Friday, December 18

At 8:02 p.m. on December 18, 2019, the Clerk of the House read the final tally. Article I, abuse of power, passed 230-197. Article II, obstruction of Congress, passed 229-198. No Republicans voted yes; two Democrats voted no on the first article; three on the second. The vote was swift, partisan, and historically definitive. Donald John Trump became the third president in American history to be impeached by the House of Representatives.

The charges stemmed from a July 25 phone call with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy. The House investigation concluded Trump had solicited foreign interference in the 2020 election by conditioning military aid and a White House meeting on Ukraine announcing investigations into his political rival, Joe Biden. The subsequent White House directive to ignore congressional subpoenas formed the basis for the obstruction charge. The process moved with notable speed, from Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s announcement of a formal inquiry on September 24 to the final vote in under three months.

Public discourse often frames impeachment as a legal trial. It is a political process. The House acts as prosecutor; the Senate serves as jury. The predictable outcome—acquittal by the Republican-majority Senate—was a foregone conclusion to most observers from the moment the House inquiry began. The event’s significance therefore lay not in removal, but in the act of accusation itself.

The impeachment cemented a modern precedent of using the constitutional mechanism along starkly partisan lines. It was a product of, and a further accelerant for, deep political polarization. The trial in the Senate, which began in January 2020, was conducted without witnesses or new evidence, setting its own procedural precedent. The event did not resolve a national conflict. It documented one.

Lionel Messi put Argentina ahead from the penalty spot in the 23rd minute. Ángel Di María made it 2-0 in the 36th. For 80 minutes, Argentina controlled the match. Then, in the 80th minute, Kylian Mbappé scored a penalty. He scored again 97 seconds later. The game was level. Messi scored in the 108th minute of extra time. Mbappé equalized with another penalty in the 118th. The match ended 3-3. Argentina won the shootout 4-2. Gonzalo Montiel converted the final penalty. Messi, at 35, finally had his World Cup.

The narrative before the final focused on Messi’s quest for the one trophy that eluded him. The match itself obliterated that single storyline. It became a relentless, oscillating drama of collective collapse and individual brilliance. France failed to record a shot on target for 67 minutes. Mbappé’s hat-trick—the first in a final since 1966—erased that stat. The game contained two distinct matches: Argentina’s tactical mastery for most of regulation, and a chaotic, breathless battle of wills for its conclusion.

Many remember the shootout victory. The more profound truth is that Argentina won a game they had thoroughly dominated, then lost, then dominated again, then lost again. It was a victory of resilience, not just skill. Goalkeeper Emiliano Martínez’s critical save on Randal Kolo Muani in the final seconds of extra time is often overshadowed by the goals.

The final did not crown the best team of the tournament in a pure sense. It crowned the team that survived the most psychologically devastating match in the competition’s history. It provided a definitive, almost novelistic endpoint to Messi’s international career. It also established Mbappé, the runner-up who scored three goals, as the heir. The trophy went to Argentina. The legacy was shared.

On December 18, 2006, approximately 6,689 Emirati citizens cast ballots across the UAE. They elected 20 members to the Federal National Council. The other 20 members were appointed by the rulers of the seven emirates. The electorate itself was not a general citizenry. Each emirate’s ruler selected an electoral college, whose members were overwhelmingly male, tribal, and middle-aged. Turnout among these pre-approved voters was about 74 percent. One woman won a seat through the vote in Abu Dhabi. A second was appointed in Dubai.

The event was a carefully managed experiment in political participation. The FNC has no legislative power; it is a consultative body that can review, debate, and suggest amendments to proposed federal laws. The election was a concession to domestic and international pressure for reform, following similar but more expansive steps in neighboring Qatar and Oman. Its primary function was symbolic, designed to create a facade of representation without altering the absolute monarchical structure of the Gulf state.

International media often reported it as the UAE’s ‘first election,’ implying a step toward democracy. It was more accurately a step toward co-option. The process reinforced the authority of the ruling families by making them the gatekeepers of political inclusion. Voting was framed not as a right, but as a privilege granted by the sheikhs to a trusted segment of society.

The 2006 election established a template. Subsequent polls in 2011, 2015, and 2019 expanded the size of the electoral colleges—to about 12% of Emirati citizens by 2019—but maintained the same fundamental constraints. The FNC remains advisory. All political power remains vested in the Supreme Council of Rulers. The event mattered not as an opening, but as a demonstration of how an authoritarian state can ritualize participation to strengthen its own control.

The last transmission from United Airlines Flight 2860 was routine. ‘Salt Lake, United Two Eight Six Zero, we have a problem, we’re descending.’ It was 5:41 a.m. on December 18, 1977. The DC-8-54F, operating as a cargo flight from Chicago to Portland, was over the Wasatch Range in heavy clouds. Radar showed the jet at 10,000 feet. Then it began a rapid, 4,200-feet-per-minute descent. It vanished from radar at 7,200 feet. The wreckage was found on the slopes of Mount Wire, just north of Kaysville. All three crew members—Captain Robert M. Boody, First Officer Michael L. Kerkow, and Flight Engineer Ronald R. Christensen—were killed.

The investigation by the National Transportation Safety Board faced an unusual challenge. The crash site revealed no evidence of in-flight fire, explosion, or structural failure. The engines were developing power at impact. The crew was experienced and well-rested. The plane was properly loaded. The NTSB’s final report, published over two years later, could only conclude the probable cause was the crew’s ‘unexplained loss of altitude awareness during a descent from cruising altitude.’ It was a finding that admitted bafflement.

This obscurity fuels speculation. The most persistent theory suggests spatial disorientation in the cloud-covered darkness, possibly compounded by a rare instrument failure. Yet the cockpit voice recorder, which might have clarified the crew’s actions, was not required on all-cargo flights at the time. The ‘problem’ mentioned on the radio was never specified.

The crash of Flight 2860 had a direct and tangible outcome. It became a key data point in the long push for expanded flight recorder mandates. The argument that cargo pilots deserved the same safety oversight as passenger pilots gained force from this unexplained tragedy. The crash itself remains a cold case in aviation history, a brief, cryptic transmission followed by silence on a mountainside.