ORGANIZED HYPOCRISY: The West, Ukraine, and the Lessons of the Global South
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In 2012, I was living under a complete illusion about the West. No, of course, I understood that the West was far from perfect, that its intellectual life was in decline, and so on. But I never imagined that behind the façade of Western bureaucracy lay not blindness or strategic failures, but the most cynical kind of realpolitik — an absolute rupture between proclaimed values and reality. Not an accidental gap born of imperfection, but a fully deliberate one. There are two ways to be ruthless. The first is overt: power declares itself to be power, interest declares itself to be interest, and one can negotiate with them because it is clear what they want. The second is concealed: power declares itself to be morality, interest declares itself to be a universal value, and negotiation becomes impossible because every move is sanctified in advance. Hypocrisy is not the mere existence of interests. Hypocrisy is the gap between what is proclaimed and what is practiced; and when that gap ceases to be an accidental malfunction and becomes the operating method of a system, we are dealing not with human weakness, but with a political technology.
This essay examines how that technology is being applied to Ukraine, why it is by no means new, how its mechanics were described long ago and in great detail through the experiences of Africa, India, and Latin America, and why, in the current geopolitical configuration, a realistic view of China — not as an angel, but as a predictable pragmatist — is for Ukraine not a reaction to hopelessness, but an expression of intellectual sobriety. My thesis is intentionally harsh: the collective West, while rhetorically expressing the utmost solidarity with Ukraine, is in practice employing the same toolkit once refined on former colonies — and it is doing so not in spite of its own rules, but through them. Ukraine would do well to read the warning that history has written for it through the experience of the Global South before that warning becomes its own biography.
THE ANATOMY OF HYPOCRISY: THE GAP AS A METHOD
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ow let us begin with theory, because without it any discussion of “double standards” degenerates into an exchange of grievances. Stephen Krasner, the Stanford scholar and one of the foremost theorists of international relations, gave this phenomenon a precise name: organized hypocrisy. In Sovereignty: Organized Hypocrisy (Princeton University Press, 1999), Krasner demonstrated that Westphalian sovereignty — the cornerstone of the international order — has been systematically violated by its very guarantors throughout the history of the system. Powerful states proclaimed the norm and departed from it whenever their interests required. Krasner’s central conclusion is radical: the violation of the norm is not an anomaly of the system — it is built into the system as its normal operating mode. The norm exists for the weak; exemption from the norm is the privilege of the strong.
The contemporary version of this construction is encapsulated in the phrase rules-based international order. Notice the distinction: not international law, whose body is codified, justiciable, and equally binding on all, but rather “rules” — a substance that exists nowhere as a single codified document, has been signed nowhere, and is therefore defined situationally by whoever holds the greater power. International law prohibits aggression by both the United States in Iraq (2003) and Russia in Ukraine (2022) in exactly the same legal terms. “Rules,” however, function differently: they are flexible where their author acts and rigid where the author’s competitor does. John Mearsheimer, the leading representative of offensive realism, describes this duality in The Great Delusion: Liberal Dreams and International Realities (Yale University Press, 2018) as a structural feature of “liberal hegemony”: a great power that sincerely equates its own interests with the universal good deceives itself before deceiving anyone else, and is therefore incapable of recognizing the moment when its values become instruments for satisfying its own appetites. Singaporean diplomat and thinker Kishore Mahbubani, in Has the West Lost It? (Penguin, 2018), adds the perspective from outside the Western world: billions of people across Asia and Africa see not a “rules-based international order,” but an order based on exceptions — and they draw their own conclusions.
The preaching of free trade coexists with agricultural protectionism; the preaching of human rights with alliances with convenient autocracies; the preaching of sovereignty with military interventions. The important point is that these are not merely a catalogue of sins that could be redeemed through reform. In Krasner’s terms, they constitute the very constitution of the system. The question for Ukraine, then, is this: what happens to a country that mistakes the rhetorical layer of this system for its operational reality?
Particular attention should also be paid to the progressive, “left-wing” variant of Western rhetoric — the language of values, inclusion, decolonization, and universal empathy that dominates universities, media outlets, and the corridors of Brussels. The paradox is that this very vocabulary, genealogically rooted in anti-colonial critique, now serves an unmistakably neo-colonial practice. The language of “European values” is addressed to Ukraine during the very weeks when Ukrainian grain is dumped from railcars at the Polish border and Ukrainian truck drivers remain stranded in queues stretching for days.
