Britain is clamping down even harder on critics who consider Western foreign policy to have been a catastrophic failure. We are fast approaching the point where expressing an alternative opinion can land you in jail.
On the night of October 2, while exiting a flight from Moscow via Istanbul, I was detained by UK counter-terrorism police for three hours under the Counter-Terrorism and Border Security Act 2026. I had no right to remain silent, my person and possessions were thoroughly searched, I provided fingerprints and a DNA sample, and was required to give up my electronic devices and provide my passwords or face arrest.
This was a “suspicionless” detention. I was not suspected of anything, yet police officers were empowered to subject me to an intrusive examination to assess whether I was planning a “hostile act” against the United Kingdom.
An officer approached me and immediately took me into custody after I informed him that I had been to a conference in Russia to discuss geopolitics. I was not told why I was being detained, except that he wanted to ask me “a few questions.” Bizarrely, he pointed out that the “counter-terrorism” powers he was using “aren’t as scary as they sound.”
I had attended the International Valdai Discussion Club Conference in Moscow Region from September 27 to October 1, including attending President Vladimir Putin’s keynote address. I participated at the invitation of the Valdai Club, which provided my flight and accommodations, as is standard practice for foreign guest attendees at such international conferences.
The Valdai Club, founded in 2004, is primarily a meeting of academics from all over the world. Before the Russian invasion of Ukraine, it was attended by a former Head of MI6, former British Ambassador to Russia Sir Tony Brenton, and Fiona Hill.
Valdai has found itself in the British government’s crosshairs. Throughout September, a host of journalists and academics have received letters from the UK Home Office inviting them to register with the Foreign Influence Registration Scheme, if they are “being directed to carry out relevant activities in the UK as part of an arrangement with a foreign power.”’ Non-compliance with the scheme is considered a criminal offense.
British journalist Mary Dejevsky, who was The Times Bureau Chief in Moscow in the 1990s, is the latest to receive such a letter as a publicly listed contributor to the Valdai Discussion Club, though she has not attended since the war began. The idea that if you attend an academic conference you are being directed by a foreign power is patently absurd. Nevertheless, and given the obvious risks, I wrestled with the dilemma of whether I should accept the invitation from Valdai and make my first visit to Russia since I drove out of that country in February 2019 at the end of my four-and-a-half year diplomatic posting there.
My primary role then was as the Economic Counsellor responsible among other things for sanctions policy. After my return to the UK, I authorized around 1000 sanctions against Russians, including after the war broke out.
I had some concerns that my role in sanctions may cause me problems once inside Russia (indeed, I was subjected to an extremely stressful four-and-a-half-hour detention and interrogation by the FSB upon arrival in Moscow).
Sir Tony Brenton, with whom I had consulted, suggested that I should attend, saying that Valdai was an “excellent event.” Upon his advice, I notified the UK Foreign Office, underscoring my commitment to abide by my obligations under the Official Secrets Act before I left for Moscow. This included confirmation that while Valdai had paid for my flights, I had not received any payment for my attendance.
I served as a British diplomat for 24 years and I take seriously my ongoing commitments to preserve the secrets that I had access to during that time. The suggestion that I might plan a hostile act against Britain is offensive and wrong. However, since my retirement in 2023, I have been an outspoken critic of the direction of UK foreign policy towards Russia, notably the departure from diplomacy in favor of war.
The important and necessary precautions that I had taken were insufficient to prevent me from being detained with fewer rights than had I been formally arrested and cautioned. I am of the view that security figures in London had authorized the action against me ahead of time. Indeed, Russia commentator Mark Galeotti suggested on his podcast that the system was “making a statement” by acting in this way.
(Editor’s Note: A request by RS to the UK’s Counter Terrorism Policing for comment about the author’s detention — for which he provided RS with documentation – went unanswered as of this writing.)
My detention marks the latest escalation in the British state’s war on free speech. Increasingly, people who speak out publicly against forever wars — not only in Ukraine, but also in the Middle East and elsewhere — are seen as a threat to national security that must be quashed.
Airport detentions are one step short of full-blown imprisonment, of course, but this pattern of intimidation has been spreading over the past four years.
British conservative academic and author John Laughland was detained at an airport for one hour in 2022. The late Robert Skidelsky, a member of the House of Lords and esteemed British economist, and investigative reporter Kit Klarenberg were subject to more lengthy and rigorous detentions in 2023. Klarenberg still has not received back an SD memory card that was confiscated at the time.
Professor Richard Sakwa, Emeritus at Kent University, was detained for three hours at Heathrow in 2025; he has only been able to return to Russia since that time following an intervention by his lawyer. George Szamuely, a Hungarian-born British political analyst, was detained in March 2026.
In 2023, Craig Murray, former British ambassador to Uzbekistan, was detained for an hour at Glasgow Airport under the tougher provisions of the Terrorism Act 2000, which is concerned with activity related to the commission, preparation and instigation of acts of terrorism. His phone was not returned to him afterwards.
Investigative journalist Richard Medhurst was arrested for making statements in support of a proscribed pro-Palestine organization and held for 24 hours before his release. His home and office in Austria were subsequently raided in February 2025 and he was accused of membership of Hamas. To date, no charges have been laid against him.
More broadly, in Britain, the group Palestine Action has been proscribed as a terrorist organization following widespread protests against the gross violations of international humanitarian law by the Israeli state in Gaza. Elderly people, including Holocaust survivors, have been arrested at Palestine Action protests for the crime of holding cardboard placards.
The practice of suspicionless airport detention is uncommon in European states, although alternative, more insidious forms of repression of free speech are employed. Former Swiss military intelligence officer and author Jacques Baud remains in Brussels, de-banked and unable to travel home, having been sanctioned by the European Union for “pro-Russian propaganda.”
This past week, Russian-born journalist and former BBC reporter Leonid Ragozin was declared persona non grata by Latvia, where he has lived since the onset of the Ukraine crisis. Having criticized the direction of Western foreign policy toward the war in Ukraine, he has also been a regular Putin critic and described the 2022 invasion of Ukraine as “criminal and irrational.”
This pattern of repressing free speech in Britain and more broadly in Europe is growing. I fear that the more obvious it becomes that the war in Ukraine cannot be won by the West and that Israel cannot remain insulated from international censure over its actions in Palestine, actions by the British state may become even harsher.
We are reaching the point where offering an opinion on the perilous state of Western foreign wars can land you in prison.
I thought I had been careful in notifying the British government before my sole visit to Russia since 2019. If the UK is at the point where former diplomats can be detained and have their property temporarily confiscated, then no one is safe from the long arm of lawfare.
Upon my return from Valdai, I wrote again to the Foreign Office, offering to brief them in full on the insights I gained while I was in Russia. To date, they have not replied.
“I’m okay.” That was the last message I sent my mother before an Israeli strike hit us, a group of seven journalists reporting in southern Lebanon.
Three years ago, on 13 October 2023, my colleague Dylan Collins and I headed to the southern border of Lebanon to cover the situation following cross-border shelling between Israeli forces and Hezbollah. We spent the morning filming UN peacekeeping force patrols along the blue line dividing Lebanon and Israel. The atmosphere was calm and nothing suggested that the day was about to change and upend our lives. We went to a coffee shop near a UN post where journalists from different outlets had gathered and there we met our friend and Reuters colleague Issam Abdallah.
