Luhanska is how that archetype was actually used. In June 2018 the occupiers’ own news outlet, Luhinfo, ran this story, and I’m quoting it. The Luhansk Folk’s Republic, this is the fake occupation authority, trying to pull the wool over people’s eyes, as it did successfully, “urges to restore Stanitsa bridge, as people are dying of heat in queues at the checkpoint.” And believe me, it was extremely hot there, many times, all through the summer. I stood there. I patrolled the one and a half kilometre stretch between the government-controlled checkpoints, across through this beautiful forest, on a path where spent munitions were scattered. Mostly older women and children crossed, and had to walk that one and a half kilometres of no person’s land to reach the bridge, and then the other side of the bridge. And the winter is ridiculously cold. This is part of the toll the Russians erect. They’re experts at this. They did it in Moldova. It is the concretisation of their occupation, part of the techniques they take out of a box whenever they occupy a territory. You see it in Georgia, in Abkhazia, as well. When I see photographs of what goes on there, it reminds me so much of the Stanytsia Luhanska bridge. So this is a news article in the Russist propaganda media in June 2018. And they quote their so-called negotiator, this guy who archetyped himself, he looked like Trotsky, I’ve spoken about him before. “We spoke about the two people who have died at the checkpoint outside Stanitsa Luganskaya because of the heat on June 24th, on the Ukrainian side. They are mostly elderly people who cross the contact line to receive pensions.” Because the Russists paid a tiny allowance to people in occupied Luhansk, and then people would cross the bridge to collect their pensions. Under Western pressure, Ukraine was forced for a long time to pay those pensions. Which in turn enabled the occupation, and encouraged people to stay inside the occupation when really they should have left, however horrific it would have been to leave everything behind them. Because it has only gotten worse. Two people died in the queue on that date. That part is true, and it is terrible. But look at who is speaking. The administration that fronts the Russist occupation, the side whose forces are dug in at one end of the broken bridge, has stepped forward as the grieving advocate of the people crossing it. It urges restoration of the bridge. It frets about the elderly in the sun. It points across the river, at the Ukrainian side. The troll under the bridge has put on a red cross armband and is weeping for the goats. That is the bridge troll inverted. And the inversion is the whole trick. The gatekeeper does not stop you with a club. It stops you, and then tells you it is the only one who cares that you were stopped. The toll it collects is not a coin. It is your understanding of who broke the bridge. Here is a second piece, from two years earlier. March 2016, the Russist outlet Riafan. Headline: “OSCE members headed by Hug fled from the Luhansk Folk’s Republic after receiving complaints.” The monitors, I was one of them, are walking from the occupied side towards the government side, and a civilian appeals to them. This is where the Russians stage events, where they shoot at people and blame the Ukrainians. And to set that up, they get people to speak on camera, in front of people like me. A real grief, someone did die. And again, pointed in exactly one direction, at exactly the moment the monitors are about to cross to where they could see for themselves. Stay on our side of the bridge. Do not cross. In one sense they are saying, don’t leave us, don’t abandon us. But in the other sense they are saying, if you abandon us, the Ukrainians will start shooting. And this did not happen in reality. The gatekeeper does not only control who passes. It tries to control where the witness looks. This is folklore-shaped storytelling, built on archetypes we already trust, turned to capture us instead of shelter us. And the thing about an archetype is that the same figure can be turned either way. Donald on the bridge is the bridge troll protecting Americans from all the criminals coming from abroad. From another perspective he is the uber bridge troll, until he met his match in the Iranian trolls. A curse on all of their houses. A guardian of a crossing can genuinely protect the people who cross it. Or it can pose as that guardian while it is the one holding the gate. You cannot tell from the costume. The costume is identical. You tell by what it actually does. Who blew up the bridge? The Russians. Who keeps it broken? The Russians. Who profits from the queue? The Russians. That is why the Luhansk operation worked so well. And I mean worked. It was so complete a piece of stagecraft that for eight years almost nobody reached for the plain word occupation. Look at the outlets’ own language. The occupiers’ press names the occupation almost never. Somewhere between nothing and three in a hundred mentions across the whole period. Even the Ukrainian side climbs only to about a third by 2018. The word for what was happening lagged years behind the thing itself. That is what a good bridge troll buys you. Not the bridge. The name. Most of us have learnt, for instance, that Russia was occupying most of eastern Europe after Yalta. But still, I ha