The moralizing language performs here the classic ideological function in the precise Althusserian sense: it does not describe practice but conceals it, producing in the speaker a clear conscience and in the listener a sense of guilt for insufficient gratitude. It is equally revealing that a significant share of Western left-wing intellectuals, who spent decades refining their critique of imperialism, performed an elegant somersault when confronted with Ukraine: resistance to empire was declared imperialism, while the victim was advised to “understand” the aggressor’s security concerns. A psychoanalyst would recognize this as a classic rationalization; a historian would recognize it as the age-old solidarity of metropolises over the heads of the periphery.
BUREAUCRACY AS A WEAPON: THE UKRAINIAN CASE
Ukraine has been receiving the answer to this question since 2022 in the form of a real-world experiment. The rhetorical layer is well known: “we will stand with you for as long as it takes,” “Ukraine is Europe,” “your struggle is our struggle.” The operational layer is best examined through three cases: grain, the border, and membership.
The first is the grain issue. In the spring of 2023, when Russia’s naval blockade was strangling Ukraine’s maritime exports, Poland, Hungary, Slovakia, and Bulgaria unilaterally banned imports of Ukrainian grain — even though trade policy falls under the exclusive competence of Brussels, and unilateral restrictions directly violate EU treaties, as European analysts themselves acknowledged (Bruegel, September 2023). Instead of defending its own legal framework, the European Commission retroactively legalized what had already occurred: in May 2023, it introduced “exceptional and temporary preventive measures” prohibiting the sale of Ukrainian wheat, corn, rapeseed, and sunflower seeds in the five border states. When, on September 15, 2023, the Commission declined to extend those measures, Poland, Hungary, and Slovakia immediately reinstated their bans at the national level, forcing Ukraine to file complaints with the WTO against countries that described themselves as its closest allies. Speaking before the United Nations, President Zelensky remarked that some in Europe were turning solidarity into political theater. The economic background is equally revealing: Brussels twice found funds — €56.3 million and later another €100 million — to compensate its own farmers affected by Ukrainian imports. The speed with which those funds were mobilized stood in striking contrast to the pace of any decisions made in Kyiv’s favor.
The second case concerns the border. Beginning in November 2023, Polish transport operators, followed by farmers, repeatedly blocked crossing points on the Ukrainian border, demanding the restoration of the pre-war permit system for Ukrainian trucks. Traffic jams stretched for dozens of kilometers, with more than nine thousand trucks backed up on the Ukrainian side. Three Ukrainian drivers died while waiting in those queues. The economic consequences were immediate: in November 2023 alone, Ukraine lost approximately $160 million in exports, imports declined by $700 million, exports through the four blocked crossings fell by 40 percent, and the state budget lost UAH 9.3 billion in customs revenues. Charitable organizations reported that hundreds of pickup trucks intended for the evacuation of wounded soldiers were stranded at the border, while drone deliveries to the front were delayed by two to three weeks — with a direct cost measured in human lives. All of this took place not in an adversary state, but in a country whose rhetoric of solidarity with Ukraine was among the loudest in Europe. And here is the essence of the matter: Poland’s Minister of Agriculture publicly declared that Poland would not agree to Ukraine’s accession to the European Union unless restrictions were imposed on Ukrainian agricultural products — a solidarity conditioned upon eliminating a competitor.
The third case concerns integration, and it is the most revealing because it demonstrates the weapon in its purest form: procedure. Ukraine applied for EU membership on February 28, 2022, the fourth day of the full-scale invasion. It received candidate status in June 2022, the decision to open accession negotiations came in December 2023 (Viktor Orbán left the room so that he would not formally have to vote), and negotiations officially opened in June 2024. By September 30, 2025, Ukraine had completed the legislative screening process for all thirty-three negotiation chapters — according to the European Commission itself, faster than any candidate country in the history of EU enlargement. The result: not a single negotiating cluster has been formally opened. The reason: Hungary’s veto — a single country out of twenty-seven legitimizing its position through a “referendum” whose outcome, with 95 percent voting against, had been entirely predictable. The full path to membership requires approximately one hundred and fifty unanimous decisions by the existing member states — one hundred and fifty points at which any single country can transform Ukraine’s accession into a bargaining chip in its own negotiations with Brussels. The “workaround” introduced in December 2025, consisting of informal technical work on the negotiating clusters, merely reinforces the diagnosis: the system is capable of simulating movement but incapable of guaranteeing results, while German Chancellor Merz has publicly expressed doubts that Ukraine will become a member even by 2034.
