The US president says he is offering Moscow a "big favour" by helping Russia and Ukraine reach a deal.

Our fractured age’s greatest heroes are a far cry from Achilles. They fight not for glory but freedom, with weapons forged of pure moral steel. Consider the fatalistic courage of the late Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny. By the time he was poisoned in 2020 with a neurotoxin secretly applied to his underpants by Vladimir Putin’s agents, he’d suffered at least one previous chemical attack and been jailed by the regime more than 10 times. After five months of convalescence in Germany, Navalny returned to Moscow, where he was arrested at the airport and later imprisoned in a remote penal colony. He seemed undaunted by the prospect of death. “If they decide to kill me,” he said in the 2022 documentary film Navalny, “it means that we are incredibly strong.”

The supreme Soviet poet Osip Mandelstam, who fell afoul of the Bolsheviks shortly after the Russian Revolution of 1917, was Navalny’s equal in staking his life on publicly resisting ideological tyranny. Mandelstam sealed his fate in late 1933, when he composed verse that portrayed Stalin as a murderer with “cockroach whiskers” who “forges order after order like horseshoes, / hurling them at the groin, the forehead, the brow, the eye.” Brutally interrogated in Moscow’s Lubyanka prison in 1934, he was sent into exile, was rearrested in the spring of 1938, and died in a Gulag transit facility that winter.

In her memoir of those terrible years, Hope Against Hope, his wife, Nadezhda—whose name means “hope,” and who published a sequel, Hope Abandoned—writes that Mandelstam’s “destiny was hatched from character, like a butterfly from its chrysalis.” He attacked Stalin because he “did not want to die without stating in unambiguous terms what he thought was going on around us.” Mandelstam anticipated Navalny when he observed that “poetry is power” and is “respected only in this country—people are killed for it.” Both men died in Siberian prison camps at the age of 47—86 years apart.

[Read: A dissident is built different]

The power of Mandelstam’s poetry, a bell pealing in the muffle of a pea-soup fog, arises from the harmony of his words and actions. “The dominant theme in the whole of M.’s life and work,” Nadezhda writes, “was his insistence on the poet’s dignity, his position in society and his right to make himself heard.” Mandelstam’s speech was his deed. In 1918, he saved the life of an art historian targeted by the Cheka (the secret police), ignoring a pistol-brandishing Chekist’s warning that he’d be shot if he dared to interfere in the case. He later stopped the execution of five bank officials by sending to Nikolai Bukharin a volume of poems that the Central Committee member had helped him publish, accompanied by the message that “every line here is against what you are going to do.” Bukharin returned the favor by writing to Stalin in Mandelstam’s defense after his arrest in 1934. It’s hard to say what he appreciated more: Mandelstam’s adamant integrity or his poetry. While terrified artists mouthed the alien language of the state, Mandelstam’s verse sprang inexorably from some high and sacred ground that would not fall. He captures this almost physical necessity in his very short poem “Meteorite,” which describes an “exiled line” of poetry that, having fallen “from the heavens” and woken the earth, “couldn’t be anything else.”

It’s not that Soviet leaders disliked Mandelstam’s work. Genrikh Yagoda, the head of the secret police who, along with Bukharin, was condemned to death in the last show trial of old Bolsheviks in 1938, was so fond of Mandelstam’s Stalin poem that he learned it by heart. Nor, it seems, were leaders particularly hostile to him because he was a Jew: Official anti-Semitism in Stalin’s Russia didn’t hit full swing until 1952, when all of the prominent Yiddish writers and eight other Jews were executed on Stalin’s orders in what came to be known as the Night of the Murdered Poets. According to Nadezhda, Mandelstam’s real crime was his defiant confidence, his “usurpation of the right to words and thoughts that the ruling powers reserved exclusively to themselves.” Equally unforgivable was his inclination to “lay down the law, as a writer is supposed to”—that is, to pass unequivocal judgment on social realities, a consequence of his inability to “be indifferent to good and evil, and … [to] say that all that exists is rational” (a Communist dogma frequently invoked to excuse terror as historical necessity).