    Podcast | The Bridge at Stanytsia, and the Kindness of the Captor
  3. Jul 23

    Podcast | Actor, Not Philosopher - Outflank Dugin, Don't Rebut Ep 2

    It’s Amazing What Regular People Can Do For six months now I have been training a neural network to build the training data for a local language model. The model’s job, when it is ready, will be to read wartime information and sort it the way I do: into Disinfolklore, Infolklore, and Neutral. I have been working extremely hard on this and the progress has been remarkable. One challenge sits under everything. We are swimming in Disinfolklore. Infolklore is scarce. I developed both concepts, starting from the propaganda that flooded Stanytsia Luhanska in eastern Ukraine from 2015 onwards. Disinfolklore is the narrative form in which meanness is communicated directly into people’s minds. It works on their intentions, their motivations, their attitudes and, importantly, their moods, without their ever knowing. Infolklore is its opposite: the tale that feeds the well we all who listen daily to @Volya4UA on Twitter spaces drink from instead of poisoning it. Most of us were together in the Mriya Report days, and while you were watching the war I was developing these ideas from the very material we all looked at each day. Finding real Disinfolklore to train on is easy. Everything we hear from Strelkov will do: we are going to kill you all, basically. Finding clean Infolklore turned out to be the hard part. We have spent months feeding every kind of text to the frontier model I work with. Sherlock Holmes. Even, and Ming will appreciate this, P.G. Wodehouse. None of it passes muster. Great thanks to James and Wendy for hosting Decoding Disinfolklore every Wednesday. We’ve been going now for fourteen months every week! Three sources lit the instrument up. The first was written by a friend of the show. John Spencer jointly wrote the definitive account of the battle for Kyiv, a nine-thousand-word study. The moment I fed it in, the model recognised it as the best match for Infolklore it had seen. The second is a channel that still publishes every day: RIA Melitopol, now RIA Pivden, working out of Zaporizhzhia city while Melitopol is temporarily occupied. The third is Volya. In particular Will and M’ockers. In particular M’ockers, who wears her archetype on her moniker. Her whole method is: well, that will teach you to invade Ukraine. It is the complete opposite of the dark well. So a couple of weeks ago I recorded one of the Volya shows and put it through the method properly. It was the episode where the tanker fella told the whole history of the alumina campaign which his fellow Tanker Fella @realLangerDan had begun. And I am not really writing about that campaign here. I am writing about the pattern he was describing: a small group of people moving together, creating a great campaign, and the campaign moving monsters. The Trita pattern That pattern has a name. Most of us in the pro-Ukraine space carry an archetypal model of how the world works, and it works by the small person being victorious. There is another pattern, the Vritra pattern, the serpent who holds the waters back and always wins. Both patterns live in every Indo-European language culture. Celtic, Armenian, Iranian, Indic. In England it is St George and the dragon. In India and Iran the hero is sometimes called Trita, and every Hollywood happy ending is the Trita pattern working out. It is not mysterious. You do not have to have read about Trita. You just carry the pattern. Most of us on the pro-Ukraine side recognised from the very beginning that Ukraine was going to win, because there is no other choice. There is not a world in which Russia wins. Our certainty through the long struggle becomes clearer when one reads about the Trita pattern, which I came across in the work of one of the foremost Indo-European specialists, Bruce Lincoln, while researching Disinfolklore. So here is my analysis of what the tanker fella and everyone on that show were doing that particular day. On day one of the full-scale invasion, one man posted one question. Why is our country still shipping alumina to Russia when there is a war on? Nobody important answered him. He just tweeted, like all of us small people do, into the blackness. Three years later there was an investigative journalist on the story, more than thirty MEPs signing declarations, a government investigation and a vote in the European Parliament. And a couple of weeks ago the show told the story in its own words. The first line of the episode was the best summary anyone could write. “It’s amazing what regular people can do, isn’t it?” The moment I heard that, I knew I had my perfect case study. The two acts of naming As all of you know, I study wartime stories. As all of us do. We have become experts in it. I had to laugh this week when M’ockers chimed in with “did you see that?” about some particular explosion somewhere, and the tanker fella was able to describe it immediately. This is the kind of knowledge most of our friends in the real world would balk at. They have no idea any of this is going on. I have spent years building a method for reading these stories. The method has a simple engine: two acts of naming. The first act: name the story. Not the topic, the story. Wartime information runs on story patterns far older than any of us. Some are older than writing. When you name the pattern correctly, the noise drops away and you can see what the piece of content is actually doing. The second act: proof it. Take the conduct the story carries and hold it against the standard our grandparents wrote down after 1945. The UN Charter, the European Convention on Human Rights, the Genocide Convention, the Law of the Sea, the Geneva Conventions of 1949. Story plus standard gives you a verdict. Either the tale feeds the well we all drink from, and I call it Infolklore. Or it poisons the well, and I call that Disinfolklore. Or it is neither, and the method says so and moves on. When I teach a computer to do this automatically, this is the structure I give it. It loves it. First act: Trita against Vritra Start with the alumina story, because it fits one of the oldest patterns we have. In the Rig Veda, the oldest long text in our whole language family, there is a serpent called Vritra. His name means “the coverer.” He coils around the waters and holds them back. The rivers stop. The world dries. He produces nothing. He only withholds. Against him the tradition sets a hero. In the oldest layer of the story that hero is Trita, which simply means “third”: after Manu, the human, and Yama, the twin, comes the third brother, the younger one, the one nobody bet on. He has no army. He frees the waters anyway. And the seven rivers of ancient India run. The campaign story has the same shape. A flow that should move was being held. Not the alumina, which flowed freely, too freely. What was being held back was the truth about where it went, and the sanction that truth demanded. Around the flow sat a coil of reassurances. Don’t worry, it’s only for tin cans. Don’t touch it, the jobs. There’s an investigation, wait for the investigation. A hundred days and counting. That is the Vritra conduct. Nothing created. Everything covered. Then the third brother turns up. One tanker watcher with a tweet. Then a website. Then a handful of listeners. Then M’ockers and her enthusiasm for the campaign from the very beginning. Then journalists, the Irish Times and the OCCRP, who found the receiving smelters’ military contracts. Then the public lobbying register, which anyone can read at lobbying.ie and which showed the scale of the pressure from the other side. Then thirty MEPs. The campaign called its own method “polite persistence.” I cannot improve on that name. It is exactly how the third brother fights. He does not become a serpent to beat a serpent. He keeps asking for the waters until the waters move. Second act: proof it against the standard This is where the campaign shines, and I do not think we even notice it ourselves while it is going on. Someone said on air: you have to have a solid argument, you have to base it on facts. That is the first mark of the bright side. Fabrication is the serpent’s tool, never the third brother’s. The second element of the Code of Positive Trolls is ethical discipline. We do not get anywhere by lying. Then somebody (@willthiel) in the community pointed the campaign at the Genocide Convention. I think that was Heather, as ever just behind the scenes, suggesting it to M’ockers. The duty of every country to prevent genocide arises as soon as it becomes aware it is involved. A group of ordinary listeners, on a medium most of our friends do not even know exists, reached for the post-1945 legal order as their spine. Not for a conspiracy theory. Not for rage. For the charter world our grandparents built. In my method, that is precisely what separates the two kinds of story. The verdict writes itself. This is Infolklore, and it is anchor-grade Infolklore. There was one more line in that segment that bears repeating. You don’t need to be well-funded. You don’t need a big lobby group. You just need people. The old Indo-European world had a word for the power that gathers in a community when it acts rightly. Our cousins in the Pacific still use it. Mana. That sentence is what mana sounds like in an Irish accent. The troll under the bridge Inside the campaign story sat a smaller, nastier pattern, and the show displayed it perfectly. The jobs line: touch this export and the jobs are at risk. Every folklore tradition in Europe knows this figure. It is the troll under the bridge. He does not own the bridge. He did not build it. He just sits at the crossing and demands a toll. The toll here was silence. Leave the export alone or your neighbours lose their livelihoods. The method asks one question of every toll. Is it fair? This one was not. And Volya answered it, not by shouting, with facts again. Over half the output going to a single buyer whose war economy must e

