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ON JANUARY 24TH Hindenburg Research, a tiny American investment firm that specialises in short-selling, accused the Adani Group, a huge Indian conglomerate, of pulling off the “largest con in corporate history”. The group denies the Hindenburg report’s allegations in their entirety. Before the report’s release, the group had a market value of $235bn and Gautam Adani, its founder and boss, was the world’s third-richest man. Since then, $70bn has been wiped off the market value of the Adani Group’s firms. Who is Mr Adani, and how did he amass his empire?

Mr Adani was born in 1962 in Gujarat, a state in north-western India. He was one of eight children in a middle-class family of Jains, a religion that preaches asceticism and strict vegetarianism. Like many other Gujaratis, Mr Adani’s father was an entrepreneur, running a small textile business. But Mr Adani had little interest in textiles. After dropping out of education aged 16 he moved to Mumbai, in the neighbouring state of Maharashtra, and took a job sorting diamonds.

In 1981 his elder brother began a venture processing plastics, and Mr Adani moved home to manage it. He later began importing related raw materials, then metals, pharmaceuticals and an expanding array of commodities. When the Gujarat government outsourced management of the port of Mundra, Mr Adani, who has always deftly navigated Indian bureaucracy, won the contract; the port opened in 2001. Today Mundra is the largest port in India.

Much of Mundra’s growth came after 2001. That was when Narendra Modi, now India’s prime minister, began his 13-year tenure as Gujarat’s chief minister. Mr Modi’s administration reportedly leased land to Mr Adani at knock-down prices, helping him expand the port. (Mr Adani has denied claims of such favouritism.) A flourishing Mundra, along with a massive coal-fired power plant nearby, were the basis of the tycoon’s empire. His approach was simple: he bought rail and water rights, land and natural resources, and used one successful enterprise to finance the next. Today the Adani Group’s interests range from cement to media.

Mr Adani’s successes helped Mr Modi, too. The politician used them to portray himself as a pro-growth leader. When he became India’s prime minister in 2014 he made the journey to Delhi, the capital, on Mr Adani’s plane. Their friendship seems to have continued. In 2019 Mr Adani secured government consent to set up a lucrative Special Economic Zone in the eastern state of Jharkhand. Hindenburg alleges that the government has also been lenient in its investigations of the group. But Mr Adani rejects allegations that Mr Modi’s government has shown his enterprises undue favour. He attributes his success to reforms implemented more than 30 years ago that made India more business-friendly.

In contrast with many Indian tycoons Mr Adani keeps a low profile. That is despite a colourful past. In 1998 he was kidnapped along with an associate and reportedly released for a multimillion-dollar ransom. In 2008 he was at the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai during a terrorist attack, and spent a night hiding in the basement. He rarely speaks publicly about these ordeals. There are no striking homes or flashy cars. He dresses in forgettable dark suits and white shirts, and describes himself as an introvert who does not enjoy attending parties. The share sell-off reduced Mr Adani’s personal wealth of $90bn by less than 10%; he is still the 11th-richest person in the world, down from second in September 2022.

He seems intent on building a dynasty. His son, Karan, runs Adani Ports. Rajesh, his younger brother, is the managing director of the group. Hindenburg claims that his older brother, Vinod, exercises influence from Dubai. The company denies this—but a recent biography, written with co-operation from the group, says that Vinod oversees “most financial arrangements, especially global financing”. Hindenburg has accused both brothers of manipulating the group’s share price through offshore entities. The Adanis deny these allegations. They say the short-seller is launching a “calculated attack on the growth story and ambition of India”. ■

THE FRENCH are once again taking to the streets to protest against a plan to raise the minimum retirement age—this time from 62 years old to 64. The proposal was unveiled by the prime minister, Elisabeth Borne, on January 10th and it is now winding its way through parliament. In France it is deeply unpopular: 68% oppose the reform. But viewed from elsewhere in Europe, it looks remarkably modest. Why is France’s pension age so low?