Around 4:50PM, we heard a bombardment in a nearby town so we moved to an exposed hill in Alma Al-Shaab, where Al-Jazeera journalists Carmen Joukhadar and Elie Brakhya were positioned. Together with colleagues from Reuters, we were a group of seven journalists, all wearing press vests, reporting next to a car marked “TV”. We were clearly identifiable as press and spent about an hour filming while an Israeli drone hovered above us. At 5:57 I finished filing my photos and sent a message to my mother to tell her I was okay. Seconds later, I found myself on the ground, bleeding and screaming for help. Dylan rushed over with a tourniquet, but before he even had the time to put it, another strike hit.
Everyone disappeared and I was left alone, unable to move and the heat of the flames creeping closer to my face. I was terrified of burning alive, so I started crawling away with the camera still hanging from my neck and its strap tightening around my neck with every move. Two weeks later, I woke up from an induced coma with one leg missing, the other severely damaged, and Issam dead.
Not an isolated attack
What followed was as horrific and brutal as the attack itself and it didn’t stop there. What happened to us was not an isolated incident — for three years I watched journalists being killed in Lebanon and Gaza by Israeli forces in ways that felt painfully familiar.
In October 2024, Israeli forces struck a compound in Hasbaya where journalists were staying and killed media workers Ghassan Najjar, Mohammed Reda and Wissam Kassem, while they slept.
Human Rights Watch found no evidence of military activity at the site and concluded that the strike was deliberate and should be investigated as war crime.
Then in April 2026, journalist Amal Khalil was killed in southern Lebanon after an Israeli strike hit the building where she had taken shelter with her colleague Zainab Faraj, leaving both women trapped under the rubble. Investigations found that Israeli forces repeatedly obstructed rescue efforts.
Since our attack, dozens of journalists have been killed in Lebanon, and nearly 200 journalists have been killed in Gaza by Israeli forces.
Many have been mired by Israel with the same false allegations that they were “terrorists.” The dead can’t defend themselves against such accusations, but I survived and I can speak about what happened to us.
In June 2026 in an interview on France 2, Israel’s ambassador to France described the 13 October attack as a “mistake” saying that we were not targeted because we were journalists, but because Israeli forces had mistaken us for “terrorists.” The evidence tells a different story.
Five independent investigations by Agence France-Presse, Amnesty, Human Rights Watch, Reuters, and UNIFIL found no indication of fighters or military activity at the site, and no cross-border exchange of fire for more than 40 minutes before we were struck with a 120mm tank shell.
These investigations matter because they establish with certainty evidence beyond my own personal account.
What remains unanswered is who gave the order, who fired the double-tap strike, and why no one has been held accountable. These are basic questions that can be answered by Israel if they were sought by EU member states.
Three years on, Issam’s family and the survivors of this attack deserve to know: Who gave the order?
Evidence alone cannot deliver justice, someone must be willing to act on it. In the face of this attack, including the targeting of four of its own citizens on Lebanese soil, the Lebanese government has failed us.
Neither Lebanon nor Israel are party to the Rome Statute, meaning that the International Criminal Court does not have jurisdiction to prosecute those responsible for the attack.
In 2024, Lebanon approved a special declaration that would have allowed the Court to investigate war crimes committed after 7 October 2023, only to later reverse its decision for political reasons.
And now, making our legal path even more complicated, in June 2026 Lebanon signed a new framework agreement with Israel whereby Clause 13 commits both sides to cease “all hostile and adverse actions in international and legal fora.”
EU urged to act
I have no hope left that we will ever get justice for what we lost, but I will not rest before I know the names and faces of those responsible.
Our case is the most documented instance of Israeli forces targeting the press on record. The October 13 targeted attack was perpetrated by Israeli forces on a group of journalists clearly identifiable as press.
If we cannot get answers in the face of such overwhelming evidence, what does it mean for the hundreds of journalists killed by Israeli fire throughout the region for which there is no such evidence?
This is where the European Union must act. The EU has repeatedly said that journalists must not be attacked and that violations of international law must be met with accountability. Today, we demand actions not just words and statements. The EU must demand that Israel provide a full account of the 13 October attack, including who ordered, authorized and carried out the strikes.
For me, this is not an abstract question of foreign policy. Issam was my friend. I survived that attack with one leg missing. I know what it means when the people responsible for an attack are allowed to remain unnamed and unaccountable.
I am asking the EU not simply to stand with journalists in words, but to stand with us in action.
The EU has political, diplomatic, and legal leverage. It should use it. If Israel refuses to fully explain what occurred and disclose those responsible for killing and maiming journalists who were visibly identifiable as press, EU member states should use every available mechanism to pursue accountability, including further targeted sanctions or suspending trade with Israel.
I refuse to believe that a military with advanced surveillance could have simply mistaken us for fighters and attacked us in a double-tap strike, a tactic repeatedly used by Israel in this war. But, if that’s truly what happened, then Israel must still answer for how such incompetence and failure was possible.
For now, justice evades us, but the truth of who gave the order is within reach and we must demand it.
Quando si torna indietro e si osserva davvero la rappresentazione storica delle «realtà russe» nei media di lingua inglese, si nota che Putin è sull’orlo della destituzione dal 2000 e da allora anche l’economia russa è sull’orlo del collasso. Tutto ciò che viene scritto sulla Russia in inglese in Occidente è una menzogna.
Parleremo dei vari aspetti della presunta “epidemia” in Russia, ma emerge una tendenza più ampia quando si esamina l’interpretazione data dai media a questo evento, che sia reale, falso o una sorta di enigma. Chiunque abbia familiarità con il mio lavoro mi avrà sentito affermare qualcosa del tipo: «Tutto ciò che sapete sulla Russia, scritto in inglese, è una menzogna», e continuo a credere in questa affermazione. Quando i politici occidentali dichiarano che «la Russia ha il potenziale economico della Spagna» o che «la Russia è la Nigeria con la neve», o fanno altre affermazioni simili, non stanno mentendo in modo diretto e consapevole.
Sulla base di tutti i dati e le informazioni di cui dispongono «laggiù» riguardo all’economia russa, questa visione era logicamente «vera». Se si analizzano i numeri basandosi sui dati occidentali, immagino che la Russia sia semplicemente un’economia enigmatica avvolta nel mistero, delle dimensioni di una nazione dell’UE di secondo piano, ma ovviamente nella realtà non è così. La Russia è terribilmente draconiana e repressiva, perché ovunque si legge che è proprio così. I calcoli secondo cui la Russia avrebbe ceduto immediatamente e il «rublo sarebbe crollato» dopo l’inizio dell’Operazione Militare Speciale non erano falsi, erano semplicemente basati su dati errati. Se si esaminano le informazioni occidentali sulla Russia, sembrerebbe davvero che l’economia del Paese poggi esclusivamente sui prezzi del petrolio, che la popolazione attenda una sola scintilla per ribellarsi al tiranno e che, nel complesso, il castello di carte sia pronto a crollare da un momento all’altro. Ma, come hanno dimostrato gli anni di guerra, non è stato così; tuttavia, le stime iniziali erano «corrette» sulla base dei dati su cui si fondavano.
Persino la famosa citazione di Lenin secondo cui «una menzogna ripetuta abbastanza spesso diventa verità» – ironia della sorte – potrebbe non essere mai stata pronunciata da lui, ma questa pseudo-affermazione getta un’ombra negativa sulla Russia, per cui l’Occidente continua a ripeterla. In Russia, poiché alcune persone sono state arrestate per attività online dall’inizio dell’Operazione Militare Speciale – tra cui l’organizzazione di atti terroristici – ciò viene considerato «negativo»; tuttavia, il fatto che nel Regno Unito vi siano 70 volte più persone dietro le sbarre per ciò che hanno espresso online non viene preso in considerazione, poiché si tratta di una situazione diversa e non è mai stata nemmeno presa in esame da un giornalista britannico. Gli arresti per dichiarazioni e azioni online si applicano solo a coloro che sono considerati «cattivi», a riprova della loro cattiveria.