The crucial point is this: in none of these three cases did the West violate any of its own procedures. The border blockade was justified as freedom of assembly; the grain embargo as protection of the internal market; the veto as a lawful right of an EU member state. A weapon does not need to violate the rules — it is made out of the rules themselves.
ПA WARNING FROM THE GLOBAL SOUTH: HOW IT WAS DONE BEFORE UKRAINE
It is easy for a Ukrainian reader to dismiss everything described above as an unfortunate peculiarity of wartime. The history of the world’s periphery suggests the opposite: what we are witnessing is not an exception but a pattern. Its academic description spans half a century and belongs not to marginal voices but to established scholars — from a Guyanese historian to a Nobel Prize laureate and a former Chief Economist of the World Bank.
In the classic work How Europe Underdeveloped Africa (1972), Walter Rodney demonstrated that Africa’s “underdevelopment” was not an original condition but a manufactured outcome. The continent was integrated into the global economy as a supplier of raw materials and a market for finished goods, and the very structure of that integration reproduced dependency long after formal decolonization. Rodney introduced a crucial distinction: development and underdevelopment are not two stages on the same ladder but two sides of the same process — one pays for the other.
Cambridge economist Ha-Joon Chang, in Kicking Away the Ladder: Development Strategy in Historical Perspective (Anthem Press, 2002), documented the second part of the mechanism. Without exception, today’s wealthy nations — Britain, the United States, Germany, and Japan — rose through strict protectionism, industrial subsidies, and the appropriation of foreign technologies. Only after achieving prosperity did they begin demanding that developing countries embrace free trade, strong intellectual property protections, and open markets — in other words, they kicked away the ladder they had climbed themselves. The title of Chang’s book became a formula for an entire era. Ukrainian agricultural exports encountering embargoes at the gates of the “common market” are a textbook illustration of Chang’s argument: free trade remains sacred only until competitiveness emerges where it is not expected.
The Indian case adds an essential dimension to the African one: the victim of this mechanism need not be a “backward” periphery but may instead be a highly developed civilization. By the time the East India Company arrived, India accounted for roughly a quarter of global GDP, according to the calculations of economic historian Angus Maddison (The World Economy: A Millennial Perspective, OECD, 2001). By the time the British departed, its share had fallen to only a few percent. As early as 1901, Dadabhai Naoroji, in Poverty and Un-British Rule in India, formulated the “drain theory”: the systematic and uncompensated transfer of India’s wealth to the metropole through mechanisms that were, it should be emphasized, impeccably legal — taxation, “Home Charges,” and tariff asymmetries under which British textiles entered India duty-free while Indian textiles entering Britain faced prohibitive tariffs.
The contemporary synthesis of this history was offered by Shashi Tharoor in Inglorious Empire: What the British Did to India (Hurst, 2017), while economist Utsa Patnaik estimated the cumulative “drain” over two centuries at tens of trillions of dollars in today’s prices. Throughout that entire period, the colonial administration sincerely described itself in the language of a civilizing mission, stewardship, and the “white man’s burden.” The rhetoric of guardianship masking a practice of extraction is a constant of the genre, and for Ukrainian ears becoming accustomed to the vocabulary of “support” and “guidance,” it is useful to know this rhetoric’s genealogy.
The third witness comes from within the system itself. Joseph Stiglitz, Nobel Prize laureate and former Chief Economist of the World Bank, described in Globalization and Its Discontents (W. W. Norton, 2002) the practices of the IMF and the “Washington Consensus” during the 1980s and 1990s: a universal package of fiscal austerity, high interest rates, privatization, and capital account liberalization imposed on countries that had no meaningful negotiating position — because they desperately needed financial assistance, the option of refusing simply did not exist. The results are well known: Latin America’s “lost decade,” stagnation across much of Africa, and, in several countries undergoing structural adjustment, rising child mortality and malnutrition severe enough to prompt UNICEF to call for “adjustment with a human face.” Stiglitz also identified the defining hypocrisy of the model: whenever the imposed policies failed, the blame was invariably placed on the patient — who was said not to have implemented the reforms seriously enough.