Most Europeans are much older than 62 when they begin to receive state-pension payouts. Britain’s pension age is 66. Germany’s is 67. France has two pension ages: a legal minimum of 62 years, at which a full pension is paid if the required number of contributions has been made, and 67 years, at which point a full pension is paid regardless. The new rules would accelerate the increase in the required number of annual contributions from 41 to 43.

Complex national rules on credits and exemptions mean that, in reality, many Europeans retire earlier than their country’s pension age. The average British man is 63.7 years old when he retires; the average woman is 63.2. German men retire at 63.1 on average and women at 63.2. In France the average age is lower still: men retire on average at 60.4 years and women at 60.9. Thanks to high life expectancy, the average length of time spent in retirement in France is, for men, the second-highest in the OECD (after Luxembourg); for women it is the third-highest.

This puts particular pressure on the French system. Pensions are funded by mandatory hypothecated payroll charges on those in work for those in retirement at any given moment. Today there are only 1.7 people in work in France for every pensioner, down from 2.1 in 2000. That figure is projected to fall to 1.3 by 2070.

A mix of history and political culture explains France’s low retirement age. The country’s earliest pension regime was set up for the navy under the ancien régime, in 1673. To this day, certain categories of workers, such as dancers at the Paris Opera or railway workers, enjoy early retirement rights based on such historical schemes. At the SNCF, the national railway, employees can retire as early as 52-55 years. Modern rules governing pensions were introduced in 1945, with the birth of the French welfare state. At the time, the retirement age for a full pension was 65 years. It was not until François Mitterrand, a socialist president, swept to power in 1981 on a promise to enhance workers’ rights that France lowered its pension age to 60.

Ever since then, any attempt to oblige the French to work for longer has stirred indignation and resistance. Like the 35-hour working week, the lowering of the retirement age in France has become part of national mythology: the celebration of progress towards a better society in which the burden of work is eased. In 1995 paralysing strikes greeted Jacques Chirac’s (failed) attempt to raise the pension age. In 2010 huge protests met Nicolas Sarkozy’s (ultimately successful) decision to increase the age from 60 years to 62. President Emmanuel Macron’s attempt to push the threshold to 64 may look modest on paper—but it is as symbolically bold as it is politically risky. ■

AFTER GERMANY’S decision on January 25th to send its Leopard 2 tanks to Ukraine and allow other countries to do the same, half a dozen of its European neighbours have promised tanks. Missing from the list, however, is France. A few days earlier, when asked if his country would contribute its Leclerc battle tanks, Emmanuel Macron, France’s president, said that “nothing was ruled out”. France was keen to spur Germany to action, announcing in early January that it would dispatch “light tanks”, AMX-10RCs, to Ukraine. Yet only the previous month Mr Macron was arguing that Russia would need “security guarantees” in a future peace negotiation. He keeps the lines open to Vladimir Putin, his Russian counterpart. What exactly is France’s policy on Ukraine?

The apparent ambiguity of France’s position stems from two things. One is the role that Mr Macron played in the years preceding the Russian invasion. Having tried to charm Mr Putin into better behaviour, welcoming him to Versailles and his presidential residence on the Mediterranean, Mr Macron made a last-ditch trip to Moscow in early February 2022 to try to prevent war. These failed overtures framed the French president as a leader unwilling to confront Mr Putin’s belligerence.

Second, after the invasion Mr Macron has spoken to his Russian counterpart more than has any other Western leader. The French president periodically evokes the possibility of peace talks, arguing that Russia’s concerns will need to be taken into account. Last year he pressed the case for “not humiliating” Russia. The conclusion in some quarters is that Mr Macron wants to push Ukraine into suing for peace.

The French presidency categorically denies this. At no moment, says an adviser, has Mr Macron put pressure on Volodymyr Zelensky, Ukraine’s president, to negotiate. Mr Macron has hardened his line on Russia, declaring on December 31st that France would support Ukraine “all the way to victory”. The change has been noted in Kyiv. “Macron’s statement indeed demonstrates a substantial shift,” said Andriy Zagorodnyuk, Mr Zelensky’s former defence minister, in a tweet responding to the news. These days the French president’s conversations with Mr Putin are carefully considered; the pair have not spoken since September. In the meantime, France has sent Ukraine state-of-the-art CAESAR howitzers and air-defence systems; the AMX-10RCs will be dispatched shortly.

