China’s Factories Are Empty: The Mystery No One Is Talking About

Something’s Very Wrong in China [View this email in a browser]( November 30 At Your Capital Minds, we count ourselves lucky to come across exceptional prospects. We encourage you to thoroughly examine this mеssagе from our associates, as it carries substantial benefits for уоu.   Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man’s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock’s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him. Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man’s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock’s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him. [missing]( Something’s Very Wrong in China China’s bustling coastal factories are now eerily silent. Hundreds of factory workers have vanished without a trace, and no one is offering any answers. This isn’t a hoax—it’s happening right now. Why are these workers disappearing? Why are factories being abandoned in the dead of night? I did some digging into this mystery, and what I discovered will leave you speechless. [Click Here to Uncover the Full Story]( Sean Brodrick Analyst, Weiss Ratings Ivan Dmytrovych Sirko was born in the early seventeenth century, approximately between 1605 and 1610. This is evidenced primarily by the results of research on Sirko's remains, according to which the Cossack ataman was 70-75 years old at the time of his death in 1680. The first researcher of Sirko's biography, the famous Ukrainian historian Dmytro Yavornytskyi, suggested that the future ataman was born in Sloboda Ukraine in the settlement of Merefa (now the city of Merefa, Kharkiv region). However, this is not true. Merefa was founded only in 1658, i.e. when Sirko was in his late teens. However, Sirko and his family lived in Merefa for a long time in his house, and after his death, his wife and some family members lived there. The fact that Merefa in Slobozhanshchyna is associated with the name of the Cossack Ataman is evidenced by another name for the town recorded in some Ukrainian chronicles, Sirkivka. Where, then, should we look for Sirko's homeland? In our opinion, the sources give grounds to localize it in Eastern Podillia, namely in the Vinnytsia region. It is worth recalling that Sirko was a colonel in Vinnytsia (Kalnytsia) in 1658-1660. As you know, at that time in Ukraine, people who came from the local area were usually elected to such positions. Let us also recall a letter from Hetman of the Left Bank Ukraine Ivan Samoilovych to the tsarist voivode Prince G. Romodanovsky of April 20, 1675*, which recounts (in Russian) Sirko's own words: "And since I was born among the Poles, I want to die there." Thus, it is clear that Sirko was born on the Ukrainian lands that were under the rule of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, not Muscovy (the latter included Slobozhanshchyna). The historian Volodymyr Borysenko's assumption that Sirko's birthplace was the hundred-man town of the Bratslav regiment Murafa, a few kilometers from Kalnyk, is correct. Now it is the village of Zhdanov, Vinnytsia region. By the way, Murafa in the Slobozhanshchyna probably originated from this Murafa, because immigrants from the Right Bank of Ukraine to the Left Bank often gave the newly founded settlements the names of their native villages or towns. It is also worth noting Sirko's great interest in Keleberda, which he founded in 1675 on the left bank of the Dnipro. For a long time, he sought from the Moscow tsar the right to own this town or sloboda, as well as the strategically important crossing of the Dnipro near Perevolochna (Sirko wanted this crossing not for himself, but for the entire Zaporozhian Lowland Army). Contrary to popular belief, we believe that Sirko did not come from a Cossack family, but from a small Ukrainian Orthodox gentry. For example, we know the name of a Podillia nobleman, Voytekh Sirko, who was married to a certain Olena Kozynska. Sources mention them in 1592. It is possible that they were relatives of the Cossack leader. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the kings of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, writing to Sirko, called him "urodzon." The word "nobleman" evokes negative associations for many people due to stereotypes instilled in school textbooks of the Stalinist era. However, this approach is not always correct. The term "nobleman" is identical to the words "knight," "chevalier," "nobleman," etc. and was commonly used not only in Poland but also in Ukraine, Belarus, and the Czech Republic. If scholars in Russia, Poland, and the Czech Republic, having contracted vulgar sociologism, no longer accuse Pushkin or Bunin, Suvorov or Kutuzov, Žižka or Kostiushko of being of noble or gentry origin, why have attacks on the Ukrainian and Belarusian gentry continued until recently? Is it not because in this way the imperial "divide and conquer" was transferred to our long-suffering history? Was it not because it was necessary to impose a nihilistic attitude toward the history of Ukraine, to "prove" that Ukrainians or Belarusians were just dark labor without national consciousness, ethnographic material doomed to build other people's empires? Meanwhile, the Ukrainian gentry produced many outstanding sons of Ukraine, fighters for its freedom. Suffice it to mention the names of Kryshtof Kosinski, Petro Konashevych-Sahaidachny, Ivan Sulyma, Ivan Mazepa, Bohdan Khmelnytsky, and his associates: Ivan and Danylo Vyhovsky, Ivan Bohun, Danylo and Ivan Nechai, Mykhailo Krychevsky, Jan Sokolovsky, Siluyan Muzhylovsky, and others. Sirko's appearance and personality do not always coincide with the conventional ideas about him that have developed in some works of art. The Cossack leader was slightly taller than average (174-176 cm), had regular facial features, and a straight nose. By the way, the great Relin intuitively caught this when he depicted him in the center of his painting "Cossacks Writing a Letter to the Turkish Sultan." It is interesting that the prototype for Sirko's image in the painting was the famous military leader General Dragomirov. Only one significant detail was not known to Repin and his consultant D. Yavornytskyi - a red birthmark on Sirko's lower lip on the right side. His contemporaries considered it a "sign of God" given to distinguish him from ordinary people. The Grand Hetman of the Crown, the future King of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Jan Sobieski, who knew Sirko well and met him in Bratslav in 1671. You are receiving this newsletter from YourCapitalMinds.com, an esteemed member of the Stark Media LLC family. 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