I could count and name plenty of heroes of Russia.
Like I mentioned years before here in this blog – Boris Yeltsin is the man.
He brought freedom to Russia. When Gorby was hesitating and taking steps back, Boris didn’t and stood up.
Yes, he was a drunk and he wasn’t a perfect man.
Yet, I lived through the time. During the Communist coup on August 19, 1991, Yeltsin didn’t surrender and stood up. After the fucking Communists were gone, we enjoyed freedom to live as we want to. Nobody was there to tell us what to do. Westerners don’t’ get it and don’t appreciate it because they have it upon being born. We were raised in chains and Boris unchained us. With our great help.
That decision has changed Russia’s fate forever. Even now, under Putin’s dictatorship, we still have a market economy that saves Mother Russia as of today.
Boris Yeltsin was a black-and-white man. Yet, I regard him as the greatest hero of Russia for all its 1,200-year history.
The only one elected freely. The only one, who actually brought freedom to the Russian people.
This matters and, in a future free Russia, will go directly into future history books.
My hero
I could easily have chosen my mum, my dad, my family, my music teacher, or any number of sporting heroes of mine. My choice will disappoint patriots, confuse nationalists, and irritate those of you who prefer their heroes uncomplicated.
I am going to define my idea of heroism. This includes restraint, moral courage, and choosing peace over power. I was an imaginative youngster during the “Cold War” and I think my choice of former Russian president Mikhail Gorbachev stands up well to scrutiny.
Gorbachev presided over the end of that Cold War without bloodshed between superpowers. Unlike many leaders before him, he refused to send tanks to crush dissent in Eastern Europe. That single choice spared countless lives and reshaped the world.
He allowed the Soviet Union to collapse rather than hold it together by repression. That is extraordinarily rare. Most leaders cling to power; Gorbachev let it go.
From a British perspective, this matters. He reduced the nuclear threat that had hung over us for decades. For people like me who grew up with air-raid sirens, “Protect and Survive” leaflets, and the constant background anxiety of annihilation, Gorbachev helped end that nightmare.
He is criticised in Russia to this day, often blamed for national humiliation and hardship. But for me, being a hero does not require popularity.
I do accept that his reforms caused economic chaos for millions, and by Soviet standards, he was politically naïve, and indeed, I fear that most Russians do not consider him a hero at all.
But you need to know that there is something quietly British about admiring Gorbachev: valuing moderation over triumph,preferring compromise to conquest and respecting a man who stepped back rather than doubled down
He wasn’t a conqueror or a strongman. He was something much rarer: a leader who knew when to stop. I am not celebrating Russia, or endorsing Soviet ideology. I am merely honouring a man who demonstrated that power can be surrendered, that empires can end without war, and that history can turn on restraint rather than force.
Sadly, there’s no leader around today that possess any of his qualities. That’s why the world is literally in Shit Street. Mikhail, you were a one-off, and I continue to salute you. Fuck the Russians that don’t.
My Hero
As a young person, I was cursed/blessed to attend one of the top five secondary institutions in America; The Baylor School for Boys, Chattanooga, Tennessee. I was sent to hell on a full-ride scholarship.
The place was much as you would imagine; it looked like an English college campus with lots of red brick and stone buildings. I would wear a tie to class; there were lots of snotty little rich jerks who were fully aware they would lead privileged lives in comfort. 600 students from 65 countries; I wasn’t one of them.
One afternoon I was in the restroom (W/C – Toilet) and a janitor was in there cleaning. The boys would mockingly call him Big Foot. In fairness, he did wear large shoes. His name was Herbert. Always friendly and always working.
After the boys left. I started talking to him and I remember the conversation to this day. Herbert didn’t care about those guys and I had the sense he knew I could also see through them. Lonely misery concealed in bluster and housed in a Dorm.
Then Herbert changed the path of my life. He told me he didn’t care what others thought. He had the cleanest restrooms in Chattanooga. He spoke with pride about cleaning urinals. He was the best at what he did and he would not be moved by the opinions of others. If life says you have to clean a urinal, do your best.
I hope to be worthy of Herbert the janitor… someday.