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І знову Guardian?!.. (л)

03/10/2006 | Dworkin
http://www.lenta.ru/news/2006/03/10/guardian/

У белорусского лидера Александра Лукашенко, политика которого особенно на фоне предстоящих президентских выборов вызывает острую критику Запада, нашлись защитники в Великобритании. Авторитетная британская газета The Guardian опубликовала статью, автор которой Джонатан Стил считает, что Лукашенко не только устраивает самих белорусов, но во многом подвергается абсолютно необоснованной критике со стороны ЕС и США.

---------------------------------

Цікаво, що раніше в "Guardian" публікувалося також багато статей про Україну, які багато хто називав "замовними", що захищали кучмівську владу, або критикували "помаранчевих". І ось тепер Лукашенко...

Цікаво, це просто тяга європейського видання до оригінальності на загальному тлі? Чи справді - журналістам не доплачують? :)

Відповіді

  • 2006.03.10 | Пані

    Це той самий хрен

    Якого тут досить детально обговорювали. Явна закладка КГБ.
    Нема чого навіть знов обсосувати.

    Ви хоч пам`ятаєте походження газети Гардіан????
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    • 2006.03.10 | Englishman

      ні, не той (\)

      цей хрєн називається свободомисленням. Звикайте, поважні західні газети надають можливість і такому висвітленню поді. Ось вам, до речі, і дуже критична стаття від того ж Гардіан.

      http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,1721135,00.html

      Europe's last dictatorship

      In Belarus, an authoritarian, often forgotten corner of Europe, criticising the president can still land you in jail. So it's no surprise that the forthcoming elections are already rumoured to have been fixed. Nick Paton Walsh reports from the land where the Soviet Union never really went away

      Thursday March 2, 2006
      The Guardian

      Nikolai Statkievich shares the foul stench of his tiny cell with five other prisoners. After their 6am wake-up call, the men form a line along the corridor outside, their backs to the wall. As the commandant calls out their surnames, each man answers with his first and middle name and steps forward two paces until his nose touches the wall on the opposite side of the corridor.

      Statkievich has to start his forced labour by 8am. This gives him the next hour to drop by his 75-year-old father's flat for a shower, breakfast and to change out of the lavatory grime of his prison clothes. Then Statkievich, 49, a former lieutenant-colonel in the Soviet army - who has the equivalent of a PhD in science - reports for duty at a local shop. He spends his days fixing kettles, irons and radios, and is paid around £35 a month for it. His crime, under article 232 of the criminal code, is: "The organisation of mass events that concern disobedience of the authorities and interference with public transportation." This means he organised a demonstration and it briefly stopped the traffic. For this he was sentenced to three years of forced labour in June last year.

      Article continues
      Statkievich's story reads like a footnote to the works of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the Nobel-prize-winning chronicler of the Soviet "gulag" prison camps of the 1950s. His punishment is known as khimiya (chemistry); it was, he tells me during his lunch break, created "in Kruschev's times, when the gulag was dismantled, because there was no one to do the dirty jobs, like work in chemical factories".

      But Statkievich is no 50s dissident. He is one of the last political prisoners in 21st-century Europe, an internal exile in the authoritarian - and often forgotten - state of Belarus. Here, the Soviet Union never really went away.

      Baranavichy, population 400,000 - the town that Statkievich is not allowed to leave - is only 150km from Poland, the latest part of the old Soviet bloc to join the European Union. But life here seems worlds apart from the democratic west. On October 18 2004, Statkievich led a protest against a referendum held over plans to change the Belarusian constitution so that President Alexander Lukashenko, in power since July 1994, had a right to a third term. The poll's positive result was as predictable as the raft of allegations of fraud and illegality that followed from the west. Statkievich's protest, obviously, failed to overturn the results and so for this he got three years of khimiya.

      Belarus's 10 million people live sandwiched between the Baltics and the Ukraine, with their former imperialist master, Russia, to the east, and have learned not to expect too much from history, or from their masters. For centuries Belarus was a bargaining chip between European empires. It first existed as an independent state in 1918, only to be swallowed up by the USSR a year later. Stalin's purges in the 1930s led to at least 100,000 of its citizens being executed and thousands more sent to labour camps. The Nazi occupation and the second world war led to the death of three million Belarusians - a third of its population, a higher proportion of losses during that time than any other country. The survivors were purged again by a victorious Stalin. Belarus was then to bear the brunt of the Soviet empire's ungracious collapse: a fifth of its farmland was rendered unusable by radiation from the Chernobyl disaster in 1986.