  4. Jul 16

    Podcast | Outflank Dugin. Don't Rebut - Ep. 1

    I am going to start two new miniseries today. The first one goes back to what I call the Luhansk Corpus. That is the ten thousand propaganda items from Russia-occupied Luhansk 2015-2018 (the empirical grounding of the Disinfolklore analytical method). These are relatively pithy pieces, though each a part of an entire system of seeing, which can applied and mobilised against any Disinfolklore galaxy, such as MAGA, Iran, Ruschia, Italy, wherever. I am going to read three today. Then I will start another new series: Outflank Dugin. Don’t Rebut. Outflanking enemies in the information war - the battle to free our minds from manipulative Disinfolklore-borne brain-washing memes. That is one of the main tactics I deploy. It’s why, for example, I go as far back and deeply into the past 6,000 years of Indo-European culture as possible. When arch manipulators like Modi, Putler, Donald or Dugin (or even local characters in our own lives deploy mysticism and superstition to gain power, one way to understand what they’re doing and to defeat them is: Outflank. Don’t Rebut. This new series gives everyone the tools to do this. 1. The Word That Wasn’t There I am talking about a word that was not there in the context of Russia-occupied Ukraine. I would like us also to think about the word that was never there while Muscovy was occupying most of Europe after 1945. It is the same phenomenon. Many people did not see it in the context of Russia-occupied Luhansk. They also did not see it in the context of that massive military occupation of Czechoslovakia, Poland and all the rest of it between 1945 and 1990. And I include myself in that, until relatively recently. For eight years, the most important word about Russia’s war in Luhansk was missing from almost everyone’s mouth. The word is occupation. It was missing from occupiers and Ukrainians alike. This episode teaches us to read the silence. The thing that is not said is sometimes the operation. Here is a strange way to catch a disinformation operation. Do not listen for the loudest word. Listen for the word that should be there and is not. The setting is Luhansk, in eastern Ukraine, from 2014 to 2018. These are the years before the full-scale invasion. Russia has taken a chunk of the region and stood up a fake country there. It is the so-called Luhansk Folk’s Republic, the LFR. I spent time on the contact line at the Stanytsia Luhanska bridge, doing monitoring work for the OSCE. That is the European security body that oversaw the so-called ceasefire. I read thousands of items of propaganda during those years. The thing I want us to notice is what nobody was saying. Listen to the occupier’s own outlet, the Lugansk Information Centre, in February 2017. The LFR, it reports, “demands”. Demands. It demands “coexistence with central authorities, Kiev, as it calls it, on a contractual basis. This means the power to conclude contracts.” Read that again. Notice the word that is not in it. Two parties. A contract. Coexistence. This is the vocabulary of one state talking to another. It is not the vocabulary of an occupier and the people under its boot. Or here is the same outlet in 2016, on the LFR’s so-called border guards. They patrol 274 kilometres of the so-called border with Russia. A border. A state has borders. A fake republic is dressing itself every single day in the costume of a country. That is the operation’s foundational move. It works by what it leaves out. Say republic. Say border. Say minister, parliament, ten thousand times. Never once say occupation. And the missing word starts to feel like it was never true. Now here is the part that should stop us. The other side left the word out too. Look at how Ukraine’s own news agency, Ukrinform, described the fighting in January 2018. “Events in the anti-terrorist operation, the ATO, zone.” The ATO, the anti-terrorist operation, was the official Ukrainian name for the war for years. For all the years I was in Ukraine. Think about what that name quietly does. It frames a foreign invasion and occupation as a counter-terrorism problem. It becomes something a country handles inside its own borders, against criminals. It is a true description of a real fight. But it is not the sentence. The sentence is: a foreign army is occupying our land. The word still is not there. You can watch the word arrive in slow motion. In 2017, the phrase “temporarily occupied territories” starts creeping into the Ukrainian wires. In 2018, Ukraine renames the war from the ATO to the JFO, the Joint Forces Operation. Still an operation. Still not repelling an occupier. If you measured across the whole archive of ten thousand propaganda items, the occupier’s outlets called it an occupation almost never. Under four per cent. And the Ukrainian side climbs from about three per cent at the start to a third by 2018. The word everyone now uses without thinking was, at the time, the word almost no one reached for. I will give you the cleanest measurement I have. It is myself. I studied international law at Cambridge. I did monitoring work on that very contact line. And I did not call them occupiers. Not in my own head, until the tanks rolled in 2022. I was inside the frame they built. That is not a confession. It is data. If the frame can hold a stranger who has read law and stood at the bridge, it is a very good frame. In my framework, I would call this Disinfolklore. It is folklore-like storytelling built to capture you rather than shelter you. Usually we hunt it by the characters it deploys. The Nazi bogeyman. The merciful sovereign. The saintly grandmother at the checkpoint. Those are loud. This one is silent. The archetype here is not even a character at all. It is a shape with a hole in the middle. Like a shell hole in a fairy-tale kindergarten, of the kind Victoria Amelina wrote about. So let me give us the tool, because it is a small one and we can carry it everywhere. Call it reading the absence. When we meet any account of a contested thing, a war, a firing, a closed factory, a vanished neighbour, let us not only weigh the words that are present. Ask the quieter question. What word would honest description put here, and is it missing? Who benefits from its absence? A border instead of a front line? An operation instead of an invasion? A republic instead of a seizure? Here is what seeing it gives us. It is the only reason any of this matters. Once you can hear the missing word, you cannot unhear it. The silence stops being neutral. It starts pointing, at every turn, on every side, to the thing someone needed you not to name. The frame only works while the word stays gone. The moment you supply it yourself, the operation is over. It took us collectively eight years and a full-scale invasion to say occupation out loud. We do not have to wait that long next time. We can learn to hear the hole in the sentence and put the word back ourselves. I think about the reporting this week on Venezuela, and the occupation by the United States of Venezuela. 2. The Republic of Liturgy This piece is about how a fake state’s ordinary rituals made occupation feel like the weather. A parade. A foreign minister. A children’s hospital transfer. And it is about what naming the liturgy hands back to us. Here is a small thing that could stop us. In the spring of 2017, an outlet called the Lugansk Information Centre put out a notice that the OSCE would be coming to a parade. The Lugansk Information Centre is the in-house news agency of Russia’s fake republic in eastern Ukraine. The OSCE is the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe. In those years it ran an unarmed special monitoring mission along the front line. The observers were people like me, whose whole job was to watch and report neutrally. Here is what the fake republic’s spokesperson, Lieutenant Colonel Andrey Marochko, said about them on the 10th of April 2017. “They said that they will monitor the event.” The event was a Victory Day parade. It is the most sacred date in the Soviet calendar, the 9th of May. It was staged in occupied Luhansk by an entity that does not exist in international law. And the monitors allegedly agreed to come and watch. I want us to see how ordinary that is. It is not dramatic. It is not a battle. A parade, with observers RSVPing. That is the whole trick of this episode. This is about archetypal Disinfolklore. It is disinformation that works the way folklore works, by archetype and repetition rather than by argument. An archetype is just a familiar character, or a familiar shape, that a story slots into without us noticing. The one we are reading today I call the fake-state liturgy. Liturgy means the ritual you repeat. The parade. The holiday. The ministry doing its dull rounds. The tell, the thing that gives it away, is not the lie. The tell is the boredom. The fake state performs competent, tender, normal government. Watch it perform diplomacy. In February 2017, the same outlet quoted the republic’s acting foreign minister, Natalia Nikonorova, talking to the Russian news agency TASS. In her words, she spoke of “coexistence with central authorities, Kiev, as they call it, on a contractual basis.” A foreign minister of a thing that is not a country, conducting foreign affairs on the record, in the register of any chancellery in Europe. You read it and your eyes slide right past it, because it sounds exactly like statecraft. Watch it perform care, which is the most disarming face of all. An LFR-controlled newspaper in occupied Stakhanov reported, in April 2016, that the LFR Ministry of Health had transferred sick children for treatment. Stakhanov is not the town’s name. Kadiivka is its proper name. Now, those children are probably real, and we should want sick children to be treated. But notice the sentence is doing two things at once. It is moving children, and it is conferring existence. A Ministry of Health did this. R

