Gendering Postsocialism: Old Legacies and New Hierarchies 2017050363, 9781138296060, 9781315100258

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Gendering Postsocialism

Gendering Postsocialism explores changes in gendered norms and expectations in Eastern Europe and Eurasia after the fall of the Berlin Wall. The dismantlement of state socialism in these regions triggered monumental shifts in their economic landscape, the involvement of their welfare states in social citizenship and, crucially, their established gender norms and relations, all contributing to the formation of the postsocialist citizen. Case studies examine a wide range of issues across 15 countries of the postSoviet era. These include gender aspects of the developments in education in Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Hungary, controversies around abortion legislation in Poland, migrant women and housing as a gendered problem in Russia, challenges facing women’s NGOs in Bosnia, and identity formation of unemployed men in Lithuania. This close analysis reveals how different variations of neoliberal ideology, centred around the notion of the self-reliant and self-determining individual, have strongly influenced postsocialist gender identities, whilst simultaneously showing significant trends for a “retraditionalising” of gender norms and expectations. This volume suggests that despite integration with global political and free market systems, the postsocialist gendered subject combines strategies from the past with those from contemporary ideologies to navigate new multifaceted injustices around gender in Eastern Europe and Eurasia. Yulia Gradskova, Södertörn University, Sweden, is a historian dealing with post-Soviet history. She is the co-author of Gender Equality on a Grand Tour (2017 – with E. Blomberg, Y. Waldemarson, A. Zvinkliene) and the co-editor of And They Lived Happily Ever After (2012 – with H. Carlbäck and Zh. Kravchenko). Ildikó Asztalos Morell, sociologist from Mälardalen and Uppsala University (Sweden) with an interest in rural, gender and ethnicity studies of transition societies. She is the author of Emancipation’s Dead-End Roads (1999) and co-editor of Gender Regimes, Citizen Participation and Rural Restructuring (2008 – with B. Bock).

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Gendering Postsocialism Old Legacies and New Hierarchies

Edited by Yulia Gradskova and Ildikó Asztalos Morell

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 selection and editorial matter, Yulia Gradskova and Ildikó Asztalos Morell; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Yulia Gradskova and Ildikó Asztalos Morell to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Names: Gradskova, Yulia, editor. | Asztalos Morell, Ildiko, editor. Title: Gendering Postsocialism : old legacies and new hierarchies / edited by Yulia Gradskova and Ildiko Asztalos Morell. Description: 1 Edition. | London ; New York : Routledge, [2018] | Includes index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017050363 | ISBN 9781138296060 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781315100258 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Gender identity--Former communist countries. | Women--Former communist countries--Social conditions. | Sexual minorities--Former communist countries--Social conditions. Classification: LCC HQ18.E852 G4596 2018 | DDC 305.309171/7--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017050363 ISBN: 978-1-138-29606-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-10025-8 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Taylor & Francis Books

Contents

List of illustrations List of contributors Preface Acknowledgements Abbreviations 1 The gendered subject of postsocialism: state-socialist legacies, global challenges and (re)building of tradition

vii viii xiii xvii xix

1

ILDIKÓ ASZTALOS MORELL AND YULIA GRADSKOVA

PART 1

New gendered geographies 2 “They are hardly feminists and could learn a lot”: SwedishBosnian encounters for gender equality and peace, 1993–2013

19 21

´ JUSUFBEGOVIC ´ SANELA BAJRAMOVIC

3 Elderly care in Russia and sidelka from Central Asia

37

NORIKO IGARASHI

4 Around the corner? Female empowerment, security, and elite mind-sets in Georgia

54

LI BENNICH-BJÖRKMAN

PART 2

Neoliberal governance and the gendered enterprising self 5 Russian hostesses in Japan: a way towards self-fulfilment?