      Lukashenko, 51, has played on the country's troubled history. He frequently extols the "stability" that his regime has created. In 2003, he told Belarusian radio: "An authoritarian ruling style is characteristic of me, and I have always admitted it. Why? We could spend hours talking about this. You need to control the country and the main thing is not to ruin people's lives." In a fortnight's time, after months of careful preparation and repression, Lukashenko, the man the Bush White House has dubbed "Europe's last dictator", will stage a third presidential election, in an attempt to extend his rule to a total of 15 years, making him Europe's longest-serving head of state.

      There is a stability of sorts here. Pensions are good enough, the general standard of living is manageable for some. The rest are isolated enough from the outside world not to know better. Nikolai Kazaryan, a part-time driver, lives on £40 a month in a squalid farmhouse outside the capital of Minsk, just down the road from a lavish ski resort where the president has his own luxury chalet. But despite the immense gulf between him and his president, Kazaryan has only this to say about Lukashenko: "Great guy," he grins, raising a thumb.

      After the political upheaval and privatisations of the turbulent 90s, Russia enjoys an improved standard of living. Belarus has seen no such changes: 80% of the economy is still controlled by the state, and the state is Lukashenko.

      "He's a former collective farm manager, still running the collective farm," says a senior western diplomat, who asks not to be named. "I don't think he's in it for the money, but for the power." The diplomat describes victory in this month's elections as "Lukashenko's big prize, this total dictatorship he wants".

      The opposition has pledged to hold massive demonstrations at 8pm on March 19, election day. They say the election has been fixed in advance and hope that by taking to the streets they will spark a repeat of the protest-led regime changes that swept neighbouring Ukraine in November 2004. Their hopes have been bolstered by expressions of support from both America and the European Union, but Moscow - desperate not to see another part of the former Soviet Union turn irrevocably to the west - is backing Lukashenko. The lines are drawn for yet another showdown between east and west.

      Lukashenko is said to be nervous about the election, and has more openly been taking steps to isolate Belarus from the viral contagion of democracy. Belarusians have long needed a stamp in their passport to travel abroad; now students need clearance for every foreign study trip.

      It's part of a slow clampdown on Belarusian society, one that ranges from the Orwellian to the comical. While "slandering the president" has for years been an offence that carries a prison sentence, in December Lukashenko felt it necessary to introduce a three-year sentence for anyone who "passes false information harmful to the state of Belarus to a foreign state". Meanwhile, fears as to the insidious nature of foreign rock music have led to a law that means 75% of music on radio stations must be Belarusian. All models that appear in advertisements inside Belarus are, according to a new law, supposed to be Belarusian citizens.

      An instinctive reaction to such batty Soviet excess is to snigger. But in Belarus it is no joke. Underpinning the wackiness is a coarse current of fear.

      When I try to watch the first televised speech of Alexander Milinkevich, the main opponent to Lukashenko in the presidential vote, in a popular restaurant in the centre of Minsk, two young women next to me tell me it is spoiling their conversation. Eighteen minutes into the 30-minute speech, the manager appears and asks me to turn it off. Despite my arguing that the speech is on state-run television, so cannot really be the "political agitation" he suggests it is, he insists I hand him the remote control.

      "In his heart, maybe he wanted to watch me," Milinkevich later tells me, in the back of his campaign minibus. "But business is so tightly controlled here that he might have feared losing money. Self-censorship is the strongest weapon."

      For the most part excluded from the media, Milinkevich has resorted to travelling Belarus in a white minivan with his wife Inna and a few of his 20-strong campaign staff by his side. The day we meet, he is driving three hours to a campaign meeting in the eastern town of Orsha, where about 100 supporters and a handful of police await him in the snow. He has little choice but to campaign at a grassroots level. The only remaining opposition paper in Belarus, Narodnaya Volya, has been forced to print in Russia and is now distributed in blank, brown paper envelopes to prevent it being intercepted.

      State TV is prone to depicting the outside western world in outlandish diatribes. (One recent TV documentary, according to BBC Monitoring, accused the US of funding Nazi Germany, adding that Coca-Cola had dreamed up the Fanta recipe to "quench the thirst of German invaders".) Domestic news is almost as heavily distorted, with Lukashenko seen as the great benefactor of his people, pushing a land of plenty to new heights. Yet Milinkevich believes that the electorate, home-schooled in the Soviet era to trust nothing that state TV offers, can see through it all.