  5. Jul 9

    Podcast | Metanoia or the Reboot?

    This is the last episode of my mini-series on Larysa Yakubova’s The Beast from the Abyss. The first episode: For the past five episodes I’ve walked us all down into the dark where most of us live all day when we’re in Ukraine mode, and tonight, you’ll be happy to know, I’m going to walk you back up. This, of course, reflects the archetypal presence of the beast from the abyss that Larysa Yakubova — from the Ukrainian National Academy of Sciences, an expert on the Holodomor — it reflects the imagery and the archetypes that she uses. I’m Decoding Trolls. I write on disinfolklore.eu, disinfolklore.net, and decodingtrolls.net, where you can subscribe, and powerofmana.net — and also on X, as Disinfolklore and as Decoding Trolls. Here’s the claim in this final episode. The beast is not answered with a better argument. It is answered with a truer image. Some of you who follow my work will understand why I’m so attracted to Larysa Yakubova’s Ruschism: The Beast from the Abyss — because she works in archetypes. Episode 2: It is answered with a truer image, and this is also what I try to do in my work consciously, and what many other people, like Mockers, and many of you, do also unconsciously — in the sense that it’s not a purposeful strategy — when you’re talking about Infolklore. The whole turn of the series, and the whole turn of Larysa Yakubova’s book, is to answer the beast from the abyss with a truer image. Don’t reflect the image it produces. Don’t share memes that have photos of the people you are critiquing, because that’s how we keep these memes alive; that’s how we reward these Ruschists with amplification. The small part we can play in stopping the spread is this: if we must share the image, if we must share the meme, if we must share the idea, then we can cross it out — like I do, I scrub it out in red, if I need to, so that you hardly see anything of it — but I also try to offer opposite images, Infolklore. She spends 300 pages of Ruschism: The Beast from the Abyss naming a horror with a forensic patience that would frighten us, and then, on the last pages, she does something the Ruschist apparatus can never do. She does not merely refute the nightmare. She replaces it. She holds up a different picture of the world and says: this one is true, and the other one is a costume worn over an abyss. Episode 3: Behistun: Arta and the Druge Many of you will know, in many of these broadcasts, I’ve spoken about the truth. I’ve spoken about Darius, the founder of the Achaemenid Empire, 600 BCE, and his inscriptions on the Behistun Rock in Iran, where he talks about how he engaged against the usurpers — the druge, the Lie; druge, dragon; the Lie. We see today Donald tweeting and speaking against the inheritors of Darius’s great empire in Iran — the mad mullahs of Iran, whom Donald archetyped as liars. We see, from the rocks at Behistun in 600 BCE, where the truth — Arta — is archetyped as the rightful power, the rightful sovereign, the rightful speech, against druge, the Lie. Larysa Yakubova, as does President Zelensky, gets this intuitively as well. She holds up a different picture of the world to that of the Ruschists, and says this one is true, and the other one is a costume worn over an abyss. Adjudicating the Claim to Right The most common thing I get from people is: oh, but the Russians say this. I say: yes, but then we have to adjudicate it. That is a claim to right, and therefore we adjudicate that claim to right. When it comes to occupied Ukraine, they are the usurpers, they are the dragon, they are the serpent, they are the beast entering another people’s land — and whatever they claim is a lie is the druge. We adjudicate. It’s not ‘both sides’; both sides are not equal. Both sides have a claim to right, and then we adjudicate which is the correct claim to right, and we use the post-World War II legal order to determine that. In defence of Ancient Ukraine: Once we have that as a means of adjudication — and I use it in the Code of Positive Trolls; it’s completely integrated into the Disinfolklore Analytical Method, but it also works on the micro level and on the macro level — once you have that, you have the Refugee Convention, the Genocide Convention, the laws of war, the Convention on Civil and Political Rights, where countries commit to removing discrimination on the grounds of sex or political views or other protected criteria. Tool 6, Generosity, and the Grave-Diggers The move she makes, Larysa Yakubova, is covered by Tool 6 in the Disinfolklore Analytical Method, the 12-tool way — and Tool 6 is generosity. She’s been generous to the beast from the abyss. The move the whole series has been climbing towards is re-archetyping, which, as you know, is part of the 12 tools on disinfolklore.eu. The product of re-archetyping reality is Infolklore. It’s what Mockers does intuitively every day on her