Who Owns the Past?: The Politics of Time in a 'Model' Bulgarian Village 9781782386629

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Who Owns the Past?

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New Directions in Anthropology General Editor: Jacqueline Waldren, Institute of Social Anthropology, University of Oxford Volume 1 Volume 2 Volume 3 Volume 4 Volume 5

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Coping with Tourists: European Reactions to Mass Tourism Edited by Jeremy Boissevain A Sentimental Economy: Commodity and Community in Rural Ireland Carles Salazar Insiders and Outsiders: Paradise and Reality in Mallorca Jacqueline Waldren The Hegemonic Male: Masculinity in a Portuguese Town Miguel Vale de Almeida Communities of Faith: Sectarianism, Identity, and Social Change on a Danish Island Andrew S. Buckser After Socialism: Land Reform and Rural Social Change in Eastern Europe Edited by Ray Abrahams Immigrants and Bureaucrats: Ethiopians in an Israeli Absorption Center Esther Hertzog A Venetian Island: Environment, History and Change in Burano Lidia Sciama Recalling the Belgian Congo: Conversations and Introspection Marie-Bénédicte Dembour Mastering Soldiers: Conflict, Emotions, and the Enemy in an Israeli Military Unit Eyal Ben-Ari The Great Immigration: Russian Jews in Israel Dina Siegel Morals of Legitimacy: Between Agency and System Italo Pardo Academic Anthropology and the Museum: Back to the Future Edited by Mary Bouquet Simulated Dreams: Israeli Youth and Virtual Zionism Haim Hazan Defiance and Compliance: Negotiating Gender in Low-Income Cairo Heba Aziz Morsi El-Kholy Troubles with Turtles: Cultural Understandings of the Environment on a Greek Island Dimitrios Theodossopoulos Rebordering the Mediterranean: Boundaries and Citizenship in Southern Europe Liliana Suarez-Navaz The Bounded Field: Localism and Local Identity in an Italian Alpine Valley Jaro Stacul Foundations of National Identity: From Catalonia to Europe Josep Llobera Bodies of Evidence: Burial, Memory and the Recovery of Missing Persons in Cyprus Paul Sant Cassia Who Owns the Past? The Politics of Time in a ‘Model’ Bulgarian Village Deema Kaneff

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W HO OWNS

THE




PAST ?

The Politics of Time in a ‘Model’ Bulgarian Village

Deema Kaneff

Berghahn Books New York • Oxford

Published in 2004 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com ©2004 Deema Kaneff First paperback edition publisted in 2006. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of Berghahn Books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kaneff, Deema, 1962Who owns the past? : the politics of time in a “model” Bulgarian village / Deema Kaneff. p. cm. -- (New directions in anthropology ; v. 21) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-57181-534-1 (hardback : acid-free paper) 1. Folklore--Bulgaria--Talpa. 2. Folklore and nationalism--Bulgaria--Talpa. 3. Folklore--Political aspects--Bulgaria. 4. Communism and culture--Bulgaria--Talpa. 5. Talpa (Bulgaria)--Social life and customs. I. Title. II. Series. GR253.K36 2003 398’.094499--dc22

2003059581

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed in the United States on acid-free paper.

ISBN 1-57181-534-1 hardback ISBN 1-84545-298-4 paperback

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C ONTENTS




Acknowledgements

vii

Abbreviations

ix

Glossary

x

1. Introduction: Politics and the Past

1

Local-Centre Relations in Socialist Bulgaria Socialist Temporality The Importance of the Past: History, Tradition and Folklore Fieldwork and the Issue of Representation

2. A ‘Model Village’ The ‘Model Village’ Event Administrative Relations Class Relations Morality Identity Conclusion

History: A Brief Introduction to Chapters 3 and 4 3. Socialist History, Politics and Morality Characterising History Politics and History A Moral History

4. Contesting History Different Histories: Political Pluralism Alliances and Oppositions

4 8 10 17 27 30 34 39 43 47 51 56 59 59 64 74 88 90 101

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Contents

Tradition: A Brief Introduction to Chapters 5 and 6 5. The Character of Traditions

106 109

Traditional Funeral Practices Death and Relations to Nature Collective Celebrations of Tradition

110 116 119

6. Tradition and History: Contrasting Constructions of the Past

128

A Good Communist Village: a Bad Traditional Village Creating Local Distinctions: Traditional Practices as a Way of Opposing the State

129 130

Folklore: A Brief Introduction to Chapters 7 and 8 7. Defining Folklore

139 143

Survakane: Both a Traditional and a Folkloric Custom Folklore as a State-Determined Activity

8. Folklore in a New Bulgarian Village

144 149 156

Education, Bulgarian Culture and Folklore The Village Vocal Group Talpa – a ‘New Bulgarian Village’

157 162 167

9. Conclusion: A New Model for the Village

171

A model village in a Model District Decentralisation – the Tragic Consequences A Reevaluation of the Past Renegotiating Relations with the Centre

171 176 181 186

Appendices

197 197 200

Appendix 1: 9 September 1987 Appendix 2: Eulogy

References

202

Index

210

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A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS




I am grateful to Marinka G. Bukovska, Gina G. Radeva, Ivan, Kina, Reni and Kalinka Ivanovi, Ivan and Snezha Radevi, Gencho T. Nedkov, Temenuga D. Georgieva, Ivanka, Dida and Nikolai Fenerovi, and Georgi Stoilov. I remain forever indebted to them for looking after me during the periods that I have spent in Bulgaria over the years. Their patience, interest in my work and generosity in sharing their lives, homes and friendships has made every trip to Bulgaria an enriching and happy experience. There are numerous others, both in village Talpa and the town of Nekilva - far too many to note individually - who have assisted me in a variety of ways and to whom I am both obliged and deeply grateful. Large parts of the writing of this manuscript took place while I was at the Department of Social Anthropology, University of Cambridge, England, although the final draft was completed after I moved to the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, Germany. I appreciate the office resources offered to me by both institutions, and in the case of the Max Planck Institute, covering the costs of preparing the index as well as the generous assistance of IT staff (especially Armin Pippel). Further, I wish to express my gratitude to the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research for financial support of this work by awarding me a Richard Carley Hunt Fellowship (grant number: 5832). Many friends and colleagues have encouraged and assisted me over the years in a variety of ways. I appreciate the close reading of the manuscript made by an anonymous reader –many of the suggestions were valuable. Several individuals have read and commented on versions of various chapters: in particular, I wish to acknowledge John Gray, Chris Hann and Frances Pine for their guidance, encouragement and critical insights, which have significantly improved the work (any inadequacies remain, of course, my own responsibility). In addition, I am grateful to Frances Pine for so generously giving her time, to Ray Abrahams for the interest he has always shown in my work and to Pam Leonard, Patty Gray and Galia Valtchinova who provided comments on individual draft chapters. Most of

vii

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Acknowledgements

the above, as well as Paola Filippucci, Paloma Gay y Blasco and Guy Larri, have given me friendship through the difficult and not so difficult times of writing. My heartfelt thanks. Finally, I remain grateful to my family (especially my father) for their continued faith and support over the years. This book could not have been written without them.

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A BBREVIATIONS




APK

– Agrarno-Promishlen Kompleks or Agro-Industrial Complex

BCP

– Bulgarska Komunisticheska Partiia or Bulgarian Communist Party

BSP

– Bulgarska Sotsialisticheska Partiia or Bulgarian Socialist Party

BZNC

– Bulgarski Zemedelski Naroden Suiuz or Bulgarian Agrarian National Union (for convenience, designated the Bulgarian Agrarian Union)

TKZC

– Trudovo Kooperativno Zemedelsko Stopanstvo or Labour cooperative agricultural farm

UDF

– Suiuz na Demokratichnite Sili or Union of Democratic Forces

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G LOSSARY




baba chicho Chitalishte diado lelia Obraztsovo Selo Pionerski Dom

– – – – – – –

grandmother uncle library/cultural centre grandfather aunt Model Village Children’s cultural/political club

Note on transliteration: The Library of Congress transliteration scheme (1997) is used here in modified form – diacritical marks have been eliminated for typographical simplicity.

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I NTRODUCTION : P OLITICS AND THE PAST




No communist nation can be formed without a history (T. Zhivkov, Modern Bulgaria, p. 41) One must know well Bulgaria’s history and the history of our cultural development in order to be able to fully understand the meaning of the experiment which we are carrying out (T. Zhivkov, The Cultural Policy of Socialism, p. 149)

On 17 October 2001, in the lead-up to the presidential elections, one of the national members of parliament accepted an invitation to visit the village of Talpa, northern-central Bulgaria.1 To quote one report (Iantra Dnec 2001) she was met ‘with pita bread, a bouquet of wild geraniums and to the chants of ‘‘Todor Zhivkov’’ [the country’s leader for the greater part of the second half of the twentieth century]’. As a member of the Coalition of Bulgaria, a political group of left-wing parties, the parliamentary member’s presence gave the event the atmosphere of a pre-election meeting, with her speaking in support of the Bulgarian Socialist Party’s (BSP) presidential candidate, although not herself from this party. Following her speech, the visitor listened to villagers’ complaints: a Roma woman spoke about how in Zhivkov’s time they had had work while now unemployment was a big problem; others criticised the present government (the guest was from the opposition) for showing no concern about rural problems. The Mayor acknowledged that the Zhivkov family had ‘done a lot’ for Talpa and said that his appeal was for assistance to keep the village school open, presently under threat of closure (Iantra Dnec 2001). The member of parliament promised to carry their messages back to Sofia. The name of the visitor was Jenny Zhivkova – granddaughter of Todor Zhivkov. She had been invited to Talpa by the present head of the village Bulgarian Socialist Party (BSP), Petur Pashev. Petur gave an account of her 1

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visit: he described her speech as ‘very human’, spoke of her ‘modesty and intelligence’ and how after the talk she had been taken through the house that had been, during socialist times, a museum commemorating the life and work of her grandmother, a doctor in Talpa in the pre-Second World War period. The village BSP hosted a modest lunch in her honour at the village Pensioners’ Club, Petur explaining that ‘like her grandfather, Jenny also didn’t want to be met in town, but was happy to be here in the village’. The occasion was covered by both the district and regional newspapers which noted past connections Talpa had with the Zhivkov family. The articles commented that this had not been Jenny’s first visit to Talpa, for, as a child, she had come to view the museum dedicated to her grandmother (Pavlikenski Glas 2001). They pointed to the family’s earliest connections with Talpa, which began with Jenny’s grandparents. In the 1930s, Mara Maleeva (Jenny’s grandmother) moved to Talpa as the village’s general practitioner. She was joined by her then fiancé, Todor Zhivkov, who was hidden from fascists in the village for two years. During this time they had been married in the nearby township of Nekilva. After becoming the head of state in the mid1950s, Zhivkov was frequently invited to Talpa. The invitations, however, were more frequent than the visits. Before my first fieldwork trip in 1987, Zhivkov had come to Talpa on three separate occasions. The visit in 1973 was particularly memorable and was recounted to me on numerous occasions during my time in Talpa. On this occasion Zhivkov had come in order to open the village museum which had just been completed. Having performed this ceremony, a luncheon was held in his honour, attended by local dignitaries. It was after this that he danced with all the schoolteachers from the village. By all accounts it constituted one of the highlights of the teachers’ lives – the day they met and danced with Todor Zhivkov. In 1987 Zhivkov was expected in the village once more, this time to commemorate the ninetieth anniversary of the foundation of the village Communist Party. In local meetings his impending visit was alluded to in numerous ways. On one occasion, for example, his anticipated arrival served as an incentive for the completion of certain agricultural tasks: ‘What would Zhivkov say if he were to come now and find the fields not yet ploughed?’ Rumours of his expected arrival reached a crescendo at various points throughout the year. It was easy to become caught up in the atmosphere of anticipation; I found it difficult to tear myself away to make trips to Sofia and always returned to Talpa as quickly as possible. I never left the village without giving strict instructions to be telephoned so that a hasty return could be organised, should Zhivkov’s plans be confirmed. However, the event was constantly postponed, as one date for the visit was replaced by another. By the time I left Talpa in early 1988, Zhivkov had still not arrived. Nevertheless he had made a promise and the village Party leaders decided that since they had already waited so long, they would postpone the 2

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celebrations until he was able to come – even if this meant having the ninetieth anniversary in the ninety-first or ninety-second year! In the end it was a celebration that did not ever take place, as external events leading to the collapse of state socialism gained momentum with the resignation of Zhivkov, who relinquished power in November 1989 after thirty-five years of holding the top position in the country. Zhivkov did not manage to return to Talpa before his death in 1998. It was his granddaughter Jenny who looked after him in the last years of his life when he was under house arrest – charged with embezzling state funds – a charge for which he was later (1996) acquitted by the Bulgarian Supreme Court. But he lived to witness a revival in his popularity as economic hardships under postsocialism encouraged many citizens to look with some nostalgia to the ‘good old totalitarian days’. Many others, especially rural inhabitants (including the majority of Talpians), never wavered from their loyalty to him: the chants in support of her grandfather with which Jenny was met were echoed in everyday comments like ‘bring back Tosho, we lived well then’, heard so often after 1989. The positive memories associated with Zhivkov’s era provided an important background to the warm way in which Jenny Zhivkova was met in Talpa. I was in the village only a few weeks after Jenny’s visit in 2001 and it was still a prominent topic of conversation: in the Pensioners’ Club, in the village shop and especially amongst members of the BSP, with discussions always turning to the occasion. The Zhivkov family’s relationship to Talpa shows the complicated ways in which past and present lives are woven together, the connection between local and national figures and the importance of the past in the present. The association serves as a reminder of the difficulties of drawing a boundary around the postsocialist period as separate from that which came before. Socialism and postsocialism may be distinct analytical frames of reference but people’s lives and relations cannot be so cleanly dissected. Socialism provides a latent but crucial influence in understanding the present reforms and responses to them, in comprehending both the continuities with and differences from the socialist period. At the broadest level, this work is about the role of the past in contemporary local-state relations. It focuses on the central position of the past – the way in which it was represented and utilised – in shaping political relations not only within a community but also between different administrative levels of the state structure. Thus my concern is to focus on local political relations and the way in which ‘the past’ is used by the community in order to connect to the state centre. In many ways Jenny Zhivkova’s visit, perceived by Talpians and journalists alike as the latest in a series of associations with the family, highlights these themes: it indicates the existence of connections between the local community and the higher echelons of state power. It also suggests the 3

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importance of the past in this process, not only in enriching our understanding of the present through knowledge about the past, but also the way locals use the past as a way to be politically active in the present. Zhivkov’s visits during the socialist period constituted one way of establishing local connections with state officials from higher administrative levels. But village festivities and meetings, and numerous informal and formal conversations, all provided opportunities for particular Talpians to make evident their present, past-based, connections with the highest echelons of state power. Such activities had daily relevance in public village life, as we shall see: in determining local political relations, socialist notions of morality and identity, as well as placing Talpa favourably within a centralised state structure with respect to resources. It is a relationship that local political leaders are still cultivating today – as one strategy amongst a number (see Conclusion) – more than a decade after the ‘end’ of socialism. Such a continuity in strategy belies, however, a fundamental change in local-centre relations that has taken place since 1989. The symbiotic relationship that is explored in the following chapters, and which I believe characterised the socialist period, has been ruptured. Privatisation, the establishment of a multiparty political system and decentralisation – through the withdrawal of the state in production and the encouragement of the market economy – have resulted in a renegotiation in the way in which the community connects with the state. The weakening and retreat of the state from every dimension of individuals’ lives has had deep and traumatic consequences for communities, especially those like Talpa, which in former times had invested a lot of effort in building close relations to the state. The postsocialist split between local communities and the state centre is a topic I discuss in more depth in the Conclusion; for now, I simply wish to point to the fact that the reforms have threatened the very foundations on which the Talpian community was built (Kaneff 2000, 2002c) and have alienated rural people (individuals and the village as a collective body) from urban reformers (e.g. Leonard and Kaneff 2002). And this picture is not confined to the northern central region of Bulgaria, but seems equally applicable to other parts of the country (e.g. see Creed 1993). It is a situation as dramatically different as can be imagined from that witnessed during the socialist period.

Local-Centre Relations in Socialist Bulgaria In a centralised state such as Bulgaria during socialism, one’s position – be it as an individual or as part of a collective – with respect to the centre, was of vital importance. Close affiliation to the state centre was fundamental to successful engagement in socialism. How this was achieved and with what degree of success was also important; for this ultimately determined access to 4

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the wide variety of resources and privileges over which the state, with its control over means of production and monopoly over the allocation of resources (Verdery 1991b: 420–21), had control. From the perspective of the individual, alignment with the centre was also a way to extend one’s degree of influence in the political, economic and social domains of socialist life. The central concern of this work is to explore how Talpians used the past as a ‘tool’ to position themselves with respect to the state centre. To preempt the basic argument: when discussing local-centre relations, two issues – the legitimation of the state through village participation in socialist ideology and the control of resources by the centre – appear crucial. Indeed the crux of the local-centre relationship was the vying for centrally controlled resources on the part of villagers through their considered sponsorship of the state. In these processes, the appropriate use of the socialist past seems fundamental. My starting point is the socialist model of the state – democratic centralism (a concept discussed in the next chapter and developed in various places in following chapters). ‘Democratic centralism’ involved two concepts. The first was the mobilisation of citizens to show unanimous expressions of support for the socialist state. This served, at the same time, as a means of mass participation in the state process – hence the ‘democratic’ aspect. In this idea of democracy there was an ambiguity in terms of who the actual power holders were – the Party as the representative of the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ or an ‘appropriate’ balance between the Party and other state institutions – a tension which presented opportunities for factions within the political arena (Chapter 4). The second feature, ‘centralism’, defined the proper relations between various levels of the state administrative structure: as a hierarchy that subordinated lower administrative bodies to higher ones. This relation applied to goods that moved vertically towards the centre, rather than laterally as in more market-oriented systems (Verdery 1991b: 425). But I suggest that this vertical flow was equally relevant in explaining the flow of power – of political careers and social capital more generally. Local displays of sponsorship for democratic centralism were made on numerous occasions, including the ‘model village’ event (Chapter 2). On such planned occasions, Talpians expressed their unanimous support for this model of the state and for their assumed position at the bottom rung of the hierarchy. As Sampson (1984: 304–5) observes with respect to Romania: ‘…socialist planning is a distinct form of national integration which restructures the relations between local communities and supralocal institutions’. The model village event was one of the numerous occasions that provided an opportunity for Talpians to locate themselves favourably/appropriately in terms of the state centre. However, my exploration of the political uses of the past suggests an alternative way in which the local was connected to the state centre. Through the manipulation of constructions of the past, Talpians had access to the inner circle of elites rather than to just the officials at the lower echelons of the 5

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bureaucracy in the district and region, as one would expect if the prescriptive structure of democratic centralism was being followed. This constituted one form of involvement in the state-defined project called socialism which, while compatible with socialist ideology, attributed a particular inflection to the democratic centralism model of the state (Chapter 2). It was a means of bypassing the bureaucratic hierarchy that placed the village at the bottom rung of the administrative ladder. In speaking about local attempts of orientation with respect to wider administrative structures, it becomes important to distinguish the centre from the rest of the bureaucracy. In a state structure characterised by hierarchy and subordination, the centre played a pervasive role: those at the centre were concerned with the maximisation of production, with ‘…the norms of consumption for the population and…the duration and intensity of labour…[Also with] the size of the social surplus…[and decisions concerning] …its allocation’ (Harding 1984: 40–41).2 The distinction between the ‘bureaucratic apparatus, an allembracing mono-organisational entity, and … its ‘‘pinnacle’’, a ‘‘small circle of the political elite, the Party leadership, where all the basic-orientative decisions concerning the overall distribution of social surplus are made’’’ is recognised by a number of authors (e.g. Feher, Heller and Markus 1983, cited in Verdery, 1991b: 423–24). When I speak of ‘the centre’, it is the elite Party leadership in Sofia, with Zhivkov as its head, to which I am referring. Further, just as Talpian political activity was not carried out by a homogeneous group (Chapter 4), so it would be naive to assume that the state centre was made up of a unified elite, rather than a body in which rivalries also existed – legitimated and expressed, in part at least, on the basis of their differing relationships to history (but see Verdery 1991b: 425–26, for the economic basis of these tensions). A number of studies have brought attention to the conflicting interests within the Politburo, as well as between this group and other prominent political figures. Despite the existence of rivalries I would point, however, to the success of Zhivkov in maintaining power for thirty-five years; a period which displayed a degree of political stability in Bulgaria witnessed in few of the other East European countries during socialism, or for that matter within Bulgaria at other times in the Twentieth Century. The continued eminence of Zhivkov over such a lengthy period, combined with the fact that power was concentrated in and around the Politburo (Brown 1984: 66), justifies distinguishing the ‘centre’ from the rest of the state structure, be that lesser Party or government officials. The past provided a means of directly connecting a ‘primary unit’ of the administrative hierarchy – the village – with the state centre. It was through celebrations, discourse and practices referencing the past that Talpians were creatively involved in showing how their own – individual and communal – past fitted with that espoused by the state. It was through the past – through establishing individual or village links to socialist history, showing how they 6

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contributed to socialist progress through their participation in folklore, or through their active rejection of tradition – that villagers participated in the ideological production and reproduction of the socialist state. One such instance was the model village event (Chapter 2), where history, tradition and folklore were tools used by Talpians to make evident their alliance to the state’s self-proclaimed aim for humanity (social change), an evolutionary project of which the village as a collective unit showed itself to be supportive. In the multitude of other ways that Talpians made evident their role in history – such as through the village museum which both established and displayed their shared history with Zhivkov – those politically active in the village made known their close connections to the very highest officials in the Bulgarian state. These associations constituted a local variant on the democratic centralism model, but not a divergence from it. Ultimately Talpians were participating in the mass performance of upholding state ideology so vital to the legitimation of the state. Indeed the temporal evolutionary project that was central to the Marxist-Leninist state required that social change should be seen to be occurring and that progress towards the goal of communism was taking place through mass involvement in this project. It was through their appropriate use of the past that Talpians engaged in such a reproduction of state ideology and legitimation of the state. In this sense, and contrary to the findings of others (Lampland 1995, Verdery 1991b), I suggest that state ideology was relevant at the local level, at least in Talpa (see below). Through their carefully constituted valuation of the past, individual Talpians, sometimes working collectively for the village, established their position with respect to the centre. In this way both individuals and the village as a whole gained access to resources and privileges. It also enabled local figures to legitimate their own power. Successful attainment of resources from the centre reinforced the local power base of Talpian officials. Local development was therefore a sign of favourable (close) centre-local relations, effective village political leadership and an on-going dependency between the centre requiring legitimation and the local need for resources and funds. In the Conclusion I return again to this form of dependency, which involved cultivating relations of ‘familiarity’ with officials at the state centre and which resulted, from a regional perspective, in competition between villages within the district. Before looking more closely at the three constructions of the past – history, folklore and tradition – which constitute the ethnographic focus of this study, and which are metaphors for different ways of relating to the state centre, I first turn to a more general discussion on socialist time and how ‘the past’ fits into this broader framework. For it seems to me that in any discussion of the use of the past in engaging in socialist ideology and connecting with the state centre, a more general discussion of temporality appears necessary in order to provide an overarching framework for the more specific ethnography of the past that follows. 7

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Socialist Temporality Marxism-Leninism was, in essence, an economic and sociopolitical project. As such, however, it contained an important temporal dimension: it was a developmental programme with a perceived historical inevitability. Thus the present was directed towards social change aimed at the realisation of a specific future goal – communism. As a future-oriented project, with a definite past and assumed future, Marxism-Leninism dictated the nature of engagement in, and understanding about, the contemporary world. Such a temporality provided the ‘charter’ (Malinowski 1992: 93–148) for the political economy and for social development. Importantly, ‘Under state socialism, MarxismLeninism was not one ideology or political economy among many, but rather was the inevitable and glorious outcome of a discernible historical process’ (Watson 1994: 1). A Marxist-Leninist world view was adopted by the state as a scientific, objective and universal truth. Every aspect of life under the socialist state, from the way in which government administration was organised to the content of educational programmes and cultural activities, was geared towards the realisation of stipulated goals. Marxism-Leninism was an ideology that pervaded all levels and dimensions of life in socialism and provided the blueprint for state policies across the board of social life. It constituted a national and global project which demanded the full efforts of state organs as well as perceived commitment and consensus from the masses. In a context where development towards the communist goal was believed to be a historical inevitability, the ‘…production of history [and not only history, it could be added, but the domain constituted as ‘the past’ more generally] takes on tremendous significance – political, ideological and moral’ (Watson 1994: 1). In such circumstances, temporality was raised for critical reflection in everyday relations in a way not evident amongst those living out capitalist time. Socialist time was characterised by a high degree of self-reflection and was legitimated, reproduced and debated in a very deliberate way. The seizing of time by the state established temporality as a highly contentious domain of socialist life. Under state socialism the Communist Party appropriated time in the name of the working class. Thus the ‘centralisation’ of time occurred in a particular way. While history was the prerogative of the Party and organs under its jurisdiction, Party leaders grounded their claims to legitimacy in the historical principles of Marxism-Leninism (Watson 1994: 1). This was true not only for national leaders but also at the village administrative level. In a more ‘practical’ sense, the state seizure of time was achieved through the nationalisation of institutions, thus giving the state ascendancy over a wide range of forms of time through control of labour, subsuming industrial and work time to state agenda. Control of the media, of education and the cultural arena also gave the state influence over leisure time. Indeed the seizure of time was so pervasive that even notions of personhood were affected, eroding 8

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previous senses of self in an attempt to create the ‘new socialist man’ (Verdery 1996).3 The encroaching nature of state-controlled time resulted in an increasing expropriation of time from individual control (as Verdery shows in the case of Romania, 1996: 40), an opposite process to that of the ‘privatisation of time’, or, in Verdery’s terms, ‘etatisation’ (1996, Ch. 2). The complex plethora of different times that constitute social reality were encompassed during state socialism within the one temporal framework – which I refer to as socialist time, or sometimes Marxist-Leninist temporality. In this sense socialist time differed from that of other societies where industrialised time was developed, in that Marxism-Leninism imposed on this apparently objective and stratified time an overarching temporal agenda, which provided the canopy under which other seemingly fragmented times were subsumed.4 In capitalism there appears to be no equivalent overarching temporality.5 A Marxist-Leninist notion of world history (socialist time) thus took on the status of a ‘meta-narrative’ – or should I say meta-temporality? – controlled by a political administration which was itself legitimated by the very same meta-narrative. State socialism therefore appeared to develop within a fundamental tension: between a Marxist-Leninist political-economic agenda that encouraged industrialisation (and the dislocation of various times) and an ideology that encompassed the fragmented times under its directed temporal goals.6 Despite the centralised nature of socialist time, state control was never absolute. In fact, precisely because of the highly politicised position of time brought about by the attempted totalising control of the state, the past remained a highly contentious domain of socialist life. Firstly, there was not one official state-sponsored version of history, but a number of renditions which all occupied different ‘niches’ within the broad lines of the legitimate framework constituted by ‘history’ (see Chapter 4). Negotiations and tensions arising from these versions provided much of the driving force for open political activity – something that has not been given sufficient attention in studies of socialist states to date. But secondly, ‘spaces’ also existed for alternative versions of the past which were not state-sponsored (Chapters 5 and 6). Social memory as well as other means of encoding the past (e.g. see Connerton 1989) bear witness to the fact that the state’s monopoly over time was never absolute. Official renditions of the past were not able to drown out alternate/unofficial pasts (Watson 1994: 2). Indeed these unauthorised pasts are now the foundation of new histories being legitimated in postsocialist states (Watson 1994: 4). This book focuses on the political uses of the past within socialist Bulgaria; on the fundamental importance of the past in the legitimation of state power and in creating and shaping relations not only within the community but also between the local community and state centre. Participation in socialist temporality was a means of exercising power. Competing notions of the past advocated by groups located differently with respect to the centralised socialist state were fundamental in creating internal differentiation (used to 9

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maintain boundaries and inequalities within society), as well as in structuring relations between the state centre and periphery.

The Importance of the Past: History, Tradition and Folklore In village Talpa, temporality was primarily referred to in terms of three different ways of talking about the past – history, tradition and folklore. The chapters of this book are arranged into three sections that reflect this way of categorising the past (which was also a projection about the future). As essentially ethnographic categories – more accurately, my analysis of native categories – history, tradition and folklore provided a central organising principle, for not only social relations within the community but also for the way the community engaged in wider state structures. As ‘carriers of significance’ (Fabian 1983: ix) and value, history, folklore and tradition shaped relations between villagers with respect to each other and to the state centre, where resources and other privileges were controlled and distributed. In short, these pasts were a key way in which villagers experienced and engaged in the socialist project. The three pasts had very distinct characteristics, occupying quite specific social spaces that were associated with different individuals. Each one of the pasts ‘spoke’ to a particular domain of social relations: history was the embodiment of the political-economy; tradition a potentially oppositional way to conceptualise the human order (primarily through religious/mystical practices); while folklore provided a state-sponsored notion of national identity. The state was pervasive and ever present in all these constructions of the past, either through its presence (as in the case of history and folklore) or through its absence (in the case of tradition). In practice it is difficult to treat the three pasts as separate categories for they were not played out in isolation from each other (Watson 1994: 8–9). In this work I explore the connections between different ways of representing and utilising the past. Indeed an important concern is to show how the different pasts – both the official and the unofficial past that others (e.g. Verdery 1991a and Watson 1994, respectively) have written about – ‘fitted’ together in daily village life, gave value to persons, space and occasions (activities) and were central to local political, moral and identity relations. History, tradition and folklore are also metaphors for different ways of relating to the state centre. A comparison of history and tradition reveals their contrasting way of relating to the state, while folklore takes some middle position both between history and tradition, and between tradition and the state. But in practice such an analytical relationship, reinforced in state ideology, was subject to inflections according to local aims and opportunities. In Talpa, where history held the prominent position (see Chapter 2), folklore was encompassed by history (rather than carrying equal value to it). The way a 10

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local community valued these pasts, for example by giving more importance to history or to folklore, provided a number of possible ways for the community to negotiate its relationship to wider state structures (see Conclusion). I assume that the past is ethnographically constructed (context-specific) and that there are numerous ways of categorising, understanding and representing the past within any given society. It is precisely because socialist concepts of the past cannot be assumed to be the same as, say, in capitalist societies, that I have explored Talpian understandings of history, tradition and folklore in Chapters 3, 5 and 7 respectively. History, folklore and tradition as both representations and utilisations – ideas about and practices of – Marxism-Leninism, by no means provided an exhaustive account of socialist temporality. But they did cover the ‘collectively held, publicly expressed, ideologically charged versions of the past, which…vary within the groups that form a society’ (Appadurai 1981: 202). In any exploration of the significance of the past, these forms cannot be understood in isolation from each other. Jointly considered, they constituted the publicly constructed domain of socialist time, representing a system of values that helped shape local-centre politics, morality and identity. The following chapter illustrates the importance of the past to Talpians by focusing on an occasion in 1987 when Talpa was awarded the title ‘model village’. Concentrating on the events of the day and on the entourage of official guests from Sofia as they were taken around various sites in the village, the reader is also led around the village and introduced to the community. During this highly planned and structured affair, each representation of the past – history, tradition and folklore – was attributed a certain value, assigned to a different spatial ‘zone’ and associated with different villagers. The relationship between the three – a subject of exploration in the remaining chapters – was of a hierarchical nature, in the Dumontian sense (Dumont 1966: see Postface): one between the encompassing Marxist-Leninist history and the encompassed folklore and tradition, with folklore being valued positively and tradition negatively. In the course of the tour it was history that was shown to have greatest relevance to the ‘model’ villagers. History (Chapter 3) was the representation of the past that was sponsored by the state and expressed through the centrally controlled media – written sources, television and radio. Events which celebrated history were located in public places and dominated by state officials – Party members or others – through a wide variety of calendrical ceremonies as well as through formal and informal discussions. The relationship between a historical version of the past and local political activity is also explored. The elevation of some past events above others – possible because of the teleological quality of history – was central in raising history as a contestable and sought-after political resource. History also provided the source of a socialist notion of morality: a political figure’s ability to exercise power was ultimately dependent upon being 11

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able to command respect and public approval, to be seen as morally responsible. Importantly, history was not a monolithic past but multifaceted: political careers were dependent on an individual’s ability to incorporate her/his own personal biography within a state-approved version of the past – thus history itself became contestable, assuming a number of significant renditions. These renditions, which existed within the broad framework of the officially designated history, provided the basis of factions (pluralism) within the political domain (Chapter 4). Traditional activities (Chapter 5) provided an alternative way of constructing and knowing the past, as well as a conceptual and practical means of resisting the state. The almost complete state control of discourse meant that this alternate past occupied nonverbal or textual domains – as nonarticulated practices. Traditions were rooted in religious and mystical significance and characterised the past as cyclic (rather than the linear ordering given to time by history). Further, traditions were banished to village sites not sponsored by the state – such as the home or the church – which held ambiguous (or even negative) value. Engaging in traditional activities designated an individual’s peripheral position with respect to the state – as non-Party member, with little political influence. The conceptual and practical marginalisation of traditions was a result of the fact that this past distinguished and unified humanity in a very different way from a historical temporal order, creating locally based identities defined in terms of gender, ethnicity and religion (Chapter 6). The dualism between history and tradition represented two different ways to define humanity and to distinguish between the human condition, one sponsored by the state, the other outside state jurisdiction.7 It served to differentiate internally between people/places/organisations, to give legitimation to the state-sponsored ‘us’ and to marginalise those in conflict with the state, the atemporal ‘them’. Aware that traditional practices could be, and often were, used as a way of expressing opposition, the state’s response was the development of folklore.8 Folklore was the way in which state officials attempted to claim tradition for their own hegemonic purposes – through restructuring the population’s perception of the traditional past (Chapter 7). Folklore thus served to transform a potentially oppositional past into a state-approved form. At the same time, the practice of folklore helped legitimate the state: it was a show of how transformation and change were taking place in society, demonstrating that traditional customs were irrelevant and socialist development was in progress. The process by which tradition became folklore necessitated the involvement of state representatives in the textualisation and study of the practices and then their reconstitution in a state-controlled space (museums, stages) and time. Since folklore was a state-sponsored means of spatially and temporally distancing traditional practices from contemporary socialist life, participation in folkloric practices was one way villagers displayed themselves 12

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to be ‘modern’ and ‘progressive’. Unlike history, which was controlled by politically active villagers, or tradition, which was practised by non-state officials, folklore was a past in which any villager could participate irrespective of her/his position in the state structure. The wide accessibility of folklore was reflected in its spatial distribution – it was performed in both public and private locations. It is this unifying quality which gave folklore its importance in contributing to a state-approved notion of a national socialist identity (Chapter 8). Folklore represented an important part of what constituted ‘Bulgarian culture’. Through their involvement in folkloric events Talpians revealed how ‘cultured’ they were. At the same time, participation in this past provided the villagers with a state-approved socialist identity which countered the fragmenting (localising) tendencies of traditional practices, allowing them to present themselves as modernising Bulgarian villagers unified in the socialist cause. The politicisation of the past as history, tradition and folklore led to a valuation of space and persons who moved through this Marxist-Leninist temporal-spatial framework. Thus the three constructions of the past could be mapped spatially – each being confined to particular sites within the community. Certain pasts were performed in only certain spaces – for example history was celebrated in public places, tradition in private, non-state ones such as the house and church. However, it was not only space, but also persons who moved through this space who were politicised by the temporal order. Only certain villagers could occupy particular locations and participate in certain events and this was determined in terms of their legitimate relationship to state-approved history. Individuals (through their biographies) and specific places were drawn into the state’s rendition of the past, into socialist temporality. Therefore it is not just that different pasts represented and transmitted the past in characteristically different ways (Watson 1994: 9), but also that different pasts were designated to different locations in space, and each was constituted as the domain of various people (e.g. political or nonpolitical figures). However, it would be erroneous to suppose that any definite boundary could be drawn between time/space/persons belonging to history, to tradition and to folklore. A degree of ambiguity existed which helped constitute the temporally charged world as a contentious and ambiguous sphere. The past always remained an inherently debatable resource. The importance of the past lay ultimately in its ability to give value to persons, places and events with respect to the Marxist-Leninist meta-narrative orienting everything in terms of the state centre. When individuals associated themselves with different pasts – through, for example, participating or not in the celebration of a state-sponsored history – they oriented themselves in terms of other individuals and, perhaps more specifically, in terms of state officials. This had consequences for how they were positioned with respect to the centralised state: a crucial consideration in a system that concentrated 13

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allocative powers over resources (material and other) in the centre. This was, as I argue in the Conclusion, an important feature of state socialism in connecting different levels of the administrative hierarchy – local to the centre. The politicisation of time, space and persons provided meaningful coordinates to socialist events, places and people, orienting everything in terms of the all-pervasive state. In Talpa, history, folklore and tradition were pasts that found expression through a range of scheduled and spontaneous practices and discourses, in both official and unofficial settings. Time was not only ‘symbolically elaborated through rituals’ (Rotenberg 1992: 19) but was also expressed through other everyday public activities – meetings, celebrations, conversations. Such occasions, which constitute the focus of my study, indicate the wide range of ways in which the past was referenced: from formalised, structured meetings in which there was little room for internal contradiction (history) to practices which were spontaneous acts that posed potential opposition to the state (tradition). This is not to say that all historical celebrations were what Handelman (1990, see especially pp. 41–48) would typify as ‘events that present the livedin-world’ since sometimes history was raised in spontaneous, informal discussions. Nor were all traditional practices destabilising acts which proposed an alternative order as ‘events that re-present the lived-in-world’ (Handelman, 1990, especially pp. 49–58). Indeed, the ambiguity frequently conveyed by traditional activities meant that occasionally they were even performed with the tacit sponsorship of the state – for example Zarezan (celebration of viticultural production), Chapter 5. However, in a general sense, such a delineation between public events that referenced the past had some validity. My focus on public celebrations and practices is not accidental. Public events are privileged points of access into understanding a cultural world (Handelman 1990: 9). Nowhere is this more relevant than in the situation of socialism. For while every state requires legitimation, socialist ideology demanded that legitimation and development occur in a very public way, through mass participation of the Party-led working class. Public events in Eastern Europe – rituals, folkloric performances, poetry readings, to name a few – held a privileged position in the role of education and legitimation of the state (Binns 1979, 1980; Kligman 1983, 1988; Lane 1981; Silverman 1983, 19899). Indeed the programme of social change that was at the heart of state socialism was dependent upon the reeducation of the population. The attempt to reeducate, to transform practice and consciousness occurred in a wide range of ways – including the establishment of new rituals and other public celebrations and the removal or transformation of others, that is, through ‘invented traditions’ (Hobsbawm 1983a).10 Public rituals and celebrations were taken up, scrutinised and reworked by state agents. It was for this reason that Bulgarian officials were constantly exploring and experi14

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menting with new rituals, developing new ways to celebrate various occasions that represented the social world in line with Marxist-Leninist principles. Many of the invented celebrations – weddings and funerals, for example – appear to be modifications of Soviet rituals. The Bulgarian adaptation occurred with arguably a greater degree of success than was ever achieved in many of the republics of the Soviet Union.11 Similar seizures of time and attempts at transforming society are now occurring in postsocialist Bulgaria, as the population is subjected to new educational programmes which ‘teach’ people how to celebrate festivals such as Christmas in line with a new state ideology. I return to this point in the Conclusion. The past, as written, celebrated and practised in public events during socialism, was the responsibility of intellectuals and high-level Party and government officials (see Verdery 1991a for the Romanian case). Such officials were assigned the task of ‘designing’ and conducting celebrations (e.g. see Chapter 6). They were responsible for the state-sponsored public celebrations concerned with the past: how a historical celebration would be commemorated or how a folklore competition would be carried out. Much of my ethnography focuses on these individuals – that is, this is a study of the village elite, which is tantamount to saying it is a study of the Party members. In Talpa, in the mid to late 1980s, one-seventh of the total population held Party membership. This was considered a little higher than the average for surrounding villages or indeed for the country as a whole (estimated as one eighth, Fotev 1999: 157). Interestingly, the statistics do not show a decline in the postsocialist period. After an initial period of inactivity, during which time the Bulgarian Communist Party (BCP) was reformed as the Bulgarian Socialist Party (BSP), the latter now enjoys a similarly high membership in Talpa: in fact slightly more than one-seventh of the local inhabitants are currently active members. While the coordination and running of public events was in the hands of the village elite, participation extended well beyond Communist Party membership, drawing in the vast majority of Talpians. ‘Ordinary’ villagers were not passive vessels in this process: they were very much involved with the production and reproduction of the past at the local level. This process inevitably led to inflections and distortions of the centralised versions of the past. Talpians were engaged in socialist time in a multitude of ways: through their work, where they were subject to schedules and socialist work routines; and in their leisure time through direct participation in celebrations and rituals which upheld state-sponsored time. Indeed, as I hope will become evident, Talpian officials and others were skilled at using these pasts, using socialist temporality in strategic ways to achieve their political ambitions. Smaller numbers were involved in ignoring if not explicitly resisting socialist time through their engagement in celebrating pasts that lay outside state jurisdiction. Everyone was bound, however, to the web of state ideology. 15

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And here I return to a point briefly raised earlier: while it is difficult to ascertain whether Talpians actually believed in state ideology, they did engage in it and ‘use’ it to their advantage. Realistic in their assessment of the degree of control exercised by the state centre, Talpian leaders showed considerable skill and sophistication in utilising their relations with the centre, relations calculated to bring them, and the village, maximum benefit. Thus it would be inaccurate to say that there was ‘no role for socialist ideology’ in Talpa (nor did the Talpian elite make such claims), as was apparently a commonly voiced opinion in other East European countries, for example, amongst Hungarians (Lampland 1995: 245). For Lampland, any involvement in ideology was passive reproduction while for most Hungarians politics was an ‘alien’ process (1995: 247). A similar position is also taken by Verdery (1991b: 427) for Romania: ‘Marxism-Leninism remained for most people an alien ideology unintegrated into consciousness and practice except in a wholly superficial manner…’. (Also see Hann’s (1985) Polish study.12) On the other hand, Talpians – and not only Party members – were highly aware of the advantages of engaging in state ideology, and skilled in using the ideology for their own benefit and that of their community. Nor was this situation restricted to Talpa; as I elaborate in the Conclusion, other villages in the district were equally apt participants in this process. As to why this should be so, I can but offer several speculative comments. One explanation is that the Bulgarian state was more centralised and therefore exercised greater control over its citizens (a debatable point), or that Talpa was an anomaly in that its leaders were exceptionally skilled in using the past and engaging in state ideology (not upheld by my observations of neighbouring villages – see Conclusion). Part of the explanation, I suspect, lies in the fact that the village had a long pro-socialist history extending back to the late 1800s (when the village priest helped found the first socialist party (!) and the portraits of Marx and Engels were hung in the Chitalishte or cultural/political centre). This suggests that state socialism was ‘in tune’ with local interests (in a way not necessarily evident in other East European countries). It certainly was, and still is, associated in villagers’ minds with bringing about an increased standard of living in rural areas. Indeed, socialism can be understood to be a rural ‘revolution’, in that those people in power during the socialist period were from the countryside; actually the vast majority of Eastern Europe leaders came from peasant backgrounds (Drachkovitch 1982). Thus Zhivkov’s personal as well as ideological commitment to rural Bulgaria was clear – as Pashev’s comment about Zhivkov and his granddaughter ‘preferring the simple and modest life of the village’ (quoted at the beginning of this Introduction) suggests. To the extent that socialism was a victory for rural interests, this contrasts with the post-1989 situation, where reforms are very much an urban-based initiative. 16

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Fieldwork and the Issue of Representation Approximately one year into my first fieldwork period in Bulgaria, I photographed a queue of elderly Talpians at the village bakery. An old woman in the queue immediately responded to my action with the comment that ‘they’ll [meaning Westerners] think that we are queuing because there is no bread’. There was a silence amongst those present as we all recognised the truth in her words: without a specific explanation from me of the exceptional circumstances surrounding the day, the picture would convey another story to the western observer. The fact was that villagers were preparing for a day of festivities; each household would be entertaining thirty to fifty guests and thus needed an uncharacteristically high quantity of bread. The pure logistics of having to bake and sell ten times more bread than on a normal day provides ample explanation for the delay at the bakery. Yet the photograph easily replicated the many I’d seen in the Western media submitted as ‘evidence’ of the lack of food under state socialism. That in various periods in different East European countries there were food queues is not the point. The elderly woman’s comment revealed a critical awareness of the way in which Westerners could and did represent and misrepresent life under state socialism, emphasising the lack of consumables and material comforts in order to serve Western propaganda goals.13 At the same time, this occasion served as a warning about the way I would use my material to represent Talpians. For Westerners, generous hospitality and regular social gatherings of people meeting over lavish meals were not typical images of socialism, even though such occasions played a prominent role in my experience of socialist Bulgaria. So, why did I take a picture of the queue, rather than on the following day a photograph of the festivities, when large numbers of merry guests sat around a banquet table piled high with various foods and drink? What makes one image more ‘representative’ of state socialism than the other? The above incident indicates one mundane way in which the issue of representation – how I would portray life in socialist Bulgaria to an audience in the capitalist West – was raised while I was in the field. As some anthropologists have pointed out, a text not only represents a politics in its contents but it also occurs in a political context (see Abu-Lughod 1991; Fox 1991; Vincent 1991). Fieldwork is always a highly politicised activity, but in the half century following the Second World War, there was, for Western field researchers working in Eastern Europe, the added dimension of Cold War politics. I cannot claim to have faced the restrictions that (especially) some American colleagues appear to have faced – difficulties in getting visas, restrictions placed on movements within some countries. But nevertheless Cold War politics provided a background to my experiences, a confrontation that was encapsulated in a conversation I had soon after my arrival in Talpa, when I was quizzed by a pensioner whom I met in the street about the current position of Aboriginals in Australia. This conversation reminded me that I was 17

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dealing with not only a highly literate and educated population, but also one that was willing and able to directly challenge the Western anthropologist on her native ground. But apart from the influence of global politics, there were other ways in which representation was at issue. How the village was depicted to higherorder state officials was one, how I portrayed myself to villagers and they to me, were others. Unsurprisingly, Sofia officials, local officials and ordinary villagers all took an interest in how I would describe them within Bulgaria and beyond. These issues were complicated by ancestral connections: my grandparents were born in Bulgaria and emigrated to Australia during the first two decades of the twentieth century.14 Fieldwork in Bulgaria involved establishing contact with distant relatives whom I had never met before. Balancing my responsibilities to kin with obligations to anthropological research in the context of Cold War politics made fieldwork into an endeavour which sometimes required careful manoeuvring. But the kindnesses extended to me by both kin and state officials helped make the period an extremely happy one. I arrived in Bulgaria in July 1986. This did not constitute my first trip to the country15, but it was the first visit made as an anthropologist. This ‘first’ trip, which provides the bulk of the material in this book, lasted for nineteen months. I subsequently returned to Bulgaria in 1992 for nine months and have followed up these extensive trips with shorter two- to three- month visits most summers since 1992. Ancestral affiliations meant that I was never viewed by state officials or others as purely an ‘outsider’ or ‘stranger’, nor was I left totally dependent on bureaucrats for assistance. Family connections gave me an alternate means for sorting out fieldwork problems, such as finding an appropriate site. I was, therefore, not ‘managed’ by the bureaucracy, at least not in an official sense. When I first arrived in Sofia I was met by a family acquaintance who at this time was a minister in the government (and reportedly the youngest partisan during the Second World War). That first night was not at all reminiscent of stories I had been told or read concerning ‘first fieldwork experiences’. Greeting a filthy anthropologist who had just travelled (economy class) two nights and three days by train from London, the acquaintance presented me with a bouquet of flowers before whisking me away in his black Mercedes (after apologising that his chauffeur was off duty) to dine with a group of European academics in Sofia for a convention. I felt very much out of place at the sophisticated dinner party: I was not suitably dressed (we had gone straight from the train station to the restaurant), nor was I able to participate in the table conversation which was carried out in five sometimes six different European languages. I soon learnt that my host was head of a professional union and a high-ranking Party official. His status served me well in minimising the bureaucratic hurdles that I faced in the following weeks. Thanks to him, suitable accommodation had been organised for me in Sofia and my unaccompanied luggage was passed through customs without any delays. 18

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The first three months of my stay were spent in Sofia enhancing my language skills (as a bilingual speaker I nevertheless needed to improve my reading and writing skills) and exploring potential fieldwork sites. My affiliation from the outset with Sofia University, where I was assigned a supervisor who was responsible for me while I was in the country, was more problematic, however. For having delineated my interests in the visa application as within the safe ‘apolitical’ limits of folklore, I was understandably introduced to historians and folklorists who could not grasp the nature of my anthropological project. The villages which were put forward as potential study areas were not to my liking, nor was I pleased about the suggestion that I reside in a city hotel and commute daily to the fieldwork site. Rather than confront the situation by openly stating my needs – more a feature of my lack of confidence than a result of any pressures I felt from them – I drew away, deciding instead to ‘go it alone’. The short-term consequences were appealing: I had total control over the choice of village and no association with Sofia officials after those first few months, except for help always gratefully received from the family acquaintance. The negative side to this situation was that I worked in relative isolation, without establishing close connections with Bulgarian academics – a situation that happily I have now, over a decade later, rectified. I finally settled in Talpa in December 1986 – the birth village of my maternal grandmother. A couple of months after my arrival I was asked by the village policeman, who had been observing my note taking during a village meeting, to go to his office. His question about what I was doing in Talpa was not, understandably, pacified by my response that I was interested in studying folklore. It only raised further questions as to why I was taking notes at a meeting which had no obvious relation to the subject. After checking my papers, the policeman discovered that I was not registered in the village as required by law, no doubt a consequence of the fact that having depended on the family friend and relatives to help me ‘settle in’, I had no Sofia bureaucrats to guide me on such matters. He requested that I attend an interview at the district Police Headquarters the following morning. Given the fact that he confiscated both my passport and notebook, I had little choice but to do so. Problems were ironed out and my documents returned the following day – after I produced an official letter in my possession from Sofia University confirming my research student status – but the interview concluded with a warning that he would be ‘keeping an eye on me’. I continued my research, including public note taking at meetings, but the incident did alert me to the fact that care was needed in the way I conducted my enquires. Officially, my position in the village was now established and local officials seemed more willing to accept my presence. In fact most of my daily activities were centred around public events in the village. In this respect my place of residence became a great asset. As with the choice of fieldwork site, so too, when it came to choice of where I would reside, the decision was negotiated 19

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without bureaucratic assistance. In this case it was carried out between myself and family. I had hoped to live with my grandmother’s 86-year-old brother, diado (grandfather) Ivan, and his pensioner son diado Koliu, whose house was close to the village plaza. However, it was not deemed appropriate that I reside with two elderly widowers, even though I was happy to take on numerous house chores – helping with the cooking and so on. Instead I was encouraged to live with my mother’s second cousin, lelia (aunt) Maria, a widow aged fiftyfive, who was a schoolteacher in the village and a prominent Party and public figure. There were clear advantages to this: it enhanced the access I had to material on local politics, providing a good vantage point from which to get a sense of the way in which the village functioned politically and administratively. The fact that she was an active public figure who was visited regularly by other villagers compensated for her home being located further away from the central village plaza than diado Ivan’s. The practices that I carried out in the name of anthropology – showing an interest in public occasions, observing and writing about village life – aligned me, in many people’s eyes, with state officials who were engaged in similar activities. There were different responses to my strengthening relationship with local state officials, which depended on the political position of the individual. Village officials had something to gain from their acquaintanceship with me: sometimes my presence at a formal event as an ‘exotic’ Westerner gave the occasion greater status and pomp. In fact a couple of times I was aware that I was being ‘used’ by local officials to elevate the status of the village in front of higher-ranking state representatives who attended more important village celebrations. As far as village officials were concerned, I contributed to the internationalism of the village and my presence provided the community with a degree of importance. It was understandable, therefore, that local officials should be concerned with how I would represent the village, because of the wider consequences this could have for their own reputations and that of the village. At the same time, others, especially the small number of families whose views set them in opposition to the socialist state, while being polite, were distant, excluding me from their intimate social circle. A household further down our street was occupied by a pensioned couple (Denkov) who rarely spoke to me beyond casual greetings. Nor did I ever see them at village meetings. It was only after our friendship grew during my second trip in 1992, that it became clear that the couple, one of the few village households on the ‘wrong’ side of the political fence – being a wealthy family that had resisted collectivisation of the land – had deliberately avoided close contact with me, maintaining a low profile during the socialist period. (After 1989, their situation was reversed, as especially the elderly woman, Penka, became a central figure in establishing one of the two, new private agricultural firms.) Apart from this case and a handful of other householders who did not seek association with me, there were other occasions when my presence was not 20

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always welcomed. For example, during Zarezan (Chapter 5), a festival with religious roots and for this reason not enthusiastically sponsored by the state, I was excluded from an important part of the proceedings. Years later the reason for my exclusion became clear (see Chapter 5). Again it had to do with the fact that in many people’s eyes I was closely associated with village officials: state representatives were anxious that the popularity of such non-state-sponsored events in the village was not conveyed to outsiders, while non-officials did not wish to collude with someone they associated with the state. Excluding me from particular activities was one way in which they were able to determine my access to information and so establish control over the way I represented them. There were other means by which villagers influenced the information I could obtain about their activities and therefore shape my descriptions, including: pertinent silences, nonparticipation and the use of nonverbal forms of communication (e.g. visual symbols). They used similar strategies when resisting state interference. On the occasions when I was marginalised due to my associations with officialdom, I had one ‘trump card’ (to extend the metaphor from Loizos (n.d.: 7) quoting R. Firth ‘If you have a strong suit in your hand, lead from it’) – my kinship ties. I had not intended carrying out fieldwork in a village of my ancestors and in many senses I entered Talpa as a relative stranger. Although I had not spent more than a few days or hours with Talpian relatives before starting fieldwork, they nevertheless had a conception of ‘who I was’. There was a place for me, I discovered, in the village, on the basis that I was ‘X’s’ granddaughter. The advantages in terms of walking into ‘readymade’ relationships were considerable. Indeed very soon I found myself appealing to kinship ties in order to reassure worried villagers who were concerned about how I would represent them to the outside world. One such instance occurred soon after I had moved to Talpa. Most households raised livestock for meat and an important family winter occasion was the slaughtering of the fattened pig. I attended such an event at diado Ivan and Koliu’s house, dutifully photographing the proceedings and asking numerous questions. This made family members conscious of the way in which I was raising their activities for observation. At the end of the day, my second cousin (the grandson of diado Ivan) commented to me in front of the other householders that ‘you’ll go back and probably tell them what “savages” we are in Bulgaria, slaughtering and consuming the pig’. Without thinking, I responded: ‘If I were to say that about you, then I’d also be saying it about myself, since we are related’. My self-identification as kin served as a guarantee, providing a basis for acceptance and an assurance that I could be trusted. However, locating myself in this way structured all future fieldwork activities: from that point on I refrained from subjecting my family to incessant questions and writings. Note taking was no longer conducted openly in respect to issues concerning family and friends, but carried out from memory 21

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as soon as an opportunity arose (see also Abu-Lughod 1991 and Mascarenhas-Keyes 1987). In fact kin often assumed that I had more knowledge than I actually had. I recall in the first few weeks after my arrival wearing a black shawl over my head. This was done for purely practical reasons: it was the only shawl I possessed and a vital piece of clothing in the – 20° C temperatures. But lelia Maria’s mother, baba Grigora, commented how appropriate it was that I wear a dark colour to mourn the recent death of my grandmother (in Australia). A few days later she presented me with a dark blue one, adding that another dark colour, rather than black, is more seemly for a young woman. Although I was terribly upset at losing my grandmother, it would never have occurred to me to wear a dark-coloured shawl as a sign of respect or mourning. This was one occasion when I no longer felt comfortable emphasising my outsiderness by carrying out conventional anthropological fieldwork methods, such as asking for explanations or interviewing those close to me. Thus most of the time my fieldwork research was constituted by visiting people, socialising, attending meetings and generally being as active as possible in village life. During summer I helped lelia Maria in the garden and in her household tasks. I would accompany her to numerous village meetings that she was obliged to attend, in her capacity as Party member, member of the Chitalishte (cultural house) Council, Deputy of the Fatherland Front and senior schoolteacher. On the odd occasion she sent me to meetings to deputise in her place! When she was teaching at school, I would often visit her mother whose house was located next door to diado Ivan’s. It was an informal gathering place during the winter months; close to the central plaza, people would ‘drop in’ on their way to the shops and neighbours would gather to knit and gossip. In fact a precedent for my activities had been set by my grandparents who had visited Bulgaria on several occasions for lengthy periods since the late 1950s. Their time was spent visiting and socialising with family and friends. I adopted a similar schedule, while my note taking was carried out as soon as possible when I had time to myself, during the day or in the evenings. Although I did not ask questions or carry out interviews, I filled in, gradually, many of the gaps as various issues came ‘naturally’ into conversation. The shared ancestral connections on which I drew gave me immediate access to particular information that association with state officials alone could not bring. In fact kinship offered a ‘buffer’ from excessive state influence over my activities. The day after the trouble with the village policeman, I mentioned the occurrence to the 76-year-old baba Grigora. She had already heard the news and informed me that, the very same day, she had rushed off to the policeman’s office. She said she had scolded him, pointing out that he and I were third cousins and that was no way to treat a relative! I realised then what an asset kinship ties were as a form of ‘protection’ in a local community where most of the population were related to each other in one way or 22

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another. The policeman never troubled me again; he knew he would have the wrath of this old lady, amongst other kin, to contend with if he did! As with other local state officials, the policeman was in a difficult situation – having a responsibility to implement directives from ‘above’ but also expected to observe the norms of social interaction with kin and others in the community. (This suggests one reason why the socialist state was not experienced as repressively in rural as in urban areas since kinship and other close ties acted as a ‘buffer’ (see also Ragaru 2003). Urban anonymity served to reduce the conflicting interests of state officials who could more easily pursue their state responsibilities free from moral dilemmas introduced by relations of kinship/friendship.) Kinship ties therefore served as a useful tool in giving me access to other sides of state socialism, ones that differed from those espoused by officials; to the informal, nonpublic networks which played such a vital part in the organisation of socialist society. Although kinship provided various fieldwork advantages – as a short cut to establishing relations of trust and offering me alternative foundations from which to gather information – it also brought its own set of restrictions and responsibilities (see Abu-Lughod 1991; Mascarenhas-Keyes 1987). The assumption that I had more knowledge than I actually had, and the wish to play down my outsiderness by not asking questions, set one limitation to my anthropological investigations. Another disadvantage was that my ‘ready-made’ family carried with it duties of loyalty. Lelia Maria held the head of the agricultural cooperative responsible for the untimely death of her husband. This affected my relationship with Gradinarov which, while cordial, was not as close as the relations I developed with the other political elites in Talpa. Nor did I spend much time in the agricultural cooperative, although this was more a consequence of my research interests, which were never primarily concerned with agriculture (but see Creed 1998 for a contemporary account which gives central focus to agriculture16). In any case, while all villagers’ lives were influenced by what happened at the cooperative, by the mid-1980s only one-sixth of the population worked there as full-time agriculturalists. The mechanisation and collectivisation of agriculture, a programme that was initiated soon after the Second World War to modernise agricultural production, meant that while the cooperative remained central to village economic life, there were numerous other opportunities for local employment. More importantly, agriculture gradually became less central to village constructions of identity (Creed 1995). As a short-hand method of conveying to the reader my varying degrees of familiarity with different villagers, I use the titles and names by which I addressed villagers, thus revealing my relationship to particular individuals. In rural Bulgaria, unlike the cities, those older than oneself are rarely addressed by first names. For example, my mother’s second cousin, the woman with whom I lived, immediately became ‘lelia Maria’ (Aunt Maria), then later just 23

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‘Lelia’ or, on more affectionate occasions, the diminutive ‘lelka’. In this book, I call her lelia Maria, or sometimes simply Lelia.17 Pashev, the distinguished old gentleman who led the village Communist Party, was ‘Comrade Pashev’ to everyone in the village except to his contemporaries, in recognition of his position of respect and authority. Often the names I adopted for individuals were chosen at the suggestion of Lelia (or her mother), who knew, better than I, my kinship relations with particular individuals. Sometimes I adopted the names lelia Maria used if my own relationship with them was unclear. Thus my terminology occasionally reflects something of her position in the village, and probably her perceptions of my position. Of course, I too was referred to in a variety of ways: usually addressed by first name or as ‘kaka’ (big sister) or ‘lelia’ by those younger than me, depending on how large the age difference was between us. Sometimes I was referred to as ‘nasheto momiche’ (our girl). The latter expression, a term of endearment, was used when various groups made ‘claims’ to me: in different contexts this was done by Lelia and other family members within the village, and occasionally by village Party figures when talking to outsiders. During the years that I have spent in Bulgaria, kin have become relatives in more than just name. I have also learnt about the positive and negative sides to life during state socialism. This in turn has given me important insights into why a vast majority of rural Bulgarians are at best ambiguous about the present postsocialist reforms. Rural inhabitants, at least in Talpa, were always quite positive about socialism and listed numerous benefits that the system had brought them: electricity, running water, free medical and educational services. It is not an opinion that has changed since 1989. On the contrary, economic hardship and political chaos has solidified such positive opinions. Socialism is viewed as a period which brought real improvement in standards of living and a reduction in poverty and sickness. Talpa is not unique in this sense; much of rural Bulgaria has shown continued support for socialist policies, as witnessed in the strong rural electoral support for the left-wing parties in the elections following 1989 (for the case of northwestern Bulgaria, see Creed 1999). To make sense of this, we must move beyond Western portrayals of socialism (media and academic, especially from disciplines that do not demand participation in the culture) which make little recognition of the fact that different groups in socialist society had very different experiences of socialism. In the same way, Bulgarian urban-based postsocialist reformers have also failed to take into account or acknowledge local rural views. The fact is that rural inhabitants made considerable gains during the socialist period which are now being eroded. On-going rural support for socialism cannot be attributed simply to nostalgia (Creed 1995; 1999:239). The continued prominence and popularity of socialism within rural areas, not only in Bulgaria but Eastern Europe more generally, underlines the neces24

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sity of understanding the previous system. A closer look at the system seems crucial in indicating why, to date, postsocialist reforms have failed to capture the enthusiasm of the majority in rural Bulgaria, and why pro-communist views just ‘won’t go away’.

