St Petersburg, the city of canals, culture, and now, apparently, a target-rich environment for Ukrainian kamikaze drones. As Vladimir Putin’s flagship economic forum opened its gilded doors to the world’s plutocrats and sycophants, the sky above the Neva river was punctuated by the angry buzz of unmanned aerial vehicles. It seems the Ukrainian armed forces decided to send a very special delivery to the party: a reminder that even in the heart of the Motherland, the war is never quite out of earshot.
According to reports, the drones struck an oil depot near the city, sending a column of black smoke into the pristine Baltic air. One can only imagine the horrified expressions of the oligarchs sipping their champagne as the sound of explosions competed with the clinking of glasses. ‘A slight disruption to the canapés, gentlemen, nothing to see here,’ one can almost hear the Kremlin spin doctors muttering into their earpieces.
The timing, of course, is exquisite. The St Petersburg International Economic Forum, or SPIEF as it’s known to its friends, is Putin’s annual love letter to the world’s capital. It’s a chance to show that despite sanctions, despite the grinding war machine, Russia is still open for business. Well, business as usual now includes air raid warnings and drone strikes. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a blini.
One wonders what the assembled delegates thought as they were herded into bunkers. Did they feel a frisson of danger, a taste of the life their host has inflicted on millions of Ukrainians? Or did they simply check their watches and calculate the impact on their portfolio? Perhaps a bit of both. Such is the nature of the modern globalist: a creature that can compartmentalise genocide and dividends in the same breath.
Let us not forget the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here is a man who launches missile barrages at civilian infrastructure, who has turned Ukraine into a graveyard of charred ambitions, now cowering in a basement while a drone worth a few thousand dollars sends his guests scrambling. It is a scene worthy of Gogol, a satire so grotesque that even the most jaded satirist would blush.
And what of the Russian people? They watch their leader’s flagship event descend into a farce, broadcast on state television with the obligatory cuts to a stern-faced official promising ‘retribution.’ Yet the drones keep coming, a persistent mosquito at the picnic of Russian imperialism. The message from Kyiv is clear: we can reach you. Anywhere. Anytime. Even at your money party.
As the forum limps on, one can only hope the delegates enjoy the Putin-era hospitality: the vodka, the caviar, and the occasional drone flyby. It’s all part of the authentic St Petersburg experience, a city built on the bones of serfs and now defended by the smoke of burning oil. Truly, the ‘economic forum’ has never been more aptly named. After all, what is economics if not the study of scarce resources? And right now, for Mr Putin, the scarcest resource of all is a safe place to hold a party.