Mr Macron seems still to hope that France could one day help to mediate an end to the war. That might explain why he has been wary of leading Europe’s military support for Ukraine. He may also have lingering fears of escalation, a view that runs deep in the foreign-policy establishment in Paris. But France’s recent heavy-arms deliveries suggest that its judgment of that risk has evolved. Mr Macron may simply be saying out loud what other Ukrainian allies are thinking. Russia will remain on Europe’s doorstep, with or without Mr Putin in charge. At some point, say the French, the war will end in talks, and they will have to consider the security of the continent and the location of NATO’s future borders. That may be, but Mr Macron’s eagerness to express the complexity of the situation undermines the clarity of France’s position.

In reality France is close to the American position on Ukraine, as was evident during Mr Macron’s state visit to Washington in December 2022. Both countries worry about escalation. President Joe Biden finds Mr Macron’s line to Mr Putin useful. The Americans also know that France is the European Union’s biggest military power. On January 20th the French president announced a massive 40% increase in the French defence budget for 2024-30, compared with 2019-25, to €413bn ($449bn).

If France does send Leclerc tanks to Ukraine, it would probably be a symbolic rather than an operational decision. The French army has little more than 200 of the tanks in operation, and can spare few of them. Either way, Mr Macron has made his political and military support for Ukraine clearer than ever, even if France remains unlikely to take the lead. ■

Yet all these models are superior to the Soviet-era tanks that Russia is using on the battlefield, such as the T-72 and the T-90. These tanks do not have the same level of stabilisation as Western ones, according to the Royal United Services Institute, another think-tank, meaning they are less capable of firing accurately while moving. Tanks like the T-72 also lack blast doors between their crew and ammunition stores. That allows them to be operated by three men instead of the Western-standard four. But it means that strikes from above are more likely to cause catastrophic explosions.

Crucially for tank-hungry Ukraine, the Leopard 2 also has advantages over its Western counterparts. According to Janes, a defence-intelligence provider, the Leopard 2A4 weighs about 55 tonnes. The Leopard 2A6 is nearly 58 tonnes. Both models have a top speed of 72kph (45mph), making them quicker than both the Abrams (68kph) and the Challenger 2 (56kph). And the range of both Leopard 2 models—how far they can travel before refuelling—is 550km. That is the same as that of their British Challenger counterpart, and superior to that of the Abrams (426km).

The Leopard 2 does have flaws. In late 2016 at least eight Leopard 2A4s were reportedly destroyed during a Turkish operation against Islamic State in Syria. The insurgents targeted weak points in the tanks’ rear and side armour. And the Abrams has greater firepower. The German and American MBTs both boast a 120mm turret-mounted smoothbore gun as their main weapon. But the Abrams has three additional machineguns, compared with the Leopard 2’s two. The Americans also use depleted uranium to reinforce their shells, improving the Abrams’s ability to penetrate armour.

But the German tank’s shortcomings are gradually being resolved. Newer versions of the Leopard 2, for instance, have reinforced armour on the turret. The Leopard 2A6 also has a longer 120mm smoothbore gun than its predecessors, which improves the tank’s penetrative power. But even older models have clear advantages for use in Ukraine. Whereas the Abrams runs on a turbine engine that the Americans fill with jet fuel, the Leopard uses diesel, which is more readily available. There are also around 2,000 Leopards in Europe. That makes the tanks easier to export to Ukraine, and eases the supply of spare parts.

HIS LIES are so profuse that mentioning more than a few would be tedious. Among George Santos’s biggest whoppers—besides his endorsement of Donald Trump’s false assertion that he won the 2020 presidential election—are the claim that his mother was at the twin towers when the 9/11 terrorist attacks happened, that his grandparents fled the Holocaust and that in 2016 several of his employees were killed in a shooting at a gay nightclub in Florida. His résumé is reportedly largely invented.