NOTES 1. The names of villagers, of Talpa and surrounding villages and the district capital, are pseudonyms in order to protect identities. When I first began writing about Talpa in the early 1990s, the situation in Bulgaria was highly politicised, polarising people in terms of whether they were pro- or anti-communist. During this time, political figures in Talpa lived in a state of some anxiety (if not fear) as they recognised that their pro-socialist views could not be freely expressed without attracting recriminations from urban pro-reformers. While my use of pseudonyms was not a guarantee of anonymity, it provided some protection. Zhivkov had special relationships with a number of places in Bulgaria, so the pseudonyms did have some value. The highly charged, politically tense, atmosphere of the early 1990s has now passed. And many – although not all – of the central figures in this book are dead. But because I have published numerous papers using the pseudonyms, it seems sensible to continue with these names. To do otherwise, would be confusing for those who have read my previous publications, since many of my informants are reoccurring figures in the literature. 2. Bulgarian preustroistvo in the late 1980s, like Soviet perestroika, included initiatives to introduce limited decentralisation, to encourage ‘local initiative and creative activity’ in combination with central leadership (Piskotin 1989: 277). 3. Parallel to this, notions of personhood are shaped under capitalist time via the mediation of the market (Rotenberg 1992: 30). 4. In capitalist and socialist systems, the time resulting from industrialisation processes is broken into standardised, invariable units providing a framework in which social interactions and exchanges have become independent of context and content. Consequently time is stratified and separated into family time, work time, leisure time, production and market time, amongst others. ‘Chronological calendar and clock time, related to as being time per se, in terms of an independent, objective reality, forms the central link between all these aspects’ (Adam 1990: 117). 5. Nevertheless, market relations and related production/consumption processes may well distort and create a temporal binding force. This remains, however, a speculation on my part. 6. For a perspective that questions the effective impact of socialist time in rural Bulgaria, see Dobreva 2000. 7. The dualism between history and tradition, linear and cyclic time, which characterised uses of the past in Talpa, is a familiar dichotomy to anthropologists. Acknowledged as a tool in creating a spatial and temporal distance between ‘modern’ and ‘traditional’ societies, between the colonising ‘historicised’ West and colonised ‘timeless’ non-Western societies respectively, or between the anthropologist and her/his object of study (see for example Adam 1990, 1994; Fabian 1983), the dichotomy is also crucial to understanding the nature of internal relations of domination within socialism. 8. Folklore is sometimes thought of as referring specifically to ‘stories’ of the ‘folk’. However, when I use folklore I understand it to include a broad range of performances and practices, in line

25

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9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

17.

with the definition in the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1973: 781): ‘The beliefs, legends, and customs, current among the common people’. For more detailed information concerning the way I treat the term folklore (both as an ethnographic term and an analytical concept) see below and Chapters 7 and 8. Hobsbawm 1983b argues for a similar importance for invented traditions in western Europe in the period leading to World War One. Both folklore and history as used in this work can be thought of as ‘invented traditions’ (Hobsbawm 1983a). To use funerals as an example: Binns writes that in 1972 about 32 percent of USSR funerals were commemorated in a religious fashion (1980: 185). I have no general figures for Bulgaria, but in Talpa at least, the first secular funerals were held in 1957 and by the mid-1970s all funerals were carried out as secular ceremonies. Postsocialist reforms have not brought a turnaround in this situation: funerals are still celebrated without priests. The Polish community described by Hann does not willingly engage in state ideology (for example, see 1985: 121) but nor has the state vastly improved life in the Polish countryside. In the Bulgarian case, I suggest that the two processes go together: state sponsorship of rural development and local engagement in socialist ideology. Hann (1993: 11) notes the problem with which anthropologists have been faced in reporting the considerable popular support for socialism before 1989 – and since – to an unconvinced and hostile Western audience. Both sets of grandparents emigrated for economic rather than political reasons (unlike much of the emigration that took place following the Second World War). My family visited Bulgaria in 1972 for two weeks. During this time we spent a few days in Nekilva, which included visits to Talpa. I was also in Bulgaria briefly in 1985, which included another brief visit to Talpa. The village where Creed worked, as in the case of Talpa, had a pro-socialist history that extended back to the pre-1944 period (a situation I believe to be not uncommon across northern Bulgaria). This political allegiance continues today (see Creed 1999). Whether related or not, most villagers used such terms. Fictive kinship played an important role in the way rural communities drew everyone into close relations of intimacy. But people always knew whether the terms denoted biological kinship or whether it was a courtesy term – local knowledge, context and tone of conversation gave clear indications. In my case – as for most Talpians – the usage of titles indicated a mix of both degree of kinship and courtesy.

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C HAPTER 2 A ‘M ODEL V ILLAGE ’




Man is the architect of the mature socialist society (T. Zhivkov, The Cultural Policy of Socialism, p. 198)

‘Socialism,’ said the head of the Talpa Communist Party, Comrade Pashev, at the Annual Village Council meeting, ‘works by plan.’1 No event displays this better than when Talpa was awarded the title ‘model village’. The occasion was the crowning achievement, the culmination of years of planning and preparation. The day state officials arrived in Talpa to announce the village’s success in the ‘model village’ competition, Talpa was the epitome of the organised socialist village. The purpose of state planning was to steer the development of society towards its Marxist-Leninist goals. As a theory about nature and human action, Marxism-Leninism had vast implications for all aspects of life. Centralised planning, designed to develop society, demanded an element of reflection upon life in the socialist state, and upon nature and proper human action within this context. It involved a high level of organisation and deliberate action in order to realise correct human relations in all realms of life, from production to administration. According to Zhivkov: ‘The construction of the socialist society is not a random process. Banking on Lenin’s formulation that socialism is the product of the conscientious effort of the masses, our Party carries out vast work for raising the educational, scientific and cultural standards of the Bulgarian people’ (1986a: 291; 1984: 128). Planning played an important role at every level of the administrative hierarchy, from the highest to the lowest orders. In Talpa, plans were instrumental in shaping the everyday running of the village; at least this was how state officials presented the situation at meetings. At such gatherings ‘itineraries’ provided the villagers with guidelines for the future – passed down from higher state levels – and reviewed the successes and failures of present operations. Annual 27

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and five-year plans determined a wide range of activities – from the Mayor’s duties to economic plans of the agricultural cooperative. Whether these plans were adhered to and how they were or were not realised, are different issues.2 The leading communist ideologue in the state planning process was Todor Zhivkov, First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Bulgarian Communist Party from 1954 and head of the Ministers’ Cabinet of the People’s Republic of Bulgaria since 1962. At the structural pinnacle of the Bulgarian state until November 1989, Zhivkov was the most influential figure in determining the direction of the administration of both the government and the Party. As the spokesperson for the Party and the whole nation, his interpretation of Marxism-Leninism held considerable sway. He was often represented as the personal embodiment of a specifically Bulgarian brand of socialism. One author wrote of Zhivkov: ‘…If at a given time in history it can be said that a country is nearly fully reflected in one single personality; if one person can, with all his being and existence, become the spokesman of all the major and important issues in a country – then this is what Zhivkov’s personality means for present day Bulgaria’ (Maxwell 1985: 10–11). In short, he was the state’s most significant figure in the production of state ideology.3 His writings designed and developed strategies to bring about historical goals, strategies which underpinned Bulgarian state ideology. The publication of Zhivkov’s speeches, lectures, radio and television interviews were a fundamental part of the production and dissemination of state ideology. His works remained true to a Russian brand of Marxism-Leninism but were creatively developed in a specifically Bulgarian line, following the initiatives of Georgi Dimitrov, the country’s first socialist leader. The considerable media coverage of Zhivkov’s writings ensured their wide dissemination throughout the country. In Talpa, his speeches were read in the national paper (to which the majority of villagers subscribed) and were also watched and heard on primetime television and radio. Various village organisations, such as the Teachers’ Union, met regularly to discuss socialist literature bearing on current problems in society, relying largely on Zhivkov’s publications. During preparations for the ‘model village’ event, Zhivkov’s ‘presence’ in this process was particularly evident. Passing comments alluded to the underlying importance of Zhivkov as a motivational force behind the villagers’ planning arrangements. I happened to arrive one day at the Mayor’s office when a meeting planning the event was under way. It was attended by a number of important village figures, including Comrade Pashev, head of the village Party. At one point Comrade Pashev commented that some of the fields surrounding the village had not yet been ploughed. He said that although they had little right to interfere in the running of the Agricultural Cooperative (TKZC), someone must speak to the head of the organisation about this matter, for when Zhivkov came he would notice and wonder why it had not been done. (Zhivkov was not part of the ‘model village’ official group but was 28

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expected in Talpa around the same period for the celebration of the ninetieth anniversary of the foundation of the village Communist Party.) It was obviously important that the TKZC should be seen to be working ‘to Zhivkov’s plan’. Any ‘sloppiness’ was believed to reflect negatively on the rest of the village. Plans require standards by which to measure success; the ‘model village’ event may be seen as one such sign of the progress made. The occasion was an opportunity for Talpians to show their commitment to state historical goals and their willingness to transform in accordance with socialist principles. It provided a concrete instance in which Talpians specifically set out to portray themselves as not only in line with, but actively supportive of, state ideology.4 In this chapter I concentrate on the monolithic construction presented on the day – when it was important that the villagers portray themselves as a unified body, involved and committed to the realisation of state ideological goals.5 In this context it is valid to speak of ‘the Talpians’ having constructed, or participated in, the ‘model village’ event because on the actual day that the officials inspected the village and formally announced its success in the competition, villagers deliberately set out to present themselves as harmoniously working together.6 Planning integrates local communities into wider socialist structures (Sampson 1982). By engaging (successfully) in the ‘model village’ competition, Talpians affirmed their close connections to the state centre – which in turn held promise of future economic and political advantages. This indicates the tautological nature of relations between the lower and higher administrative organs: the village had to be well placed in order to attain resources to carry out improvements (e.g. funding for asphalt roads) which resulted in success in attaining the ‘model village’ title, which in turn gave Talpians continued, even greater, access to state resources. The occasion was thus not simply about reproducing state ideological rhetoric in public places. It was also about some villagers in Talpa, and to a lesser degree the entire village, reinforcing their advantageous position in the socialist state, maintaining their continued access to resources. Although the interests of local and higher-level planning activists did not always coincide, in this highly structured event villagers were deliberately out to impress and please the state’s representatives – the official adjudicators. And it was to the advantage of villagers to engage in such public displays of support for state ideology. Thus it is not a simple matter of subordinating local to national interests in the pursuit of national goals (as Sampson views the situation in Romania, 1982: 88), since there was some compatibility between the two sets of interests, with both the local community and the state centre having something to gain from the arrangement. The general (rather than specific) guidelines for the competition were set by state officials from outside Talpa. However, within the broad framework, 29

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the participating villagers had some choice not only in terms of whether they entered the model village competition, but also as to the way in which they could prepare the village and structure the event. That is, they had some freedom in the manner in which they rendered themselves ‘model’. The occasion was a purposeful and explicit construction of state ideology by local participants; the particular way in which they represented themselves as ‘model’ – through the metaphors they used and the inclusion of particular village sites and the exclusion of others – being an inflection (rather than replication) of state ideology. The following section provides a brief description of the day when officials inspected Talpa and formally conveyed to it the title of ‘model village’. I also use this occasion to introduce the reader to the community. Further sections take up certain central themes in greater detail: Talpian administrative relations; the nature of their productive activity and therefore class relations; their morality; and identity, which were all part of their display of commitment to state ideology, to the historical goal of communism, during the event.

The ‘Model Village’ Event The ‘model village’ event was one of the most spectacular planning achievements with which its Talpian organisers can be credited, involving a large number of villagers over many years of preparation before the arrival of the official adjudicators in the spring of 1987. The contest was a nation-wide, state-sponsored annual competition held to select the most exemplary village in Bulgaria, where to be exemplary was a judgement based in terms of commitment to state goals. Rural modernisation was one means of attaining such goals. I was told by Comrade Pashev that at one of the first general village meetings concerning their entry into the competition, certain tasks were put forward and accepted as necessary to be carried out in order that the village could be considered ‘model’. These tasks were: improving the water supply; upgrading post-office facilities (including the installation of an automatic telephone exchange); repaving the central plaza area; renovating the restaurant/tavern as well as the kindergarten and school; asphalting the remaining gravel streets; and the restoration of the village museum and Chitalishte (the cultural centre). These activities were carried out over a period of several years and many had been largely completed before the end of 1986 when I first arrived in the village. As specific tasks were finished, various commissions – initially from the village and then from further afield – came to check that the work had been accomplished. This was part of the preparatory assessment carried out to ensure the suitability of Talpa as an entrant. It meant that much of the actual judging for the title had been performed well before the two-hour visit by the officials, who were there to satisfy themselves 30

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that Talpa was worthy of holding the title, and inform villagers of their success in attaining the award. The competition was held firstly within each region; the winner was then eligible to compete against other regional winners in the ultimate selection for the highest place in Bulgaria. Thus judgement initially was within and ultimately between regions. On 21 May 1987, officials from Sofia, the regional capital of the city of Veliko Turnovo and district capital of the town of Nekilva, arrived by bus from the neighbouring village, a previous winner of the ‘model’ award. The bus stopped at the northern end of Talpa, outside the stereo assembly plant. The guests were met by the village entourage, comprising all important village Party, government and mass organisation functionaries, including: the Party head (Comrade Tsoniu Pashev); the Mayor (Ivanov whom, following lelia Maria, I called by his first name ‘Boian’ or ‘the Mayor’); the Agricultural Cooperative head (Gradinarov); and the Fatherland Front head who was also the school director (Novikov). Also in the welcoming committee were other village elites – the village doctor, Andre Pashev (conductor of the vocal group), lelia Tsela (Party secretary) as well as Matov (senior Party figure and the head of the Chitalishte) and Rusev, the head librarian. Three village schoolchildren, dressed in Pionerski7 uniforms – white shirts, blue trousers/skirts and red scarf ties – presented flowers and pinned a badge on each of the guests. The badges marked ninety years since the foundation of the Communist Party in Talpa. This brought attention to the long past of communist activity in the village. The guests were then led through the factory in which radio and stereo equipment was assembled and told about the different aspects of the assembly process by the head of the plant. The factory, situated on the main road linking Talpa to Nekilva and neighbouring villages, was constructed in 1974. It was built as a belated attempt to halt the emigration of villagers to the cities – especially youth seeking nonagricultural employment. Ten years later, the workforce of approximately thirty8 was relatively young, but only a small proportion of the workers were from Talpa; the rest were bussed in daily from Nekilva. The plant was not under the authority of village administrators, but was linked directly to the main branch of the enterprise in Veliko Turnovo, which dealt with the village plant’s finances and organisation. However, although Talpians were not involved in the management of the factory, they did reap benefits from it, for not only did it employ a number of local inhabitants, but part of its profits was fed into the development of the village. For example, financial aid was given to fund improvements in preparation for the ‘model village’ competition. Also in times of agricultural pressure and the deficit of workers, such as during the harvesting of peach and grape crops, those working at the plant were released to assist with the picking – joining many others brought in from neighbouring towns. 31

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Having completed the tour, the guests were then bussed further along the street. Here they were greeted by the village vocal group who provided entertainment by singing several songs. The group had been formed earlier in the year and had already performed at a number of village functions. Reflecting the ageing population of the village, it consisted of approximately twenty women, most of whom were pensioners. The conductor was Andre Pashev, the brother of the village Communist Party head, who was a trained musician: he had played in several Soviet-bloc orchestras world-wide, before returning to Talpa to retire in 1986. Schoolchildren and villagers lined the streets as the party of officials walked some way down towards the plaza to a couple of designated houses. At the entrance to each house stood two schoolchildren, dressed in folk costume. The girls held silver trays on which were placed nails and hammer. These were offered to a nominated guest, who nailed the sign ‘model home’ to the frame above the door. The visitors were invited in, where they wandered freely around the gardens surrounding the two houses before being seated at outside tables and offered a variety of home-made foods. Houses were normally situated on 1–5 decares (0.1–0.5 hectares) of land; government restrictions guaranteed entitlement to private ownership of up to 0.5 hectares. The blocks of land on which houses stood were fortified by stone walls, high on the side facing the street, and much lower internal boundaries between neighbours. Often there were small, well-worn paths between the inner walls leading to neighbouring houses. Most houses (built in the 1950s) were of a similar type – two-storeyed, three rooms on each floor. The ground floor comprised a pantry (sunk a metre or so below ground level), a room reserved for receiving guests and a kitchen/living area (often with a bed which during the day was used as a sofa). The total population of Talpa was approximately 7009 and since two-thirds of the inhabitants were pensioners (484 of the total10), the 400 or so households were usually occupied by an elderly couple or single pensioner who slept in this room while younger relatives visiting from the city used the rooms upstairs. Running water, electricity and telephones had been installed after 1944. As there was no sewerage system, toilets were separate outhouses. Talpian households had mixed private farming interests, combining animal husbandry with the cultivation of plants. Stone barns, constructed on the household site, were used to store animal fodder and provide shelter for the animals – usually a pig or two, a few sheep, either a workhorse or donkey (the relatively small household plots made mechanised ploughing impractical) – as well as some chickens, geese and/or turkeys. The barn was cordoned off by a fence or stone wall which separated it from the house and crop-growing area of the yard. As with the animals, each household determined its own needs in respect to which plants were grown, in part defined by the availability of labour. All households, however, combined the tending of fruit trees 32

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and vegetables with the caring of decorative plants. Most villagers were virtually self-sufficient in terms of meat, fruit and vegetables, although basic staples such as flour and sugar were purchased. Animal fodder was either grown on blocks separate from the household or obtained from the TKZC at low cost. The external area immediately surrounding the house was usually paved and it is here that the tables, chairs and food had been laid out for the guests. After leaving the model houses, the group then proceeded to the central plaza, to which final touches had been made only that very morning – lines had been painted delineating the middle of the road and parking zones. It was one of the rare occasions when there was an attempt to turn on the drinking fountains in the centre of the plaza. Unfortunately they flowed intermittently, water squirting a metre high one moment, then a few centimetres the next; consequently they had been turned off again before the guests’ arrival! Happily the colourful flowers in the flower-beds distracted the visitors’ attention away from the fountains. The central plaza was the location of all public buildings. Positioned around the paved square were four shops: a haberdashery, hardware store, delicatessen and grocery store (the stocks in the latter two were not always reliable). Next to the grocery store was the village restaurant-tavern. These services were all cooperatively owned and manned by Talpians. The restaurant operated only when villagers assembled together for some festivity, at which time its facilities were used to cater for the large gatherings. The tavern, open nightly, was a regular meeting ground for the village men (occasionally joined by women) and, during school holidays, for the younger people. The postoffice, which employed four workers, was responsible for mail, newspaper and pension deliveries. In addition, the central plaza was the location of the TKZC administrative headquarters, police station, mayor’s office, a barber who worked twice a week, a medical centre with a full-time doctor and nurse, and a dentist who came to the village once a fortnight. The Chitalishte, a twostorey building comprising a library, theatre (seating 400), large meeting hall and small meeting rooms, was found at the western side of the central plaza and provided most village entertainment and social events; at various times in the year, youth discos and film nights were organised, as well as meetings and lectures. The Chitalishte was also where various state-sponsored festivities and celebrations were held. The school was located at the southern end of the plaza. During the 1986–87 academic year, a combined force of Talpian children, plus those from the neighbouring village of Tevelak (where the school was closed in 1960) attended. From 300 schoolchildren in 1926–27, the number fell to 116 in 1966–67 (Nedkov 1969: 10, chapter on school). By 1986, sixty-four children were taught by nine teachers, the majority of whom travelled from Nekilva and Veliko Turnovo. One year later, the same number of teachers taught a total of fifty-nine schoolchildren between the ages of six and sixteen. There 33

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was also a cleaning and cooking staff of four. Thirteen children attended the kindergarten. The church, found at one end of the schoolyard, was the only building clearly not in use, its dilapidated appearance contrasting with the other buildings in the plaza, which were well maintained and freshly painted. The entourage stopped only briefly in the village square before entering the small village museum, through which they were guided. The cottage, the surgery of the late Mara Maleeva, wife to the head of the Bulgarian state, Todor Zhivkov, had been converted into a museum in the 1970s. It was restored to appear exactly as it had been when she worked there as a doctor in the late 1930s. The official party then regrouped outside, where it was announced that the village had been awarded the title of ‘model village’ (Obraztsovo Selo), receiving the first position in the region. The visitors and some of the Talpian officials boarded the bus and were driven the short distance through the village to the Agricultural Cooperative where they were greeted by about forty of the workers (of a total of approximately 12011), including administrators, agriculturists, economists, accountants and veterinary surgeons, tractor drivers, sheep milkers and those working in the dairy. It concentrated its husbandry interests on dairy cows, 2,000 calves and 1,000 sheep (and an inconsequential number of pigs – only about 100). Crop production included cereals, wine grapes, peaches and to a lesser extent cherries, walnuts and apples. Standing outside one of the main buildings – the veterinary clinic – which provided a view over the surrounding complexes and more distant fields, the guests were offered snack foods and soft drinks. After a few minutes’ stay talking to various agricultural workers, the officials thanked the Talpians for their hospitality and reboarded the bus which took them to the nearby town of Nekilva, where they were already late for a luncheon engagement.

Administrative Relations An advanced socialist society can be built only provided there is close and organised interaction between all the elements of the system of public administration (T. Zhivkov, quoted in R. Maxwell, Todor Zhivkov: Statesman and Builder of New Bulgaria, p. 217)

The development of the socialist state was believed to be a process subordinated to objective historical law (Zhivkov 1974: 45; 1969: 499; Maxwell 1985: 196). This view upheld the scientific nature of socialism based on a Marxist-Leninist history which was understood to be an extrinsic appraisal of mankind, its past, present and future. Administration was assigned the task of planning and overseeing the development of the socialist state. In this context reflection was needed upon public administration and on how best it 34

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could be organised to bring about communism most effectively. Many of Zhivkov’s writings were concerned with exactly this problem. For Zhivkov, a perfecting of the system of administration was determined by the stage of the country’s development, by the general economic and social processes and by the level of its relations with nature (1969: 501). Reciprocally, it was the task of administrators to identify the stage of development of the country and to master the laws by which further modernisation could occur. The belief was that the more thoroughly the laws governing the development of socialist society were mastered, the more appropriately could relations between the various fields of social life be regulated and coordinated, thereby permitting the more harmonious functioning and transformation of society as a unified social organism. This, in turn, it was expected, would lead to a more effective Party and state leadership (Zhivkov 1974: 46). Democratic centralism12 was the fundamental principle by which the state – the Party, government and mass organisations – was organised. Democratic centralism described the proper combination of centralised (hierarchical) leadership and socialist democracy; the balance between the two was seen as vital to the successful development of socialism and was a fundamental concern of state planning.13 For Zhivkov, democracy necessitated the leading role of the Bulgarian Communist Party as the ‘…universally acknowledged leader of the people…’ (1969: 564; also see Maxwell 1985: 207).14 The Party organised and represented the working class – viewed as the most progressive and revolutionary class. ‘… Without the Communist Party, without its leading role, there is no dictatorship of the proletariat, there is no socialist democracy, there is no socialist construction and no socialist society’ (Zhivkov 1986b: 41, 180). Party directives were activated and coordinated by the government bodies, which, through elected representation or direct participation of the working people in mass organisations, ensured that the democratic process was followed. The general system of government, the existence of various organisational bodies and maintenance of a particular relationship between them, was part of the conscious goals of state ideology. Democracy also necessitated the active participation of the people, not only via their representative Party, but through the fulfilment of the specific role of each state agency in a unified, coherent way.15 Such a twofold notion of socialist democracy was balanced with a centralised organisational structure which attributed a hierarchical form to the state, unifying all state bodies in a framework that subordinated lower levels of Party, government and mass organisations at the village and district level to the regional and national levels. This arrangement between state organs was a central although implicit aspect of Talpians’ support for state ideology during the ‘model village’ event. The harmonious way in which the three village bodies – the Party, government and mass organisations – appeared to operate suggested the village’s democratic nature. Every agency played a role in the making of the ‘model 35

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village’ in its own distinct way: through the leadership of the Party, the coordinating role of the government and the participation of mass organisations in implementing the Party/government directives. State organs were shown not to impinge on each others’ duties, but rather to be working in a harmonious way towards creating the ‘model village’. By ensuring that the state officials were met by all the prominent village figures – including the doctor, the head of the TKZC, the Mayor, the secretary of the Party and the head of the Fatherland Front – Talpian village elites presented a united front as harmoniously involved in the process of constructing a ‘model village’, in the development of the socialist society. Daily tensions (such as between the head of the TKZC and the head of the village Party) ordinarily evident were not obvious on this day. The prominent role of the Party was established at the beginning of the event with the pinning of badges on the guests, commemorating ninety years since the foundation of the Communist Party in Talpa. Thus, from the outset, it was made known that the village’s Communist Party was amongst the oldest in Bulgaria and, by implication, had played an important role in the village’s past. Since in ideological terms the recognition of the leading role of the Party created the conditions whereby democracy could flourish, in constituting their Party as historically relevant, villagers were portraying their democratic nature and revealing their compliance to the state. While the badge presentation attributed a general historical prominence to the Party, the inclusion of the museum in the proceedings provided a distinctly Talpian emphasis. As a monument to Mara Maleeva, (Zhivkov’s wife), the museum served to stress Talpians’ involvement in the Second World War by way of their close ties to the man who later was to become the most influential communist in Bulgaria. The museum tour did not fail to mention that Talpa was a sanctuary for Zhivkov, who was hidden by his then fiancée, Mara, from the fascists in 1938–39. The museum visit thus indicated certain local Party members’ ties to history through their joint anti-fascist activities with Maleeva and her husband. Old photographs displayed in one of the three rooms in the museum attested to the close association between villagers and the Zhivkov couple. At the same time as the visit to the museum established the prominence of certain villagers, it also served to emphasise a particular period: events relating to the Second World War, leading to the advent of the socialist state in 1944. This period and the time since were set in contrast to the presocialist times represented through the display of the primitive tools in Maleeva’s surgery and the poor living conditions in her living quarters. The Second World War was also given privileged position in the songs performed by the village vocal group. The songs performed were termed ‘political songs’, by the conductor; that is, songs celebrating the heroic activities of anti-fascist 36

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fighters during the Second World War and the hardships they faced when locked in struggle against the fascist government. As the government body, the Village Council was organised to facilitate the efficient carrying out of Party directives. The separation between the two bodies during the ‘model village’ event was fundamental in establishing local democracy – between the Party as the policy-making body and the government as the administrative agency. A delineation of authority and tasks was established between the Village Council and the Party in the concluding part of the ‘model village’ event, when the guests were taken to the Agricultural Cooperative. At this point Comrade Pashev, unlike the Mayor, did not accompany the entourage. As leader of the central village Party, Comrade Pashev’s official authority did not extend to the TKZC which had its own Party branch. The Mayor, on the other hand, had administrative jurisdiction over all the village territorial unit, including the Agricultural Cooperative. The Council’s responsibility in the coordination of the whole event and the Party’s role in leading, but not overstepping its bounds, was expressed through Comrade Pashev’s absence from the TKZC part of the proceedings. The delineation of such tasks was also evident in the preparations for the ‘model village’ event, where it was the Mayor rather than the leader of the Party who threatened to fine any villager who did not clean up the area immediately outside his/her home. Boian did this at a village meeting some months before the event, when he promised that the Council would form a commission and any household that was untidy would be fined. Individual villagers contributed voluntary aid or put in hours of community labour as a means of working off Council fines. It was through such contributions that the central plaza was paved and beautified with flowers, and the restaurant/tavern renovated. It was also the Council that organised a local referendum in 1986, when 60 percent of the village voted positively for the Council to withhold a proportion of their monthly pensions in order to pay for the paving stones for the plaza. The importance of the mass organisations, such as the Teachers’ Union and the Fatherland Front, resided in the fact that they represented the inclusion of working people in administrative tasks. These institutions mobilised ordinary (non-Party) citizens in the implementation of Party policy. Disciplined participation was viewed as an important part of the democratic process; organisations provided an orderly way for the involvement of socialists in the realisation of state policies. The role of mass organisations in events such as the ‘model village’ competition was to engage the population in state projects. Mass participation was seen as a distinguishing feature of the socialist state16 which provided an indication of the general level of progress in the country.17 The largest mass organisation, the Fatherland Front, was represented in the event by its leader, Novikov. It was the Fatherland Front which provided the organisational powers, enabling the completion of many of the tasks that were performed in the village and TKZC. For example, many villagers contributed 37

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two labour days, to help in the beautification programme for the village plaza. While the guests could not know of the great amount of voluntary labour contributed by the villagers, the large number of tasks completed and the general tidiness of the village were an indirect indication of ‘ordinary’ villagers’ participation. The shortage of manual labourers, a chronic and common problem throughout Bulgaria, left no doubts as to the important contribution of volunteers. The presence of the leader of the Fatherland Front, the doctor and other communal figures among the hosts was a way of signalling to the guests the significant contribution of all Talpians in the making of the village ‘model’. The unity presented on the day between the leading government, Party and mass organisation figures, was not restricted to Talpian elites but extended to include all villagers. The general support was visually constructed by the high attendance of villagers and schoolchildren, who lined the streets to greet the official guests. Their presence was part of the conscious planning of the event, designed to show that all Talpians took an active interest in the construction of the ‘model village’. Citizen participation was seen as both a moral duty and an economic necessity of the model village.18 Participation in socialist society at every level was taken as an achievement of ideological work, an indication of how successfully Party directives had been actualised. In fact, Andre Pashev replied, to my question of why he had chosen political songs to be performed by the group, that ‘…these seemed appropriate to the occasion, as it was the Party and workers who had made Talpa into a ‘model village’…’. With such a statement, the conductor expressed the belief in the harmonious relationship between all Talpians in the making of the ‘model village’ and in general support for Party initiatives relating to the occasion. (The importance of the term ‘workers’ to describe the villagers will be discussed in a following section). Thus Talpians depicted themselves as democratic through demonstrating the unified structure of the village as every organ accomplished its specific task in the presentation: the Party was shown to have played the leading role in history, the government coordinated Party directives and the masses were participants in their realisation. The distinctly Talpian inflection of such state goals was evident in the importance individual village Party figures attributed to their associations with Zhivkov. The presence of villagers at the event was designed to portray their devotion to the socialist system; it was a show of active sponsorship for it. At the same time Talpians showed themselves acquiescent to the hierarchical nature of the state. They welcomed the national and regional officials, including representatives from the national ministry, Fatherland Front, National Health Commission and Regional Municipal Council, who had the final decision in judging the village’s appropriateness as ‘model’. In representing their village in accordance with what they considered would 38

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please outside adjudicators, Talpians showed acquiescence for their administrative subordination through a hierarchy of command to the central bodies.

Class Relations Who is now the central figure in our farming? The machine operator. He is the new type of farmer, combining in himself traits and qualities which bring him close to the worker in town (T. Zhivkov, The Komsomol Youth of Bulgaria, p. 184)

The inclusion of the stereo assembly plant and the TKZC in the ‘model village’ proceedings was due to the importance of these as centres of village production. The centres represented two forms of relations to the means of production and therefore two classes in socialist society. Zhivkov identified two forms of socialist ownership – public (state) and cooperative ownership – which reflected two distinct classes, the working class and cooperative farmers (Zhivkov 1986b: 68). The two classes were said to coexist in a nonantagonistic relationship, unlike the exploitative class relations in capitalism: ‘…Under socialism…there are classes and class distinctions but these are classes of a new type with new inter-relations. Under socialism there are no exploiter classes, but friendly classes where the working class plays the leading role’ (Zhivkov 1986b: 67, italics in original). While in contemporary socialist conditions the cooperative farmers constituted a distinct class from the working class, this difference was portrayed as one becoming increasingly insignificant. This was a process understood to have begun with the formation of the cooperative, which did not eliminate private ownership19 but nevertheless placed all citizens on an equal footing as regards the means of production and provided the main condition for the establishment of equality (Zhivkov 1984: 98). The state controlled the means of production both in agricultural and factory enterprises and in both instances the workforce was viewed as the ‘manager of socialist property’ (Zhivkov 1987: 5). Initially autonomous organisations, village cooperatives were amalgamated into agroindustrial complexes in the 1970s (abbreviated to APKs), a move that strengthened ties between local cooperatives and the hierarchical bureaucratic structure. The more explicit goal, however, was to merge local cooperatives to the rural industrial sector (e.g. grape production to wineries) thus increasing the pace of transformation of productive relations in the village, attempting a convergence of the two forms of ownership and also the homogeneity of the Bulgarian class structure.20 One characteristic of rural production, unlike other (working-class) enterprises under state control, was that the former activity was viewed as being more closely linked to, and influenced by, nature. In this context, the impor39

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tance of modern technology was that it provided a means to achieving greater domination over nature, allowing humanity control over an area in which it had had little control in the past (Zhivkov 1970: 86–87). Villagers echoed the importance state ideology placed on technology as a way of improving production and of bringing about a transformation in their lives. Calls for an increase in productivity through scientific and technical progress were regularly heard at various Talpian gatherings, echoing those made by Zhivkov (1984: 233; 1974: 87, 215). For example, at the Annual Meeting of the Village Council for the year ended 1986 (held on 3 March 1987), the Mayor described the plan to be fulfilled for the following year in the Agricultural Cooperative. His list of objectives underlined the importance of technology as a means to increasing production as well as the importance of education in this process.21 The use of technology and industry in the TKZC was important not only because it enabled the greater domination of nature, but also because in so doing it transformed agricultural productive relations to a form more compatible with that of the workers in towns. The TKZC was viewed as a fundamental instrument in establishing new socialist relations of comradeship and mutual assistance founded on a cooperative, rather than a private form of ownership. Agro-industrial complexes depended on the use of industrial machinery and specialised workers, thus introducing a division of skills based on technical knowledge. Cooperative ownership of the land and dependence on technology were the two principal means by which Zhivkov believed villagers, now the class of cooperative farmers, would continue to socialise their relations and eventually be unified with the working class (1970: 82). Technology and specialised knowledge provided the basis for the new form of cooperative relations in agricultural production and was an indicator of the progressive nature of the village’s TKZC. This is why, in signalling the importance of the cooperative organisation of agriculture during the ‘model village’ event, Talpians took the guests to their TKZC to meet the educated specialists – veterinary surgeons, agronomists, combine operators and economists – who exemplified these new agricultural relations of production based on mutual cooperation. By exhibiting their technologically efficient TKZC, villagers were trying, in their terms, to become ‘more like towns’. The effort villagers made in their preparations for the ‘model village’ event, such as ‘fixing’ the drinking fountains and painting lines to mark the centre of the road in the plaza, both of which seemed functionally unnecessary, conveyed an urban-like image through the implied abundance of running water and modern transport. In showing that they had facilities similar to those available in the towns, Talpians were depicting their village as progressive. State ideology espoused this very view: that the increasing productive level achieved via technology and education was an indication of success, a ‘principal yardstick for measuring the correctness and effectiveness of our activity’ (Zhivkov 1974: 87). Moderni40

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sation and becoming ‘more like towns’ was also a common concern of local officials: for example, at the 9 September celebrations in 1987 (Chapter 3), Novikov, who delivered the main speech in his capacity as head of the Fatherland Front, talked about the importance of technology in bringing about deep changes in village life, in transforming the villages into ‘little towns’. This, he said, could be evidenced from the presence of electricity, asphalt roads and medical services.22 Towns were distinguished, by Talpians and in Zhivkov’s writings, in terms of their level of technological and educational facilities, opportunities and resources; the standard of living was higher than in the villages in terms of the greater level of consumption of material goods and in the better medical and entertainment facilities available. Towns had modern public buildings, restaurants, stores, as well as the very basic services such as running water and electricity. These factors were attributed to the nature of state-owned productive relations in the towns: relations focused on nonagricultural activities and usually of a high educational and technological level. In short, the towns represented, through their productive activities and lifestyle, a relatively progressive form of existence. The discourse of difference between town and village was essentially seen as one between the working class and cooperative farmers (Zhivkov 1985b: 184); the goal to eliminate discordance between the two was a central aim of the state.23 The way in which class relations were expressed by the villagers themselves was in terms of the town/village contrast rather than in terms of productive activities. Thus when Talpians called themselves ‘villagers’, or said that they ‘lived in the village’, they were identifying themselves within a particular class position in respect to town dwellers. On the other hand, in calling themselves ‘workers’ who laboured at the Agricultural Cooperative or the assembly plant, they used rhetoric to overcome the class differences associated with their location within the ‘village’. We may recall Andre Pashev’s comment that it was ‘the Party and workers who made the village into a ‘‘model village’’’. His reference to ‘workers’ rather than ‘villagers’, was a levelling statement about the class position of the Talpians in relation to the working-class town dwellers. The prominence of the machine operator in village life was due to the fact that her/his occupation represented the ‘new type’ of agricultural worker, someone who engaged in productive relations more typical of the towns. The machine operator was believed to be central in raising the standard of village life and bringing it closer to that of the towns. The role of machine operators in eliminating class difference explains why they were sometimes singled out in village meetings, where their opinions were specifically sought. For example, at the Annual General Village Meeting of the Bulgarian Agrarian Union (10 March 1987), one administrator tried to entice comments/questions from the audience by asking the machine operators to speak out, since 41

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they were ‘the most important people in the village after Comrade Pashev, Gradinarov and the Mayor’. The machine operators’ presence at the TKZC during the ‘model village’ event, next to other specialists, was therefore no coincidence, for the machine operators, like other specialists, were viewed as bridging the gap between the two classes, and the village and city. The alliance which Talpians depicted as existing between themselves and the town working class, was conveyed in part during the ‘model village’ event by the inclusion of the stereo assembly plant in the day’s itinerary. Since this factory was not under village administrative authority – being controlled and funded by the regional capital of Veliko Turnovo – its incorporation on the day constituted a particularly important way in which village leaders chose to render the village ‘model’. Visiting the stereo assembly plant served to emphasise the town-like nature of village productive relations. Its association with ‘the town’ – the fact that it was controlled not locally but from Veliko Turnovo and its state ownership – linked it more closely with working-class interests. Talpians portrayed their closer affiliation to productive relations represented by the factory, by devoting more time to the factory than to the TKZC during the model village event: the officials were led through the plant – but not through the TKZC – where they saw for themselves the assembly lines in which stereo apparatus was being put together with the use of technical equipment. Moreover, since participation in state-approved activities was in ideological terms a way to display support for the state, Comrade Pashev’s absence from the TKZC part of the proceedings but presence at the plant, implied a close alliance between the working class and village Party and therefore a preference for one form of socialist production over another. The inclusion of the plant in the event was a specific way in which Talpians were able to construct their preference for working-class interests. The plant also provided a way in which villagers affiliated themselves with the town working-class goals in a distinctly Talpian manner. Distinctiveness was set up by the opportunity the plant provided for Talpians to respond to questions about the existence of the factory, by saying it was built at Zhivkov’s directives to stop the out-flow of youth from the village. (The town/village dichotomy is also a generational one between city youth and elderly rural inhabitants). Actually it was common policy in the 1970s to build industrial complexes in rural areas as a means of persuading village youth to remain; many villages in the Nekilva district had light industry factories. Nevertheless the special relationship Talpa had to Zhivkov served to personalise the construction of this particular factory. Working-class relations were established as the preferred form of relations: by way of the symbolic importance of the plant as an organisation of production typical of the towns and through the display of villagers’ friendship with Zhivkov. Thus Talpians displayed the significance of class relations in the ‘model’ village by their participation in two forms of productive activities – coopera42

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tive and working-class – both of which were socialist forms of organisation, heavily dependent on industry and technology. (There was a third form of production – private household production – which is discussed in a following section.) However, their portrayed preference for the latter rather than the former, was in line with state ideology which advocated a future unification of the relations to the means of production through the transformation of a cooperative organisation into a purely public-owned form (Zhivkov 1986b: 71). In terms of state ideology, it was the villagers – as more backward – who were expected to ‘catch up’ with the more progressive urbanites. Talpians revealed in the ‘model village’ event that they were doing this, through the privileged attention they gave to a form of productive relations which was historically progressive (working-class) and in the visual reduction of differences between town and village through facilities and services offered in the latter.24 In showing their technical prowess in productive relations and their preoccupation with working-class rather than cooperative production, Talpians were displaying their progressive and town-like nature. Talpians showed they had ironed out, as far as technology allowed, town-village differences – thus establishing themselves as ‘model’ villagers striving for the classless society.

Morality … if you lack a scientific materialist world outlook…then you lack a soul (T. Zhivkov, The Komsomol Youth of Bulgaria, p. 123)

Socialist morality was understood to be rooted in the historical project of communism: the very essence of ‘humanness’, of what it is to be human, was established through actions effecting the historical transformation of society.25 Thus socialist morality demanded the full and total devotion of the individual to state historical goals and the building of socialism. Support for a socialist morality was established during the model village event in two ways: through the village museum and through the visual presentation of the village. Matov, the head of the Chitalishte, led the guests through the cottage which commemorated the life of Mara Maleeva, and spoke of her time and friendships in Talpa. The restored museum replicated the cottage exactly as it was when Maleeva was in Talpa in the late 1930s, except for the room that had once served as a waiting room. In this room, chronologically arranged photographs were hung, tracing her life: a few childhood and early family shots, her time in Talpa and subsequent marriage to the man who eventually headed the Bulgarian State, photos of Maleeva when she and Zhivkov had visited the village in 1970 in order to view the newly built Chitalishte, and pictures from her funeral in October 1971 after an untimely death from 43

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cancer. The photographs and the preservation of the surgery and living quarters made evident two ways in which Maleeva contributed to the development of socialism. The first way was through her role as a family member. The family was held in high esteem and women had a substantial role to play in their capacity as wives and mothers. Implicit in the photographs, the importance of the family was more explicitly expressed on other occasions, for example, at Midwives’ Day, when a Chitalishte celebration gave recognition to workers involved in childbirth.26 The nurse who delivered the speech at the function in 1987 spoke in support of large families. She elaborated on the disadvantages of having only one child, a common occurrence in contemporary Bulgaria – the child, she said, would easily become spoilt and unhappy. Zhivkov was quoted by the nurse as having said that giving birth was a social function of women. She stressed that there was nothing greater than a woman becoming a mother and bringing into the world another poet or writer. Encouragement for the family by the state – in part effected through tax burdens on childless couples and the provision of well-facilitated child-care centres – gave particular importance to the role held by women. Bulgarian women were viewed as nurturers of future generations (Zhivkov 1969: 586); Maleeva was shown to have made her contribution to society in this way. If Maleeva’s family life provided one dimension of her moral being, her career as a medical doctor provided another. Her selfless activities as ‘the peoples’ doctor,’ as she was described by Matov on another occasion (in his speech at the 100-year Chitalishte celebratory speech), was identified as a major factor in the improvement of health conditions in the village at the time of her stay in Talpa. The guests were told of the conditions she had to endure in the village; of the poverty and disease in the presocialist war-affected village, and of the many sacrifices she had made in order to administer medical help to the people. The entourage was escorted through the rooms of the small cottage, their attention directed to the impoverished and primitive conditions in which she had worked and lived, with no electricity or adequate winter heating. The lack of such facilities, the guests were told, was common throughout the village at that time. Maleeva treated patients, gave lectures on health, well-being and hygiene, and disseminated information on how to avoid the many poverty-related diseases which were common in the presocialist era. Her role was that of an educator as much as a doctor. Later, as wife to Zhivkov, Maleeva had a high profile in state functions, maintaining a special interest in health issues; photographs in the museum documented her attendance at various public occasions. Described as Zhivkov’s closest ally and supporter, Maleeva was presented as a prominent figure in the development of the socialist state, both before 1944 and thereafter. The visual presentation of the village served as a metaphor for Talpian morality.27 Preparations for the event involved portraying particular areas in 44

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the village as clean and orderly in appearance; places which were the most cared-for were those sites with a central function in the development of historical goals. Greatest attention was therefore paid to the central plaza, which was the focal point of local state-sponsored communal activities. As such, this area more than any other established the ‘model’ village as a modern and clean site; the surrounding buildings were freshly painted, flower beds and park benches lined the square and the streets, especially those close to the centre, were swept clean of dirt and animal excrement. Villagers were also held responsible for the tidy presentation of their households and the orderly display of their street frontage. Lelia Maria and I spent a morning before the event removing rocks from the area between the asphalt road and house (many of the village streets distant from the plaza had no curbs or footpaths). We used rakes to collect together all large and mediumsized rocks, which we then dumped on the other side of the road which bordered a field and was therefore not within the Talpians’ conceptual boundary of ‘village’. The establishment of order also included the tidy stacking of firewood (rather than its haphazard dumping), the fixing of broken walls and fences and the removal of rubbish. Villagers were expected to keep their animals under control and penned up, not left to roam the streets, especially near the plaza. As a result of continued hounding by the Mayor and leading individuals in the Fatherland Front, most citizens had carried out repairs to their homes. However, on the day that the guests were in Talpa, the Mayor was forced to try and distract the officials’ attention away from the small number of houses on the tour route which were not well maintained (due to the owners’ permanent absence from the village). Despite this, the guests commented upon a broken fence and two other unmaintained structures. The portrayal of the village as youthful was also an aspect of the visual presentation of the ‘model village’. Some years earlier, when Zhivkov had toured the school, villagers had arranged for more desks to be placed in the classrooms and had brought over ‘extra’ children from Nekilva, thereby staging a scenario suggesting the thriving nature of the school and village, through the presence of many children. When village leaders were discussing the possibility of doing the same for the model village event, lelia Maria reminded the meeting that on the previous occasion, Zhivkov had not been fooled by the import of extra children and had said so. She pointed out that a similar stunt would again fool no one, so the idea of bussing in ‘extras’ was rejected. Nevertheless, the active participation of the schoolchildren as part of the welcoming group outside the assembly plant, in the folkloric performance and in other facets of the event, contributed to the appearance of the village on the day as a lively, youthful place with future potential and importance. Further, since a characteristic of towns was the high proportion of young people, the presence of youth in the ‘model village’ event also visually reinforced the urban-like character of Talpa. 45

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Through the importance given to the hygienic, orderly and modern organisation of the village, (also expressed as an association between youth and order, ageing and disorder) Talpians metaphorically marked their concern with moral cleanliness. Cleanliness, primarily in public places but also in individual households, through the apparent elimination of ‘natural’ polluting elements such as animal excrement and dirt, was a means by which Talpians constructed their moral purity. Thus the renovation of the plaza buildings as part of the preparations for the event – the school, Chitalishte, museum, restaurant – was no accident. In carrying out this work, villagers visually endorsed their interest in, and the great importance they placed on, all areas of socialist life. On the other hand, no time had been devoted to the church, which was one of the few buildings in the village and most definitely the only building located in the central plaza that was deliberately left in a dilapidated state. Mould and damp had badly damaged the internal icons, paint and plaster were peeling off the exterior and interior walls and there was unrepaired structural damage to the building caused by earthquakes. Its poor condition served as a symbol of the decay of religion in the ‘model village’. Outside the church the waist-high grass was left uncut and weeds grew through the cracked pavement surrounding the building. Even the small number of tombstones outside in the church yard were overgrown by grass. Through associating the church with decay, and therefore showing its irrelevance to contemporary Talpian life, villagers established their opposition to religious beliefs. The decrepit condition of the church contrasted with the orderly and clean condition of all the other plaza buildings. This selective control of nature through the maintenance or absence of cleanliness and order presented a living map of socialist morality. Thus the ‘model village’ was portrayed as a community which had turned its back on a past social order that was religious, anti-communal and materially poor. The museum highlighted the contrast between the past and present, making evident the poverty that had once characterised village life. Maleeva was depicted as central to this process, being an active force in the improvement of villagers’ quality of life. It was through her and Zhivkov that Talpians constructed the terms of their own morality. The fact that the officials’ tour took them through the museum – rather than the Chitalishte or school which were also renovated for the ‘model village’ event and, like the museum, were also important sites of socialist development – was significant. In this way Talpians placed the Zhivkov family at the centre of their constructions of socialist morality: a morality reinforced in the physical presentation of the village, through its orderly, clean, well-cared-for appearance. 46

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Identity …love of the Fatherland is typical of every people. What is distinctive of the Bulgarian people is the way it combines patriotism with internationalism (T. Zhivkov, Speech about Bulgaria, p. 6–7)

State ideology provided support for a Bulgarian identity: ‘We should uproot any sense of inferiority, and degrading admiration of everything foreign. We must teach every Bulgarian to value his or her national dignity and worth, to feel proud…of everything created by our people, of what it is creating now – the new socialist life, the new socialist culture…’ (Zhivkov 1986a: 136). In this context, folklore ‘…has performed a remarkable constructive, protective and reviving role in our people’s historical destiny’ (Zhivkov 1981: 6). Folklore was viewed as one means by which Bulgarians had successfully preserved a sense of national integrity which endured 500 years of Ottoman rule. Through their inclusion of folklore in the ‘model village’ event, Talpians exhibited support for such a sense of national unity which tied their contemporary identity as ‘model villagers’ to a particular understanding of the presocialist past. During the model village event folklore practices were confined to activities directly outside or within the private households. Outside each of the two assigned houses, the official guests were met by schoolgirls, wearing folk costumes, which distinguished them from those children outside the assembly plant who were dressed in Pionerski uniforms, and from the rest of the villagers and officials who all wore twentieth-century formal attire – most of the men in suits and ties, the women in formal dresses. The folklore costumes were used in Talpa only during performances on stage or at festivals. Women kept such embroidered treasures in mothballs and plastic in wardrobes at home. The costumes were colourful (mainly red and white), embroidered, pinafore-style dresses worn on top of cream shirts also adorned around the neck and long sleeves. In their hair, the girls wore flowers. Their spectacular attire signified the folklore part of the proceedings. The guests accepted the nails and hammers offered to them by the girls and nailed the signs, ‘model home’, to the outside doors leading into the yards of the homes (selected by the Talpians because they were particularly well maintained). The entourage then entered the properties where tables, laden with a variety of foods, had been set up on the paved areas surrounding the houses. Offering of food was a customary way to greet guests. Dignitaries in Bulgaria were (and still are – recall how Jenny Zhivkova was met in Talpa) met with this pan-Slavic folklore practice.28 The same custom was used by Talpians to greet their guests on this day. The folkloric significance of a number of the foods offered can be attributed to three features: firstly the 47

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foods were not mass-produced (as were those received by the officials at the TKZC, for example), secondly they referenced a presocialist past, and thirdly they were common recipes widely known and served throughout the country as typically ‘Bulgarian’. The importance of the way in which banitsa (a cheese pastry) was prepared and presented to the guests during the model village event contributed to its folkloric significance. The banitsa was made in the ‘authentic’ way, no contemporary means of preparation such as the use of factory-made pastry was acceptable; it was made ‘like in the old days’, using only hand-made pastry sheets. This laborious procedure reveals a concern for its aesthetic appeal and ‘authenticity’: it had to be visually appealing and had to taste good. The village women – including lelia Tsela and other Party members who cooked the food – spent much time and effort in preparing for the occasion. Indeed, to safeguard themselves against failures, several women cooked a larger than required number of banitsi and only the successes were presented to the admiring guests. But the food carried none of the ritualised meanings that it held at other times of the year.29 As folklore, banitsa could be made on any occasion with state importance irrespective of the time of year. This was unlike a banitsa prepared on traditional occasions, when it had to be served at a ritually potent time (this distinction between tradition and folklore is considered further in Chapters 5–8). A similar point can be made in terms of the red wine and pita bread that were served to the guests. Usually served during home funeral rites and associated with beliefs about the deceased’s spirit (Chapter 5), in this instance they carried no such spiritual undertones. The secularity of meaning was achieved in part through their being dislocated from their customary contextual placement. Disassociated from their customary context – both temporal and spatial – and re-presented together as an apparent ‘authentic’ presentation that was controlled by official figures and devoid of any religious significance, the serving of such foods gained folkloric significance. Secondly, the practices associated with the customs predated the socialist state, extending to an indeterminate past far back into Bulgarian antiquity. This was unlike other parts of the event where the past given prominence highlighted the communist activities of certain villagers and national political figures (Zhivkov) from the Second World War period. In the bricolage of folklore customs presented, fragments of centuries-old practices were newly presented to suit contemporary purposes. Thirdly, the foods chosen were not specific to any particular region but known throughout Bulgaria. Pita bread and red wine were common ‘staple’ foods – and both also had meaning in terms of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church practices – while banitsa was prepared across the country at New Year.30 One would always be greeted with these foods, wherever one travelled in the country; they were also served as Bulgarian cuisine at the many restaurants that had sprung up in city tourist centres, and appeared at various 48

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state-controlled festivals and on television programmes. Thus the folkloric foods served to emphasise a particular dimension of socialist identity: one which carried national import, as specifically ‘Bulgarian’ rather than any regional or local significance. At the same time this Bulgarian identity conveyed through folklore was founded on a denial of any religious markers of distinction (features that normally characterised traditional customs – see Chapter 5). Thus in making use of state-maintained folkloric practices, Talpians showed their willingness to engage in practices that reflected ‘…a truly realistic attitude, completely alien to mysticism…’ (Zhivkov 1986a: 240). The difference in the type of food offered in the households and at the TKZC appears significant in underlining not only the ‘model village’s’ preference for a certain type of productive relation over another (noted in a previous section) but also in making a statement about identity. The food and drink provided at the Agricultural Cooperative did not include its own products (fresh fruits, for example), nor was it food recognised as ‘Bulgarian cuisine’, as was that presented in the households; rather, it was processed and packaged, a product of the food industry. Items included soft drinks, packaged, factory-made cakes, biscuits and coffee. The serving of processed modern foods distinguished TKZC production from the manual-based agricultural production characteristic to private individual households – where produce was grown mostly for personal needs. Both these forms of production, in turn, were distinguished from the purely state-owned means of production of the factory as the most closely aligned form of production with state historical goals, where no offering of food was made at all. At the plant, the epitome of progressive relations, no compromise was made to national customs such as the offering of food. The TKZC, on the other hand, represented a mode of production less historically advanced than those productive relations existent in the working-class plant, but more technologically and historically advanced than that practised in the private households, a domain over which the state had little control. The confinement of folklore to the household provided a specifically local twist to state ideology. This ‘confinement’ did not occur at other occasions, when folklore was performed in public sites. The fact that Talpian planners decided to restrict folklore, on this day, to the household domain is therefore particularly significant. The household represented a site which in many ways was not subject to direct state influence; it was spatially distanced from public places (the plaza) where historical celebrations were always held and where often folklore was performed on the Chitalishte stage and at school. The physical separation of folkloric practices from the public village domain and its location within the household on this occasion signified a welcoming of the state in the private domain. The villagers portrayed all other areas of village life – industrial and agricultural production and the centre of social activities, the plaza – as closely associated with a historical past related to the Second 49

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World War and to contemporary political figures. ‘Model’ status was conveyed partly through a display of disinterest in ritual/religious practices (e.g. the dilapidated church), and partly through the confinement of folklore to the home, which at the same time provided state access to the private domain. The restriction of folklore to the private household domain, enabling history to ‘occupy’ the rest of the village, suggests a spatial-temporal metaphor which reveals the relation between the two constructions of the past. The house-village discourse was essentially one about a hierarchical relation where a history provided the overall goal, which determined and encompassed folklore.31 In constructing their village as a ‘model’ socialist village, Talpians associated history with the public domain (sites of production, village plaza, even the streets – recall that it was political and not folk songs that were sung by the vocal group) and restricted folklore to the home where it remained distinct from and yet subsumed in the more globally significant historical interests. Traditional practices characterised by their religious significance were conspicuous by their absence. If folklore provided a nationalistic dimension to Talpian identity, then history, which was metaphorically represented by the village, referred to another dimension of socialist identity – internationalism. The household and village relationship was a metaphor for a socialist identity that had two dimensions, nationalist and internationalist. Internationalism was based on the common recognition and sharing of historical goals; that is, on a workingclass bond of solidarity which was not nation specific. Again, I turn to Zhivkov’s writings in order to seek an insight into the ideology behind the practice: ‘Proletarian internationalism’ was ‘proletarian solidarity’ (1986a: 135) – the joining of all working-class people irrespective of national demarcations, through the sharing of common historical goals. If folklore united at the national level, history unified at the international level. A Bulgarian national identity was understood to exist in its own right only within the context of the encompassing internationalist goals.32 Thus, according to Zhivkov, ‘…true internationalism must not be at the expense of, or to the detriment of real patriotism…’ (1986a: 136); yet this is true only if it is remembered that ‘…patriotism should always be subordinated to proletariat internationalism, to the common tasks, since we are a socialist country;…that is why we should prevent the national spirit from prevailing over the international’ (Zhivkov 1986a: 140–41). Goals of national interest must always bow to historical aims which are of far greater, international importance. Thus while national unity and a sense of Bulgarian identity were encouraged, such a consciousness was always subsumed to historical goals which placed greatest importance on awareness of working-class interests and solidarity. The association between folklore and a nationalistic dimension of socialist identity on the one side, and history dominated by contemporary political figures and an internationalist dimension of socialist identity on the other, was 50

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metaphorically represented by Talpians in terms of the household-village association. For the ‘model villagers’, socialist identity involved having both a national and international dimension; the national remained distinct from and yet subsumed under international concerns of the socialist movement.33 At this level – which was not part of Talpian’s conscious construction of the event but my interpretation of the meaning conveyed by it – the relations between folklore and history, the household and village, and nationalism and internationalism, are transmutations of the same dichotomy, used by villagers to convey their socialist identity. In including folkloric practices as part of the ‘model village’ event, Talpians were involving themselves in the redefining of religious/ritualised practices (traditional customs), showing how irrelevant the traditional past was in the village, except as folklore. At the same time, villagers’ use of folklore distanced them from an identity based on local practices; rather they exhibited a national consciousness, a concern to be ‘Bulgarian’. Such an identity did not, however, conflict with historical goals, for while from one perspective the household was spatially distinct from the rest of the village, from another perspective, folklore was encompassed by state historical goals. This is also a commentary about public/private space where the ‘model villagers’ gave access to a domain which the state respected as private – the household. In establishing their national identity but subsuming this ultimately to historical, international interests, the villagers portrayed their specific support for state ideological views on identity. Talpians responded to state ideology by constructing an identity that was truly socialist because it was both distinctly nationalist (rejecting local qualities) and internationalist (maintaining historical goals) and at the same time attributed a preeminent position to the latter. In the nailing of the sign ‘model home’ to the two houses in which folk customs were performed, state officials gave their approval for the identity conveyed by the villagers and for the manner in which they used folklore for this purpose.