Now let me simply apply this framework to Ukraine. The country is fighting a war financed by loans whose conditions are written by the lender. Its reforms are evaluated by external institutions whose criteria can be tightened indefinitely. Its market is expected to remain open, while the corresponding markets are closed to it through embargoes. Its key assets — land, mineral resources, and infrastructure—are already objects of external interest. The first American draft of the “minerals agreement” (February 2025) effectively demanded that Kyiv provide approximately $500 billion in “compensation” for assistance already received, while granting the United States extensive rights over Ukraine’s natural resources. Analysts at the Carnegie Endowment openly compared those terms to the reparations imposed on Germany after the First World War — with one crucial difference: Germany had been the aggressor, whereas Ukraine was the victim of aggression.
The final version, signed on April 30, 2025, was incomparably more moderate. Ukraine retained ownership of its mineral resources, and the requirement to “repay” previous assistance disappeared. Yet the direction embodied in the original draft remains invaluable evidence. This is not how a partner drafts even a preliminary proposal; it is how a metropole drafts a document when it is convinced that the other party has no choice. It is worth adding that even under the final arrangement, the key committees of the joint investment fund are controlled by an American majority — three votes to two — and the partnership itself is incorporated under the laws of the State of Delaware. The lessons of Accra, Buenos Aires, and Jakarta are addressed directly to Kyiv: unequal dependency is not softened by the rhetoric of family — it is legitimized by it.
THE GRAY BUFFER: UKRAINE’S FUNCTION THROUGH THE WESTERN LENS
Let me ask an uncomfortable question: what is Ukraine’s function in the West’s strategic outlook? The rhetorical answer is well known — “the outpost of freedom.” The operational answer is revealed by the structure of the decisions being made, and it is quite different. Ukraine functions as a buffer: a zone in which the West’s competitor (Russia) is tied down, exhausted, and contained, while the zone itself must neither lose (because a collapse of the front would devalue previous investments and create a direct threat to NATO) nor win (because a decisive Ukrainian victory would require a level of weapons deliveries and security guarantees whose escalation risks the West has consistently refused to accept throughout the war). Hence the entire phenomenon of “too little, too late”: every major weapons system — tanks, long-range missiles, combat aircraft — has passed through the same cycle of “impossible — we are discussing it — we are supplying it in homeopathic doses,” stretched over months, each of which has been paid for in Ukrainian lives.
John Mearsheimer — whose conclusions about the causes of the war can and should be debated — is nevertheless accurate in describing the underlying logic itself: great powers think in terms of buffer zones, and the fate of a buffer is determined not by its own aspirations but by the balance of costs borne by its patrons. The financial arithmetic of this status is equally revealing. A significant share of Western “aid” legally consists either of loans or of expenditures on the military-industrial complexes of the donor countries themselves. The President of the United States publicly valued American assistance at $300 billion, whereas the Kiel Institute for the World Economy documented approximately $134 billion by mid-2025 — and it was the inflated figure that became the basis for demands that Ukraine “repay” the assistance with its natural resources. A buffer, it turns out, is also expected to remain indebted.
The same logic is exposed by the issue of frozen Russian assets. Since 2022, more than €200 billion in the sovereign reserves of the aggressor state have been immobilized in Western jurisdictions, primarily in the Belgian depository Euroclear. At first glance, this would appear to be an indisputable and legally straightforward source of funding for the defense and reconstruction of the victim: the aggressor pays. Yet, for a fourth consecutive year, the confiscation of the principal has been blocked — citing the sanctity of property rights, the stability of the euro as a reserve currency, and risks to the “investment climate.” Instead, palliative measures have been devised. In 2024, the G7 agreed on a $50 billion loan backed by the future proceeds generated by those frozen assets. In other words, Ukraine was invited to borrow against the interest earned on its aggressor’s money, while leaving the aggressor’s principal untouched.
Consider the contrast. The property rights of the Russian Central Bank are protected with a meticulousness that no Ukrainian request has ever received, while Ukraine’s own mineral resources, under the first American draft of the minerals agreement, were expected to secure obligations worth $500 billion — with no comparable delicacy whatsoever. The aggressor’s property is sacred; the victim’s property is negotiable. It is difficult to imagine a more vivid illustration of Krasner’s thesis.
