Pussy Riot, the Solzhenitsyns of a new Russia? Dr. Ilmi Umerov, the Soviet-era practice of punitive psychiatry is alive and well…PUTIN has No bad dreams…no PTSD…just an amoral Psychopath

The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, sat in his high-backed chair, sunlight streaming through the half-open shutters of the Apostolic Palace. Across from him sat Nadya Tolokonnikova, the firebrand dissident turned political visionary, her sharp eyes studying him with equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

“Nadya,” Lenny began, his voice calm but edged with the quiet authority of someone who has looked kings, dictators, and cardinals in the eye without blinking. “You want to be the future president of the Russian republic. That is not a small thing. It is not just about votes—it is about souls.”

Nadya raised an eyebrow. “Souls? I thought I was running for president, not canonization.”

The Young Pope gave the faintest smirk. “On Sundays, I want you to dress modestly, out of respect for Jesus. Show the people that you honor the sacred day. Show them you can be humble, disciplined, and reverent.”

“And the other days?” she asked, leaning forward, half expecting a lecture.

“The other days,” Lenny said, “you can dress however you like. You are an artist, a protester, a woman who knows how to command attention. But there must be one day—one—when you stand before your people beyond reproach. It will disarm your enemies. It will confuse your critics. It will win the hearts and minds of ordinary Russians, the ones who want both a fighter and a saint in the same person.”

Nadya crossed her arms, thinking. “And you believe that’s enough to make me incorruptible?”

He shook his head slowly. “No one is incorruptible by nature, Nadya. But you can live in such a way that corruption dies of starvation before it reaches you. That is what will make them follow you—not fear, not spectacle, but the example of a woman they cannot accuse of being bought, sold, or seduced by power.”

For a long moment, the two sat in silence. Outside, the bells of St. Peter’s began to ring.

Nadya finally smiled faintly. “Alright, Pope. Sundays are yours. The rest of the week is mine.”

“And in the end,” Lenny said, leaning back with a glint in his eye, “that may be enough to save Russia.”