Conclusion …The two main classes of our society – the working class and the class of co-operative farmers…are increasingly drawing closer with regard to their place in production, the nature of their work, their consciousness, mentality and lifestyle (T. Zhivkov, The Komsomol Youth of Bulgaria, p. 181)

As ‘model’ villagers, Talpians revealed their commitment to the development of Marxist-Leninist goals through their participation in all realms of socialist life – in an administration structured by democratic centralism, in the convergence of working-class and cooperative farmers’ interests, in espousing a communal rather than individualistic morality and in an identity which drew 51

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on both internationalist and nationalistic dimensions, but which gave greater weight to the former. In such a way they constructed their acquiescence to the basic ideological principles of the state. Talpians were concerned to show how all their efforts were centred on constructing relations which contributed to ‘building communism’. Displaying their full support for state ideology, the villagers’ rendition was, nevertheless, specifically Talpian. The metaphors used to create their discourse about state ideology provided a particular local twist: the town-village dichotomy for class relations; the visual presentation of the clean village by which they expressed their moral relations; and the household-village image by which they created a spatial metaphor that defined their socialist identity. While the former two metaphors are discussed by Zhivkov in his writings, local use of specific village sites in the event – primarily the assembly plant and museum – were distinctly Talpian. The shared historical past between the villagers and the head of the Bulgarian state provided the basis for the Talpian construction of their administrative, class, moral and identity relations; it provided the distinct form of inflection of state ideology through which they defined their ‘modelness’. This specific rendition – which claimed close associations with Zhivkov and his wife – created a situation where it would be hard to imagine state officials refusing to award Talpa the ‘model village’ title. The past held a central position in a Talpian portrayal of themselves as ‘model villagers’ acquiescent to state ideology. The tour of the village along which the officials were led made various references to the past; to history (the visit to the museum, the presentation of badges commemorating ninety years since the foundation of the village Communist Party); and to folklore (through practices that referenced presocialist times); traditional customs were notable by their absence. In this carefully orchestrated performance, it was history that was given prominence. Villagers’ close association with Zhivkov emphasised a history centred around the all-important Second World War period and to the political activities of contemporary Communist Party figures active during that time. While traditional practices were absent, the presocialist, religious-based past was represented in the form of folklore. The performance of folklore denied importance to tradition, while at the same time couching local identity in nationalistic terms. This configuration attributed a negative value to tradition, allocated a positive value to both history and folklore, the latter always subsumed to the internationalist goals of history. Such a relationship between the three pasts was depicted as uncontentious, a monolithic representation of state ideology which had the total support of all model villagers. ‘Model villagers’ placed the past at the forefront of their concerns, as the very basis of the contemporary understandings about their socialist world and their place within it. In raising the past as fundamentally important, it was not only certain activities and events but particular locations which were 52

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informed by socialist understandings of the past. Individuals too, in aligning themselves to the past, were attributed differential value. Phrased differently, the past served to categorise certain practices, spatial locations and persons, imbuing each with particular values. The rest of this book explores the importance of the past; the way in which the past is delineated and its significance in shaping relations both among villagers and between villagers and the state centre. When Talpa won the ‘model village’ award it received a number of prizes, including money, a red flag and a certificate formally conveying to it the title. As official holders of the title ‘model village’ they were also permitted to display a sign to this effect at all roads leading in and out of the village. There could be little doubt that Talpa was a good communist village. The prizes were formally presented to the Mayor a few months after the ‘model village’ event at the 9 September festivities – an occasion that celebrated the anniversary of the advent of socialism in Bulgaria. At about the same time that Talpa received the prizes, the Village Council bought a large electric digital clock which was given pride of place on the exterior wall of the Village Council building, overlooking the central plaza. What more appropriate symbol of the village’s socialist character but this instrument of the modern age, something by which to measure the progress of historical time?

NOTES 1. The meeting was in relation to the year ended 1986 and was held on 3 March 1987. 2. See Lampland (1995: 270) for a discussion on the vast discrepancy between plans and actual practice in the case of Hungarian organisations and enterprises. 3. It is because of this pivotal role that I have used a selection of Zhivkov’s writings, especially those pertinent to the mid-1980s period, to help decipher Talpian activities. 4. My primary concern is with a Talpian construction of state ideology – a rendition which echoed Zhivkov’s, but was not a perfect reflection of it. In this chapter I therefore make a distinction between that which was explicitly articulated by Zhivkov as state ideology, a Talpian inflection (rather than reflection) of this ideology as portrayed in the model village event, and my analysis of the latter. 5. Concentrating on the day’s events allows me to bypass problems associated with data collection: firstly, the fact that the greater part of the planning for the occasion had been carried out well before my arrival in Talpa; secondly, the fact that many of the arrangements that occurred during my stay were made at informal meetings between individual state officials or in closed Communist Party meetings to which I had no access. 6. Squabbles may have occurred between the central organisational figures, but they were not obvious on the day of the event.

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Who Owns the Past? 7. The childrens’ organisation which provided extracurricula activities for schoolchildren after school hours and during the holidays. 8. Figures provided in 1996 by the person who was director of the factory in 1987. 9. This statistic is my estimate for the period 1986–88 on the basis of information provided by the Mayor at the time. It concurs with the figure provided by the Natzionalen Statistichescki Institut (1994), which records the population for Talpa in 1985 to be 751 and in 1992, 644. Assuming an even decline over the seven-year period, the total would have been approximately 30–40 less, that is, approximately 700 in the period 1986–88. 10. A statistic provided by the village postoffice (for the period 1986–87), which was responsible for delivering all pensions. 11. These statistics were presented at a general meeting of the TKZC (held 5 March 1987), convened to (re)elect the cooperative head. 12. The origin of this fundamental principle of socialist state organisation was attributed to Lenin (see Zhivkov 1969: 496; 1974: 52). 13. Zhivkov wrote: ‘…Democracy in Bulgaria is developing and can only develop, not in conflict with centralism, but in a correct and organic combination and interpenetration of the principles of democracy and the principles of centralism; only, that is, as democratic centralism. Disregard of either centralism or democracy leads to a violation of the nature and essence of our system’ (1986b: 40). 14. Indeed Zhivkov believed that the increasing development of democracy was ‘…unthinkable without the further consolidation of the hegemonic role of the working class and without enhancing the leading role of the Communist Party in the entire system of public life’ (Maxwell 1985: 207). It was assumed that with this increasingly democratic process, the Party of the working class would be transformed into a Party of the entire people (Maxwell 1985: 208). Socialist democracy was thus also understood as fundamentally bound to class relations and their eventual elimination. 15. Zhivkov states that: ‘…In our efforts to improve public administration, we must find a proper place for each of the organisations, define their character, functions and tasks, achieve co-ordination and purposefulness in their work’ (1974: 144). 16. Zhivkov writes: ‘…This is what characterises, what is new about the socialist state – Bulgaria in this instance. Practically all the population participates in the different organisations and forms. You would hardly find a Bulgarian who is not a member of any of these organisations. And this does not happen through administrative measures or in any other enforced way, it is completely voluntary’ (1986b: 139). 17. ‘…the higher the consciousness of the working people, the more they participate in mass and with competence in the solution of state affairs, the stronger the socialist system is and the better it manifests its advantages’ (Zhivkov 1986b: 293). 18. See discussion in Sampson (1982) concerning participation as an important aspect of planning in all socialist countries. For the Bulgarian state ideological perspective see Zhivkov (1969: 610). 19. Land in Bulgaria was never nationalised as in the former USSR, rather it remained legally, at least, under private ownership. 20. Forty per cent of the total agro-industrial complexes in Bulgaria in 1986 were based on ‘a mixed form of ownership’ which fused cooperative and state forms. The remaining were based on one form of ownership. (Zhivkov 1986b: 70). 21. The most productive workers were rewarded. For example, at the village celebration of 9 September (discussed in Chapter 3), monetary prizes were given to the best workers in a variety of categories: the worker who had achieved the highest results in the husbandry section; the most conscientious worker; and the best tractor driver. 22. Such services were listed by Zhivkov as early as 1969 as indicators of the progress of villagers: ‘…the process of the urbanisation of our villages has been very rapid in recent years…modern new buildings, restaurants, stores etc. were erected in the centre of nearly every village…many of the villages

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23.

24.

25.

26. 27.

28.

29.

30. 31.

32.

33.

have their own re-development plans which reflect the general economic and social progress of our socialist village’ (1969: 354). According to Marxism-Leninism, which predicted the construction of a classless communist society, both classes would inevitably be done away with. Communism would signify the convergence of co-operative and state forms of ownership into that which Zhivkov termed a unified form of public ownership (Maxwell 1985: 201). The ultimate aim was clear: ‘…conditions will increasingly be created, more closely approaching those in industry…It implies that the co-operative farmers…will increasingly raise their technique and general culture, their qualifications…It also implies that our villages will become wealthier and better laid out; urban conditions of life will increasingly be created in them.’ And in case there are doubts as to the ultimate aims of this process, Zhivkov continued: ‘The difference between the class of co-operative farmers and the working class will be gradually ironed out with the further development of the Bulgarian village…As Lenin predicted, the peasants will turn into workers’ (1985b: 185). For example: ‘…there is no such thing as a morality that stands outside human society; that is a fraud. To us, morality is subordinated to the interests of the proletariat’s class struggle’ (Lenin 1970: 135). For a description of the traditional practice of ‘Babin Den’ see Lodge (1947). In socialist Talpa, this custom was celebrated as ‘Midwives’ Day’. Again Zhivkov’s writings help us make sense of Talpian practices: ‘…In the process of shaping the new man, the actual social conditions in which he works, creates and lives should be taken into consideration. Man’s social consciousness and conduct in a socialist society are fundamentally conditioned by his life in society and by his social environment’ (1969: 599; 1974: 58). It was therefore important for the model villagers to show that they had created the ‘proper’ environment. Foreign visitors are greeted in the same way: in a publicity photograph of Indira Gandhi being met at the airport by T. Zhivkov, the caption states: ‘Welcoming Indira Gandhi with bread and salt by a folk custom’ (Neikov and Kozhinkov 1987: 27). For example, at New Year a coin and small cornell twigs are baked into the leaves of the pastry: each twig, distinguished by its differing number of buds, represented a particular domain of household life – domestic animals, vines, the house, health and wealth. It is said that those who find these objects in their serving will be guaranteed good fortune for the following year. Although on such occasions people went to a great deal of trouble to prepare the banitsa, sometimes short cuts were taken in the preparation, such as the use of factory-produced filo pastry. The significance of traditional banitsa was in the luck carried by the twigs, rather than on how it was produced or its visual presentation. Bulgarian Academy of Sciences (1985), Etnografia na Bulgariia, vol.III: 102. I use the term ‘encompass’ because I mean to indicate a similar relation between folklore and history as Dumont (1970) describes in his discussion of the way in which modern changes were subordinated to caste values in India. Zhivkov urged that: ‘…one should have a correct understanding of the dialectical relationship between international and national aspects, between internationalism and patriotism. Internationalism has nothing in common with national nihilism, with indifference…to anything concerning national interests and national self-esteem’ (1986a: 135). See also Grant (1995) who looks at the changing relationship of local Nivkh identity in the broader context of pan-Sovietism.

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Page b

Villagers admiring electric clock on the Council building, Talpa central plaza.

Model village officials being greeted by school children.

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Visitors being led into stereo assembly plant.

The vocal group performing in the street.

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An official nailing the sign ‘model home’ to the outside door of a household.

Guests being greeted within the household yard with pita bread.

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The official party being shown into the village museum.

Inside the museum.

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The official party gathered at the central plaza to announce the village’s success in the model village competition.

The final site visited: The Agricultural Cooperative.

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Page g

Baba Grigora and Lelia Maria (left and second from the left) with relatives outside the Chitalishte following the Centennial celebration (Chapters 4 & 8).

Village cemetery gravestones – some bearing crosses (foreground), others red stars (background) – reveal continued adherence to different ideologies after death.

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H ISTORY: A Brief Introduction to Chapters 3 and 4




History, the sage mentor of the peoples (T. Zhivkov, Speech about Bulgaria, p. 3) We can’t live without history (Comrade Pashev, Annual meeting of the Chitalishte, Talpa, 27 February 1987)

History, as an intentionally elaborated ideology about societal change, was a highly reflected-upon and well-articulated account of the past. In the following two chapters it is the collectively held, publicly expressed and state-approved rendition of the past, known as history, with which I am concerned. MarxismLeninism formed the framework for this past, providing the source of its meaning and the limits for its debatability.1 In Talpa, references to history occurred in many contexts: from documentaries shown on television to songs that were sung after a few drinks. Indeed to the extent that all activities were informed by state ideology, which provided the organisational force underlying villagers’ everyday life, history was all-pervasive. While in one way or another every villager was engaged in the reproduction of state goals – anything from working in the TKZC to buying salami at the village shop constituted support for the state – for those individuals pursuing a political career history was especially important. For the latter group in particular, history played an explicit and prominent role in their lives. The historical past was elaborated in Zhivkov’s writings, as well as other Bulgarian Communist Party publications, which were published in the newspapers, discussed on television, radio, village Party meetings and kruzhotsi (regular meetings held to deliberate information published by the Party). Perhaps the most explicit and coherent representation of the historical past was through the many celebrations which dotted the socialist calendar.2 These celebrations, developed after 1944, symbolised socialist innovation in calendrical ceremonies, and in turn repre56

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sented evidence of the state’s support for a new pattern of ‘social time’ (a point Binns 1979: 589 makes with respect to the USSR). It is not my concern to follow these ceremonies in their development over time, nor their possible ‘coercive’ role3 – although this would possibly contribute to a wider understanding of them. Rather I use these events in order to examine different aspects of the state-approved village past. I am interested in how the historical past was constituted by Talpians and in so doing how they were engaged in the state ‘project’. State ideology was not simply a rhetoric that was largely ignored by those living under Party rule. On the contrary, through historical events most villagers engaged in the ideology in a variety of ways – from participation as a member of an audience at public occasions, to those actively developing this ideology through their organisation of celebrations. In the following chapter I explore the features that characterised socialist history. Some of the characteristics, especially structural, are shared with capitalist versions of history – for example, its linearity (that is, nonreversibility, chronological ordering). But other characteristics of history, such as its contents, appear specific to the socialist context. The particular way in which history was articulated with political and moral dimensions of socialist life was also distinct – a topic explored in the greater part of Chapter 3. Both the political and moral dimensions of history are given particular attention, not only because of their importance in determining public/official socialist life and in showing how villagers engaged with state ideology, but also because such a discussion provides the foundation for understanding the alternate pasts – tradition and folklore – which are the subject of later chapters. The history that is examined in Chapter 3 is the rendition that dominated official ceremonies and local village public life; a history that gave the most moral and teleological significance to the Second World War period. It was this moment in the past that was viewed as the turning point of modern Bulgarian history, the date when the socialist state was founded. In Chapter 4 I show that not all representatives of the state supported this particular version of history; even within the Party and the public domain more than one version of history existed. This multiplicity of renditions or versions constituted the pluralistic nature of socialist politics. One version – advocated by certain political figures – may have been prominent but the Communist Party was by no means a monolithic body and power was under continual negotiation: important points to bear in mind when attempting to understand the events of 1989.

NOTES 1. Like Appadurai I believe there is a ‘definable cultural framework’ within which debates concerning meaning occur (1981: 203). The Marxist-Leninist history explored in these chapters does not

57

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Who Owns the Past? exhaust all notions of the socialist past, although it does determine the boundaries to the extent that the other pasts are only meaningful in terms of it. 2. This included the development of life-cycle celebrations. See Roth 1990 & Roth and Roth 1990 for overview of such celebrations. 3. In respect to USSR celebrations, Binns says that ‘the purpose of such celebrations – [is] to get universal acceptance of dogmatic ideology’ (Binns 1979: 585). Petrov (1998 & 2000) makes a similar point in the Bulgarian context by underlining the educative role of socialist celebrations. Interestingly, such celebrations were revised in a process that involved ‘ordinary’ citizens (Roth and Roth 1990: 116–117), an observation that raises questions about the ‘coercive’ role of the ceremonies.

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C HAPTER 3 S OCIALIST H ISTORY, P OLITICS AND M ORALIT Y




Characterising History September the ninth was an occasion which was marked by nation-wide celebrations. It was the anniversary of the foundation of the socialist state in Bulgaria, holding parallel importance to the 7 November celebrations, the date of the ‘October Revolution’, in the USSR (see Binns 1979). In towns and cities across the nation, workers representing unions and factories marched in parades waving colourful banners, riding on floats past state officials who stood outside a prominent state building acknowledging the paraders. Confined indoors with the mumps, I watched the Sofia celebration on television in 1986. Zhivkov and other officials stood on the balcony of the G. Dimitrov mausoleum, watching and waving to the columns of colourfully decorated floats and people – grouped in terms of their professions and occupations – marching past.1 Most participants waved flags, flowers or held banners that extolled slogans about productivity levels and the virtues of peace, or pictured famous Bulgarian heroes – such as Levski and Botev (both freedom fighters against the Ottomans; the latter is also a celebrated national poet). Journalists reported on the parade and interviewed workers and brigade leaders from the march. The following year the celebration was more subdued, adapted to comply with the new political climate of Bulgarian preustroistvo. No parade was held in Sofia, instead the vastly more simple ceremony involved the raising of the Bulgarian flag in the presence of Zhivkov, followed by a wreath-laying ceremony at the mausoleum by him and other state officials before they disappeared inside, at which point the transmission ended. The 1987 telecast was short, lasting 10–15 minutes, which contrasted with the two-hour programme in the previous year. 59

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In Talpa, manifestations (as the parades were called) had not been held for many years, ever since the village had begun losing its youth through immigration to the cities in the 1960s. The 9 September celebration, held in the village on the evening of the eighth,2 was conducted in the Chitalishte. Before and after the Chitalishte proceedings (which consisted of speeches and an entertainment programme), there was dancing outside in the central plaza. In the Chitalishte theatre, the audience sat facing the two figures on stage. Comrade Pashev gave a brief introduction, reminding the audience that it had been forty-three years since the victory of the Communist Party over fascism. He then made way for Novikov, in his capacity as head of the Fatherland Front, to give the main speech of the evening. The latter spoke of the significance of the date 9 September 1944 in Bulgarian history, of the fundamental role that the Communist Party played in overthrowing the fascists and the heroism of those who sacrificed their lives for the cause. In this context he emphasised the particular contribution made by Talpians in the war and the important role played by the Red Army in liberating Bulgaria from fascism. He identified the achievements made since the Bulgarian Communist Party came to power – the dramatic rise in the standard of living, technological progress and increased productivity. In this history, the leading national Party figures – Dimitrov and Zhivkov – were singled out as particularly important. In the concluding parts of the speech, those workers who were outstanding in fulfilling the year’s agricultural plan were called up on to the stage to accept awards. Then a guest from Nekilva formally presented the Talpian Mayor with the ‘model village’ award. The celebration concluded with eight songs performed by the village vocal group – all on the theme of heroic activities of the Second World War period – followed by village schoolchildren who recited a number of poems, also about this period. In this way the theme of the speech was developed further in the poetry/song performances.3 In the rest of this section I identify some of the main qualities that characterised history (the political and moral dimensions of history are explored in the succeeding sections). The points are drawn and elaborated from the history presented at the 9 September speech (see Appendix 1 for a fuller account). The speech provided a coherent rendition of history and is thus a convenient way to explore its characteristics. This rendition of history, which attributes fundamental importance to 1944 (and provides the basis for discussion in this chapter), was espoused at most of the official celebrations: for example, at International Day of Political Prisoners, First May (Workers’ Day), International Women’s Day or meetings of the Village Council, Chitalishte, the Parties and Youth organisations (Septemvriicheta, Pioneri, Komsomoltsi). The presented history was always written and delivered by village officials – usually the Party leader, head of the Fatherland Front or the Mayor. While the emphasis of particular details would vary – and this had significant political implications, as discussed in Chapter 4 – the basic rendition of history remained constant. 60

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Thus although the role of some aspects of the 9 September celebration – such as the prominence of the Fatherland Front – were peculiar to this event, there was little debate concerning the basic ‘contents’ of history. In beginning to draw conclusions about the specific nature of history, we may note the location of the celebration – that is, within the Chitalishte. Taking Handelman’s point about celebrations infusing space with meaning (1990: 201), the Chitalishte must be viewed as a central site for historical events. The type of functions at which history was celebrated varied greatly – from formal occasions, such as the Chitalishte Centennial (see below and Chapter 4) and the 9 September celebration, to more informal political meetings and social gatherings including play performances and songs by the Chitalishte vocal group. The building was the focal point of most public gatherings. While not all these occasions were of national importance, all national events were celebrated in the Chitalishte, rather than at any other village site. Although the Chitalishte was run by a separate governing body, the village Communist Party had considerable influence over its affairs.4 The Chitalishte head, Matov, was a senior Party member and the Council, responsible for the smooth running of the cultural centre, was predominantly made up of Party members. The events which took place within Chitalishte rooms were also organised and run by local state officials, often members from either of the two political parties.5 At the 9 September celebrations, it was the head of the Fatherland Front and head of the Communist Party who wrote and delivered the speeches, using guidelines provided by regional state officials and incorporating specific local material. The Chitalishte Council organised the event in close consultation with the BCP and Fatherland Front. Given the importance of planning in state socialism (Chapter 2), and the close association evident between state officials and history, historical celebrations were also very carefully orchestrated events. The formalised structure of the 9 September celebration involved the physical separation of the speakers, who were seated on a stage, setting them in a hierarchical relationship with respect to the audience (Binns 1979: 598 makes this point for the USSR). No dialogue with the audience was encouraged, instead the latter participated at regulated intervals, through applause. Other less formal functions, such as when guest lecturers gave talks, provided opportunities for the audience to make comments or ask questions. The speeches were usually well polished. On one occasion – an open Party meeting in August 1987 – the paper presenter was criticised for having given a sloppy paper by a number of those present, including Comrade Pashev’s wife (who, like Zhivkov’s wife, was a medical doctor). Comrade Pashev verbally supported his wife, by informing the gathering that ‘People are expected to get information from me and the Mayor in order to prepare a good presentation. There is no excuse for illprepared speeches’. There were no such problems at the well-rehearsed 9 September celebration. The introduction of Novikov’s talk by Comrade 61

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Pashev, the fluent delivery of the speech by Novikov, the smooth flow of the proceedings – presentation of awards followed by the musical items – all contributed to the well-structured programme. The prominence of speeches at historical celebrations points to a main characteristic of history – it was practised through, and dominated the medium of, language, discourse and text (unlike other constructions of the past that were communicated in other ways). Even the songs performed by the vocal group and the poems read by the schoolchildren were activities based on the study of texts and involving verbal performances. History was therefore a tangible resource over which the state had control and which could be disseminated widely through print and other media. Verdery’s (1991a, 1991b) point on the centrality of language in the production of socialism seems particularly pertinent. Through textualisation, history was constituted as a knowable past. The origins and understandings about a particular present phenomenon were possible through reference to a determinate and recorded past. In the 9 September speech, for example, Novikov explained the present socialist state in terms of the foundation of the Bulgarian Communist Party one hundred years ago. In this way, a particular and precisely located event in the past explained a present situation. Indeed the ultimate reference of all historical celebrations, irrespective of whether they were read speeches, spoken texts, or more informal gatherings in the Chitalishte, was textual material. Such textualisation – the past recorded in manuscripts, monuments and in photographs, as in the village museum – was also the means by which history was attributed status as the authoritative past. Documentation provided ‘evidence’ of the legitimate position of the historical past at the same time allowing contemporary renditions of history to reinforce and build upon the old. Thus Novikov’s 9 September speech drew on previous historical documents written by Zhivkov, Marx and Lenin. The speech itself became a source of further historical consolidation, through building on previous texts. Another feature of Bulgarian socialist history was that it was presented as inextricably associated with the Soviet Union. While the closeness between the countries was evident in linguistic, cultural and economic terms (Lampe 1986; McIntyre 1988), the ‘profound historical reasons’ which made, to quote Zhivkov (1974: 26), such a bond ‘practically inevitable’ was a reference to two issues in particular. Firstly it alluded to the Russian army’s ‘liberation’ of Bulgaria on two separate occasions – from 500 years of Ottoman rule and then in 1944, from fascism. Historical events such as 9 September never failed to provide a platform for Bulgarian expressions of gratitude to Russia for assisting the country on both these occasions. Secondly, it referred to close association between the two Communist Parties and their leaders. This latter factor was part of a shared intellectual tradition between the two countries which can be traced back to the beginning of the twentieth century (Carr 1964: 62

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202, 207). While much of this background history is not articulated in every historical celebration, references to Zhivkov and others were not accidental, but part of an assumed lineage that connected the leaders – village, national and international – ultimately binding the two countries in an historical alliance through shared political ancestry that had its roots in Lenin and Marx.6 When Comrade Pashev associated himself with Zhivkov, he was also making prominent his connection to this long and distinguished Bulgarian-Russian pedigree. Apart from being constructed as intimately woven to the USSR, Bulgarian socialist history was also linear. This linearity had four dimensions. Firstly it was chronological in nature. The chronological organisation of the past was partly reflected by dates that signified important moments in the development of the Bulgarian state. For example, in his speech Novikov mentions: the foundation of Bulgaria in 681, the formation of the second Bulgarian kingdom in 1185, freedom from the Turks in 1878 after an unsuccessful uprising in 1876, and the unsuccessful revolution against the fascists in 1923. The fact that the dates were laid out in a unidirectional manner was important, serving to identify particular events within a given context of that which came before and after. Secondly, the forward movement of the past characterised history as progressive and nonrepeatable. The year 1944 was established as important in part because it was set within a broader context of the whole of Bulgarian history, as the final period in a list which began with the foundation of the country in 681; 1944 was therefore constituted as the most recent event in a set of chronologically ordered epochs. It represented Bulgaria’s triumphant advancement into socialism and away from fascism-capitalism. As such 1944 was a pivotal point, the foundation for the future and the beginning of a new epoch in Bulgarian history, in much the same way that now 10 November 1989 is commemorated for its significance in the dawning of the postsocialist age. History thus involved not only the chronologicalisation of past events, but was also nonrepeatable. Although every historical act was a unique event, it was nevertheless presented as a continuation from that which had passed. In this sense, history was also an evolutionary process with one epoch developing out of another: socialism was perceived as the result of an accumulation of all that had come before in Bulgaria’s past. This process was understood to be irreversible (Zhivkov 1985a: 94–95) and a law-governed phenomenon of the socialist system (Zhivkov 1985a: 95). The evolutionary character of history that was echoed in local renditions of history (see, for example, Appendix 1) was reiterated on numerous occasions by Zhivkov. For example, in taking stock of Bulgaria’s thirteen centuries of historical development, Zhivkov noted that the ‘…Past, present and future converge as in a focus in contemporary socialist Bulgaria. Contemporary socialist Bulgaria is the crown of the 1300 year long development of our state’ (1981: 28), and eight years later he summarised the 63

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period in the following way: ‘The years of socialism are the most fruitful period in our ages-long old development’ (1989: 14). Finally, history had an ultimate goal – communism – and this constitutes the fourth dimension of linearity. Socialism was understood only in terms of this goal: ‘Today our main task is to complete the building of socialist society and in future to create economic, as well as cultural and ideological prerequisites for a gradual transition to communist construction’ (Zhivkov 1985a: 107). Building a socialist society was seen as a necessary step towards the development of the realisation of a communist future. Speaking on the occasion of the 1300 anniversary of the founding of the Bulgarian state, Zhivkov gave this goal a time framework: he forecast that ‘…we see the 14th century of Bulgaria as an age of communism, as a complete triumph of freedom, fraternity, equality, happiness and beauty’ (1981: 29). Communism was not only the (moral) goal of Bulgarian history, but of the history of all humankind.7 Socialist countries, by virtue of the fact they were viewed as more historically progressive than capitalist ones, were leaders in attaining this historical goal. Thus with typical ideological fervour Zhivkov claims that Bulgaria, along with other socialist states, was led ‘…by the great Soviet Union, [which] blazes the trail to communism for entire mankind’ (1985a: 101). History was therefore also future-oriented, its goal characterising it as teleological. Phrases used in local historical speeches such as ‘the development of Bulgaria’ and ‘future progress’, ‘spoke to’ a projected future, the country’s advancement in terms of the anticipated goal of communism. The above four characteristics – (1) an evolutionary process, made up of (2) chronologically ordered events in a (3) forward-moving direction that had a (4) future-designated, purposeful goal (teleological) – all contributed to the significance of history’s linear nature. The linearity of this history was perhaps best viewed in terms of the metaphor frequently used in renditions of history (again see Appendix 1) as a ‘road’ which linked the past to the present in a particular way. The road led away from one place – fascism-capitalism (notably the two terms were often interlinked) – and towards a particular destination, communism. This destination attributed the road with a purpose, namely the ‘realisation of Marxist-Leninist ideals’. A Bulgarian Marxist-Leninist version of history served as a blueprint for the state’s political, economic and social transformation.

Politics and History Much of the discussion above, which outlines some of the most striking characteristics of history, resonates with points already made in the previous chapter, where the ‘model villagers’ were displaying their acquiescence to state ideology. The parallels are perhaps unsurprising given that history provided justification for the developmental programme which was set and monopolised by members 64

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of the Communist Party.8 Precisely because history was a construction of the past that embodied state values, it was also a sought-after ‘resource’. Those wishing to develop their political careers vied for a place in history. In the rendition of history given at the 9 September celebration, 1944 was constructed as a moral and teleological point of reference and given a privileged position. Such historical celebrations provided opportunities for some villagers to cultivate personal associations with this legitimate state-approved past. History was therefore linked to certain villagers, those who, noncoincidentally, were contemporary political figures. The connection between these two factors – the elevation of some past events over others and the possibility for villagers to align themselves with history – suggests the most important characteristic of history: its relationship to political activity.9 It is this relationship which appears specific to a socialist context. For while relations which were perceived to contribute to the development of the state and its goal can be seen as politically driven, much of this type of political activity is pertinent to power relations in any state. In a specifically socialist context, political activity was based on legitimating one’s relationship to history (to a particular past). Politics was historically directioned activity. It is this feature to which I wish to give particular attention below: political activity was oriented in terms of the valuation of some historical events over others. When individuals linked themselves to historical activities associated with the advent of the socialist state in 1944, they were acting politically. This is also true for the organs which constituted the state structure: each agency – the Party, Village Council and others – was located in a particular way to history (based on its role in the past), which determined and legitimated its role in state socialism.

Political institutions I begin by focusing on the various officials involved in the 9 September celebration, and the role they played as representatives of particular institutions. In Chapter 2 political institutions were shown to have set functions in the furthering of state goals. The Communist Party held the leading role in the state structure. The relation of the Party to history was one legitimated through its alignment with the working class who held a privileged position in history, which was to realise the destiny of humanity. While the working class was in this sense the privileged social group, the Party, by virtue of the fact that it led the working class, was the most historically important body. The Party was entrusted with the responsibility of interpreting and translating the historical significance of the past, present and future.10 The way in which Comrade Pashev participated in the 9 September celebration indicated the Party’s leading association to history as the sole agency that could claim to have brought about state socialism. Comrade Pashev’s role in the celebra65

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tion reflected the Party’s privileged location with respect to 1944 events; he introduced the speakers, so ‘guiding’ the proceedings from beginning to end, directing the event and all the other state officials involved in the proceedings. Such a role indicated Comrade Pashev’s wide powers in determining all aspects of socialist life and leadership over all other local organs of the state, a right that was his according to state ideology (Zhivkov 1969: 537; 1986b: 306–7). It was a role I witnessed him fulfilling on numerous occasions, not only during formal celebrations such as 9 September, but in less structured events such as during lectures given by guest speakers. In a history that gave greatest emphasis to the period and events surrounding the advent of socialism, the Village Council was presented as playing a comparatively minor role. The extent of the Mayor’s participation in the 9 September celebration was restricted to the acceptance of the recently won ‘Model Village’ award on behalf of the village. This duty appears rather trivial given the Council’s designated function as coordinator of different fields of activity within the village territory and administrator of the Party’s directives. But despite the Village Council’s minor role at the 9 September celebration, there were indications that the Council was a player of consequence throughout the Second World War period. During an informal conversation with Comrade Pashev, he boasted that Talpa had never elected a fascist mayor, not even during the War. We can therefore suspect that the institution actively supported the struggle against fascism during the Second World War. However, the contemporary Mayor, the 36-year-old Boian (who was too young to remember, let alone have participated in the war), did not try to establish his political authority in any autonomous sense. Instead his powers were based on his support for Comrade Pashev (the following chapter expands on this aspect). In Talpa, at least in the mid-1980s, the Mayor’s political authority was subsumed in that of the more powerful Party. If the Council played a more important historical role than is reflected in contemporary times, it was because the organisation lacked a senior Party member able to counter other members’ strong hold over history. The head of the Fatherland Front, Novikov, presented the main speech at the 9 September celebration. As the organisation representing the working people, this was a recognition of the people’s – Party and non-Party – fundamental role in the historical development of the socialist state. Novikov discussed history using possessive terms such as ‘our history’ thus helping to emphasise the important role of ‘the people’ in the past. However, as with the Village Council, the Fatherland Front also played second, if not third, fiddle to the Party. Novikov used his prominence in the event to reinforce the Party’s supremacy in history. He made it clear that the Fatherland Front was not formed until 1944, and again that it was the Party that ‘…aimed at overthrowing fascism and establishing the Fatherland Front.’ The Fatherland Front, in other words, existed only as a consequence of the Party’s successful 66

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campaign against the fascists. In Talpa at least, no other state agency shared the glory of overthrowing the fascists and bringing about state socialism, an achievement apparently accomplished single-handedly by the Party. In this way the Fatherland Front’s role in Talpa was subsumed in that of the Party. This was reinforced by Comrade Pashev, in his introductory remarks, when he spoke of the Party as having ‘…established the Fatherland Front in Talpa…’ while emphasising that it was the Party (rather than any other body) that overthrew fascism: ‘It has been 43 years since …the success of the Communist Party over fascism’. Novikov gave his full support to this historical interpretation. The TKZC had even weaker links to the historically significant events of 1944, for it was founded in Talpa in 1947. It was therefore the least historically significant of all the institutions. However, while it did not play a direct role in bringing about state socialism, it did have contemporary historical relevance on the basis of its central importance in productive activities. As noted in Chapter 2, the TKZC dominated village relations of production; it was state-run, technologically based and reflected a class of cooperative workers who, through the development and use of a technical form of agriculture, were believed to be moving steadily towards a form of production unified to working-class interests. It was for this reason in the 9 September celebrations that TKZC workers most active in the development of historical goals, and in decreasing the distance between the two classes through high productivity levels, were given monetary prizes. It was in recognition of their important role in present and future state goals that the ‘leading workers’ were rewarded, rather than on any contribution made to the privileged period in history. The Party, Village Council, Fatherland Front and TKZC, and the individuals who served in the respective organisations, represented distinctive relations to the rendition of history advocated in the 9 September celebration. This was reflected in their diverse ceremonial roles. While different celebrations called into play different institutions, the relationship between them, identified above, changed little. The institutions – which essentially delineated the boundary around state-legitimated political activity – were political precisely because of their established relationship to history. Every institution had a certain role, a designated function in contributing to the realisation of historical goals, which depended upon how closely it was aligned to the history which gave greatest importance to the Second World War period. The four institutions thus represented four differing relationships to history. The Party held the most politically powerful position, legitimated in terms of its leading role in 1944 activities. The Village Council had a subordinate role, accessing political power through its connections to the Party. It coordinated Party policies and was responsible for their implementation. The village Fatherland Front played no role in the morally and teleologically most valued historical events, its contribution to history being limited to mass involve67

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ment of the people in historical goals after 1944; it was therefore less politically significant than the above two organisations, but more so than the TKZC. The Agricultural Cooperative, which was founded in 1947, had no close historical links to that period. Any power it held was justified in terms of present and future contributions to state goals rather than on the basis of past acts aimed at bringing about socialism. It therefore had relatively weak powers in comparison with the other institutions. Individuals were located in slightly differing relations to history, depending on the institution to which they belonged. An individual’s specific relationship to history was made concrete in terms of his/her membership and involvement in a particular state organisation. The institution to which an individual was aligned determined the permissible limits of his/her political activity. These relations constituted the formalised aspect of socialist village political structure.

History – a political resource In focusing on political activity as emerging from villagers’ differing relations to the 1944 historical past, I have moved away from the strict association of politics with institutional activity. Since political institutions were valued in terms of their perceived role in history, an individual’s position within any particular institution reflected his/her legitimate relationship to the historical past. A consequence of this is that political careers were made or broken through an individual’s involvement in history. Thus for an individual to move between institutions or advance up the political hierarchy, a renegotiation of his/her relationship to history was necessary. Comrade Pashev’s situation provides one instance of how political success and movement up and down the career ladder were dependent on an individual’s established relationship to history. Comrade Pashev’s position as Party leader was an explicit statement of his close association to history. And the 73-year-old reinforced his position every time he told stories about his own involvement in anti-fascist activities during the Second World War, how he placed his home and life at risk when providing a sanctuary for partisans. In this way he promoted and reinforced his association with history. The smallest prompt would trigger a story. I recall one night driving home from a meeting in Nekilva with Comrade Pashev as my passenger. Part of the eight kilometre drive took us through a small forested area that separated the town from Talpa. This provided him with an opportunity, as we passed a particular place in the road, to recall a war story of how with two others from the village he had quietly slipped away to this place in the forest in order to meet a couple of partisans and escort them safely to the next village, despite the forest being guarded by the fascist police. In the same 68

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way, at public meetings Comrade Pashev would take every opportunity to recall heroic war deeds and recount personal anecdotes. Often he used quotes from Zhivkov’s works to reinforce his points or even retold parts of conversations he had had with the nation’s leader during the latter’s previous trips to Talpa. It was precisely through his connections with higher-ranking officials that Comrade Pashev was able to secure resources for the village. Few would dispute his crucial contribution to making Talpa ‘a model village’ through obtaining materials necessary for the village improvements. When a centralised bureaucracy demanded long waiting times for resources – some of which were in deficit – direct connections to officials outside the village was an invaluable asset. Successful attainment of resources, in turn, helped to legitimate his leadership position in the village. Little wonder then that any information leading to a questioning of Comrade Pashev’s role in history – especially if the information came from a senior Party figure – would pose a threat to his position. In 1987, a copy of the book entitled Slaveite Otletiakha s Obgoreni Krila (i.e. Reputations have Flown with Scorched Wings, Khristov 1986) was circulated in the village. With some glee, lelia Maria obtained it for a short period before passing it on to another curious villager. The book had become infamous thanks to an anonymous letter sent to the Talpian Communist Party. The letter simply brought the book to the attention of the Party branch, advising them to refer to page 111. With lelia Maria, I sought out the page in question and found that the author described some of the anti-fascist activities in which he was involved during the Second World War in the villages neighbouring and including Talpa.11 He wrote: ‘…With Khristo Kantev we met with the Party and Young Communist League leaders in Rachesev, Talpa, Vokersh and Voshiv. Everywhere the comrades accepted the Party line for the visionary uprising and worked towards the distribution of weapons, training, food…The population became determined not to surrender to officials of the fascist power. We experienced certain problems in Talpa with one of the communists – Comrade Tsoniu Pashev – who had the authority, but was not agreeable to pass on to armed battle. On a number of occasions we contacted him, but he declined to be involved. He was afraid. The work in Talpa was carried out by the younger communists – Kotov, Dimov, Khristo Ivankov and his communist father, who was steeled in life’s experiences’ (Khristov 1986).12

This was the only passage in the book that mentioned Comrade Pashev, nevertheless the repercussions were considerable. Derisive comments were made behind his back by some village Party members, including lelia Tsela, who ridiculed him for his ‘brave’ anti-fascist activities. Rumours circulated about how Comrade Pashev had tried everything to stop the distribution of the book. He was said to have unsuccessfully taken legal action against the author, in order to halt publication. Later, he was rumoured to have bought out all 69

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the copies of the book in the nearby township of Nekilva, in order to stop others in the district having access to them! The single volume circulating in Talpa indicated that perhaps he had some measure of success in controlling the distribution of copies. Comrade Pashev’s response was to write his own book about the history of the Party in the village, which would include an account of his own heroic contribution to the war against fascism and assistance in bringing about the socialist state. At the time of my fieldwork, he was collecting material for the proposed book. He never discussed the Khristov book with me; but one morning as we sat in one of the Chitalishte meeting rooms, Comrade Pashev made clear his own intentions to publish. He said he had contacted twenty-six people with whom he was involved in anti-fascist activities before 1944, inviting them to send written responses about their experiences together, what had happened and how he had helped them. To date Comrade Pashev had received replies from one-half of them. He opened his briefcase and pulled out one of the letters, from a man who was currently a General in the army. The letter, from which Comrade Pashev read, spoke of the General’s association with him during his time as a partisan and how in 1944 Comrade Pashev had assisted him, at great personal risk. Once all the information had been collected, Comrade Pashev told me, he planned to commission a writer to work on the manuscript. Soon after, in a chance gathering between lelia Tsela, a village ex-mayor and a neighbour who all happened to be at lelia Maria’s house one afternoon drinking coffee, the subject of Comrade Pashev’s book came up. Lelia Tsela had just returned from visiting Comrade Pashev. He had shown her the letters he was collecting. Lelia Tsela – whose relationship with Comrade Pashev was punctuated by regular public squabbles – told us that the documents proved nothing since no one would say anything bad, at least not in a letter addressed to him. She added that when she read the correspondence that was to be a primary source for the book, she noticed that the letters all highlighted his own activities. It angered her, she said, that the letters mentioned him and Rakov, but failed to acknowledge the activities of Panev, another local active fascist fighter, who was now dead. Lelia Tsela said she had asked Comrade Pashev why Panev’s contribution wasn’t acknowledged anywhere. Comrade Pashev had answered that he’d never said Panev hadn’t helped. ‘…But then,’ lelia Tsela commented dryly, ‘…Panev’s dead and so can not push his own interests..’. The time and energy Comrade Pashev devoted to quelling the accusations made by Khristov highlights the significance of the way in which someone was located in history. Since Comrade Pashev’s position as leader of the village Party was based on his close relationship to a history that gave greatest importance to pro-communist events during the Second World War, a questioning of his activities during this period posed a threat to his political position. The book threatened to damage his reputation, presenting him as a ‘coward’ and a noncooperative Party figure in the development of historical goals. Clearly 70

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it was of some importance to refute these claims. This he planned to do by documenting his own version of history; a version which, relying on past antifascist fighters who were now prominent national figures, would reiterate his brave and active role as a fighter against fascism. One published accusation may not have been enough to oust him from his leading Party position in Talpa, but it did weaken his ability to be an effectual leader to the extent that it undermined his reputation (see following section for an example). A series of such accusations could have resulted in his eventual demise as village Party leader. This was the type of opportunity that other local senior Party officials tried to take advantage of, in order to advance their own political careers. Indeed since a person must be able to display and validate her/his past as historical fact, much of the politicking that occurred in Talpa was aimed at gaining public acceptance of a certain past as history. A considerable amount of the political activity in the village was centred on claims and counter-claims about peoples’ involvement in the historical past. On rare occasions, such as with Comrade Pashev, this occurred through publications, but often within the village it took place in less formal ways. Undoubtedly, textualisation attributed greater authenticity to a particular rendition of history. Since all presses were government-owned, publications provided documented and state-authorised evidence of an individual’s role in history. From this perspective the book critical of Comrade Pashev’s past was particularly threatening; verbal accusations could always be disregarded as ‘hearsay’ and ‘rumour’, but printed material was ‘evidence’ which needed to be countered with other textual evidence. Further, the audience reached through publication was greater. So while both verbal and written communications were used by individuals to establish their own role in history and construct their past as historically significant, written texts were associated with a greater degree of legitimacy and authority. The contention of history via documented means raised the debate to a level of authenticity not present in situations relying solely on verbal communication. Nevertheless, everyday Chitalishte activities – meetings, gatherings – posed regular opportunities for political figures to publicly recall and recount their participation in history. In speeches given at meetings, villagers made verbal claims and reasserted their place in history. This was the most commonly pursued means by which an individual could construct her/his past as politically significant. Any occasion, from the casual gathering of friends to more formal village meetings, provided an opportunity for relating personal experiences and recounting brave and comradely deeds performed against the fascists. It allowed political figures to highlight or confirm their reputations and retell the great and glorious deeds of the Talpian Party and some of its members. Such public renditions of history provided the basis of village political interactions; as the participants located themselves in terms of the historical past, they reinforced if not enhanced their position in the political 71

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arena. Chitalishte functions offered opportunities for the names of individuals to be promoted and political careers to be enhanced. The effect of such political activity was to subject history to constant scrutiny and negotiation. A questioning of Comrade Pashev’s past was a threat to his political authority, because it raised doubts about the accuracy of those facts on which his position was based. When Khristov alleged that Comrade Pashev acted in a cowardly way, the allegation was backed up with names and places which were recounted in particular detail. This served, firstly, to contribute to the historical validity of the non-Talpian’s account as verifiable through factual detail, and secondly to establish the legitimation of the author in history, so bringing into question Comrade Pashev’s rendition of history. The competitiveness arising from such counter-versions of history led to a continual process of modification of the historical past. In striving to show their own individual past as politically significant (through, for example, receiving formal acknowledgement from the state via awards or having it published in a book), history was under negotiation. Should, for example, Comrade Pashev’s position in history lose credibility, reverberations would be felt throughout the political community. Indeed, the political authority of all individuals was under constant review as history was being refined. Usually the modifications to history were of minimal significance; small details were queried that did not inflict major changes on the central rendition.13 Despite the negotiable nature of history and its all-pervasiveness in society, history was a political resource that was not equally accessible to all. While the history celebrated publicly in the Chitalishte was in one sense available to all, it was not available to all in the same way; everyone could not establish equal relations to it. Anyone could participate in historical celebrations in a capacity as ‘audience’, but organisers, and those on the stage, held a privileged position. In the broadest sense, the arena of political activity in Talpa was defined in terms of Communist Party membership. While the four main organisations discussed above defined the extended boundary of all potential political actors in Talpa, it was Party membership that was the precondition to a villager’s public career. Membership allowed an individual to engage in historically oriented activity – that is, in politics. It did not, however, guarantee an individual’s political success. The Mayor and Novikov, both Party members but too young to have had any personal involvement in the events of 1944, negotiated their political positions by seeking patrons, such as Comrade Pashev, who were closely affiliated with the most significant rendition of history. Others, such as Comrade Pashev’s wife (also a Party member), chose not to publicise their own involvement in 1944 by publicly validating and advertising their anti-fascist activities. Those contemporaries of Comrade Pashev who had also been active in the 1944 period and who sought political power – Rakov, Mikanov, Matov – were involved in the negotiation and battle for enhancing their political status but, apart from Matov, head of the 72

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Chitalishte, they held no leading official posts. Their future political success depended on their ability to convince the public and Party of the nature of the significance of their involvement in history. Individual biographies played a vital role in how an individual could link him/herself to state history. In short, villagers were able to carve their political niches in different ways; this depended on having Party membership, on the nature of their relationship to history and on how and whether they publicised this relationship. Separable analytically, the political and historical domains of social life were indistinguishable in practice. The basis of political activity was that it depended on the fact that significant events from the past held relevance for socialist goals in the present and future. History was a political resource. At the same time political activity shaped history; it contributed to the selection of past ‘facts’ which gained legitimation as history. Thus political activity was the contemporary dimension of history, or more specifically, it was the contemporary relationships between people emerging from their particular relation to the historical past. That the village had no officially sanctioned history indicates both the different status accorded to written and verbal history, and the extent of the political manoeuvring that occurred in the village. On the occasion noted above when lelia Tsela was at lelia Maria’s house for afternoon coffee, and they were discussing Comrade Pashev’s proposed book, the discussion concluded with lelia Tsela saying ‘…that’s why they cannot get a history of the village published and haven’t been able to for the last 20 years. It is because those left alive are all trying to rise above the others and become more important.’ The only recorded history of the village was the study by Nedkov, a previous Chitalishte head and director of the school, completed in 1969. He was never accepted into the Party because of his questionable activities during the Second World War (as school principal he had carried out directives of the then fascist government), and he did not, therefore, have the authority to write an official history. On the other hand, Party figures had not authored a history because they could not reach a consensus concerning the true version of history – disagreements arose between individuals trying to establish their own role in the past as most significant. Lelia Maria added that other less progressive villages like the neighbouring town of Tevelak had written their history; however, in Talpa ‘…everyone pulls in different directions.’ Unlike other less politically active villages, in Talpa mutual agreement could not be reached as to the acceptable rendition of local history. As long as there was no officially agreed upon and recorded Talpian history, the past would continue to be openly debated by various figures who vied for greater political powers through legitimating their own past activities as historically significant. Indeed, much of the politicking in Talpa was dependent on such activities. However, textualisation of an ‘officially’ recorded history would 73

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not necessarily reduce the disputable nature of history – as we saw in the case of Comrade Pashev. It added a greater degree of factuality to one interpretation above another, elevating it to a different level of authority, but did not reduce the contentious nature of history (which constituted the basis of political factions in Talpa – Chapter 4).

A Moral History The building of socialism was represented as a moral project, one which aimed to realise nonexploitative relations between humankind. According to state ideology, the goal of history – communism – defined the need for a morality based on relations fundamentally egalitarian in nature (classless) and which avoided categorising humanity in religious or ethnic terms. Socialist morality conformed with a Marxist-Leninist agenda to bring about, in Verdery’s words, the ‘homogenisation of the social field’ (1996: 127). The idealised ‘new man’ was the well-rounded, historically aware individual who was fully committed to state goals through his/her family, career and public duties.14 The concern was to iron out a variety of socially divisive factors, constructing relations which strove to achieve equality in terms of class/gender/ethnicity/religion. But in this process other means of discrimination were placed in the foreground: those arising between figures distinguished in terms of their differing contributions to the development of socialism. In this context the Party’s monopoly of the historical project was also a monopoly on socialist notions of morality. As observed by Verdery (1996: 107): ‘While Communist Party leaders surely did not ignore technical questions, their first concern was to establish a monopoly on the definition of virtue, of purity, of social entitlement and obligation…And these concerns established the grounds for social and political action within the societies over which Communist Parties ruled’. Thus Party members were expected to be ‘more’ moral than non-Party villagers, and there was also a hierarchy within the Party itself, differing degrees of moral virtuousness being dependent on one’s seniority and ultimately, again, on one’s relations to history. It is this relationship between morality, politics and history which is examined below.

Morality and party membership Party membership carried with it moral responsibility. All Party members were expected to be morally exemplary figures, disciplined, honest, responsible, community-minded, and to have socialist interests at heart.15 Every new member was therefore carefully scrutinised for these qualities before being admitted into the Party. I witnessed the process in an open Party meeting in 74

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August 1987, when Kuna, a worker in the village post office, was accepted as a member. The Talpian Party had made careful enquiries about her past by contacting the village in southern Bulgaria where she was born (she had resettled in Talpa in 1973). The received reference was read out to the meeting; essentially a biography, it vouched for Kuna as a good citizen, describing her as a quiet and respectful person who was active in the Chitalishte and community life. It also noted that her family had no record of criminal arrests. An additional four references from Talpian Party members were also read to those present. These letters commented upon Kuna in the various capacities in which the authors knew her – including as next-door-neighbour, member of a vocal group and work colleague. The references emphasised her qualities as a good mother, someone who was a disciplined worker and performed well in collective activities. No direct reference was made to Kuna’s ethnic (Turkish) background, but her exemplary engagement in a variety of areas of society provided evidence that she placed her loyalties to the state before any allegiances to ethnic group. Tsela, the Party secretary, completed the proceedings by noting that the day before the meeting leading Party officials had met with Kuna in order to explain to her the new responsibilities which she would bear as a Party member. They believed the applicant had understood the implications of her position. The meeting then formally accepted her through a show of hands. The moral ‘vetting’ to which a member was subjected before being accepted into the Party was a double-sided coin. On the one hand, Party membership indicated moral superiority and this in turn justified the role of members as moral advisers (especially true of senior members). Party members were the state’s ‘crusaders’, with licence to preach moral correctness to citizens. The other side of the coin was that in making morality a public – state-controlled – concern, ‘the people’ were given a weapon with which to scrutinise, comment and make judgements upon their leaders.16 Party members were expected to behave in accordance with the standards advocated by the Party. Party seniority was a moral licence: both how much moral influence a particular individual could exercise over ‘the people’ and an indication of the degree of moral public accountability to which s/he was held. While the Party guided the people, its membership, especially the leaders, were held accountable through public opinion. The limitations placed on an individual’s political authority by his/her reputation, which in turn was dependent on his/her moral behaviour, can be seen in the following example. In the autumn of 1987, the TKZC experienced a shortage of grape pickers. Gradinarov’s unpopularity with a large section of the Talpian population meant that he was unable to rally enough voluntary village labour to assist in the picking. Since many villagers were unwilling to come to the assistance of the TKZC, Gradinarov was forced to appeal for help to the central village branch of the Communist Party, and to Comrade Pashev as its 75

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head. Comrade Pashev mobilised Party activists – assigned to every village neighbourhood – who were asked to knock on all doors in their respective streets and urge people to come and help with the picking. At a Party meeting called especially to try to speedily resolve the labour crisis, Comrade Pashev emphasised the urgency of the situation: 300 tonnes of grapes required harvesting before a heavy autumn rain fell and the weather turned cold, ruining the crop (over 600 tonnes had already been picked). Lelia Maria came home and informed me and our next-door-neighbours of what had occurred. At the meeting, Party activists reported the negative reactions that they had received from villagers. One woman, Kalinka, said that Gradinarov should go and tell people in her neighbourhood to work, because she was sick of knocking on doors trying to rally helpers and hearing the complaint that ‘Gradinarov has given wheat (used for hen food) and other animal feed to some people ‘‘for nothing’’ (actually 50 stotinki a kilogram17) and yet has turned others away and given them nothing. There’s none for anyone except ‘‘his people’’, so let ‘‘his people’’ go and pick’. This was a sentiment that was echoed by our next-door-neighbour, diado Dimiter, who said to lelia Maria, ‘if he wants any help with the grape picking, he should have thought about this before he refused me access to the wheat’. In short, villagers accused the head of the TKZC of extending privileges to some (ex)workers at the expense of others. Gradinarov was present at the meeting but ignored such criticisms, telling the Party members to stop such bickering and get on with resolving the problem. His dismissive attitude only inflamed the tempers of those present and other recriminations followed. The Mayor accused Gradinarov of paying some workers more than others, although all performed the same job. Gradinarov retorted that Boian had no right to interfere with how much he paid his workers. Comrade Pashev used moral arguments to try and persuade villagers to assist. He made appeals to people’s sense of communal interest, pleading with them to put aside their individual grievances so that the plan for the year could be met. He also used arguments underlying the importance of work and of discipline. Both were popular Party ‘lines’ of appeal.18 And thanks to him the situation was alleviated, with enough people mobilised in order that the harvest could occur at a faster pace and be completed before the weather changed. But even so the recriminations against Gradinarov continued. When a number of villagers met informally in the Chitalishte to report their results after the first day of voluntary help, Comrade Pashev complained to them, before Gradinarov had arrived, that ‘…the TKZC is like the times of feudalism, no one could get in or influence it, it is closed off from us.’19 It is in the different moral positions of the two men that we must look for reasons why people are willing to respond to Pashev’s rather than Gradinarov’s calls for assistance. Both had authority in their different political spheres but their reputations influenced the extent of these powers. Thus according to 76

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state ideology, Comrade Pashev had no legitimate authority over the TKZC – recall that this was the one place that the village Party head did not accompany the official guests during the ‘model village’ event. Comrade Pashev’s range of political influence was vertical, extending into higher echelons of the administrative hierarchy, rather than horizontal, penetrating or influencing local TKZC affairs. The TKZC was autonomous from the rest of the village, answerable only to the district and regional agro-industrial complexes (APK’s).20 Gradinarov held a powerful position in the village because he controlled the resources of the agricultural cooperative, on which all village households depended to varying degrees. However, when problems arose within the TKZC, workers were less likely to appeal to higher levels of the agricultural hierarchy (where Gradinarov would have some influence), or to Gradinarov himself, than to seek help from ‘outside’ avenues. Villagers turned to Pashev for justice because he was a leading figure in the village and, unlike Gradinarov, he was generally respected. The labour shortage at harvest time was a fine example of the significant differences in the way reputation and morality served to distinguish the two leaders. In exercising his moral influence, Pashev was able to succeed in resolving the labour crisis whereas Gradinarov was not. In fact there was no political figure in Talpa who was less respected than Gradinarov and he was often described as having no ‘chovechnost’ (humanity). Lelia Maria’s husband, who had been a TKZC worker, died in 1984 due to a stress-related illness, days after he had been sacked by Gradinarov for apparently not following the correct procedure in his work. I was told by Lelia that her husband, chicho (uncle) Peno, had refused to sign papers saying that cooperative funding had been used in an appropriate manner, when in actuality the resources had been channelled by Gradinarov for other irregular uses. This charge was privately backed up by other ex-TKZC workers. In response, the head of the TKZC had raked up some false charges in order to dismiss chicho Peno, and put one of ‘his people’ into the job. The dismissal followed soon after without the usual warning notifications. To lose one’s job in such a humiliating way was deeply distressing to chicho Peno who, lelia Maria told me, avoided walking through the central plaza on the way home from the TKZC because his shame was so great. Within ten days he had a stroke and died. In the years following her husband’s death, lelia Maria had sought to have the affair investigated by an ‘independent’ organisation which she hoped would clear her husband’s name, admit the irregularities in the dismissal procedure and remove Gradinarov from office. Her pursuit of justice had begun with Comrade Pashev and extended well beyond the village administrative boundaries. Many Party figures supported lelia Maria in this matter, including Comrade Pashev, who had, during one heated moment at a Party meeting, accused Gradinarov of being the ‘moral murderer’ of lelia Maria’s husband. On another occasion he apparently told lelia Maria that Gradinarov 77

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may have had a tertiary education but he had never learned how to be a human being: ‘toi ne e chovek’, that is, ‘he is not human’. Gradinarov’s position as head of the TKZC explained his weaker position in village politics. Nevertheless, it was his unequal treatment of his workers, leading to deep divisions both within and outside the TKZC, which ultimately made him a figure of questionable respect. From observation, Gradinarov’s primary concern appeared to be with production and the economic achievement of the TKZC – recall his comment at the Party meeting about ceasing the ‘bickering’ and focusing on the matter at hand, the picking of grapes. Yet this stance was an open affront to a state ideology which required that economic activity should be seen as part of a wider historical – moral – project. The view of lelia Maria and others was that Gradinarov had no scruples about how he carried out the functioning of the TKZC as long as the economic plan was realised.21 His interests were limited to the material development of the cooperative, which paid no homage to the moral responsibilities that Party membership or socialist ideology demanded. The internal TKZC divisions arising from such a morally devoid leadership were expressed in the annual cooperative meeting, held in March 1987. A visiting APK official from the district capital called for cooperative workers to work with a ‘collective’ spirit’. The comment from the first secretary of the BCP, also from Nekilva, was much more direct. He called for a stop to the obvious antagonisms between the two brigades – crop and animal cooperative workers: ‘The village isn’t big, let’s not have one side against another’. The factionalism Gradinarov created between villagers, the unequal distribution of TKZC resources and his favouritism of some workers, was at the root of his unpopularity. Such factionalism had repercussions well beyond the boundaries of the TKZC since all villagers were occupied with agricultural work – be it on their household plots or in the Agricultural Cooperative – and thus depended, to various degrees, on TKZC equipment and other resources, ultimately controlled by Gradinarov. It was Gradinarov’s openly divisive methods in the running of the Agricultural Cooperative which made him such an unpopular leader. Villagers did not hesitate to voice their disapproval of Gradinarov, publicly and privately. Disapproval was translated into a form of protest – withholding of labour. Since state ideology espoused the importance of mass participation in ‘building socialism’ – a theme raised in previous chapters – then the refusal to participate was a means of expressing dissatisfaction. During the model village event and Chitalishte Centennial (next chapter), for example, high attendance and participation suggested support for the socialist state. Participation also provided economic benefits since maintenance of the state economy depended in part on public consensus, through voluntary labour provided by its citizens. Lelia Maria’s refusal to sing in the vocal group, let alone conduct it, was her expression of protest over the frustration she’d 78

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had in clearing her husband’s name. At numerous requests from both Pashev brothers to return to the vocal group, she’d smile and say ‘since the death of my husband I just don’t have the heart to sing’, clearly indicating her disillusionment arising from her fruitless struggle for justice. Talpians’ refusal to help pick grapes was another example of how the socialist system was dependent on public involvement – since the 1970s Bulgaria faced major problems relating to the shortage of labour. Villagers could ‘hold to ransom’ Gradinarov and the whole economic success of the TKZC through their withholding of labour. (The lack of tertiary-educated agriculturists was also the reason Gradinarov managed to retain his position in the face of so much opposition. In fact at the 1987 TKZC meeting at which Gradinarov was reelected for another term, officials made it clear to unhappy workers that there were no other specialists available in the region who could be put forward as alternative candidates.) Villagers’ participation, so vital to a wide range of Talpian functions, was given on the basis of moral respect for their political leaders. No amount of authority, unless it was accompanied by respect – or the promise of payment in terms of certain resources or future favours – could induce voluntary involvement by villagers. Apart from protest through nonparticipation, the other avenue available to villagers was appeal to Comrade Pashev. In taking steps to clear her deceased husband’s name, lelia Maria initially sought the assistance of Comrade Pashev. In the course of the following few years, as she extended her pursuit for justice to higher authorities, Comrade Pashev was always kept informed and involved in the process. Ironically, Gradinarov also solicited Comrade Pashev’s help to mobilise volunteer labour, something he himself had not been able to do because of the resentment of many villagers towards him and his own lack of respect within the community. In this particular instance, the wastage of hundreds of tonnes of grapes was avoided. The degree of authority and respect held by Pashev was indicated by the phrase villagers used to refer to him – ‘vazhen chovek’, that is, an ‘important man’. This term indicated his status both in terms of extent of power as leader of the village Party and as a moral evaluation. As Party leader and activist in the advent of state socialism, he was assumed to be a model citizen, matchless in socialist virtues. Recall at the 9 September celebrations Novikov’s description of those involved in fighting the fascists as ‘…heroes and an example to future generations of socialists.’ It quite plainly located these people as outstanding moral figures, their past acts having been immortalised and embedded in terms of national ideals for a communist future. The degree of respect Comrade Pashev held in the village is indicated by the fact that villagers from all sectors of society turned to Pashev, rather than to any other Talpian, when needing assistance. The Party leader’s position gave him licence to preach moral guidance, to promote moral standards and rules of politeness. Comrade Pashev often spoke 79