Only after Mr Santos, a Republican from New York state, was elected to Congress in November was the extent of his deception exposed. He has since admitted to “embellishing” his CV, though he denies being “a criminal who defrauded the entire country and made up this fictional character”. But many Americans believe that lying to voters to win an election is a crime, or at least ought to be. Can Mr Santos be prosecuted for his campaign-trail fibs?

The First Amendment protects most speech, including lies. There are exceptions: lies that incite violence, defame, constitute perjury or facilitate financial fraud are unprotected. In general, though, American courts uphold the principle that governments have no right to criminalise speech, however offensive or misleading it may be. The idea is that, in most cases, individuals ought to decide for themselves what is true. Better that than turn the government into an arbiter of truth.

Some states have sought to make an exception for some sorts of lies that politicians tell when they campaign for office. At least 16 have criminalised false campaign speech, such as lies about rival candidates or ballot initiatives. But courts have largely protected lying politicians from conviction. In 2012, in United States v Alvarez, the Supreme Court overturned the Stolen Valour Act, a law that made it illegal to claim falsely to have won military medals. Xavier Alvarez, an elected member of a water-district board in California, appealed against his conviction under the statute. (Mr Alvarez also claimed to have played professional hockey, rescued the American ambassador during the Iran hostage crisis and married a Mexican starlet.) The Supreme Court sided with him. An “interest in truthful discourse alone” does not warrant a ban on speech “absent any evidence that the speech was used to gain a material advantage”, it ruled. To uphold Mr Alvarez’s conviction would be to give the government “broad censorial power unprecedented…in our constitutional tradition”.

Mr Alvarez told his lies after he had been elected. Suppose he had done so during the campaign, as Mr Santos did. In the eyes of the courts that might not matter. The Supreme Court has not ruled on campaign-trail untruths, but a number of state courts have. Citing Alvarez, appellate courts in Massachusetts, Minnesota and Ohio have struck down laws that criminalised false campaign speech. In Massachusetts the court considered the hypothetical scenario of a candidate who lies about his credentials during a pre-election debate. The solution to such deceit, it held, is “counterspeech”, not criminal prosecution.

New York is not among the states that criminalises political lying, and it is not clear that the lies of Mr Santos would qualify as criminal behaviour in states that have such statutes. So he will not be sent to the slammer for that. He could be charged with a crime if he misappropriated campaign funds for personal use; investigations of that question are under way. Even a credible criminal charge would not compel him to step down: a member of the House of Representatives can be expelled only by a two-thirds majority of the chamber. Republicans in the House are unlikely to risk diminishing their tiny majority by removing him. That would trigger an election to replace him that they might lose. Whatever Mr Santos’s sins, he will probably stay in Congress—and out of jail—at least until the next election, in 2024. ■

RECEP TAYYIP ERDOGAN, Turkey’s president, has never warmed to his Syrian counterpart, to say the least. For the past decade he has armed militias bent on removing Bashar al-Assad from power. But on January 5th, Mr Erdogan said he was eager to meet his foe. A week earlier, defence ministers from Syria, Turkey and Russia had met in Moscow to discuss the Syrian civil war, refugees and extremist groups. Mr Erdogan wants Mr Assad to keep the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), a militia in north-east Syria led by Kurds, in check. He views the group as a threat to his country, and may launch another ground invasion to rout them. What is the SDF?

Kurds, who number about 30m, are sometimes called the biggest ethnic group without their own country. They are split between Iran, Iraq, Syria and Turkey, each of which has a history of suppressing Kurdish culture and of violent conflict with Kurdish groups. In Turkey the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) has fought a decade-long insurgency against the government, originally in pursuit of independence, and more recently for extensive autonomy and Kurdish rights.

The SDF sprung up across the border, a product of the Syrian civil war. In 2011, as forces supporting Mr Assad fired on protestors, Kurds formed militias. These coalesced into the so-called People’s Defence Units (YPG), a group made up of deserting conscripts from the Syrian army and hardened PKK fighters. Kurds from Iraq smuggled in weapons and ammunition to support them. By 2012 the YPG, by then numbering around 3,000 fighters, controlled swathes of north-east Syria including Kobane, a Kurdish-majority city on the Turkish border.

