BRUSSELS. The European Union has reportedly begun an unprecedented manhunt. Not for a war criminal or a missing diplomat, but for something far rarer in the corridors of power: a 'Russia Whisperer.' Yes, the same breed of mystic who can calm a rabid wolf with a stern look and a biscuit, but translated into the language of Soviet-era missile silos and gas pipelines.
Sources within the Berlaymont Building whisper of a job description so ludicrous it could only have been drafted at 3 a.m. over a bottle of cheap Bordeaux. The ideal candidate must be able to 'establish a rapport with Mr. Putin,' 'understand his emotional needs,' and 'gently persuade him to stop the invasion in exchange for a pat on the head and a promise that NATO won't adopt any stray cats from Georgia.'
The search has apparently spread to the local zoo, where an orangutan named Boris was briefly considered after he successfully mediated a dispute over a banana between two capuchin monkeys. A zoo spokesman said, 'Boris showed remarkable diplomatic skills, but his knowledge of the Minsk agreements is patchy at best.'
This latest farce from a union that prides itself on paper-pushing red tape comes as a breath of fresh, absurd air. One EU official, speaking on condition of anonymity (his dignity), said, 'We've tried sanctions, we've tried speeches, we've tried sending Ursula von der Leyen in a series of increasingly assertive trouser suits. Nothing works. Perhaps what we need is a man with a calming voice and a bag of dried apricots.'
Meanwhile, in Moscow, Putin reportedly laughed so hard at the idea that he accidentally launched a hypersonic missile at a sunflower field. 'If they send a whisperer,' said Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov, 'we will send a listener. But our listener will be listening for the sound of NATO retreating from Eastern Europe.'
The job advert, if it exists, likely reads: 'Wanted: Diplomat with nerves of steel, knowledge of Chekhov, and ability to perform triple axel backflip out of a moving limousine as it swerves past an assassination attempt. Must own a wolfskin hat. Psychic abilities preferred.'
Of course, this is all a desperate bid by the EU to avoid doing what must be done: actually funding Ukraine's defence properly, enforcing sanctions without hiding behind loopholes large enough to drive a Gazprom truck through, and admitting that diplomacy with a man who sees himself as the reincarnation of Peter the Great might require a bit more than a whispered 'there, there.'
But let us not mock too harshly. The EU is a noble experiment in peace and prosperity, slowly being crushed under the weight of 27 squabbling chickens arguing over who gets to lay the tariff egg. If they think a whisperer will work, then by all means, let them hire Gwyneth Paltrow's life coach. At this point, what have we got to lose except another year of this brutal, grinding war?
In the end, the search for a Russia Whisperer tells us more about the EU's own infantilised view of geopolitics than about Russia. They think Putin is a difficult child who needs a time-out and some gentle redirection. He is not. He is a predator, and predators understand only one language: the language of power. Unfortunately, the EU's foreign policy is currently subtitled in dialects of 'please' and 'maybe.' Until that changes, all the whisperers in the world will be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a Siberian winter.