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out in meetings about moral weaknesses in the population at large or those in particular individuals. In rare instances, other Party figures such as Comrade Pashev’s wife, Rakov and a few others, would also publicly express their views on moral topics, but usually in support of Comrade Pashev. The ‘sermons’ given by Comrade Pashev covered a wide range of matters, from family issues to basic rules of courtesy towards strangers. For example, at the Annual Meeting of the Village Council in March 1987, Comrade Pashev criticised the rude and ‘backward’ behaviour of those villagers who answered their telephones with ‘Who is it?’ or an even more slang version of just ‘Who?’. Instead, Comrade Pashev instructed, it was correct to answer the phone by saying ‘Who is it, please?’. In the same vein, he advised people that when they have issues to raise with him or others, or wish to ask questions, to do so by all means, but not to shout them across the plaza in a rude way – instead, to come and ask them in a civil manner. In this way, mutual respect when dealing with others was raised as part of a socialist moral concern. That Comrade Pashev was the only one in the village in a position to lecture on morality, revealed the considerable amount of respect he held as an ‘important man’. It also underlines a moral dimension of the paternalistic relationship between the Party and the people, the Party as a ‘father’ figure (Verdery 1996: 66). However, Comrade Pashev’s moral licence also included strict restraints on his own conduct – he could not afford to be seen acting in a way contrary to the principles he publicly espoused. Several times his behaviour aroused criticism. On one occasion when a few neighbours (including Tsela) had gathered at lelia Maria’s house to drink coffee, they spoke critically about the way in which Comrade Pashev treated his brother, Andre Pashev. When his younger brother returned to Talpa to retire after a musical career which took him to play with symphony orchestras in socialist countries as far away as Cuba, he was not accommodated in the family home but forced to board elsewhere. This caused much commentary – gossip – during discussions amongst villagers, including the one noted here.22 The conclusion was that it was ‘shameful’ that Tsoniu could not find Andre a room in the family home. Tsela voiced a view with which everyone else seated around the coffee table agreed, when she said that it ‘…just shows that Comrade Tsoniu Pashev is not a true communist, even though years ago I remember him making a speech that everyone should give as much as possible and that money was not important’. (The meaning of ‘true communist’ is discussed below.) In this instance, at least, Comrade Pashev was not seen to comply with the ideals of socialist morality. This lack of generosity and hospitality towards his brother was noted on a number of occasions. Ultimately the criticisms arose from the discrepancy between his actions and the values he publicly espoused. Comrade Pashev’s imperfect moral character limited his political powers. In explaining why he had not supported her in front of a Veliko Turnovo commission sent to investigate the events leading up to the death of her 80

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husband, lelia Maria pointed out that he was powerless to act on her behalf because his Sofia-residing son had recently left his wife and children for another woman. Divorce proceedings were in progress. Both Comrade Pashev and his wife (Velcheeva) were not happy about their son’s actions but could do nothing to convince him to return to his family, despite their best attempts. The dilemma they were faced with was that to uphold a socialist morality which gave primary consideration to the family, Comrade Pashev and Velcheeva would have to take the side of the daughter-in-law. To do so, however, would strain relations with their son. Nevertheless, Comrade Pashev and his wife did support the daughter-in-law and children, not only in words but also in conveying ownership of the Sofian apartment to them, leaving their son without his inheritance.23 As an ‘important man’, all dimensions of Comrade Pashev’s life were a matter for public scrutiny. Every aspect of his personal and public life was a matter for public comment – his actions were weighed up against the views he expressed as Party leader and were sometimes found wanting. It was extremely rare that a political leader was viewed as a ‘true communist’. The only person whom I heard addressed in this way was Arian Pashev, uncle to the Pashev brothers. Because Arian Pashev died in early 1987 at the age of 92 and had spent the winter with his family in Sofia, I did not have the opportunity of meeting him. However, he was well known throughout the village as a morally exemplary figure. Although his formal education stopped when he was in fourth grade, as a ‘true communist’, Arian Pashev was seen as a socially active and aware man, compassionate, considerate to other people, honest, responsible, someone who had demonstrated that he held the ideals of communism above individual and monetary concerns. He had been an active figure in the anti-fascist uprisings of both the 1920s and 1940s (and had been imprisoned for his activities) but he lacked neither compassion nor fairness in his pursuit for reparation after 1944. Village stories about him emphasised these qualities. For example, lelia Maria explained how at his own peril, diado Arian (as he was affectionately known) had saved the village priest from being tried in court for fascist activities after the Communist Party took power in 1944. His ties to history were considerably more politically significant than those of most other village Party members, including the current head, his nephew Comrade T. Pashev. After 1944, Arian Pashev became the village mayor for a short period before quickly moving up the hierarchy, eventually being made a federal minister in Sofia. Lelia Maria claimed that he was one of the ‘…few people you can call a true communist; all, including myself, are Party members but are not real communists.’ She went on to acknowledge that while Party members verbally supported socialist ideals, few reached such a high standard of morality in their own lives. Indeed most Party figures, even those at the highest levels of the Party and administration, were not referred to as ‘true communists’. Rather the term 81

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used was ‘goliam chovek’ or ‘golemets’, that is ‘great man’ – a term which located the individual somewhere between an ‘important man’ and ‘true communist’. ‘Great man’ was a political term reserved for those well above Comrade Pashev in stature, both in range of powers and in moral terms. Federal government ministers – such as Zhivkov and his fellow ministers – were described as ‘great men’; they were outstanding figures, yet not equal to ‘true communists’. The difference between a ‘great’ and an ‘important man’ was a matter of degree. In terms of state structure, ‘great men’ had political authority which extended to the national level; this paralleled the extent of their moral influence. ‘Important men’, while having some influence outside the village, were restricted in their political and moral leadership to district and possibly regional boundaries. Comrade Pashev may have had friends at higher levels of the administrative hierarchy, made during his years of diplomatic service, but these connections didn’t constitute an everyday resource for him. When villagers referred to Comrade Pashev as an ‘important man’, they were recognising his relatively significant powers in the village and limited authority beyond. It was also an acknowledgement that there were others who had greater political and moral powers. Thus a moral hierarchy existed between Party leaders, ordinary Party members and non-Party villagers. The closer an individual’s relation to history, the higher was his/her position in the administrative/Party structure and correspondingly the greater the degree of publicly wielded moral influence. The expectation of moral responsibility that accompanied a political position of authority, or a commitment to history, was not always borne out in practice. Gradinarov had less respect amongst villagers and correspondingly his authority had a narrower range than that of Pashev, which is precisely why the issue of labour shortage became an issue in the first place. It also explains why Gradinarov turned to Pashev for a resolution. It is hard to ascertain whether people were genuinely committed to the ideology of the common good, work and discipline; that is, by the moral arguments used by Comrade Pashev. It is just as likely that villagers were drawn to the opportunities they could gain from agreeing to help – Comrade Pashev had connections to officials outside Talpa as well as a privileged position within the village and was therefore well placed to make promises of future favours. With his direct control over agricultural resources and the knowledge that his job was secure, Gradinarov seemed unconcerned by his morally negative reputation. On the other hand, Comrade Pashev, holding down the sought-after position of Party leader, was both more restrained by socialist morality and had a greater degree of influence because of this. It was therefore more important for him to maintain appearances as being morally beyond reprehension. 82

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Keeping up appearances To maintain their leading positions, Party members had to be seen to conform to the moral standards of the socialist system – even if privately they transgressed this order – in much the same way that the village had to be ‘model’ especially on public occasions when it was under particular scrutiny. In the winter of 1987, I went with lelia Maria to the neighbouring village of Rachesev (four kilometres east of Talpa and also a ‘model village’) to visit a dressmaker who was making some minor adjustments to a dress of Lelia’s. She told us that their village Party secretary was being removed from his position because he had too many lovers. ‘Which is OK’, said the dressmaker, to which lelia Maria nodded in agreement ‘…if you do it discreetly, but he doesn’t and as Party secretary you’re supposed to be a good example to others. There’s twothree people in particular who want him out and will probably succeed on this basis’. The conversation shifted to a neighbour of lelia Maria’s who worked in Talpa’s post office as a telephone technician and was also involved in various extramarital affairs. The discussion formed a particularly valuable comparison because of the technician’s non-Party status. The middle-aged man, responsible also for the phones in Rachesev, had been called to fix the dressmaker’s phone. She informed us that the technician’s girlfriend picked him up in the car when he had finished the task. ‘True,’ added lelia Maria ‘Georgi doesn’t hide the fact that he has lovers. They say that between 40 and 50 years you go through a second youth. I’ve passed mine and didn’t make the most of it at the time, now it’s too late!’. Both women laughed.24 Party leaders were expected to be seen to conform to socialist morality; the activities of ordinary Party members were less subject to such a high degree of public scrutiny; whereas non-Party individuals’ behaviour was judged to an even lesser degree by it. Kuna, the post office worker noted earlier in this chapter, had had an extramarital affair some months before her acceptance into the Party. While a temporary source of gossip in the village, placing her at some risk of being discovered by her husband, the affair did not damage her long-term ambition of entry into the Party. Had the event occurred once she became a member, it may have had greater repercussions – if the extramarital affair was made public it would run counter to her reputation as ‘a good mother’ and wife. In a similar way, the sexual liaisons of the Rachesev Party secretary could not be overlooked; his indiscreet behaviour openly transgressed the socialist moral order and was an affront to state ideology which placed high value on mutual respect between family members and the importance of the family in socialist society. In addition, as a senior Party figure he exposed himself to criticism from his competitors, thus weakening his position with respect to those anxious to pursue their own political ambitions. Georgi, on the other hand, as a non-Party figure, was allowed to openly continue his affairs. 83

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The example of adultery underlines a point that can be extended to all morally charged situations: diversions from socialist ideology were tolerated as long as they were carried out discreetly. The situation of Gradinarov was unusual; he was not discreet in his divisive methods of running the cooperative yet he managed to retain his position as TKZC head, a situation that can be attributed to the shortage of tertiary-educated specialists in the agricultural domain. Under normal circumstances, however, an individual guilty of openly transgressing the moral order would be sacrificed in the name of upholding socialist ideology. Appearances had to be maintained at all costs.

An evolving morality When we consider the terms – ‘true communist’, ‘great’ and ‘important man’ or ‘no humanity’ – in relation to each other, they must be understood within the context of a Bulgarian Marxist-Leninist history and can be equated to certain ‘moments’ or stages within such a historical framework. The terms constituted a moral judgement upon state officials; a public evaluation of the nature of their humanness. Thus at one extreme was the ‘true communist’, whose activities reinforced social cohesion – contributing to a classless society where gender, ethnic and other divisions were eliminated. Such a figure represented, in idealised form, the teleological goal towards which all political activists and society should be moving. Judging from the rarity with which this term was applied, villagers clearly did not believe many such progressive figures existed. At the other extreme was someone who lacked humanity. This represented an undesirable state in a developing socialist society; an individual who had ‘no humanity’ embodied those qualities, such as being socially divisive, which must be seen to be overcome in an attempt to achieve the communist ideal. Recall the association of Gradinarov with the period of ‘feudalism’ – as an indication of how his contemporary behaviour was evaluated within the historical framework. Through such references, Gradinarov was associated with a regressive stage of history, that from which socialism had developed. The term, ‘true communist’, thus represented the historical stage of communism; while ‘no humanity’ depicted a more backward stage from which humanity was evolving. As a ‘true communist’ provided a living model of the individual in a future communist society, so ‘no-humanity’ provided an exemplar of the past and that from which communism must grow. The other two terms, ‘important man’ and ‘great man’, characterised the stage of development somewhere between the two extremes. To different degrees, both terms implied a tainting of the most exemplary position; reflecting the situation of most of the Party leaders and perhaps typifying the socialist stage of development in which Bulgarians situated themselves at that time. 84

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Socialist morality was constituted in terms of an individual’s commitment to state historical goals. Again, as in the case of political authority, morality was given legitimation in terms of Party membership. The ‘zone’ or limits of a political figure’s authority was dependent upon the degree of moral respect attributed to an individual. Those without Party membership were considered a-moral, outside the politicised space which constituted the legitimate boundary of socialist morality. Non-Party individuals may therefore have required guidance and education from the political leadership, but at the same time their position provided them with a degree of freedom from public judgement if not scrutiny. Party members, on the other hand, were carriers of moral significance, but not necessarily evaluated in positive terms. Instead, political figures could occupy moral spaces anywhere along the spectrum, from immoral figures, represented temporally with the backward feudal past, to those with virtuous reputations that were reflected by ‘true communists’ portraying a future age. The four terms delineated the limits of a socialist moral order – specifying ‘humanness’ through activities which were intricately linked to an individual’s political position and valued in terms of a historical framework. In this way notions of humanness were focused away from distinctions based on gender, religion or class, and oriented in terms of relations to state historical goals. The measure of morality was engagement in historical goals. In attributing value and worth to individuals in this way, it was not only places and time, but also people themselves who became vessels through which state ideology was reinforced.

NOTES 1. Binns (1979: 601) writes that Lenin’s mausoleum in Moscow was a ‘national shrine’ while its deceased occupant was the central symbol permeating all national ceremonies. A similar comment seems valid for Dimitrov’s mausoleum in Sofia. 2. Holding the celebration the night before the nineth allowed villagers, for example Pashev, to attend celebrations the following day in Nekilva. 3. This type of ceremonial originated in the USSR in the 1920s, where evenings commencing with an official part – speeches – would be followed by an ‘artistic’ programme, usually presented by amateurs (Binns 1979: 593). 4. In Talpa the Chitalishte (from the verb ‘cheta’ = to read) was founded in 1887 – nine years after independence from the Turks – and named ‘Napredak’, that is ‘Progress’. The fact that as early as 1897 the portraits of Marx and Engels were hung in the building (Nedkov 1969: 20) attests to the long and close political affiliations between the Chitalishte and left-wing politics. It was an alliance that was strengthened throughout the twentieth century.

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Who Owns the Past? 5. Apart from the Communist Party, a second party also existed during the socialist period: the BZNC (Bulgarian Agrarian National Union). The latter always played second fiddle to the former. In Talpa most of the forty-odd BZNC members were Agricultural Cooperative workers. 6. This pedigree starts with Blagoev who is recognised as founding the first Bulgarian Marxist group; his followers took part in the Russian uprising against tsarism in 1905 and again in the October Revolution in 1917. From this period, the form of Marxism-Leninism advocated by the Bulgarian Communist Party was specifically identified with Bolshevism (Dimitrov 1938: 276). The close links between the Bulgarian socialist movement and Russia were continued in the early to mid-twentieth century by Georgi Dimitrov, who spent a large number of his exiled years before the Second World War in Russia. He headed the Communist International during the period 1935–43 and in 1944 became the first leader of the new Bulgarian socialist state. A number of temporary leaders filled the top state position after Dimitrov’s death until the mid-1950s, before Zhivkov gained the Bulgarian leadership and portrayed himself as a close follower and disciple of Dimitrov. Zhivkov took charge of the interpretation and development of Dimitrov’s plans for the future of the socialist state (see especially Zhivkov 1982 and 1985b). The Lenin-Blagoev-Dimitrov-Zhivkov lineage denotes the Bulgarian path of Marxism-Leninism. Successful in merging personal history with state history, Comrade Pashev represented the local and contemporary end of a long line of succession of Bulgarian Communist leaders that led directly to Lenin and therefore to the Russian roots of Marxism-Leninism. (In passing, we note that Eissenstat revealed a similar political lineage in the Soviet Union; where Stalin legitimated his ruling position by “…posing as Lenin’s chosen successor…”(1971: 238) and then after 1956 and his fall from grace, all subsequent Soviet leaders portrayed themselves as being in a direct line of succession from Lenin (1971: 239)). See Kaneff 2002a for a more detailed account of the symbolic significance of the fictive ties of kinship between political leaders. 7. Zhivkov writes: ‘Today there is no worthier, no richer or greater ideal for the working people, for youth, not only in our country, but round the globe than communism’ (1985a: 123), a goal which was thought to be ‘…most humane, [a] most lofty ideal in the history of mankind…’ (1985a: 131). 8. In thinking about historical celebrations I find it useful to recall Handelman’s typology of events of presentation. Parallels exist to the extent that history is also associated with modern bureaucratic states (1990: 77), characterised by orderliness (41) with no internal contradictions (45), instead displaying overwhelming consistency (43). As with the Israeli ceremonies discussed by Handelman, the Bulgarian celebrations were also an artefact of deliberate design (1990: 194) concerned with self-legitimation and self-reflection, and about how the nation-state, through its leadership, perceived itself (1990: 211). 9. In a general way Binns recognises the link between history and politics when he writes of the official Soviet ceremonies: ‘…their ‘overt’ message is linked with the policies of the government…their ‘covert’ message reveals changing power and status relationships…’ (1979: 585). In respect to the ‘covert’ message, he is referring to the effect a change in leadership, for example from Lenin to Stalin, can have in ceremonial performance and not, as is my interest, in the locallevel pursuit of political ambitions. 10. The Party’s task was to ‘…theoretically sum up and give meaning to the historical experience of the past and of the present and also discover future trends…’ (Zhivkov 1985b: 188). 11. Translations from this book are my own; the names of people and places have been changed in an attempt to maintain the anonymity of Talpians. 12. According to lelia Maria, both Dimov and Ivankov were currently employed in high-level administrative positions in Sofia. 13. On a more speculative level: one apparent exception seems to have occurred after the death of Stalin, when a major rewriting of history took place across Eastern Europe, including Bulgaria. Such a redefinition, rather than refinement of history, explains the turmoil which occurred at the

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14.

15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22.

23.

24.

time, as political figures who had found prominence in a Stalinist history became politically impotent while other historical figures rose to prominence. Of the ‘new man’, Zhivkov wrote that he ‘becomes ever more emancipated from the selfishness and individualism of the past and begins to feel that he is an integral part of society. Highly conscientious, idealistic, with a broad intellectual background – these are the typical features of the builder of socialism. . .’ (1969: 609 and 599, respectively). Zhivkov declared: ‘Leading posts cannot and should not be held by people who do not possess generally recognised political, professional and moral qualities….’ (1986b: 192; also see 1969: 575–76). Verdery points out that it is precisely because of the role of the Party in determining socialist morality that the biggest challenge to the Party, both before and after 1989, was on moral grounds and that in the postsocialist period those that had ‘suffered’ under communism had major claims to be heard in the political sphere (1996: 108–109). This is also true in Bulgaria. Indeed in Talpa it was precisely those disadvantaged during socialism who became most vocal after 1989. ‘Stotinki’ is the name of the coinage of the Bulgarian currency. Sampson (1982: 80) describes ‘work’ and ‘discipline’ as mobilisation tactics used by village ‘elites’ in Romania. Such temporal images indicating Gradinarov’s backwardness were expressed at other occasions: in a letter written to Pashev by a son on behalf of his aging Talpian father who had been sacked by Gradinarov, the son complained that the TKZC head ‘… feels like a Lord in the village and is allowed to do everything he wishes’. (My translation of a letter, dated 23.10.1988, which I found in the Party archives in Talpa in 1996.) The author of the letter states that those higher in the administrative hierarchy are unable to do anything for fear that their own deficiencies will be pointed out. Pashev reponded that he had done all that he could and that it was at a general meeting of the TKZC that a vote had been taken to replace his father, and that the Party had no authority to change decisions made by the collective. Every village cooperative was part of a greater administrative hierarchy: the Talpa cooperative, along with the other villages in the administrative district, was controlled by the district capital of Nekilva. This centralised APK was also tied to various rural industries. I regret that my living with lelia Maria made it too awkward to discuss these events with Gradinarov. The antisocial nature of gossip was itself a topic Comrade Pashev raised at meetings. At one gathering he spoke against rumours and gossip: ‘We should not waste our time with gossip; to help people, that is the socialist ideal’, he said, implying that gossip was a socially divisive activity and contrary to the goals of socialism. Public speech was opposed to ‘gossip’, which was viewed as a particular form of discourse confined to informal (not state-influenced) activities that took place in private circles. Local gossip was potentially subversive non-state-controlled rhetoric. Clearly the public/private distinction discussed by a number of writers working on Eastern Europe – Pine (e.g. 1996a), Lampland (1995) – was also a division to which language was subjected. Years later relations between parents and son had still not recovered: at Comrade Pashev’s funeral his son spoke angrily against his deceased father, interrupting the person reading a eulogy with the comment that ‘my father may have done a lot for the village but he did nothing for me’. Stories from Talpa revealed the strict adherence to the patriarchial family structure until the Second World War. Lelia Maria, amongst others, told me that virginity in a bride at the time of marriage was expected on pain of rejection by her husband and his family (a point supported in Sanders’ (1949) prewar ethnography). It contrasts with the contemporary period under discussion. The granddaughter of our next-door-neighbour, for example, had been married three times by the age of 25. The grandparents were by no means pleased about this and it made the family a temporary source of gossip in the neighbourhood, but it had no apparent long-term consequences

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There has always been and will always be bickering and fighting attached to such an event at which awards are given out (Lelia Maria)

In striving to establish relations to history, different versions were put forward by individuals concerned to highlight their own activities as most important. In so doing, the significance of history was at issue: to some the period surrounding the advent of state socialism was momentous, to others this time held no more value than any other in the past, and yet to others again history was relevant only in terms of present-oriented activities. This provided not only the basis of a multifaceted rather than unified notion of history, but also created ‘factions’ within the political sphere of public life. History was therefore a fundamental and contentious domain of village life, by which Talpians negotiated their meaningful relations to the state, but not necessarily in the monolithic form often assumed in a system dominated by one party. These issues are explored by focusing on an occasion that occurred three months after the 9 September celebration – the commemoration of the Centennial of the village Chitalishte. The anniversary of the foundation of the Chitalishte was held annually; the 1987 celebration, however, had special significance. The Centennial occasion was marked by the attendance of numerous official guests. In fact Zhivkov had intended to be present, but cancelled at the last moment. Instead he sent a personal letter of congratulation with the attending First Secretary of the Region and member of Central Committee of the BCP, conveying his apologies and warmest regards to the Talpians. This letter was read to the audience during the proceedings. Even without Zhivkov, the audience consisted of a distinguished list of officials from Sofia, the regional capital of Veliko Turnovo as well as from the district capital, Nekilva, and the surrounding villages. 88

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In format, the celebration varied little from other historical events. However, the presence of guests from Sofia and Veliko Turnovo, and the anticipated attendance of Zhivkov, gave the occasion a degree of importance that demanded extra assistance. Thus officials from the district capital were assigned to oversee the organisational work. As the representative from the Nekilva cultural department told the village committee meeting four weeks before the event, ‘each minute of the event must be planned’. The main speech was given by Matov (lasting approximately 30 minutes) and was followed by the presentation of an award to the Chitalishte for its 100th anniversary. This award was given in an official decree made by Zhivkov and was one of fourteen conveyed to Chitalishtes nationwide which were celebrating their centennial or other notable round-figure anniversaries (e.g. fifty, seventy-five, eighty years). Only Talpa, however, was presented with the highest state award, the ‘Red Flag of the Workers’, which came with a 5,000 leva prize. The honour of receiving this was emphasised by a Nekilva official, who informed local organisers1 at one of the several meetings preceding the event that: ‘Your Chitalishte has been given the award of ‘Red Flag of the Workers’…which is quite something; not everyone gets it.’ Immediately following the presentation of this award, thirteen awards were made to individual villagers for their services to the organisation. Five men were honoured with the highest possible state awards for their Chitalishte achievements; Gencho Nedkov (the previous head of the Chitalishte, who had served the organisation for over forty years), Rusev (Chitalishte librarian since 1950), Mikanov (one of the Chitalishte council), Matov (the present Chitalishte head who took over from Gencho Nedkov in the early 1970s) and Comrade Pashev. They received the award of ‘Otlichnik na Komiteta za Kultura’, that is, ‘Outstanding Person of the Committee for Culture’, which included a medallion and prize money of 80 leva.2 Lesser awards were made to another seven villagers, including the Mayor and Lipava who headed the Party branch at the stereo assembly plant. A special thirteenth award was made to Dinekov – the father-in-law of Tsela – who had once been a temporary librarian and, more importantly, had for many years served the Chitalishte by binding all its library books free of charge. The latter eight awards included no prize money or medallions. The first half of the celebrations ended with the reading of numerous congratulatory speeches from the Ministry of Culture and from neighbouring village and township Chitalishtes’. This was followed by the second half: the evening’s musical programme. Designed to impress the large number of state official guests, the event provided another opportunity for villagers to display their commitment to socialist development through their participation in historical goals, that is, in state ideology. The smooth running of the celebration, however, belied the turmoil that made up much of the background to the event. It is with the 89

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awards and selection of awardees, an issue that caused considerable behindthe-scenes conflict amongst certain villagers, that I am concerned here. For the identity of the award recipients remained an issue of contention amongst the villagers well after the actual Centennial anniversary was over. Some threatened to withdraw entirely from participating in future Chitalishte activities – a particularly significant act when we recall how essential ‘mass participation’ was in terms of state ideology (Chapter 2); others threatened to appeal to high-ranking officials to request a review of the entire selection process. Days, even weeks, after the ceremony, discontented villagers continued to express their dissatisfaction.

Different Histories: Political Pluralism Awards held an important place in many village historical (and some folkloric, see Chapter 7) celebrations. Usually in the form of certificates and/or monetary prizes, awards were made at all levels of the state hierarchy and in all areas of socialist life. Presented by state officials, they were given to an individual, collective or even village for active participation in, and contribution to, the development of socialism. This was as true of the ‘model village’ event – when it was ‘the village’ that received an award – as of the Chitalishte Centennial when awards to the organisation and to individuals were made. As part of the socialist reward structure, awards given at anniversary celebrations were sought-after because they were a means of legitimating an individual’s (institution’s or village’s) place in history, providing important ‘currency’ for a political career. Since movement up and down the political hierarchy was reliant upon the legitimation and negotiation of one’s relationship to history, awards, as a public statement of recognition by the state, provided a concrete means by which figures could validate their all-significant relations to history. Awards established the precise nature of one’s commitment to history and served as a public and legitimate ‘record’ of this commitment. They provided, in short, a type of political CV. In the case of the Centennial event, the awards were sanctioned by the ministry in Sofia, and were thus particularly valuable to ambitious villagers. It was length of service which justified selection for the awards. During the presentations, the First Secretary of the Communist Party from the regional capital of Veliko Turnovo read the relevant part of the Bulgarian Constitution to the audience, noting that an award to a national Chitalishte was given for long-term ‘activity’ and must be granted in ‘rounded-figure years’. The 100 years since the foundation of the Talpian Chitalishte and the long-term contribution that the organisation had made to the development of socialist life were thus important criteria. This was explicitly noted at the event when a Veliko Turnovo official from the Executive Committee of the Regional 90

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People’s Council congratulated the Talpian Chitalishte for receiving the award, which was for ‘the 100 years that it has supported the Bulgarian spirit, for its support of Party truth and socialist culture.’ The same criterion of years of service was also used in the case of the individual awards. As Comrade Pashev explained: ‘…the matter of the medal awards is not a light issue, some have given 50–60 years of life service.’ The disagreement amongst organisers was not over the importance of recognising length of service, but over the type of ‘services’ deemed worthy of recognition. This split was expressed in terms of whether the Chitalishte held ‘political’ or ‘cultural’ significance, or – in the terms of the Veliko Turnovo official – it was a difference between ‘party truth’ and ‘socialist culture’. This set the context in which it became possible for various villagers’ interests to be expressed and the awards to be contested. I explore this issue further below. According to Comrade Pashev, the awards were given on the basis of an individual’s participation in Chitalishte activities in the period leading up to and during the Second World War. These activities were viewed as crucially important in helping bring about the socialist state. The importance of this period was highlighted in the speech presented by Matov during the celebration, a speech he had written with Rusev, which was edited by Comrade Pashev and finalised by the Cultural Inspector from Nekilva. The senior Party members’ contribution to Chitalishte history was made explicit in the speech when Comrade Pashev and the others were individually named as having been involved in the youth Chitalishte group. This group was active in spreading anti-fascist propaganda through, for example, the performance of plays. Money collected was used to finance partisans. The youth group was eventually made illegal by the fascist regime in the 1930s and 1940s. This period of Chitalishte history was also given attention in the musical programme. While the Talpian vocal group had been requested (by Nekilva organisers) to sing folklore, the Nekilva vocal group sang the praises of socialist war heroes in their songs about the Second World War. By bringing attention to the events of the 1940s, the audience was asked to focus on this time as the most relevant in Chitalishte history and on the contribution made by Comrade Pashev, Mikanov, Rusev and Matov, as anti-fascist fighters who helped establish state socialism. The event provided an opportunity for the four men to emphasise their own role as participants in the making of history, through giving one particular period greatest importance. Since a main and explicit criterion for the awards was long-term service to the Chitalishte, and since one important part of the Chitalishte functions was its resistance to fascism during the Second World War, then these men’s contribution to the organisation’s past was a valid basis on which to show worthiness for the awards.3 Eligible for the awards, the senior Party members also had the means to promote their own worthiness. As senior Party 91

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members, Comrade Pashev, Matov, Mikanov and Rusev had an established and privileged position in history – indeed, they were the keepers of history in Talpa. They not only led and organised the regular political celebrations that dotted the socialist calendar, but were also in charge of interpreting and reproducing history within the village. These were the only men authorised to write a history and of them, only Comrade Pashev had begun such a task. The other three, Matov, Mikanov and Rusev, occupied formal posts in the Chitalishte – the central village site for political events – as its head, Chitalishte councillor and librarian respectively. Matov was also in charge of guiding visitors through the village museum, another important historical site. Their control over village history was an important factor in their success in attaining the awards. They had direct input in the writing of the main speech, control over the organisation of the event and the means to effectively bypass the proper committee channels, thus enabling their own selection as award holders (the fact this had to be done secretively is an issue addressed below). As recipients of awards they ensured their continued domination of the village political sphere, providing justification for their senior positions in the Party.4 Comrade Pashev’s, Matov’s, Mikanov’s and Rusev’s position with respect to the awards conflicted with that of other Party members and event organisers. Lelia Maria and Tsela, for example, believed that any individuals who had partaken in the Chitalishte’s running were valid contenders for an award, irrespective of their contribution to the organisation’s development during the Second World War period. The night before the presentation of the awards, I accompanied lelia Maria to the Chitalishte, where we helped make last-minute preparations for the next day’s event. Lelia, two schoolgirls and I attached red ribbons to the commemorative badges, which were to be given out as mementos the following day. Mikanov, Matov and an official from Nekilva were in an adjoining room, rehearsing the reading of the main speech and making final changes to it.5 It was while lelia Maria and I were working on the badges that Rusev showed her, for the first time, the list of thirteen award recipients. Lelia Maria reacted angrily at seeing the names, asking why some villagers whom she had never even seen in the Chitalishte were on the list, when others who should have been on it had been omitted. Receiving no satisfactory answer from Rusev, she stormed into the adjoining room where Matov was typing. The Nekilva official had left by this stage. Matov, however, waved her away saying he was very busy with preparations for the event and that they would talk some other time. On the way home, Lelia expressed anger at having been told nothing about the selection of villagers to be honoured with awards. In fact, in her capacity as Chitalishte councillor, she should have been on the panel which normally would have selected the awardees. She voiced some of her objections: 92

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‘Mikanov donated 3–4000 leva a year to the Chitalishte from TKZC funds when he was its head but apart from this he has not done a thing for the Chitalishte except to occasionally beat his fist on the table; he is an impressive orator, that’s all. The Mayor is a nice boy and he has done a lot for the village, but nothing for the Chitalishte. If the awards are for the Village Council, then of course he should get an award, but for the Chitalishte, no. Comrade Pashev and Matov should get awards for Party work, but they have done little for the Chitalishte and do not deserve it. And as for Lipava, she has been secretary of the Chitalishte6 and head of the Fatherland Front for less time than either Nelesova or Petrova but neither of the latter two was on the award list. Nelesova has not received one because she is not on good terms with Comrade Pashev…’

When I asked lelia Maria about this she explained that Nelesova had written one of the two anonymous letters to the Municipal Council in Nekilva, questioning the use made of a sum of state money granted to Comrade Pashev some years earlier, to restore his house and convert it into a museum. The money had been granted because of the site’s historical importance, its original inhabitant in the late 1800’s, a relative of Comrade Pashev’s, having been an important socialist hero. Although the house had been restored it clearly did not function as a museum, since Comrade Pashev still occupied the premises! Lelia Maria speculated that Comrade Pashev had found out that Nelesova had been responsible for writing one of the letters and had thus left her out of the awards list.7 Lelia Maria’s argument for the appropriateness of Petrova and Nelesova to receive awards was based strictly on their contribution to the everyday running of the Chitalishte and participation in its educational and cultural activities. She pointed out that both had served the Chitalishte: Nelesova as a secretary and Petrova as vice-head, a position she had held for many years and still occupied in 1987. Further, Petrova once headed the Fatherland Front and was a current leading figure in the vocal group attached to the Chitalishte. Andre Pashev, the conductor, depended on her to encourage the women to attend and to help with other organisational matters. Nelesova had also once led the Fatherland Front. As such both had contributed much more in time and effort to the running of the Chitalishte than the Mayor, Lipava or at least two of the senior Party figures – Mikanov and Comrade Pashev – who were amongst the listed thirteen awardees. Later that night lelia Maria rang Tsela. She suspected that the Party had been involved in the selection of awardees and hoped that as secretary of the Party, Tsela could enlighten her about what had happened. Tsela assured her that the Party had had no influence in the selection of names, even though ‘one-half the people getting the awards had been chosen for their service to the Party not the Chitalishte’. She told lelia Maria: ‘No one knows who made up the list. Rusev points his finger at Matov and Matov points his finger at Rusev.’ Tsela also told Lelia in confidence that the major award receivers – who also 93

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had been approved from the ministry in Sofia – were Rusev, Comrade Pashev, Matov and Mikanov and that diado Gencho’s name had not been originally included. However, a woman from the Committee for Culture in Turnovo who had known how much he had contributed to the Chitalishte noted that his name was absent from the list. She had contacted Talpa to find out why he had been overlooked and demanded his inclusion. Apparently in Talpa the senior Party figures had refused to prepare the needed references, so the woman herself organised the documents and sent the list off to Sofia, including his name as the fifth. She then informed the Talpians of her act and added: ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves for not including him after all he has done for the Chitalishte.’ Both Tsela and lelia Maria were in agreement that diado Gencho was a worthy award recipient and the fact that he had been almost excluded was, in their eyes, a scandal. Diado Gencho Nedkov, at this time eighty-five years old, had given his whole life to the community, a life-long member. A large proportion of his working life had been spent as the head of the organisation. His contribution was therefore far greater than Matov’s, Mikanov’s, Rusev’s or Comrade Pashev’s, simply by virtue of the length of time of his involvement – in all, over fifty years’ service, spanning a period which began two decades before 1944 and which ran well into the 1960s and beyond. This, combined with his occupation as schoolteacher and then school principal, meant that diado Gencho had made a significant contribution to the cultural and educational growth of the village. However, knowledge about his activities during the fascist period, when he was school director, tainted his public life in the socialist period and halted his ambitions to join the Party. Any official recognition of diado Gencho thus depended on the involvement of a Party figure who was prepared to work on his behalf. Indeed, it was only because the Turnovo official took up his cause – she had the power to intercept the selection process by virtue of her location at the higher, regional, level of the administrative hierarchy – that she was able to overrule senior village officials and have diado Gencho’s lifetime contribution acknowledged.8 There are two important aspects to take into account when considering the position of lelia Maria and Tsela. Firstly, their contribution to public life was through cultural and educational activities; the women were local schoolteachers and involved in cultural activities at the Chitalishte – in plays and in the vocal group. Their sponsorship of historical goals was carried out largely through developing the spiritual and creative side of the socialist individual (see Chapter 8), in the ‘aesthetic education’ of villagers. This was also the nature of diado Gencho’s involvement, as well as that of the Veliko Turnovo official who worked for the Committee for Culture and sponsored his nomination. Secondly, those who supported diado Gencho’s award represented a sector of the Party whose membership was ‘junior’ in terms of the power (and age) hierarchy. Both Tsela and lelia Maria were members of the Party bureau, 94

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the small committee charged with carrying out general organisational tasks, and thus had more prominence than ‘ordinary’ members. Tsela, as Party secretary, was subordinate to Comrade Pashev. The positions of prominence that they held were restricted to posts in the mass organisations. Tsela (along with Petrova) was a leading organisational figure in the vocal group. Lelia Maria was deputy head of the Fatherland Front and head of the Teachers’ Union. Before the death of her husband, she had also conducted the vocal group. Their junior Party positions and prominence in mass organisations defined their relationship to history. By arguing for the worthiness of diado Gencho, Petrova and Nelesova as deserving awardees, lelia Maria and Tsela were advocating an interpretation of the awards which defined and emphasised the history of the Chitalishte in a broad sense; which recognised and rewarded those who had contributed to the cultural and educational life of the Chitalishte irrespective of Party status or the particular period in which services had been performed. Such an affiliation with and contribution to history, by way of educational and cultural activities, both pre- and post-1944, indicates the broad understanding lelia Maria and Tsela held about history. Indeed it was in the interest of these women, as leading participants in mass organisations, but of relatively low Party rank, to advocate such a broad history, so rendering their own contributions as historically significant.9 (This was not verbalised as an explicit purpose of their actions.) The women did not deny the importance of involvement in the Second World War, but simply questioned whether this was a relevant factor for receiving a Chitalishte award. Such a contribution, they believed, should be restricted to the sphere of Party concerns, while the Chitalishte was the domain of culture. Lelia Maria singled out Comrade Pashev and Mikanov as being undeserving of the awards, rather than Matov and Rusev who had given long-term service to the Chitalishte as its head and librarian, respectively. (Here the term ‘political’ needs clarification. For the duration of the book when I speak of ‘Political’ using a capital ‘P’, I am referring to those individuals who validated their positions in terms of a particular point in history – the Second World War and the events surrounding the establishment of the socialist state. In so doing, I distinguish this version of state ideology, dominated by senior village Party figures, from another – distinguished by the term ‘political’ written using a small ‘p’. In the latter case I am referring to those individuals who support a history which gives no particular period a privileged position. This stance sponsors a wider distribution of power through a greater number of state institutions.) Amongst themselves lelia Maria, Tsela and Petrova voiced discontent over the affair. They were angry that the whole selection procedure to decide upon the list of thirteen occurred through an unofficial process conducted by senior Party members. The appropriate committee for making decisions concerning the awards was the Chitalishte council, of which lelia Maria was a member. 95

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On the eve of the celebration, when lelia Maria first saw the list and demanded that Rusev explain when the decision for the awards had been made, he retorted that she had been absent from the Council meetings at which the decisions had been taken. She replied that she had missed only two in the last year, and that was because of teaching commitments. Lelia felt sure that had the issue been discussed through the proper channels, she would have been consulted. Instead, selection seems to have been determined privately by the top communist figures in the village – lelia Maria suspected a conspiracy between Rusev and Comrade Pashev; it seems likely to have been some combination of the four top award holders. The fact that much of the organisation for the celebration was in the hands of the young Veliko Turnovo and Nekilva officials, who had, by virtue of their regional and district administrative positions, the capacity to override any decisions made at the village level, suggests why Comrade Pashev and his counterparts were forced to operate in a covert manner. The regional and district officials sought to reward individuals’ cultural contribution to the Chitalishte. This conflicted with the ambitions of Comrade Pashev and his three colleagues who, by acting in secret, were able to stop other villagers such as Lelia from finding out in advance and raising the issue in the village and perhaps beyond. Lelia Maria and Tsela may have been junior Party members with limited powers, but they could have caused disruption to the event through refusing to help organise the event. After all, it was only because of the many hours of voluntary labour provided by them and others, that the programme could take place. They could also have appealed to the regional and district officials who by virtue of their higher administrative location could have made a significant impact on the granting of the awards, a form of action that was considered by other villagers after the celebration. The men’s covert activities were, therefore, a means of avoiding organised protest against them, at least until after the event, when any redressal would be more difficult. Little wonder that Political figures were seen as obstructing the careers of villagers who acted against their interests. Conversely, active sponsorship of these senior figures was one way in which Party members with no close ties to the privileged period in history could align themselves to those who monopolised it. As lelia Maria said, it was only those on ‘…the right side of Comrade Pashev…’ who received awards.10 One such example was the Mayor. He had, by his own admission, contributed little to Chitalishte activities. While the other award recipients had at least served as Chitalishte councillors and secretaries for various periods, he had made no such contributions. Indeed during a preliminary celebration held ‘just for the village’ one week prior to the one for outside officials, 100 certificates were handed out to various villagers in acknowledgement of their contributions to the Chitalishte. The Mayor was one of these 100 recipients. Meeting him on the stairs outside the Chitalishte after 96

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the event, Boian responded to my congratulations in an embarrassed tone, saying that his contribution had been restricted to participation in two plays. He clearly was not expecting that the following week, at the main Centennial celebration, he would receive one of the thirteen main awards. The Mayor, too young to have played a role in the advent of state socialism, defined much of his own public career through his affiliation with Political figures. He always publicly supported Comrade Pashev by attending historical celebrations and making verbal expressions of interest and gestures of admiration to the heroic fighters against fascism. He also showed unquestioning readiness to follow the directives of the senior Party figures in daily administrative matters. As lelia Maria once expressed it, the present Mayor is sladkodumen i se podmazva, that is, Boian is ‘a sweet talker and a flatterer’. The authority Comrade Pashev and the other Political figures exercised over the Mayor was often commented upon, critically. Lelia held that the latter should have been the head of the whole village, while the role of the Party leader was only to make suggestions and critical comments. The best arrangement, she concluded, occurs when both work together in ‘unison’.11 In voicing such an opinion, she was critical of the disproportionate control that the senior Party members had in the village: in her view, Party and government bodies should have more equal value and function more autonomously. But in aligning himself with Political figures, Boian – as other more junior Party members – could enhance his career prospects through relying on the favours of senior figures. The selection of Boian (Lipava was another such example) as an award recipient was a mutually benefiting act: it was as much in Comrade Pashev’s interests to encourage and create such patronage (the awards providing a system of incentive and payment for his supporters), as it was for Boian and others to seek these connections. Conflict over the selection of award recipients can be understood ultimately as a discrepancy between two differing interpretations of the past. The contrast was between a history constructed exclusively around active participation during the Second World War (the stance of Political figures) or a broader, more inclusive, interpretation of history which emphasised the importance of cultural-educational contributions to state socialism carried out in the pre- and post-1944 period (the position taken by culturally active individuals). The two different versions of history represented a conflicting pursuit of interests: between the concerns of the Political figures to uphold the primary role of the Chitalishte as a Political organisation and therefore their own primacy in its historical development; and those of cultural figures who emphasised the cultural role of the Chitalishte, thus making it possible for their own activities, past and present, to be considered historically important. While the cultural dimension of history was acknowledged in areas over which the Nekilva official had control, for example the entertainment programme, this official failed at least in one area – the award selection and presentations. 97

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The success of Political figures in determining the award selections enabled them to reinforce their importance in history – and one version of history as more significant – and thus their domination in village politics. This also served to reinforce and justify hierarchical arrangements within the Party between its senior and junior members. While the former two groups were engaged in vying for the awards, another group of villagers showed either little or no interest in the awards; or indeed in the Centennial event at all. Inactivity in the celebration represented a third way of relating to history and state ideology. My next-door-neighbours – baba Vera and diado Dimiter – were from the significant minority who usually did not attend village events in the Chitalishte. The elderly couple had been involved in agricultural work all their lives, diado Dimiter having retired only three years earlier from the TKZC while his wife, a diabetic, had stayed at home and carried out light agricultural and household duties. Since retirement, their primary interest was in cultivating the household plot and growing decorative plants in order to produce food and cash respectively, not for themselves, but (as with everyone else in Talpa) for their adult children living in the city. Chitalishte events were of little interest to them. Baba Vera emphasised her lack of enthusiasm for, and the irrelevancy of, the occasion when she responded to my query about whether she would attend, by asking ‘What for?’ Lack of enthusiasm for attending celebrations was a common problem faced by organisers, judging from the comments made by the planners at a number of the organisational meetings before the commemoration. On one such occasion Matov echoed a concern expressed by the Nekilva official about filling the theatre: ‘We must get people to come. We must fill the salon during the day.’12 At another meeting four months before the Centennial, Matov commented that ‘it is hard to get people to attend even if it is free’ and Comrade Pashev reminded them that ‘we had to knock on doors to get people to come to the last show’. Any interest shown in the Centennial was based more on curiosity rather than on commitment to history, as a Nekilva official acknowledged when he observed that the audience ‘will be interested … will Zhivkov be here? Who is from Sofia?…’. And in the end it was the anticipation of seeing the state leader in Talpa that heightened many villagers’ awareness of the occasion and was partly responsible for the good attendance on the day – the Chitalishte theatre was full to its 400 capacity. In most cases nonattendance was simply a matter of lack of interest, a lethargy that was ‘cured’ by curiosity – but in some cases lack of attendance held a more deliberate intention. This was the situation in the Denkov household, which was located a few doors away from lelia Maria. The couple never discussed the issue with me at the time and were unlikely to have done so given my residence and kinship links to an active Party member. During the socialist period lelia Maria said little about them except that the husband 98

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suffered from ‘nerves’, having been gaoled for his involvement in a train crash while carrying out his duties as the driver. One person had died due to Denkov’s negligence. Denkov’s wife was embittered by the hard life she had led during her husband’s absence, being sole provider for her children during his term in gaol. Nor had her hard work been suitably rewarded by promotion: she claimed (many years later when it was politically advantageous to do so) that any possible advancement at the TKZC was impossible given her ancestral connections to a wealthy Talpian family, which was one of the last to hold out against joining the socialist cooperative in the early 1950s. It was only after 1989, after the turnaround in the Denkovs’ economic and political situation, that baba Penka (the wife) spoke of her deliberate display of nonsupport for state socialism in part through nonparticipation in such historical celebrations. Nonengagement in historical celebrations, as in the above cases, appears rooted in the fact that ‘the people’ saw no material advantage to attending. State ideology and socialist history were only worthy of support to the extent that sponsorship would bring villagers material benefits – a view that was understood by the organisers of the event. The Nekilva official told an organisers’ meeting in November that ‘we will attract and interest people toward the Chitalishte. We must overcome the barrier, ‘‘What has the Chitalishte given me – food, clothes? No’’. We must overcome this barrier. Lots of people consider the material side, so we will make it free so that the interest is bigger’. Such a material-orientation to state history defined these villagers’ position in terms of their productive relations. These were the ‘ordinary’ people, those without Party membership, who, according to one Nekilva official come ‘from the fields’, that is, those who work the land. Thus, Agricultural Cooperative workers who held a relatively marginal position in Talpian political life had valid connections to historical goals through their productive activities – and in Zhivkov’s writings such people were presented as being at the root of historical progress (see Chapter 2). But such an engagement in socialist production did not necessitate Party membership; unlike the Political engagement in history which inevitably presupposed Party membership, and unlike cultural activities, where Party membership was an advantage but was not mandatory (recall diado Gencho’s position). It also assumed engagement in historical goals through present-oriented activities founded on agricultural operations, rather than on activities that brought attention to the Second World War period. When ‘the people’ were identified as coming ‘from the fields’, the official was therefore also making an evaluation of their role in history, as cooperative farmers with no Political or cultural interest in the historical past. Instead, agricultural workers had a present orientation to history that was represented largely through their contributions to state goals in terms of their agriculturally-based activities. In speaking of the ‘material’ dimension of 99

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history, I am referring to a relationship which was present-oriented and agriculturally focused. If one can speak of a representative figure of such a position, such a way of relating to history, Gradinarov would be a fine example. He shared the present-oriented utilitarian concerns of other villagers and his engagement in state ideology was defined in these terms. His lack of relationship to the historical past and his obvious noninterest in cultivating such relations, including any patronage from a Political figure – unlike the Mayor – marked his position as different from that of other Party members. Nor was Gradinarov active in any of the educational or cultural activities of the Chitalishte, although as an educated person, having completed tertiary training in Sofia, he could have easily contributed to such events.13 Instead he restricted his field of activities to the domain of the TKZC and agricultural production. His position, attained on the basis of educational qualifications – recently passed state laws required TKZC leaders to hold tertiary-level qualifications – and alliance to the TKZC, defined his present, post-1944 orientation towards historical goals and his lack of interest in celebrations which were oriented around the historical past, cultural or Political. Ivo Gradinarov remained uninterested in participating in any village celebrations and never attended unless protocol demanded his presence. Nor did he provide financial sponsorship for Chitalishte events; while previous TKZC leaders had donated a proportion of the Cooperative’s annual profits to fund Chitalishte entertainment programmes and the general running of the organisation, the financial losses – according to lelia Maria – that the TKZC had suffered since Gradinarov’s term of office did not permit him to make such financial gestures of support. From comments he made during the organisational meetings for the Chitalishte Centennial, it was clear that Gradinarov believed that he was wasting his time and that he could be putting his time to better use by concentrating his efforts on running the Agricultural Cooperative rather than organising such anniversaries. At the Centennial celebration at which his attendance was required, he neither received nor showed interest in an award, unlike most other Party figures. Whether ‘the people’ participated as an ‘audience’ or rejected the celebration altogether, the event had a very different significance for them than it had for Political and cultural figures. Their interest in history and the Chitalishte Centennial was restricted to material concerns and any gains that could be obtained from their displays of ‘support’ for state ideology. This represented another standpoint from which to engage in history; a concern with concrete goals which demanded reflection on the present and future in terms of productive activity based in the present. 100

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Alliances and Oppositions In their participation, or lack of it, in the Chitalishte Centennial celebration, villagers exhibited various relations to history, giving it ‘Political’, ‘cultural’ or ‘material’ significance. I have attempted to make explicit the meanings associated with these terms which are used by Talpians (although in an unreflected way). It provides a means of conceptualising differing ways in which villagers linked themselves to history and more generally to state ideology. These relations occupied three distinct temporal zones, which may be depicted diagrammatically as in Figure 1. Temporal Representations of History (a) The Political dimension of history pre-1944

post-1944 1944

(b) The cultural dimension of history pre-1944

post-1944 1944

(c) The material dimension of history pre-1944

post-1944 1944

Figure 1 The various ways of relating to history, and the tensions engendered because of them, constituted a divergence from the harmonious way in which the community was portrayed during the ‘model village’ event or indeed during the actual Centennial ceremony. The different ways of relating to history were manifest in evident divisions. One division was between Party members with different ideas about Party influence; for Comrade Pashev, the Party – which he headed – held overarching importance in all realms of socialist life; for lelia Maria (as for the cultural attaché from Nekilva assigned to help with the organisation), the Party’s influence must be given a more restricted role in social life. A second division was between representatives from different organisations – senior Party members, mass organisation officials and TKZC workers. These divisions may not have been obvious during the actual celebrations but they were played out in daily vil101

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lage political life, in both the lead-up and after public events. Outside the actual ceremonies Party and non-Party Talpians were not united in an unified effort towards realising historical goals.14 The crucial issue was not so much whether history was significant, but how it was significant. Resulting divisions were centred on how people related to history and whose interpretation was the most legitimate in terms of the development of the socialist state. It reveals the contentious nature of a Talpian understanding of a Bulgarian Marxist-Leninist history. As far as the Chitalishte awards were concerned, Political figures were successful in determining the choice of recipients, monopolising the awards and in having their own past and the past of their supporters publicly recognised as most significant through receiving awards. With their control over the awards, the Political figures displayed to the audience their legitimate and prominent role in history, which oriented the present and future in respect to the events associated with 1944 (represented in Figure 1a). But the victory of continued dominance came at a cost: the anger of those who advocated a more general significance to the awards and to socialist history. The Political figures’ position was rejected by cultural figures who objected to the underhand methods of the former, to the manipulative manner in which they pursued their goals for self-gain at the expense of others. One of the thirteen awardees with whom I dined on the night after the event described the anger which the event incited: ‘All hell’s going to break out over the awards. Some people are planning to go to Nekilva to query the whole thing.’ This, however, did not constitute a rejection of Marxist-Leninist history. Rather it was a questioning of the appropriateness of Political individuals to receive the awards and, by extension, a rejection of the significance of a Politicised history. The support for an alternative vision of history made pertinent a much wider set of events and period as significant (Figure 1b). Nevertheless, the fact that these villagers felt they could appeal to a higher authority for justice reveals a continued faith in the system. Despite the difference in interpretations of the awards between cultural and Political figures, the very basis of their participation in the event assumed an acceptance of the fundamental terms of engagement as centred on the nature of the historical past and their relations to it. As lelia Maria once said, in referring to Comrade Pashev and Matov, ‘I cannot be angry with them and make a fuss about the awards, for then they’d think I was after an award for myself.’ The remark indicates a common interest and willingness to be involved in history. In their joint engagement over the significance of the awards, these two groups were unified with respect to others by virtue of the latter’s absence from the celebration. Through nonparticipation, many villagers displayed their lack of interest not only in the awards, but more generally in the event itself. These villagers’ interest in history was based purely on their presentoriented productive activities – activities that required no reflection on the 102

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historical past. Their response, or lack of one, was not necessarily a rejection of historical goals, merely a statement about the irrelevancy of the Political and cultural significance of history. From this perspective, history was oriented in terms of the present (Figure 1c). Such individuals supported state ideology (history) only to the extent that it was in their interests to do so. In a conversation with lelia Maria immediately after the ceremony, when they met outside the Chitalishte on the village plaza, Petrova expressed her anger at not having been included amongst the list of awardees. She ended the conversation by saying: ‘This is it, I am going no further’, indicating that she would no longer continue to be active in Chitalishte events. Since mass involvement in the building of socialism was a vital way of showing support for the state, the threat to no longer participate represented a serious challenge. When stating that she would withdraw from Chitalishte activities, Petrova was threatening to discontinue her involvement in socialist development. Although the retired teacher’s defiant words remained unfulfilled, the fact that they were made by a prominent and active public figure carried considerable force. They spoke against villagers’ displays of support for state ideology; especially crucial to occasions involving external officials. That a Political history had not been deposed or rejected but was still on occasions preeminent, was partly because threats such as Petrova’s were rarely carried out. Be that as it may, the position of state history was compromised: by Political figures who acted (in cultural terms) inappropriately; by cultural figures who advocated an alternate rendition of the historical past; and by the need to entice the common people to participate by catering to their utilitarian concerns. But such tensions were not always evident. Comrade Pashev was not always seen to act in a self-interested way. Nor was he always located in opposition to other Party and non-Party figures. Frequently he had the support of others – for example, when representing Talpa’s interests outside the village and when protecting the villagers’ concerns in respect to Gradinarov (see previous chapter). There was a wide range of alliances and oppositions that could theoretically arise from the different ways of relating to history, and that were manifested at various times and in different ways. On occasions, alliances and oppositions were expressed as a Party versus non-Party issue. Sometimes issues split the village elite between senior and junior Party figures. And at yet other times divisions were evident as internal segmentation within one ‘sector’ of a group (for example, between senior Party figures competing against each other in order to assert their Political supremacy). Nevertheless, history held fundamental importance in village life. It was a central site of contention in Talpa and the means through which villagers’ relations amongst themselves and with the wider state structure were articulated. In this sense public life under the socialist state cannot be seen as monolithic. While it is true that the Communist Party had a monopoly over 103

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resources, it is important to remember that within the Party, members held conflicting interests which surfaced in different ways under a variety of circumstances. Political pluralism and avenues through which to express discontent did exist. To the extent that historical activities were the central domain of Talpian political life, the Bulgarian state was successful in its socialist agenda. To the extent that this domain was continually undergoing a process of negotiation, and that the villagers did not necessarily replicate state historical goals as presented during the ‘model village’ event, it was not. The state-determined moral-political-historical system described in the previous two chapters dominated both the verbal and textualised forms of social expression in the public sphere of village life. Verbal references to an alternative temporal order were rare. Displays of opposition to history were usually exiled to outside the public domain and carried out mostly through practices which were nontextualised or nonverbalised. It is to this alternative order that I turn in the following chapter.

NOTES 1. The organisers consisted of the Chitalishte Council members as well as a few other prominent village figures, namely: Pashev, Matov, lelia Maria, Mikanov, Gradinarov, Boian, Rusev, Rusev’s library assistant, Tsela, Petrova and Novikov. Meetings discussing different organisational aspects were attended by combinations of the above. 2. In 1987 this was approximately two-thirds of an average monthly salary. 3. Indeed justification for their stance could be found in the writings of Zhivkov whose political power, like Comrade Pashev’s, noncoincidently, was based on the same period. Zhivkov writes: ‘…Which is the most salient feature of the composition of the Party’s leading bodies? The cadres working in them now are people whose ideological and political maturity has been tested in life; they have actively participated in the struggle against fascism and capitalism and in socialist construction’ (1984: 208). On other occasions, see below, Zhivkov recognises other qualities as important. 4. This is one occasion of a number in this chapter, where I could draw attention to the tautological nature of Socialist politics. 5. It was at this point that lelia Milka from the grocery shop entered, anxious that the promised salami had not been delivered. The Nekilva official promised that if the delivery was not made he would organise for stocks to be transferred from the district centre. I find this moment particularly illustrative of the performative nature of the historical event. Organisers wanted to give the impression of well-stocked shops. This was designed to dispel some of the obvious weaknesses in the socialist system (the scarcity of goods and their unreliable distribution) and at the same time to add to the festive atmosphere in the village by supplying such ‘luxuries’. It raises an interesting question: to what extent were the highest Sofian officials aware of everyday problems faced at the local level, given the fact that every formal occasion they attended was preempted by organisers who organised every detail of the visitors’ route.

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Contesting History 6. The position of Chitalishte secretary had been made redundant some years before my arrival in the village. 7. I was unable to ascertain the truth of this allegation. 8. I do not know how the Turnovo official found out about Nedkov; the fact that Tsela had confided in lelia Maria, who in turn relayed the information to me, made it inappropriate to openly pursue the issue with Tsela. For the same reason I was unable to discover which Talpians the Veliko Turnovo official had reproached in regard to leaving Nedkov out of the list of awardees – presumably it was one or more of the four senior Party members. 9. Justification for such a position could be found in Zhivkov’s writings. In discussing the needs of Bulgarian socialist society, Zhivkov wrote that it ‘…demands roundly-developed and thoroughly-trained people, people who are capable of doing everything, educated and highly cultured people possessing scientific and technical knowledge, practical production skills, people really prepared for great deeds…’ (1985a: 111). 10. An opinion shared by an ex-TKZC head who once commented to me, in respect to the ‘model village’ awards, that: ‘those friendly with the selectors received an award, whereas many people who deserved them, missed out’. 11. Here lelia Maria is echoing the ideal of democratic centralism upheld during the ‘model village’ event (Chapter 2). The problem observed by lelia Maria of a relatively weak governmental structure in respect to the Party was a problem acknowledged by Zhivkov some twenty years earlier, when he wrote that at the federal level the National Assembly and its council bodies did not have enough power and control in the state political system (1969: 273, 568). 12. Again the performative element of the event is implied, the organisers concerned to create an appearance of overwhelming interest in the celebration and support for the state through participation. 13. Participation in educational activities represented a specific way of engaging in state historical goals (See chapter 8). 14. Portrayals of the Party as a cohesive unit are thus not indicative of the conditions in Talpa – or Bulgaria more generally – in the mid 1980s. Such descriptions seem inappropriate except perhaps for the Stalin years.