71 73

YULIA MIKHAILOVA

6 Postsocialist gender failures: men in the economies of recognition ARTURAS TEREŠKINAS

88

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Contents

7 “A mom who has time for everything”: mothers between work and family in contemporary Ukraine

105

OLENA STRELNYK

8 The agency of Roma women’s NGO in marginalised rural municipalities in Hungary

121

ILDIKÓ ASZTALOS MORELL

PART 3

Resilient legacies of state socialism 9 “Women have always had harder lives”: gender roles and representations of the self in the oral recollections of older Czech women

139

141

ˇ KOVÁ SLABÁKOVÁ ˇ ÍC RADMILA ŠVAR

10 Home is the “place of women’s strength”: gendering housing in Soviet and post-Soviet Russia

157

YULIA GRADSKOVA

11 Post-Soviet legacies in girls’ education in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan

172

KUANYSH TASTANBEKOVA

PART 4

The postsocialist societies between marketisation, democratisation and retraditionalisation

193

12 “Gender restoration” and “masculinisation” of political life in Poland: the controversies over the abortion legislation after 1989

195

RENATA INGBRANT

13 Obstacles for women in technical higher education in Hungary

211

VALÉRIA SZEKERES

14 Gendered identities among medical professionals in postsocialist Russian cinema

231

ROMAN ABRAMOV, ELENA IARSKAIA-SMIRNOVA AND DENIS SALTYKOV

Index

245

Illustrations

Figures 4.1 4.2 7.1 11.1 11.2 11.3 11.4

Graph showing perceptions on gender equality in Georgia and Armenia Graph showing conflict resolution in Georgia The employment rate of women aged 25-49 years depending on the number of children they have (in per cent) Total fertility rate in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, 1991–2014 Population in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, 1991–2014 Labour force participation rate by gender (% of population 15 years and older) in Kazakhstan Labour force participation rate by gender (% of population 15 years and older) in Uzbekistan

63 67 108 173 173 187 187

Tables 4.1 11.1 11.2 11.3 11.4 11.5

13.1

13.2 13.3

Gender equality and age in Georgia and Armenia (%) Number of educational organizations and students (in thousands) in Kazakhstan, 1990–2015 Number of educational organisations and students (in thousands) in Uzbekistan, 1992–2012 Gender Parity Index in education by level Students in educational organizations by gender (%) Enrolment of female and male students by areas of specialisation in secondary vocational and tertiary education (%) Percentage of students participating in the bachelor and master level higher education by gender and by subject in Hungary in 2008 (%) Share of female students in higher education in technology and IT in Hungary between 1958 and 2011 (%) Women students’ perspectives/narratives

65 178 181 184 185

185

214 216 226

Contributors

Roman Abramov is an Associate Professor; Candidate of Sciences in Theory, History and Methods of Sociology; and Deputy Head of the Analysis of Social Institutions Department, National Research University Higher School of Economics (Moscow, Russia). He is also a senior researcher at the Institute of Sociology, Russian Academy of Science. Abramov’s main publications in English include “Understanding Professionalism in the Soviet Union and Post-Soviet Russia: an Analytical Review”, in The American Sociologist (2016); “The History of Sociological Research on Occupations and Professions in the USSR 1960–80s: Ideological Frameworks and Analytical Resources”, in SSRN. Series Social Science Research Network (2014); and “Managerialism and the Academic Profession”, in Russian Education and Society (2012). His research interests include the sociology of professions, memory studies, sociological theory, and the sociology of higher education. Ildikó Asztalos Morell is an Associate Professor in Sociology at Mälardalen University and senior research fellow at the Uppsala Centre for Russian and Eurasian Studies at Uppsala University. Her major interests include comparative gender research, the study of transition societies with a special focus on rural transformation during state socialism and in the emergence of capitalism, intersectional aspects of rural marginalisation and poverty, and Romani studies. Morell has published close to forty articles and book chapters and has been the co-editor of several volumes, most importantly Gender Regimes, Citizen Participation and Rural Restructuring (2008 – with Bettina Bock), Gender Transitions in Russia and Eastern Europe (2005 – with Helene Carlbäck, Sara Rastbäck, and Madeleine Hurd) and Attitudes, Poverty and Agency in Russia and Ukraine (2016 – with Ann-Mari Sätre). Sanela Bajramovic´ Jusufbegovic´ is a PhD candidate in History at Örebro University, Sweden, where she has taught since 2009. Her contribution in this anthology is based on her forthcoming thesis Hierarchical Sisterhood, which is focused on efforts by the Swedish foundation Kvinna till Kvinna to support women’s peacebuilding in Bosnia and Herzegovina between