Kurds make up just 10% of Syria’s population and as the YPG expanded, its character has evolved. In 2014 Islamic State (IS) established itself in Syria. Encouraged by America—which viewed the YPG as the only army capable of ground campaigns against IS—the militia began to work with Arab tribes. In late 2015, again at America’s behest, the YPG merged with those tribes, forming the SDF. Kurds now lead a multi-ethnic army that is routinely accused of forcibly conscripting Arabs into its ranks and discriminating against them. America supplied the militia with military equipment and carried out airstrikes to support them. By July 2017 when the group began its successful assault on Raqqa, the IS caliphate’s capital, the SDF had 40,000 fighters and controlled about a third of Syria.

The formation of an American-allied Kurdish statelet, known to the Kurds as Rojava, horrified Turkey. To Mr Erdogan and to many Turks, there is little difference between the SDF and the PKK. Mr Erdogan ordered ground assaults in northern Syria in 2016 and 2018 to check the SDF’s power. In October 2019 he launched a third offensive, “Operation Peace Spring”. The Turkish army quickly seized a swathe of Syrian territory. Desperate SDF leaders asked the Syrian government and Russia, which had supported Mr Assad throughout the civil war, to enter Kobane to prevent further Turkish advances. The group offered to put its forces under Syrian-regime control in exchange for autonomy, but talks with the government failed.

Since June 2022 Mr Erdogan has been promising another operation against the SDF. The tempo of his threats picked up after a terrorist attack on Istanbul on November 13th 2022 in which six people were killed. Turkish authorities blamed the PKK, in league with a Syrian refugee, and rained missiles on Kurdish strongholds in Syria and Iraq. The PKK denied involvement and American and Russian diplomatic efforts have so far prevented a Turkish ground offensive against the SDF.

Turkey would consider normalising relations with Syria in return for assurances that its government will sideline the SDF. But Mr Assad seems in no mood to do so. He may simply be too weak to provide such guarantees. The Syrian leader is probably demanding that Turkey withdraw from northern Syria and end its support for opposition groups holed up in their final stronghold, Idlib. The SDF has long taken advantage of mutual antagonism between Mr Erdogan and Mr Assad. It may be able to do so for a while yet. ■

Health

A FIERY DEBATE has ignited in America—over the use of gas for cooking. On January 9th Richard Trumka junior, a commissioner at the Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC), a federal agency, told Bloomberg that the organisation was considering a ban on gas hobs, describing them as a “hidden hazard”. That sparked outrage among many conservatives, many of whom blamed President Joe Biden. “If the maniacs in the White House come for my stove, they can pry it from my cold dead hands. COME AND TAKE IT!!” tweeted Ronny Jackson, a Republican congressman from Texas. Andrew Gruel, a television chef, taped himself to a stove in protest. Even some Democrats were riled. Joe Manchin, a senator from West Virginia, called a ban a “recipe for disaster”. Why have gas stoves become part of America’s culture wars—and could they actually be banned?

Around 38% of American households have gas stoves, although that varies among states. Proponents say that they are cheaper and more efficient than electric alternatives​​—and even that food cooked on them tastes better. The gas industry has good PR. “Cooking with gas”, an advertising slogan from the 1930s, is baked into the American psyche. The American Gas Association, a trade group, publishes recipes on cookingwithgas.org. In sponsored social-media posts, influencers rave about their gas stoves. But the appliances, which emit nitrogen dioxide, particulate matter and other pollutants, also carry environmental and health risks, including asthma. The dangers can be mitigated with good ventilation, yet indoor pollution is not heavily regulated. Burning gas also releases greenhouse gases, including carbon dioxide and methane.