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tui e traditsiiata or that is the tradition (Baba Teta explaining why she has just placed an apple in the coffin of the deceased)

History was not the sole means by which the past was known. In Talpa a system of values that did not derive from Marxist-Leninist ideology – although valued in terms of it – existed ‘alongside’ history. Such a contemporary alternative order was rooted in a value system that was opposed to the chronological determinism sponsored by the socialist state. The following two chapters focus on traditional practices which provided a contrasting way of constructing the past, one quite distinct from history. I have suggested that history, as a state-supported construction of the past, was expressed largely through verbal-textual forms. It is useful to recall Verdery’s (1991b: 430) point that in a situation where the Party was charged with no less than the transformation of consciousness, control over language was of instrumental importance: ‘Through discourse even more than through practice… rulers may hope to constitute consciousness, social objects, social life itself ’. Thus history, as textualised past, occupied the prominent position in an ideology which aimed to transform, convince and build the socialist order. Or, in Bourdieu’s terms (1990), history may be viewed as a form of codification, where public space and temporality were controlled and expressed through the verbal/textual domain. The realm of politics was from this viewpoint ‘the very activity of codification’ (Bourdieu 1990: 80). While history occupied the dominant position in the verbal domain, traditions were able to use the ‘space’ set in its relief. Traditional practices were acts which referred to a largely unspoken body of knowledge that was rarely articulated. Because the realm of language and discourse was under the ‘gaze’ of the state, then traditional practices, as an alternate value system, found 106

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expression through other means – through acts that were visual and uncommented upon. However, in opposing tradition to history, and associating the latter with Bourdieu’s understanding of codification, I do not thereby mean to implicate traditions with the notion of habitus. It is true that traditions are ‘practical dispositions’ (Bourdieu 1990: 86), nonformalised (in Bourdieu’s sense), and unofficial yet public. They also appear as indeterminate and vague, ambiguous and nondisciplined, obeying ‘a practical logic’. But traditional practices were also objectified and ‘recorded’ – not through writing – but visually. More importantly, many were also a direct reference to an institution, although one not supported by state socialism – the Church. Traditional practices were performed in public but did not have official sponsorship and were relegated to a visually significant (nonverbalised) means of expression. My findings concur with Watson, who also associates history with the state and textualisation, and other constructions of the past as occupying nontextulised domains of social life. There is a strong resonance between my material on traditions with what Watson says (1994: 8) with respect to memory: ‘These rememberings are not constructed in an overtly logical, intellectualised manner – they rarely provide a clearly organised story or narrative. Rather they are fragmented, much like a Dali painting or a collage. Often these rememberings are visual, producing powerful and compelling images…’. It is precisely because traditional practices referenced an alternate code – rooted in the Church that had its own formalised structure including a juridical and institutional framework – that they were a potential critique to socialism and a means of resistance. By all accounts, traditional practices originating in Orthodox Christianity once held a prominent position in presocialist rural Bulgaria, although even before the Second World War the state was gaining strength to the detriment of the Church’s influence (e.g. Sanders 1949). However, after 1944 such practices became increasingly relegated to the margins of state socialism, posing a counter-order to the state-endorsed one. Since traditional practices occupied the domain outside state control, they were also a potential threat. Oral expressions of dissent were not common in Talpa, but nevertheless Watson’s (1994: 9) observation has salience for understanding the position of tradition: ‘…in situations where alternative understandings of the past are tantamount to treason, shared memories expressed in oral and visual form provides a particularly adaptive medium for expressing disagreement, dissent, opposition and resistance’. Problematic from the official viewpoint, the state’s response was to subject traditional practices to textualisation, so transforming such activities into folklore (Chapters 7 and 8). In the following chapter (Chapter 5), both individual and collective traditional practices, located in private and public spaces, are discussed. In so doing I hope to draw out the characteristics of tradition as representative of a value system which addressed the same themes as history, yet referenced a body of 107

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knowledge that conceptualised the socially constructed ‘natural’ and social order in a very different way from the way it was constructed by a state-sponsored history. To this extent traditions were both a conceptual and sometimes practical form of opposition to the state. The ‘fragments’ of practices which were recognised as rooted in religion (or sometimes preChristian beliefs), were an indirect reference to an alternative code, one marginalised by state socialism yet prominent in the spatial and temporal domains unoccupied by the state. Traditional practices structured the past as cyclic (not linear), were conveyed through visual rather than textual/verbal means, and occupied the spaces where state influence was less pronounced, for example, the household1, or in public sites with nonhistorical significance, such as the village tavern. In Chapter 6, I explore further the relationship between the two value systems, based on differing temporal orders, one historical, the other traditional. If history was not exclusively dominant, so tradition was not totally pushed into oblivion. In a ‘model village’ we would expect the former to be more prominent, especially during particular occasions. But as a contradictory form of codification, traditions occupied a separate yet contemporaneous domain, in an uneasy arrangement where the latter could be – and sometimes was – used to critique state sponsored history.

NOTES 1. The location of the household as a space in which opposition to the state was expressed has been discussed by a number of authors writing on Eastern Europe; see especially, Pine 1996a; 1997; 2002.

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When you serve the food, you must say ‘God forgive diado Ivan’ (Baba Grigora instructing me on what to say while serving food at a commemorative meal for the anniversary of a deceased relative)

In the ‘model village’ event the greeting of state officials in the households was a clearly designated sign of the extent to which Talpians had accepted the state into their private lives. Nevertheless, much of the time that the villagers were not entertaining official guests, the household remained one of the few strongholds where the state had little direct influence. Apart from the dependency of household production on the state-determined market – especially in respect to the cash crop of decorative plants – the state’s influence was usually felt in more ‘passive’ or indirect ways, through, for example, government-run television and radio. In the previous chapters we have seen the extent of state influence in the public domain. The private sphere, largely represented by the household – especially in a ‘model village’ like Talpa, where the church was in disuse – was a site in which alternative orderings could be practised. Life-cycle rituals, events which placed the family and individual in the foreground, were closely associated with the domain of the household, whereas celebrations of ‘the state’ were practised in the community’s spatial equivalent – the Chitalishte, the village’s cultural ‘house’. The central symbols and metaphors of life-cycle rituals existed as a combination of traditional and state-approved ones. In Talpian funerals, for example, the influence of the state was relatively strong. This was unlike the situation considered by Kligman for Ieud, Romania, who in writing about death notes that: ‘its governance has been left to the Orthodox Church, and not the Communist Party’ (1988: 151). In Bulgaria (or in Talpa at least), funerals were largely secular events, lacking the involvement of either church or priest. Although an individual could opt for a religious funeral in a church, 109

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I did not witness such an occurrence either in Talpa or in any other community during the socialist period. In Talpa the first funeral held in the ‘new civil way with music’ took place in 1950 and by 1957 all funerals were secular occasions (Nedkov 1969: 18–19, chapter on the Church) even though a priest resided in the village until his death in 1976.1 (During his working life, the priest, who was the brother of baba Teta – a neighbour of lelia Maria’s mother – conducted regular services, but as these were poorly attended, he also held a second job working in the TKZC gardens.) Despite the largely secular nature of Talpian funerals, some of the practices referenced religious or supernatural forces.2 Such practices, confined to one part of the funeral, were not acts reflected upon by most villagers. Therefore, in this discussion I am indebted to Kligman; for it was only in using her study that I could make sense of so many of the ‘fragmented’ activities that I witnessed and for which Talpians either could not, or sometimes would not, offer explanations.

Traditional Funeral Practices In a situation where two-thirds of the villagers were pensioners I have witnessed a large number of funerals in Talpa.3 My focus is therefore on funerals rather than any other life-cycle events, in order to explore local understandings of ‘traditsiia ’. Funerals were conducted both in households and public spaces; traditional practices were confined to the individual household or other nonhistorical sites where state officials played no formal involvement in the proceedings. Many aspects of the funeral remained a private concern arranged by the family and friends. To begin with, death was not an institutionalised experience; a hospitalised patient for whom the doctors could do no more was normally returned home to die. Even if a person died in hospital, the body was always returned home for preparation and the funeral itself was organised and largely carried out by family and neighbours. In all occasions of death, neighbourhood relationships were mobilised to help with burial preparations. One of the first funerals I witnessed was that of a woman in her mid-seventies, who was a neighbour of lelia Maria’s mother, baba Grigora. Baba Milka died at home after a long illness (leukaemia) and was confirmed dead by a doctor from Nekilva who was called to her home. In cities the preparation of the body was performed by paid professionals, but in the village it was generally a task performed by friends or family. In this case, the deceased was a widow and her family lived in Nekilva. It was therefore her neighbours baba Grigora and baba Teta who took control of the organisational responsibility for the funeral. On the day of the death, both women prepared the body – washing the deceased with red wine, then dressing and placing her in the state-provided coffin of standard bare wood which they had lined with a rug, 110

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blanket and sheet. The open coffin, placed in a position to face east, was laid out in the main room in which guests were received. Later that night, after baba Milka’s son arrived from Nekilva, a sheep from the deceased’s household was slaughtered. Babas Grigora and Teta cooked the meat in preparation for the guests who would arrive the following morning to pay their respects. If the deceased owned no sheep, the family would buy the animal(s) from the TKZC. Burial occurred within twenty-four hours. By mid-morning of the next day family and neighbours began arriving at the house. They placed flowers in the coffin; some lit candles which were placed in the hands of the deceased or more often on the table beside the coffin where a tray of sand was located for this purpose. A small number of the older visitors crossed themselves when entering the room. Often small amounts of food – chocolate, biscuits and apples – were arranged at the feet of the deceased. Sometimes a coin would be placed in the coffin.4 Those who sat by the body spoke about their memories of the deceased. Occasionally, an elderly woman would address the deceased directly, beseeching her to ‘get up, have a look at who has visited you’ or to ‘get up and greet your children and grandchildren’. These directed comments to the deceased are the closest that I witnessed to any form of ‘lamenting’. After paying their respects, visitors moved outside to where tables had been laid and were served lamb stew, bread, red wine and a sweet dish made from wheat and walnuts (always provided on such occasions). This was the first of the two ‘commemorative meals’ (to borrow Kligman’s term, 1988: 157) given on the day of burial. Other meals were prepared on the ninth day, fortieth day, six months and one year after death. However, as my neighbour baba Vera said, ‘Talpians are not notable for sticking to such traditions, especially the young who pay little attention to them’. The meal served at home was given ‘for the soul of the dead’ and the offered food was served with the words ‘God forgive baba Milka’. Baba Grigora explained that ‘people eat because when they have eaten, so has baba Milka’. She said that the dusha of the person, that is, their ‘spirit’ or ‘soul’ was still with us and when we eat or drink, baba Milka was eating and drinking. The food left at the grave site after visits to the cemetery was also for this purpose: the feeding of the deceased’s spirit.5 The verbal blessing was more often given during the commemorative meal held in the household rather than at the second meal in the tavern; in this more intimate setting the customary phrase was used even by Party members. A little before 2.00 pm the deceased was placed on the special TKZC trailer pulled by a tractor, to begin the journey to the plaza. Riding with the open coffin were those most closely related to baba Milka or those too old to walk the distance. The procession comprised, firstly, someone carrying the standard state-supplied pyramidal, red-painted plaque on which was written the name of the deceased, with her date of birth and death. This usually remained at 111

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the grave site until a permanent headstone had been brought. Following were the wreath carriers, then the deceased in the trailer. Behind the trailer were the mourners (some in cars, but most on foot) while the village four-piece band followed at the tail end of the procession.6 Baba Ivanka, who held a key to the church, was responsible for the ringing of the church bell. She was paid for this service by the family of the deceased, both with money and with a scarf by which to remember the deceased. The bell was rung on a number of occasions – usually twice before the funeral, in the case of the above in the evening and morning before the funeral – to inform the villagers that someone in or from the village had passed away. (The bell was even rung on the occasion of the death of a villager who did not reside in Talpa.) The church bell was also rung continuously from the time that the procession left home until the mourners reached the plaza. At the plaza, the procession halted outside the Chitalishte in front of the war memorial erected to villagers who had died fighting in both world wars. The band stopped playing and the church bell ceased ringing while a village official acquainted with the deceased, in this case the mayor’s secretary (but on other occasions the Chitalishte head, or one of the senior schoolteachers, lelia Maria or Petrova) read a brief eulogy of the deceased. The reader was also the author of the speech. It was this particular aspect of the funeral which was explicitly the state’s input in the ceremony (see Appendix 2 for an example of a eulogy). The eulogies, which textualised the life of the deceased individual in a speech, were central to the socialist government’s attempt to transform funerals into nonreligious ceremonies. It was the state’s ‘voice’ in the funeral proceedings. Many villagers themselves spoke of this part of the funeral as the ‘more official (formal) part’. The eulogy presented an ‘account’ of the deceased’s life, a chronicle establishing his/her life’s achievements in terms of the contribution s/he had made to society. It usually contained a description of the hardships faced by the deceased in the pre-1944 period and the particular role s/he had played in supporting and helping realise the new socialist world through, for example, his/her work at the Agricultural Cooperative, establishing a family and so on. The speech located an individual’s life within the linear chronology of state history, incorporating and orienting him/her in terms of a collective socialist history (see Valtchinova forthcoming). In this way traditional views of nature and death were countered. With the end of the speech and the recommencement of the music and the ringing of the church bell, the slowly moving procession continued through the Talpian streets and beyond the last house towards the open field where the cemetery was located.7 On arrival at the cemetery the coffin was set down beside the grave. If the person was an outstanding figure, for example a political leader or someone who had died very young, a shorter eulogy was read by another official. Sometimes those in the village rifle club fired three shots in the air as a sign of farewell. In this instance, however, the occasion 112

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passed without a second reading or special mark of respect. Everyone knelt as one minute’s silence was observed. Those who wished, usually the people closest to the deceased, said their final goodbyes to the baba by approaching the coffin and touching or kissing the forehead of the deceased. The sheet, blanket and rug lining the coffin were folded over the top of the deceased, enclosing the body with all the flowers and other items inside it, the lid placed in position and the coffin lowered into the grave. Before dispersing, every individual threw a handful of soil into the grave. Most mourners made their way to the village tavern to eat, again lamb stew, red wine and a sweet wheat dish. The use of the tavern was convenient for the family and friends responsible for preparing the meal for the mourners – the catering kitchen and dining area easing the burden of preparation. At the same time it allowed the state to increase its influence over the funeral event through the relocation of this ‘commemorative meal’ away from the household to a public place. Two of the above-described practices, identified as traditional, were explicitly recognised as having associations with religion. Although baba Grigora was not among the small number of (mostly elderly) villagers who crossed themselves when entering the room where the deceased lay, she recognised it as a religious act. The direction in which the deceased was laid to rest, both in the home and in the cemetery, had a similar significance. When I asked lelia Maria why all graves faced east, she said it was because ‘we are Eastern Orthodox Christians’. But then before I could question her any further she added, ‘But do not bother asking me anything more because I know nothing about the religion’ – a common response by Communist Party members who wished to openly distance themselves from religion.8 Other rites were not explicitly recognised as having religious roots, although clearly the association existed. The ringing of the church bell, the lighting of candles, the serving of wine and pita bread, were all part of the Bulgarian Eastern Orthodox church services which I witnessed on the few occasions I attended services in Nekilva and Sofia. Burning candles was a usual part of church rites, and represented protection of the spirit and eternal life.9 It was customary for those entering churches to light candles and place them on either the high or low trays; the low tray, I was told, was for the dead, the high tray for the living. The candles burning in the Talpian household on the occasion of someone’s death served a similar purpose; baba Teta said they were lit ‘for the dead’, although she could not elaborate further the significance of this act.10 The red wine and pita bread were also meaningful in Christian Church ceremonies, as symbols of Christ’s blood and flesh. A few of the older village women, especially the bell-ringer who was ‘a believer’,11 displayed some knowledge of the link between the wine and what they recalled from church services many years earlier. Younger villagers and Party members might or might not have knowledge about such associations. Such acts, which Connerton calls ‘liturgical gestures’, are preserved through bodily acts – a ‘narrative 113

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made flesh’ (1989: 47). He writes (1989: 70) that: ‘Whenever they are repeated the reference is to a biblical narrative.’ It evokes the central religious belief of Christianity without any verbal acclamation. Traditional practices were rooted in religious significance. By lighting candles, ringing the church bell and serving particular foods, Talpians imitated church practices in home funeral rites. Such rites transformed the secular space of the home into a temporarily sacred space – church activities were relocated to the household domain.12 However, Talpians did not explain their acts in such terms; questions I asked Party or non-Party individuals concerning a particular practice were most often met with a shrug of the shoulders and the simple response tui e traditsiiata, that is ‘that is the tradition.’ This provided a euphemistic way of speaking about practices which were not approved of by the state; the use of the term traditsiia offered no direct or obvious linkage between the villagers’ customs and the Church, it required no further verbal articulation, reflection or deeper examination. Clearly then, two important features of tradition were that they were nonverbalised practices with religious significance; practices which villagers either would not explain (as in the case of Party members) or could not explain because they had long since forgotten their religious meanings (as in the case of the more elderly, who as children perhaps attended the village church and the young – anyone born after 1944 – who had not had a religious education). Other burial customs, also labelled as traditional, appeared to have their roots in practices which pre-dated Bulgarian Christianity. The placing of food and other possessions in the coffin was one such act. In baba Milka’s case, coins, apples, biscuits and chocolates were arranged at her feet. At other funerals, I noted the inclusion of medicine bottles, clothes and other small personal possessions. In one instance involving a particularly tragic death of a seventeen-year-old youth in a car accident, various items were buried with the body; apart from fruit, sweets and a new pair of socks placed at his feet, the mother dropped into the grave a plastic bag containing the bloodied clothes he had been wearing at the time of the accident and in a separate bag his clean clothes, handkerchiefs and comb. When I asked lelia Maria why he was buried with these items, she first answered that ‘it’s so they do not have to look at them at home and be reminded of the tragedy’, but then she added, ‘these things are meant to be there for his use’. The meanings conveyed by the Christian and pre-Christian beliefs of traditional practices, suggest that villagers did have a notion of ‘afterlife’.13 Furthermore, communication between the dead and between the dead and living was indicated to be possible, under certain circumstances. In a conversation I had with the daughter-in-law of diado Slavcho (the latter being a neighbour of baba Grigora’s) the daughter-in-law told me how, when her mother-in-law had died, a few women (including herself ) had prepared the body and coffin. They had forgotten to place one of the deceased’s most prized 114

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possessions in the coffin with her. Some time later, diado Slavcho dreamed that his wife had said she was cold and ‘why wasn’t her yellow jacket buried with her?’ The next day, diado Slavcho rang his daughter-in-law, who lives in Nekilva, who confirmed that the jacket had not been buried with the woman. The daughter-in-law claimed that diado Slavcho had not known this since he had not helped in the preparation of his wife’s body. To make amends, they arranged that the deceased’s jacket would be buried with the next funeral that took place. The daughter-in-law also told me of another occasion, which concerned a Nekilva girl who had been buried without her comb (she had had long hair). Her mother dreamt that she had asked for it and so with the next funeral, a comb was included with the dead stranger. Both these accounts – related by a woman with no Party affiliation – indicated a belief that the deceased carry messages from the world of the living.14 Burial of possessions reinforced a belief in the afterlife and indicated a possibility of communication between the mortal and ‘other world’. But such instances were rarely discussed, especially in the village; rather they were communicated through practices. The placement of personal possessions and food within the coffin and the leaving of food by the graves were acts which denied the permanency of death, or rather signified that life did not end with physical death.15 When Talpians lit candles by the tombstone, left food (pita bread, sweet wheat) and sprinkled red wine over the top of the grave – ‘za pokoinika’, that is, ‘for the deceased’ – reference to another world was also being made. (In other villages in Bulgaria, these practices were more elaborate, with a greater variety of foods, including grapes, apples and capsicum being placed at the grave-site; sometimes a spoon and plate were also left.) Discussions of this ‘other world’ were couched in terms of ‘dreams’ that the living person claimed to have had. Otherwise, in the same way that the deceased’s dusha (that is, ‘spirit’ or ‘soul’) was a concept which remained unclear/undefined, so also references to the ‘other world’ remained largely undeveloped and elusive. The perceived unchanging nature of tradition is also evident from funeral practices. When I asked baba Teta why she placed food in baba Milka’s coffin, her response was: ‘that’s the way it has always been’. Whether an accurate assessment or not (and from the following discussion about Zarezan we see it is not the case), traditions were experienced as unchanging customs that have remained constant throughout the ages, referring back into the unknowable past and forward into the unforeseeable future. Traditions denoted a past, present and future which was an unchanging temporal order. As such, traditions were therefore also characterised as being of an indeterminate nature which could not be located within a definite period in the past or tied to any specific previous event. Traditions had no known origins except vaguely recognised ties to a Christian or pre-Christian past; they represented a past which was both unknowable and indeterminate. 115

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Finally, the apparently unchanging, indeterminate and unknowable nature of tradition contributed to its cyclic structuring of temporality. Traditional practices constituted death as a necessary part of a cyclic process of existence. The regularly recurring performance of all traditional events, practised for example in life-cycle rituals and change of season, set up such ‘natural’ occurrences as cyclic phenomena. The traditional observances ordered the past cyclically according to seasonal and life-cycle schedules, through their rhythmic and regular practice at given moments. While some temporal progression is evident – birth, marriage, death or spring, summer, autumn, winter – ultimately such a progression was perceived to lead to a return to the first stage, giving an overall cyclic structure. Nothing about death or fertility (e.g. Zarezan) made these events inherently cyclical, rather it was through the practice of traditional customs that these occurrences were structured as cyclical in nature. The practice of traditions at specific moments in villagers’ lives, and their repetition at regular intervals, provided the delineation within which such ‘natural’ events were defined as cyclic, at the same time creating life as a ‘cyclic’ phenomenon.

Death and Relations to Nature Traditional practices associated with funeral rites established death as a nonpermanent state of existence, a necessary stage of the life-death-resurrection cycle; death was a necessary step towards eternal life. Death was therefore defined as the means by which the deceased moved from one state of being into another; from that of the living in the mortal world to the eternality of the ‘other world’. To maintain this order the soul of the deceased needed to be helped on its way by the living, a function of traditional practices. The conception of an afterlife and of a ‘dusha’ provided a medium whereby the experience of death was reduced to a commonality; traditional practices were a means by which the social uniqueness of the experience of death was denied. That is, irrespective of social differences in this world, every-body after death was reduced to its immortal element, the dusha. This in part was achieved through repetition of the same practices at every death, irrespective of who or what the individual had been in life – man or woman, store manager or agricultural worker. Indeed death as a levelling experience was reflected in an often-used phrase, ‘vseki si otiva na red,’ that is, ‘everyone goes in turn’ (Kligman records a similar phrase, 1988: 198, ‘everyone is taken ‘‘in order’’ ’ or ‘one by one’). In talking about death in this way all distinctions were rejected; instead, attention was given to the common features of the experience. Traditional practices helped eliminate any differentiation between individuals after death through upholding a concept of afterlife which denied 116

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the social distinctions of the mortal world and through stripping an individual of his/her social distinctiveness. The comment that ‘everyone goes in turn’ is significant in two other ways. Firstly the notion of ‘turns’ implicates death as part of an order. In the ‘normal’ course that a life should take, birth is followed by marriage, raising a family and death; there is a ‘proper time’ for death in the lifecycle (Kligman 1988: 216). Death was relatively unproblematic when it occurred in the case of an elderly person because he/she was understood to have lived out his/her life fulfilling the social expectations of marriage and having children. Dying was viewed as the next step in the lifecycle. ‘Death of the aged is considered … routine’ (Kligman 1988: 156). This view is reflected in the way people spoke about death – ‘everyone goes in turn’. Moreover, in Talpa, it was not considered appropriate to mourn or show uncontrollable grief for an elderly deceased person (see also Pine 1996b: 453–54). When my grandmother’s brother – diado Ivan – died at the age of ninety-two, baba Grigora soothed my sorrow by saying that ‘you don’t shed tears for the elderly, only for the young’. In the correct time, death is seen as appropriate, made ‘acceptable’ by traditional practices which emphasise the occurrence with fatalistic resignation, or by historical eulogies which understand it to be an inevitable law of nature. It is in particular cases – when the natural order is violated (such as at the death of a young, unmarried person) – that such an order becomes most clearly evident. Kligman notes in the Romanian case how in such circumstances very special rituals are required to appease the ‘natural’ order which has been ruptured. In the much more secular Talpa, I’ve not witnessed a ‘wedding of the dead’. However, at the funeral of the above-mentioned seventeen-year-old youth who died as a result of a car accident, there were a few variant practices (such as the use of red rather than black), which did not take place in the funeral of an elderly person. The belief in such a ‘natural’ order has become particularly clear after 1989, when the order’s disruption was explicitly commented upon (Kaneff 2002b). Secondly, this order was not one over which humanity was perceived to have control. Instead, villagers were resigned to their fate: ‘koi kakto mu padne’ and ‘kakto e pisano’ (that is, ‘as fate brings’ and ‘whatever is written’) were common expressions heard at the time of a death. Through such phrases, Talpians revealed a fatalistic resignation to death, an event that was somehow preordained and a process over which they had no control. The carrying out of traditional acts was not about understanding or changing ‘whatever is written’, but a submission to one’s destiny. Traditional practices were the means by which Talpians acknowledged their fate to be in the hands of supernatural forces, a God or some other powerful force that was beyond their comprehension but which offered them some form of protection. It was a way to accept the lack of control over natural phenomena and appease supernatural forces. The assuagement of the deceased’s ‘spirit’ through placing food in the coffin and serving particular foods to mourners were practices that indicated 117

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that death could not be understood, or reckoned with, except by the mediation of religion. We may pause briefly on the state-dominated part of the funeral – especially the eulogy readings – in order to highlight the important difference between traditional and historical practices, in terms of what they reflected about death and man’s relationship to nature. Unlike traditional practices, in the state-sponsored view of death there was no world other than the one of the living. Eulogy readings upheld the social achievements of the individual as the aspect that lives on in everyone’s memory, rather than his/her eternal spirit. ‘Immortality’ was attained as a result of the contribution individuals made to the development of state socialism. The perpetuation of social difference was also expressed in the tombstones; in Talpa more recent tombstones had either a red star or a black cross to denote the relevancy of the deceased’s beliefs and her/his social identity, even after death. Such an indication of the deceased’s alliance to a social order after death was exaggerated further in the Sofian case, where people were buried according to their social position during their lifetime. For example, in the central cemetery I noted that all the top Party officials were buried in one area, all writers in another, all painters in yet another. Further, the tombstones themselves made a statement about the deceased’s role in society – a poet had some of his poetry engraved on the sides of the stone, a writer’s tombstone carried a sculpture of an individual writing a book – every tombstone was individually sculptured, no two were alike. A deceased’s identification after death with a specific social profession and the maintenance of her/his individuality (as evident from the unique tombstones in the Sofia cemetery), or indeed a simple display of identity as communist or not, as occurred in Talpa, was a way of upholding the relevancy of social differentiation, of social categorisation after death. The eulogy established the distinctiveness of an individual’s life in the historical past, conveying the deceased’s unique role in history. Social differentiation served as a socialist form of ‘immortality’ after death. The conventional ending of the eulogies emphasised this: ‘May the memory of him/her live on forever’ attributed eternal life in this world on the basis of an individual’s contribution to society. The eulogy, reflecting the state’s view on death, also promoted a belief in the ‘natural’ order. The speech served to ‘normalise’ death by grounding it as part of a ‘natural’ linear process that could not be reversed and repeated. A state-sponsored understanding of death as a final and permanent act, is contrasted with traditional representations of it as a phase in a cycle and a necessary path for the soul to pass through in order to reach the ‘other world’. Thus, state views held death to be part of a normal, unrelenting and irreversible law of nature which could not be escaped. ‘Everything that is born, dies’ was a commonly met phrase in the eulogies. While nothing could change nature, its portrayal as a set of laws defined it as an order over which humanity could 118

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have some influence. Human knowledge was attributed the power of being able to increase its understanding of nature and, in doing so, influence natural elements and determine them within limits. Thus death could not be avoided, but through knowledge, life could be prolonged in some instances, for ‘knowledge uncovers and makes use of the laws of nature’ (to take but one example, from Appendix 2). Nature was portrayed as being a rational system, part of a set of laws which could be demystified through scientific discovery and ‘controlled’ by the state through its organs – the educational system, medical practices – which gave future hope for greater human influence. It was an ordered secularised system upon which humanity could increasingly have impact through attainment of a better understanding of the laws governing the system. Man’s relation to nature was therefore believed to be within the grasp of human control, rather than at the mercy of supernatural-religious forces. Thus while both a traditional and historical order portrayed life events as irreversible transformations and part of a ‘natural’ order, they ‘understood’ this process very differently: mediated and controlled either by God (or other supernatural forces) or as a process coming increasingly under state control (through educational and medical institutions).

Collective Celebrations of Tradition Traditional acts were not always practised in the home space; some were celebrated in places that were under the gaze of the state. Zarezan, the celebration of viticultural production, was one such event which I discuss in order to draw out further characteristics of tradition, for unlike the individually conducted funeral practices, Zarezan was a publicly located celebration with a large attendance. Marking the onset of spring and the beginning of the agricultural season, Zarezan was celebrated annually on 14 February in wine-growing regions of Bulgaria. It was considered the holiday of the vines, taverns and gardens which were all under the auspices of Saint Triffon. From this celebration onwards, the villagers could start working again in their gardens, beginning with the earliest task – the pruning of the grape vines. Ten men had gathered at the village tavern when I arrived at about 10.30 am for the 1987 celebration. They were arranging the tables and chairs for the lunch which was to be held later. At the same time they grumbled amongst themselves that, following custom, they should go to the vineyards to get cuttings but that already it was too late to do so and that in any case no one had organised a band for the day and they could not possibly go to the vines without music. Taking them at their word, I returned to baba Grigora’s house to collect the pita bread and other food she had been baking for the luncheon. On my return, however, I discovered that two car-loads of men had gone, 119

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after all, to the vines. (At the time I speculated that the men had not wished to include me in their male-only rite and so deliberately waited for me to leave before they went to the vines. However, in 1993, when I next attended Zarezan celebrations, three mini-bus loads of villagers went to the vines and the group consisted of both men and women. They looked surprised when I voiced my view that previously the ceremony had been for men only. It was only then that I realised that my exclusion in 1987 was not due to the fact that I was a woman, but to the villagers’ discomfort at my recording the event.16) Assuming that the 1987 practices were carried out in a similar way to 1993, then at the vines the plants were ‘blessed’ by pouring red wine over them and around their roots. Quantities of wine were also consumed by those present. The band that accompanied the villagers to the vines played music, as those attending danced and sang. But in 1987 there was no band and the two car-loads of men returned soon after, many carrying long cuttings of vine twisted into rings which they wore either around their hats as a headpiece or across their chests like a sash. One of the men twisted a metre-long cutting into a ‘crown’, placed it on my head and said I was ‘Queen for the Day’ and could command whatever I pleased. Being uncertain of what my powers entailed, I did not exercise my prerogative. Men and women began arriving soon after noon, bringing with them salads, freshly baked pita bread and drinks – wine, beer and slivovitsa. The five lambs – provided by and paid for by the TKZC – which had been slaughtered for the occasion and cooked at the TKZC kitchens, were brought across (the renovations to the tavern kitchen facilities were due to be completed before May, for the ‘model village’ event). We were served lamb soup followed by lamb portions with rice, while people shared their home-made pita bread, salads and drinks. In accordance with the new state laws recently passed, which restricted the consumption of slivovitsa to the evenings, it was announced by Gradinarov at the beginning of the luncheon that only wine and beer could be consumed. This did not deter some of the villagers, who had brought a supply of slivovitsa disguised in soft-drink bottles. While the majority stayed only for lunch and then returned to their jobs – most of those present were TKZC workers – the remaining thirty to forty villagers brought in a cassette recorder to solve the problem of no live music and continued drinking and dancing the ‘khoro’ (traditional/folk dances) well into the evening. Many of the features denoted as characteristic of traditional celebrations associated with funerals were also true for Zarezan. As a celebration of one of the martyrs of the Christian faith – Saint Triffon17 – Zarezan was connected to the Eastern Orthodox Church. It is a good example of how a Christian holiday, which forms part of the cycle of calendar customs, is also associated with the seasonal cycle (Kligman 1988: 70). The attending villagers to whom I spoke, recognised the religious origins of the holiday; I was told that another name for Zarezan was ‘St. Triffon Day’ and that it was held in honour of the 120

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saint in charge of the vines. However, participants seemed to know little else about its religious aspects, or were not willing to discuss it further with me if they did. Nedkov, who a couple of weeks earlier had described to me how the holiday had once been celebrated in his youth, did not mention – in his historically sensitive rendition of the event – the church as having played any role in previous celebrations. Nevertheless, a written description of the tradition indicated that Zarezan had once involved a church holiday service before all the men left for the vines and that in some regions the priest used to accompany them and sprinkle the vines with holy water.18 Indeed when I questioned my next-door-neighbour diado Dimiter in 1997 about his memories of Zarezan, he confirmed that before 1944 the village priest would accompany the men to the vines. Nedkov also told me that women were included in the vineyard part of the ritual only after 1944. The gender delineations collapsed after the state began influencing the proceedings. As with the funeral practices, Zarezan was not identified with any definite past events or origins, except some vaguely recognised ties to Christianity; as such it reflected an indeterminate past. Further, in signifying the end of winter and the beginning of spring – representing the start of a new growing season, the renewed fertility of the land and the protection of the vines from misfortunes for the year – the cyclic structuring capacity of the event’s content was established. The location of Zarezan in the village tavern was also an aspect of its traditional character; while not celebrated in the private domain of the individual household, it was nevertheless sited in a place not associated with historical activities. The tavern, appropriately, was situated in the plaza directly opposite the Chitalishte. Despite a number of similarities between all the regions celebrating Zarezan there were also significant differences. The fact that Zarezan was carried out in a variety of ways in different regions in Bulgaria19 (and indeed not carried out at all in other areas), established its character as marking distinctions between regions rather than having any unifying importance as a nationally significant practice. The choosing of a regal figure in the Zarezan celebration was not a ‘typical’ practice for all regions but particular to the Veliko Turnovo area, and here it was a ‘king’ who was chosen. Apparently any villager who wished could take on this role, but the person traditionally chosen owned many vines and was a good viticulturist (clearly relating back to the pre-1944 period when individuals owed differing-sized vineyards). Emphasising these qualities, the villagers anticipated good productivity for all orchards and vineyards during the king’s reign.20 Talpians broke with this custom of their region by naming a ‘queen’ – who owned no vines and knew very little about viticulture – and so distinguished their traditional celebration from others in the region. This contributed to the distinct way in which Talpians celebrated Zarezan in 1987. The fact that traditional practices varied between localities provided part of their significance in creating distinctions between people and places. (Many of the traditional funeral practices were 121

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also means of marking difference: at baba Milka’s funeral a neighbour recently resettled in Talpa commented how in southern Bulgaria they did not wash the body of the deceased in red wine as part of the burial preparations.) Traditions were unreflected-upon practices, at least in the sense that carrying them out demanded little organisation. In line with this, Zarezan was not a formal or highly organised event. To the contrary, it appeared as almost a spontaneous, impromptu set of acts which demanded little planning. Thus Zarezan had no definite point at which the proceedings began or ended and was relatively open to spontaneous activity associated with the central functions of eating, dancing and drinking. Villagers trickled in and left at various times of the day, depending on whether they wished to make it a whole day or lunchtime-only affair. Like most people, after the main course I moved freely from table to table, speaking to a large number of the participants. Anyone who chose to contribute to the event’s organisation did so – no individual took a leading role in the proceedings. The music and dancing was not preplanned, indeed no one had taken the initiative to organise live music. Instead villagers relied on a selection of cassettes brought to the tavern, on the spur of the moment, by one of the participants. (As the afternoon wore on, participants reached an increasing level of merriment and intoxication). Likewise, the couple of villagers who decided to name a queen of the vines did so without consulting the others; it was a spontaneous and innovative act made possible through the largely unstructured, uncontrolled and nonhierarchical nature of the celebration. The lack of formal structure gave the event a degree of scope for individual creativity (sometimes expressed through anti-state acts – recall for example the bringing and drinking of slivovitsa in soft-drink bottles). It also contributed to the egalitarianism between those attending – there was no set order or hierarchy between those who had come earlier to arrange the tables and the others. Nor were any of the hierarchies evident in historical celebrations, between officials/populace, good workers/bad workers, observable during Zarezan. In denying the hierarchical order of historical celebrations, another order was implicated; a religious-based one which created a distinction in terms of the sacred and secular, the saintly and ordinary mortals, respectively.21 Traditional practices, which were concerned with fundamental issues concerning life, death and fertility (including of the land), were ultimately about man’s relation to nature, constructing the relation as dependent on religious and pagan practices. Zarezan was no different, linking villagers to nature in a particular way; via the mediatory religious/superstitious traditional activities which were initiated by the onset of natural occurrences. The successful growth of vines and their protection from natural hazards was not seen as dependent on the development of technology, nor on the increasingly educated and knowledgeable state of its workers, but rather on the carrying out of a traditional custom in the name of a religious saint whose function it was to protect villagers’ vineyard interests. Correspondingly, those villagers who were 122

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involved in using TKZC technology (tractor drivers) or were educated specialists, for example viticulturists and veterinarians, were not singled out for any privileged treatment or special recognition in the traditional event, as they frequently were in historical celebrations. While people did not articulate their belief in supernatural forces as being responsible for the success of village agricultural production, the practise of the traditions associated with Zarezan ‘spoke’ to issues of fertility and production of next year’s vineyard operations in non-state-approved terms. It was not meteorological reports or scientific knowledge but the pouring of red wine on the vines which initiated the onset of the villagers’ agricultural working year and its successful outcome. The final point I make in respect to Zarezan concerns the absence of state officials. As with other traditional practices, the lack of state support for Zarezan was evident from the fact that it was not an official holiday. Those who wished to participate took the day off or at least took two hours during the lunchtime period to attend. As far as officials were concerned, it was a normal working day. Baba Grigora made the distinction between Zarezan and state-organised celebrations, when she explained that ‘Zarezan was not an official holiday but a traditional one’. The location of the event in a nonhistorical site and the small number of state officials who participated, provided further indication of the lack of state support. Those who attended did not do so in any official capacity. Indeed the only leading Party figure present was Gradinarov. Comrade Pashev, Boian, Matov, Novikov, lelia Maria, Tsela and others were absent. Some ordinary Party members were present, as were most of the forty-odd members of the BZNC – most of whom worked in the TKZC. The majority of the participants were nonCommunist Party villagers. Further, Gradinarov played no formal role in the event, apart from the warning he gave at the beginning of the lunch about state restrictions on the consumption of slivovitsa. His low profile during the occasion – he was not one of those who came early to arrange the tavern tables, nor one of the two car-loads of men that went to the vineyards – was perhaps surprising for, as head of the TKZC, his more active involvement could have been expected, especially since the majority of those attending were TKZC workers. Instead he came only during his lunch break and returned to work in the afternoon. Most of the TKZC workers followed his example. Baba Grigora – who held no great admiration for Gradinarov because of her loyalty to her daughter – offered an explanation for Gradinarov’s low-key role. She said that while in recent years the TKZC head had taken the opportunity to make a speech at the luncheon, he did not do so this particular year because of his heightened unpopularity in the village due to his involvement in corruption scandals (Chapter 3). Baba Grigora added that it was nearing election time and opposition was mounting against his reelection as TKZC head. She concluded by saying that he was wise to ‘keep his head down’ on this occasion. 123

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Two points may be noted: firstly, the knowledge that Gradinarov had had a more active participation in the event in previous years, is a strong indication of the event’s fluctuating position with respect to the state. While Talpians did not explicitly associate the inclusion of official state participation with the declining nature of the custom, many did acknowledge the changes that had occurred in the way Zarezan was practised in the past ten to fifteen years. Diado Gencho Nedkov told me that much had changed in the way Zarezan was celebrated, especially in the last ten years, and that in the past the celebration had involved the entire male village population, who went to the vineyards. Here they slaughtered and cooked the lambs and drank wine. After eating and drinking together, the menfolk returned to the plaza where the whole village gathered for a khoro.22 Clearly in previous years the men played a much more extensive role in the celebration, which was less subject to state influence. The transference of the luncheon to the tavern (not a site with historical significance but nevertheless a public space which could thus come under the observation of state officials), and the inclusion of women (thus reducing the importance of gender roles), were both processes that indicated a trend towards greater state involvement.23 The absence of the priest in post-1944 Zarezan celebrations was another strong indicator of state influence. The same can be said for funeral practices – the location of the main ‘commemorative meal’ at the tavern and away from the family household signalled an erosion of the ‘independence’ of such practices and the strengthening of state involvement. It represented the relocation of collective traditional events in public places. The widely acknowledged changes in the event – the role of state officials, the transformed composition and level of attendance – made Zarezan different from other traditional practices that have been discussed. The unchanging nature of tradition (identified earlier as a characteristic of traditions) was not valid for Zarezan, which was a ritual coming increasingly under state determination. Yet the event had not been transformed to such a degree that it was no longer termed traditsiia. For the present, at least, villagers maintained that the celebration was ‘traditional’, despite increasing state involvement. Secondly, the view baba Grigora and others expressed – that Gradinarov had not spoken on the occasion because of his unpopularity – revealed a belief by ordinary villagers that they had some degree of control over the celebration and the extent to which Party figures were actively involved. The participation of Gradinarov, for example, was deemed to be at the discretion of the villagers. A popular TKZC head was ‘permitted’ to present a speech, but the presently unpopular Gradinarov gauged the atmosphere correctly and thus did not extend his official privileges beyond a perceived acceptable limit. The illegal consumption of slivovitsa at the luncheon was another example – the act may not have been an open disregard of state laws, but neither did villagers allow state laws to impinge on their enjoyment of the occasion. In the end, villagers held the belief that they, rather than state officials, determined the occasion. 124

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In exploring tradition as a particular social construction of the past, we must recognise its fundamental difference as a temporal order from that constituted by an historical perspective. Traditions constructed the past as cyclic, unchanging and indeterminate. Most importantly, they were about ‘natural’ processes perceived as not within human control; traditions represented man’s acknowledgement of ‘other world’ forces (religious – Christian and pre-Christian), they were a means of appeasing phenomena otherwise believed to be beyond human determination. Distinctions created by a traditional past – based on gender, for example – helped delineate differences between people. Traditions also represented an alternative moral order which ultimately located rewards for proper moral conduct in the ‘other world’; while the historical past located moral exemplariness and reward in this socially constituted world. Traditional practices were thus deemed to be about processes beyond the control of the state and associated with the realm of supernatural forces. They lacked any formalised organisation, were celebrated in private areas outside the state domain – in households or public sites with no historical significance – lacked state sponsorship and were generally not attended by state officials and Party members, who distanced themselves from such practices. The distinction between a state-determined history and traditions was evident through: the absence or inactive role of officials in traditional celebrations; the greater level of control villagers believed they had in determining the extent of state officials’ involvement in traditional customs; and in the usually private location of the activities. Further, since history has been shown to be associated with socialist politics (Chapter 3) then traditional practices were in these terms apolitical. This defined the location of tradition as a construction of the past which not only lacked historical – and therefore political – significance, but also held an importance which in many ways was based on its conceptual and actual opposition to history. Watson reminds us of the contemporary importance of examining such ‘unapproved rememberings’ (1994: 4) as the source of postsocialist histories and the basis upon which new states are being created. In the following chapter, I discuss in greater detail the nature of the tension between history and tradition as two different constructions of the past.

NOTES 1. As with many of the ceremonials in Bulgaria, secular funerals have their roots in the Soviet experience. Binns writes (1979: 595): ‘In October 1923 a Party circular on anti-religious propaganda was issued…It recommended the holding of secular ceremonies for funerals, requiems,

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2.

3.

4. 5.

6.

7.

8.

9. 10. 11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

marriages, name-givings and ‘‘admissions to citizenship’’…’. Although, he points out, few ordinary citizens were given a secular funeral in this early period. I emphasise that the situation described is specific to Talpa. Considerable variation existed within the country. For example in the neighbouring village of Tevelak, a priest was often used at funerals throughout the socialist period and church services were regularly conducted. Baba Vera, a native from Tevelak, described (in 1997) how, as a young married woman, she visited her native village in the pre-1989 period. Often, on these occasions, her mother would take her to church services. During the same period there were no births and only two weddings. The latter were of citydwelling children whose parents resided in Talpa. Even these weddings, which were deliberately held in the village because the participants had wanted ‘traditional’ three-day weddings, did not include a priest or church service. Talpians were unable to explain this practice. Kligman (1988: 162) says that it allows the soul of the deceased to pay the toll to the gatekeepers who allow the soul to proceed on route to Judgement Day. According to baba Grigora, the dusha also always returns to the place most dear to the person in life, wherever she/he felt they belonged, irrespective of where the person’s body had been buried. Thus, baba Grigora explained at the time of my grandmother’s death in January 1987, that ‘baba Marinka may be buried in Australia but her dusha will return here (to Talpa)’. When our relatives gathered to share a meal on the day of my baba’s funeral, the occasion ended with baba Grigora saying, ‘there now baba Marinka has eaten’. Emigration is clearly one situation where former villagers are still remembered in fulfilment of obligations to the deceased; another such situation was soldiers who have died in battle (Kligman 1988: 159). There is a structural and content relatedness between marriage and funeral rituals in Bulgaria (something Kligman notes for Romania, 1988: 218). For example, the location of the musicians in the wedding ceremony was at the forefront of the procession while during funerals they played from the rear of the procession. Burial in the grounds of the plaza-located-church was confined to prominent village figures: either those who had fought against Ottoman forces in the liberation war of 1878 or wealthy villagers who had paid for the privilege. No one had been buried there since 1944. A Sofian friend with no Party affiliation was more forthcoming. She pointed out the reoccurring symbolic importance of ‘the east’ in the Christian Orthodox religion; a symbolism manifested in numerous ways, such as the fact that all church altars were on the eastern side and the grave was laid out facing east. Bulgarian Academy of Sciences (1985) Etnografia Na Bulgariia, Vol. III: 194. Kligman tells us that such a practice protects the body from evil spirits and provides light for the deceased’s journey to the ‘other world’ (1988: 158, 170). She once described her futile attempts to encourage the priest from the neighbouring village of Televak (responsible for a number of villages in the district) to come occasionally to give a service in Talpa. He refused, telling her that he was put off by the strong communist presence. In her discussion of ‘folklore’ in Bulgaria, Silverman (1983: 58), wrote that Christian practices have been replaced by secular ones. I would add, in agreement with Petrov (2000), that some Christian practices were not so much replaced as relocated to the private realm of village life. See also Dragadze (1993) on the ‘domestification’ of religion in the Soviet Caucasus. Binns, discussing the Soviet Union, notes such a mergence of ‘folk’ customs with religious ones in respect to wedding ceremonies (1980: 177), while Kligman identifies such a mixture of Christian and preChristian beliefs in the case of Romania (1988: 157). In Kligman’s terms, ‘the living believe that the dead speak among themselves, they also think that the newly deceased, acting as messengers, are able to carry news from this world to the other’ (1988: 155). Such a view was also implied in the importance attributed to burial as the method of body disposal. On one occasion when driving to Nekilva with Comrade Pashev, I was asked about funeral practices in Australia and after my response he commented that ‘unfortunately our people have not reached the stage when cremation is acceptable. They still cling on to traditions and wish to be buried’. The association that Comrade Pashev made between preference of method of body dis-

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16.

17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23.

posal (burial) and traditions – an implicit reference to the Christian beliefs which necessitated the body remain intact in order that resurrection could occur (see Kligman 1988: 165) – was defined by him as a more backward ‘stage’ of body disposal. During Zarezan, the attendees seemed acutely aware of my presence. The 1993 event provided me with an important measure of comparison which made me aware of the degree to which I had been viewed as having interests aligned to officials on the basis of my recording activities during the socialist period. While it was acceptable for me to record and note historical celebrations – which I did in a very public manner, attending the meetings with notebook and sometimes even tape recorder in hand – my attendance at traditional practices, although tolerated, was viewed with some caution. ‘Model villagers’ did not want to appear, to outsiders, as active in events that did not support history. My activities of writing about the village – which was how I explained my presence to curious villagers – labelled me, in many people’s eyes, as a sort of ‘official’ since the very activity itself was associated with state representatives. Thus while my presence at the lunch attended by approximately 180 – including at least one state official (Gradinarov) – was welcomed, my presence at the more closed activities at the vines, where more ritualised practices took place, was not. In Bourdieu’s (1990: 79) terms, I was codifying ‘by the mere fact of recording’. In so doing, I became an active participant in the transformation of the ontological status of the event, from an act that had potential and conceptual (if not actual) opposition to the state, to its ‘pacification’ through textualisation. Little wonder that I was made more welcome in historical celebrations than in traditional events. In this respect the role of an anthropologist in Eastern Europe took on considerable political significance. The issue was not simply of the anthropologist as an interface between the Cold War enemies. For the very nature of anthropological activity served, in one sense at least, the socialist agenda, in much the same way that it was, and still is, at the service of capitalist relations of power. According to Bulgarian Academy of Sciences (1985) Etnografia na Bulgariia, (Vol. III: 57–58), the saints in such celebrations were not purely religious (at least not as presented in the Bible) but also part of ‘people’s culture’. Biblical saints were images with no associations to ‘the people’, while St Triffon had a real concrete shape and ‘interrelated’ with people on specific occasions such as Zarezan. (The same was true of other saints, who were believed to be protectors of different agricultural interests; for example, St. Georgi, who was protector of cattle breeding and St. Todor, who was protector of horses). To preempt an argument in the following chapters on folklore, in presenting the saints as ‘people’s culture’ rather than stressing their religious qualities per se, the authors attempted to deny the custom’s exclusive religious associations. Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, (1985) Etnografia na Bulgariia (Vol. III: 109). Bulgarian Academy of Sciences (1985) Etnografia na Bulgariia (Vol.III: 109). Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, (1985) Etnografia na Bulgariia (Vol.III: 109). Kligman explains: ‘Religious beliefs and practices magnify the sacred dimensions of calendar and life-cycle rites…By so doing, the glory and will of God are honoured’ (1988: 71). Participation was linked to land ownership. After collectivisation of the land, the vineyards were worked jointly by a relatively smaller proportion of the population – TKZC employees. Decreasing participation in the celebration, which once involved the entire village, can be attributed in part to collectivisation and a corresponding decrease in individual bonds, both emotional and physical, to the land. Silverman notes a number of traditions, including Zarezan, which have increasingly come under state influence (1983: 58). The reverse process was in evidence after 1989. In 1993 the importance of this traditional celebration had changed: not only were attendance numbers far larger, but more significantly the luncheon was held in the Chitalishte. Members of the Liquidation Council, assigned to disestablish the Agricultural Cooperative and ensure the distribution of its wealth to the villagers, gave short speeches at the event, thus giving it a degree of state sponsorship that the celebration never had during the socialist period.

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C HAPTER 6 T RADITION AND H ISTORY: C ONTRASTING C ONSTRUCTIONS OF THE PAST




Traditional customs are less adhered to in Talpa than in some other neighbouring villages because there are so many communists here (A villager attending the 1987 Zarezan celebration)

Since the death of lelia Maria’s husband in 1984, our next-door-neighbour, baba Vera, had come to lelia Maria’s house every evening after dinner. Lelia did not like to be alone at nights. Even after I took up residence with her, baba Vera continued to come. Together we spent the evenings watching television, knitting and talking. Baba Vera would sleep at our house, returning home to her husband in the mornings. But on religious holidays when custom forbade work, she would not bring her handicraft. On one such evening, when lelia Maria took up her knitting, baba Vera reminded us that it was the ‘day of the dead’ and thus not appropriate to work. Lelia laughed and responded ‘I don’t believe in such things’ and continued her knitting. Baba Vera’s adherence to traditions (through the abstinence on this occasion of a particular practice) and lelia Maria’s verbal disregard of it can be seen as representative of two contrasting viewpoints: one held by a Party member, the other by someone more inclined to follow tradition. But while both constructions of the past apparently existed together in the same space and time, the media they ‘exploited’ (verbal versus nonverbal domains) were quite different. This chapter explores further the nature of this opposition between a historical and a traditional construction of the past, focusing on the implications that such a conceptual opposition had in everyday village life. 128

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A Good Communist Village: a Bad Traditional Village On one of his trips to Talpa during the winter to visit his elderly mother, a village native, currently living and working in Sofia as a historian, advised me that the village was not the best place for me to conduct fieldwork if my interest was in traditions; for Talpa, according to him, ‘had relatively little traditional activity’. He gave two explanations for this. The first had to do with the specific past of the village: Talpa was founded by ethnic Bulgarian settlers from a number of other villages in the region (probably in the 17th century). The village gradually became a purely Turkish community in the latter period of Ottoman rule. Following the country’s independence in 1878, the Turkish residents fled the village and Bulgarian settlers returned to the area, buying the land, razing all the buildings to the ground and rebuilding the village. The fact that immigrants came from over twenty different villages provides a plausible reason as to why traditional customs did not become a binding and common force amongst the new settlers. The villagers never had a common set of traditional practices which could be considered typically ‘Talpian’ and on which they could draw; there existed just an odd collection of fragments from other villages, which have become increasingly irrelevant over the years. This was quite different from the situation exemplified in the neighbouring village of Tevelak, which had remained ethnically Bulgarian throughout the period of Ottoman rule. Tevelak had a coherent and unified set of traditional practices that were developed over a long period of generational continuity. These traditions were less susceptible to erosion by socialist ideology. Further, the post-1944 immigration of Turks, Pomaks, Macedonians and Roma to Talpa, who all introduced their own specific customs, only added to the lack of common traditional practices. Secondly, the historian told me that the immigrants to Talpa were relatively wealthy people – those who had the resources to relocate from one village to another. He made a direct association between their better economic situation and the lack of the maintenance of traditions by explaining that Talpian wealth was invested in educational ventures. This, he believed, resulted in a more forward-thinking, progressive population that was less likely to rely on traditional practices. It was poor, less-educated villagers who clung to superstitious customs. The better economic position of the new migrants, combined with the lack of common tradition, also meant that the state’s involvement at the local level through school, medical services and administration represented, perhaps, the only influence that could unify or draw disparate settlers together. In fact Sanders (1949), writing in the pre-1944 period about a village which he describes to be anti-communist (and thus a particularly valuable contrast to Talpa1), identifies an army of state officials – doctors, administrators as well as teachers – who played an increasingly influential role in local affairs well before the end of the Second World War. Such 129

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state representatives, whose presence served to erode the dominant position of the Church, were particularly influential in a place such as Talpa which had few community traditions to begin with. Individual refusals to discuss religion, the absence of any organised collective resistance to a state-determined historical past by means of traditional practices, the apparently declining interest in collective traditional celebrations such as attendance at Zarezan (which once had attracted the entire male population), and even the deliberate exclusion of the anthropologist from certain parts of the proceedings, so that traditional practices could not be recorded (and therefore enter into the domain of discourse), were all means by which Talpians emphasised their individual and collective commitment to communist ideals. It was part of the way they encouraged outside perceptions of themselves as a ‘good communist village’. One would not expect to find much traditional activity in a ‘model’ village such as Talpa. Nor would one expect to find, under such circumstances, a strong sense of local identity based on tradition.2

Creating Local Distinctions: Traditional Practices as a Way of Opposing the State Although traditions did not play a particularly important role in constituting the community’s identity, especially in terms of its relations with outsiders, they did play a part in establishing distinctions among Talpians and within the village. It is to funeral practices that I wish to return, in order to explore this issue further. The eulogy which was read outside the Chitalishte was based on a standard which was used for all deceased villagers. Variations on this structure occurred only if the deceased was an exceptional figure, having contributed more than most to the development of historical goals. In such an instance the deceased’s body was placed inside the Chitalishte, essentially to ‘lie in state’ as villagers filed past to pay their last respects (in the case of the funeral of an ‘ordinary’ citizen, the coffin was not carried inside the Chitalishte). The normal funeral procedure was then resumed with a longer-than-normal eulogy reading outside the Chitalishte and a second eulogy reading at the cemetery. The only funeral that I have witnessed of this calibre was of the ‘true communist’, A. Pashev. Variation in the state part of the proceedings also occurred in the instance of a particularly tragic death, such as that of the youth who died in a car accident (mentioned in Chapter 5). Burial in such cases was accompanied, again, by a second eulogy reading at the cemetery. While state practices associated with funerals remained fairly constant, traditional rites varied from funeral to funeral and accordingly attributed a distinct atmosphere to the event, serving to discriminate among funerals. The specific identity of the deceased was established through the particular traditional practices carried out during the funeral; whether traditional practices were performed 130

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and which ones, revealed not only the deceased’s commitment to state ideology, but also marked the deceased in nonhistorical terms. By comparing the traditional funeral practices described in Chapter 5 with those carried out at the funeral of a Turkish villager, the way in which traditional practices served to establish local difference becomes more evident. In 1984–1985 the Bulgarian government undertook an assimilation campaign on the ethnic Turkish population, which included prohibiting the practising of Muslim/Turkish customs and the forcible changing of Turkish names to Bulgarian ones (see McIntyre 1988: 72–75 & Creed 1990). This was the culmination of a long-term programme to eliminate ethnic diversity in the country, in conformity with the state’s general objectives of ethnic homogenisation. In outlawing Turkish customs, the state revealed a greater degree of intolerance to certain traditional practices than to others (yet Bulgarian Christian practices were also marginalised). The rites performed at a Talpian Turk’s funeral in April 1987 hold particular interest, therefore, when exploring the issue of the use of traditions in the context of what was a hostile state ideology. Unfortunately, I missed the funeral and this itself was due to the irregular way in which it was carried out. For while, as noted in the previous chapter, all funerals were organised to arrive at the plaza at 2.00 pm – and occasionally at 12.00 pm when the weather was bad or more than one funeral occurred in the same day – the Turk’s funeral was conducted at 10.00 am. When I expressed my annoyance at having missed the occasion, lelia Maria, who had lived most of her life in the village, consoled me by saying that she could not remember any funeral having taken place so early in the day. In addition, other aural indicators that commonly informed villagers that a funeral was in progress, such as the music and the ringing of the church bell, were not used on this occasion. Later that day I spoke to a young Bulgarian man in his late teens, the nextdoor-neighbour of the deceased, who attended the event. He described the funeral in some detail and from his description I recognised that several practices during the course of the funeral were at variance with other Talpian funerals. Firstly, only men had ridden with the deceased in the trailer to the Chitalishte, all the women had walked behind. Secondly, the family had not wanted a eulogy to be read outside the Chitalishte, preferring that ‘words’ were said at the cemetery (a nonhistorical site); however, my informant said that the family was ‘talked into a reading’. Upon being asked, he told me that the name used in the eulogy speech outside the Chitalishte was the deceased’s Bulgarian name, the one he had officially adopted a couple of years earlier. Thirdly, at the cemetery, a Turkish mullah had sung after the man had been buried. Surprised, I asked my informant where this man had been found, since the practise of Muslim rites was illegal, and was told ‘it’s easy to find one if you know where to look.’ While visiting the grave-site that afternoon, I noticed that the state-supplied red-painted pyramidal plaque had been left blank – the information of name, date of birth and death were not provided. 131

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It was the only time that I witnessed such an ‘oversight’. Undoubtedly the relatives had not wanted to use the deceased’s official Bulgarian name and yet were unable to legally write in his Turkish one. Further, the incomplete plaque was placed on the grave, according to Muslim custom, facing west, rather than east, as was traditional for all Bulgarian tombstones and temporary plaques. The selection of practices described above distinguished the deceased’s funeral from other Talpian funerals I attended, in a number of ways. The absence of bell ringing or music and the placement of the name/date plaque facing west, located the man’s religious beliefs as other than Christian. The presence of the mullah clearly established his beliefs as Muslim. Such a distinction was as much an ethnic as religious one since Bulgarianness and Turkishness were constituted as separate identities largely – but not solely – on the basis of religious practices.3 The failure to include the deceased’s name on the plaque was no accident but a deliberate rejection by his family of the Bulgarian identity forced upon their relative. The separation of the women and men mourners in the funeral procession emphasised another distinction between the Bulgarian and Turkish ethnic population – one based on different practices relating to gender. Traditional practices served to make local diversity visible in the village. In the case above, traditional practices created distinctions on the basis of religion, ethnicity and gender. They were therefore more than a conceptually conflicting way of constructing the past with respect to state-legitimated history; in practice, traditions represented visual markers of distinction which ‘spoke’ against state-sponsored understandings about the fundamental human condition. Such a traditional system of differentiation was contrary to the homogenising policies of state ideology, which aimed to unify on the basis of shared historical goals. (Any socialist-approved differentiation of humanity was also defined in such terms: individuals, communities, even countries, were distinguished in terms of stages of development vis-à-vis the historically inevitable goal of communism.) At the same time, the divisions produced by traditional customs in ‘this world’ were accompanied by the unity they established between humanity in the ‘other world’. The ‘other world’ of eternal life, rendered social uniqueness, expressed in terms of traditional differences in the mortal world, as irrelevant. Recall the importance of the dusha – spirit/soul – which nullified all human difference after death (Chapter 5). This is different from historical celebrations which advocated a homogenisation of humanity in ‘this world’, all in the name of the future goal of communism, a goal which aspired to unify humanity as classless, nationless, secular and founded on equal relations between the sexes. For state ideology there was no ‘afterlife’ or ‘other world’ – that which survived beyond death was the individual’s contribution to society during his/her lifetime. The unification of humanity was therefore expressed in conflicting ways: traditions promised unification in a supernatural world, history anticipated 132