Contributors

ix

1993 and 2013. This research explores the advantages and dilemmas of transnational encounters between women in the context of development work done within the framework of international interventions. She has contributed chapters to publications in English and Swedish languages. Her research interests range from donor/recipient relations, wartime sexual violence, and women’s activism in postwar Bosnia to methodological and ethical questions in the field of oral history. Li Bennich-Björkman is the Johan Skytte Professor in Eloquence and Political Science at University of Uppsala, Sweden, and she was research director for six years at the Uppsala Centre for Russian and Eurasian Studies, Uppsala University. She has worked extensively on issues of political developments in the post-communist and post-Soviet countries, on life in exile and refugees, on creativity and research politics, and on integration. Presently, she is investigating conflict, gender, and masculinity in the South Caucasus. Her recent publications include “Post-Communism”, in SAGE Handbook of Political Sociology, (eds. William Outhwaite and Stephen Turner), 2017/2018 (in press); “In the Absence of Antagonism? Rethinking Eastern European Populism in the Early 2000s”, East European Quarterly, 2017; “Post-Soviet Developments: Reflections on Complexity and Patterns of Political Orders”, Journal of Contemporary Central and Eastern Europe, 2017; “Life Interrupted But Mended: Trauma and the Remembering Self among Estonian and Bosnian Émigrés”, in Cultural Patterns and Life Stories (2016), and “Revisiting Citizenship and Geopolitics in Latvia”, in Latvia – 100 Years of Work in Progress (2017). Previous works include the monograph Political Culture under Institutional Pressure. How Institutions Transform Early Socialization (2007). Yulia Gradskova is Associate Professor in History and works at the Department of Gender Studies and the Center for Baltic and East European Studies, Södertörn University, Sweden. Her research interests include Soviet and post-Soviet social history, gender equality politics, and the decolonial perspective on the history of Soviet emancipation of minority women. Gradskova is the author of more than 40 articles and co-author and co-editor of several books, including Gender Equality on a Grand Tour. Politics and Institutions – the Nordic Council, Sweden, Lithuania and Russia (2017 – with E. Blomberg, Y. Waldemarson, and A. Zvinkliene); Institutionalizing Gender Equality – Global and Historical Perspective (2015 – with S. Sanders); And They Lived Happily Ever After? Norms and Everyday Practices of Family and Parenthood in Russia and Eastern Europe (2012 – with H. Carlbäck and Zh. Kravchenko). Elena Iarskaia-Smirnova has a PhD in Social Work and a Doctor of Sciences in Sociology and is a Professor at the Department of Sociology, Faculty of Social Sciences, National Research University Higher School of Economics (Moscow, Russia). She is also the Editor-in-Chief of the Journal of Social

x

Contributors Policy Studies. Her current research interests include the sociology of professions, visual studies, social inequalities, disability and gender studies, social policy, and social work. Recent publications include “Professions and Professionalisation in Russia” in The Routledge Companion to the Professions and Professionalism (in collaboration, 2016); “Representations of Inequality and Social Policy in the Russian Official Press, 2005–2012” in the Journal of European Social Policy (in collaboration, 2016); and “Heroes and Spongers: The Iconography of Disability in Soviet Poster and Film” (in collaboration, 2014), in M. Rasell, E. Iarskaia-Smirnova (eds) Disability in Eastern Europe and the Former Soviet Union. History, Policy and Everyday Life (2014).