show, and Will too — both really fluently and excellently. By the end of this, I want us to think of Larysa Yakubova not only as a diagnostician of the beast from the abyss, but as one of its grave-diggers — her own word. The act of grave-digging she performs, and all of us who listen to Volya all the time, and participate, and who host — we are digging the grave of Ruschism. Larysa performs an act of re-archetyping so complete that it leaves the Ruschist apparatus with nothing to stand on. First, though, her condition — because she’ll not let us climb out of the abyss on cheap terms, and neither will any of us. Her Condition: Call Things by Their Names Larysa Yakubova offers hope, but it is a stern hope, and we have to earn the right to it. Her condition for escape from the abyss — for the Ruschists — is the same condition this whole mini-series has been built on, and it’s the same first move the Disinfolklore framework teaches: you must call things by their names. Once you recognise the Mana, the energy in a thing, in a phenomenon, in a meme, then you call it by its proper name. You adjudicate. You call it by its proper name. The Ruschists call whatever Mana they produce by its improper name. The Moon, the Menses and the Maternal Clock: I want to be precise about what she promises and what she refuses to promise. She does not promise rescue for the Ruschists — they’re beyond rescue. She does not promise that naming the evil dissolves it. What she offers, in her own grim arithmetic — in paraphrase, but the shape of it — is this: calling things by their true name buys only a meagre chance for at least someone to find their way out of what she calls, again in paraphrase, the mirror hall of perfected evil, which is where the Ruschists are living. It’s a meagre chance for at least someone out of a hall of mirrors. The Meagre Chance and the Mirror Hall of Perfected Evil This is not sentimental. She is a scholar of the Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, writing under the salvoes that interrupt her writing and her research, because she’s been bombed. They’re trying to kill her; they’re trying to murder her. The beast has come out from the abyss and is launching missiles and Geran drones to kill her. She will not sell us a happy ending. She’ll sell us a door — narrow, half-open, with no guarantee on the far side, but a door. Here she says: here is what the Ruschist apparatus wants us to believe instead. Notice it is the exact opposite of her condition. The Ruschist apparatus wants us to believe that names don’t matter, that it’s all just narratives. How many of us have heard this? How many of us have heard ourselves saying this, or thinking this? Even if we haven’t heard of postmodernism, we’re imbued with it; it’s imminent, it’s in the air. Someone like Donald Trump would never have read a book on postmodernism in his life, and yet he manifests it in almost every sentence he speaks. Names don’t matter; it’s all just narratives; it’s all just framing; one side’s terrorist is another side’s freedom fighter; who’s to say? “Names Don’t Matter”: The Bridge Troll of Meaning Register the Mana in that move before you register the argument. It is fatigue dressed as sophistication. The feeling it installs is: why bother, it’s all spin anyway. Name the archetype underneath, and the voltage halves. This is the bridge troll of meaning itself — the keeper of the threshold who charges us our own clarity as the toll for being allowed to feel worldly. Proof it against the Code of Positive Trolls. Is it true? No. The claim that names are arbitrary is itself the most useful lie the beast tells, because the thing you cannot name is a thing you cannot resist. Is it generous? No. It robs the target of the one instrument that costs nothing and cannot be confiscated. The relativism that says naming is naive is itself Disinfolklore — the apparatus protecting its own camouflage. Larysa Yakubova’s whole book is the refusal of that toll. She names, and in naming she does the first thing the Code of Positive Trolls asks of us. She gets her eye in, and she’ll not look away. Metanoia and the Reboot Here is where Larysa Yakubova gets sterner still, and where she saves us from the earliest, easiest mistake of all — the mistake of mistaking a costume change for a transformation. She draws a hard line between two kinds of change. Remember, she’s writing in 2023, before this peace-process nonsense. A costume-change peace — ‘I want peace’ — a costume change, but underneath it, no change. She uses her own word for a real one: metanoia. Again, an MN word — not the Greek of the seminary by accident; she means it precisely. Metanoia, in her usage, is a root-and-branch change of mind and of values. How do we denazify the Ruschists? How do we denazify the 90 million people left living in the Ruschist Federation? A root-and-branch change of mind and of values — a turning so deep that the pe

