Benjamin Reed

In that interrogation room, I realized privacy isn’t a right anymore—it’s a permission slip the government can revoke at will.

Azov now recruits foreigners, offering one of Ukraine’s toughest but most professional paths in a brutal, high-risk war.

Between Hamas’s butchery, Israel’s grinding war, and a fog of propaganda that makes truth provisional, Gaza is where civilians are crushed while Washington looks away.

Friday’s Trump-Putin summit in Alaska isn’t a breakthrough—it’s Moscow running the same stalling play it’s used since 2014, buying time while pressing its summer offensive.

In Ukraine’s war, Elon Musk’s satellites shifted from lifeline to leverage, and that power—once a gift—became a weapon of his choosing.

We thought drone warfare would be the future—turns out, it was the present all along, and we just didn’t recognize the buzz of change until it hovered over the tree line, camera rolling.

She wasn’t a symbol, or a narrative, or a talking point—she was a dying girl in the mud, and I watched her last pixilated breath.

You don’t have to wear a swastika to be dangerous—and you don’t have to quote Dugin to be part of a war built on empire.

It’s a war being fought by men with creaking knees and fading eyesight—because the kids who should be fighting it are too valuable to kill.

The rifleman isn’t obsolete—but the idea he can fight modern wars without tech fluency sure is.

I didn’t fight in Ukraine because it was easy—I fought because it was right, and watching Marjorie Taylor Greene parrot Kremlin lies from the safety of her seat in Congress makes me wonder if she even knows the difference.

They came with badges, not handcuffs—a reminder that in this new kind of war, the lines between warning, watching, and silencing have blurred beyond recognition.