Noriko Igarashi is a Professor at the Department of Area Studies, Tenri University, Japan. She specialises in social issues of former Soviet republics, and gender studies in particular. She is currently working on studies of elderly care and migration issues in Russia. Her recent publications include “Nursing Care for the Elderly in Saint Petersburg – Viewed from the Perspective of Gender”, The Journal of Modern Society and Accounting (2015, in Japanese), “Women’s Voices: Gender Survey in Tajikistan”, Hitotsubashi Journal of Social Studies (co-authored with Kazuhiro Kumo, 2016), and “Analysis on the Elderly Issues in Russian Literature and Films”, Japanese Slavic and East European Studies (2016, in Russian). Renata Ingbrant holds a PhD in Slavic languages and literature and is currently employed as an associate senior lecturer in the Department of Slavic and Baltic Languages, Finnish, Dutch and German, at Stockholm University. She is the author of the monograph “From Her Point of View: Woman’s Anti-World in the Poetry of Anna S´wirszczyn´ska” (2007) and a book on gender issues in Polish culture and politics after 1989, Kvinnligt och manligt i Polen. Två studier om genus, kultur och politik [Femininity and masculinity in Poland. Two studies on gender, culture and politics] (2013). Her research interests include modern and contemporary Polish literature, Polish women’s literature, gender and masculinity studies, and cultural studies. Lately she has been working on the project “Changing Masculinities in Late-Nineteenth-Century Polish Prose”. Yulia Mikhailova is Professor Emerita at Hiroshima City University and a specialist on Russian-Japanese relations. She started her academic career at the Institute of Oriental Studies, St. Petersburg, Russia, with the study of modern Japanese thought and history. She published in Russian Motoori Norinaga: His Life and Thought (1988) and Social and Political Perspectives in Japan, 1860s-1880s (1991). Mikhailova then moved to Griffith University, Australia, and since 1996 she has been teaching in Japan. Though retired now, she continues lecturing on Japanese history and visual culture at Osaka University. Recently she edited and co-edited such books as Japan and Russia. Three Centuries of Mutual Images (2008) and Japan and Russia: Constructing Identity – Imag(in)ing the Other (2014).

Contributors

xi

Denis Saltykov is a doctoral student at the Department of Sociology, Faculty of Social Sciences, National Research University Higher School of Economics (Moscow, Russia). His current research interests are social theories of film, critical film studies, and politics of contemporary popular culture. His publications in Russian include “Kinomifologiia snaffa i eio pragmatika” [The Cinematic Mythology of Snuff and Its Pragmatics] in Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie (2015), “Marksistskaia sotsial’naia teoriia v institutsionalizatsii issledovanii kino v Velikobritanii” [Marxist Social Theory and the Institutionalization of Film Studies in Great Britain] in Vestnik Tomskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta (2017), and numerous film reviews on recent cinema in Kino-Teatr.ru, RussoRosso, and KinoKultura. Olena Strelnyk is postdoctoral research fellow in the Department of Sociology, Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv, Ukraine. She received her PhD in Sociology (kandidat nauk) in 2004 at Kharkiv National University, Ukraine. The title of her PhD thesis is “Gender Inequality and Woman’s Social Status in Contemporary Ukrainian Society”. She is the author of “Childcare as Work. A Sociological Perspective on Mothering” (Krytyka, 2017, in Ukrainian), and of “Conservative Parents’ Mobilization in Ukraine” in Rebellious Parents: Parental Movements in Central-Eastern Europe and Russia, ed. by Katalin Fabian and Elzbieta Korolczuk (2017), and more than 50 articles on gender issues, family and parenthood, and family and demographic policy in Ukraine. In 2016, she was visiting scholar at the Institute for Research on Women and Gender, University of Michigan (USA) as part of the Carnegie Research Fellowship Program. Strelnyk is also a public sociologist and activist. Her activism is related to popularisation of her research on mothering and gender issues in media and social projects. Radmila Švarˇícˇ ková Slabáková received her PhD from Pierre Mendès-France University in Grenoble, France, and is currently an Associate Professor in the Department of History at Palacký University Olomouc, Czech Republic. She has published numerous studies examining the history of Austro-Czech nobility in the 19th and 20th centuries, including her 2007 book Family Strategies of Nobility. The Mensdorff-Pouilly Family in the 19th Century and her 2012 book Myth of Nobility. Memory and Nobility in Bohemia and Moravia in the 20th Century (both in Czech). Recently, she has examined the intersections of gender, oral history, and family relations in the broader social network in several articles published, among others, in the Journal of Family History and Gender Studies. Her research interests encompass the transmission of historical memory (particularly the memory of the Second World War), and she has also published several articles and book chapters about historiographical trends, such as the history of emotions. Her current book project focuses on family memory, three generational family stories, and intergenerational transmission of identities.