  6. Jul 2

    Podcast | The Golem and the Grand Inquisitor

    It’s a reflecting pool. So we’re talking about accusation in a mirror which is Donald’s main tactic as well (just as we were talking about before) using an arch in the ceremonial axis of the Republic to install, archly, an archetype of right (which is in fact the opposite of right, an insurrection). So the structure of these - the magnetism of the - words reveal everything really. I marvel and find it astonishing that we can be going through this complete saga over the reflecting pool. If you described it to anyone even a year ago they would not believe you. 10 years ago they would not believe you. That this is going on is a marvel to be sure. We the people are installed inside this disinfolklore galaxy where the script and the stage is right there. The words reveal it, every sentence. Without these revealing words - Monarch, arch, ballroom,… the archetype could not be installed. The monarch installing the monarch with all this gold, visiting Versailles and all of this stuff. This is kind of what I was talking about before, which Surkov talks about. Part of the act, part of the stage play is to reveal it and in there is the supreme act of manipulation. I happen to believe from my work on Dugin and on Surkov and on Donald that the the playing of the monarch archetype is part of the stage play. In order to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes over what is actually happening, which is more closer, not to a monarchy, but an oikarchy. Where you have the directors and a whole group of oligarchs rinsing the Muni out of our Community, rinsing the Mana, the energy, the money out of our community. The clothes it is wearing are the clothes of Donald playing the monarch. And the reflecting pool, the triumphal arch, these are all parts of this stage play. It fits this same pattern, the symbolism of knocking down the east wing and installing a ballroom, a monarchical ballroom. Underneath it is the Mafia state. Concealed by waffle about the czar and Donald’s tweets about wanting to be a monarch. The phrase, “you couldn’t make it up,” doesn’t apply because it is disinfolklore. It is made up. The disinfolklore galaxy is a purposefully created instrument. It’s a disinfolklore galaxy made up of these ingredients, which are so obvious. They’re obvious on the level of linguistics, language and symbolism to the simplest minds. Because everyone - the simplest minds- read fairy tales with ballrooms, mirrors, arches, inner/outer realm switching. Yet the archetypes are being installed in every story about the reflecting pool and these arrests and they have these real world impacts which are changing people’s lives… We fight on. Poland and Ukraine: The Shape of the Strategy The shape of what is happening now between Poland and Ukraine fits exactly the pattern Vladislav Surkov himself talks about. I spoke about this before in the context of Ukrainian historian, Tetiana Boryak’s work. The Ruschists’ strategy is to take archetypes of national consciousness, invest new meanings into them, and create divisions in society using this tactic. MAGA; Brexit; what we saw with Law and Justice in Poland after it was elected, initially in the wake of Russia’s carpet-bombing of Syria from September 2015; the Fidesz Party in Hungary; entities in Ireland, and all over the place. It’s devilishly difficult to spot, because it’s wrapped, always, in every jurisdiction, in patriotic sentiment. And by its very definition, this strategy — and it is a strategy rather than a tactic, because it’s one of the main means Russia uses, again, in Surkov’s own words, because the Russians can’t help themselves articulating this, which is part of the thrill and part of their creation of power — is to wrap itself in patriotic clothes, in whatever’s to hand. They just don’t care whether you’re in Poland, with this history between Ukraine and Poland; in Ireland, between Britain and Ireland; or MAGA, Make America Great Again, between liberals and conservatives. They’ll just take this division everywhere. The shape of this — as indeed the shape of the truck protesters in Poland that we all remember, and all the rest of it — has this same shape of the Russian strategy. That’s how I see it. We did have this miracle where Duda, the former Polish president who presented President Zelensky with the award, continued the government policy that had been established under Solidarity when they took over in the early 90s: the two-track policy of defending Poland’s patriotic and national interests publicly, but in private doing everything they could to promote and give Ukraine opportunities to anchor itself in the minds of the German leadership and the great powers as an independent state. We all remember Bush’s Chicken Kyiv speech as a marker in the ground — that it wasn’t inevitable that people would accept the inevitability of Ukraine becoming a sovereign and independent state. So we’re lucky we have someone as sophisticated as Sikorski, who, as I’ve mentioned, understood — he was in the Maidan in February 2014, negotiating a truce between the demonstrators and Yanukovych’s government, which thankfully failed when Yanukovych fled, with Manafort there. We’re lucky we have him there, and Donald Tusk, and hopefully everything will die down. The Golem and the Grand Inquisitor I was going to continue with Larysa Yakubova’s The Beast from the Abyss. Last week I had just told you about how she was describing the use of this arcane, esoteric Ruschist so-called philosopher who was resurrected by the mafia regime in Russia in the 1990s. So the title of this is The Golem and the Grand Inquisitor. I’m Decoding Trolls. I write mostly on Twitter as Disinfolklore, Decoding Trolls, but also on disinfolklore.eu, decodingtrolls.net, powerofmana.net, and disinfolklore.net, where you can subscribe. The title of the book Larysa Yakubova wrote is Rashism: The Beast from the Abyss. She’s a member of the National Academy of Sciences in Ukraine, and this book was published by them in 2023. Now go past the title to the doctrine, where Yakubova stops being a critic and becomes a coroner. What did the Ruschist apparatus actually buy when it bought Ilyin? Not subtlety. Strip the prose, and you find one idea worn smooth by handling: the absolute, sacralised, all-powerful state, to which the human being owes everything and may demand nothing. Yakubova has a figure for this — again, her argument. She reads Ilyin as the apologist of the golem: the worshipper of the man-made monster, the giant of clay animated to serve its makers that instead devours them. And she reads the moral posture beneath it as that of the grand inquisitor: the one who takes freedom away for people’s own salvation, certain they are happier without the burden of choosing, and who will burn them to keep them safe. The Brothers Karamazov and the Third Rome This week I wrote a post about the fraternal brotherliness of the Soviet archetype, which was used to shoehorn Ukraine and Belarus into a union with the Soviet Union, and was made manifest even in families, where it was all about brotherhood — and this is just an archetype. I referenced The Brothers Karamazov, where, for some of us who have read it — I’m assuming not everyone here has — there are basically three brothers, like three folkloric brothers. One of the brothers, Ivan Karamazov, received some of his education in the West and comes back to Russia and finds it really difficult to reconcile his Western ideas with his Eastern ones, with the ideology of the deep folk. They have a brother, the saintly Alyosha, who is the representation of Russia’s Third Rome troll — its idea of itself as the Third Rome, as some sort of really spiritual, ascetic state, which obviously most of us today would find laughable. Ivan wants to disabuse Alyosha of his saintliness and of his belief in the good. So Ivan tells him this story, which is the Grand Inquisitor episode, which some of us actually might have read. I read it as a postgrad at Georgetown, as part of my intellectual history. In it, basically, a Jesus figure comes back, and he’s gathering all his followers, and eventually he is arrested; and just before he is executed, he meets and has this conversation with the Grand Inquisitor, who is, in effect, Pontius Pilate. So that’s the literary reference here — in which the Grand Inquisitor says: well, what did you think was going to happen? Did you think we were going to welcome you with flowers? Look what you’re doing out there. The people love you. But you’re promising them an idealism that just doesn’t work in this world. And you were told not to come back to us. And now you’ve come back, and the inevitable will happen. And this will always happen when you and your idealism come back to us. So that, as an archetype inside the Ruschist consciousness, as voiced by Dostoevsky in such great art, is still immanent in the monarchist, in the czarist approach to governance and their idea of themselves. This is one of the reasons I decided to feature Larysa Yakubova’s book, because it’s so brilliant and everyone should be reading it. They shouldn’t be reading people like Mark Galeotti, or all of these Russian journalists who go to Moscow for 10 years and then write a book — escape from Moscow, and how Putin hates them, and all of that nonsense. They should be reading Ukrainians, as all of us spend time doing, because Ukrainians were part of Russia — as we understood the Soviet Union to be — until 1991, and they understand what makes Russia tick on a really deep archetypal level. If you want to understand what to do about Russia, and what Russia is, Larysa Yakubova is the person to read — not these people in RAND, or former central bankers working for think tanks in the US. Because Yakubova understands, like me and my insights about Disinfolklore, that if you really want to mine h