The viciousness of the totalitarian state only strengthened the poet’s hand. For while rulers who rely on terror lack authority—power that is rooted neither in coercion nor persuasion but is spontaneously recognized as legitimate, like that of a doctor on an airplane when a passenger falls ill—Mandelstam radiated it. This was not just because he was a generous and conscientious man who couldn’t keep a second pair of trousers (there was always someone more in need), and who blamed himself for leading into temptation whatever friend betrayed him after he recited his Stalin poem to a dozen people. His authority came from what Nadezhda calls “the absolute character” of his urge to be a source of truth for his fellow men, and his inability “to curb or silence himself by ‘stepping on the throat’ of his own song.” Above all, it came from the authenticity of his “inner voice.”

But what awakens that voice? For Mandelstam, poetry sprang from joy as much as from anger—and emerged in the manner that a musical phrase does.  Like the Irish poet W. B. Yeats, Mandelstam composed by ear, uttering the same lines with minor variations over and over until they achieved their proper form. Watching him work must have been like listening to a songbird, one whose protective coloring couldn’t conceal its deepest feelings. Mandelstam, who called poetry the “yeast of the world,” suggests as much in his poem “The Cage”:

When the goldfinch like rising dough
suddenly moves, as a heart throbs,
anger peppers its clever cloak
and its nightcap blackens with rage.

The goldfish sings in a cage built from “a hundred bars of lies” and the plank on which he sings is “slanderous.” These are inhospitable conditions, but Nadezhda explains that he was reconciled with persecution and poverty by his “simple love of life.” For him, eternity was “tangibly present in every fleeting fraction of time, which he would gladly stop and thus make even more tangible.” He knew, in the words of the poet Anna Akhmatova, “from what trash poetry, quite unashamed, can grow,” turning into vibrant song the colorless prose of daily existence under the crushing weight of totalitarianism. This was the “drop of good” that “the merciless grip of the age” squeezed out of him. But the evil age could not forgive him for that good, and not just him: the feeling for poetry, which Mandelstam regarded as the definitive characteristic of the true intelligentsia, “went with the qualities of the mind which in our country doomed people to death.” Foremost among them was the dynamic strength of the individual who sings his inner freedom, as Mandelstam does in a 1935 poem that ends with the triumph of the poetic voice: “you could not stop my lips from moving.”

Courageous and authoritative individual voices are as urgently necessary today as they have ever been, not just in Russia but across the West. In Soviet fashion, the proponents of cultural Marxism seek consensus through intimidation, insisting, among other things, that “oppressors” have no right to an opinion about “oppressed” groups or individuals. Primary and secondary schools have for years spoon-fed students such ideological pap, damaging their capacity to appreciate any ideas not packaged in hackneyed phrases. In universities, professors expose intellectually susceptible undergraduates to popular partisan concepts, concepts as stale, in Orwell’s words, as “tea leaves blocking a sink.” These viral variants of recombinant Marxism—having in common a peculiarly enervated voice—have now spread throughout society by multiple vectors, including ubiquitous DEI training programs, to which 52 percent of U.S. workers have now been subjected. One new study suggests that these programs “increase the endorsement of the type of demonization and scapegoating characteristic of authoritarianism.”

[Read: Poetry is an act of hope]

Donald Trump’s reelection, among other cultural shifts, suggests that Americans have grown tired of progressive bullying. But if anything, technology poses a more insidious threat to the development of future Mandelstams than ideology. It’s not just that people prefer new iPhones to old books. I tell undergraduates who are laboring to improve their writing that their ultimate goal is the achievement of style: a voice so distinctive that readers will immediately recognize whose work they hold in their hands. But nearly four in 10 students admit to using programs such as ChatGPT to write their papers, and the actual rate of AI plagiarism is probably much higher. As this technology advances, few will be able to resist the temptation to outsource the greatest part of their thinking to machines.

This brings to mind the poets of ideology and algorithms that Nadezhda would have called “mechanical nightingales.” When a friend told the Mandelstams about a bird he’d seen that, on its owner’s signal, hopped out of its cage, sang, and then obediently returned to confinement, his precocious son remarked: “Just like a member of the Union of Writers.”