What matters most is that buffer status is not abolished by the prospect of integration — it is built into it. As we have seen, EU membership has been pushed beyond the horizon of the coming decade and surrounded by roughly one hundred and fifty potential veto points, while NATO membership has effectively been removed from the agenda by the allies themselves. Ukraine is being offered a prolonged existence in a gray zone: European enough to fight for Europe’s security, but not European enough to enjoy its guarantees. This is not a conspiracy — it is an equilibrium of interests, and that is precisely why it is so durable.
CHINA: NOT AN ANGEL, BUT A PRAGMATIST
At this point, the thesis must be defined with absolute precision so that it cannot be easily dismissed.
The argument is not that China is Ukraine’s friend: states do not have friends. Nor is the argument that China is blameless: the list of legitimate grievances against Beijing is real, and they can and should be addressed through normal diplomatic channels.
The argument is something else entirely. Of all the great powers, China is the only one whose interest in Ukraine is structurally connected to Ukraine’s stability and sovereignty rather than to its usefulness as a buffer. Moreover, China’s political language is the language of interest rather than mission, which makes it legible and therefore a counterpart with whom agreements are possible. A contract can be concluded with a pragmatist. A contract cannot be concluded with a cynical moralist, because one never knows which of his two faces will ultimately honor it.
Let us begin with the material basis of interest. Since 2019, China has overtaken Russia to become Ukraine’s largest trading partner. In 2021, bilateral trade reached $18.97 billion, while Ukrainian exports to China totaled $8 billion. Ukraine joined the Belt and Road Initiative in 2017. In 2018, a Belt and Road trade and investment center opened in Kyiv. In 2020, the first container trains from China began arriving in Kyiv.
China’s state-owned COFCO invested $50 million in cargo-handling facilities at the port of Mariupol, while Chinese contractors carried out dredging projects in the ports of Yuzhny and Chornomorsk. The key commodity was food. After beginning purchases of Ukrainian corn in 2013, China was receiving 80 percent of its corn imports from Ukraine by 2019. Ukrainian corn exports to China increased from $26 million in 2013 to $896 million in 2019, mirroring the decline of American exports from $847 million to $75 million during the U.S.–China trade war.
In other words, Ukraine is for China both an element of food security for a country of one and a half billion people and a land corridor into Europe. Both functions require the same condition: a stable, territorially intact Ukraine capable of serving as a reliable transit route. Chaos in the Black Sea, minefields where ports once operated, and a gray zone where a functioning state should exist all diminish the value of Chinese investments and Chinese logistics. As we have seen, the Western buffer logic operates in the opposite direction: the more slowly the buffer burns, the more useful it remains.
Beijing’s diplomatic conduct throughout the war has followed the same grammar of interests. China has not recognized the annexation of Ukrainian territories — not Crimea in 2014, nor the regions annexed in 2022. The precedent of redrawing borders is inherently dangerous for a power that has its own concerns regarding Taiwan, Tibet, and Xinjiang.
China’s Position on the Political Settlement of the Ukraine Crisis (February 2023) begins with a call for respect for the sovereignty and territorial integrity of all states. Separate points address the inadmissibility of nuclear weapons use and the protection of grain corridors. If one wishes, every point can be read as an inventory of China’s own interests — the non-proliferation of secessionist precedents, the preservation of the nuclear taboo, and uninterrupted food flows — and precisely for that reason, each point is credible. The joint Chinese-Brazilian initiative of 2024 outlining principles for de-escalation follows the same logic.
This is restrained diplomacy, devoid of embraces and grand pledges. Yet it is worth remembering that Ukraine has already received solemn promises before. The Budapest Memorandum of 1994 was signed precisely by the guardians of lofty values, and the worth of those signatures is now universally understood. An unspoken promise cannot be broken. A promise that is spoken and then broken corrupts the very fabric of international trust.
Now let us address the criticisms, which must be acknowledged honestly.
First, in February 2022, just twenty days before the invasion, Beijing signed with Moscow its declaration of a “no-limits partnership,” and since then has maintained a position that officials in Kyiv bitterly describe as “pro-Russian neutrality.” Ukrainian officials have repeatedly pointed to the critical role of Chinese dual-use components in Russia’s military production.