  7. Jun 25

    Podcast | In Defence of "Ancient Ukraine"

    We say ancient Greece and ancient Egypt without a flicker, and we call a Bronze Age culture in Kazakhstan the first Aryans — every one of them a modern name thrown back over a people who never bore it. The homeland of the whole Indo-European family is the Dnipro Valley. So, by the rule we already use for everyone else, there is an ancient Ukraine. To withhold the name is not scholarly caution. It is a double standard. And there is a war behind it. Say ancient Greece, and nothing in you objects. Say ancient Egypt, ancient Rome, ancient China — all of them slide past without a snag. Now say ancient Ukraine, and for a great many people, something catches: a small resistance, a raised eyebrow, sometimes a flat correction. “But Ukraine is a modern country.” That catch — not the linguistics, not the archaeology, just the catch itself — is what this is about. Because of all the things worth defending about this work, the plainest is the right to use two ordinary words. Part of what people feel here is simply correct. Modern Ukraine is a modern state. Its present borders, its flag, its seat at the United Nations are 20th-century phenomena. The herders who lived in the Dnipro Valley 5,500 years ago did not call themselves Ukrainians. They did not know the word, and could not have pointed to a country on a map that did not exist. All of that is true. But notice that every word of it is just as true of ancient Egypt. The people who raised the pyramids did not call themselves Egyptians. That is a Greek word, Aigyptos, laid on them long after. And the people who live in Egypt today are, for the most part, Arabic-speaking Muslims, whose language and faith and much of their ancestry arrived more than a thousand years after the last pharaoh — about as discontinuous from the pyramid builders as a population on its own soil can be. By that same standard, ancient Egypt should be an outrage. But it troubles nobody. It troubles no one because everyone already understands, without being told, what an anachronistic name is for. Ancient Egypt does not claim that the modern nation descends in an unbroken line from the pharaohs. It names the ancient people of that land using the land’s modern moniker, because the land’s modern moniker is the handle we have. Ancient Britain does the same. The modern English are largely descendants of Anglo-Saxon incomers, not the people who raised Stonehenge, nor the Celts — the Pretani tribe — who, after being eradicated by the Romans, then the Germanics, and then the Normans, survive as a rump in Brittany in France and in Cymru, which is Wales, in the west of the country. No one accuses a book on ancient Britain of bad faith. Ancient Greece names the Hellenes, who never called themselves Greeks at all; Graeci is a Roman’s word for them. Every single one of these is a modern label thrown backward over a people who never wore it. Naming a People by a Country They Would Reach a Thousand Years Later In fact, we go much further than naming the ancient people of a land by that land’s modern name. We routinely name an ancient people by the modern name of a different land — one their descendants would reach only a thousand years later. Consider the Sintashta culture, dug out of the steppe of what is now Kazakhstan. When the Sintashta graves were discovered about 20 or 30 years ago, deep inside them were the exact copy of burial customs and funereal feasts that had been written down in the Rig Veda in India around 1100 BCE. Archaeologists and experts had assumed that these burial practices and funereal ceremonies, written down in the Rig Veda from around 1200 to 1100 BCE, had been invented. And then we find, thousands of kilometres away, the exact facsimile of them from 2000 BCE. Every account you will read calls these people the first Aryans, or Indo-Iranians, and the names are borrowed wholesale from India and Iran — lands the Sintashta themselves never saw. Remember, 2000 BCE; but their customs do not appear in India, or we have no evidence of them appearing in India, for another 900 years. Iran and Aryan as identities did not exist in their time. They arose, as I have noted elsewhere, from a religious reform by Zoroaster that came along long after the Sintashta culture had risen and passed. Zarathustra — Zoroaster — is about 1400 BCE, so about 500 years between the Sintashta and when the Zoroastrian reforms came in and the whole idea of the Arya, meaning the centre of a community, arose. From the Sintashta’s own standpoint, there was no Iran, no India, no Veda; it was 2000 BCE, no Zoroaster — only the grass and the chariot and the horse. But we call them Aryans anyway, reading the rich later record of their descendants — the Vedic hymns, the Zoroastrian fire — back into a preliterate people who would have found every one of those words meaningless. It is, in my own phrase for it, anachronistic yet defensible. And it is defensible: the back-propagation is sound because the descent is real. We have the archaeogenetic evidence of it. We have the archaeological evidence of it. And we now have the textual evidence. “The first Aryans” for the Sintashta is the loose kind: it names the people of one place by the later name of a country their great-great-great-grandchildren’s grandchildren would build somewhere