      The streets of the capital, Minsk, are almost unnaturally clean and conspicuously devoid of advertising. A few token placards flog international brands, but are matched by government information adverts. (A typical police poster says, "We are always near you" - something any former Soviet citizen will read as a veiled threat.)

      The price of even mild dissent here can be high. Lubov Kuchinskaya says she was a veterinary student on a scholarship until February 7. Then police searched her dormitory, and found opposition posters. She started failing her exams for the first time and was thrown out of university. In Baranavichy, where Statkievich is exiled, Alexander Dolmut tells me he lost his job as deputy director of a sewing factory because of his politics.

      State workers - the vast majority of people - are now employed under contracts that have to be renewed each year: naturally, this tends to enhance their political loyalty. "Sack three people and 100,000 are scared," says Statkievich.

      Alexander Svirid is deputy chairman of the parliament's committee on human rights, and the only official put forward to meet me during my four-day visit. He says he has received many calls since Milinkevich's TV speech from angry voters asking why the state allowed such "slander of the president" to be broadcast.

      From inside the hushed and dusty corridors of Minsk's parliament, it is hard to see what change the ballot box could bring about. Asked to define democracy, Svirid says: "I learned at school that democracy was power to the people. In my understanding, democracy means the authorities must come to power by democratic means, fulfil the will of the people, and direct society. There is no talk of opposition."

      He says the opposition courting foreign support and finance "was essentially a form of terrorism, interference in the internal affairs of another country. Today you support the opposition, tomorrow you're fostering terrorism."

      I ask if he means that the jovial, mild-mannered Professor Milinkevich is in fact a terrorist, and he quickly recants. "No, no. He is not even a hooligan. He is a good, normal, obedient guy." But, he says, "constructive criticism" of Lukashenko is the way forward. "If people are patriots and love their country, they should not support the opposition, but their president."

      So far, so ominous. But there are areas of Minsk where dissent is thriving. A queue is forming on a Tuesday night outside the city Orange Club - named after the colour of Ukraine's revolution. Owner Pavel Kashirin lets people in one by one, checking their surnames off on a list. Inside, young people drink, smoke and, quite probably, if they are sure no one is listening in, talk revolution.

      Lyavon Volski is usually lead singer of the opposition-minded band NRM, but tonight is moonlighting with the group Krambambula. Their songs boast lyrics such as "tanks are on the streets, and [a statue of the founder of the KGB, Felix] Dzherninsky is in the square", warning of a backslide into totalitarianism.

      There's no official ban on NRM, but it only takes a phone call from the police for the director of the concert hall to cancel a gig, says Volski. "This country reminds me of the USSR in miniature. Now is the time for people who got C-grades at school. Everyone talented has gone abroad. But if I did not think democratic forces could triumph, I would have left long ago," he says.

      I ask if Lukashenko's crackdown may work against him. "I don't think it was a genius move, as only in one year this popular culture" - he gestures around him - "has produced a lot of seeds." He stops himself, grinning. "Sorry, I am taking a risk here because of a law on the defamation of the state. I would not want to damage the honour of our president."

      Others have less to lose. Svetlana Zavadskaya's husband Dmitry, a journalist for the Russian channel ORT, is one of four people known as Belarus's disappeared. In 2000, he vanished after reporting that the Belarusian authorities might have been aiding Chechen separatists, and she has not seen him since. Three other men, a former interior minister and two politicians, also disappeared at the same time. Now her life is devoted to their son, Yuri, 14, and to exposing Lukashenko's authoritarianism to the outside world. "I have one message for Putin," she tells me. "Your historic, dangerous support for such a regime is a shame that compromises Russia internationally."

      Her campaign is gathering steam. Last year she met Condoleezza Rice, the US secretary of state, and the EU foreign policy chief Javier Solana. On February 27, Zavadskaya and another widow of one of the disappeared met George Bush at the White House. Spokesman Scott McClellan said the US president had expressed "his personal support for their efforts to seek justice for the disappeared and for all those who seek to return freedom to Belarus". He added that the US had concluded that the Lukashenko regime had murdered Dmitry Zavadsky.

      Zavadskaya has experienced both the government's brutality and absurdity. At 6pm on July 7 last year, she and dozens of others gathered in October Square in central Minsk to commemorate the fifth anniversary of her husband's disappearance. The riot police attacked the demonstration. One policeman ran into her, another punched her in the face, she says. Then prosecutors were told that she had attacked the two riot policemen. The case against her, or the police, was never pursued, but she is still subjected to regular, silent phone calls.