Too many writers and artists in the West sing the same potted tunes on demand, hopping from perch to scandalous plank. But unlike songbirds, poets and readers can learn from the dead, and they can refuse to be tamed by the forces of ideological conformity and technological brain-suck. That’s the spirit we need today. Let a hundred poets whose lips are still moving, heroes living or dead, leaven our days, and let them teach their life-affirming music to our young.

Long before Donald Trump rewarded Tulsi Gabbard’s loyalty with a nomination to be the next director of national intelligence, before her friendliness with Tucker Carlson, and before her association with the Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad, she was loyal to another charismatic leader. A man who remains mostly unknown outside Hawaii but is reputed to have a powerful hold over his followers.

That leader is Chris Butler, the founder of an offshoot of the Hare Krishna movement in Hinduism, called the Science of Identity Foundation. Butler’s followers know him as Jagad Guru Siddhaswarupananda Paramahamsa, and Gabbard, who identifies as Hindu, has called him her “guru-dev,” or spiritual master. According to its website, the foundation promotes yoga meditation to achieve spiritual and physical enlightenment, but Butler, well known for his fervent and graphic sermons about the evils of gay sex, does not appear to tolerate dissent from his followers. Some former devotees have called the secretive group a cult.

Other than raw ambition, Gabbard’s adherence to Butler’s foundation has been the only perceptible through line in her switchbacking, two-decade political career. First there was an astonishingly quick leap from enigmatic state lawmaker to national Democratic Party leader; then came Gabbard’s almost-as-quick falling-out with the party establishment; there followed an inscrutable congressional record, including a seemingly inexplicable visit with a Middle East dictator; after that was Gabbard’s stint as a Fox News media darling, and finally her rebirth as a MAGA Republican, nominated to be America’s next spymaster.

While Gabbard awaits a confirmation hearing, even senators in Trump’s party seem concerned about her suitability. Maybe they should be: Democrats figured out the hard way that they couldn’t rely on Gabbard; Republicans may soon learn the same.

To understand how Gabbard ended up in the middle of such a strange ideological Venn diagram, it helps to know about her early years. Born in American Samoa, Gabbard grew up in Hawaii, where she was homeschooled and spent time surfing in the blue waves off Oahu. Her father, Mike, is now a Democratic state senator, but he’s done a bit of his own party-flipping; during Gabbard’s childhood, Mike was an independent, and later switched to the Republican Party, after leading Hawaii’s movement against same-sex marriage. He launched a group called Stop Promoting Homosexuality Hawaii and hosted a radio show titled Let’s Talk Straight Hawaii. In 1998, Mike Gabbard put out a TV ad featuring a teenage Tulsi and her siblings that likened marrying someone of the same sex to marrying your dog.

The Gabbard family was—and, according to several Hawaii residents and people familiar with the group, still is—devoted to Butler and his foundation. “The belief system was [Butler’s] interpretation of the Hare Krishna belief system, plus Buddhism, Christianity, and whatever else,” Lalita Mann, a former disciple of Butler’s, told me. Fraternizing with outsiders was frowned upon, Mann said; complete obedience was expected: “To offend him would be offending God.” Gabbard’s own aunt once described the group as “the alt-right of the Hare Krishna movement.”

Butler had an appetite for temporal as well as spiritual power. Gabbard, a smart, good-looking girl from a political family, always appealed to him, Mann and Anita Van Duyn, another defector from the group, told me. Butler described Gabbard as a stellar pupil of his teaching. In her teens, Gabbard reportedly attended a school run by Butler’s followers in the Philippines. “He always wanted someone to be high up in the federal government” to direct the culture toward godliness, Van Duyn told me. Trump’s team rejected this characterization. “This is a targeted hit on her faith, fomenting Hinduphobia,” Alexa Henning, a spokesperson for the Trump transition, told me. “The repeated attacks that she has sustained from the media and Democrats about her faith and her loyalty to our country are not only false smears; they are bigoted as well.” (Gabbard herself did not respond to requests for comment for this story.)

The Science of Identity Foundation leader was not the only person to see Gabbard’s appeal. The people I interviewed described the surfer cum mixed-martial-arts aficionado as shy but warm. She has a rich, low voice, and always greets people with a friendly “Aloha.” Her demeanor helps explain how quickly she rocketed to political success from a young age. She chooses her words carefully, and listens intently, often seeming like the most mature person in a room, even when she is one of the youngest. “She cocks her head, and she pulls you in” to the “Tulsi hug,” one Hawaii Democrat told me. “It’s very mesmerizing.” Gabbard, in other words, has charisma. And she has always made it count.

