Why the West Hates Russia

Nancy O'Brien Simpson Howl of the Motherland, Howl of the West, ghost-whispers of Cold War prophets screeching through congressional hallways, senators foaming, nostrils flared, gnashing teeth against the specter of Moscow, a Red nightmare reborn in the shape of an old man with iron lips, a suit, a smirk, a bomb in his pocket. The Empire of the Free shakes its fist at the frozen steppes, where great-grandfathers marched with bayonets and banners, where smokestacks once belched steel for tanks that rolled to Berlin, now rusting, now reborn, now hissing back at the Atlantic with supersonic growls. The Capitol shrieks, the Pentagon writhes—