      "My son, Yuri, gets ideological lessons at school," she says. "They make his class watch films that show Lukashenko as the father of the people, in the farm fields. But I don't worry. Yuri says the class all laugh. My son sees everything here with his own eyes so there's not much need to explain anything to him."

      Yet not all the bleak absurdity can be instinctively laughed off. One day she will have to explain what happened to Yuri. "I think he understands that his father is not coming back. But we have never spoken about this, and that conversation will be hard".
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      • 2006.03.10 | Пані

        той самий

        Можете пошукати в аріхвах форуму.
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        • 2006.03.10 | Englishman

          мені не треба нічого шукати

          ще раз: Гардіан відомий тим, що дає РІЗНІ погляди на події, часом діаметрально протилежні. Сперечатися треба з авторами, а не ліпити ярлики часів холодної війни на газету.
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          • 2006.03.10 | Пані

            Re: мені не треба нічого шукати

            Englishman пише:
            > ще раз: Гардіан відомий тим, що дає РІЗНІ погляди на події, часом діаметрально протилежні. Сперечатися треба з авторами, а не ліпити ярлики часів холодної війни на газету.

            Перечитайте мій допис. "Ярлик" я наліпила на автора. А про газету я спитала чи пам`ятаєте ви її походження? Чи ви його не знаєте?
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            • 2006.03.10 | Englishman

              Походження Гардіану (\)

              http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Guardian

              Ownership

              The Guardian is part of the Guardian Media Group of newspapers, radio stations, and new media including The Observer Sunday newspaper, the Manchester Evening News, and Guardian Unlimited, one of the most popular online news resources on the Internet. All the aforementioned are owned by The Scott Trust, a charitable foundation which aims to ensure the newspaper's editorial independence in perpetuity, maintaining its financial health to ensure it does not become vulnerable to take over by for-profit media groups, and the serious compromise of editorial independence that this often brings.

              The Guardian's ownership by the Scott Trust is likely a factor in it being the only British national daily to conduct (since 2003) an annual social, ethical and environmental audit in which it examines, under the scrutiny of an independent external auditor, its own behaviour as a company[5].

              The Guardian and its parent groups are a participant in Project Syndicate [3], established by George Soros, and intervened in 1995 to save the Mail & Guardian in South Africa [4], but Guardian Media Group sold the majority of its shares in the Mail & Guardian in 2002.
              [edit]

              History
              The Guardian's Newsroom visitor centre and archive (No 60), with an old sign with the name The Manchester Guardian
              Enlarge
              The Guardian's Newsroom visitor centre and archive (No 60), with an old sign with the name The Manchester Guardian

              The Manchester Guardian was founded in Manchester in 1821 by a group of non-conformist businessmen headed by John Edward Taylor. The prospectus which announced the new publication proclaimed that "it will zealously enforce the principles of civil and religious Liberty … it will warmly advocate the cause of Reform; it will endeavour to assist in the diffusion of just principles of Political Economy; and to support, without reference to the party from which they emanate, all serviceable measures."

              The first edition was published on May 5, 1821[6], at which time the Guardian was a weekly, published on Saturdays and costing 7d.; the stamp duty on newspapers (4d. per sheet) forced the price up so high that it was uneconomic to publish more frequently. When the stamp duty was cut in 1836 the Guardian added a Wednesday edition; with the abolition of the tax in 1855 it became a daily paper costing 2d.

              Its most famous editor, C. P. Scott, made the Manchester Guardian into a nationally famous newspaper. He was editor for 57 years from 1872, and became its owner when he bought the paper from the estate of Taylor's son in 1907. Under Scott the paper's moderate editorial line became more radical, supporting Gladstone when the Liberals split in 1886, and opposing the Second Boer War against popular opinion.

              Scott's friendship with Chaim Weizmann played a role in the Balfour Declaration, and in 1948 the Guardian was a supporter of the State of Israel. The story of the relationship between the Guardian and the zionist movement and Israel is told in Daphna Baram's book "Disenchantment: The Guardian and Israel" (Politico's, 2003. ISBN 1842751190).

              In June 1936 ownership of the paper was transferred to the Scott Trust (named after the last owner, John Russell Scott, who was the first chairman of the Trust). This move ensured the paper's independence, and it was then noted for its eccentric style, its moralising and its detached attitude to its finances.