Se l’esercito russo è forte, si tratta di militarismo; se l’esercito russo è debole, è prova di corruzione e inettitudine. Se vi sono processi per corruzione, ciò dimostra che il regime autoritario di Putin sta eliminando i propri nemici; se invece non vi fossero processi per corruzione, ciò costituirebbe prova della corruzione e del controllo totalitario del regime. Non esiste alcuna possibilità di vittoria per la Russia nella stampa occidentale; persino durante il presunto trattamento mediatico favorevole riservato a Eltsin nei «bei vecchi tempi», l’intero establishment si è abbandonato a un’orgia di schadenfreude per la caduta dell’URSS e per lo stato di umiliazione della Russia degli anni ’90.
Per dirla senza mezzi termini: se accade qualcosa o si dice che sia accaduto qualcosa in relazione alla Russia:
– Se i media russi lo avallano, ciò è prova che la Russia è cattiva
– Se i media russi si oppongono, ciò è prova di un insabbiamento del misfatto che dimostra che la Russia è cattiva
– In definitiva, qualsiasi azione o inazione da parte della Russia è negativa e costituisce prova della sua malvagità.
La posizione della CNN su questa questione è la classica russofobia
E, puntuale come un orologio, ecco che la CNN interviene per sostenere questa narrativa sulla peste che sembra essere fondamentalmente falsa. Parleremo di ciò che sta realmente accadendo con questa «epidemia» un po’ più avanti, ma per ora concentriamoci sull’aspetto mediatico della questione. Già nel titolo dell’articolo della CNN in questione «Liste di controllo, mascherine e mistero: cosa sappiamo sull’allarme peste in Russia» si nota chiaramente come la propaganda stia prendendo piede.
«Le autorità russe hanno cercato di placare le preoccupazioni globali in merito alla morte di una giovane donna che lavorava in un laboratorio siberiano specializzato nella lotta alla peste. Tuttavia, le misure adottate per isolare i suoi contatti e introdurre nuove misure di controllo della malattia negli ospedali locali hanno suscitato preoccupazioni tra le persone che temono di non essere informate su tutta la verità.»
Per quanto riguarda il paragrafo precedente, come potete vedere, la parte russa è vista in modo negativo perché presenta una versione dei fatti diversa e ha l’audacia di condividerla con il mondo. Tuttavia, se i media russi avessero taciuto su questa vicenda, ciò sarebbe stato ugualmente negativo, in quanto avrebbe costituito una prova di colpevolezza per omissione. Il fatto che le autorità russe stiano adottando alcune misure per cercare di fermare un’epidemia è negativo perché tali misure generano paura o qualcosa del genere, ma quantomeno ciò è sufficiente per giustificare una condanna. Tuttavia, se il governo adottasse misure estreme, queste sarebbero «draconiane», mentre se non adottasse alcuna misura, ciò sarebbe «terribilmente irresponsabile». Pertanto, adottare misure di livello medio «induce paura» o qualcosa del genere e, naturalmente, ciò è negativo e assolutamente inaccettabile.
«Ulyana Gavryunina, una blogger ventinovenne di Angarsk, città della regione di Irkutsk, ha dichiarato alla CNN di aver dovuto cambiare ospedale ostetrico alla quarantesima settimana di gravidanza, poiché le restrizioni di quarantena appena imposte impedivano a suo marito di stare con lei durante il travaglio.»
Pertanto, poiché l’amministrazione locale dispone di strutture limitate, purtroppo questa donna ha dovuto partorire in condizioni tutt’altro che ideali. È una situazione spiacevole per lei e sono certo che sia stata piuttosto frustrante, ma ancora una volta la CNN sostiene che l’intervento delle autorità russe sia negativo perché ha avuto ripercussioni negative sulle persone; tuttavia, se non avessero fatto nulla, sarebbe stato altrettanto grave. Se le persone non fossero state messe in quarantena in quella struttura, ciò sarebbe stato «pericoloso e irresponsabile» o qualcosa del genere.
«Mercoledì l’autorità sanitaria russa ha affermato che non sussiste alcun rischio epidemico a seguito della morte della donna e che sta riducendo gradualmente l’intervento. Rospotrebnadzor ha dichiarato che il monitoraggio medico è stato completato per “oltre il 90%” dei contatti della ricercatrice deceduta e che non sono stati rilevati agenti patogeni “pericolosi”. Tuttavia, permangono alcune domande senza risposta».
L’espressione «ma rimangono domande senza risposta» è stata utilizzata in questo contesto per negare l’opinione del governo russo. Se questo paragrafo si fosse concluso senza queste parole, avrebbe fatto apparire pienamente legittime le opinioni delle autorità locali. Quando «rimangono domande», si allude a una cospirazione, al fatto che la versione ufficiale non corrisponda alla realtà. Ancora una volta, indipendentemente da ciò che le autorità russe avrebbero dichiarato pubblicamente, la reazione sarebbe stata negativa perché la CNN le considera nemiche. Il nemico non può fare nulla di giusto. E le azioni della Russia sono quelle di un nemico e, pertanto, sono universalmente negative agli occhi di qualsiasi giornalista che si rispetti.
“Secondo il proprio sito web, l’Istituto Antipeste impiega circa 95 ricercatori ed è un’importante struttura sanitaria pubblica responsabile del monitoraggio e della prevenzione dei focolai di infezioni batteriche e virali ad alto rischio in tutta la Siberia e nell’Estremo Oriente russo.
L’istituto è stato fondato nel 1934 per combattere la peste e continua a studiare la malattia poiché la Yersinia pestis, il batterio che causa la peste, circola ancora naturalmente nella fauna selvatica in alcune zone della Siberia e nelle regioni limitrofe».
Sorprendentemente, la CNN non ha definito la struttura di ricerca in cui lavorava la signora Shipilova come un «laboratorio biologico» né ha utilizzato altri termini infamanti. In realtà, si è limitata a «crederle sulla parola» e a riportare semplicemente le informazioni presenti sul sito web. Ciò è risultato veritiero e piacevole da leggere.
Cosa è realmente accaduto, quindi?
Passiamo ora ad analizzare la situazione reale relativa a una potenziale epidemia di peste e alla misteriosa morte della ricercatrice che stava lavorando per combatterla. Esiste un video realizzato da una donna americana anonima residente a Irkutsk (nome del canale: American in the Motherland) sull’intera vicenda che, in meno di 15 minuti, analizza l’intera storia con fonti, fatti e filmati provenienti direttamente dalla regione. Per brevità, condividerò i punti salienti delle sue argomentazioni. Come potete vedere, ancora una volta una sola giornalista cittadina smonta punto per punto la versione dei media mainstream. L’immagine qui sotto è tratta dal video e mostra la «genialità» della stampa internazionale e le sue reazioni affrettate su questo tema.
I punti chiave del video erano:
Non vi sono lockdown di massa a Irkutsk né in nessun’altra parte della Russia; le uniche persone sottoposte a quarantena hanno avuto contatto diretto con la donna deceduta (Daria Shipilova) e il loro numero è inferiore a 200.
La Shipilova non lavorava in un laboratorio biologico militare, bensì in un istituto di ricerca sulle epidemie e sulle malattie, progettato per combattere le patologie. La sua ubicazione e la sua attività non erano né segrete né di natura militare.