In 2002, soon after she married her first husband, Gabbard dropped out of community college and ran for a seat in the Hawaii state House. In that race, and in others that followed, a swarm of volunteers associated with Butler’s group would descend on the district to knock on doors and pass out yard signs, according to someone who worked with Gabbard’s campaign in those early days, and who asked for anonymity to speak candidly. Back then, Gabbard shared her father’s views on same-sex marriage and opposed abortion rights, two positions that were—particularly in recent years—politically risky in solid-blue Hawaii. But she was clearly struggling to form her ideology, the former campaign colleague said, and determine a political identity of her own.

After one term in office, Gabbard joined the Hawaii Army National Guard, and went to Iraq as part of a medical unit, the first of two Middle East deployments. After her return, she and her husband divorced. In 2010, she ran successfully for a seat on the Honolulu city council. “She was as ambitious as you could possibly be,” Gabbard’s campaign colleague told me. And she was respected. Gabbard was racking up experiences, fleshing out her political résumé. Congress was next for Gabbard, and everybody knew it.

In the fall of 2011, something happened that shocked politicians in Hawaii. EMILY’s List, the national organization whose goal is to elect pro-abortion-rights women to Congress, announced that it was backing Gabbard. To political observers, it didn’t make sense. Gabbard had a D behind her name, but was she really a Democrat? Behind the scenes, EMILY’s List was wondering the same thing. Although her position on abortion had evolved in ways acceptable to the organization, Gabbard was still iffy on same-sex marriage. Her answers on the EMILY’s List application had made its leaders uneasy, one former staffer told me, and that staffer was asked to call Gabbard for clarification. During their conversation, Gabbard said she didn’t want the government involved in marriage. The staffer pointed out that the government was already involved in heterosexual marriage, so it wouldn’t be fair to deny the same access to gay couples. Gabbard seemed not to have considered this, the staffer told me, and after only a few minutes on the phone, Gabbard declared that her position had changed. Politicians typically do some finagling to secure the support of special-interest groups, but this was different.

“I’ve never had another conversation like that,” said the staffer, who still works in Democratic politics but asked to remain anonymous in order to speak candidly. “She was willing to do or say whatever. It was like she had absolutely no moral compass.” I heard the same sentiment from numerous people who have worked with Gabbard, both in Hawaii and at the federal level.

Gabbard’s leftward journey was well under way. Her second Middle East deployment, to Kuwait, had inspired a “gradual metamorphosis” on social issues, she told Honolulu Civil Beat in 2012, adding, “I’m not my dad. I’m me.” By the time she got to Congress, in 2013, Democrats had embraced her like a long-lost friend. Gabbard was celebrated as the first Hindu member of Congress and was eagerly welcomed in the Congressional Asian Pacific American Caucus. Nancy Pelosi called her an “emerging star,” and House leaders gave her a seat on the prominent Armed Forces Committee. She was, to use a more contemporary comparison, AOC before Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

“There was this initial huge fascination with Gabbard” inside the party, a former Democratic House staffer, who requested anonymity to speak about his time working closely with Gabbard, told me. President Barack Obama himself lobbied for Gabbard to get a vice chairmanship on the Democratic National Committee, its former chair Debbie Wasserman Schultz told me. The Florida lawmaker hesitated at first. “I was warned early on that she was close to extremists in Hawaii,” Wasserman Schultz told me, referring to anti-gay activists. Still, she gave Gabbard the benefit of the doubt.

Gabbard proved popular among the other freshmen. “She was funny, she was engaging,” a former House colleague and friend of Gabbard’s, who requested anonymity to speak candidly, told me. She ran around with a small, bipartisan group of lawmakers, including Representatives Beto O’Rourke of Texas, Kyrsten Sinema of Arizona, and Markwayne Mullin of Oklahoma; some of them met for CrossFit in the mornings.