              Traditionally affiliated with the centrist Liberal Party, and with a northern circulation base, the paper earned a national reputation and the respect of the left during the Spanish Civil War, when along with the Liberal News Chronicle, the Labour Daily Herald, the Communist Daily Worker and several Sunday and weekly papers it supported the republicans against the insurgent nationalists led by General Francisco Franco.

              In 1952 the paper took the step of printing news on the front page, replacing the adverts that had hitherto filled that space. The editor A.P. Wadsworth wrote, "it is not a thing I like myself, but it seems to be accepted by all the newspaper pundits that it is preferable to be in fashion".
              The Guardian's offices in London
              Enlarge
              The Guardian's offices in London

              In 1959 the paper dropped "Manchester" from its title, becoming simply The Guardian, and in 1964 it moved to London, losing some of its regional agenda but continuing to be heavily subsidised by sales of the less intellectual but much more profitable Manchester Evening News. The financial position remained extremely poor into the 1970s; at one time it was in merger talks with The Times. The paper consolidated its left-wing stance during the 1970s and 1980s but was both shocked and revitalised by the launch of The Independent in 1986 which competed for similar readers and provoked the entire broadsheet industry into a fight for circulation.

              In 1988 The Guardian had a significant redesign; as well as improving the quality of its printers ink, it also changed its masthead to its soon-familiar (but no-longer used as of 2005) juxtaposition of an italic Garamond "The", with a bold Helvetica "Guardian".

              In 1992 it relaunched its features section as G2, a tabloid-format supplement. This innovation was widely copied by the other "quality" broadsheets, and ultimately led to the rise of "compact" papers and The Guardian's move to the Berliner format. In 1993 the paper declined to participate in the broadsheet 'price war' started by Rupert Murdoch's The Times. In June 1993, The Guardian bought The Observer from Lonrho, thus gaining a serious Sunday newspaper partner with similar political views.

              In 1995, both the Granada Television programme World In Action and The Guardian were sued for libel by the then cabinet minister Jonathan Aitken, for their allegation that the Saudi Prince Mohammed bin Fahd had paid for Aitken and his wife to stay at the Hôtel Ritz in Paris, which would have amounted to accepting a bribe on Aitken's part. Aitken publicly stated he would fight with "the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of British fair play"[7]. The court case proceeded, and in 1997 The Guardian produced evidence that Aitken's claim of his wife paying for the hotel stay was untrue[8]. In 1999, Aitken was jailed for perjury and perverting the course of justice[9].

              During the Afghanistan and Iraq wars The Guardian attracted a significant proportion of anti-war readers as one of the mass-media media outlets most critical of UK and USA military initiatives. The newspaper also gained readers in the United States where there were few "anti-war" rivals.
              The Guardian's offices in London
              Enlarge
              The Guardian's offices in London

              Its international weekly edition is now titled The Guardian Weekly, though it retained the title Manchester Guardian Weekly for some years after the home edition had moved to London. It includes sections from a number of other internationally significant newspapers of a somewhat left-of-centre inclination, including Le Monde. In 2004, The Guardian introduced an online digital version of its print edition, allowing readers to download pages from the last 14 issues as PDF files.

              In August 2004, for the US presidential election, the daily G2 supplement, edited by Ian Katz, launched an experimental letter-writing campaign in Clark County, Ohio, a small county in a swing state. Katz bought a voter list from the county for $25 and asked people to write to those on the list undecided in the election. The point of this venture was for the writers to give Clark County voters a taste of international opinion, without endorsing any candidates. This caused something of a backlash, and on 21 October 2004, the paper retired the campaign.

              Following the 7 July 2005 London bombings, The Guardian published an article on its comment pages by Dilpazier Aslam, a 27-year-old British Muslim journalism trainee from Yorkshire[10]. Aslam was a member of Hizb ut-Tahrir, an Islamist group, and had published a number of articles on their website. According to the paper, it did not know that Aslam was a member of Hizb ut-Tahrir when he applied to become a trainee, though several staff members were informed of this once he started at the paper[11]. The Home Office has claimed the group's "ultimate aim is the establishment of an Islamic state (Caliphate), according to Hizb ut-Tahrir via non-violent means". The Guardian asked Aslam to resign his membership of the group, and – when he did not do so – terminated his employment[12].

