Sasha Kuvshynova was not someone I knew.
But I won’t.
Fox News’ young and energetic Ukrainian lady was helping to recount the Russian unprovoked invasion of her country. What Vladimir Putin calls a “special military operation,” one of a number of deadly takeovers he may countenance. Und she was at most three of the foreign journalists killedAlready in Ukraine
Oleksandra Kuvshynova, a veteran Fox cameraman and villager, died in a small town about 20 miles from Kyiv. an ambush during the Russian encirclement of Ukraine’s capital. Kuvshynova (24 years old) was an active young woman who loved music and local nightlife.
Cell photos were a favorite pastime of hers. She loved to play with lights, flowers and shining water. Instagram photos show her soft smile, often with long, wavy hair that falls across the eye.
On a visit to Italy last year, alone it seems, Sasha was taken with the country’s beauty and its foods, craving pasta for breakfast with photos of it cooking. “Falling into harmony,” she told herself. And then, “If I ever had a daughter, I will definitely call her Florence.”
In February Sasha’s posts suddenly turned political. She said she wanted to tell Ukraine’s story to the world. “It’s not about Ukraine wanting to be with Russia,” she said, “but about Putin wanting to be with Ukraine.”
Online she called herself “self-employed.” But for the past several weeks Sasha was what Fox News calls a consultant, a local hired for knowledge of a country, city, and language skills to help foreign correspondents navigate and gather news in yet another deadly foreign place they’ve parachuted into.
Almost every U.S. news organization has these “consultants” abroad. They’re invaluable colleagues in the sometimes dangerous business of reporting from foreign lands.
I’ve known a number of Sasha Kuvshynovas over the years elsewhere in the world. Readers and viewers of American news don’t hear much about these faceless, dedicated professional guides, translators, scouts, and friends who risk their lives for people they’ve just met and foreigners they’ll never know.
They are sometimes life-saving and vital off-camera journalism accomplices in the dangerous, unpredictable world Americans enjoy from the safety of our sofas. We have remote control at our fingertips should scenes get scary. The violence-strewn streets in Ukraine are not accessible via remote control.
These people were also used by American diplomats, military, and police in Afghanistan’s 20-year nightmare. These people interpreted, guided and advised foreigners and provided protection for them for a fraction of the pay and the chance to flee to their home country.
Some of the victims were safely evacuated from the safe hands of news agencies, conscientious organizations, and their colleagues. However, the Taliban quickly seized control of the country to exact revenge and enforce its harsh faith.
Joe Biden famously stated that he would evacuate any American and allies who wanted to leave. He didn’t, of course. He pulled off the second evacuation too early. And that Biden promise joined the mounting volume of lies that U.S. media don’t bother to tally for this Democrat president because he’s not the loathed Republican Donald Trump.
Biden and his media betrayed the trust of thousands of locals, their families, and those who believed in hard work and loyalty. They’re still there, these unarmed souls, likely in hiding, because this president and his media have moved on to more important, timely, and colorful tales that aren’t such a stain on America’s national honor.
Unless they’ve already been captured.
America is a nation with a generous and kind heart. Our massive government has let us down and this is a problem that affects too many lives. This was also true in South Vietnam. The U.S. ambassador panicked and delayed the evacuation plan until it was too late. It caused more panic than it was necessary and led to too many being left behind.
To be sent to Communist Re-education Camps, we also abandoned thousands of our allies. Or worse.
My news organization had two ‘Sashas’ in its Saigon bureau. These two men accompanied reporters into the field on a daily basis, sharing their stories and heartbreaking situations with them. The Vietcong didn’t want to hear their stories and South Vietnamese soldiers felt they were being betrayed. They might even misdirect you.
We flew from Camranh Bay on Sunday. The situation was chaotic, with many refugees fleeing the north. My interpreter managed to enlist the help of an airport manager and he offered me a car in exchange for his wife, daughter, and flight that night. Our day consisted of interviewing people to gather details about panic in Saigon 200 miles away.
A family described the 300-mile walk on foot that took them to Danang as their third best in recent times. The second day, however, was the death of their infant. They hear the enemy fire close behind. Do they abandon the baby in the woods and let him wander in eternal peace or do they take the time to bury it for the assured journey to Heaven?
One time, I suggested that we interview soldiers. My Sasha knew better. It turned out that they were deserters marauding, and soon began firing automatic guns in the air to get refugees to hand over their small treasures.
In Thailand, I hired a local driver-interpreter for the day’s drive to peek into Cambodia where the Khmer Rouge was on a killing spree. En route, I told him to pick a restaurant and I’d buy him lunch. My wife was not happy with the roadside home that had no roof.
He described his family, future plans and then his noodles soup appeared. While he talked, a few silverfish swam around in the broth.
We could hear the gunfire from Cambodia at the border. But our greatest danger was the working elephants that were gliding along the road. He drove me another day to the American Air Base, where our assistant had been evacuated.
My assistant found clothes stores and helped negotiate prices. It was my first experience buying underwear designed for Asian women.
More than 120,000 Vietnamese had established themselves in Guam, a city that was so big it could have its own Zipcode. Apart from covering the news, I had to search for our Saigon Sashas displaced and their family members in order to repay their hospitality and expedite them to new life and employment in America.
But after an all-day search, I’d not located them. Later, while interviewing immigration officials at the clearing center for asylum clearances, I recognized familiar voices. I was able to recognize them and help them. The pair had successfully used their American-American skills to get into the lives of the harried government officials dealing with human chaos.
To my employer’s immense credit, he took great care of these displaced local assistants, giving them jobs, apartments, and even counseling when the pressures and freedoms of a shocking new culture generated strains among men and women. These stories were almost always a success.
The invasion of Ukraine is not. Over the years, I’ve found solace and perspective in recounting for readers I’ll never meet the small details of individual lives caught up in larger events. Surrogate mother’s inner emotions as they gave their wombs in order to help childless couples become parents. A child’s awe upon seeing Mount Rushmore. A Belgian farmer mixing paint in an old Nazi helmet explaining what it’s like to raise dairy cows on an immense field that streams of tourists traipse across because the Battle of Waterloo was fought there.
The stunned look on the faces of curious Vietnamese refugees who’d just innocently asked me to explain what an Easter bunny does. There was a long pause. “Exactly how big are American rabbits?” one grandpa asked.
She sat down on the streetside, a tiny Vietnamese boy, with his family. He said that she was not afraid of being called a “war refugee” again. She smiled. She vomit in dirt.
But Oleksandra “Sasha” Kuvshynova’s story is different. Over 55 professional years at home and abroad I’ve met thousands of famous and ordinary people. With few exceptions, I’m drawn to the latter.
I’ve covered first-hand a wide variety of stories – routine, revealing, bloody, exciting, happy, boring, and tragic. Strangely, though, I was disturbed to see the social media posts of an embalmed young deceased woman.
Sasha was full of energy and curiosity. She had so many years ahead. All of that was wiped out by the territorial ambitions a brutal autocrat who considers himself to be a man. He’ll never know anything about her. You now know.
One of Sasha’s last entries was her cell photo of an open bedroom window with bright light coloring the wooden floor. “Always in Sun,” she wrote.
(Editor’s Note: “Malcolm on the Right” is usually a VIP-only column; however, out of respect for and in honor of Sasha this week’s column is available to all.)
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