The Russsian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism
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"We are at war, in WWIII for many decades now. We have been systematically targeted on different fronts and locations. Alas, my beloved America has not recognized it yet... "

This nonfiction work chronicles the development of world politics in the 21st century. Discover the single driving force behind today's threat of global terrorism. Learn why the 9/11 attack was just one link in a long chain of battles against Western civilization and how Islam and oil are being used as weapons by a very determined enemy.

The author sets the stage with several first-hand narratives from her unique experience as a prominent attorney in Russia. Then, she demonstrates how a global war set in motion nearly a century ago continuous to pose the largest and most imminent threat to the world.

Decide for yourself ones you have seen Ms. Pipko's evidence, from Russia's quickly growing intelligence apparatus to infiltrations of the CIA and UN.
The Russian Factor brings Cold War suspicions into sharp focus.

With Simona Pipko's heartfelt voice this book is also an intriguing retelling of a life lived purposefully.



Publié par
Date de parution 21 février 2013
Nombre de lectures 0
EAN13 9781456601478
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0800€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.


The Russian Factor:
From Cold War to
Global Terrorism
Simona Pipko

Copyright © 2011 by Simona Pipko.
Published in eBook format by
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0147-8
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To the fighters of Soviet Fascism:
President Richard Nixon,
President Ronald Reagan,
Pope John Paul II,
the coalition forces,
for all those who survived Stalinism,
and the millions who did not.
I am a former Soviet defense attorney. My life experience and my profession have educated me. All predictions, expressed in my first book Baltic Winds Testimony of a Soviet Attorney , have come true. Twelve years ago, I predicted an upcoming disaster and its location. America did not know our foremost enemy then, and we still don’t know him today. The attack on 9/11 was just a link in a chain of wars waged on all fronts against Western civilization and the United States of America, where Islam is a tool and oil a major weapon. The Soviets started the global war in the 1920s and are continuing it into the twenty-first century. For this reason, I have titled this book The Russian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism.
This book reveals the methods, tactics, and techniques—the modus operandi of the aggressor in this global war, directly aimed at the United States. It shows the connection between terrorist groups coordinated by Russian intelligence, which acts as the central nervous system in the global war. It also predicts a miserable failure of the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) and the criminal activities of Russian intelligence within the UN (United Nations) and EU (European Union) against the United States and our interests throughout the globe.
Putin’s Russia is not only “the world’s most virulent kleptocracy,” but also an underreported ticking time bomb. The Russian intelligence apparatus tripled in size since the collapse of the USSR (Union of Soviet Socialist Republics), infiltrating foreign governments, institutions, and organizations around the globe. America is no exception, though the CIA and fourteen other agencies are clueless in this respect. My book attempts to fill that void. It comprises a series of narratives displaying my observations, analysis, and commentary on the global events that are impacting the United States directly. The book contains twelve chapters. The first three essays describe events in Russia, providing a backdrop. The rest introduce my analysis of American policy vis-à-vis Russia during the last ten years.
Presenting pictures and documents never seen before, the book also identifies the terms “Stalinist terror ideology” and “Soviet Fascism,” which have never been introduced before. Old forces continue fighting Western civilization, inside and outside our country, the same way the “evil empire” had done so for several decades. The recent revelation in the UN’s Oil for Food program in Iraq is only the tip of the iceberg. Dozens of other criminal activities within the UN have not been exposed yet. A clear definition of the international force fighting humanity has not been developed yet. My book attempts to do that. By ignoring or appeasing that force, we enable the criminals to perpetrate more destruction and cause more deaths on our planet.