              In 2005 The Guardian moved to the Berliner paper format and changed the design of its masthead.


              І що далі?..
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              • 2006.03.10 | Пані

                Про ліве крило в 70-80х (з того тексту)

                Саме в ті часи туди було внедрено кілька агетів КГБ. Саме в ті часи це була ЄДИНА європейська англомовна газета, яка продавалася в СРСР. Саме через цю газету КГБ здійснило кілька інофрмаційних спецоперацій тих часів.

                Та про це писали багато всі перебежчікі з КГБ часів перебудови.
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                • 2006.03.10 | Englishman

                  що цікаво, в самій статті про це- ні слова

                  Але це не дуже суттєво. Я допускаю, що окремих авторів (як і в будь-якій газеті) міг купити КГБ, але це не відміняє того факту, що газета дає альтернативні погляди на події.
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                  • 2006.03.10 | Пані

                    Про лівацький ухил в статті є

                    Перечитайте уважно. Якраз про 70-80ті.
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                    • 2006.03.10 | Englishman

                      lef-wing stance- не злочин, і ні про що не свідчить (-)

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                      • 2006.03.10 | Пані

                        Ви явно не читали цю газету в ці роки

                        Звичайно слугувати сливним бачком КГБ СССР це не злочин. Це щось інше - продажність, свідома позиція, тощо.

                        Я стверджую, що з тих часів там лишилися закладки і ними досі користується ФСБ. А можливо і КГБ Білорусі.
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                        • 2006.03.11 | Englishman

                          а ви її тоді читали? в оригіналі?

                          От що мене дивує. Газета мє багато недоброзичливців. Але чомусь у відкритій Вікіпідії про її зв"язки з КДБ - ні слова. Ну хоч би хтось згадав.
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                          • 2006.03.11 | Englishman

                            Re: а ви її тоді читали? в оригіналі? (+)

                            Про закладки я вже написав. Я не виключаю можливості, що ХТОСЬ З АВТОРІВ міг (чи є купленим) ФСБ чи КДБ, але, на відміну від вас, цього впевнено стверджувати не буду. Мій пойнт в іншому- треба рзрізняти позицію окремих авторів і редакційну політику газети. Ви атакували саме газету, за її "походження".
                          • 2006.03.11 | Пані

                            Так, читала. В оригіналі. Я її роками передплачувала.

                            Це була ЄДИНА європейська англомовна газета, яку продавали в совку. І була чимось схожим на газету набагато більше, ніж другий зразок англомовної газети - американський Morning Star - орган компартії США. Третьою газетою була московська Moscow News, яка звичайно, джерелом саме англійської мови могла показатися тільки в страшному сні.

                            І це були ВСІ джерела живої англійської мови, які реально могли отримати мешканці совка, які хотіли вивчити мову.

                            Якщо ви цю газету не читали, то, будь ласка, припиніть цю безплідну суперечку. Це як обгворення смаку устриць.

                            Про Вікіпедію я навіть коментувати не хочу. Тут тони писалися про те, як відбуваються ідеологічні битви навколо змісту Вікіпедії.
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                            • 2006.03.11 | Englishman

                              ця суперечка не безплідна

                              (навіть якщо вам хочеться так її назвати), бо стосується нинішніх часів. Фактом є те, що ЗАРАЗ (про минуле нічого сказати не можу-я не знаю, наприклад, чи ви отримували дійсно оригінал, чи редаговану версію) газета дає АЛЬТЕРНАТИВНІ погляди на події, а отже звинувачувати її в упередженості є несправедливим.
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                              • 2006.03.11 | Пані

                                Безплідна

                                Englishman пише:
                                > (навіть якщо вам хочеться так її назвати), бо стосується нинішніх часів. Фактом є те, що ЗАРАЗ (про минуле нічого сказати не можу-я не знаю, наприклад, чи ви отримували дійсно оригінал, чи редаговану версію) газета дає АЛЬТЕРНАТИВНІ погляди на події, а отже звинувачувати її в упередженості є несправедливим.

                                Я в упередженості ( а точніше в тому, що він є закладкою КГБ) звинуватила автора, а не газету. Я НАГАДАЛА про минуле газети. І про часи, коли її зміст весь був такий.

                                Будь ласка, не намагайтеся читати в моїх словах якісь приховані змісти. Я завжди пишу тільки те, що хочу сказати.
        • 2006.03.10 | Сергій Кабуд

          Га(хр)діан, від слова гади(-)

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