You’re right, Mr. Zelensky, we all could use a dose of moral clarity from time to time. And such a speech, delivered emphatically, simply, in touch-and-go English, before a body that largely operates by selling its votes, can be particularly effective.
The collarless, common-man attire in army green, the scruff of facial growth, the way he just for an instant blinked back emotion as he hailed the representatives of the Ukrainian diaspora up in the mezzanine, the awkward kiss on the cheek to Speaker Pelosi behind and above him on the dais, the sheer sincerity, even the humor — “We have artillery, yes. Thank you. We have it. Is it enough? Honestly, not really” — it couldn’t have been done any better.
The way Zelensky, a former comic actor, was improbably thrust onto the world stage, becoming, symbolically at least, the leader of the free world, made me think of the tired-looking, chain-smoking playwright who ascended to the Czech presidency following the Revolutions of ’89, Vaclav Havel, who’d been jailed for years as a dissident, and who also once spoke before a joint session of Congress, moving some in the chamber to tears with his quietly communicated moral authority.
In a bit of tragic foreshadowing, in 2009, two years before he died, Havel apparently warned Barack Obama about the perils of hope, how when too much of it is placed in one person, it’s bound to turn into resentment.
But a wartime leader is a different animal, and Zelensky is too beleaguered for such concerns.
“Ukraine never asked the American soldiers to fight on our land instead of us,” he told Congress. “I assure you that Ukrainian soldiers can perfectly operate American tanks and planes themselves.”
“Merry Christmas and a happy, victorious New Year,” he said in closing.
For God’s sake, give the man whatever he needs.