Memories of the Past
Summer in Minsk
Children have always been the first casualties of war. Their childhood suddenly ends, and they have to share and endure the struggles their parents go through. In 1941, when World War II came close to Leningrad, children were evacuated from the city and sent to the eastern parts of Russia. My sister Rena and I became children of war, as we experienced the misery associated with that time in history. We slept on the floor and ran to the bomb shelter several times a night. We shared one bathroom with several families and, like them, suffered from hunger and cold. Though we had ration coupons, food was so scarce that we stood in breadlines for hours, often in snow and rain. Our only wish was to see our father again, to see him alive.
Before the war, my father had been a physician, an obstetrician-gynecologist at the renowned Erisman Hospital in Leningrad. As a medical professional, he had been drafted into the army as soon as the war broke out and served in a military hospital on the Leningrad Front for the four-year duration. When my mother, sister, and I returned from evacuation, we could hardly recognize him, as he had become so emaciated. He had lost much of his hair and was worn down to a shadow. Only the serious gaze of his blue eyes, touched with hunger, was recognizable. But the end of the war brought such happiness to our family that nothing could cast a cloud over our reunion. We had survived the devastating ordeal that our country and our people went through . . .
My father was elated at the possibility of returning to his beloved Erisman Hospital to work and teach in medical school again. He wrote one request after another asking to be discharged and to return to Leningrad. However, all his requests to military commanders were met with refusal. Instead, he was assigned to Minsk, two thousand miles away from home, to teach at a medical school there.
My family’s desire to be together was so strong that we planned to leave Leningrad as soon as the school year ended. In spite of incredible difficulties in getting train tickets, my mother finally succeeded, and after a rushed and exhausting day, we boarded a train bound for Minsk.
Nothing could surprise us in the smelly, overcrowded train’s compartment of the steam locomotive. There was no room to move freely, since the entire floor was covered with piles of bundles, knapsacks, and cartons. We were lucky to find two seats in the compartment, one for Mother and another for Rena and me to share. Though the wooden bench was hard and uncomfortable, we could finally rest, nestled close to each other. Exhausted and hungry, we fell asleep as soon as the train began to move, despite the constant noise and awful stench in the car. And then . . . nightmares, one after another terrified me all night.
“Simona, Simona, wake up, stop crying,” my mother’s face was close to mine, whispering, shaking me, and trying to break the torture of the night. As I opened my eyes, bright sun blinded me at once. Then I looked around. There were ten to twelve people sitting in the compartment, women in black and gray babushkas tied tightly under their chins. Men were wearing dirty long rubber boots. Some people still slept, while others prepared to get off and whispered to each other, like ghosts, scared by the sun’s beaming rays.
My mother whispered too, “Simona, please take Rena and quickly go to the bathroom while the other people are sleeping. There will be a line later on. Don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards, girls.”
Rena and I forced our way through bundles and cartons and finally reached the bathroom. It took some time for us to put ourselves together. Rena, seven years younger, obediently washed her hands while I was watching her. At that moment the train stopped, and a loud voice from the stout woman conductor ordered us to leave the lavatory. No one was allowed to stay in the lavatory when the train pulled into station. Getting out, we hardly recognized our car. Nobody was whispering anymore; they were yelling. People shouted obscenities as they tried to get off the train with their luggage, pushing and fighting their way to the exit. Rena and I stood quietly flattened against the wall for a long minute while a wild crowd rushed to the exit . . .
When we returned to our compartment, two glasses of tea awaited us. Mother gave each of us two pieces of dried bread and a small slice of cheese.
“Girls, please keep an eye on our suitcases,” she whispered. “Now I’m going to the bathroom.” We knew the situation and took our responsibility seriously. I moved to my mother’s seat behind our luggage. Theft was rampant in the land.
As the train stopped at smaller stations, some people would get off and others would board, quickly filling the vacant seats. And again, almost all the women were wearing black and gray babushkas, and the men wore long black rubber boots. Nobody smiled. Their faces revealed anxiety and gloom.
Rena and I finished our breakfast and looked out of the window. There was nothing to see but the monotonous landscape of burnt tree trunks and scorched earth. It looked like a huge grave for multitude of soldiers killed in the war. On rare occasion, when my eyes could catch sight of young green shoots stretched out to the sun, a feeling of joy would come over me. Seeing houses in ruins did not surprise me. I had witnessed the same ruins in Leningrad . . .
I moved back to my seat when Mother returned to the compartment.
“Girls, take advantage of the daylight; you’ll not be able to read in the evening. Please, take your books. We’ll have our supper when the conductor prepares the tea for the second time, in the evening. Listen to me; our trip will take a few days, and you should adjust to the arrangement in the train. Simona, where’s your Dostoyevsky?” I took the book thinking about the evening tea, a Russian prerevolutionary tradition. I loved the tradition of serving tea in the train and understood now why Mother insisted on buying the tickets to a compartment car—it is hard to be without fluid for three days . . .
By the third night, we arrived at the last stop—Minsk, the capital of Belarus. In the dull light in the car, a hammering of complaints began while people formed a line and began to move forward. The line suddenly stopped in our compartment, and a tall man opened t

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