But the congressional crush on Gabbard fizzled almost as quickly as it began. Wasserman Schultz told me that the DNC had a hard time getting Gabbard to show up for meetings or conference calls. When a House vote against employment discrimination came up, Gabbard was difficult to pin down, Wasserman Schultz said—even though, as a DNC vice chair, she should have been “the easiest ‘yes’ in the caucus.”

[Read: The thing that binds Gabbard, Gaetz, and Hegseth to Trump]

Gabbard seemed eager to stand out in a different way. She took to sitting on the Republican side of the House chamber. Despite her DNC perch, she voted with Republicans to condemn the Obama administration for not alerting Congress about a prisoner exchange with the Taliban in 2014, and the next year criticized the Democratic president’s reluctance to refer to Islamic State terrorists as “Islamic extremists.”

The representative from Hawaii was not facing a tough reelection, so none of these positions made sense to her fellow Democrats. Some suggested that she was a rare independent thinker in Congress; others identified in her a less virtuous strain of opportunism. Gabbard had “masked herself as a progressive to gain power,” Wasserman Schultz told me. After all, voters in Hawaii almost never elect Republicans to Congress.

Others pointed to deeper forces. “I think something happened around 2013,” Gabbard’s campaign colleague from Hawaii told me, pointing out that, at the time, several of her original congressional staffers resigned, and Gabbard replaced them with people affiliated with the Science of Identity Foundation. In 2015, Gabbard married Abraham Williams, the son of her office manager, both of whom, the colleague told me, were involved in the group. The couple’s Oahu wedding was attended by several members of Congress, including then–House Whip Steny Hoyer, as well as a representative from Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Hindu-nationalist party. It seemed as though Butler’s group had reeled her back in, the campaign colleague said. He remembers thinking, “I don’t know who the hell you are anymore.”

During the 2016 Democratic primary, Gabbard resigned from the DNC and endorsed Senator Bernie Sanders’s campaign for president because, she said, Hillary Clinton was too hawkish. Sanders-aligned progressives appreciated her support, especially because the Vermont senator had just been shellacked in South Carolina. On the trail, Gabbard spoke confidently about anti-interventionism, climate change, and Medicare for All. “I couldn’t think of an issue then where we had any degree of separation,” Larry Cohen, a union leader and the chair of the pro-Sanders progressive group Our Revolution, told me.

Senator Bernie Sanders with Gabbard at his campaign rally in Gettysburg ahead of the Democratic primary election in Pennsylvania, April 2016 (Mark Wilson / Getty)

But, in 2017, Gabbard made a move that stumped her new progressive friends, as well as most everyone else: She flew to Syria, in the middle of its civil war, and twice met with the now-deposed dictator Bashar al-Assad, who had by then already killed hundreds of his own people using chemical weapons, and who clung to power thanks to aid from Vladimir Putin. The original plan, according to a former staffer for Gabbard, had been to meet with everyday Syrians and “bear witness.” But as The Washington Post reported today, the trip’s actual itinerary deviated dramatically from the one that had been approved by the House Ethics Committee. The meetings with Assad had not been in the plan, and even Gabbard’s staffer, like others on her team, did not know about them until after they’d happened. “You fucked us,” the staffer, who also asked for anonymity to speak about confidential matters, remembers telling Gabbard later. “The reason you told us you were going on this trip will never come up again. It will only ever be about you meeting with Assad.”

For D.C. institutionalists, Gabbard’s conversations with Assad broke a long-standing convention that members of Congress do not conduct freelance foreign policy. But many also saw the trip as an unforgivable swerve toward autocracy.

Outside the Washington scene, Gabbard’s independence and charisma still counted. When Gabbard ran in the Democratic presidential primary in 2019, she could still muster an enthusiastic if motley alliance of progressives, libertarians, and conservative Hindus. She also did well among the kind of people who are fond of saying that all politicians are corrupt and neither political party is good for America. “I’m voting for her. I decided. I like her. I met her in person. Fuck it,” Joe Rogan said on his podcast that year.