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unity in terms of a future communist order. The former created unity in a parallel but spatially distinct zone, the latter in a temporally different (future) zone. In short: traditions distinguished humanity in ‘this’ world while unifying through the ‘spirit’ in the afterlife; whereas historical practices aimed for homogenisation in ‘this’ world while memorialising distinctions after death (which commemorated an individual’s contribution to the socialist project). Thus history and tradition unified and distinguished humanity in quite distinct ways. Traditional practices provided, potentially and practically, a contrast to history (and state ideology) by virtue of the fact that they posed an alternative means by which to define the human condition. Nonadherence to the normal funeral time, visual incongruencies, oral and aural silences were means by which the deceased Turk’s family exploited nonverbal practices in order to pursue their own customs unhindered by state officials. The manipulation of nonverbal domains gave some recourse to individuals over a state that held a tight rein over language. Verbal discourse about death during socialism was restricted to that which fell within the limits of state approval: ‘factual’ verbal and written accounts that were secular and reinforced state views about nature and death. Since the state determined how people could speak about the nature of life and death, traditional practices exploited alternative domains of communication. As Verdery (1991a: 7) notes with respect to Romania, ‘Silence became a way of resisting totalization.’ But it was not simply poignant silences. Views that diverged from those of the state were encoded in traditional practices through a variety of nonverbal practices, namely: visual acts (such as candle lighting and not writing on the name/date plaque), silences (no bell ringing or music, and attempts to have no eulogy reading outside the Chitalishte) and nonparticipation (not adhering to the usual funeral time and structure).4 It was precisely because the domain of language was so politicised that nonparticipation in events and pertinent silences took on such a significance.5 In the case of the Turkish funeral it was difficult to ascertain whether the traditional practices were a calculated attempt to challenge the state, or whether, more innocuously, they simply represented a family’s act of determination to pursue customs without inciting the attention of the authorities or explicitly acting against the law. Such acts belonged squarely in the realm of what Watson calls ‘…subtleties of opposition and compliance’ (1994: 10). In fact the ambiguity of the situation – created by verbal support for the state (the eulogy) and a visual/aural undermining of it – was an important part of its ‘success’, if ‘success’ is measured in terms of the Muslim family’s attaining their goal of carrying out a funeral using their traditional beliefs, relatively unhindered by the state.6 Unlike historical events, which could exist independently of their performance (through books and other state-controlled media), traditional practices remained bound to the immediacy of their enactment, trapped in the spontaneity of the moment. Yet it was also this very 133

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quality which gave traditions a degree of unpredictability that made them potentially dangerous to the state order. The same ambiguity existed on other occasions, such as the placing of food in coffins. When the elderly villagers did this they did not appear to be deliberately trying to express opposition to state views by giving their support to religious activities. Nor was that brief moment during Zarezan – when some participants, knowing about the restriction on the consumption of slivovitsa, brought in alcohol disguised in soft-drink bottles – necessarily an open statement of defiance. Clearly it was a blatant disregard for state law but this was not necessarily a deliberate intention of the act. Rather, the concern was to maintain the tradition of eating, drinking and dancing, which were central activities in such festivities; no eating/drinking session was complete without the slivovitsa aperitif. Through such practices – or ‘performances’ in Connerton’s (1989: 88) terms – the past is given continuity, retained and ‘remembered’ as habit. And it is precisely because such traditional practices are habitual, that they are both persuasive and a persistent force. They are, as Connerton puts it, ‘required in such a way as to not require explicit reflection’ and this makes them ‘not easily susceptible to critical scrutiny and evaluation’ or to the ‘cumulative questioning entailed in all discursive practices’ (1989: 102). Most traditional funeral practices were individual rather than collectively organised acts, carried out in nonhistorical sites in domains over which the state had little control, by sectors of the population who were not central to the future development of the communist state. Those who openly practised traditions were individuals peripheral to the political domain of power. Noncommunists, especially elderly non-communists, posed no threat to the development of socialism. Therefore, state officials were prepared to turn a ‘blind eye’ and avoid confronting such individuals who practised traditions, since the future success of the state was not deemed to be in their hands. While non-communist engagement in traditional practices may have provided evidence of an individual’s ‘backwardness’ and the need for his/her reeducation, an individual’s peripheral position in terms of history and politics meant that nonconformity was not viewed as threatening to the social order – in much the same way that socialist morality was less rigidly applied to non-Party individuals (Chapter 3). As long as traditions were practised in ‘hidden’ spheres, in nonverbal and nonpublic (nonhistorical) space, then officials did not confront those acting ‘against’ state ideology. Unlike the above-cited instances, where ambiguity always accompanied the practise of traditions, there were cases when traditions were used to explicitly express anti-state sentiment. One such instance was told to me by a Sofian family friend. Tanya was a middle-aged intelligent woman, an artist by profession, who was vehemently opposed to the Communist Party and the socialist system. Her husband had ‘escaped’ to the West in the early 1960s, but she had declined to go with him. Nevertheless she felt the constraints of the repressive 134

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state: her applications for an external passport so that she could travel abroad were always rejected. She assumed this was because state officials feared that she would join her husband and not return to Bulgaria. Her interest in religion was partly work-related – her career included the reproduction of icons – partly out of intellectual curiosity and partly out of the appeal for anything anti-state. (The extent of her anti-socialist reputation became evident after the 1989 reforms when she was invited to join the anti-communist party.) It was Tanya who told me about a Sofian Communist Party member who had used traditional practices at his funeral in a premeditated way to express opposition to the state and Party.7 The man in question had been a partisan before 1944, and a prominent and senior Sofian Party figure. He was described by Tanya as a ‘true and good communist’. He had apparently become increasingly disillusioned with the Party since its rise to power after 1944, so much so that on his deathbed he asked his wife to arrange a fully religious funeral ‘with candles and religious ceremony’. This was not, Tanya commented, because he was religious – he had never been – but it was his final act of protest against the Communist Party. Such public and deliberate transgressions of state ideology by party members could not be easily ignored. The Sofian Communist’s expression of dissatisfaction was particularly powerful given his pro-communist position during his lifetime; other Party members could not turn a blind eye or excuse his choice of a religious funeral in the same way they could for a non-party member. The force of his act lay precisely in the fact that Party members were supposed to be exemplary or at least to ‘keep up appearances’ and this included the expectation that they would distance themselves from all religious beliefs and practices.8 An intentional and public show of support for alternative views to those espoused by state ideology amounted to a deliberate expression of anti-state sentiment. Since the moral and economic reproduction of socialist ideology depended on a show of support through displays of conformity and engagement, deliberate withdrawals and alignment to alternate value systems were a direct affront to socialist values. There was no question of this funeral making use of ambiguous aural and oral silences – it was a clear and open rejection of socialist ideology. There was a fundamental difference, therefore, between the Sofian’s funeral and the Turkish funeral I described in Talpa; in the latter case there was no evidence that the practice of traditions was an open and premeditated expression of anti-state sentiment. Thus it was not only a matter of traditional practices being an effective statement of opposition to history, but who performed these practices was an important part of the effectiveness of them also. Nonpolitical individuals could engage in traditional practices; communists were expected to publicly repudiate them. When Arian Pashev’s body was laid to rest at his home immediately before the funeral, for example, there were no candles lit beside the body. When I shared 135

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this observation with a neighbour in attendance, she explained to me ‘that there were no candles in the room because he was a communist.’ While communists appeared quite tolerant towards those who practised traditions – especially towards elderly villagers, some of whom, even at Arian Pashev’s funeral, slipped food into the coffin, an act ignored by the large number of gathered Party members – they themselves made evident their own disdain for such practices. In fact, as communists, they rejected and distanced themselves from traditions, not only through not performing traditions, but also through not speaking about them; that is, not drawing the practices into the public domain of discourse. Recall the example given in the previous chapter when lelia Maria’s response to my query about burial facing the easterly direction was ‘We are Eastern Orthodox Christians. But do not bother asking me anything more because I know nothing about the religion’. In this way she openly distanced herself from religion by refusing to discuss the issue and thereby draw it into the shared verbal domain.9 Whether deliberately intended or not, the practise of traditions presented a challenge to the historical order advocated by the state. Although I witnessed no occasion in Talpa when traditions were used in a calculated or collective way to oppose the state, its oppositional potential was clearly recognised and used by others – the communist’s funeral in Sofia provides one such example. Such an expression of opposition was communicated informally through conversations by those opposed to state socialism. In any event, the ambiguity created by traditional practices in Talpa was enough to potentially raise uncertainty about some individuals’ commitment to state ideology. Local distinctions were made through the absence or presence of traditional practices. Traditional practices were markers of difference: firstly acting to differentiate the closeness of an individual/community to the socialist state (determined in terms of the presence/absence of traditional practices), and secondly, serving to distinguish among individuals within the community, for example, on the basis of their ethnicity or gender (determined in terms of the nature of the traditions practised). Because the state had monopolistic control over the verbal domain – both spoken and written – traditional practices did not occupy the foreground, but existed in the relief of the much more prominent and public domain of discourse. On occasions these ‘gaps’ in the socially constituted world were exploited. Traditions were visually and sometimes aurally present (or significantly absent), but never discussed, never articulated or brought into the public domain of discourse. Spatially they were relegated to nonhistorical public and private sites. While fear may have constituted part of the reason for the lack of discussion in some individual cases, and genuine ignorance in other cases, I do not believe these were the primary motivations for silence. Much more importantly, villagers had an interest in presenting themselves to outsiders (including to anthropologists who codified – to use Bourdieu’s term (1990) – their practices in the written domain) as ‘good 136

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communists’. The continuation of their close relations to the state centre depended on this. The significance of traditions as a potential and actual expression of resistance to state history was a situation of which state officials were aware. Yet at the same time, many of the practices were acknowledged to be typically ‘Bulgarian’ (since they were rooted in the Bulgarian rather than any other Orthodox Church) and thus crucial in any construction of national identity. This was acknowledged by a Sofian official from the Fatherland Front, Cultural Section, who told me in 1987 that while the government would like to give support to ‘truly’ Bulgarian traditions, it was unable to do so since many traditions were also associated with the Church. Again we see the role of tradition as crucial in localising identity – in this case national identity on the world stage. The problem, the official informed me, was how to support distinctively Bulgarian traditions, while separating them from their religious associations and significance. In the following chapter I look at how state officials addressed the recognised threat posed by traditions through the development and sponsorship of folklore.

NOTES 1. Although this position might have been intentionally constructed by Dragalevtsy elites, given the political conditions of the time. 2. This indicates a very different relationship between the village and state from that described by Kligman for Ieud in Romania (1983; 1988). Also see Stewart (1998) for two other Romanian examples and Pine (1996b) for a Polish case. 3. This is particularly relevant when considering folklore in the next chapter, where a state-sponsored Bulgarian identity was encouraged, but on the basis of nonreligious features. 4. This distinction resonates with, but does not replicate, the distinction made by Watson (1994) between shared memory and history, or Connerton’s (1989) distinction between bodily practices and the role of language. The contrast I make between nonverbal and verbal practices, tradition and history respectively, can be understood in terms of Connerton’s (1989: 28–29) distinction between the transmission of social memory through bodily practices which he opposes to the ‘archetypal model for all…forms of intersubjectivity’, namely, language. If Connerton (1989) is correct that the past is sedimented in the body through two types of bodily practices – incorporating bodily practices and inscribing practices – then in the case above it is the pertinent absence of Bulgarian ‘Christian’ bodily (traditional) practices and their replacement with alternate customs that are of significance. An example of incorporating bodily practices would be the ringing of the church bell; an example of inscribing practices the identifying name plaque.

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Who Owns the Past? 5. Since 1989 there has been a shift, as the state loses its monopolistic control over language and at the same time nonverbal practices become more prominent in the public domain. I have discussed this issue with respect to funerals in a recent paper (Kaneff 2002b; also see Conclusion). 6. A similar feature of ambiguity is noted by Kligman in her studied laments – which she views as providing an opportunity for the public expression of current events. The ambiguity in such cases was due in part to the multiplicity of possible interpretations of the texts and in part to the individual ‘concealing’ his/her views through the objectified, customary structure of laments in the context of ritual performance. (See Kligman 1988: 271–73). 7. The accuracy of this story is unknown; its significance is in the fact of its perceived importance and that it was circulated as informal narrative during the socialist period by those opposed to the state. 8. In the same way, while it was important for Party members to ‘keep up appearances’ and show no support for traditions, what they did in the privacy of their homes was a separate issue. At the beginning of this chapter I cited an occasion when lelia Maria scoffed at baba Vera’s refusal to knit on the ‘day of the dead’. Yet on ritually more potent occasions, Lelia herself advised caution and gave her support to the same traditional custom. During the first nine days following the death of my grandmother, baba Vera cautioned me not to work (e.g. knit, wash clothes). One evening during this period I picked up my knitting. Only an immediate reminder of the taboo by baba Vera momentarily stopped me before I looked at lelia Maria for support. The latter, however, did not, as I expected, signal for me to continue. Instead she laughed and said in a lightly mocking voice, ‘you better not, you never know how God might punish you’. 9. Public verbal opposition on which Kligman (1983; 1988) focuses – that is, laments and poetic texts – was not evident in Talpa, where defiance was restricted wholly to the nonverbal domains.

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F OLKLORE : A Brief Introduction to Chapters 7 and 8




Tozi predmet predstavia kakto beshe po edno vreme, that is, This object represents how things were at one (in another) time (Guide in folklore museum)

Folklore celebrations became increasingly popular in socialist Bulgaria in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Indeed, a high-ranking Communist Party official in Sofia estimated that by 1987 there were as many as 36, 000 amateur folklore groups in villages and cities throughout Bulgaria.1 Almost every village and many organisations (factories, unions) formed their own folklore collectives. In the case of Talpa, the village boasted a vocal group for much of its socialist period. The predominantly female group was connected to the Chitalishte, which provided general support. In the late 1970s there was also an orchestral group, comprised of five musicians, set up by the assembly plant. Such amateur groups, as well as professional performers – backed by composers, conductors and artistic directors – were part of a huge industry that arose during the socialist period – an observation made by Silverman (1983, 1989) with respect to folk music, but which I believe to hold wider relevancy. Folklore covered a broad range of activities, from the serving of specific foods in particular contexts (for example, when receiving foreign visitors), the wearing of costumes and the performing of music, songs and dances, to certain handicraft activities such as weaving and pottery. Folklore was widely disseminated through the media – television and radio – as well as being performed at festivals. It was an industry that was intricately linked to the centralised state in a number of ways; from the state-run academic institutes and museums that made it the focus of their study, to the dissemination of folklore through the state-controlled media. In the following two chapters I take the position that the expansion of folklore was an important and deliberate means by which the state appropriated tradition for its own hegemonic purposes.2 Folklore in this case was about the legitimation of the state: it was a means by which anti-state constructions of the 139

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past were subsumed under historical goals. However, state interest in traditional rural life and in its transformation is not confined to socialism. As Kligman notes: ‘Romantic views about European peasant life have been promoted by eloquent empirical accounts, but these also assign traditions to the realm of artefacts in our modern, enlightened world’ (1988: 262). The production of folklore can be seen as part of a broader modernisation ‘project’ that is characteristic of industrialising countries. Nevertheless during socialism, where the past was central to socialist ideology and to state legitimation (Watson 1994), the process of making tradition into artefact had a quite specific and heightened significance. Tradition was ideologically problematic because it presented an anachronistic temporality from the perspective of the state.3 At the same time, the development programme of socialism demanded a display that change was occurring, that is, that progress was being made in terms of historical goals. Folklore was one means by which socialist transformation could be seen to be occurring, through the appropriation of the traditional past. Objects and activities identified as folklore were products of a process which created a socialist, traditional ‘other’, that is, folklore separated the presocialist traditional past from the contemporary world. In taking this view, my work views folklore in a way similar to that of other authors, that is, in terms of the state and connected with issues of identity (nationalism).4 Silverman (1983, 1989), Buchanan (1991), Petrov (1998)5 and Rice (1994) note that folklore is about re-presenting the presocialist past. As Rice writes (1994: 14), ‘in the communist period (1944–1989) Bulgarians made their pre-Communist past an object of reflection, in the process distancing themselves from it and making necessary its reappropriation … for the new ‘‘progressive’’ times’. I consider the significance of this process from the broader perspective of socialist temporality; folklore is one construction of the past which must be considered in the context of the other socially relevant pasts.6 Folklore is one means by which the state’s commitment to modernisation and socialist development was shown to be taking place. In the following chapter, the character of folklore is explored through a discussion of a New Year’s celebration – survakane – which was practised in Talpa, on different occasions, as both a traditional and a folkloric custom. I explore the way in which the traditional practice differed from the folkloric custom. The process of the transformation of the former into the latter I call recontextualisation. Silverman (1983: 60) identifies a similar state-determined trend, which she describes as ‘selective preservation and directed innovation’. See also Rice (1994) who identifies a parallel process occurring in the creation of folklore music, and Kligman (1977) for the case of Romanian ritual. For analytical purposes, the process of recontextualisation may be thought of as consisting of two parts: the taking of particular practices out of one context and then establishing them in another state-controlled framework. State involvement in the process of creating folklore from tradition cannot be underestimated. It resulted in the structural and meaningful transformation of tradition into folklore, a process which 140

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included: the rejection of religious features; the emphasis of the visual presentation of traditional objects; the relocation of traditional practices out of private and into public arenas; the involvement of state officials as well as non-Party figures; and a breaking of the traditional cyclic context by the adoption of a linear one. Such a recontextualisation process served to distance temporally and spatially the villagers’ own native customs from their traditional context. With such a distancing, tradition was transformed into folklore. Folklore was therefore about moving that which was unreflected upon into the state-controlled domain of the reflected and articulated. This ruptured the temporal cyclic-religious character of traditional practices, at the same time spatially removing them from everyday life and confining them to public places under state surveillance – museums, shops and stages. Such a spatial and temporal relocation of the traditional past attributed to folklore a practical significance – as providing a socialist model for Bulgarian identity. In Chapter 8, this relation between folklore and socialist identity is explored through focusing on how Talpians used folklore in order to represent themselves as ‘Bulgarian’. I suggest that in providing a revaluation of the traditional past in a state-approved manner, folklore resulted in the creation of objects and activities which encouraged an identity that unified at the regionalnational level. Unlike traditional practices, which created local divisions on the basis of religion and gender (for example), a folkloric identity served the unifying agenda of state socialism. Folklore represented a collection of objects and performances which held aesthetic value as ‘Bulgarian culture’. Thus the performance of folklore in Talpa was one means by which villagers engaged in the state-approved national identity. This identity, we may recall (Chapter 2), was always subsumed to the internationalist, historical goals of state socialism. Thus the relationship between nationalism/internationalism (folklore/history respectively), although undoubtedly at times problematic and complex, producing ‘hybrid identities’ (Grant 1995: xii), cannot be clearly delineated as one between the destructive potential of nationalism and an ideal pursuit of internationalism (contrary to the suggestion by Verdery 1991a: 4, 315).7

NOTES 1. Personal communication, Ivan Panchev (Sofia 1987). 2. Such a view has been developed by a number of authors writing on folklore in a variety of geographical locations, including Lombardi-Satriani (1974), Zygulski (1973), Oinas (1975) and Eminov (1975), who are concerned with the political use of folklore. Still clinging to the belief of folklore as an absolute concept, Dorson (1976) trivialises politicised folklore as fake-lore and therefore unworthy of study. The problem with all these works is their usage of folklore as a taken-forgranted concept. Although a relatively sophisticated study of folklore, Herzfeld (1982) also uses the term in an ethnographically uncritical way.

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Who Owns the Past? 3. The lack of attention paid to the importance of the past in state ideology appears to be at the heart of inadequate understandings of the role of folklore in socialism. Recognising the centrality of the past provides an answer to the question of why the state encouraged folklore (posed by Rice 1994: 181–83) and throws light on the ‘enigma’ which Kligman (1988: 281) identifies as originating from ‘…the theoretically unlikely combination of village tradition and socialist transformation…’. 4. The folklore-nationalism connection is not specific to the socialist period. On the contrary, as Silverman (1983, 1989), amongst others, has noted, folklore has played an important nationalistic role in Bulgaria at least since the nineteenth century. 5. Although Petrov’s (1998) concern with the transformation of ‘religious feasts’ into ‘socialist holidays’ rely’s on different terminology, his basic ideas resonate with the other works, as well as my own, on the transformation of tradition into folklore. 6. In using an ethnographically based definition of folklore located within the context of social(ist) life, my approach differs from various works on folklore by both folklorists and some anthropologists. Firstly it differs from works such as Romanska (1978) and Lodge (1947), whose approaches are purely descriptive and, in my terms, part of the state-sponsored transformative process by which tradition becomes folklore (the same criticism I believe to be valid for the Bulgarian folkloric discipline – see below). My approach also differs from, for example, Dundes (1965) and Dorson (1966, 1976) – who seek to define folklore in some absolute sense, thus not giving it due consideration in any particular context. This problem was implicit in other works concerned with the lack of a definition of folklore or its unspecified location in the academic field, e.g. Maticetov (1966); and specifically in respect to the location of folklore and anthropology (Bascom 1965). Others – e.g. Szoverffy (1968) – investigating the relation between history and folklore, conclude that folklore functions to reflect history. Szoverffy (1968), Dundes (1966) and Degh (1965), use folklore as an indicator of the level of a society’s civilisation, as some mediatory mark between civilised and savage societies. Such evolutionist perspectives are unsatisfactory for reasons which have been elaborated by postmodern approaches. Yet they have persisted into the 1980s: Flores (1985), for example, presents a romanticised view of folklore, as isolated and untouched by hegemonic processes, and having assumed egalitarian value. This she opposes to ‘art’, which is characterised as typical of ‘bureaucratic’ societies, as a tool of ideological oppression. Apart from an apparent evolutionary understanding of folklore (see especially 1985: 255 and 261) her definition of folklore is anything but ethnographically specific, being a term she generalises as having cross-cultural and cross-temporal importance; indeed her discussion of folklore spans examples from 1500 BC Mayan society (in Mexico) to present-day African-Americans. I have not relied heavily on Bulgarian academic literature concerning folklore, despite the extensive research carried out by folklorists in the country. The reason for this is that I find such material largely descriptive and classificatory, and part of the state apparatus by which tradition was transformed into folklore (see also Petrov 1998). Thus for the purposes of my argument, the value of folklore studies is primarily in filling in details about rituals/practices. I am aware that at various times research has extended into issues of ‘authenticity’ and debates about ‘antiquity’; and that French structuralism and the Soviet semiotic school – amongst others – have had some influence in Bulgarian folkloric studies. I am also aware that within the discipline a distinction is made between folklorists and ethnographers. But despite these variations, my general criticism remains that folklore was not treated as a socially constructed process seen to exist within a political-economic context. I thank Galia Valtchinova who confirmed my views and at the same time gave me a greater appreciation of the intricacies and complexities relating to the issue. For a report on folkore studies in the postsocialist period, see Ivanova (1998). 7. Folklore was constituted from the opposition so clearly described by Grant (1995: 159): ‘Throughout the Soviet period…there was a strong and conscious reification of the opposition between the traditional and the modern… Soviet nationality policy…expressly sought to collapse these oppositions, emphasising the dialectical negotiations of the traditional and the modern in the pursuit of creating the pan-Soviet nation’.

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C HAPTER 7 D EFINING F OLKLORE




In the old days they never made the survaknitsa so fancy, they just tied some dried fruit and bits of lolly paper on the branches (Baba Grigora commenting on the survaknitsa (folkloric object) she was making for her grandchild)

The growing popularity of folklore, and the distinction that can be made between traditional and folkloric customs, was underlined by lelia Maria, who said in relation to the observance of survakane, a custom carried out in the New Year, that ‘I never made them (survaknitsi) for myself or my daughter, yet now I am making them for my grandson’. This comment highlighted the transformed significance of the survakane custom over the years: from its dwindling relevance through the 1940s and 1960s, when lelia Maria and then her daughter were young, to the more recent period, in the time of her grandchild, when the custom was revived. The comment also indicates a change in the state’s position with respect to survakane: from noninvolvement in the traditional practice when lelia Maria, as a Party member, did not participate in the custom, to her engagement in the folklore activity in more recent times. The involvement of the state was a fundamental factor in the changing significance of this custom over the decades.1 Survakane was one of a number of customs carried out to celebrate the advent of the New Year. Although differing in details,2 it was conducted in the same basic form throughout Bulgaria. In Talpa, survakane was practised as both tradition and folklore, and therefore is particularly useful in exploring the way in which tradition was appropriated and constituted as folklore; indeed this process defined the character of the latter.3 143

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Survakane: Both a Traditional and a Folkloric Custom As a traditional practice, survakane was an activity carried out by children. The survaknitsa, a decorated branch from a cornel tree, was made only hours before it was needed from a freshly cut branch, approximately one to oneand-a-half metres in length. The smaller branches radiating from the central stem were folded back to the centre and tied, thus forming loops progressively decreasing in size along the length of the survaknitsa. These loops were decorated sparsely with popcorn, dried fruits and coloured woollen threads. On New Year’s Day children from the village collected in small groups and visited households – usually those of friends, neighbours and relatives – in order to survaka the inhabitants. This was almost invariably performed from very early in the morning on New Year’s Day until midday (and not later) although survakane could be performed for up to a 24-hour period.4 I was at baba Grigora’s house when the neighbours’ children came to survaka her and her husband, diado Gosho, on 1 January 1987. The children tapped each adult on the shoulder with their survaknitsi, while at the same time reciting the verse noted below. There were a number of different verses I heard chanted in Talpa; all began and ended in the same way, while the middle few lines varied. Below I have noted the one recited by the children who visited baba Grigora. surva surva godina vesela godina pulni kosharnitsi s aguntsa cherveni iabulki v gradina pechen puiak vuv furna goliam grozd na loze zhivo, zdravo do godina do godina, do amina

surva surva year5 happy year sheep pens full with lambs red apples in the garden roasted turkey in the oven large bunches (of grapes) on the vines life, health for the next year till the next year, amen

After this, the children helped themselves to a variety of food treats which baba Grigora had placed on the kitchen table – including popcorn, walnuts, apples, dried fruit and sweets. Relatives, such as baba Grigora’s grandchildren, were also given money. The children went to neighbourhood households with the survaknitsi, tapping adults and chanting the verse, and in turn receiving food treats from the villagers. This act of survakane was said to be a blessing which would bring health and prosperity to the recipients. While clearly rooted in the above traditional custom, survakane, as a folkloric celebration, was practised quite differently. The folkloric activity centred on the entry of a survaknitsa in a state-organised competition. As early as midDecember, lelia Maria and I went to her parents’ house specifically to make a survaknitsa for her nephew, the grandchild of baba Grigora (named Tosho), 144

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who lived in Nekilva and who intended to enter his survaknitsa in the national competition. Tosho’s other grandfather, diado Todor, together with lelia Maria, had already scoured the village and collected a number of cornel branches. These two individuals were not helping Tosho in an official capacity but their knowledge and experience concerning the competition, and what state adjudicators might look for, was useful in the making of the survaknitsa. They finally selected the branch considered to be the best among those collected, based on its straight shape, its many smaller branches stemming from the central one and the large number of buds on each branch. The basic construction was the same as in the traditional preparation; however, in this instance a great deal more attention was paid to its appearance. Domestic naturalcoloured wool was wrapped around each looped branch, covering all the bare patches where there were no buds. Various items prepared by baba Grigora and diado Gosho were then hung from the loops: strung popcorn, dried fruit, walnuts, hot peppers, garlic, small onions, decorations made from brightly coloured home-spun wool, dough figures such as birds and doughnut-shaped rings. At the base of the survaknitsa lelia Maria attached a small hand-woven bag which was filled with fruit and popcorn, while at the very peak she hung a small bell wrapped with geranium leaves. The survaknitsa was to be collected by Tosho the next day to be taken to Nekilva and exhibited at his school. Tosho himself did not partake in the making of his competition survaknitsa – in fact he was not even in the village at the time. The institutionalisation of the traditional practice occurred primarily through the involvement of a variety of state officials, from schoolteachers to adjudicators (folklorists). The competition began within every school where children were encouraged to make survaknitsi. According to lelia Maria, who taught at the Talpian school, the teachers were the ones concerned with the initial organisation of the competition. The survaknitsi produced by the Talpian pupils were exhibited in the school corridors. A panel of teachers and the school principal chose the best, which were then sent to the district centre, Nekilva (eight kilometres away), where they were exhibited in the Pionerski Dom6 – an organisation to which all children aged from eight to eighteen years, belonged. This, lelia Maria explained, is what would happen with Tosho’s survaknitsa. If Tosho’s was considered amongst the best in his Nekilva school, it would be exhibited in the town’s Pionerski Dom and judged against all the other entries selected from the district. It was the director of the Dom, aided by specialists from Turnovo – artists who specialised in folkloric art and folklorists – who adjudicated the best in the district, selecting those which would progress to the next stage, to be judged and exhibited in the Pionerski Dom in Veliko Turnovo, the regional capital. This procedure took approximately three weeks. The winning regional entries were sent to Sofia and adjudicated nationally against survaknitsi from other regions. The best at each level of adjudication were awarded prizes. The competition was thus run 145

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by state officials and largely controlled and organised by institutions concerned with children’s education – schools and the Pionerski Domove. The making of a survaknitsa for entry in the competition involved a degree of planning and organisation at a variety of levels, from its creation in the village to its adjudication in Sofia. When we met at baba Grigora’s house, lelia Maria, baba Grigora and diado Todor had already organised details of the construction of the survaknitsa; lelia Maria and diado Todor had scoured the village for an appropriate branch from the tree and baba Grigora had baked dough figures, found wool and made popcorn for decorations. These activities had to be coordinated to coincide with the deadline for entry into the competition. A fair amount of reflection was also involved in the making of the survaknitsa. Diado Todor, who had played a prominent public role in a number of ways during his lifetime – he was a respected Party figure, who had preceded Gradinarov as head of the TKZC – made useful comments as to what is involved in creating a winning survaknitsa. Lelia Maria, however, as a teacher, was even more acquainted with what impressed the judges and so she took the lead in guiding the decorating of the branch. She was aware of the symbolic significance of the survaknitsa and the specific materials used for its decoration. So, for example, she informed me, as we all sat together making the survaknitsa, the geranium used in the decoration of the survaknitsa signified good health. Zdravets in Bulgarian comes from the word zdrave, literally meaning ‘good health’. The choosing of the branch by Lelia and diado Todor also revealed the extent of reflection involved in the construction of the survaknitsa – they explained that only the cornel tree could be used since it was well known for its strength and thus had symbolic importance. Further, the branch had to be a good specimen, one that had many buds, in order to symbolise health and future prosperity. Lelia added that the tree was the ‘first to bud and last to bear fruit’ and as such, it symbolically encapsulated the life cycle of all annual fruit-bearing plants. The adhering to a timetable for entry into a competition, the discussion about the decoration and explanation of the symbolic importance of the ornaments – partly in response to my questions, but also freely given by Lelia while directing the decorating process – were part of the folkloric significance of the survaknitsa as a reflected-upon and planned activity, factors nonexistent in the traditional practice. While the competition was run by state-sponsored organisations (the school and Pionerski Dom) and involved a degree of planning, the central activity of the folkloric practice – the construction of a survaknitsa – was determined by the requirements of the competition and by the adjudicators, who followed set guidelines stipulated by specialists, folklorists and ethnographers. As noted above, much greater attention was paid to the decoration of the folkloric survaknitsa than to that used in the traditional practice; the best survaknitsa was decided in terms of its appearance and on how closely it repli146

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cated, in the experts’ opinion, the traditional. ‘Authenticity’ was judged in terms of two factors. Firstly the decorations had to reflect the type of livelihood in a particular area. Thus the survaknitsa we made for the nephew of Lelia was decorated only with produce characteristic of that grown in the region (other regions in Bulgaria used their own characteristic materials); and of course was restricted to the lasting qualities of the produce – for example grapes were not attached because they would not last the duration of the competition. Each area had embroidery patterns and styles peculiar to its own territory which could be identified by an expert in regard to its origin. The bag placed at the base of Tosho’s survaknitsa was woven in a style associated with the Veliko Turnovo region; any particularities associated with a village would not be appropriate for use. This created a degree of standardisation within regions in the visual appearance of the survaknitsa. Lelia Maria, who had made a survaknitsa for her city-dwelling grandson in the previous year, was obviously successful in her portrayal of that which was ‘typical’ to the region; with pride she told me that the survaknitsa had won first place in the Veliko Turnovo regional competition and had subsequently represented the region at the national Sofian level of the competition. In this case at least, regional differentiation was an important part of the nationally focused competition. Secondly, ‘authenticity’ required that the decorations for the folkloric survaknitsa remain true to the type of materials used in the traditional object. The hand-woven bag that hung at the end of the survaknitsa could not have been replaced by, for example, a plastic bag or any modern machine-woven bag.7 For a survaknitsa to be authentic, it had to be decorated with ornaments which signified traditional times, that is, anything that characterised and defined itself as belonging to the pre-1944 period. No modern (post-1944) objects could be used; to do so would immediately invalidate its authenticity. The materials used – determined by regional characteristics and significance as ‘nonmodern’ – defined the two main rules for decoration which attributed ‘authenticity’ to a survaknitsa (see also Silverman 1989).8 The fact that the folkloric celebration focused essentially on the appearance of the object is emphasised by the comment made by baba Grigora, which I have quoted at the very top of this chapter. While the materials used for decoration were authentically significant, it was their quantity and variety that indicated a concern, indeed preoccupation, with the appearance of the survaknitsa. Exaggeration of the visual dimensions of the traditional practice established the new folkloric position of the survaknitsa as an object for display, for exhibition. A similar situation is equally true for other types of folklore. The visual dimension of music and dance was emphasised through state settings, choreography and use of beautiful costumes – the ‘decorative function’ of folklore (Rice 1994: 182). Folkloric customs, which required – often explicitly – 147

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appreciation of the visual, were a means of raising the constructed object for reflection and discussion. The study of folklore created a verbal discourse about the visual, so bringing previously traditional practices into the public domain, and under the gaze of the state.9 However, emphasis on the aesthetic dimension of customs was only part of the process involved in the reworking of traditional practices into folklore. The elimination of aspects of the traditional practice – such as any religious/mystical associations it held – was the other dimension of the process. Indeed the separation of traditional practices from their superstitious-religious roots was a vital part of constituting and distinguishing folklore from traditional practices. When I asked baba Grigora and lelia Maria about the apparent connections of the verse spoken at the traditional survakane practice to Eastern Orthodox Christianity, I was told that the practice had no religious connections and ‘amen’ was said at the end just because it was ‘the accepted way of finishing the verse’.10 They added that the custom was a way of ‘blessing’ the household for the year to come, but it was not a religious practice. This response echoed those given concerning other traditional practices (Chapters 5 and 6). Again the religious or pre-Christian dimension is referred to only in a euphemistic way. Placing to one side the debatable origins of the traditional custom, as either pre-Christian or Christian, the important point with respect to the folkloric custom was that as a part of a competition, the traditional verse spoken by the children was ignored, as indeed was the entire mystical significance conveyed by the activity of tapping the shoulder or back of an adult. Both the bodily practices and oral chant were absent from the competition. In this way the folkloric custom was severed from any associations that the object had to religious/mystical beliefs. Given the length of the competition, which began in mid-December in the schools and finished in the second week in January in Veliko Turnovo, the folkloric survaknitsa was obviously not meant to serve any mystical-religious purpose on New Year’s Day, for it was not available for use at the very time when it could be used in a traditional role. Indeed the richly decorated folkloric survaknitsa was so cumbersome, the branches weighed down so much with decoration, that carrying it, let alone using it in the traditional way, was quite difficult. Baba Grigora and lelia Maria were clear about the purposes of the survaknitsa they had made for Tosho – it was made purely for the purpose of being entered in the competition, which explained why, when the survaknitsa competition was over, the survaknitsa was returned to Tosho who threw it away. Traditionally, survaknitsi were also thrown, not into garbage bins, but on top of the roofs of animal pens, a custom said to ensure good health for the household’s animals. Through the articulation and reflection upon its visual presentation, and the rejection of religious/mystical beliefs (including the elimination of acts that referred to these beliefs), the survaknitsa attained a new folkloric signif148

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icance as a piece of art, symbolic of the traditional past, yet distinctly detached from its traditional meanings and practices. The folkloric survaknitsa seemed to have but one purpose – as an exhibition piece, an object of aesthetic value. Individual creativity in enhancing the decorative appeal of the survaknitsa was encouraged, in fact it was an object of the competition, along with a striving for authenticity. In this way those Talpians engaged in making survaknitsi were involved in the transformation of traditional practices into folkloric objects which held material appeal and artistic value (always within the limits, of course, of authenticity, as discussed above). In the act of ‘authentically reproducing tradition’, individuals creatively participated in the recontextualisation process which defined folklore. Villagers – schoolchildren and their adult helpers – who entered the competition were incorporated in the process of appropriating the traditional past and representing it as folklore, in accordance with state goals.

Folklore as a State-Determined Activity I have already described how the reworking of the traditional survaknitsa into folklore involved state institutions. It was specific state institutions – schools and the Pionerski Dom – which were central in this process. Incorporation within the educational domain both secularised the traditional practice and gave state representatives determination over the custom in a state-controlled environment. A whole range of educational agencies, from tertiary research institutes to local schools, were involved in some way or another in the production of folklore. Indeed the development of folklore was extended in the socialist period through the creation of government-sponsored schools assigned the task of training professional musicians in folklore music (see Silverman 1983: 59 and Rice 1994: Ch. 8). Within the framework of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, folklore was a discipline covered by several institutes (Dinekov 1981). There were numerous provincial ethnographic museums, which all displayed, documented and provided information about folklore (see Tilney 1970). These organisations and their staff were central to the state appropriation of folklore; academic workers built their careers on the ‘discovery’ and ‘collection’ of, and publication about, folklore (see also Silverman 1989: 157). Traditional practices were appropriated and their apparent spontaneity recorded as text so it could be reproduced on other occasions. Practices such as survakane were textualised, music was transformed into written notation.11 At the lowest rung of the educational ladder, schoolchildren – not to mention those who helped to make the survaknitsi – learnt about and reflected upon the custom in a specific way defined by the state officials involved in the competition. The study, recording, reenactment and discussion of traditional practices represented a state appropriation, which was led 149

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by educational institutions and served an educational purpose. The significance of folklore as both an aesthetic object and pedagogical resource is considered further in the following chapter. (For the educational role of folklore music, see Rice 1994: 182.) The fact that the survaknitsa competition was organised by educational bodies also indicates the type of state officials involved in the production of folklore. The concern for folklore was in the hands of a certain sector of local state representatives – those junior Party members who were identified in Chapter 4 as being central to the educational and cultural development of the village. It may be recalled that Petrova, Tsela and lelia Maria dominated the leadership positions in mass organisations – the former two were leading organisational figures in the Chitalishte vocal group, the latter was deputy head of the Fatherland Front, head of the Teachers’ Union and had once conducted the vocal group. All three were teachers in the Talpa school and members of the Chitalishte Council. It may also be recalled that these individuals’ contribution to the realisation of state historical goals was largely in terms of cultural and educational activities. But non-Party villagers were also engaged in such activities. Lelia Maria’s mother, for example, was not a Party member (although she was in good favour with the Party for her hard work in the TKZC before her retirement), but she, along with other kin and neighbours, was drawn into folkloric activities by her daughter. In this way, the creation of the folkloric survaknitsa involved both Party and non-Party villagers. The relocation of traditional practices within the authority of educational bodies severed their cyclic performance. As with tradition, folkloric celebrations such as survakane referred to natural phenomena; the link between the survaknitsa and agricultural production was conveyed through the decorations, which had to reflect the livelihood of a particular area and signified a particular ‘natural’ and seasonally reoccurring event – the ritually potent period of New Year. However, while the folklore survaknitsa retained such traditional associations in terms of content, recontextualisation firmly established this within the linear concerns of the state, rather than at the mercy of cyclic supernatural-religious forces, as was the case for the traditional customs.12 As a folkloric custom, survakane was not restricted to the 24-hour period revolving around New Year. Since part of the ‘power’ of the traditional survaknitsa depended on its being practised within a 24-hour period – 31 December to 1 January, at the boundary between years, a ritually potent time – the reorganisation of the same practice by entering it in a competition which extended over a three-week period was an important way in which the folkloric custom was placed outside the traditional cyclic logic. The control state officials exercised as to where, when and how the custom was performed, resulted in its detachment from the cyclic context of tradition, which occurred with a rhythm determined by appropriate points in the ‘natural’ life cycle. The folkloric act was not performed or restricted to any seasonal ‘natural’ 150

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logic, rather it was embedded in a new contextual setting – a state-run competition – which was defined by state officials and given a linear order.13 Although the folkloric celebration followed an annual pattern, there was nothing to restrict the exhibition of survaknitsi to this temporal framework. Indeed survaknitsi could be viewed in a number of folkloric museums around Bulgaria irrespective of the time of year. The cyclic context of the traditional survakane practice – and by implication the influence of the ‘natural’ life cycle of traditions – was therefore broken by the control state institutions exercised over the custom. The result of such a transformation from cyclic to linear context, which I suggest was characteristic to all forms of folkloric activity, was exemplified in an extreme form in folklore festivals, where various folkloric customs were performed or exhibited together, totally detached from their traditionally cyclic context. At the state-sponsored national folklore festival in Koprivshtitsa, which occurred once every four years, an entire range of activities – from the craft of spinning, to the singing of wedding songs taken from locations all over Bulgaria – was performed on a number of outdoor stages, side by side. Smaller folk ‘fairs’ were held every year.14 In fact the village itself was declared a museum – building restrictions ensured the preservation of the houses in ‘the old style and modern construction with the exception of hotels is forbidden’ (Tilney 1970: 249). There were several such designated villages in Bulgaria, which held a very different place in socialist society from those of a ‘model village’ such as Talpa (see following chapter). During the folklore festivals, there was no cyclic order to what was, in essence, a mass conglomeration of Bulgarian folklore whose performance was restricted neither by specific seasonal nor life-cycle determinants. Folkloric performances were presented out of the traditional cyclic time logic and instead were incorporated within a state-determined context, as part of a performance on stage or in a competition.15 The fact that the folkloric custom survakane constituted the past as cyclic in terms of content (referring to reoccurring ‘natural’ events) and yet linear in terms of context, made this temporal order deeply contradictory – both cyclic and linear and yet neither. This, again, was true for all folklore, which was unlike the cyclic (traditional) or linear (historical) ordering of the past. Both history and tradition had a contemporary and future reality denoted in terms of the past. Thus tradition was perceived as unchanging: it represented not only the past as it had been, but also the present and future – tradition ‘always had been and always would be’. History was a way of knowing the future and present in terms of the past. Both history and tradition were therefore pasts that had current and future relevance. However, folkloric celebrations belonged to another realm in which the past was separated from, not contiguous with, the present and future. Its contemporary relevance was 151

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established only through its separation of the past from the present and future. Folkloric customs thus constructed the past as time-less. In representing a past that was spatially and temporally dislocated from the present, folklore was a transformational process by which traditional practices were appropriated by the state and then exhibited as objects belonging to another time. This was indicated from the way in which people spoke about folklore. When attending a folklore exhibition, be it visiting a museum or watching a display of dancing at the Chitalishte theatre, the exhibition was usually explained as proof of ‘kakto beshe edno vreme,’ that is, ‘the way it was at one (in another) time.’ In talking about folklore as ‘how things once were’, such performances were denoted as belonging to another time. The folkloric past was enshrined in a glass display-case, objects and activities which could be observed but were no longer ‘liveable’. Its contemporary and future relevance existed only as something representative of a past that had passed. The knowledge that folklore represented another, passed, time, allows us to understand the spatial relegation of all folklore to state-owned and staterun locations (for example, stages and exhibitions), which separated folklore from the contemporary world. The confinement of folklore to such sites enabled people to learn about the traditional past in a specific state-determined way (folklore as a pedagogic resource), to reflect on the traditional past as belonging to another time and become actively involved in its appropriation through participation, as well as to spatially experience traditions as separate from their contemporary life. Folkloric survaknitsi were thrown away after the competition because they served no purpose outside the competition. Spatially the survaknitsa’s transformation from tradition to folklore was reflected in its movement from its beginnings in the home to its display in schools and the Pionerski Dom. Such a movement from the private to public domain, home to a state-controlled institution, was characteristic to all folklore. The state-controlled spaces such as museums, galleries and festivals where folklore ‘ended-up’ served the same purpose, namely, to disseminate folklore as objects of study through a variety of means: written materials (by folklorists, ethnomusicologists, ethnographers and other specialists), photographs, film, radio, classes, as well as live performances of songs and dances. The location of folklore to these areas separated them spatially from everyday life – there was no place for folklore in the contemporary world except on stages, in exhibitions and museums. We now are also able to appreciate the significance of the admittance of the official party during the ‘model village’ event into Talpian households. This did more than symbolically show how villagers had opened up the normally private realm of the household to state influence. Through the practise of folklore at this site, officials were treated to a display of how practices – once associated with traditional household life in the village – had become obsolete in the contemporary life of Talpians. The folkloric part of the ‘model 152

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village’ event – the girls’ exotic costumes, the serving of folkloric foods which still played a traditional role in religious and funeral rites – was the way in which villagers displayed how they had set up a temporal distance between their own contemporary existence and practices that had once been part of their everyday life. Through displaying that they had created a temporal and spatial distance with their own traditional practices, the ‘model villagers’ underlined their progressive and modern place in socialist society. Folklore was an important standard of measure and comparison – evidence of the movement away from life dominated by tradition and toward a more progressive human condition. Folklore provided evidence that history was advancing and socialist development was taking place. Recontextualisation of traditions into folklore involved a state-determined threefold process. Firstly, there was the recording, reflection upon and articulation of traditional practices, which brought them under the state-controlled verbal domain. Secondly, there was an emphasis and exaggeration of the visual practice in state-influenced space. Various folkloric activities involved highlighting different nonverbal, aesthetic dimensions of the traditional custom (e.g. aural, taste): in each case it served to raise this sphere to the verbal, state-controlled arena. And thirdly, there was the elimination of (religious/mystical) components that did not conform to state ideology. In all instances, folklore was spatially isolated to public locations that acted as ‘buffer zones’ from the contemporary, everyday world. The fact that folklore belonged to ‘another time’, gave it a universal relevancy that neither historical nor traditional constructions of the past possessed. This was implied in the wide set of practices which were part of the process of folklore: from designated crafts (ceramics, embroidery) to certain activities (dance, music) and the broad range of locations in which it took place – household to schools, shops, theatres. It meant that folklore could involve a broad spectrum of participants – from academic experts in Sofia who studied and wrote about folklore, to rural inhabitants in Talpa who performed in amateur vocal and dance groups. Survakane involved villagers, Party members and others, irrespective of their affiliations to history or tradition, who participated together in folkloric activities. Folklore was thus a practice in which anyone could participate and which could occur in almost any location in the village. Such activities were promoted by political figures who developed cultural relations to history – relations, we may recall, which advocated an inclusive view of history, giving equal importance to all periods and events in the past (Chapter 4). The wide applicability of folklore as a construction of the past was one that neither history nor tradition could maintain; for history was a political resource to which not everyone could have equal access, while the practice of traditions was associated with those marginal to the state’s goals. Unlike history or tradition, folklore was a past 153

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in which anyone could partake, irrespective of whether they were Political or apolitical figures. Folklore straddled the temporal and spatial domains of both history and tradition. The wide-ranging scope of the folkloric past and the way this past was manifested as a collection of aesthetic objects, for example as survaknitsi in a competition, attributed to folklore the power to be broadly relevant. With its wide relevancy, folklore also had considerable unifying capacity – a factor that becomes particularly important when considering socialist identity. As a past taken out of a traditional context and placed within a state-determined one, folklore broke the particular religious/ethnic/gender significance carried by tradition. We see this in the folkloric survakane custom, where the focus of the competition was the variations in appearance of the folkloric survaknitsi (using various decorative materials dependent on agricultural livelihood) in order to create regional distinctions. Engagement in folklore advocated an identity focusing on regional alliances, boundaries which were part of the state administrative structure and categorised the country in socialist terms. This ignored traditional-based distinctions that ‘operated’ at a more local level. All schoolchildren, irrespective of their ethnic or religious backgrounds, were encouraged to enter the competition. Folklore – as cultural objects with national significance – played an important part in engaging the population in the state-approved homogenising concept of ‘Bulgarianness’. This issue is explored in the following chapter.

NOTES 1. One interpretation offered by Stoikova (1981: 55–56) to explain the transformation is that industrialisation processes (migration of youth to cities, mechanisation of farming and so on) led to a decline in practices that have been preserved since the Second World War through state-sponsored folk festivals. I suggest that industrialisation processes are not so much the cause of the state sponsorship of folklore, but rather are driven by the same ideological process; the past is deliberately distanced from the present in order to create a temporal and spatial sense of socialist progress and development. 2. For example, the name survaknitsa varies from region to region. Bulgarian Academy of Sciences (1985), Etnografia Na Bulgariia, Vol.III: 102–3. 3. The practise of this custom as both folklore and tradition seemed no more contradictory than the numerous other occasions at which two different value systems were being exposed, often in the same space and time (Chapter 6 provides one such example). In all cases, knowing when and where and who could perform a particular practice seems of central importance in not inciting confrontation with state officials. For another example see Rice (1994: 255). 4. It was permissible to start the practice after midday on 31 December in special circumstances, such as known absences on New Year’s Day, or the need to visit a large number of households. 5. A specific greeting used at New Year – ‘happy happy year’. Amina at the end of the verse is also difficult to translate: amin means ‘amen’, amina appears to have the same meaning, simply an exercise of poetic licence.

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Defining Folklore 6. The Pionerski Dom ran numerous after-school classes in art, music and sports, all of which were viewed as an essential part of the overall socialist education of the child, complementing her/his formal education attained at school. It therefore had a political function, although this was not always explicit. 7. In other folkloric practices, modern variations were encouraged – such as modern styled weavings on synthetic materials – but these were always traceable to ‘authentic’ traditional styles and gained significance in terms of them. 8. Silverman also denotes the importance of authenticity in folklore. Her focus is in respect to folklore festivals and in this context she identifies an additional quality of ‘authenticity’: the striving for ethnic purity. I return to this topic in the following chapter. 9. There is evidence that state intervention in traditional practices in other socialist states also involved focusing on the ‘dramatic’ and ‘aesthetic’ aspects (Kligman 1988: 259). 10. An interpretation reflected, noncoincidentally, in ethnographic writings on survakane, which deny it religious associations (Bulgarian Academy of Sciences (1985), Etnografia Na Bulgariia, Vol. III: 102–3). 11. See Rice (1994: 189, 215) on the importance of textualisation of music into notation as a way that state agents were able to appropriate and exercise control over traditional music. 12. In speaking about music, Rice notes a similar point: ‘genre was preserved and context changed’ (1994: 230). 13. In Chapter 3, I defined linearity as having four ‘properties’ – it was teleological, evolutionary, uni-directional and chronological. When I speak of the linear context of folklore I refer to only one of these four aspects, namely the chronological or sequential nature of linearity. For folklore, as elaborated below, was a static temporal order that therefore could not carry the teleological, evolutionary or uni-directional associations of historical linearity. 14. Such folk festivals, organised by the Committee for Culture and its associated cultural institutes have taken place since the mid-1950s (Stoikova 1981: 56). 15. My experience of such folklore festivals was limited. Silverman (1989), who carried out more fieldwork on this subject, notes that while the formal performances on stage complied with state requirements, frequently off-stage performances also occurred, and that these were unregulated and frequently included aspects prohibited in the more formalised settings (e.g. use of Gypsy-style music and instruments 1989: 154–55). This, in Silverman’s terms, was the ‘unofficial realm of folklore activities’ (1989: 152). In my terms such events had more in common with traditional practices. See Rice (1994), however, who discusses the rejection of folklore music by various sectors of the musician and audience population (Ch. 8). He also discusses the type of music – wedding – that developed largely outside the control of the state, in the ‘second economy’ (Ch. 9). (Also see Rice (1996) and Buchanan (1996).) In this case the dynamics between traditional and folkloric activities seem particularly complex: symbiotic in the sense that the audience was already present at the official event, providing traditional music performers with a ‘ready-made’ audience, yet in competition in terms of the messages they conveyed.

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C HAPTER 8 F OLKLORE IN A N EW B ULGARIAN V ILLAGE




We must do something that reflects how cultured we are (Matov speaking to Comrade Pashev, Rusev and other Party figures, July 1987 at an organisational meeting for the Chitalishte Centennial event.)

In this chapter I look at the role of folklore with respect to socialist identity. In the previous chapters on tradition, it was suggested that traditional practices created demarcations between villagers in terms of religion, ethnicity and other non-state-sponsored categories. Traditions served as local markers of difference. Folklore, on the other hand, as a state-approved means by which the traditional past was temporally and spatially dislocated from the contemporary socialist world, contributed to an identity which united Talpians under the banner of ‘Bulgarian’. It provided part of a state-approved national identity, designed, in part, to counter the fragmenting tendencies resulting from traditional practices. The consideration of folklore and the way it was used by Talpians to construct themselves as ‘Bulgarian’, requires the examination of a number of elements. Folklore was one dimension of ‘Bulgarian culture’ which was understood – by Zhivkov and subsequently by local state officials – to have educational value and to be instrumental in the development of the socialist nation, in upholding an appropriate notion of national identity. In the following section, therefore, I look at folklore as an aspect of ‘Bulgarian culture’ and the role it played in a socialist conception of national identity. The Chitalishte was the central – but by no means only – space for rural engagement in Bulgarian culture, the site at which a national identity was consolidated, preserved and reproduced. 156

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While the previous chapter focused on the custom of ‘survakane’, a case where individuals engaged in folkloric activities, in this chapter I look at collective involvement in the folkloric process. The village vocal group, which was sponsored by the Chitalishte, exemplifies a communal engagement in folkloric activity, with singing performances providing an opportunity for participants to represent the community both to itself and to outsiders. The vocal group is the topic of the second section. It allows me, in the final section, to return to the issue of folklore and the way it was used to depict a locally based national identity.

Education, Bulgarian Culture and Folklore Education was primarily an activity located in schools and vocational training institutions and, by policy, made widely accessible to the masses. Those working in the educational profession – teachers for example – were recognised as having a central position in the development of the socialist state. Education was viewed as playing a fundamental role in the shaping of socialist society (and in transforming the consciousness of the individual) – recall the example already cited (Chapter 5) of the eulogy readings, which revealed the importance of education in attaining mastery over nature.1 This points to a broader ideological theme, the attainment of freedom through knowledge, which was a prominent topic in Zhivkov’s writings (e.g. 1984: 136) and therefore also in local Talpian history. Significantly, Nedkov’s history (1969) is sectioned into three parts: the School, Chitalishte and Church (the latter being a very short section). He makes it very clear, when speaking about the first two institutions, that they go back to the very foundations of the new Talpian settlement (1878) and were considered fundamental organs in individual and communal pursuits for freedom from both foreign domination and class oppression. The Chitalishte was seen as serving a pedagogic function which extended the role of the schools. Indeed Nedkov quotes Priest Denchev, one of the founders of the Talpian Chitalishte, who described the institution as ‘a second school’ for the older villagers (1969: 7). The ‘betterment’ of its members through education – through the library, through amateur dance, singing and theatrical groups, and through attending lectures – was also a clearly stated aim in the organisation’s constitution, written in 1887. The commitment to self-improvement revealed Chitalishte members’ faith in education – rather than in God or the Church – as the means for freedom from oppression. As one aspect of a socialist education, cultural activities were distinguished by their concern with the ‘spiritual’ side of humanity. ‘Culture’ was understood to stand for a socialist notion of beauty and creativity. It supplied the means, as Matov noted in his speech at the Chitalishte Centennial celebration 157

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in November 1987, to ‘enrich the people’s spiritual life’ and was connected with ‘the happiness of the person’.2 Cultural activities were perceived as providing an outlet for creative and aesthetic tasks which were in line with historical goals, part of the progress toward communism (Zhivkov 1986a: 152), contributing to the development of the well-rounded socialist human being. In short, culture was ‘aesthetic education’ (Zhivkov 1984: 148; 1986a: 184) and included the production/performance of music, paintings, sculptures, amateur and professional dance, singing and theatrical groups, amongst other artistic endeavours. I therefore distinguish between cultural and educational activities by the function they served rather than by the nature of the activities themselves or the sites in which they were located. Cultural activities were a particular form of educational activity, another means to realise historical goals through the development of the creative side of socialist individuals. Culture, as ‘aesthetic education’, provided a state-approved framework for individual expressions of creativity and was, in Matov’s words, ‘tied with socialism and the happiness of the person’. In short, cultural activities were a form of knowledge understood to promote the spiritual side of the individual and to contribute to the completeness of life under state socialism. Zhivkov identified three sources of socialist culture. The first was the heritage accumulated through centuries of struggle against two main foes: the Ottoman empire and, in the twentieth century, fascist dictatorship; the domain of folklore and Political songs/poetry, respectively. Folklore and Political culture portrayed the battles and heroes (often ‘the people’) that were part of these national struggles for freedom. Such cultural activities were seen as representing a celebration of heroism despite the adversity of domination. The second source of socialist culture was activities which were about contemporary socialist life; portraits of life under socialism, including reflections about working people striving to develop the communist goal of society. The third source was world culture – especially world socialist culture – which was understood to represent the height of the human creative spirit. With a dash of poeticism, Zhivkov writes: ‘It is from these three sources that the deep flowing river of our culture springs today. These sources determine its content, its main powerful current and its dynamic flow’ (1986a: 145, also 12 and 298; 1984: 127). All three forms emphasised differing dimensions which, in toto, made up ‘national socialist culture’ (Zhivkov 1986a: 144) and were used by state representatives – for example through the support of artists, control of the media (and thus film production, theatre and so on) – to provide a source for a nationally oriented identity. The second two sources of socialist culture identified above, perhaps especially the third form, were not necessarily specific to the Bulgarian nation, but were forms of culture that were shared with socialist nations. The first source, especially folklore, was a specific dimension of socialist culture which 158

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was rooted in events, heroes and places from the pre-1944 period and which were particularly associated with a Bulgarian form of culture. A specifically Bulgarian culture was rooted in those incidents and struggles which were considered significant to the overall development of the nation. Bulgarian culture was centred largely on two defining moments in the struggle for national freedom – first from the Ottoman empire and later from fascism. (In both struggles, Russia/the Soviet Union, respectively, was understood to have played an important role in helping the nation to achieve its freedom.) The practise of Bulgarian culture demanded that participants take a certain position in these struggles, a position viewed as ‘Bulgarian’ because it was defined in opposition to an oppressor – be it the Ottoman empire or fascism. Bulgarian culture was used to distinguish the nation from the rest of the world socialist community as well as from those countries not following a socialist path of development. I quote the senior schoolteacher, Petrova, from a speech she read on Kiril and Metodii Day, 24 May, 1987,3 in front of pupils and teachers gathered at the Chitalishte: ‘For the nation, Bulgarian culture has one ideal, to transform us into a cultured, socialist nation. We are a nation which has survived years of being under the domination of another country and yet we have managed to make contributions to world culture through producing great men like Kiril and Metodii. These men stand for human progress and equality’. Schools, cinemas, theatres, concert halls, galleries and museums were all sites for the production and performance of cultural activities. However, in rural locations where other artistic organisations were not available, the Chitalishte was considered to be at the very heart of Bulgarian culture and education. The main speech given by Matov at the Chitalishte Centennial provides a useful official view of the importance of the Chitalishte as a statesupported organisation where Bulgarian culture was nurtured. To an audience which consisted of villagers and guest officials from Sofia and the region, he described the Chitalishte as playing ‘an important role in socialist culture and the education of the people’ and again: ‘It has historical importance and has made a major contribution to the cultural uplifting of our people, for the education and upbringing of our youth.’ He considered at great length the educational role of the Chitalishte and the variety of self-educational programmes that had been run in it from its foundation to the present day, including plays, lectures and social gatherings which were all part of the dissemination of knowledge and educational process. The continued importance of the Chitalishte in the village’s present and future was anticipated by Matov in his concluding remarks: ‘the Chitalishte has increasing educational influence in the process of building socialism…’ and, ‘…In its second century of existence it will teach and educate future generations.’ Finally he stated that ‘In Talpa, the national Chitalishte ‘‘Progress’’ has for a century worked for the 159

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betterment of villagers’ lives and will now have a role in the preustroistvo of socialist society…’.4 Of course giving such emphasis to the Chitalishte was part of the way local versions of history (in line with state ideology) attempted to wrestle Bulgarian nationalism away from the Orthodox Church to an institution that came under the auspices of the state. A socialist history acknowledged that during the (approximately) 500-year period of Ottoman rule, the Orthodox Church had played an important role in maintaining Bulgarian artefacts – monks hid national treasures in monasteries, and it was here that literature was preserved and nurtured. But such a history also emphasised the rising importance of Bulgarian Chitalishtes, from the mid-1850s onwards, when the first cultural centres were established in the country. The centres increasingly took part in liberation struggles; providing a means both to preserve Bulgarian culture and at the same time fight Ottoman domination, for example through the production and dissemination of Bulgarian literature. After liberation from the Turks, the Chitalishtes were presented as continuing to serve a similar role, in educating and creating an awareness of practices recognised as specifically ‘Bulgarian’. Nedkov’s history, which was used by the Talpian Party as a main source for most of the speeches – including the one presented by Matov during the Chitalishte Centennial – described the role of both the Church and the Chitalishte in sponsoring a pride in everything Bulgarian at the time of the country’s independence. Thus Talpian history reflected the crucial role played by the first village priest, who had been an active fighter against the Turks. After independence he was a central figure in the foundation of the village Chitalishte, which was understood to be vital in the improvement of rural life through education and knowledge. Another founding member of the Talpian Chitalishte (who died in 1944) was quoted by Nedkov (1969: 13) as saying ‘the priest and the teachers encouraged us with their words, made us believe that if we wanted to have the freedom which we earned through so much bloodshed, dark, uncultured times, it must be through the Chitalishte and education… So that we can become good citizens and patriots.’ In the twentieth century the Chitalishte was portrayed as maintaining its crucial role in the nation’s struggle, this time against fascist powers. Struggles against fascism were coordinated by Chitalishte members. The library contained communist literature (and was purged twice by external fascist officials in the pre-1944 period); youth groups performed plays, donating the profits to support the partisan movement. During his two-year residence in Talpa, Zhivkov participated in a number of village plays performed by the then Talpian theatre group. He was also said to have represented the Chitalishte as its delegate in the 19th Congress of the Union of Chitalishte’s in 1939.5 For him, as for many anti-fascist fighters of the period, participation in Chitalishte cultural activities served as a cover for political activities. 160

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The involvement of the Chitalishte in such culturally and politically important defining moments of the nation’s past also explained its importance in a socialist-approved form of nationalism and patriotism. Petrova, the deputy head of the Chitalishte, clearly indicated the institution’s importance in the maintenance of Bulgarian national identity. As she described it, the Chitalishte was founded by ‘patriotic Bulgarians who sacrificed their lives…’. This act, she continued, established ‘the precious Bulgarian heart’, which was the Chitalishte (Nedkov 1969: 39). Matov also spoke in his speech at the Centennial celebrations about the contemporary role of the Chitalishte as the home of Bulgarian culture, providing the ‘spiritual’ heart of socialism. The Chitalishte provided ‘the centre of the spiritual life’ of the village and was ‘the means of enriching the spiritual life in Talpa’. Its future importance was also acknowledged: ‘Bulgaria cannot but continue to evolve as a highly developed, cultural, socialist society …we cannot increase the standard of living without improving the culture’. The three cultural sources identified by Zhivkov were all represented during Talpian public celebrations. Historical events such as 9 September always contained an entertainment programme which included, usually, all three types of cultural activities. To take the Chitalishte Centennial as an example, the entertainment programme following the speeches contained two Political songs by a youth vocal group from Nekilva, which were performed after a patriotic poem that glorified past socialist heroes and the heroic deeds of Second World War partisans. Several modern classical works from the Bulgarian Opera were then performed – these were both solo and duet pieces from professional Veliko Turnovo singers. As an internationally recognised structure of music, combined with specifically Bulgarian operatics, the items located Bulgarian culture on the contemporary world stage, providing an internationalist facet to a Bulgarian socialist identity. So in this first part of the musical programme, world culture, Bulgarian socialist culture and Political culture were all represented. The second part of the musical programme, which was devoted solely to folklore, was delineated from the first by a few minutes’ interval. Visual markers helped identify and separate the folkloric performance from other Bulgarian cultural practices. For example, clothes (typically colourful, embroidered), particular language used and types of dance movement and musical notation and instruments were all recognised as ‘not modern’ (see Buchanan 1991; Rice 1994).6 The Talpian vocal group, which performed the first two songs in the folklore segment of the programme, was followed by instrumental performances by an orchestra from the district centre of Nekilva. The final item was by a large children’s ensemble (numbering over fifty) from the national Chitalishte in Nekilva. The children were dressed in brilliant red and white embroidered costumes and performed folk dances and songs. 161

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In the above programme there was ‘something for everyone’ – all the three forms of cultural entertainment were represented in the musical programme. Considered in totality, the performance focused on those moments that, from an ideological perspective, were considered the most relevant in the nation’s past and present; the most relevant in representing the nation to its citizens and internationally. Although during the Centennial anniversary the Talpian vocal group performed folk songs, more often than not its engagement in Bulgarian culture was in singing Political songs. Below I look more closely at the group which, during the late socialist times, constituted the only collective body that performed Bulgarian culture in Talpa.