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Contributors

Valéria Szekeres is an Associate Professor at the Institute for Economic and Social Sciences of the Óbuda University, Budapest, Hungary. She obtained her PhD at Tohoku University, Sendai, Japan, through a Japanese government scholarship. She has completed the intensive course of Gender, Macroeconomics and International Economics at the University of Utah, USA. Szekeres has published several articles on topics of gender economics, such as “Gender-érzékeny költségvetés” (Gender-sensitive budgets), Esély, Budapest, 2009. At Óbuda University, she conducted a two-year qualitative and quantitative study to identify methods to increase the number of female students in technical higher-education programmes. The results have been published in several articles and in a book “Ti ezt tényleg komolyan gondoltátok?”: No˝k és a mu˝ szaki felso˝oktatás (“Are you serious about this?”: Women and the technical higher education), Óbudai Egyetem, 2013. Another aspect of the findings has been published in the article “Concepts and Experiences – Female and Male Students about Technology Higher Education Programmes” in Michelberger, P. (ed.) MEB 2013: 11th International Conference on Management, Enterprise and Benchmarking: Proceedings, Budapest. Kuanysh Tastanbekova is an Assistant Professor at the Graduate School of Comprehensive Human Sciences of the University of Tsukuba in Japan. She holds a PhD in education from the same university. She has authored a number of papers on issues related to language in the education policy of Kazakhstan, with significant focus on the linguistic human rights of ethnic minorities and on tri-lingual education. Her research interests include policy borrowing and lending processes, the legacies of Soviet education in Central Asian countries, teacher training system reformation in Kazakhstan and Russia, citizenship education, and the development of education for sustainable development in Kazakhstan. One of her recent publications is “Study of Minority Education Policy in Kazakhstan: An Analysis of the Language Education Workload in School Curriculum” in Tsukuba Journal of Education Study (in Japanese). As her volunteer activity Tastanbekova has been serving as fundraising manager at the NGO “Foundation on Education Development” which works with vulnerable children and youth in rural areas of Kazakhstan. Artu-ras Tereškinas is a Professor of Sociology and Head of the Social Research Centre at Vytautas Magnus University in Kaunas, Lithuania. He is the author of more than fifty articles and nine research monographs and edited collections, including Men in the Economies of Disappointment: Between Good Life and Social Exclusion (2016), Pop Culture: Emotions, Bodies, Texts (2013), It’s a Man’s World: Men and Wounded Masculinities in Lithuania (2011), and Culture, Gender, Sexuality: Essays on Different Bodies (2007). His research interests include cultural sociology, sociology of gender, men’s studies, social exclusion, and popular culture.

Preface

Gender and women’s studies in the West have transformed academic and social environments. In the ongoing effort to root out gender-based prejudices, stereotypes, and discrimination, regional and international collaborations have helped to raise awareness about lesser-known gender struggles and debates in other parts of the world. In the USSR and in the countries within its sphere of influence, the interpretation and implementation of socialist principles or communist doctrine went hand in hand with a rhetoric of denial: there was “no problem” with gender in socialist countries. After all, the sociopolitical order was predicated on women’s emancipation and gender equality. Any shortcomings, purported carryovers from preceding periods, had been put definitively to rest with the momentous arrival of communism. For Western feminists and domestic dissidents alike, that official position did little to conceal the patriarchal orientations of states and of men and women co-opted into their service. The dissolution of the Soviet Union and of its satellite socialist regimes shook up the dominant social, political and economic paradigm and heralded a period of transition. At stake in the ensuing ferment were the building blocks of states and the cement of societies: core social values. As equality and social justice are among the most prominent of those values, it is hardly surprising that gender issues and women’s rights should be at the cutting edge of social change in the postsocialist space: the former USSR and countries of the Warsaw Pact. The editors of this volume have produced an impressive collection of studies of the gender dimension in this part of the world. The primary focus is on gender norms, or values: what they were and how they operated under socialism, how they materialised in institutions and later evolved in society during the postsocialist transition, and how they are playing out in the uncertain, conflicted paradigm shift from communism/socialism to neoliberalism/capitalism or, possibly, some other configuration. Nor has there been only a single, generic template for supplanting one governance model with another. As diverse as the individual countries were under communism/socialism, so too have been their processes of transition in the post-Soviet era. And, as the analyses presented here demonstrate, there are significant socio-economic and gender