else. We accept the loose kind without a murmur. Ancient Ukraine only ever asks for the tight kind — the easier, safer, more literal move. If we grant the harder courtesy to the steppe of Kazakhstan while refusing the easier one to the steppe of Ukraine, that is not a principle. It’s a preference dressed as a principle. If the naming rule is the same for everyone, why does ancient Ukraine alone catch the throat? The Catch Is a Lag, Not a Position The reason is not about Ukraine at all. It’s about us, and what we happen to have read. We grant the back-propagated name confidence, evidently, wherever a dense later record makes the deep past feel anchored. Egypt has its monuments and its hieroglyphs; Greece its Homer; Rome its libraries; India and Iran their scriptures. The Dnipro homeland left no writing, and the knowledge that it is the homeland is genuinely recent. It arrived in force only with the archaeogenetics revolution after 2015, when the reading of ancient DNA — together with the linguistics, the archaeology, the comparative mythology, and the isotopes, the strontium locked in ancient teeth that tells us where a person grew up — converged on a single answer. So the hesitation over ancient Ukraine is not a considered position. It’s a lag. The moniker has not yet caught up with the evidence. Most of us still carry the mental map we were handed in school. That map is out of date, and the correction is not a fringe claim. Multidisciplinary scholars have known since 2015 that all Indo-European language, religion, and culture — all living Indo-European languages, from Ireland to India — go back to the Yamnaya of the Dnipro Valley around 3600 BCE: the herders of Mykhailivka, from whom the ancient DNA now traces every living branch of the family. And I note — two days ago the Russians destroyed a Russian colonial-era mansion which I visited in a village near Mykolaiv, on the right bank of the Dnipro. Some of you might have seen the pictures of it. Another war crime by Russia. But anyway. I’m with the linguist Don Ringe, author of the definitive study on the origins of the Germanic languages, including English, on the location. In 2006 he wrote that it was the rivers and valleys of Ukraine that made the most sense; and then in the new edition, 2017, he said the evidence strongly points there. Nikitin et al.’s Nature paper, which I’ve spoken about before, from the 5th of February 2025, establishes beyond all reasonable doubt that the Yamnaya, and Mykhailivka village on the right bank of the Dnipro, was the centre of the Yamnaya community from whom all living Indo-European languages emanate. Steinmeier, the Nebra Sky Disc, and “Southern Russia” So what kept the answer from being heard for so long was not the absence of evidence. Some of you might remember, around the beginning of the war, I tweeted a lot about Steinmeier, who is currently German president. On my way back from Ukraine — I left Ukraine on the 29th of January 2022 with my cat, and we drove over the border into Poland, anticipating the invasion — I visited an amazing place called Halle in Germany, because I wanted to see the Nebra Sky Disc there. They have this most amazing museum in Halle, which I stopped in on my way back from Ukraine, and the exhibition catalogue had an introduction by Steinmeier. The exhibition I’d gone to see was about the Corded Ware culture from this part of Germany. And Steinmeier — who had spent eight years trying to troll Ukraine into accepting the Steinmeier formula, which was allowing Russia’s so-called elections in Donetsk and Luhansk in exchange for a later promise to give Ukraine back control of its borders — Steinmeier, who clearly had engaged with Ukraine, like myself, a lot, was still referring to this area of Ukraine as southern Russia in this catalogue. That gives you an idea of what I now call the data-resistant archetype of the Potemkin State: that they could not refer to the homeland as just steppe ancestry, or Pontic-Caspian steppe, or southern Russia. They couldn’t see it as being Ukraine — as having just the same status as ancient Greece, or any of these other cultures I mentioned. Ukraine Is Not One More Culture — It Is the Source Here’s the part the catch hides, because it stops people at the threshold. Ukraine is not one more ancient culture among many asking to join the club. It’s the source. Greece, Rome, the Germanic North, the Celtic West, the Indo-Iranian East — the papers in all of my work in Finding Manuland trace them one by one, based on PACA, peer-reviewed, gold-standard archaeogenetic, isoto

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Decoding Trolls's "Battling Archetypes" podcast applies the Twelve Tools of the Disinfolklore analytical method (see Disinfolklore.eu) to the folklore-like structures hiding inside modern propaganda, memes, and geopolitics. Each episode decodes how Russia, MAGA, and other Disinfolklorists archetype reality. Infolklore, by contrast, is a first-order creative practice: the active, conscious, Code of Positive Trolls-observant deployment of folklore-like archetypes in the service of generosity, right, patience, creative Mana, focus, and insight. This channel helps us learn to see the immanence of Infolklore and Disinfolklore in our information streams. www.disinfolklore.net

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