Despite that glowing endorsement, Gabbard never scored above single digits in the contest, and dropped out of the race in March 2020. In the years that followed, she would pop up now and again with new and surprising takes. In December 2020, Gabbard introduced a bill to ban trans women and girls from playing women’s sports, plus two pieces of anti-abortion legislation. In 2021, she left Congress altogether. The next year, when Russia invaded Ukraine, she blamed President Joe Biden and NATO for ignoring “Russia’s legitimate security concerns.” Then she turned up as a featured speaker at the annual Conservative Political Action Conference.

At a late-summer conference in Michigan last year, Gabbard announced that she was supporting Donald Trump for president. She completed her political migration in October at a MAGA rally in North Carolina, when she said that she was joining the Republican Party. She praised Trump for transforming the GOP into “the party of the people and the party of peace.” Her message was that she hadn’t left the Democrats; they had left her. “People evolve on politics all the time,” the former House colleague and friend told me. “But that’s a long way from saying Hey, the party went too far to embracing Donald Trump.”

Gabbard’s instincts are those of a “moth to a flame of power,” Wasserman Schultz told me. And Trump’s flame is burning brightly again. But in Gabbard’s dogged pursuit of power, or at least of proximity to power, others see the influence not of a new guru, but of the old one: Butler. “She’s his loyal servant,” Van Duyn, the Science of Identity Foundation defector, said, and Gabbard regards him as “possessing infallible authority.” Van Duyn also told me that she has sent letters to several Democratic lawmakers, asking them to vote against Gabbard’s confirmation as DNI because she fears that sensitive intelligence “can and will be communicated to her guru.”

Each of the current and former Democratic lawmakers I spoke with for this story had concerns about the Gabbard-Butler relationship. “There are some very tough questions that need to be asked,” Representative Jill Tokuda, Democrat of Hawaii, told me. “Who’s really calling the shots when it comes to what Tulsi Gabbard believes?”

Gabbard at the Trump campaign rally at Madison Square Garden in New York City, on October 27, 2024 (Michael M. Santiago / Getty)

Butler, who is now in his late 70s and reportedly living in a beachfront home in Kailua, did not respond to a request for comment. But in a statement, Jeannie Bishop, the foundation’s president, disputed the accounts of people whom the group considers to be “propagating misconceptions,” and accused the media of “fomenting” Hinduphobia. (Butler’s foundation, along with a collection of 50 Hindu groups, sent out a press release last week blasting recent media coverage as “Hinduphobic.”)

[Tom Nichols: Tulsi Gabbard’s nomination is a national-security risk]

Regardless of whom her opportunism ultimately serves, political opportunity has come again for Gabbard. After she hitched her wagon to Trump, he chose her to be his spymaster in chief—a position for which she does not seem remotely qualified. The current director, Avril Haines, was confirmed after previously serving as deputy national security adviser, deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and deputy counsel to the president for national-security affairs in the Office of White House Counsel. Gabbard has no similar background in intelligence or agency leadership. Henning, the Trump spokesperson, pointed to Gabbard’s endorsement from former CIA Director of Counterterrorism Bernard Hudson, who has commended Gabbard’s “independent thinking.”

Gabbard’s Assad visit and her pro-Russian views also remain fresh in the minds of many in Congress. Nothing proves that Gabbard is a “Russian asset,” as Hillary Clinton once famously put it, but Moscow seems gleeful about her selection to lead the intelligence agency: “The C.I.A. and the F.B.I. are trembling,” the newspaper Komsomolskaya Pravda crowed after her nomination was announced. Another Russian state outlet called Gabbard a “comrade.”

Judging by the congressional hearings so far, traditional expertise and credentials may not matter much to the GOP lawmakers charged with confirming Trump’s picks. But the incoherence of Gabbard’s ideological evolution may yet count against her: Reliability could be the sticking point. Republicans should know, as well as Democrats, that “she’s ruthless in her pursuit of personal power,” the Hawaii campaign colleague told me. “Even if that means disappointing MAGA folks or Trump, it’s clear she’d do it in a heartbeat.”

During her eight years in Congress, Gabbard was a fierce defender of privacy rights, something her supporters on both the right and the left long admired. In particular, she had opposed the reauthorization of Section 702 of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, legislation that permits some warrantless surveillance of American citizens. But after meeting with senators last week, Gabbard announced that the act’s surveillance capability “must be safeguarded.” The would-be director of national intelligence had had a change of heart.