La signora Shipilova è stata ricoverata in un ospedale fuori da Irkutsk perché in quella sede era presente una struttura progettata per gestire questo tipo di focolai epidemici dell’era Covid, e non nell’ambito di una qualche cospirazione.
Non si è verificato nessun altro decesso per la stessa causa di quello della signora Shipilova.
La causa della morte di Daria Shipilova è stata una «polmonite di origine sconosciuta».
La storia della «provetta rotta» è un mito, poiché è stata inventata da un blogger russo. Quando si lavora con malattie gravi, non si va in giro in un ambiente simile a un ufficio con provette fragili. La Russia non opera secondo la stessa metodologia della Umbrella Corporation, agitando a casaccio fiale fragili contenenti agenti patogeni.
La parte russa non ha trovato alcuna prova di un incidente presso la struttura di ricerca.
La ricercatrice non si era recata in Buriazia prima della sua morte. Pertanto, non ha contratto la malattia da marmotte locali o da altri tipi di roditori.
Al momento della stesura di questo articolo o della realizzazione del video collegato sopra, non si sono verificati altri casi simili a quello che ha causato la morte della signora Shipilova.
La peste è curabile, poiché è causata da un batterio che continua a esistere in tutto il mondo. Ogni anno, negli Stati Uniti e in altri paesi, una manciata di persone la contrae ancora. Gli antibiotici rappresentano una contromisura efficace contro questa malattia; pertanto, ciò non sembra costituire motivo di panico internazionale.
Perché la peste si diffuse nella Russia medievale?
Un aspetto importante da sottolineare a questo proposito è che, storicamente, sebbene la peste bubbonica abbia mietuto vittime anche al di fuori dell’Europa occidentale, ha avuto effetti devastanti solo all’interno di quest’ultima. I russi continuano ancora oggi ad andare fieri di possedere un elevato livello di igiene culturale che risale al Medioevo. I russi del Medioevo e altri popoli al di fuori dell’Occidente sembravano aver «capito da soli» la necessità di lavarsi regolarmente e di lavarsi le mani. Si ritiene che questa cultura igienica sia la ragione per cui la Russia, nel XIX secolo, vantasse una popolazione così numerosa rispetto alle nazioni circostanti. Molti in Russia ritengono che, se non fosse stato per errori madornali quali la Prima guerra mondiale, la Rivoluzione, la Seconda guerra mondiale e gli anni ’90, la popolazione attuale sarebbe molto più vicina a quella della Cina o dell’India.
Pertanto, da un punto di vista culturale russo, ciò appare chiaramente come un’altra campagna di proiezione: un terzo della popolazione inglese morì a causa della peste, mentre in Russia ne morirono solo pochi. Di conseguenza, la peste nera non ebbe in realtà alcun impatto culturale sulla Russia e, a giudicare dagli scritti del XIX secolo, la tubercolosi sembra essere stata un problema molto più persistente e fastidioso per questa società, che ancora oggi riveste una certa rilevanza. In tutta la Russia esistono strutture antitubercolari e non è possibile immigrare nel Paese se si presentano sintomi della malattia. L’intera questione del «vivere con i parassiti» non era una realtà quotidiana per i russi né nel Medioevo né in epoca moderna; tale primato spetta all’Occidente liberale e illuminato.
I media sono il vero problema.Abbiamo esaminato solo un particolare articolo su questo tema, ma vi sono numerose riflessioni assurde da parte della stampa occidentale che seguono la formula «maledetti i russi se lo fanno, maledetti se non lo fanno». Titoli come questo del Daily Mail ne sono l’esempio perfetto:
«Trump offre a Putin un’ancora di salvezza mentre la Russia si affanna a contenere una mortale epidemia trasmessa per via aerea dopo la morte di un ricercatore di laboratorio».
Ancora una volta, se «Putin» non facesse nulla sarebbe cattivo, ma sta facendo qualcosa, quindi si sta «affannando» in preda al panico, il che è altrettanto negativo. Il fatto che Trump gli offra un «ancora di salvezza» implica che Putin non abbia altra scelta se non quella di accettare questo aiuto, qualunque esso sia, altrimenti sarebbe cattivo. Ma indovinate un po’? Se accetta l’ancora di salvezza, ciò significa sicuramente che è debole o qualcosa del genere, il che significa che è cattivo.
Quando si torna indietro e si osserva davvero la rappresentazione storica delle «realtà russe» nei media di lingua inglese, si nota ovunque questa manipolazione narrativa isterica e nietzschiana da «untermensch». Putin è sull’orlo della destituzione dal 2000 e da allora anche l’economia russa è sull’orlo del collasso. Tutto ciò che viene scritto sulla Russia in inglese in Occidente è una menzogna.
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David Alm | Longreads | October 1, 2026 | 5,726 words (24 minutes)
I got off Interstate 81 to give my soul a break. The back roads of southwest Virginia wind, crest, and plunge through lush valleys of oak, poplar, birch, and maple trees. It’s easy to lose track of time and distance there. People drive slower. Cows graze in pastures. And there are no placards festooned with Motel 6 and Starbucks logos, flattening the American landscape into a homogeneous blur. Any signs you might see are low to the ground and handmade, protesting a data center, for instance, or thanking Jesus.
I’d gone to this rural pocket of the country for the 90th annual Old Fiddler’s Convention in Galax, an independent city of just under 7,000 near the North Carolina border whose population, for six days in early August, balloons to around four times that. They arrive in RVs and Casitas, camper vans and cars to stake out 20-by-35-foot plots in Felts Park, a 28-acre fairground in the heart of Galax, transforming it into a massive, muddy parking lot sprinkled with portable toilets and a cluster of food trucks, offering loaded potatoes, funnel cake, and blooming onions.
The Old Fiddler’s Convention—or just Galax, as the diehards call it—is the oldest and largest fiddlers’ convention in the world, a place where banjo pickers, guitar players, and other maestros of old-time strings gather to see how they stack up. Founded in 1935, Galax has been canceled only twice since then: once during World War II, due to travel restrictions, and again in 2020, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Many Galaxers have been going every year for decades, some for as long as they’ve been alive.
There are scads of rules: If you play clawhammer-style banjo in the bluegrass band competition, you will get disqualified. Same if you play bluegrass-style banjo in the old-time competition. If you break a string while performing, you must stop immediately. Playing time during competition is limited to two minutes and 30 seconds. And, crucially, no electric instruments of any kind are allowed, either on stage or in the tightly packed fairgrounds, where self-described hillbillies, accountants, firefighters, and session musicians pick day and night in blistering, impromptu jams amid the RVs.
Credit: Photos from the Galax Old Fiddler’s Convention, 1978, by Terry Eiler, Blue Ridge Parkway Folklife Project collection (AFC 1982/009), American Folklife Center, Library of Congress
One does not merely attend Galax. It’s not a music festival. There are no headliners, and no full-set performances. There is a single stage, and over the course of six days, contestants take it one after another to play one song for a panel of judges and a smattering of spectators. There are more than a dozen categories, little changed in the past century: old-time fiddle, guitar, dulcimer, folk song. Cash prizes for individual players range from $35 to $285; a campsite and contestant pass together cost $175. “The prestige of being judged a ‘winner at Galax,’ and the respect for one’s musical talent that goes along with it, far outweighs any monetary award,” wrote Fred Burton in the March 1984 issue of Bluegrass Unlimited.