The Inflation Reduction Act offers incentives for consumers to switch to electric stoves, like those to encourage electric cars. For stoves, rebates of up to $840 are available. Since 60% of American electricity is generated by burning gas and coal, the alternative is not always greener. In an effort to reduce the use of fossil fuels some Democratic city councils have passed legislation to limit use of gas. In 2019, when Berkeley became the first American city to prohibit the fuel for heating and cooking in new buildings, California’s restaurant association tried to sue. (A judge dismissed the lawsuit.) This year New York City will ban gas in some new buildings. A similar plan proposed for New York state failed to pass its legislature last year, but Kathy Hochul, New York’s Democratic governor, may try again. Since 2021 more than 20 states, many of which are governed by Republicans and some of which are also producers of gas, have introduced laws to block local bans.

The federal threat to Americans’ cooking habits is not imminent. On January 11th a White House spokesperson said that the Biden administration had no plans for a ban. Nor is the CPSC, which is independent of the administration, “coming for anyone’s gas stoves”, Mr Trumka tweeted. Any national ban, if it ever happens, will be on new cookers, not on ones already in people’s kitchens. The CPSC’s current priority is to improve standards for new products. That should allow time for the most heated defenders of gas stoves to simmer down. ■

RUSSIA’S OCCUPYING ARMY in Ukraine has a new leader. On January 11th Russia’s government announced that the country’s most senior soldier, Valery Gerasimov, had been appointed to oversee the war instigated by President Vladimir Putin. General Gerasimov replaces Sergei Surovikin, a ruthless general who in October was appointed the first official overall commander. The Kremlin has linked the reshuffle, officially made by the defence minister, Sergei Shoigu, but in reality by Mr Putin, to a broadening of its campaign and a need to tidy up the command structure. In response Ukraine’s ministry of defence quipped: “Every Russian general must receive at least one opportunity to fail in Ukraine. Some may be lucky enough to fail twice.” Who is General Gerasimov and why has he been put in charge?

Valery Gerasimov was born in 1955 to a working-class family in Kazan, the capital city of a region of ethnic Tatars. In the 1970s he trained to be a tank driver and rose steadily through the ranks. He served as a commander during the war in Chechnya in the 2000s. Considered a loyal and safe pair of hands, in 2012 he was appointed chief of general staff, the highest job in the Russian army—three days after his ally Mr Shoigu was made defence minister. Mr Shoigu has relied on him ever since, to oversee Russia’s brutal campaign in Syria in 2015 and its seizure of Crimea in 2014, describing the general as “a military man to the roots of his hair”.

Outside of Russia General Gerasimov is best known for an essay, written in 2013, in which he described a state of modern hybrid warfare using subversion methods spanning “political, economic, informational, humanitarian, and other non-military measures” to complement traditional fighting. In what was later misleadingly coined the “Gerasimov doctrine”, the general was criticising the West’s behaviour in the Middle East rather than advocating a new strategy for Russia. But the influence of such thinking is arguably evident in the evolution of Russia’s disinformation campaigns, including in Ukraine and on government-funded international media, as well as in its meddling in foreign elections.

As chief of staff General Gerasimov has ordered more frequent military exercises than his predecessors did. But as head of the army during the war in Ukraine, he is associated with Russia’s failures. He commands a poorly prepared and under-equipped army, largely from afar. He was once spotted on the front near the eastern city of Izyum, from where he was evacuated in early May following a reported shrapnel wound. Around the time of the “partial” military mobilisation drive, in September, the general was rumoured to have been sidelined. Now he has re-entered the limelight.

His appointment may have been prompted by a growing rivalry between the traditional military establishment and the Kremlin’s irregular proxies. General Surovikin’s campaign embraced the Wagner Group of mercenaries but its leader, Yevgeny Prighozin, has become increasingly blunt in attacking the military chiefs. After Russia announced the full capture of the eastern town of Soledar on January 13th Mr Prighozin complained that the Russian army was taking credit owed to his men. (The exact status of Soledar is still disputed.) The Wagner Group is also entrenched in the battle for the nearby town of Bakhmut which, despite mounting losses, Russia is determined to take as part of its campaign to control the Donbas. So the appointment of a man as senior as General Gerasimov to oversee Russia’s next offensive may be intended to reassert the Russian army’s control of the war in Ukraine and, in turn, Mr Putin’s authority over it. ■