Second, there is the Motor Sich case. Skyrizon, which began acquiring a controlling stake in the Zaporizhzhia-based aircraft engine manufacturer in 2016–2017, was placed under U.S. sanctions in January 2021, followed shortly thereafter by Ukrainian sanctions. In March 2021, Ukraine’s National Security and Defense Council returned the company to state ownership, prompting the Chinese investors to file a claim with the Permanent Court of Arbitration in The Hague, seeking $4.5 billion in compensation for Ukraine’s alleged violation of the 1992 bilateral investment treaty. The dispute is real, the amount significant, and the resentment in Beijing substantial.
But let us examine what both episodes actually demonstrate. They support rather than undermine the thesis.
Motor Sich is a commercial dispute — about money, shares, and jurisdiction — resolved through arbitration according to written legal rules. Significantly, the entire affair was triggered by pressure from Washington, which insisted that the transaction be blocked. Once again, Ukraine found itself paying the price of someone else’s geopolitical confrontation.
Beijing’s partnership with Moscow, by contrast, is a classic example of realpolitik without moral decoration. China did not justify it as a defense of democracy or of the “Russian world.” It never promised Ukraine that it would stand by it “for as long as it takes.” Consequently, it has not violated a single promise made to Kyiv — because no such promises were ever made.
China certainly has its own rhetorical layer — “a community with a shared future for mankind,” “win-win cooperation” — and there are instances in which its words and actions diverge. But that gap is relatively narrow and commercially predictable; it does not assume the form of a civilizational or messianic mission. China does not bomb in the name of human rights, nor does it disguise strategic appetite as benevolent guardianship. The difference is not one of degree but of type: the amorality of a pragmatist is measurable and therefore insurable; the morality of a hegemon is immeasurable because it is activated selectively. Machiavelli, as we know, is more honest than Tartuffe.
My practical conclusion is cautious, and therefore durable. I am not arguing for a “pivot to the East,” nor for replacing one patron with another. To exchange one asymmetry for another would be not to learn the lesson, but merely to repeat the examination. The point is that, in a world where one’s principal “partner” has an interest in preserving one’s status as a buffer, the only great power whose rational interest coincides with Ukraine’s continued existence as a stable, sovereign, and trading state is China — and no one else. To fail to use that interest as a counterweight, as leverage in negotiations, and as insurance against monopolistic dependence would be an act of strategic blindness.
A pragmatic ally is not one who loves you. It is one who benefits from your remaining alive. By that criterion — the only one that the history of international relations recognizes as a hard currency — China passes the test that the collective West, for all the sincerity of its declarations, has failed for a fifth consecutive year.
CONCLUSION
To summarize. First, Western hypocrisy is not a moral accusation but an analytical category described within the academic mainstream, from Krasner to Stiglitz. Its defining feature is the constitutional gap between universalist rhetoric and particularistic practice.
Second, in Ukraine’s case, that gap is realized not through violations of the rules but through the rules themselves — embargoes, blockades, vetoes, and procedures. Bureaucracy itself becomes the weapon, and its defining characteristic is the legal impeccability of every shot it fires.
Third, the experiences of Africa, India, and Latin America are not someone else’s history but a manual according to which Ukraine is already being guided: dependence on external financing, outside evaluation of domestic reforms, growing appetite for national resources, and an endless waiting room for integration.
Fourth, within this configuration, China is neither an angel, nor a friend, nor a savior. It is, however, the only major power whose structural interest lies in Ukraine’s stability rather than in Ukraine’s continued exhaustion. To make sober use of that interest is not a sign of naivety but of political maturity.
Nations, no less than individuals, mature through disillusionment. Disillusionment is a painful but precise instrument: it breaks the spell (dis-incanto) and restores clarity of vision — and with it, the ability to act. Ukraine has drunk deeply from the sweet poison contained in the cup marked “The doors to the EU and NATO are open!” and has paid for its awakening a price that no other European nation has been asked to pay in the twenty-first century. Having paid such a price, it would be inexcusable to continue viewing the world through the lens of someone else’s thoroughly false and cynical sermon.
The reality is this: from the very beginning, the “invitation” to the European Union and NATO has been, for Ukraine, little more than a carrot dangling before a donkey. The notion of the West as a promised land of milk and honey is a toxic myth that has paralyzed Ukraine. There is still time to recognize this and draw radical conclusions. But that time is rapidly running out.
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