In the 1980s and ’90s, cars lined up days before the gates to Felts Park opened. The fairgrounds got so full back then that people slept in the horse stables that used to line one end of them. Once, Elizabeth Taylor made a surprise appearance with her then-husband, Virginia Senator John Warner. Rumor has it that members of Old Crow Medicine Show and Leftover Salmon have shown up at Galax, under the radar, just to jam.
And yet, despite appearing well attended to my virgin eyes, the Old Fiddler’s Convention’s numbers are down from the pre-pandemic years, and way down from peak Galax. Folks say it’s not like it was. Maybe, as one long-time attendee speculated, it’s that more kids are choosing devices and passive consumption over face-to-face activity with other humans, or that more and more young adults are fleeing southwest Virginia due to the gutted coal, tobacco, and manufacturing industries. Or maybe it’s just that people around there are dying faster than they’re being born. Glen Alexander, a 55-year-old fiddler who’s been going to Galax since he was a child, put it bluntly: “We’re all scared to death this is gonna go away.”
Tara Linhardt, a professional mandolin player from Leesburg, Virginia, with thick, curly hair and a determined gaze, has been going to Galax since she was in high school, and was happy to advise me on how to survive my first time. Buy what you need locally, she told me; it was cheaper than New York. It will probably rain, so bring mud boots. Find a high patch of ground, because rainwater pools in the low spots. Afternoon jams were open to anyone, but unless I was dead good, I should just observe the nighttime ones, where the “thoroughbreds” play so fast that a newbie like me would only drag it down.
Tara and her husband, Ian, pulled into Galax late Saturday afternoon, just in time to get a bite before parking their Four Winds RV by the dumpsters behind the Applebee’s at the edge of town. She told me to sleep in my car there, since the church parking lot was already full, and Applebee’s, unlike Hardee’s, doesn’t mind. We’d need to queue up by the gates to Felts Park before seven o’clock Sunday morning to ensure we’d get decent campsites. First-come, first-served.
Credit: David Alm
I’d arrived earlier that afternoon, hours later than Google Maps had predicted, because I forsook the interstate. The day before, I’d left my home in Brooklyn only to spend two hours driving five miles to reach the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey. I was spat out onto I-78, which at some point blended into I-81, hauling me across Pennsylvania to Staunton, Virginia, where I slept in a former sanatorium. I had recently been laid off from a job I’d held for 13 years, editing reports for a geopolitical risk advisory firm, and needed reprieve. I sought my escape on Route 11.
In the trunk were a guitar and two banjos, instruments I was determined to spend the week playing in the Blue Ridge Mountains in lieu of applying for jobs and fretting about AI in my Brooklyn apartment. It was the first long road trip I’d taken alone in a quarter-century, and I’d hoped for a reset. Call it a midlife crisis if you want, but I drove cross-country a lot before I moved to New York, always on back roads. America is best seen up close.
After chatting awhile with Tara, Ian, and a luthier named John Hamlett, who’d also parked his RV behind the Applebee’s, I folded myself into the backseat of my Chevy Trax rental and more or less slept. I awoke at 6 a.m. to a downpour, rain pelting the roof of my car like fingertips on a conga drum.
The four of us caravaned into town, where we waited until almost 9 a.m. to enter the park. We figured it was due to the rain. In fact, it was because of an issue with the gate itself. My source for this intel was none other than the Galax chief of police, DeWitt Cooper, who was directing traffic into Felts Park that day and hails from the Bronx. I’d see Chief Cooper again a couple days later, at Willie’s Food Truck inside the fairgrounds, where we chatted over catfish and collard greens about his philosophy of policing. “Don’t judge based on appearances and treat people with love,” he told me.
I chose a plot on the far side of the fairgrounds, near a fence and a row of portable toilets, with Tara, Ian, and John all nearby. Our little commune wouldn’t last; the next day, Four Winds got stuck in the mud and Tara had to summon a Moose—one of the men of Moose Lodge No. 733, a fraternal organization that’s managed the Old Fiddler’s Convention since the beginning—to drag it out with a tractor. They found higher ground by the tennis courts and I stayed put. That night it rained again, and I awoke at 5 a.m. in a half-inch of water that had pooled in my tent overnight, soaking my sleeping bag, pillow, and clothes.
It’s no fun to wake up in a puddle, but when it rains in your tent, or the fairgrounds get so muddy that you watch a young woman lose a Birkenstock forever to the muck, or you start to stink because there’s only one public shower in Felts Park, it all feels incidental to what matters more: There’s pickin’ to do. You hear it all around, all the time. A lone fiddle at dawn, guitars easing into the afternoon, jams that grow in size and volume throughout the day, until night falls and Felts Park erupts in a surround-sound jamboree of syncopated banjos, arpeggiated fiddles, and bass notes so low and driving that they cut through it all at ground level. When it’s not raining, those jam sessions continue through the night, practically until the early morning’s still air is broken anew by someone’s fiddle.
My first jam came on Day 0, after the rain abated and I’d set up camp. The Old Fiddler’s Convention wouldn’t officially start until Monday night, with the astoundingly good kids’ competitions—the reigning bluegrass fiddle champion herself, Hollace Oakes, was 14 when she won the adult contest last year—but everyone in Felts Park was eager to pick.
Jimmy Kidd (left) has attended Galax since 1969, when he won the guitar competition. Ronnie Burroughs (right) opened the competition Friday night with an autoharp rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Photo by David Alm.
Tara wanted to introduce me to Bill and Nancy Sluys, a couple in their early 70s who’ve been going to Galax every summer for some 50 years. We walked to their site, where Bill, a towering figure with a steady voice and a long, white, braided ponytail, emerged from their Airstream to invite anyone who might “wish to partake” to join Nancy and a few others inside. I told Bill I’d thought of bringing edibles to Galax, but the convention website said state laws concerning drugs and alcohol are “strictly enforced,” and Google’s AI bot, Gemini, warned that law enforcement would be crawling Felts Park with K-9 units, even though recreational cannabis is legal in Virginia for adults over 21.
Bill laughed and said that hasn’t been true in more than 40 years, though it used to be, on account of a music festival that happened once, half a century ago, about 15 miles up the road. Stompin 76 featured Bonnie Raitt, John Prine, and other big names from the time. The festival attracted a huge crowd, including a motorcycle gang that allegedly wanted to keep the party going after the festival wrapped, so they rolled into Galax on their hogs, stocked with methamphetamine, moonshine, and guns. Mayhem ensued. The authorities cracked down after that, ostensibly to maintain law and order in fiddleland. By the mid-’80s, they realized that the Old Fiddler’s Convention really was a family affair and let the fiddlers be.
A group of six or seven people had gathered outside the Airstream by this point, all brandishing instruments. Bill, who grew up on Long Island, assumed his position behind an aluminum upright bass from the 1930s, while Nancy, a fiddler and banjo player roughly half Bill’s height who grew up in Connecticut, emerged from the Airstream with her fiddle. She sat down on a folding chair, called “Soldier’s Joy” in the key of D, and kicked it off at breakneck speed. This was an old-time jam, and “soldier’s joy” was a Civil War-era euphemism for morphine. Galax had begun.
An old-time jam goes something like this: Anywhere from two to umpteen musicians gather in a circle, knee-to-knee, and someone—usually the fiddler—calls a tune. Before you know it, you’re carried away by a cyclone of fiddles, mandolins, banjos, and guitars, all locked into a swirling rhythm that can, when it’s good, take you to church.
Ted McAllister (center, on bass) has attended Galax since 1975; his son, Caleb (to McAllister’s right, on fiddle), has attended since he was a child. Joining them is Katherine Emerick (right, fiddle); Elizabeth Holdren (left, guitar); and Elizabeth’s husband, Jacob, on banjo. Photo by David Alm.