xiv Preface norm variations between postsocialist states that gravitated toward or joined the EU and those which remain in Russia’s sphere of influence. In addition to regional diversity, the authors grappled with another level of complexity: even in pro-Western countries, socialist gender norms endured and resisted change, whether for better (in ensuring welfare support to women), or for worse (in perpetuating discriminatory practices). Gender norms have likewise been exploited in instances of reactionary neo-traditionalism, which typically reinvents individual and collective gendered identities (normative ideals of masculinity and femininity; attitudes of patriarchy, misogyny, homophobia) by patching together selective historical recovery and anti-Western polemics. Gender issues in post-Soviet and postsocialist countries are no mere cultural or regional curiosity in a wider, historical struggle for human rights and social justice. They are at the centre of international ideological confrontations, and of domestic battles for minds. Long before the demos of totalitarianism awakened to the full political weight of their votes, the race was on for their allegiance. International aid packages came with strings – notably, the requirement of socio-economic reforms aligned with Western values. Meanwhile, on the postsocialist home front gender politics became a strategic instrument for mobilising conservative, protectionist resistance to a variety of imagined threats, chief among them: rampant Western individualism. Indeed, the studies contained here confirm a troubling development: the crystallisation in the postsocialist space of an ideological rejection of neoliberalism and the West, coupled with a retreat to the security of familiar, communal points of reference. A key feature of the postsocialist transition has been a crisis of core values, particularly those social values in which gender norms occupy a prominent place. The sustained study of those changing norms uncovers a classic confrontation over two distinct paths into the future – between a nostalgic impulse to restore traditional, monocultural individualism, and a decisive entry into the diverse, interdependent, global community of the twenty-first century. Despite the regional uniqueness of the postsocialist transformation and regardless which paradigm is ultimately chosen, the consolidation of a new socio-political order will have implications for the international community. Indeed, even in the fluid, transitional phase the socio-economics of gender in the postsocialist region are of interest to those who struggle for equality throughout the world. Future studies will determine whether this is only a transitional phase or the birth of a new cultural and ideological paradigm. What this collection opens up for us is the intricate, contextual specificity beneath the surface of the deceptively simple expression “postsocialist transition”. All the dimensions of public life – social, economic, political, cultural – are implicated and a crucial thread that runs through them is, precisely, the matter of gender norms and values. By tracing that line, the authors provide a fresh perspective on this, potentially the greatest socio-economic and political transformation of our time. With a

Preface xv better understanding of the gender factor in that story, scholars in the West and throughout the world will be better equipped to engage with the postsocialist other in an irenic, constructive, and respectful way. For their part, scholars in Russia, Eastern Europe, Central Asia, and the Caucasus will surely welcome such analyses and insights, which are timely, pertinent, and constructive for their own practical reflection. Attentiveness to gender issues grounds the discussion of larger, societal processes in concrete reality, in the here and now. A number of chapters here draw upon qualitative analyses of compelling first-person accounts and testimonies. Such primary sources provide strikingly direct access to the human drama of victimisation, marginalisation, and suffering. In the turbulence of competing, postsocialist winds of change – socio-economic liberalisation, political transformation, and an ideological clash of values – it is worth remembering that the lives of real women and men are impacted. They are caught between two types of gender paradigm, both problematical. On the one hand, there are idealised representations and internalised self-images of femininity, masculinity, success, and happiness. On the other, there is the deliberate, systematic reinforcement of patriarchy, misogyny, and gender discrimination. We also learn here how forcefully gender issues materialise in the social and economic spheres, and it may be that the capacity to move attitudes toward social equality and justice exceeds the powers of both competing ideologies. Instead, the innovative, grassroots work of NGOs in intercommunity cooperation and social services, discussed in several chapters, may well become the vanguard and a privileged locus of a radical shift encompassing educational and legislative reforms, and a new consensus about core social values. A final word about our organisational context: this publication is the result of extensive international scholarly encounter and discussion. In addition to the editing and peer review processes, most of the contributions were originally delivered at the ninth World Congress of the International Council for Central and East European Studies (ICCEES) in Makuhari, Japan in 2015. Since its founding in Canada in 1974, ICCEES has promoted the exchange of academic research by creating an international community of associations and institutes of Russian, Slavic, Central and East European Studies. The selection of Makuhari as the venue for World Congress 2015 was an indication of the growth and active participation of new member associations in Japan, China, South Korea, Mongolia, and Central Asia. The principal activity of ICCEES is the World Congress, usually held every five years, which brings together international scholars with a wide range of disciplinary and interdisciplinary approaches. The Congresses are further enriched by the practical experience of professionals working in various fields of culture, education, public policy, diplomacy and journalism. Between Congresses, ICCEES promotes the publication of the best papers in thematic volumes and special issues of journals. In their respective areas, these collections have presented the latest research by established scholars and