The Village Vocal Group The quotation noted at the very beginning of this chapter was made by Matov at a meeting held to discuss plans for the Chitalishte Centennial celebration. The concern to portray themselves and the village as ‘cultured’ was the main reason for the reformation of the Chitalishte vocal group which had been disbanded in 1984 when, following the death of her husband, lelia Maria had stopped leading the musical/vocal group. The necessity for a vocal group was connected to the importance for villagers to display their engagement in Bulgarian culture. This was vital in the presentation of themselves as ‘model’ villagers. Village leaders made this issue a priority during the early months of 1987. At one village meeting, Comrade Pashev stated that ‘I live in the hope that our village is organised and will succeed…’. Then he added, ‘What sort of model village is it if we can’t hear a song on our stage?’ Another man agreed: ‘We must have a vocal group and collective. The village is not so zapadnalo [in decline, run down] that we cannot find ten people or so.’ Concerns to revive the group were expressed again, one month later, at the annual village Council meeting. This time it was the Mayor, Boian, who argued that a vocal group must be organised for the Chitalishte celebrations. He was supported by various individuals, mostly Party members, who also expressed a desire to reestablish the vocal group in time for the Chitalishte Centennial celebrations. Actually it was a number of months before a group was eventually formed and during this time accusations flew between villagers as to who was to blame for the lack of a vocal group in the village. In a speech which took account of the previous two years of Chitalishte activities, at the biennial Chitalishte meeting in February 1987, Matov blamed ‘the people’ as the reason for the lack of cultural activity, that is, kulturna deinost, in the village. He complained that ‘the people say ‘‘we are busy, we have other commitments’’ and with such reasons exonerate themselves from responsibility’. At this same meeting, a number of individuals in the audience retaliated, openly blaming leading Party figures rather than the ageing Talpian population for the lack of a group. The 162

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wife of Comrade Pashev, Velcheeva, reproached the head of the Chitalishte for not taking a lead in organising a group. Comrade Pashev attributed fault to a combination of ‘the people’ and the weak Chitalishte leadership. Another woman backed up Velcheeva, agreeing that ‘It is the responsibility of the head of the Chitalishte [Matov] to organise the vocal group, and he has not done so.’ A third woman stated, ‘we do have people in the village, the problem is that we have weak organisation’, thus directing her criticism towards both Matov and Comrade Pashev for not being more dedicated to the establishment of a vocal group. She went on to reject the fault of ‘the people’ in this matter and finished her comments by offering an anecdote: ‘On TV they interviewed an old man who sleeps in his car because his children won’t look after him. But he said that his children are not to be blamed, ‘‘that’s the way I brought up my children, so why should I be angry at them?’’.’ In telling this story, she was laying the fault squarely at the door of the Party leaders for the lack of dedication and commitment to the group. (She was also using the analogy to express dissatisfaction over the paternalistic relationship between the state (the old man) and its citizens (the irresponsible children).) The apparent hesitancy shown by leaders to create a vocal group makes sense when we recall the tensions between different Party factions (Chapter 4). It was not in the interests of Comrade Pashev, nor other Political figures, to organise a cultural group where junior Party members could gain prominence and influence. At the same time, however, the village needed to show it was culturally developed – this was an important component in what constituted a ‘model village’. The strict control Political figures kept over the organisational side of affairs concerning the vocal group once it was formed – including being able to determine which songs were sung – was an important way in which they attempted to maintain their influence over all domains of public life. Nevertheless, the fact that they were ultimately dependent on the performers’ willingness to participate, gave the latter considerable leverage. This was one arena in which junior Party members/educators and non-Party members could pursue their own political agendas with some effect. A group was finally formed in April and began meeting for rehearsals twice weekly at the Chitalishte. Its opening appearance was at the May Day celebrations, the first of a number of performances throughout the year that included: Kiril and Metodii Day, the Model Village event, 9 September and the Chitalishte Centennial. The group consisted of approximately twenty women, the majority being without Party affiliation. Five or six were junior Party members (including Petrova and Tsela) who have already been identified as culturally active figures in the village (Chapter 4). The group was led by Andre Pashev, who had had a distinguished career as a professional musician, playing violin for the Bulgarian Philharmonic Orchestra for over twenty years. Aged sixty-seven, a Party member who had been active his entire life in cultural activities, he was also responsible for 163

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reworking the songs (adapting the music to the vocal capabilities of the group) and teaching them to the women. At all the performances he stood in front, conducting the group. It was Petrova who was responsible for encouraging the women to attend. Chicho (uncle) Plamen Rusev (the librarian) offered ‘technical’ support: he typed up the words to the songs for distribution to the women, and was also responsible for the twenty-six uniforms – black skirts and white blouses – owned by the Chitalishte which the women wore during the non-folkloric performances. The Chitalishte did not own folk costumes so, during the centennial celebrations when the group performed folk songs, they had to borrow uniforms from the Nekilva Chitalishte. The Party had influence over the group through the conductor and chicho Plamen, but also through the active interest that Comrade T. Pashev took in the group’s formation and performances. The latter attended one of the first rehearsals in April, clearly stating his intention to be involved in the proceedings. Indeed at that meeting, Comrade Pashev dominated the occasion, taking the opportunity to exercise his oratory skills as he did at every village meeting. He told the group that ‘any organisational work, we’ll do; you need do nothing but sing’. He then emphasised that the women must come to rehearsals regularly, for time was short before their first appearance on stage. He also assured the women that they need not worry about any issues associated with attendance, since this was his and the Party’s responsibility. In fact at the meeting Comrade Pashev took out a pencil and paper and noted the names of five or six women who were absent and promised: ‘We’ll see to those who are not present or don’t come on time.’ This irritated Tsela, who pointed out that it was particularly difficult to expect good attendance in the spring when there is so much work to do in the garden. In her opinion, she continued, it is much more appropriate to form a group in the winter. She was backed up on this point by a chorus of nods from the other women. Comrade Pashev retorted with anger, labelling Tsela’s attitude as ‘dangerous’. He then proceeded to list her faults in her capacity as Party secretary: she lacked promptness, did not take her job seriously enough and so on. The atmosphere quickly disintegrated. Andre Pashev was obviously irritated at the course that the discussion had taken – he wanted to get on with the business of teaching the music. He turned to his older brother and said, obviously annoyed, ‘now the women are not ‘‘in the right frame of mind’’ to sing’. Comrade Pashev remained true to his promise of taking responsibility for ensuring that the women attended rehearsals. A couple of weeks after the group’s formation, he met lelia Maria in the street and told her: ‘you should go and sing with the group, they need you.’ Lelia had responded that she wouldn’t be singing as ‘my heart is no longer in it’. Comrade Pashev had replied that ‘all Party members must sing, if they don’t they’ll be ‘nakazani’ [punished, penalised]’, a threat laughed off by lelia Maria, who retorted, before walking away, ‘then why aren’t you singing?’ On other occasions, Andre 164

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Pashev also pleaded with Lelia to join the group, clearly stating the need for her expertise – lelia Maria taught music at the school and had conducted the previous group. Each time, lelia Maria declined, saying that ‘her heart was not in it’ since the death of her husband – an indirect but effective way of letting them know that she felt little obligation to help, since the local Party had not backed her up as much as it could have done in clearing the name of her deceased husband. But even those women who had agreed to sing in the group were not all reliable in attending rehearsals. In fact in a meeting of the Chitalishte Council in October, only weeks before the Centennial celebrations, chicho Plamen appealed to those present to attend ‘one or two rehearsals of the vocal group’ and see for themselves the situation. Then he explained why: ‘Andre [Pashev] came tonight holding his hands up and asking for help. Nadka doesn’t come because she says she knows the songs, Nele doesn’t come because she is too busy and these are not the only two causing problems’. Apart from general control over ‘administrative’ matters relating to the group, including hounding those who were unreliable in their attendance, the Party also had direct authority over the content of the material sung. It was Andre Pashev, guided of course by his brother and the Party more generally, who decided which songs would be sung at any particular performance. The degree of outside official involvement in local celebrations was an important consideration in the decisions involving the content of the vocal group’s performance. On most occasions the Party – with Comrade Pashev at its head – managed the village’s image, including when and what the vocal group would perform. In the instances when outsiders had no organisational input, the group would more frequently than not perform songs which emphasised the primarily Political orientation of village cultural activities. Such a musical programme, of course, served to enhance the status of the senior Party figures in Talpa. At the ‘model village’ event the group sang Political songs to the official guests, as they did at most other locally organised events. The impression that the local Political elite wished to create was of Talpa as a ‘model village’ where folklore constituted only one, relatively unimportant, dimension of their identity. Political songs/poetry, on the other hand, were given favoured treatment, much to the occasional annoyance of junior Party members. This, of course, helped legitimate senior Party figures’ power. The impact of such performances extended beyond the village. For example, the vocal group toured a number of local villages in the summer of 1987, performing Political songs, so establishing the highly cultured nature of the village and enhancing the community’s reputation in the district as a ‘good communist’ village. Only when the group performed at occasions where officials from outside the village assisted in the organisation, were local decisions challenged. Senior Party figures’ influence was sometimes hampered by representatives from 165

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further up the administrative hierarchy. The Chitalishte Centennial constituted precisely such an occasion. When we recall the tensions in the period leading up to, and following, the actual award ceremony (Chapter 4), we are reminded that it was district officials who insisted that both cultural and Political services to the Chitalishte be acknowledged. The stranglehold that Pashev and other senior Party members usually had over such celebrations was weakened in this case by outside officials, who wanted to emphasis a more balanced presentation of Bulgarian culture. Pashev may have succeeded in arranging awards for himself and his fellow senior Party colleagues, but he was not able to dictate what the vocal group sang, or the particular emphasis that was given to Bulgarian culture. It was one of the Nekilva officials, assigned to help with the organisation of the event, who had insisted on the group performing folk songs, much to the annoyance of Comrade Pashev and his wife – a singer in the vocal group. Coming home from a rehearsal, Velcheeva described to her husband how the official had required that the group sing two songs, both folk, one of them ‘based on traditional humour’. Her indignant tone communicated volumes about her opinion on this matter. On such occasions, when the vocal group was instructed by district officials to sing folk songs, the image of the village that was conveyed to guests was quite different from when they sang Political songs: Talpa was a site where traditional practices had been displaced by folkloric activities, but which had a way to go to equal social relations in ‘the city’. (A predictable message when we recall that state ideology attributed to urban areas a more positively valued position in the developmental stage of history.) Indeed it was no coincidence that during the Centennial celebrations, attended by an audience which included officials from Sofia, the entire folklore programme was carried out by local ‘rural’ performers, while all the other, more ‘progressive’ types of Bulgarian culture were delivered, in the first half of the musical programme, by urban performers. Interestingly, Nekilva performers were involved in both the folklore and other performances, indicating the township’s halfway position between ‘rural’ and ‘urban’. The choice of musical programme therefore had considerable repercussions, in terms of the way the community was perceived by those from outside the district. During the Centennial celebration, state ideology was being played out for the benefit of the national (rather than local) elite, who had their own position legitimated, while Talpians had to accept their more ‘lowly’ place in the ideological pecking order. Less valued, at least by Talpian leaders, folklore was nevertheless attributed importance in the Centennial by virtue of the fact that half of the entertainment programme was devoted entirely to its performance. As one dimension of socialist culture, folklore was rooted in practices which sponsored a ‘monoethnic image of the nation-state’ (Silverman 1989: 147). In this sense it was an excluding activity, part of the homogenising agenda of the state, which aimed to draw all regions of the country, as well as all ethnic groups (amongst other 166

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traditionally based distinctions) into practising culture that was identified as specifically ‘Bulgarian’ – rather than, for example, ‘Turkish’ or ‘Roma’. Yet despite this limitation, folklore was politically inclusive, in terms of who could participate, where it could be performed and so on (see Chapter 7). No more powerful statement can be made about the unifying capacity of folklore and its importance in contributing to a socialist sense of national identity than to point out that the star soloist in the vocal group – who sang with the group in the Centennial celebration – was Kuna, the Turkish woman who had moved to Talpa with her young family in the early 1970s. She had recently been accepted as a member of the village Party (Chapter 3) and was a friend of Tsela’s. Much of her political success in the village can be attributed to the way she explicitly and publicly ‘took the Bulgarian position’ in all public affairs. For example, unlike many of the other Turks, who continued to use their Turkish names in public, she appears to have wholeheartedly adopted her Bulgarian name (at least I have never heard anyone use her Turkish name in either socialist or postsocialist times). Her ethnic roots did not exclude her from participating in the vocal group. On the contrary, such involvement in the group was a poignant way in which ethnic (traditional) differences were shown to be irrelevant. In her leading role in the group, Kuna, a woman of Turkish ethnic origins, promoted Bulgarian socialist culture. Her participation was a powerful statement of local support for a nationally oriented village identity.

Talpa – a ‘New Bulgarian Village’ Soon after I first arrived in Talpa, I asked diado Gencho why there was no folklore group in Talpa, while there was one in the neighbouring village of Tevelak. He responded that ‘there is no one to organise such a group here’. Then he added: ‘and in Tevelak they tend more towards folklore than in Talpa’. The distinction between different types of vocal groups on the basis of the type of material they normally sang was important. The fact that the Talpian group was a ‘vocal’ rather than ‘folkloric’ group was an acknowledgement that its repertoire involved much more than folk songs. Talpa engaged in the reproduction of a much larger range of Bulgarian cultural activities. This in turn indicated something important about the nature of the village’s identity, in terms of how it was shaped by the village elite. In other places such as Tevelak, it was folklore that was primarily used when villagers engaged in socialist culture, in collective representations of the community. Talpians also explained the differences between themselves and the neighbouring village, just eight kilometres away, in terms of the relative importance folklore held for Tevelak. The lesser importance given to folklore in Talpa, combined with a correspondingly greater prominence given to other types of Bulgarian culture – especially Political culture – was crucial to a local identity and the way the 167

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village elite preferred to differentiate their community from others in the district. Nevertheless folklore did have a place in Talpian identity. Folkloric activities were, for example, one means by which new settlers sought acceptance in their new community. Talpa had been one of the sites for the forcible relocation of families from southern Bulgaria. In the case of the Pomaks, the husband of one family was sent to prison in 1948 for alleged pro-fascist activities during the war, while his wife and children were resettled in a good communist village – Talpa. The husband joined his family after his two-year imprisonment term was over. In the Macedonian case, too, it was one family which was initially relocated. Other Pomak and Macedonian families (as well as Turkish families) moved voluntarily, attracted to the area by the greater wealth in the northern parts of the country. By the mid-1980s, Turks, Macedonians and Roma made up a little less than 10 percent of Talpa’s population. In a village which was ethnically mixed, folklore (as well as other forms of Bulgarian culture), became particularly important as a ‘cementing’ agent, providing a set of practices with which locals could engage, and which served to reject traditionally rooted distinctions while unifying all in a state-approved manner. Recall the position of Kuna: an ethnic Turk who was willing to adopt the Party line and participate in reproducing Bulgarian identity through her starring role in the vocal group. For Kuna, participation in Bulgarian culture offered a way of being accepted into village life. More than this, involvement in the vocal group was a vital step in her political career – a positive more towards acceptance into the Party. By participating in village cultural activities, she publicly rejected her ethnic (traditional) identity, choosing instead to advocate a national identity through her personal involvement in the production and reproduction of socialist culture. Another group of villagers equally motivated to promote socialist culture were those junior Party figures excluded from a Political version of history (Chapter 4). New settlers and junior Party figures engaged in cultural activities as a way of publicly sponsoring state ideology. Their participation in socialist culture, including folklore, was a legitimate path to achieving acceptance/prominence in the community and a means of establishing and building their political careers. Local schoolchildren who entered the survaknitsa competition, most of whom were the children of either the ‘recent’ Turkish or Macedonian settlers, were also engaging in a process that served to give them acceptance in the village through their participation in both the production of socialist culture, and in the reproduction of state ideology. The situation in Tevelak was quite different; populated by ethnic Bulgarians throughout the Ottoman period, daily practices were far more embedded in traditions than those in Talpa. This, in turn, meant that Tevelak was not a desirable place to relocate families needing ‘reeducation’. Nor was it a desirable site for those settlers who followed the first wave (migrants settled in places where the first families had already established themselves; often they 168

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were family or friends of the latter). Tevelak’s strong foundation of (Bulgarian) traditions and customs, and lack of anti-fascist activity during the Second World War, meant that its only avenue for engagement in state socialism was folklore. This the villagers engaged in, however, with considerable success. Indeed the Tevelak folklore group won a gold medal at the Koprivshtitsa Folklore Festival in 1986. The two different types of identities presented by Talpa and Tevelak – both of which were based on engaging in socialist culture (through emphasis on different types of culture) – were reinforced in other rural cultural activities. The museum in Talpa was an important way in which a Political, rather than a folkloric image of the village was sponsored. The whole purpose of the Talpian museum was to establish the contemporary relevancy of Political history and to make evident the historical depth and connectedness between those figures who were part of the exhibition and the present village elite. The museum therefore functioned to integrate and personalise the relationship between particular villagers and the highest state official in the country. On show were villagers’ shared past with Zhivkov as well as their roles in the foundation of the socialist state. The history constructed in the Talpian museum integrated local and national Political figures, establishing a close connection between them through emphasising a shared history. The Talpian museum was of a fundamentally different nature from folklore museums, or designated folklore villages such as Koprivshtitsa, where there was no question of the viewers and exhibits existing in the same temporal/spatial zone; they existed in two distinct realms. Socialist folkloric customs (parallel to Western museums discussed by Clifford 1988) were represented through an abstract collection of objects ‘from a previous and backward age’. The costumes, ‘primitive’ agricultural tools and lifestyles usually on display were relegated to a separate temporal and spatial framework as folklore. And again, as in the Western museums of which Clifford (1988) writes, the relations set up in the folklore museums were between objects which were depicted to portray a totality – the way of life in Bulgaria before socialism. Folklore provided concrete evidence that traditional practices were a backward form of social order from which the ‘modern’ socialist state was evolving. Folklore provided rural areas with a means by which to reveal their progress. Any folk performance on stage, be it on television or in the Chitalishte, can be viewed in a similar light: as an exhibition establishing the temporal/spatial separation of the traditional past from contemporary socialism, creating a socialist Other and by implication depicting a community’s positive participation in the progress of history. One of my earliest memories of Talpa was being stopped by an elderly man in the street, who on hearing of my interest in the village told me that the first thing that I should know about Talpa was that it was a ‘new Bulgarian 169

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village’. It was a phrase that was frequently used by Talpians in describing their village to me. Indeed Gencho Nedkov’s history opens with the sentence ‘Talpa is a new Bulgarian village’ (1969: 1). When Talpians used this phrase, they were saying something about the way they wished to be perceived, about their position vis-à-vis the Marxist-Leninist state. ‘Newness’ referred to their break with the traditional past, ‘Bulgarianness’ to their compliance with nationalistic homogenising goals of the state, while ‘village’ located them in terms of the wider administrative framework (both implying their ‘primary’ position in the hierarchy and, from the perspective of officials in the higher levels of administration, their less progressive position with respect to urban areas). In the new Bulgarian village socialist ideology was established, resisted and renegotiated through the historical, folkloric and traditional practices of the villagers. Constructions of the past and the relations constituted in terms of them were fundamental to the villagers’ characteristically socialist identity – to the understandings they held about themselves and to the way they wished to be perceived (and represented) by outsiders. Tevelak residents may have been just as committed to socialist ideology but they displayed their commitment in a different way; through the prominence its inhabitants gave to folklore, rather than to their Politicised historical relations. Tevelak was not a new Bulgarian village. The different positions held by Talpa and Tevelak provided inhabitants with identities by which they not only located themselves in the district but which served also as the means for establishing and negotiating their relations with the state centre.

NOTES 1. On the importance of education, Zhivkov writes that it was: ‘a process of changing people in and through their work and social activity’ (1969: 590; see also Zhivkov 1986b: 222–223). 2. This echoed Zhivkov’s views of culture as something to ‘make our people’s life happier, easier and more beautiful…’ (1969: 404; 1986a: 152) and again, ‘Bulgarian socialist culture should…become a source of high spirits and enjoyment of life, of inspiration for work, for creativity, for life’ (Zhivkov 1986a: 301). 3. Kiril and Metodii are attributed with inventing the Cyrillic alphabet. On this school holiday the inventors of the alphabet were honoured and the value of education, more generally, was officially celebrated. 4. Preustroistvo was the Bulgarian equivalent of the Russian perestroika. 5. Gencho Nedkov, personal communication, 1987. 6. The other types of cultural activities which were part of the Centennial entertainment programme differed from folklore in this regard. The dress of the opera singers (in currently fashionable, mainly black and white formal attire), the type of instruments used such as the piano, and the content of the songs all contributed to the visual and audible location of the cultural performances as being of ‘this age’.

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We had ties but didn’t activate them. From our ties to Zhivkov we got our roads asphalted…and he helped a little with the building of the Chitalishte, but that is it. Others asked for much more and got it (Petur Pashev, head of BSP, 2001)

A Model Village in a Model District Talpa was a model socialist village. But this does not make it unique or ‘atypical’.1 In the Nekilva obshtina (district/municipality), comprised of nineteen villages, six were ‘model’ during the period 1986–89. In addition, the whole obshtina itself was designated a ‘model’ district. ‘Model’ titles were common and existed at a variety of levels: individuals could be ‘model’ workers, households could be ‘model’, the village or district or any other collective could be ‘model’. As a model village Talpa was actively involved in the sponsorship of a state-approved version of the past (history), and in return this placed the village in a favourable position with respect to the attainment of centrally controlled resources. In being awarded the ‘model village’ title the community’s leaders were being recognised for their participation in the maintenance and development of socialist ideology. The award was a sign of this achievement. Since 30 percent of the villages in the district were ‘model’, we can conclude that such engagement in state ideology and history was hardly ‘atypical’. Rachesev, only four kilometres from Talpa, was already a model village at the time that Talpa received this recognition. Like Talpa, Rachesev also had ties that local leaders could exploit. Rachesev’s fine display of services attested to local leaders’ successful connections with higher-ranking officials – those influential in the agricultural domain – for this village boasted excellent water irrigation facil171

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ities. The irrigation system not only ensured success in agricultural production but also meant that village households were not faced with occasional water shortages or rationing (as was the case in Talpa). Talpa may have been unique in the district in the sense that no one else had connections to Zhivkov, but clearly other villages had equally useful historical ties that allowed them to establish links with other state officials in Sofia. Every village that could, drew on its own associations to the past, building up its relationships and thus its degree of closeness to the centre.2 Presumably this principle would operate at every level of the administrative hierarchy and would change over time as retiring individuals returning to the villages, with their unique associations to state history, brought with them a set of political connections accumulated over a lifetime. Changes in local leadership served to continually reshape the political landscape not only within the community but also within the region, with respect to the state centre. That is, a village’s status would shift over time depending upon local connections to Sofia, which in turn were contingent on political developments within the community. The ever-changing nature of historically based local-centre relations depended on one criterion: that many rural communities could prove their close association to Second World War ‘fighters against fascism’ who had operated from rural/forest areas. After 1945, the latter established themselves as the nation’s ruling elite. The partisans and their helpers constituted a ‘pool’ of powerful figures in the higher levels of the administrative hierarchy with whom rural communities could connect. This ‘pool’ was defined, at least in part, in terms of generation and origins: Zhivkov and those in the Politburo were either individuals who came of age during the time of the Second World War, or supporters of this generation, and usually from rural areas of the country (see Benovska-Subkova 2001: 216 and Dimitrov 2001: 22 for support for such an interpretation, also Kostova 20003). I have no statistical information to back up this claim, but my impression was that the generational split which I identified (Chapter 4) between senior and junior Party figures in Talpa was replicated up the state structure (see Ragaru 2003). Generation and rural origins were important elements in the socialist power structure, making it relatively easy for village leaders to know someone in the state centre. Those villages which perhaps had not been actively involved in anti-fascist activities during the Second World War, and therefore could not develop relations based on history as a means of connecting to the state centre, could resort to relations established on the basis of folklore. Since, through the sponsorship of folklore, the state attempted to claim tradition for its own hegemonic purposes, public involvement in folklore was a means by which state ideology (and historical goals) could be seen to be gaining relevance and traditions increasing irrelevance. Folklore was crucial to any display of social change and consequently commitment to state ideology. It was, therefore, a public pledge to socialist development. In the Nekilva district, there were six villages that 172

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were well known for their folkloric activities (five of which were not model villages): villages that had folklore groups which had successfully participated in the national folklore festival in Koprivshtitsa. Tevelak provides such an example. This village had quite a different history from that of Talpa: inhabited solely by Bulgarians throughout the period of Ottoman rule, the community was much more bound by traditional customs and religion. During the socialist period, the Church remained active and many of the funerals were conducted with a priest. While community leaders could not draw on a prosocialist history to connect with the state centre, they could, and did, establish relations through their successful folkloric group. In this way they found another path by which to locate themselves favourably in terms of the centrally controlled state resources. Connections using folklore – often the domain of junior Party officials – were usually not as effective as historically-based ones (e.g. recall Chapter 4). This point is reinforced when a comparison is made between Tevelak and Talpa: the former was certainly poorer in terms of access to state-controlled resources. In Tevelak, for example, most roads were not asphalt, there was no paved central square or footpaths and the school was closed down in 1960, its pupils transferred to the Talpa school. Good local leadership assumed the ability to establish close connections to the centre, or higher sectors of the state structure, through either historical or folkloric relationships. In the Talpa pensioners’ club in 2001, one elderly man commented about Rachesev that they ‘are more orderly and po obraztsovo [more model] than us yet they didn’t have connections to Zhivkov…but they had good leadership’. This comment can perhaps be understood when we skim down the list of ‘model’ villages and examine which had well known folklore groups: Rachesev is the only village that was both ‘model’ and that also had a folklore group. In other words, it was the only community that had developed links to the state centre on the basis of both historical and folkloric connections. The village was doubly advantaged! As the pensioner implied in his comment, good leadership was all-important in the development of connections to the centre. In Talpa, Comrade Pashev’s diplomatic posting to Algeria (well before my arrival in Talpa in 1986) brought him benefits such as status, power and privileged connections to other high-ranking Party officials. This had long-term consequences for not only himself, but the whole community, after his retirement led him back to Talpa. His success in ‘doing things for the village’ as lelia Maria would say, was fundamental in consolidating and retaining his powerful position in Talpa over the years. It also brought numerous advantages to the community. But it was not, after all, as successful as having a combination of historical and folkloric relations to the centre. In the end, the various ways in which villages could connect to the centre influenced the sort of resources that could be accessed and resulted in different patterns of development (for other examples see: Benovska-Subkova 2001: 218–219; Creed 1998: esp. 154–155). Talpa had asphalt roads and an 173

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impressive Chitalishte (the second largest in the district and with central heating, which even the district capital did not have);4 Rachesev had a more reliable water supply. These differences were commented upon within the district and occasionally served as a source of envy between the two villages. The obviously unequal distribution of services among villages located in the same district and therefore under the same administrative council, bears witness to the success of different village Parties and to the way they negotiated their respective relations to higher-ranking state officials. It provides evidence of the variety of associations that communities were able to make with the state centre. Indeed how else can one explain such differences in resources between neighbouring villages under the same district administration? In theory they should have similar conditions of existence; in practice their associations to various powerful figures in Sofia resulted in access to different resources. Overall, the relationship between the local and centre was one of a tradeoff; between the state centre, which controlled the resources, and the village, which had to show acquiescence to state ideology in order to gain access to resources. The skilled use of the past was one important way in which individuals and communities could situate themselves more closely and favourably to the state centre. Of the nineteen villages in the district, five were ‘model’ villages, five had well-known folklore groups, and one model village also had a folklore group. Thus eleven of the nineteen villages were actively engaged in using the past – be it through history or folklore – as a way of connecting with the state centre. This brought these communities privileged access to the wide range of resources under central control. From this we can draw certain conclusions concerning the nature of local-centre relations in socialist Talpa. Firstly, given the pervasive role of the state in mediating all relations in people’s lives, it was through establishing a relationship of familiarity with the state centre that ultimately access was gained to resources. The individual/corporate body was not, relatively speaking, an autonomous or anonymous agent as in capitalism. In the latter case individuals are usually brought to the attention of the state only in ‘deviant’ cases, when they are not able to, or do not wish to, engage in the market economy: for example through poverty, disability or criminal activity. In capitalism, anonymity is the ‘prize’ for its nondeviant citizens. ‘Freedom’, a highly valued and central ideological component of capitalism, is in part, at least, a freedom from state surveillance and regulation. Liberty assumes a notion, an idealisation, of the autonomous and anonymous citizen.5 In socialism, the reverse was true: those who participated and made themselves known to – and therefore also dependent upon – the state, were rewarded. In such a situation, ‘socialist paternalism’ implied not only dependency (as Verdery notes, 1996: 24–5) but also familiarity: local dependency on resources controlled by the centre was attained by establishing relations of familiarity through village displays of allegiance to the state. Those who did not cultivate personal relationships to the 174

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state, or attempted to escape its notice, were placed in a position of disadvantage whenever access to state-controlled resources became an issue. Such familiarisation is echoed in the way in which villagers often referred to Zhivkov as ‘diado Tosho’, that is, ‘grandfather Tosho’. This is a double familiarity: the use of his first name (and in the abbreviated, familiar form) and the use of a kinship/age set term. Even today, the same practice is used by Petur Pashev when speaking about Jenny Zhivkova – often referring to her simply as ‘Jenny’. The Talpian concern to establish the village’s close historical ties to central state officials was therefore a way of personalising their relation to the centre. Direct connections to the state centre counter-balanced the village’s peripheral position as a primary unit at the very bottom of the administrative hierarchy. Secondly, the establishment of relations between the localities and the centre, based on a politicised past, created a state-approved form of differentiation and competition between villages. If, as Verdery notes: ‘The form of competition specific to socialism consists of always trying to get more allocable inputs than others at one’s level, so that one can move up closer to the privileged circle that always gets what it asks for…’ (1991b: 424), then the past was vital in the way in which various bodies – individual and collective – linked themselves to the centre.6 The homogenising policies of state socialism that discouraged differentiation on the basis of gender, ethnicity, religion or unrestricted nationalism, led instead to distinctions founded on relationships to the past. Such temporally based social differentiation has already been noted in terms of divisions within Talpa, but it appears equally true when considering the situation beyond Talpa. The range of different ways available for various villages to connect themselves with the centre, using constructions of the past, established a degree of difference and competition between villages in the district all vying for state-controlled resources: for example, between model villages in the same administrative district equally successful in exploiting their respective historical connections and other villages which linked themselves to the centre via folkloric activities. Talpa cultivated a historical relation to the centre; Tevelak a folkloric relation; while Rachesev drew on the advantages offered by both. And to the extent that there was considerable structural similarity between and within all levels of the administrative structure, then presumably such differentiation also existed among districts within the region and among regions within the country. Various units of the administration, even within the same level of the hierarchy, established their different associations with the past and in this way cultivated different relations to the state centre with corresponding degrees of success. In short, representations of the past were used to locate and value local administrative units with respect to the centre. Therefore the three socialist constructions of the past that have been explored in this work – history, tradition and folklore – were more than discourse, practices and performances which referenced the past and shaped a wide variety of political, moral and 175

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identity relations within the village. Considered in the context of a discussion on centre-local relations, they were also a particular means by which the periphery was connected to the centre, establishing different ways of relating to the state centre through perpetuating the mutual process of attaining resources and legitimating the state. History, folklore and tradition served as social ‘markers’, making evident the all-important location of a place, past and/or person with respect to the state. Historical relations reflected a close affiliation to the state centre (although, as it has been shown, there were different ways of aligning oneself historically with the state – Chapter 4). Traditional relations established marginality, or even opposition to the state centre. Folkloric relations represented an alternative, but equally significant, means of connecting to the centre apart from that of history. Both historical and folkloric relations showed a willingness to engage in the socialist project of modernity. (Whether folklore was as close or as successful a way to establish such a connection, depended on the specific circumstances.) Engagement in the three pasts served to give value to local notions of time and space and to persons that moved through this spatial-temporal framework; in so doing, people and places were drawn into the web of the central state project, in the pursuit for resources and legitimation of state socialism.

Decentralisation – the Tragic Consequences Talpa had good connections before, but not now. Others have these good connections now (Present village Mayor, 2001)

In 1991, the embalmed body of G. Dimitrov which lay in state in a white marble mausoleum in Sofia, was taken out and cremated.7 This act represented more than just the destruction of the country’s most important socialist symbol, the hero of Bulgarian socialism, it also signalled the collapse of a whole economic-political order founded on an ancestry that claimed its legitimation on the basis of socialist history. From being a sacred shrine built to pay homage to a founding father of the Bulgarian socialist state, the mausoleum became a site for anti-communist graffiti. It was part of the public dismantling of socialism which took place in a highly politicised and emotive atmosphere, and in ‘an extremely ritualistic way’ (Pine and Bridger 1998: 5). In 1999, a decision was made to dynamite the mausoleum, thus eliminating any traces of its existence. It took repeated attempts, however, to finally destroy the building designed to withstand nuclear attacks – an appropriate tribute, perhaps, to the staying power of communist values, especially in rural Bulgaria, despite the heavy onslaught against them. With the nominal collapse of socialism began the retreat of the state from its pervasive role in mediating all social relations, including those with the 176

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‘natural’ order. Decentralisation is by no means the only reform of the postsocialist period but it is perhaps the most wide-ranging and the one that has the greatest relevance in terms of this study. Decentralisation had repercussions across the entire horizon of social life: most importantly, one party no longer coordinates all realms of social life – administration, government, the economy, cultural life and so on – nor are these gathered together under the same ideological umbrella of Marxism-Leninism. Postsocialist ideology has taken the socialist past off centre stage, thus diffusing its value as a ‘vehicle’ by which the state centre could be accessed and resources attained. Decentralisation, however, is not only associated with political and ideological change; it is also economic in nature. Privatisation of property has diminished state control over production, as has the establishment of market relations. This has taken much of the control of allocating resources away from the state. The centre has dissipated, power now being scattered across a growing number of civil and government bodies, while the numerous political parties have become relatively disengaged from the bureaucracy. The dispersed and rather chaotic nature of the state is one reason why ‘the past’ is no longer such a useful tool in connecting the centre and periphery. The deliberate change in state ideology is another. Unlike their counterparts in the socialist period, current Talpian leaders are no longer able to employ the past as a means of manipulating their relationship to the state, nor is there any point in positioning themselves close to the centre, in its weakened, decentralised form. Decentralisation has resulted in a changed relationship between the village and higher state bodies, which marginalises those at the lowest echelons of the administrative hierarchy – that is, villages. Verdery (1995) is correct to point to particular ways in which the state has increased its connectedness with villagers (e.g. through the jural process as land cases need court hearings to be resolved), but in many other ways the official channels between the periphery and the state centre have been significantly weakened.8 The consequences of this dismantling process is an upheaval that has disrupted people’s lives in fundamental and often tragic ways. The increase in village suicides (including lelia Maria’s son-in-law and a next-door-neighbour) and continued decline in population – from a permanent population of 750 in 1987 to 476 in 2001 – are part of the grim atmosphere of death and decline that one senses in postsocialist Talpa. In fact, most of the central characters in this book are now dead: T. Pashev died in 1992, I. Gradinarov a year later, A. Pashev in 1995, the school director in 1988. Baba Grigora, baba Teta and several other elderly women who were always in Grigora’s home, knitting and watching TV during the winter, have all died, as have lelia Maria’s neighbours – baba Vera and diado Dimiter – and members of their extended family (the great-grandmother and grandchild). Petrova, Rusev and a number of other figures who were particularly active in 177

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the Chitalishte and vocal group have passed away, as has Gencho Nedkov, the author of the village history. Such deaths may not be unexpected given the advanced age of most of the individuals in question, but the way in which the deaths took place is troubling; for they can be directly linked to the economic hardships that have resulted from decentralisation. It appears that the cause of the two suicides was due to the individuals not wishing to add to the economic burden of their families. Indeed death was often seen, especially by the elderly, as the only solution to their new economic hardships. I recall a conversation in 1995 between three elderly women in lelia Maria’s neighbourhood. Seated outside in the cool autumn evening, they discussed the increasing cost of one tonne of coal (necessary for one month’s heating) which had risen to a price 30 percent higher than their total monthly pensions. One woman asked, ‘What can we do?’ The other answered in a very matter-of-fact tone, shte umrem, ‘we (will) die’. Some of the deaths, such as baba Grigora’s, were at least exacerbated by economic poverty. Like all other pensioners in the village, she made considerable sacrifices for her children and grandchildren, which included, in the end, her health. She told me in 1994 that she had not eaten meat or cheese for months. Such foods had become luxuries. At the time that this conversation was taking place a programme on the radio was reporting that the government might not be able to afford to pay the pensions. Baba Grigora lifted her head towards the radio and retorted: ‘What’ll we do?….we’ve already become vegetarians’. Many Talpian relatives living in the cities were suffering similar hardships: high unemployment or the inability of state enterprises to pay salaries (sometimes for months on end) meant that younger members became more dependent on food produced in the village. Those receiving pensions and salaries were not much better off: if official statistics announced on the television news broadcasts are any indication, then in 1994 two-thirds of the Bulgarian population were receiving pensions and salaries that were below the poverty line.9 Lack of money was not only a problem of households but also of the Village Council. The BSP Mayor (Nadia Nateva), elected in 1991, complained that the Council had no money for maintaining community services; no money to pay for the street lighting (village nights have never been darker), no money to maintain the village buildings, barely enough money to assist those villagers who could not afford to pay for the funerals of their relatives. The deaths of so many villagers were accompanied by the ‘deaths’ of a number of institutions and sites which were of central importance during socialist times. The record plant was closed in 1990, as was the museum. In the case of the latter, officials from the Ministry of Culture came from Veliko Turnovo, taking all the photographs and other exhibits with them back to the city. The house has now been returned to the original owners under the privatisation laws. There is no longer a hairdresser in the village, nor a hardware store, nor a general (clothing/nonconsumables) store. There is no dentist 178

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and the doctor lives in Nekilva and attends to three villages. The number of teachers and pupils at the school has halved and the school is presently being threatened with closure – it was this matter that the Mayor brought to the attention of Jenny Zhivkova when she visited Talpa in 2001, in the hope that her intervention might help keep it open. The Chitalishte is still open, but suffers from severe government cutbacks (no money for heating, electricity or maintenance). It is rarely used anymore and has been largely abandoned. Matov retained his position as head of the Chitalishte for several years after 1989 but was eventually replaced. According to the present librarian, some Chitalishtes in the district have been forced to make part of their building into a pub as a means of attaining funds.10 It was clear by the way she told me this, that she found it a particularly distasteful idea. The Fatherland Front no longer exists. The BCP was renamed the BSP and the latter’s role restricted to ‘the political domain’, which involved the closure of Party branches at workplaces (that is, in the Agricultural Cooperative and in the factory). While membership of the BSP has not fallen in Talpa since 1989, many of those once active – such as lelia Maria and Tsela – no longer concern themselves with Party activities. The upsurge of village crime has resulted in the loss of Chitalishte equipment: the stage curtains from the theatre, the musical instruments and the heating element from one of the large radiators have all been stolen in recent years. But in this respect the Chitalishte is no different from other public sites which have been stripped of their assets. In the mid-1990s the village water pump was stolen, significantly reducing the amount of water that could be pumped to some village neighbourhoods. Private households, too, have been touched by crime. Lelia Maria had fifteen geese stolen in 2000, while seven sheep were stolen from diado Ivan’s pen in 2002. There is hardly a house in the village which has not been broken into. Agricultural crimes are also taking place on a larger scale: the whole flock of 240 sheep were stolen from a communal pen one night in the mid1990s. In 2001, the head of one of the two new private agricultural firms told me that his firm spent 3,000 leva to guard a grape crop worth 20,000 leva. The breakdown in relations is also evident in the lack of community spirit and morality once displayed in the model village. Of the thirty park benches that had been bought for the village square in preparation for the ‘model village’ event, only two remained in 2001. The rest, the current Mayor tells me, have been taken by villagers! He said he knew of one house which had four of these benches in their garden. The present Mayor reminded me of how well-attended trudovi dni, (‘work days’) were during the socialist period, when ‘volunteers’ would come and help in whatever community project was being developed. It was on the basis of such contributions that the model village was built. ‘Last month’, he continued in a conversation I had with him in 2001, ‘I called a trudov den so that we could clean up the cemetery, the grass is presently growing up to my shoulders. Do you know how many people 179

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came? Two – me and another Council worker.’ With no Fatherland Front or other organisation ‘of the people’, to provide a structure for mobilising participation, and an ideological system which does not provide political rewards for such endeavours, the Mayor finds it impossible to rally support for community projects. Deaths, closures of buildings and cutbacks in services, lack of government funding, an increasing crime rate and erosion in communal spirit are all significant signs for Talpians of the general decline in their lives. But it is the effects of land privatisation and liquidation of the TKZC that have caused perhaps the most resentment and polarisation. Opposition to the liquidation of the Agricultural Cooperatives across rural Bulgaria has been noted by a number of authors (Creed 1993; Kaneff 1998b, 2002c). In Talpa, the liquidated TKZC was reformed into a private cooperative in 1992. Soon after, one private agricultural firm was established (in 1993) and then four years later a second. The establishment of a cooperative on the one hand and two firms on the other, was based on an ideological/political split between the large prosocialist majority and the small pro-reform minority. Such a division was and still is evident across the region (Kaneff 1995, 1996). The sources of this division, in turn, can be traced back at least fifty years to the Second World War period. Restitution, returning property back to Second World War patterns, as the particular way in which privatisation was carried out in Bulgaria, has brought this polarisation to the fore once again. The effect of restitution was a manifestation of conflicts in a variety of forms: within and among families arguing over ownership of particular plots of land (Kaneff 1998c), between villages (Talpa and Tevelak are presently battling a court case concerning a particular section of land owned by the former, but where productive vines were planted many years ago by the latter), and among groups aware of their new ethnic rights (see Kaneff 1998c). More than a decade after the formation of the new agricultural organisations, tensions between the still more popular (in terms of number of members and worked land) cooperative and the two private agricultural firms continue. The split, once based on ideological and political loyalties, is now also an economic one, with the two private firms phenomenally successful (especially the one that was established in 1993) while the cooperative struggles to keep its head above water. The tension arises from the obvious – and increasing – inequalities in wealth between the wealthy firm owners on the one hand, and the cooperative, the successor of the socialist TKZC, on the other. The two men who started the first private firm are now millionaires. They have bought cars for themselves, flats in the cities for their children, even land from Talpians, and have become amongst the largest individual landowners in the village. When one walks into their office, which is located on the ground floor of the previous TKZC headquarters in one of the buildings on the Talpa square, one could be forgiven for forgetting where one is – the office could be located in 180

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any city in the world. In contrast to the rest of the building or the village plaza, the renovated rooms gleam: there are cream floor tiles (heated with a thermostat control), laminated furniture in shades of grey and cream and the latest modern equipment including computers. Upstairs, where the headquarters of the cooperative is still located, the picture is very different: the wood-burning stove is inadequate for warming the room (the central heating having broken down some years ago) and the furniture from the socialist times looks shabby and decrepit in comparison. Such displays of wealth by the firm cause many comments of resentment, even by those villagers who were the firm’s most staunch supporters. Penka Denkova, once an ‘enemy of the socialist state’ and instrumental in helping establish the firm (most of the early meetings were held in her home and she recruited villagers willing to rent out their land to the two men) said of them in 2001: ‘What can I tell you? They’ve become rich, they have cars, flats, a lot more. They are clever, experienced and they steal from us.’ The last statement is a reference to the low rent paid on the land, which leaves the firm leaders a high profit (and risk) margin.

A Reevaluation of the Past The breakdown of social relations discussed above indicates more than just the consequences of political-economic reform, but reflects a reversal in state ideology that demanded the reevaluation of the past. This reevaluation involved transforming the content of history, as well as reordering the three pasts, both with respect to each other and vis-à-vis the role they were attributed in the new social order. The past is no longer a main ‘access’ road to state resources. Below I look at the way in which the past was reconfigurated and the fundamental repercussions this has had for local-centre relations. The date 10 November 1989, the day that Zhivkov was ousted/resigned (reports vary) from the Party, represents a new era in Bulgarian history; a point of reference similar in significance to that which socialist history gave to 9 September 1944. It is because the past was so intimately bound to the political-economic project of socialism and had such a central role in Marxist-Leninist ideology that postsocialist reform necessitated a reevaluation of the past. Redefining history was a central part of the reform process. School textbooks were rewritten and television documentaries presented a very different version of events surrounding the Second World War from those presented during socialist times.11 In this new version, the entry of Soviet forces on 9 September 1944 was not seen as a ‘liberation’ from fascism, but the beginning of the country’s fall under the sphere of Soviet imperialism. The same documentaries reinterpreted the war from the perspective of American and British (rather than Russian) forces. Even the role of the Bulgarian king – long seen to have been rather questionably aligned with German fascism – 181

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was reviewed. In Talpa a similar attack on socialist history took place. The library underwent the third purge of the twentieth century; once again (as during previous fascist periods) socialist literature was removed from the shelves. Books were placed in storage while second copies were destroyed. According to the present librarian, replacement literature bought by the district capital, which controls funding for the village Chitalishte, has concentrated on the themes of the monarchy, mysticism and religion. In the main hall, wall hangings displaying photographs of village founders of the Communist Party and the Bulgarian Agrarian Union have been taken down. At the same time as the content and prominence of socialist history was being reassessed, Christian festivals were given a more central position in the public domain. I witnessed a number of television programmes in December 1992 instructing viewers how to celebrate Christmas – the types of foods that should be prepared for lunch, even how the tables should be laid. Numerous books in shops and street stalls described how to celebrate this and other Christian-capitalist rituals. In Nekilva, young families watched these programmes with interest. Baba Grigora’s family explained to me that they consult books and television programmes because ‘we only started celebrating Christmas in 1990 and are still not sure how to do it’. In Talpa, Christmas is still not celebrated despite active media campaigns by the anti-communist government in 1993 to ‘educate’ people into celebrating this ritual. Funerals, too, continue to be performed in a secular way – I am aware of only two funerals in Talpa since 1989 (out of the dozens that take place annually) that have included a priest and in these cases the religious rituals were performed in addition to the secular rituals! Further, unlike some other villages, where restoration has begun on the churches, the Talpian building remains as unattended as it was during the socialist period. In fact the only interest shown in the church was in 1991, when a thief broke in and stole the valuable but neglected icon paintings that had been gathering dust over the previous fifty years. In the first four or five years after 1989, times of particular polarisation and emotiveness, villagers felt attacked by pro-urban, anti-communist reformers – at public demonstrations a common derogatory term for socialist supporters was ‘red rubbish’. In this period the celebration of history in Talpa dwindled. The only meetings held were those in respect to the liquidation of the TKZC and the creation of the new, private cooperative. It was a strange and unfamiliar contrast to the socially active village I had known before. The lack of communal gatherings was a certain sign of the breakdown in relations between state centre and administrative periphery. The association between economic change and decline in ‘ritual’ (where ritual is understood in its broadest sense), which Creed examines (2002), was certainly true for Talpa. However, the lack of social activities also reflected a sense of wariness by those waiting to see what the new times would bring; there was a level of anxiety amongst villagers who feared retal182

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iation for being a ‘model socialist village’, a fear fed by relatives who once held high-ranking positions in the cities returning to Talpa to an enforced ‘early retirement’ (Petur Pashev was one such case). When an elderly man made a pro-socialist comment to baba Grigora in the company of her neighbour baba Teta, he was warned to watch what he said, for ‘you can be shot for saying such things’. It was an exaggeration, but the underlying fear of expressing such views publicly was real enough, the comment indicating the parallels people drew between 1989 and the change in the system following the Second World War. Conversely those marginalised during socialism were particularly confident and outspoken (for example Penka Denkova, who helped set up the first agricultural firm as an alternative to the cooperative). Retaliation was in the air; for many villagers it was safer to keep quiet and await developments. The inversion in value which I am suggesting has occurred between history and tradition, as the latter gains public acceptance and the former is discredited and marginalised, represents more than just a reevaluation of the past, but also a reevaluation of public and private space and of individuals who moved through this space.12 Those individuals who had legitimated their political careers in terms of socialist history became nationally, if not locally, discredited as instruments/representatives of the previous system, while those who had been marginalised during socialism were relocated to public positions of power. As Watson (1994: 4) writes, ‘many of these unapproved rememberings are now the stuff of which new histories and new states are being created’. Gradually a social programme was resumed in Talpa but it included few of the previous socialist celebrations. Even in a ‘model’ village such as Talpa, there has been an expansion of traditional practices in the public domain and a corresponding ‘shrinking’ in historical celebrations. In 2001, the Mayor summarised the type of public events that are currently held in Talpa. Aside from meetings concerned with the running of the village (held by the Village Council, the Agricultural Cooperative and the BSP), social events can be categorised in three ways. Firstly, there are traditional celebrations such as Zarezan and Babin Den. Both these were also celebrated during socialist times but now they have become more prominent affairs. In the case of the former, the event has been relocated to the Chitalishte and is organised by the Pensioners’ Club. Babin Den was always celebrated in the Chitalishte but during socialism was called ‘Midwives’ Day’ and emphasised the involvement of the medical profession in pregnancy and birth. In postsocialist Talpa the original traditional name of the celebration has been readopted, honouring those ‘grandmothers’ who traditionally helped pregnant mothers during labour. New traditional celebrations have been added to the village public calendar – Easter, for example, is recognised with an evening of music and dancing (no speeches or references to religion) in the Chitalishte. The second group of events are ‘national’ celebrations, such as 3 March (Independence Day), and others which have always been celebrated, such as New Year. Many of these events 183

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are now closely tied to the Bulgarian Orthodox Church and celebrations include telecasts from Alexander Nevski, Sofia’s most famous cathedral. Some international holidays that had always been celebrated in socialist times continue to be recognised – for example 8 March (International Women’s Day) and 1 May. The third group of social events are ‘local’ celebrations, new rituals invented by the now thriving Pensioners’ Club. At the end of every month, the Pensioners’ Club organises a dinner in the Chitalishte (the Club being too small to cater for the 100-plus participants). The guests of honour – those who have had birthdays in the previous month – are presented with flowers and a present (all those celebrating their birthday in the same month receive the same present). The head of the Pensioners’ Club reads a short congratulatory speech. A large cake is then placed in the middle of the room and all those with a birthday partake in blowing out the candles. Such ceremonial activities are followed by dinner and dancing. The present fate of the 9 September celebration provides a convenient way to highlight the changes. In 1994 the occasion was celebrated for the first time in Talpa following 1989 (see Kaneff, 1998a for a more detailed discussion of the event). The celebration provided the first open, public, expression of defiance by Talpians towards Sofia officials. This opposition occurred partly through the very fact that the event took place – the anti-communist government at the time appealed to the public not to celebrate the day because of the tensions it aroused across the nation. It also occurred through the critical comments made by Petur Pashev in his speech, sometimes addressed directly to the president of Bulgaria – Zhelo Zhelev. Pashev’s faith in socialist history was reflected in his statement that, ‘While politics can be altered and changed, history cannot be destroyed.’ It was also clear who the opposition were: ‘For five years naive mayors, ideologues … have been trying to ruin the great memories of the day. They are taking its name from the streets and plazas, destroying national signs, banning songs, confiscating films and books written in the event’s memory. But you can’t erase the past…Those who spit on the event are…modern vandals from a vindictive class who today are seeking revenge. Unfortunately now they are in power.’ This speech, spoken in the heat of difficult political times and from the ‘safe’ perspective of the turning of the national political tide, was a rare public expression of local opposition. (Two months after this speech the Union of Democratic Forces, the UDF, lost power to the BSP at the national elections for the second time since 1989.) During the mid-1990s, 9 September was still a nationally celebrated event in which people from both ends of the political spectrum were active: socialists and anti-fascists who recognised the date as the victory of the anti-fascist movement after the Second World War, and anti-communists led by the UDF who attempted to hijack the event in the name of those who died as a result of the communists coming to power. The question as to who are the heroes and who are the villains of Bulgarian history was still a politically significant 184

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issue. In the end the anti-communists did not succeed in redefining the meanings associated with 9 September, but nor was the occasion maintained as a public holiday. The occasion is still celebrated, but not in any official sense. In Talpa, according to Petur Pashev, ‘a tight circle of people celebrate 9 September in a low-key way at the Pensioners’ Club or the tavern. We drink a coffee or whisky together but there are no manifestations or official meetings connected with the day.’ These new celebrations deserve closer examination, but for present purposes the main point is that although the past continues to be a politically loaded and contested arena, socialist historical celebrations no longer dominate the public domain. Celebrations that commemorate a socialist version of history are recognised in an informal and low-key way, while traditional celebrations have become more prominent, even though in Talpa, at least, they are celebrated in a secular way (e.g. not in church). While traditional celebrations are as politically significant as the previous celebrations (being connected as they are to the current construction of capitalist ideology) their position in the public domain is quite different. For traditional celebrations are presented as separate from state political structures. Commitment to state ideology is no longer displayed through the past; postsocialist ideology is not explicitly associated with a particular version of ‘the past’. Indeed the new ideology demands – at least the appearance of – the separation of the political domain from all others. The overarching umbrella that the past provided in state socialism, by linking all domains of socialist life, no longer exists. It is precisely such a separation or compartmentalisation of different dimensions of social life that Talpian leaders are presently endeavouring to convey when presenting their community to the outside world. They do this by emphasising that the role of the only political party in the village is restricted to political activities. Pashev explained: ‘The BSP was involved in founding the Pensioners’ Club, but it does not interfere in its running. In fact the Party does not organise any events – social or other.’ Present village leaders underline the fact that the BSP does not interfere with the running of any local institutions – the Village Council, the Pensioners’ Club or the cooperative. In this way the village elite make a show of having adopted the new ‘apolitical’ ideology of capitalism, and along with this a new ‘apolitical’ history. No longer is it so clear who owns the past and which version dominates. While socialist history still retains an important organisational influence over local political life (see following section) it is no longer a main access road connecting the village to the centre. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that the socialist past has limited value in connecting the local to the centre, since it is still a resource that can be inherited and used for the benefit of the community. This is indicated from recent events… after all, is this not what the visit in 2001 by Jenny Zhivkova was all about? 185

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Renegotiating Relations with the Centre There are no good connections between us in the villages and the centre (Present village mayor, 2001)

The reevaluation of the past has placed Talpa – along presumably with other ‘model villages’ – in a difficult situation vis-à-vis formal state structures of the new capitalist-oriented state, for it finds itself on the wrong side of the ideological (and historical) fence. The symbiotic relationship that I suggested characterised socialist localcentre relations no longer exists. Gone is the system where support for the state is achieved through mass public demonstrations of participation in state ideology (history, folklore) and where this is repaid with favoured access to resources. Perhaps it is too soon after 1989 to form a clear picture of the new state structure and the way it operates. But it is clear that while the past has limited use as a means of connecting local to centre, connections are still important in attaining resources. As lelia Maria commented in 1993, when the anti-communist coalition was in government, ‘the big cooperative supports the BSP, while the firm supports the UDF and this means the firm will get the state funding and support’. With the political pendulum swinging backwards and forwards between pro- and anti- communist governments – and in the context of general support for reforms that involve a major reversal in state ideology – there was no obvious means to connect to the centre.13 Further, the ‘model village’ has lost its once favourable position and its present relations to the state centre are being renegotiated from a position of disadvantage (a situation not restricted to model villages – see Creed 2002: 6314). In fact in the first decade after 1989 the relationship was often antagonistic, with Talpians viewing the state as upholding interests quite divergent from their own.15 It is the liquidation of the cooperatives that created the deepest divisions not only in Talpa but across rural Bulgaria (Creed 1993, 1995, 1999; Kaneff 1995, 1996, 1998b), both within but more frequently between the community and urban-based reformers from higher levels of the state structure. The law that gave the anti-communist party the right to appoint members to the Liquidation Councils found little support across the country. Council members were political appointees who didn’t reflect the interests of the largely prosocialist rural population. The TKZC, as I have suggested elsewhere, was an institution of particular importance to the villagers. It was associated with a vast improvement in village life: coinciding with the attainment of rural pensions and opportunities for annual holidays; freeing many villagers from full-time agricultural work; and at the same time taking individual risk out of agricultural activities. It was also intimately associated with local identity, having being founded on the basis of local labour, local resources and local land (Kaneff 2000, 2002c; also see Creed 1995, 1999). Thus considerable 186