The tradition dates to the mid-1700s, when Scots-Irish immigrants first settled in Appalachia. Even then, coastal property was for the elite, forcing poorer immigrants inland and south, through the Shenandoah Valley to southwest Virginia, where land was plentiful and cheap. Their music quickly took root. “The Scots brought fiddles and liquor,” Ted McAllister, one of my neighbors in Felts Park, told me. “The Germans brought church music and beer.”
Over time, Scottish fiddle tunes evolved, as oral traditions do, and began to mix with the musical traditions of enslaved Africans, who had brought with them gourd instruments that would evolve into the American banjo, along with rhythms the Scots had never heard before. Old-time music, in other words, is the music of diasporas, fed into a blender and then worked into a froth. A lot of traditional folk songs came out of this period, too. One that I learned at Galax, “Going to the West,” tells the story of a young man who leaves the mountains of his birth, “where labor is in vain,” to seek the fertile plains out west. It’s the story of my own Scottish forebears, who settled in South Dakota before moving to what is now suburban Chicago, and later, Florida.
Bluegrass, by contrast, was born in the 1940s, when Bill Monroe and The Blue Grass Boys took those mountain sounds, combined them with Southern church music and blues, and tightened it all into something you might call an uncle of rock ’n’ roll. There’s a reason that Billy Strings plays to sold-out arenas and pickers from around the world can play classics like “Blue Ridge Cabin Home” at the drop of a one-chord.
Where bluegrass is punchy and clean, designed for the stage, old-time is ecstatic, designed for participation. Bluegrass jams attract spectators who marvel at the players’ pyrotechnics; old-time jams get people on their feet. At Galax, some folks drag big pieces of plywood around the fairgrounds looking for old-time jams, where they’ll lay the board down at the edge of the circle and dance. Flatfooters they’re called: the percussion section.
The New York bluegrass community has a Signal thread, and through it I met Harrison Corthell, a banjo player from Queens who was camping in what he called the “gayborhood” of Felts Park: two tents and a rainbow flag. Corthell offered to introduce me to Tyler Hughes, who was also camping in the gayborhood. Hughes serves as the executive director of the Crooked Road Heritage Music Trail, a nonprofit founded by the Virginia Assembly in 2004 to boost tourism through music. Alsace has the Route des Vins, and Kentucky the Bourbon Trail. Southwest Virginia has the Crooked Road.
I found Hughes Thursday afternoon as he was setting up the Crooked Road’s information booth. Musicians were streaming by for the clawhammer banjo competition, which was set to begin any minute. As we sat on a park bench, I told Hughes that I’d begun to think of its music as the region’s chief international export of the past 100 years. “I think that’s a fair assessment,” he said, but stressed that he resists thinking of Appalachia’s musical traditions like a natural resource such as iron or coal. “We really try to stray away from an over-commodified, over-commercialized vision of southwest Virginia,” Hughes said.
Musical traditions can be packaged and sold, after all. Last winter, an Appalachian folk musician named Murphy Campbell discovered that her videos on YouTube had been used to create AI clones of her voice and banjo playing. Someone then used Vydia, a music distribution platform, to share those clones via streaming services and to make copyright claims on Campbell’s own videos. Campbell described her ordeal on Instagram, including trying to address the matter with “agents” at those streaming services: “I’m telling robots to take down music robots made,” she said. Her posts went viral, causing Vydia to ultimately withdraw the copyright claims and ban the user responsible, according to reports. “It’s the wild west,” Campbell said in one of her posts. “And it can happen to anyone.”
I asked Hughes what percentage of the people in southern Appalachia play an instrument of some kind. He guessed around 70 percent. I’d heard the same number from Daniel, a 32-year-old banjo player I’d met earlier in the week, who works at a sawmill in Grayson County. “It’s kinda the only thing goin’ on around here,” Daniel said. He explained that when the cotton mill in Grayson County closed in the late 1980s, “everyone” started using meth. Then opioids. Within the next 20 years, drug overdoses had become a leading cause of death in southwest Virginia. Getting together to pick, Daniel said, “helps you through real hard stuff.”
The guitar I took to Galax is a 1989 Takamine I’ve had since I was 14, when my parents indulged my desire to learn Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix songs on the condition that I take classical guitar lessons. I spent my first day or two in Felts Park carrying it around like a security blanket, but I was there to play the banjo. Upon arrival, I realized that I might have been the worst banjo player in Galax.
Performers in the Youth Bluegrass Band competition. Photo by David Alm.
I picked up the instrument in 2024, at age 48, in part because my maternal grandfather played one and I was always curious about it. More than that, I wanted to build a mountain banjo, the rustic kind people in Appalachia made from whatever wood they had nearby, animal skins for heads, and guts for strings. I liked their warm, thuddy sound, totally unlike the piercing banjos of bluegrass with their steel strings and resonator backs. So I learned everything I could about how to build one and called my dad to ask if he’d help. I knew the banjo; he knew wood.
That summer, we spent a week together in his shop in Illinois, building a fretless eastern Kentucky-style mountain banjo out of walnut and ash. Most people in New York ask what it is; everyone at Galax identified it instantly. I’ve since built seven banjos and acquired three more, all different styles. This spring, I carved a neck from a piece of walnut entirely by hand, no power tools, for a 19th-century-style tackhead, the kind played by enslaved Africans on plantations and by Civil War soldiers around the campfire. It’s not just that I’m fascinated by the instrument. As my actual trades—crafting sentences and teaching others to do the same—are increasingly devalued by technology and a society that no longer reads, building banjos gives me one thing that I can hold onto.
Shortly after my banjo obsession began, I started going to old-time jams in New York City, and later, bluegrass jams. I didn’t—and still don’t—actually listen to old-time or bluegrass music; my tastes trend melancholic. But I missed playing music with other people, something I hadn’t done since college and had begun to crave during the endless, isolated days of the pandemic. In early 2025, I started going to a regular jam session at a bar in Brooklyn called Sunny’s, whose owner has turned it into an institution of roots, bluegrass, and folk music. Some of the best pickers in the tri-state area turn up there each week, along with people like me, there to learn. It took me months to lead a song without blacking out. They call it “jamnesia,” and it’s humiliating.
After one week among the pickers of southern Appalachia, I got tighter, faster, as if the place itself does some of the teaching. A fiddler friend from New York, who’d been to Galax in the 2010s, was more succinct: “It seeps from the earth.”
Galax is hardly the first fiddlers’ convention; it’s just the oldest one still left. In the days before the railroad and automobile, let alone the World Wide Web, fiddlers’ conventions brought the people of Appalachia together, allowing songs and picking styles to spread like gossip over those hills. They could get pretty wild, and early-days Galax was no exception. Women and children did not go to Galax back then. It was a place where men gathered to let loose—“outside of the eyes of their preacher and their wives,” Rex McGee, a multi-instrumentalist from North Carolina, told me.
I’d heard of the McGee jams already, where “things get weird,” according to a woman I met Monday morning while I waited in line for the shower. Their camp sits right inside Felts Park, steps from the food trucks, identifiable by a 1974 Ford school bus painted an ominous matte grey. They call it the Muddy Creek Bus, for the band that Glen Alexander’s dad formed in the 1970s and soon became the back-up band for Rex and his brother Ralph’s grandfather, Ralph McGee the First, aka the Old-Timer. The Muddy Creek Boys could party as hard as the Old-Timer; it didn’t hurt that they could pick too. By the 1980s, the real show came after hours. Dozens of people would gather outside the bus to watch the Old-Timer, then in his 80s, fiddle with just about anything he could find: a toothpick, a comb, a “coon dick”—literally a bone from a raccoon’s penis. And it was loud. (For any curious fiddlers out there, you can buy four of these on eBay for $39.95.)
Felts Park is a galaxy of legacy camps like the Muddy Creek Bus. Almost everyone I met told me they’d been going to Galax for 40, 50, even 60 years. Their stories are legion, and they love to tell them: The year it rained so hard that one group holed up in an RV for six days with eight people, an upright bass, and “a little bit of cocaine.” The year a couple of young women got into a fight over a guy, went to fisticuffs in the mud, and ripped each other’s shirts off in front of scores of onlookers—“no one wanted it to stop,” one man recalled with a chuckle. The year several people went mudsliding on the tire tracks, which, for reasons unclear, were composed of raw sewage.
Jimmy Kidd, an 86-year-old Dobro player who’s been going to Galax since he was 29, regaled me with the time he won the guitar competition, in 1969, by playing the Dobro because there was no Dobro competition then. His daughter, Vicky, told me she met Elizabeth Taylor when she came through Galax, in 1977, when Vicky was 12. Taylor was in a wheelchair, Vicky said, and she wasn’t very nice.
Leo Lindblom sat on a low stool cradling a mandolin, his sister Lucy beside him. They’d taken the stage in the kids’ mandolin competition on Monday night, and Leo was focused. With flawless timing and dexterity, the 12-year-old picker dazzled the audience, Lucy accompanying him on guitar, for roughly two minutes. Then he rose from the stool, took a bow, and, with Lucy, exited the stage.
On Thursday, I met Leo, Lucy, and the rest of the Lindbloms—Marina, Jon, and their nine kids, all but one of whose names begins with an L—at their bus in a gravel parking lot just across the road from Felts Park, where it was a little quieter than Galax Central. The Lindbloms first went to Galax in 2021, after discovering bluegrass at a gift shop in North Carolina while on a family vacation five years prior. All nine of the kids responded instantly to the “happy, upbeat” music coming out of the speakers, and mom and dad bought the CD on the spot.
The Lindblom family. Photo by David Alm.
The kids, who range in age from 12 to 28 and were all homeschooled, each chose an instrument and formed their two bands, Headin’ Home and The Brothers Five. Now, when they’re not home in Bloomingdale, Georgia, they’re on the road playing festivals and gigs across the country. I asked what makes Galax special. Libby said it gives them a rare chance to slow down, to not have to be “on” all the time, and just spend time together.
As we sat outside their bus, all 11 of them and me, I asked: Why bluegrass? After all, Marina and Jon met at the Eastman School of Music and played in the Savannah Philharmonic for 10 years. They know Tchaikovsky and Brahms just as well as Bill Monroe and the Carter Family. They could teach their kids classical music, or any other kind. “Our goal, in everything we do, is to glorify the Lord,” Marina explained. And with bluegrass, she said, they are able to give people a bit of happiness, a chance to tap their feet and forget about their troubles for a little while. It’s an act of service.
Then I turned to Leo, the youngest, who was perched on Lucy’s lap, and asked what he likes about playing music that, surely, most kids his age don’t know anything about. “Everything,” he said, before checking my presumption: All the kids he knows play bluegrass or old-time, he said. He’s met them all through places like Galax.
I’d registered for the clawhammer banjo competition a month before Galax opened its gates, but by the evening of the contest, I was so worn out from five semi-sleepless nights, as many days packed with conversation and playing, and a dubious diet of beer, bananas, and cheese sandwiches that I decided to sit it out and trekked up the hill to Main Street for some Chinese food. Besides, I don’t even play clawhammer banjo. I’ve developed a hybrid style: I use finger picks, like bluegrass, but keep rhythm by striking the strings with the back of my middle finger, like clawhammer. After five days of watching virtuosos of both styles create magic on their instruments, I wasn’t about to do my mishmash in front of a panel of judges.
As I sat in my air-conditioned booth, hovering over a plate of garlic chicken, I got a call from Tara. Was I going to compete? I told her I’d spent the whole day interviewing people and was exhausted. “You have to participate!” she countered. “I triple-dog dare ya.” I was just delirious enough to bend. Thirty minutes later I was backstage rehearsing my song with John Garrison, who has gone to Galax each of the past 46 years. After a few runs through an instrumental version of “White Freightliner Blues” by Townes Van Zandt, I checked in, slapped a number on my chest, and took the stage. Tara squatted right in front to take video, smiling wide. Our pickin’ was clean, but we landed way outside the money: I bastardized the form and played a copyrighted song. We still got a big round of applause.
The author (left) with John Garrison, his accompanist on Townes Van Zandt’s “White Freightliner Blues.”
My style served me better in the jams, where more than once people assured me that if it sounds good, ain’t no reason to change it. Some of the best sessions I went to were inside an A-frame tent adjacent to the gayborhood and maybe 100 yards from my campsite. On Monday night, I played fiddle tunes and shared a jar of moonshine in that tent with three young guys who lived just down the road, near the town of Fries, in Grayson County. One of them built a fiddle from scratch; it took him years. I did my version of “White Freightliner Blues” with them, and when we finished, one yipped, “That’s how it’s done!”
Thanks to the moonshine, I forgot about Tara’s advice to sit out the nighttime jams and hopped over to a bluegrass jam that was really crackin’. At least 10 musicians stood in a circle, and the tempo was hot. I asked a guitar player if I could join. “You’ll have to ask him,” he replied, motioning to the only banjo player in the group. They did not expand the circle to let me in, and I hung awkwardly on the periphery for a song or two before going back to my tent.
It was one of only two times I felt unwelcome at Galax. The other came after the guys from Fries learned I was a journalist from New York City. I’d gone back to their tent Tuesday afternoon to jam but ended up talking with Daniel, the sawmill worker, instead. He was without his banjo, so while the other guys picked fiddle tunes, I told Daniel I was there to write about Galax and asked if I could record our conversation. He cheerfully agreed, but after that—and I could very well be wrong about this—I sensed that the other guys looked at me sideways.
Daniel, on the other hand, remained inviting and warm. One afternoon late in the week, I was sitting by my tent when he wandered over to say hello. He wanted to give me a leaf of galax, the rubbery, low-lying evergreen from which the town takes its name. “I thought you’d like this for your story,” he said, and stayed to visit awhile.
I broke camp Saturday afternoon and packed up my car. Before I left Galax, however, I dashed over to catch the “43rd Yearly International Kazoo Championship” a few campsites down from Bill and Nancy’s Airstream, as Tara had assured me it was “not to be missed.” Reporters don’t spend much time at the Old Fiddler’s Convention, and Tara was concerned that I might focus too much on the negatives in my writing—the mud, the gastronomic limitations, the attrition. Like everyone I met in Felts Park, she wanted me to return to New York with a real sense of why they keep coming back, year after year, and of what could be lost if they stopped.
Several dozen people were gathered at the “soup kitchen,” a community tent where, two nights prior, Chief Cooper had served hundreds of Styrofoam cups filled with venison stew, made by Nancy herself, from deer she and Bill had hunted on their property. Now, the ground was muddy and more rain was imminent. The contestants were undeterred, ready to blow their hearts out on plastic kazoos.