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resentment arose against urban-based pro-reformers who pushed for the liquidation of the TKZC. For the first time in fifty years, the state was no longer viewed as supportive of local institutions, but as a threat to them. I heard, in 1992–93, comments which indicated the new chasm that had grown between villagers’ interests and those of the reform-oriented state officials. For example on one occasion, the leader of the new cooperative (established to replace the TKZC) said at a general village meeting that the Liquidation Council head ‘does what he is told, he dances to their tune’; their of course referring to a new ‘other’, that is, higher-ranking state officials. The boundary between local and centre was evident in the way villagers spoke about state officials, as ‘those from above’ and ‘outsiders’. The state had become something distant and inaccessible, even a threat to local interests. At the same time, Talpians keenly felt their loss of position, as no longer valued or important in this new postsocialist context. As my next-door-neighbour said in 1993, ‘they treat/view us agricultural workers as nothing (worthless)’. Unlike socialist times it was now clear that ‘if we don’t help ourselves, there’s no one else to help us’ (a comment made in 1994 by the head of the cooperative to members at a meeting). This newly evident split between the state centre (if one can still speak of a state centre) and the village was not confined to Talpa. In the Plovdiv region, media coverage reported the government’s response to protests in village Tsalapitsa, where agricultural workers who organised protests and held strikes against the closure of their TKZC eventually had police sent in against them. The ‘rebellion’ included villagers taking their protests to the regional capital, Plovdiv; such protests were also carried out in other villages in the region and indeed in other regions in Bulgaria (see Duma 1992a: 1–2; Duma 1992d: 1–2). Police beatings of agricultural workers were reported (Duma 1992b: 1). Other villagers were reported as having ‘expelled’ members of the Liquidation Council from the community (e.g. Duma 1992c: 2). Closer to home, in village Rachesev, open protests against the liquidation of the TKZC were made: villagers surrounded the whole complex and refused to work for a week. In yet another village in the district a baba told me with deep satisfaction how at one meeting called by the Liquidation Council in 1993, members of the Council had needed a police escort in order to be safely guided from the meeting hall. In Talpa there were isolated incidents of protest, but thanks to the efforts of the village Mayor these did not develop into more organised or collective manifestations of protest. The lack of collective Talpian resistance was despite the fact that both Mayors following 1989 were committed BSP members (and previously in the BCP). In fact, the first BSP Mayor (1991–95) discouraged all collective opposition. When I asked her, in 1993, why there had been no coordinated resistance to state reforms in Talpa, she replied, ‘Everyone in the village was against liquidating the TKZC…and there were a few meetings organised, but…we were a voice in the desert. What can you do?’ Actually, she was well aware that they were not a ‘voice in the desert’, recognising that 187

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in other places collective resistance did take place – she specifically mentioned the cases in Plovdiv and in the neighbouring village of Rachesev – then she added: ‘. . . but nothing came of it. I know and see things realistically. I don’t agree with what is happening but I see where things are heading. And I told them [meaning the villagers at a general meeting]: ‘‘it’s pointless for us to make scandals, to surround the TKZC, to shout or start destroying things – we won’t achieve anything’’.’ But her vision went beyond a recognition of the futility of open resistance. Her active involvement in stopping open collective resistance was designed to ‘save face’ and thus maintain the community’s position of authority vis-à-vis the new state order. The decision to carry out state directives was so that ‘in their eyes I’m still someone with authority’. As she said: ‘I’ve stopped villagers every time they wanted to rise against the Liquidation Council with spades and shovels – and there’s been quite a few times.’ The head of the Council told me something similar (1993): ‘two to three people were against me, another ten to fifteen started opposing me. The Mayor interfered and everything was normalised’. This strategy of compliance helped keep channels open between the village and wider state organs. In talking villagers out of collective rebellion and thus avoiding open confrontation with state reformers from outside the village, the community was not only able to ‘save face’ in terms of the higher state order and keep intact socialist institutions that the community held so dear (such as the TKZC, albeit in modified form), but was also (and perhaps more importantly) able to minimise the souring of local-state centre relations that has characterised post-1989 times. In adopting this strategy, community leaders have deflected excessive state attention away from themselves – they are not a ‘rebellious’ community requiring special surveillance – and this in turn has given them some degree of freedom and autonomy. Avoiding open confrontation with state officials is rewarded with the prize of relative autonomy (which is why this strategy is not one of submission – see also Kaneff 2002c). The position expressed so ironically by lelia Maria – ‘I believe anything they tell me to believe in’ – also summarises the approach taken by Talpian leaders.16 In fact, while the building of a postsocialist state provides a new ideological, political and economic context, the strategy of compliance is one that Talpian leaders also used with considerable success during the socialist period – local acquiescence was described in Chapter 2 – and it continues to be one response to the new circumstances. Fifty years of socialism has armed Talpians with an impressive array of administrative and bureaucratic skills, knowledge which is still beneficial in their present negotiations (Kaneff 2002c). Petur Pashev and other villagers who spent most of their careers in high ranking government posts – both in Bulgaria and other countries – have returned to Talpa with an understanding of how a bureaucracy operates. This wealth of experience was put to good use at the time of the third local elections in 1999. The candidate sponsored on this occasion by the local BSP 188

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was quite different from his predecessors. The candidate, now the Mayor (1999–2003), is a non-Talpian (although his wife is from the village), by profession a physical education teacher living in Nekilva and someone who had never been a member of the BCP. He initially ran as an independent before agreeing to accept the support of the local BSP – on condition, of course, that he advocate Party views. Nikolov accepted this backing because it guaranteed his election victory. The Party’s motives for throwing their support behind him was founded on their belief that as an independent, and with no historical association to the BCP or the BSP, he might be better placed to successfully negotiate the village’s access to resources through an administrative structure that, while not necessarily always hostile to BSP interests (although still a likely scenario in urban areas), would be more open to a Mayor with no connections to the previous Communist Party. The current Mayor was not, as the head of the BSP Petur Pashev informed me, his personal choice. Pashev said he would have preferred that the Party back the other candidate – Boian – who had been mayor during my first fieldwork trip in 1986–88 and then again in 1995–99. But, he added, he saw some sense in the Party throwing its weight behind the present Mayor. As there is no anti-communist party in the village, the present Mayor is perhaps the best alternative – especially in such politically ambiguous times when the son of the country’s ex-monarch is the current prime minister and the president an ex-communist! A candidate with no historical affiliations to the BCP but backed by the BSP is one strategy used to develop better connections with Sofia, an acknowledgement of the new set of political-ideological circumstances. The choice of a ‘moderate’ mayor indicates an important way in which the Talpian leadership is currently negotiating a new place for itself with respect to the wider state structures. Yet despite the appearance of greater ‘neutrality’ in the form of the Mayor, and the explicit separation of all the institutions from the political party, socialist principles remain the ‘latent’ organisational force in the village. Petur Pashev, the head of the BSP (and relative of the deceased T. Pashev), is also deputy head of the new socialist-type cooperative; the Pensioners’ Club is run by Marinov and his wife, both of whom were close friends of the late T. Pashev, senior figures in the BSP and ex-members of the BCP; and the Mayor was elected only with the backing of the BSP. The BSP remains a significant organisational influence internally within village public life; through the individuals who lead the government (via the Mayor), the social organisations (through the Pensioners’ Club) and the agricultural life of the village (through the cooperative). And these village elites operate in a context where the vast majority of villagers remain staunchly pro-socialist – as is evidenced by the fact that not one resident subscribes to an anti-communist newspaper, and after almost fifteen years of postsocialism there is still only one party in the 189

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village. Even the Bulgarian Agrarian Union, which had constituted a second party in the village during socialist times, no longer exists. The second strategy adopted in postsocialist Talpa in negotiating its new position with respect to wider state structures involves a local ‘retreat’: it is not simply that the state has withdrawn its control over the village, but also that village leaders have actively withdrawn from engaging in higher administrative structures. This response is made possible within the context of a new decentralised state and where the government is particularly weak due to lack of resources. But it is, again, a deliberate strategy: decentralisation thus involves not only a retreat of the state but a reciprocal response by the community. Under such circumstances, the Talpian leadership has ‘taken matters into its own hands’, literally, by adopting a strategy of self-sufficiency. This strategy is most evident in the two government institutions – the Chitalishte and the Village Council. The Nekilva Chitalishte controls all Chitalishtes in the district, including in Talpa. The lack of government funds means the centres are no longer able to maintain their once active cultural/social programmes. As lelia Maria described the situation in 2001, ‘nothing happens at the Chitalishte anymore, activities are all organised by the Pensioners’ Club’. Pashev told me that the Chitalishte ‘sponsors no activities in its name, the government has no money for Chitalishtes anymore, and the Talpian Chitalishte does not even have enough money to pay its electricity bill’. So the Talpian leadership have taken the organisation of social events into their own hands by reforming the Pensioners’ Club. At the head of the organisation is Marinov. He had a distinguished career in Nekilva as the head of an industrial plant, and was the head of the plant’s Communist Party. When he returned to retire in his native Talpa in 1986, his first communal project was to organise the paving of the village square – which was carried out in preparation for the ‘model village’ event. His skills of coordination and leadership were useful in many subsequent village activities, including the formation and then reformation of the Pensioners’ Club. The Club has been spectacularly successful: under the leadership of lelia Maria, a vocal group composed of approximately fifteen women has been formed, performing ‘nonPolitical’ songs to audiences in Talpa and in other places in the district; in organising four or five day-long excursions every summer (sometimes in conjunction with other Pensioner Clubs in the district); in introducing birthday celebrations for members, which are organised on a monthly basis; in sponsoring most of the events previously organised by the Chitalishte (e.g. 8 March, New Year and so on); in setting up a shop, with the help of the Agricultural Cooperative, which sells goods at low cost, and in bringing together members in the mornings and evening to chat and drink coffee. Financial support for the Club comes from a variety of sources: the Agricultural Cooperative helped with the foundation of the Club; profits from the shop are not large, but adequate; members also pay a one-off joining 190

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fee, and then a minimal annual fee. Most events organised by the Club have a cover charge, which pays for the live music. And, despite the economic hardship in the village, Talpians avidly attend these functions. As an 84-year-old woman from our neighbourhood told me in November 2001, when I attended the monthly birthday ceremony, ‘we look forward to this event for the whole month’. The striking question is why Talpians have channelled their resources into the Pensioners’ Club, rather than into the organisation which used to host all social events – the Chitalishte. After all, since the foundation of the Chitalishte in the late 1800s, Talpians have actively sponsored their cultural organisation both financially and through their participation in its activities, a situation which continued during the war period, when the Chitalishte was the focus of anti-fascist resistance, and into the socialist period, when it became the hub of village cultural life. The answer as to why present local support has turned away from the Chitalishte, seems to lie in the issue of who controls the resources. Unlike in socialist times, the local leadership no longer has control over how the resources are used. It is officials in the district capital of Nekilva who have the final say. Since 1989, the Talpian leadership has become increasingly estranged from many higher-ranking officials operating outside the village (especially those representing the UDF). Given such circumstances the Talpian leadership is hesitant to place its resources in an organisation that is no longer under local control. This is not purely an expression of ideological estrangement from higher-ranking government officials.17 It is also based on good financial sense. The Chitalishte owns land for which it receives rent (land donated to the cultural centre by wealthy Talpians almost a hundred years ago); but the rent is administered by Nekilva and the Talpian Chitalishte receives few benefits from this arrangement. Since Nekilva now controls local Chitalishte funds and any money or resources owned by the Chitalishte are appropriated by the district organisation, the Talpian response has been to invest in a separate organisation – the Pensioners’ Club. This ensures that local resources remain in Talpa and under local control, rather than disappearing further up the hierarchy. Of course this is not the official explanation provided by the head of the Pensioners’ Club, who is always careful to make a distinction between his organisation and the Chitalishte by pointing out that the former is specifically for retired people – a somewhat moot point, given that most residents in Talpa are pensioners; and in any case they were only too happy to accept me as a member! Similarly the Talpian Village Council, led by the Mayor, has taken measures to ensure that the taxes earned in Talpa from local lands do not disappear into Nekiliva funds. The Mayor explained to me (2000) that the ‘Chitalishte, Church, school and Village Council all own land. The problem with the Chitalishte and Council land is that the rent received goes directly to Nekilva which then should redistribute it back to the villages in the district. Of course the village gets almost 191

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nothing back. Nekilva dictates the funds and Talpa gets little in return.’ To avoid this problem, the Mayor has asked the cooperative and agricultural firms working the land of these institutions to provide services rather than a cash payment. ‘If I don’t make such an arrangement with the agricultural producers here, all the money will go to Nekilva and Talpa will see none of it.’ While it is the Mayor who has devised this method of keeping local resources in Talpa, it is a system which depends on the backing of other powerful figures in the village. The Mayor in 1993 spoke of the new position of the government in the village: ‘the Mayor in a village is seen as nothing, just a helper to the district administration. Our responsibilities are big but our legal powers none. If there’s no water, the Mayor is to blame, if there’s a crime, the Mayor must be involved… Always the people turn to the Mayor while now, unlike before, there’s no councillors [during the socialist period every neighbourhood elected a representative who served as assistant to the Mayor]. Now I must make decisions alone…but I consult with people – with the leader of the Party, with the Liquidation Council, with social leaders in the village’.

The situation was similar during Boian’s period in office (the second postsocialist mayor). But it was the present Mayor who ‘formalised’ this approach by creating a council made up of the head of the Party, the leaders of the cooperative and two agricultural firms and a representative of the Chitalishte. The Council does not have any legally recognised administrative powers, rather it is a group of volunteers who advise and help the Mayor; the members of the Council were suggested by the Mayor and approved at a general village meeting. At their monthly gatherings, the Council discusses a wide variety of village problems – street cleaning, social events, maintaining street lighting and so on. As the current Mayor told me, his own position is weak and thus the ‘village depends on the help of these people’.18 The shift in the balance of power within the village means that now relatively autonomous agricultural organisations (cooperative and agricultural firms), and those individuals in charge of them, wield considerable local power in a context of a weakened state and a new ideology that demands political parties do not openly interfere in events outside the political domain. The Council meetings provide a locally approved means for the Mayor to harness help from those who control village resources.19 In 2001–2 the assistance in lieu of rent was arranged in the following way: the cooperative promised to renovate the big fence surrounding the cemetery, clean rubbish from village streets and to build a bridge over a marshy place in the fields; the smaller of the two firms promised to provide the tractors and men necessary to keep the village streets clear of snow during winter; while the older (and larger) of the two firms is providing the money for the petrol for the tractors, firewood for heating for the school and bread for the kindergarten. All three agricultural 192

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organisations also sponsor particular village social events: the cooperative supports Zarezan by giving a cash donation for the music and 100 litres of wine for the occasion. Both firms make financial donations for the live music engaged for the New Year celebration, but generally speaking their contributions are much less than those of the cooperative. The latter maintains a strong commitment to village welfare despite its economically difficult position. The large profits controlled by both firms, on the other hand, are not quite so generously distributed within the community; for the men running these agricultural businesses, sponsorship of the community is not a high priority (especially for the firm established in 1993 which is run by non-Talpians who live in Nekilva). Yet both agricultural firms wield considerable influence and local power based on their strong economic position, and I have often been in the office of the more established firm when villagers come to ask for an advance on their rent – when in desperate need of money – or for advice concerning land issues. If the firm recognises any obligation, it is to its individual members whose land they work, rather than to the community as a whole.20 But even so, they cannot afford to ignore the general social, political and moral ‘pressure’ placed on them by villagers and the other community organisations. While they continue depending on renting Talpian land for their livelihood, the men must at least pay lip service to both the community and its members. Thus through compliance and an active retreat from engaging in higher levels of the state structure (where it is in local interests to do so), Talpian leaders are paving new ways for their engagement in the postsocialist state and establishing new ways of shaping local-state relations. In this context the previously prominent strategy of connecting with the wider state system – through the past – becomes one of several tactics that are currently practised. Once a ‘model village’, after more than a decade of postsocialism, it is now hard to recognise Talpa as such. State resources do not cover social service needs, let alone the maintenance of the public buildings, or provide for fighting the sky-rocketing crime rate. The wide variety of celebrations, events and public activities which constituted the political/moral/economic hub of village life – and were such a crucial part of local participation in state socialism – have undergone a radical programme of transformation. During the first ten years following 1989, the Talpian social calendar included little merrymaking. Local gatherings were confined to the politically divisive process of land restitution and the rebuilding of a new structure for agricultural production. Public life was run down and social relations disrupted. In contrast to the mid-1980s, the plaza has become a forlorn and depressing site: broken park benches, dying trees requiring tending and watering, broken street lights and the absence of flowers in the flower beds, weeds growing through the broken tiles, and the Mayor’s office with huge strips of paint peeling from its outer 193

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walls. Such images speak more strongly than words of the erosion of public interest in the community, the lack of resources, and the absence of close associations to the state centre, as Talpa declines into the anonymous peripherality of new market-oriented relations … Yet, in the early years of the new millennium, there are some small but positive signs that the initial ‘shock’ of reform has passed and that the new strategies for engaging in the postsocialist state are meeting with some success. The village is no longer in darkness every night, street lighting has returned (although in a regime where lights are out between midnight and 4 am), the Mayor’s building has been repaired and repainted and the Pensioners’ Club has a healthy programme of social events that are well attended. The reputation of lelia Maria’s vocal group is growing: in the summer of 2002 they completed a successful tour of the district. Nor are relations with the state centre quite as anonymous as in the early postsocialist period – after all, Jenny Zhivkova did come to visit! As for the electric clock: after being taken down in the early 1990s because it was too expensive to run, it has now been rehung, in its original place, on the outer wall of the Mayor’s building. The clock is not in working order. But its remounting reflects local hopes for the future, based on the knowledge of what was in the past.

NOTES 1. Talpa’s ‘model’ status makes it a particularly useful site for anthropological study into the nature of state socialism: as intrinsic to the whole system, it is an ideal location from which to learn about ‘the system’ and how it operates. I would like to thank Pam Leonard and John Flower for bringing to my attention the importance of model village studies in the context of China. For two fascinating examples, see Huailu (1995); Tsou et al. (1982). 2. An observation reinforced by the example of Pravets, the birth village of Zhivkov, which was transformed into a showcase town, a ‘window to socialism’ (Benovska-Subkova 2001:218). 3. Kostova suggests a link between generation and power by revealing that by 1998 a vast majority of Bulgarian (economic) elite were under the age of fifty, a reversal of the situation in the early 1990s. Family background of the present elite has also shifted and is no longer dominated by ‘peasants and workers’ (2000: 201–2). 4. It was Petur Pashev, responding to one of the newspaper articles written at the time of Jenny Zhivkova’s visit – which stated that Talpa received ‘extras’ from Zhivkov (Iantra Dnec, 30.10.2001) – who identified these two areas in particular where Talpians benefited from their personal association with Zhivkov. Pashev was quick to point out – and I believe there to be some credence to this – that Talpa could have capitalised much more than they did on this relationship, as others did. 5. Familiarity does play a part in certain capitalist contexts, for example, networking by Freemasons (interestingly a ‘secret society’), which provides connections to government institutions. Presumably, the difference is a matter of degree. The capitalist state has less control over the dis-

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6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

11. 12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

tribution and production of resources, having to share this control with the private sector. Relations of familiarity are, therefore, if not of less value, then at least must be spread over a greater social ‘area’ (and with privatisation and the selling off of nationally owned services, the state’s position is becoming ever weaker). Attaining resources through creating historical connections between the village and higherranking officials was not a process that I would consider part of the ‘second economy’, but a legitimate – although possibly not intended – consequence of socialist ideology. It was a local inflection resulting from implementation of state ideology. See Verdery (1999) on the wider political significance of dead bodies in the postsocialist context. A purely anecdotal observation which supports this contention is that there is a concentration of resources in Sofia – foreign investment money remains in Sofia (if one can judge by building programmes going on in the city) while the rural and provincial cities are sadly neglected. See Cellarius (2000) for one response – barter. The hopes for a revival of public interest in the Chitalishte, expressed in some official publications with clear pro-reform agendas, appear out-of-touch with local realities, at least in this region of Bulgaria (e.g. see Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Bulgaria and the Government of the Netherlands 2000). For a macro study that presents an urban-intellectual point of view of the socialist and postsocialist periods, see Fotev 1999. The delineation of socialist space as public/private and its reevaluation in the postsocialist period has been discussed by a number of anthropologists; see for example, Kligman (1990) and Pine (1996a; 2002). At the same time, the collapse of the formal state structure at the local level has – at least for the present – given informal economy activities greater importance than during the socialist times. This is an impression I hold about Bulgaria, but which seems more widespread – a view supported by Böröcz (2000). Creed (2002: 63) writes of villagers in terms of their present inability to ‘plug into the new system of strategic relationships’. Indeed this antagonism is far more pronounced now than during the socialist period, both in a territorial sense – through land privatisation Talpa lands are much more clearly defined than before – and in political, economic and social terms (see also Kaneff 2002c). This is not a strategy confined to Talpa. I see parallels, at higher administrative levels. Explanations of Bulgaria’s close relationship to the USSR – even rumours that Zhivkov had suggested that the country become the Soviet’s sixteenth republic – were followed with theories that Zhivkov had never had any intention of allowing Bulgaria to become a sixteenth republic but that this had been a means of maintaining Bulgaria’s relations with the USSR on a close and privileged standing. Irrespective of whether this was a clever political ploy or not, such manipulations in order to retain a favourable position to another ‘centre’ (this time the focal point of socialist bloc power, the USSR), can be viewed as a strategy of compliance which brought with it many benefits. Dimitrov (2001: 23) comments on the same process, although understanding it from a different perspective. Many of whom demand that the institution take on a ‘nonpolitical’ status in order to develop ‘civil’ society (e.g. see Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Bulgaria and the Government of the Netherlands 2000). This position, the Talpian leadership correctly assesses, is also ideologically-biased, as well as often hostile to their own interests. Every village in the district has such a ‘voluntary’ Council which assists the Mayor in his tasks. I am uncertain, however, whether in every case the agricultural organisations provide services in lieu of cash rental payments or whether this is specific to Talpa. Of course in a situation where the Mayor depends on the generosity of the agricultural organisations in order to fulfil his duties to the community, his popularity and good relations

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Who Owns the Past? amongst village elite is particularly important (rumours concerning the present Mayor’s criminal activities are given by leaders of one of the firms as the reason why they boycotted the last two meetings in 2001). Other conflicts also act as a hindrance to the smooth running of the Council: the leaders of the two agricultural firms do not speak to each other, nor does the older firm communicate with leaders from the cooperative. 20. The two men heading this firm were UDF members in the early years after 1989, but they have both subsequently become disillusioned with all political sides and claim no formal affiliation with any party. Yet the foundations of these firms are still deeply rooted in anti-communist ideology (see Kaneff 1995, 1996, 1998b).

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A PPENDIX 1 9 S EPTEMBER 1987




The speech was given in the Chitalishte theatre and read by the head of the Fatherland Front, Novikov. It was preceded by a short introductory speech by the head of the village Communist Party, Comrade Pashev. Both men were seated at a table on the stage, facing the seated audience. Comrade Pashev: It has been forty-three years since the downfall of fascism and the success of the Communist Party over fascism. In only a few hours we overthrew the fascists because there were not enough supporters of fascism. We established the Fatherland Front in Talpa and a People’s Republic. Tonight we remember those who supported our national war. On this topic the head of the Fatherland Front – Novikov – will speak.

Novikov: Six-hundred and eighty-one, 1185, 1876, 1878, 1923 and 9 September 1944 are dates embedded in our history. We remember those who died in the battle against fascism and capitalism. Again it is September and again we remember that great day forty-three years ago. We remember the formation of the Fatherland Front. Forty-three years is long enough to see the changes in our lives. But the foundations of this life happened almost 100 years ago with the formation of the Communist Party in Bulgaria…The worst years were during the time of Hitler and the war. Our Party was mobilised and ready to revolt…as was our great son of Bulgaria – G. Dimitrov…Our Party believes in international peace. It aimed at overthrowing the fascists and establishing the Fatherland Front. Thousands of communists, young communists, Bulgarian Agrarian Union members and non-Party people all came together to free Bulgaria from fascism…The real war was within Bulgaria against the fascists. In the war thousands of partisans and political prisoners were killed. Many went to prison and to concentration camps. 197

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Novikov then quoted a famous Bulgarian poet who had once written of the fascists that: ‘…they killed us as even the Turks didn’t.’

He continued: …those heroes are an example to future generations of socialists…the war was important for our small village Talpa. Forty residents were involved in the war: twelve as partisan helpers, three partisans…The Red Army for the second time helped free us. The Second World War took fifty million lives…but socialism was established in six European countries.

Novikov then turned to the times since the war. …The war opened up a new life for the people. The day after the war, socialism started along its road. The Bulgarian Communist Party immediately identified the goals necessary for agriculture and industry in order to help pull the country out of poverty and starvation. Now our country is developing under Lenin’s ideals and the practical direction of our Party and Zhivkov…socialist democracy is developing…Only those who knew Bulgaria before the war can really understand the great changes that have taken place – it was the most underdeveloped and backward country in all of Europe, now it has a well-developed technology.

In the final stages of his speech, Novikov spoke about the changes that had occurred in village life and the importance of technology in village agriculture. Agriculture is still very important in our economy and technology plays a vital role in this area. We can really see the deep changes which have occurred. The villages have become little towns – they are clean, have electricity, roads, medical services and many other facilities. Thanks to the Party we are increasing our living standards, we have better supplies of meat, milk products etc. There are few countries which can show off such true democracy as we have here. We have two collectives in Talpa and to date a good record of productivity.

The speaker then gave the names of those workers in the TKZC who had achieved the best productivity results for the year – the three best workers who worked with the cows and the sheep, the three best machine operators and the three best technicians. He stated that the anticipated aims for production for the year had already been reached and in the last few months they hoped to increase productivity even further. Novikov also mentioned other ways in which standards had been increased, giving as an example the post office, which had successfully overseen the installation of telephones in almost every village house. In conclusion, he thanked 198

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…those who have helped with the success of the plan. I would like to offer my congratulations to the leading workers. Your role is very important in the development of Bulgaria and our future progress. The past road has not been easy. But it’s the only correct one for Bulgaria. All the difficult problems are being solved by the Party…which was mobilised by the people…we must continue the technical revolution; if we do not, the evolution of socialism will not occur. More than ever we must aim for peace, for nuclear war would mean the end of humanity. The socialist countries believe in international peace, the USSR’s political beliefs will lead to international peace. With the coming of the forty-third year since the revolution, we hope for further success for the Party and our Leninist-Marxist ideals. Long live the 9th of September. Long live our great Party and the Bulgarian people and the People’s Republic of Bulgaria!

At the end of Novikov’s speech, Comrade Pashev introduced an official from Nekilva who presented to the Mayor, who accepted on behalf of the community, the award of ‘Model Village’. Ivo Gradinarov then presented monetary prizes to the workers who had been mentioned earlier in the speech as leaders in TKZC productivity.

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A PPENDIX 2 E ULOGY




17 November 1965, read at the funeral of baba Mita Popova

Dear Gathering, Relatives of the deceased, Comrades, Death is a sure thing, the hour is unknown. Everything that is born, dies. Whoever is born grows, achieves, marries, grows old and dies. That is the unchanging law of nature. There is nothing better than nature, but there is nothing worse either. Nature gives birth, guards, destroys, kills. Matter is transformed from one form to another. Knowledge uncovers and makes use of the laws of nature. It can be used for the benefit of mankind but there are also despicable people who use these laws not for the purposes of bringing happiness and good, but for evil reasons and in order to bring death. When will come the time for peace on earth? Today all reasonable people on earth are fighting for equality in life, to attain happiness and to be successful. And there are many millions of workers, villagers, people in the arts and sciences; people who appreciate the value of life, people who are fighting for eternal peace and for a world without war and arms. At the head of these fighters is the great USSR which today is celebrating forty-eight years since the great October Socialist Revolution. Comrades, the life of the deceased Baba Mita Popova was not peaceful. She did not have a happy childhood or youth. She was born in the village of Gradina and at the age of two months she was brought here to Talpa, where her mother married Ivan Marchev. The father of baba Mita died of tuberculosis. The deceased was born into a big and poor Bulgarian family and spent her childhood in misery and poverty, in part because in those times there were more children. When she finished primary school here in Talpa her parents sent her to learn a trade – dressmaking – in Nekilva. Having completed her apprenticeship, she returned to work the land, first in Gradina and then later 200

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in Talpa, while at the same time she applied her dressmaking skills to warmly clothe the villagers. She worked long and hard over a period of many years. She married Pencho Popov from a poor village family and went to a mother- and father-in-law whom she treated well and respected greatly; that is the way she was brought up by her parents, to value human beings. With her mate Pencho, who was injured during World War II and became unable to carry out physical labour, she unceasingly – day and night – worked in other people’s yards and vines and in this way she earned enough to feed her family. There was no other way. They had to fight for their lives, which the elite capitalists were exploiting. She pushed herself physically until her body was exhausted and all but used up. The 9th of September 1944 came, a new time. Capitalism was overthrown. The people were in power. The workers and villagers were freed and two to three years later when the TKZC was organised Baba Mita’s family became members, applying their skills and efforts to the common good. Baba Mita worked in the sheep brigade until three to four years ago when she transferred to the cattle brigade. She helped in the TKZC as she helped in the home and with her family in the fields. Last year she became seriously sick. Her close family – husband, son and daughter-in-law – sought medical help on numerous occasions, but a cure was not found and last night at 11 pm her heart stopped beating. And it happened that last night she said in front of me, ‘Gencho I soon will die, but I want to die quickly, not to suffer. I want an easy and light death.’ Well she is not very old, sixty-seven years, she could have lived another fifteen to twenty years to spoil her grandchildren, great-grandchildren. She could have lived a joyful and happy life. But the physical hardships, the hard life she led used up the organism. Comrades here, in a few words, is the life of this modest and quiet Comrade, largely unrecognised for all her achievements. Her ability to work hard and her humanness are an example to us all. In ten to fifteen minutes time the cool grave will swallow the cold body forever. The autumn wind will blow over the black mound of earth, spreading the yellow leaves, eventually bringing silence. In the name of the Fatherland Front, I give my deepest sympathies to those close to the deceased, who will always be able to take pride in her modest life. May her memory live on forever. This eulogy was written and presented by G. Nedkov, who read most of the eulogies in the 1960s and early to mid 1970s. I regret that later eulogies written by him were less clear/legible or were incomplete. Nevertheless this document is a fairly standard sample of the readings that varied little over the following twenty years. 201

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I NDEX




accountability of Party members, 75 administrative relations, 5, 29, 34–39, 52, 54n. 15, 87n. 20 adultery, 83–84 ‘aesthetic education’, 94, 158 afterlife, 114–15, 116–17, 132–33 Agricultural Cooperative (TKZC) food production, 49 Gradinarov’s unpopularity, 75–79 historical insignificance, 67, 68 influence of, 23 lack of support for Chitalishte, 100 liquidation of, 180, 182, 186–88 machine operators, 42 ‘model village’ event, 28–29, 31, 33, 34, 36, 37, 39, 42 postsocialist era, 179, 180, 186–88, 190, 192–93 technology, 40 workers, 41, 67, 99, 198, 199 Zarezan celebration, 120, 123 agricultural firms, 180–81, 192–93, 196nn. 19, 20 agriculture, 31, 32–33, 39–40, 67, 171–72 postsocialist era, 180 survakane, 150 technology, 198 workers uninterested in history, 99–100 see also viticulture agro-industrial complexes (APKs), 39, 40, 54n. 20, 77, 78 APKs see agro-industrial complexes art, 142n. 6, 149, 158

authenticity, 48, 142n. 6, 155n. 8 historical documentation, 71 survaknitsa competition, 147, 149, 155n. 7 awards Chitalishte centennial, 88, 89–98, 102, 166 see also competition BCP see Bulgarian Communist Party Binns, C.A.P., 26n. 11, 57, 58n. 3, 61, 85n. 1, 86n. 9, 125n. 1, 126n. 13 Bourdieu, P., 106, 107, 127n. 16, 136 BSP see Bulgarian Socialist Party Buchanan, D., 140 Bulgarian Agrarian National Union (BZNC), 41, 86n. 5, 123, 182, 190, 197 Bulgarian Communist Party (BCP), 2, 15, 62, 182 alliances and oppositions, 103 Chitalishte awards, 91–92, 94–95, 98 contemporary figures, 52 democracy, 35, 54n. 14 developmental programme, 64 factionalism, 57, 78, 88 Fatherland Front relationship, 66–67 folklore, 150 foundation of village Party, 29, 31, 36 history, 56, 65–66 influence, 61, 101 leadership, 6 membership, 72, 73, 74–76, 83, 85, 99 ‘model village’ event, 35, 36–37, 38

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Index morality, 74–75, 81, 82, 83, 85, 87n. 16 non-support for Zarezan celebration, 123 Novikov speech, 197, 198, 199 Pashev’s moral authority, 75–77, 79–80 Pashev’s political career, 68, 69, 70–71 paternalistic relationship with the people, 80 pluralism, 57, 103–4 Political figures, 96, 97, 98 postsocialist era, 179, 189 role, 65–66, 67 September 9th celebrations, 60, 61 tradition used to protest against, 134–35 vocal group, 162, 163, 164, 165 see also communism Bulgarian identity see national identity Bulgarian Socialist Party (BSP), 184, 185, 186, 187, 188–89 BCP reformation, 15, 179 Zhivkova speech, 1, 3 BZNC see Bulgarian Agrarian National Union

funerals, 130, 131 Midwives’ Day, 44, 183 ‘model village’ event, 30, 43, 46 national identity, 156 postsocialist era, 179, 183, 184, 190–92, 195n. 10, 195n. 17 recounting of individual political activities, 71–72 September 9th celebrations, 60, 61 vocal group, 61, 139, 150, 157, 162–66 Zarezan celebration, 127n. 23 Christianity postsocialist era, 182 Romania, 126n. 13 secularisation, 126n. 12 survakane practice, 148 traditions, 107, 113–14, 115, 120–21, 126n. 8 see also Church Christmas, 15, 182 Church, 46, 48, 107, 109, 137, 160 erosion of dominant position, 130 postsocialist celebrations, 184 ringing of (funeral) bell, 112, 113, 114 Tevelak, 173 see also Christianity class relations, 30, 39–43, 52, 54n. 14 cleanliness, 44–45, 46 Coalition of Bulgaria, 1 Cold War, 17, 18 collectivisation, 127n. 22 communism, 8, 52, 158 administration, 35 goal of, 30, 64, 74, 86n. 7 ‘good communist village’ perception, 130, 137, 165 opposition to traditional practices, 135–36 public ownership, 55n. 23 socialist morality, 43 ‘true communists’, 80, 81–82, 84, 85, 130 unification of humanity, 132–33 see also Bulgarian Communist Party; socialism competition between villages, 7, 175 survaknitsa, 145–49, 150, 151, 152, 154, 168 see also awards; ‘model village’ Connerton, P., 113–14, 134, 137n. 4

candle burning, 111, 113, 114, 115, 135–36 capitalism, 64, 174, 185, 194n. 5 class relations, 39 concepts of the past, 11 history, 57 personhood, 25n. 3 temporality, 9, 25n. 4 celebrations, 56–57 Chitalishte centennial, 88–103 collective celebrations of tradition, 119–25, 130 New Year, 140, 143–54 postsocialist era, 183–85 September 9th, 59–62, 65–66, 67, 79, 161, 184–85 see also festivals; folklore; public events; Zarezan celebration centralisation, 4, 16 socialist planning, 27 of time, 8, 9 centralism, democratic see democratic centralism Chitalishte (cultural house), 22, 33, 85n. 4, 109, 173 awards, 88, 89–98, 102, 166 centennial event, 88–103, 165–66 cultural activities, 157–62 folklore, 49

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Index cooperative farmers, 39, 40, 41, 51, 55n. 24, 99 Creed, G., 26n. 16, 182, 195n. 14 crime, 179, 180, 193 cultural activities, 150, 157–62, 167, 168, 170n. 6 awards for Chitalishte centennial, 93, 94, 95, 97 Party membership, 99 see also Chitalishte cultural dimension of history, 99, 101, 102, 103 culture ‘Bulgarian’, 13, 141, 156, 159, 161–62, 166–67, 170n. 2 socialist, 157–59, 161, 168–69, 170n. 2 Zhivkov, 156, 161, 170n. 2 cyclic structuring of temporality, 12, 116, 121, 141, 150–51

Chitalishte awards, 94, 95, 97 Chitalishte role, 159 folklore, 149-50, 157–58 Gradinarov, 100 pionerski dom, 145, 149, 152, 155n. 6 postsocialist Bulgaria, 15, 182 public events, 14 state determination of folklore, 149–50 state historical goals, 105n. 13, 157-8 see also cultural activities elections, 188–89 elites, 5–6, 15, 36, 167, 172, 185, 189, 194n. 3 Engels, Friedrich, 16, 85n. 4 ethnicity participation in socialist culture, 167, 168 traditions, 12 Turkish funeral, 131 ethnography, 142n. 6, 149 eulogies, 112, 117, 118, 130, 131, 200–201

dance aesthetic education, 158 folklore, 152, 161 visual dimension, 148 Zarezan celebration, 120, 122 death, 110, 116–19, 132–33 see also afterlife; funerals decentralisation, 4, 25n. 2, 176–81, 190, 195n. 13 democracy, 5, 35, 36 mass participation, 37, 38 Zhivkov, 54nn. 13, 14 democratic centralism, 5–6, 7, 35, 51, 54n. 13, 105n. 11 development see socialism dictatorship of the proletariat, 5, 35 Dimitrov, Georgi, 28, 59, 60, 85n. 1, 86n. 6, 176, 197 dusha (soul), 111, 115, 116, 126n. 5, 132

factionalism, see BCP; politics; see also pluralism factory workers, 31, 41, 42 familiarity (relations of ), see local-centre relations family patriarchal structure, 87n. 24 socialist emphasis on, 81, 83 women’s role, 44 farming see agriculture fascism, 37, 60, 63, 64, 197 Arian Pashev fight against, 81 Bulgarian Communist Party overthrow of, 66–67 Chitalishte role in struggle against, 91, 160 Comrade Pashev’s war activities, 68, 69, 70, 71 socialist culture, 158, 159 Village Council support for struggle against, 66 Fatherland Front, 22, 31, 36, 45, 93, 95 BCP relationship, 66–67 eulogy, 201 Novikov speech, 197 organisational powers, 37–38 postsocialist era, 179, 180 role, 66, 67–68 September 9th celebrations, 60, 61

Eastern Europe public events, 14 rewriting of history, 86n. 13 rural support for socialism, 24 state ideology, 16 western representations of, 17 economic hardships, 24, 178 education aesthetic, 94, 158

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Index festivals, 15, 21 Christian, 182 folklore, 151, 155nn. 14, 15 see also celebrations; public events fieldwork, 17–24 folklore, 7, 10–11, 12–13, 14, 139–42, 15051, 156–70 bricolage, 48 costumes, 32, 47, 139, 148, 153, 161, 164 defining, 25n. 8, 143–55 discipline, 142n. 6 food offerings, 47–49 history (and), 51 household, 49–50 invented traditions, 26n. 10 local-centre relations, 172–73, 174, 175–76 ‘model village’ event, 52 national identity, 47 as pedagogic resource, 152 recontextualisation, 140–41, 149, 150, 153 secularisation, 126n. 12 textualisation of traditions, 107 see also tradition food folklore, 139, 153 funeral practices, 111, 113, 114, 115, 117–18, 124, 134 offerings to guests, 47–49 survakane, 144 funerals secularisation, 26n. 11 Soviet, 26n. 11, 125n. 1 tradition, 109–19, 121–22, 124, 130–34, 135–36, 182 see also afterlife

Handelman, D., 14, 61, 86n. 8 history, 10–12, 13, 14, 56–58, 106, 151–52 characterising, 59–64 codification, 106 construction of the past, 128–42 contesting, 88–105 decline of socialist celebrations, 185 displays of opposition to, 104 folklore (relations with), 51 individuals’ political activities, 68–74 invented traditions, 26n. 10 local-centre relations, 172, 174, 175–76 Marxism-Leninism, 8, 9 ‘model village’ event, 52 and morality, 74–85 political institutions, 64–68 as political resource, 9, 68–74, 125, 154 postsocialist redefinition of, 181–82, 183, 195n. 11 progress through folklore, 169 public renditions of, 71–72 socialist identity, 50 state eulogies, 112 temporal representations of, 101 textualisation, 107 tradition opposition, 25n. 7, 106–8, 125, 128, 135 village links with, 6–7 households, 32–33, 49, 51, 153 and folklore, 49–51 funeral practices, 114 ‘model village’ event, 109 state influence, 109 tradition, 108, 125 see also private sphere identity, 23, 30, 47–51 ethnic, 168 folklore, 140, 141, 154, 156, 168 local, 167, 186 socialist, 4, 13, 47, 49–51, 154, 156, 161, 167, 170 tradition, 12, 130, 137 Turkish, 132 see also national identity ideology Marxism-Leninism, 8, 9 postsocialist, 177, 185, 192 socialist, 5, 6, 7, 84, 170, 195n. 6

gender traditions, 12 Turkish funeral, 132 Zarezan celebration, 121, 124 Gradinarov, Ivo, 23, 31, 42, 82, 84, 199 death of, 177 lack of support for Chitalishte, 100 unpopularity, 75–79, 87n. 19 Zarezan celebration, 123–24 see also BCP; factionalism ‘great man’ description, 81–82, 84

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Index state, 7, 15–16, 26n. 12, 53n. 4 Chitalishte centennial event, 89 class relations, 43 cultural activities, 168 death, 132 folklore, 10, 49, 172 history, 10, 56, 57, 64 identity, 47, 51 mass participation, 78, 90 material benefits of support for, 99, 100, 103 ‘model village’ event, 29, 30, 171 morality, 74, 85 nonparticipation, 103 organisational structure, 35 rejection of, 135, 136 Talpian discourse of, 52 technology, 40 transgressions, 134–35 urban areas, 166 village access to resources, 174, 186, 194n. 5 Zhivkov role in production of, 28 ‘important man’ description, 79, 82, 84 industrialisation, 9, 25n. 4, 140, 154n. 1 institutions, political, see political institutions internationalism, 47, 50–51, 52, 55n. 32, 141 invented traditions, 14, 26nn. 9, 10 Ivanov, Boian, 31, 37, 66, 76, 96–97, 123, 189 see also Mayor

peasants, 55n. 24 political lineage, 86n. 6 life-cycle rituals, 109, 116, 127n. 21 linearity of time/history, 12, 63, 64, 141, 150–51, 155n. 13 liturgical gestures, 113–14 local-centre relations, 3, 4–7, 172–76 familiarity (relations of ), 7, 23, 174–75, 194n. 5 leadership (importance of ), 173 ‘model village’ event, 29 postsocialist era, 4, 177, 182, 186–94 machine operators, 39, 41–42 Maleeva, Mara, 2, 34, 36, 43–44, 46 Maria, 73, 76, 80, 98–99, 101, 128 absence from Zarezan celebration, 123 Chitalishte awards, 88, 92–97, 102 democratic centralism, 105n. 11 fieldwork experience, 20, 22, 23–24 folklore, 150 morality, 83 postsocialist era, 179, 186, 188, 190 religion, 136 resentment towards Agricultural Cooperative head, 23, 77–78 survakane, 143, 144–48 traditions, 138n. 8, 143 ‘true communists’, 81 visual presentation of village, 45 vocal group, 78–79, 162, 164–65, 190, 194 Marx, Karl, 16, 62, 63, 85n. 4 Marxism-Leninism, 7, 11, 51, 86n. 6, 199 centralised planning, 27 classless society, 55n. 23 history, 56, 57n. 1, 64, 102 ‘homogenisation of the social field’, 74 postsocialist reform, 177, 181 rituals, 15 Romania, 16 scientific socialism, 34 temporality, 8, 9, 13 Zhivkov, 28 mass organisations, 35, 36, 37–38, 54nn. 16, 17, 95, 150 mass participation, 5, 7, 14, 37–38, 78, 90 material-orientation to history, 99–100, 101, 102–3

Khristov, K., 69, 70, 72 kinship ties, 21–23, 24, 26n. 17 Kligman, G., 126n. 13, 127n. 21, 137n. 2, 138nn. 6, 9 folklore, 140, 142n. 3 funerals, 109, 110, 116, 117, 126nn. 4, 10, 14 socialist space, 195n. 12 language social memory, 137n. 4 speeches at historical celebrations, 62 state control over, 106–7, 133, 138n. 5 Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 27, 54n. 12, 63, 85n. 1, 86n. 9, 198 historical documents, 62 morality, 55n. 25

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Index Matov, 61, 72–73, 179 absence from Zarezan celebration, 123 Chitalishte awards, 89, 91, 92, 93–94, 95, 98 Chitalishte centennial speech, 44, 159–60, 161 culture, 156, 157–58 ‘model village’ event, 31, 43 vocal group, 162, 163 Mayor, 36, 42, 60, 76, 178, 187–88, 192 Chitalishte awards, 89, 93, 96–97 ‘model village’ event, 37, 45 negotiation of political position, 72 postsocialist era, 179–80, 183, 187, 189, 191–92 September 9th celebrations, 66 vocal group, 162 see also Ivanov, Boian means of production, 39, 43, 49 media, 11, 28, 139 memory, 9, 107, 137n. 4 Midwives’ Day, 44, 55n. 26, 183 migrants, 129, 168 Mikanov, 89, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95 ‘model village’, 5, 7, 11, 27–55, 194n. 1 awards, 90, 105n. 10 culture, 163 folklore, 152–53 greeting of officials in households, 109 other local model villages, 171, 174 Pashev’s contribution, 69 Political songs, 165 postsocialist era, 186 state historical goals, 104 modernisation, 23, 30, 40–41, 140 morality, 30, 43–46, 51 gossip, 87n. 22 and history, 74–85 humanness, 85 Lenin, 55n. 25 socialist notion of, 4, 11–12 traditions, 125 museums, 7, 34, 36, 43–44, 46, 149, 152, 169 music, 120, 122, 126n. 6, 161, 162 aesthetic education, 158 folklore, 139, 149–50, 155nn. 12, 15 textualisation, 149–50, 155n. 11 visual dimension, 148 see also songs; vocal group

national identity, 47, 49, 51, 137, 158 Chitalishte role, 161 folklore, 10, 13, 141, 156, 166 nationalism, 50–51, 52, 141, 142n. 4, 160, 161 natural order, 108, 117, 118, 119, 125 nature, see state - ideology Nedkov, Gencho, 157, 160, 167, 169–70 Chitalishte awards, 89, 94, 95 death of, 178 eulogy, 201 war activities, 73 Zarezan celebration, 121, 124 Nelesova, 93, 95 New Year’s celebration (survakane), 140, 143–54 nonparticipation Chitalishte centennial, 98–99, 100, 102–3 traditional activities, 133 voluntary labour, 78–79 see also resistance Novikov, 31, 37 absence from Zarezan celebration, 123 negotiation of political position, 72 September 9th speech, 41, 60, 61–62, 63, 66–67, 79, 197–199 officials absence from traditional celebrations, 123, 125 access to resources, 7, 174 reaction to traditional practices, 134, 135-6 Chitalishte centennial, 88, 89, 96, 166 fieldwork experience, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22–23 folklore, 141, 150, 151, 154n. 3 influence, 129–30 ‘model village’ event, 29, 30–31, 34, 36, 38–39, 109 political institutions, 65–66 postsocialist era, 186, 187 public events, 14–15 speeches, 61–62 survakane, 145–46 village ties with, 4, 171, 172, 173 Zarezan celebration, 123, 124 ‘other world’, 115, 116, 118, 125, 132 Ottoman Empire, 129, 158, 159, 160

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Index participation folklore, 153 mass, 5, 14, 37–38, 78, 90 socialist culture, 167 Zhivkov, 54nn. 16, 17 see also nonparticipation Pashev, Andre, 31, 32, 38, 80, 93, 163–65, 177 Pashev, Arian, 81, 130, 135–36 Pashev, Comrade Tsoniu, 24, 41, 173, 199 absence from Zarezan celebration, 123 Bulgarian-Russian pedigree, 63, 86n. 6 Chitalishte awards, 89, 91–92, 93–94, 95, 96, 98, 166 death of, 177 funeral of, 87n. 23 funeral practices, 126n. 15 gossip, 87n. 22 history, 56 Mayor support for, 97 ‘model village’ event, 28, 31, 37, 42 moral authority, 75–77, 79–81 overthrow of fascism, 67 Party influence, 101 planning, 27 relations to history, 68–71, 73, 74 September 9th celebrations, 60, 61–62, 65–66 speech, 197 support for, 103 vocal group, 162, 163, 164, 166 wartime reputation, 69–71, 72 Pashev, Petur, 1–2, 16, 171, 175, 183, 184–85, 188–89, 194n. 4 patriotism, 47, 50, 55n. 32, 161 Pensioners’ Club, 2, 3, 183–84, 185, 189, 190–91, 194 Petrova, 93, 95, 103, 150, 159, 161, 164, 177–78 planning, 5, 27–28, 61 pluralism, see BCP; politics; see also factionalism Political dimension of history, 99, 101, 102–3, 169 Political figures contestation of history, 95, 96, 97–98, 100, 102, 103 folklore, 154 morality, 11–12 vocal group, 163

political institutions, 65–68 Political songs, 36–37, 38, 161, 162, 165, 166 politicisation of time, 9, 13, 14 politics alliances, 103 awards, 90–98, 102 Cold War, 17, 18 factionalism, 57, 78, 88 and history, 64–74 individuals’ political activities, 68–74 morality of political figures, 11–12, 74-84 multiparty, 4 opposition to anti-communist government, 184 pluralism, 12, 57, 103–4 postsocialist era, 184, 185, 186–89 protests against Liquidation Council, 186–88 reputations, 70–71, 75, 76–77, 82, 83, 85 temporality, 9 postsocialism, 3, 125, 176–94 community spirit breakdown, 179–80, 193 inequalities, 180-81 local-centre relations, 4, 177, 182, 186–94 new educational programmes, 15 new histories, 9, 181-85 restitution, 180 rural ambiguity towards reforms, 24, 25 poverty, 178 preustroistvo, 25n. 2, 59 private agricultural firms, 180–81, 192–93, 196nn. 19, 20 private sphere, 49–50, 51, 109, 125, 141 see also households privatisation land, 195n. 15 postsocialist era, 4, 177, 178, 180, 195n. 13 of time, 9 public events, 14–15 postsocialist era, 183–85 socialist calendar, 56–57 see also celebrations; festivals public sphere, 109, 124, 136, 141 folklore, 152, 153 history, 49, 50 see also Chitalishte

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Index Rusev, Plamen, 31, 164, 165 Chitalishte awards, 89, 91, 92, 93–94, 95, 96 death of, 177–78

religion, 12, 107, 108, 127n. 21 absence of, 48, 49, 50 church decay, 46 funeral practices, 110, 113–14, 118 Muslim beliefs, 131, 132 postsocialist era, 182 protests against Communist Party, 135 refusal to discuss, 130, 136, 148 secularisation, 126n. 12 tradition transformed into folklore, 148, 153 survakane practice, 148, 149 Zarezan celebration, 120–21, 122 see also Christianity; Church; tradition resistance protests against Liquidation Council, 186–88 state interference, 21 tradition, 12, 107, 130–37 see also nonparticipation resources, 29, 171, 176, 186 competition between villages, 175 decentralisation, 177 differences between villages, 173–74 local Talpian power base, 7 Pashev’s role in securing, 69 postsocialist era, 191–92 socialist ideology, 195n. 6 state control, 4, 5, 14 Rice, T., 140, 155nn. 11, 12, 15 ritual, 14–15, 109 decline in, 182 funerals, 117 Romanian, 140 state determination of Zarezan celebration, 124 Romania, 16, 133, 137n. 2 funerals, 109, 126n. 13 ritual, 140 socialist planning, 5 rural areas folklore, 169 kinship ties, 23 modernisation, 30, 40–41 postsocialist era, 24, 186–87 Second World War partisans, 172 support for socialism, 16, 24–25

Saint Triffon, see Zarezan Sanders, I.T., 87n. 24, 129 schoolchildren, 33–34, 45, 168 Second World War, 36–37, 48, 49–50, 52, 57, 67 Chitalishte awards, 91, 95, 97 Novikov speech, 197, 198 Pashev’s war activities, 68–69, 70 Political figures, 95, 97 Political songs, 161 property restitution, 180 September 9th celebrations, 60 Tevelak, 168–69 village connections to partisans, 172 Village Council, 66 secularism, 48, 109–10, 119, 126n. 12 September 9th celebrations, 59–62, 65–66, 67, 79, 161, 184–85 Silverman, C., 126n. 12, 127n. 23 authenticity, 155n. 8 festivals, 155n. 15 folklore, 126n. 12, 139, 140, 142n. 4, 166 social memory, 9, 137n. 4 social time, 56–57 socialism administration, 34–35 awards, 90 celebrations, 56–57 collapse of, 3, 4, 176–77, 181 competition, 175 concepts of the past, 10-11 culture, 158–59, 168–69 democratic centralism, 35 development, 8, 14, 34–35, 66, 74, 90 Bulgarian, 63, 64, 159 differentiation, 132 education role, 157 folklore, 12, 140, 150, 153, 156, 172 local, 7, 31 local-centre relations, 173 ‘model village’ event, 36, 44, 46, 171

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Index differentiation, 9–10, 74, 116–17, 118, 132, 175 education, 157 end of socialist celebrations, 183–85 equality, 74 folklore, 12, 13, 140, 141, 169 history, 57, 60, 61–64, 65, 197-99 identity, 4, 13, 47, 49–51, 154, 156, 161, 167, 170 ideology, 5, 6, 7, 84, 170, 195n. 6 language centrality, 62 local-centre relations, 4–7, 171-175 mass participation, 37 modernity, 176 morality, 11–12, 43, 46, 74, 78, 80–83, 85, 87n. 22 nonparticipation in state ideology, 103 ownership, 39 paternalism, 174 political institutions, 65-68 public events, 14, 15 rural support for, 16, 24–25 social differentiation in death, 118 spiritual life, 157–58, 161 temporality, 7, 8–10 tradition as resistance to, 107, 119, 130–137 weaknesses, 104n. 5 Western propaganda, 17 Zhivkov, 28 see also communism socialist time, 8, 9, 11, 15 songs, 60, 62, 91, 152 ‘non-Political’, 190 political, 36–37, 38, 161, 162, 165, 166 see also music; vocal group soul (dusha), 111, 115, 116, 126nn. 4, 5, 132 Soviet Union (USSR) Bulgaria links with, 62–63, 64, 86n. 6, 159, 195n. 16 celebrations, 57, 58n. 3, 61, 85n. 3, 86n. 9 eulogy, 200 funeral practices, 26n. 11, 125n. 1 Novikov speech, 199 nationalism/internationalism, 142n. 7 wedding ceremonies, 126n. 13 Stalin, Josef, 86nn. 6, 9, 13, 105n. 14

state access to private domain, 49–50, 51 administrative relations, 34–36 centralised planning, 27–28 centre, 6, 137, 170 local relations with, 3, 4–7, 29, 172–76 postsocialist era, 4, 177, 182, 186–84 collapse of socialism, 176–77 Communist Party role, 35-6, 65–66 death/nature relationship, 118–19 discourse and text (control over), 12, 62, 71, 106, 136 folklore, 10, 12–13, 139–41, 142n. 3, 149–54 history, 10, 11, 56–57, 59-65 homogenising goals, 166, 170, 175 ideology, 7, 15–16, 26n. 12, 53n. 4 Chitalishte centennial event, 89 class relations, 39-43 death, 118-19, 132 folklore, 10, 49, 172 history, 10, 56, 57, 64 identity, 47, 51 local renditions of, 38, 42, 46, 52, 149 mass participation, 5, 14, 38, 45, 78, 90 material benefits of support for, 99, 100, 103 ‘model village’ event, 29, 30, 171 morality, 74, 85 nature agricultural technology, 39–40 death, 117, 118–19 Zarezan celebrations, 122 nonparticipation, 103 organisational structure, 35 postsocialist, 177, 185, 192 rejection of, 135, 136 technology, 40 towns, 40–41, 43, 54n. 22, 166 transgressions, 134–35 urban areas, 166 village access to resources, 174, 186, 195n. 6 Zhivkov role in production of, 28 influence on funeral practices, 109, 112, 113, 118, 124, 130–31

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Index involvement in traditional practices, 143 local-centre relations, 3, 4–7, 172–76 ‘model village’ event, 29 postsocialist era, 4, 177, 182, 186–94 Marxist-Leninist ideology, 8 past as way of relating to, 9, 10-14, 17176 retreat of the, 4, 176–77, 190 socialist morality, 85 tradition as resistance, 12, 107, 108, 130–37 unifying influence on village, 129 Zarezan celebration, 123, 124, 127n. 23 see also officials supernatural forces, 117, 119, 123, 125 survakane, 140, 143–54

collective celebrations, 119–25 construction of the past, 128–42 differentiation, 133, 136 fatalism, 117 fertility, 116, 121, 122, 123 folklore contrast, 13, 140, 141, 143, 154 funeral practices, 109–19, 131-32 habitus, 107 history opposition, 25n. 7, 106–8, 125, 128, 135 lack of in Talpa, 129-30 local-centre relations, 175–76 markers of difference, 132, 136, 156 nonverbal practices, 133-34, 136 postsocialist era, 183, 185 rejection of, 7, 50, 51, 52 religion, 117, 119 survakane, 140, 143, 144–49 transformation into folklore, 107, 140–41, 142n. 5, 148, 149–54 see also folklore; religion ‘true communists’, 80, 81–82, 84, 85, 130 Tsela, 73, 75, 123, 150 Chitalishte awards, 92, 93–95, 96, 105n. 8 ‘model village’ event, 31 Pashev’s reputation, 69, 70 postsocialist era, 179 vocal group, 164 Turkish funeral, 131–33

tavern, 33, 108, 113, 121, 124 Teachers’ Union, 28, 37, 95 technology, 39–41, 43, 198 temporality, 7, 8–10, 11, 13, 15, 106 cyclic structuring of, 12, 116, 121, 141, 150–51 folkloric, 140 traditional, 115, 116, 125 transformation of traditional into folkloric, 150–52 see also history; time textualisation history, 62, 71, 73–74, 104, 106, 107 music, 155n. 11 state determination of folklore, 12, 149 time, 7, 8–10, 14, 25nn. 3, 4 centralisation, 8 carriers of significance, 10 leisure, 8, 15, 25n. 4 politicisation of, 9, 13, 14 seizure of, 8 social, 56–57 socialist, 8, 9, 11, 15 see also history; temporality TKZC see Agricultural Cooperative tombstones, 118 tradition, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 106–8 backwardness, 169 bodily practices, 137n. 4, 148 character of, 109–27 codification, 106, 107, 108, 127n. 16, 136

UDF see Union of Democratic Forces Union of Democratic Forces (UDF), 184, 186, 196n. 20 USSR see Soviet Union Verdery, K., 87n. 16, 133, 177, 195n. 7 Communist Party leaders, 74 competition, 175 etatisation, 9 language, 62, 106 Marxist-Leninist ideology, 16, 74 Village Council, 37, 40, 53, 60, 93 postsocialist era, 178, 190, 191–92 role, 66, 67 September 9th celebrations, 66 visual practice, 107, 108, 147–48, 149, 153 viticulture, 119–20, 122–23

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Index culture, 156, 158, 161, 170n. 2 democracy, 54nn. 13, 14 Dimitrov influence, 86n. 6 education, 105n. 9, 170n. 1 folklore, 49 freedom through knowledge, 157 goal of communism, 86n. 7 history, 1, 56, 62, 63–64, 86n. 10 internationalism, 47, 50, 55n. 32 leadership, 6, 87n. 15 machine operators, 39 mass participation, 54nn. 16, 17 ‘model village’ event, 28–29, 36 ‘new man’, 87n. 14 Party members, 104n. 3, 105n. 9 Pashev’s war stories, 69 postsocialist era, 181 public ownership, 55n. 23 relations with Talpa, 2-3, 28, 42, 45, 46, 52, 69, 86n. 6, 175 rural background, 16 scientific materialism, 43 September 9th celebrations, 59 shared history, 7, 52, 169 social consciousness, 55n. 27 socialist morality, 46 Soviet Union, 62, 63, 195n. 16 state ideology, 28, 53n. 4 state planning, 28 technology, 40 towns, 40-42, 54n. 22, 194n. 2 visits to Talpa, 2–3, 4, 45 weak governmental structure, 105n. 11 Zhivkova, Jenny, 1–2, 3, 47, 175, 179, 185, 194

vocal group, 61, 139, 150, 157, 161, 162–67 Chitalishte centennial event, 91 ‘model village’ event, 32 postsocialist era, 190, 194 see also music; songs voluntary labour, 37, 38, 75–76, 78, 79, 96 Watson, R., 8, 107, 125, 133, 137n. 4, 183 weddings, 126nn.3, 6, 13 wine, 48, 110, 113, 115, 119, 120, 123 women family role, 44 Zarezan celebration, 121, 124 work, 8, 15, 25n. 4 see also voluntary labour working class, 35, 39, 40, 41–42, 43, 51 agricultural production, 67 democracy, 54n. 14 internationalism, 50 privileged position in history, 65 youth, 42, 45 youth organisations, 60 Zarezan celebration, 14, 21, 119–24, 127nn. 16, 17, 23 declining interest, 130 defiance against state, 134 postsocialist era, 183, 192–93 Zhelev, Zhelo, 184 Zhivkov, Todor, 27, 44, 60, 172, 194nn. 2, 4 administrative relations, 34, 35, 54n. 15 Chitalishte, 88, 89, 160 class relations, 40, 42, 51, 54n. 14 cooperative farmers, 55n. 24

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