I soon understood Tara’s insistence. The International Kazoo Championship pokes a little fun at the rigidity of the main stage. One by one, each contestant was disqualified for breaking at least one of the competition’s 12 rules, which included “No Fun Not Allowed” and “All Participants Must Be Present In Order To Attend.” They were then each invited to perform again, and one by one, each was named the winner. Then all the contestants and judges second-lined through Felts Park in the rain, led by a trumpet and trailed by a banjo, blowing “When the Saints Go Marching In” on their kazoos.
The 43rd Yearly International Kazoo Championship. Photo by David Alm.
After a quick walkabout to say my goodbyes, I drove north on Route 221, past the Applebee’s and the Walmart where, at Tara’s urging, I did most of my shopping for the week. That night I met up with a friend from New York, who’d invited me to a 40th birthday party at a 19th-century cabin deep in the woods north of Roanoke. We stayed up late, drinking bourbon and talking about music. I’d rather have been playing it.
On Sunday morning, I got in my car and continued north on Route 11. As I wound through the mountains, catching the occasional glimpse of semis and cars streaming by on I-81, I played a recording I made of “Going to the West” through the car’s stereo. Brian Muller, who placed third in this year’s mandolin contest, led us in the jam, his plaintive baritone providing the perfect soundtrack to my drive: I leave you here, in this land that you love, ’mid scenes so bright and fair, where fragrant flowers are blooming and music fills the air. I imagined bringing the song to New York jams, and wondered if it would fly.
Passing through the town of Buchanan, a few hours from Galax, I saw a familiar face. Ted McAllister and his wife, Debbie, were getting out of their car just outside the Buchanan Baptist Church. I pulled alongside them, rolled down my window, and said, “Fancy seeing you here.” Ted, guitar case in hand, told me to come inside.
A few dozen people were gathered in the Fellowship Hall for a potluck lunch to celebrate the Buchanan Baptist Church’s 190th anniversary. A preacher named Bill Hartsfield welcomed me at the door. (“Like a field of hearts,” he said with a firm handshake.) Then he walked with me to the serving counter, where I fixed a plate of fried chicken, cheese casserole, and ambrosia salad. We sat down with the McAllisters and two other local musicians, Alan Berry and Mike Lee. “Galax is a subculture of a subculture,” Ted explained as we ate. Music is woven into everything from Sunday morning church services to holiday parties and family picnics.
We finished our plates and went into the chapel, where, for the next 90 minutes or so, Ted, Alan, Mike, and a banjo player named Kim Wood played bluegrass versions of church hymns for around 20 people. Two little girls danced in the aisle, swept up by the music. Halfway through their set, as I sat in my pew, Ted walked to the pulpit and introduced me. He explained that we’d spent the week as neighbors in Galax, talking, telling stories, picking songs, and he was delighted to show me a little more of “how we do things ’round here.”
I hadn’t been to church in decades, and a couple hours of Southern hospitality won’t make a believer out of me. But hearing Ted and the others play, watching children dance, and meeting people who looked me in the eye and didn’t rush the conversation felt deeply familiar. I may have spent almost my entire adult life in New York City, but I grew up on the Illinois-Iowa border, on the banks of the Mississippi. Church backrooms, potlucks, and ambrosia salad were all part of my childhood.
By 2:30, I really had to get going. For the second time in two days, I said goodbye to Ted, got in my car, and was on my way.
A week later, I was back at Sunny’s Bar in Brooklyn, playing songs with a dozen or so people in the bar’s backroom. I called “Going to the West,” and after a quick run through the chords on my latest banjo build, a resonator back with a dragon fretboard inlay that I’d played on stage in Galax, I started singing. It was a little shaky at first, but by the second verse everyone was locked in.
When we finished, one of the musicians remarked that it was a beautiful song. I agreed and asked if he knew it already. “No,” he said. “But I’m going to learn it now.”
David Alm is a Brooklyn-based writer and editor. His work has frequently been included in Longreads‘ Weekly Top Five and annual Best Features lists. He also teaches journalism at Hunter College-CUNY, where he focuses on feature writing and creative nonfiction.
The FBI isn’t the only interested party searching for Mary Carole McDonnell, the 74-year-old producer behind TV series like I Married a Murderer. There are the former employees who allege millions in unpaid wages, and the two sons who claim their mother forged their signatures on bank documents. There’s an entrepreneur in the United Arab Emirates who accuses her of “mind games,” and the former bank vice-president turned true-crime podcaster who’d like to make a documentary about McDonnell. Cheyenne Roundtree goes deep on the woman who, nearly a decade ago, walked into a California bank with a pecan pie and left with a $15 million loan before vanishing.
The story has all the makings of a viral documentary replete with breathless details, similar to the ones McDonnell’s company produced. Her backstory is littered with half-truths and deceptions, including a lie that her mentally disabled younger sister was murdered after being kidnapped. Questions remain on how she was able to pull off such a brazen heist. And it has sparked an ongoinghunt among the FBI, banking institutions, a true-crime podcaster, and television producers to see who can unravel McDonnell’s tangled history, track her down in a foreign land, recoup the financial losses she caused, and perhaps bring the unbelievable tale to screens.
In mid-August, The New York Times lost a defamation lawsuit in Alabama. It’s the first such case the paper has lost in more than half a century. Back in 2023, the Times reported that a University of Alabama basketball player named Kai Spears was at the scene of a fatal shooting—information that turned out to be false, and based on a single anonymous source. A jury found the paper liable for damages to the tune of $9.25 million. Ryan Phillips, the only reporter to attend the duration of the defamation trial, describes the experience:
Chief among the post-publication issues was the Times‘ reluctance to issue a correction or retraction when it became immediately clear that Witz’s anonymous source had been wrong in their assertion that Spears was in Miller’s car during the shooting.
The jury heard lengthy testimony about how the newspaper published “updates” in the form of “Editor’s Notes” to the online story to reflect each new denial coming from the University of Alabama, UA Director of Athletics Greg Byrne, Spears’ father, and then the Alabama walk-on himself in an Instagram post.
Apart from the updates, which the Times argued were tantamount to a correction when applying Alabama law to the evidence, the story remained unchanged until an official correction was eventually published by The New York Times on June 3, 2023.
When Jessica Black was 16 years old, she told a story to North Carolina police detectives that helped convict five friends of murder. Decades later, she’s still trying to correct the record. Matthew Bremner’s feature for Financial Times is a brisk tick-tock of efforts by Black and her incarcerated friends to overturn criminal convictions they claim were built on disturbing intimidation tactics.
The investigators do not accept these firm denials. To them, they seem likely to be the initial stories of a group of boys who know more than they are saying. As officers move in and out of interview rooms, carrying information from one interrogation to the next, the pressure intensifies. They tell the teenagers that their friends are already telling their side of it, that they should too. Under North Carolina law in 2002, police are permitted to exaggerate, even to suggest they have evidence they do not possess. There is no rule requiring a parent or other adult to be present while 14- and 15-year-olds are questioned. For most of their time in these rooms, the five boys are alone. When I interviewed him in late 2025, Tolliver told me that a detective asked him to hold out his arm. “That’s the vein,” he told him. “This is where the lethal injection would go.”
Every adult who purports to care about a free press should read at least one story about the frustrating hurdles and bad-faith nitpicking confronted by student journalists (and their advisors). Earlier this year, a young reporter for the Redwood High School Bark found a few local references in the US Department of Justice’s public files concerning Jeffrey Epstein, the sex offender who died in 2019 while awaiting trial on sex-trafficking charges. Soon, the high school faced legal threats, and administrators grew concerned that students had published inaccurate information. Ara Rosenthal tells the story of the steady, diligent young journalists who weathered the worries and pressures of the adults around them—and kept their story intact.
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