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Preface

Ph.D. students alike. A full list of publications issuing from ICCEES World Congresses is available at the Council’s website (iccees.org), and organisational up-dates are posted on Facebook. This book is a splendid addition to that list, and to our appreciation of the centrality of gender in the profound socio-economic transformations in the post-Soviet and postsocialist space today. Editors Yulia Gradskova and Ildikó Asztalos Morell deserve special recognition for their initiative, dedication, and diligence in bringing this important discussion to an international audience. Andrii Krawchuk University of Sudbury, Canada Vice-President, ICCEES Chair, Organising Committee for ICCEES World Congress 2020 (Montréal)

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the generous support of many people and institutions. Ildikó Asztalos Morell would like to thank the Institute for Russian and Eurasian Studies (IRES) of Uppsala University for offering an excellent research environment for developing her ideas on postsocialist transition and the Swedish Research Council (Vetenskapsrådet) for financing the research project “Negotiating Poverty” that was important for the realisation of the book. Yulia Gradskova would like to express her gratitude to the Center for Baltic and East European Studies (CBEES) and to the Institute of Contemporary History, Södertörn University, for the stimulating environment for working on issues on gender, neoliberalism, and postsocialism. We are specifically grateful to Professor Li Bennich-Björkman, Associate Professor Helene Carlbäck, and Associate Professor Ann-Mari Sätre as well as to all the participants of the seminar at CBEES who helped with the development of the book’s concepts and ideas. The concept of this book was also commented on by the Working Life Studies Research Group at Mälardalen University, and special thanks go to Eduardo Medina. We also express our gratitude to the International Council for Central and East European Studies (ICCEES), the main organiser of the conference in Makuhari, Japan, in August 2015 where the work on this book began. The articles included in the book were written by authors living in different parts of the world. Because for many authors English is not their native language, proofreading of the texts has been of central importance. Thus, we are very grateful to Professor Irina Sandomirskaja of Södertörn University and to the Uppsala Center for Russian Studies for their financial support of the copy-editing. We are also grateful to all those who contributed to this volume. Their knowledge of the specifics of changes of gender norms in the local context and their readiness to share this knowledge has been invaluable for this book. Yulia Gradskova would also like to express her personal gratitude to Professor Irina Sandomirskaja for her belief in the realisation of this project and for all of her personal support.

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Acknowledgements

We also would like to thank our families. Yulia Gradskova would like to thank her sons, Damian and Yakov, for all of their patience during the working process and for their readiness to listen to endless accounts of the book’s progress and problems. Ildikó Asztalos Morell is thankful to her husband Mats for his support throughout the project and to Sára and Alexander for taking an interest in the developments of the book.

Abbreviations

ADB BiH BRWS CAC CEDAW CEOs CRC CRRC CT ESS FEDERA GDI GDP GPI ICESCR KOD MP NGO NiT NKT NPO NSZZ OECD PISA RPWS RSY

Asian Development Bank Bosnia and Herzegovina Bódva Valley Roma Women Spokesmen [Bódvavölgyi Közéleti Roma No˝ k Egyesülete] Central Asian Countries Convention on Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women Chief Executive Officers Convention on the Rights of the Child Caucasus Research Resource Center Complex Testing European Social Survey Federation for Women and Family Planning Gender Development Index Gross Domestic Product Gender Parity Index International Convention on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights Committee for the Defence of Democracy (in Poland) Member of Parliament Non-Governmental Organisation Nations in Transit rate Hungarian Law on National Public Education [Nemzeti Közoktatási Törvény] non-profit organisation “Solidarnos´c´” – Independent Self-Governing Workers’ Union “Solidarity” Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development Programme for International Student Assessment Roma Public Women Spokesmen [Közéleti Roma No˝ k Egyesülete] Russian Statistical Yearbook

xx

Abbreviations

SLD SPAS STEM UNDP UNFPA UNM UNT WBGI WILPF/IKFF WWII

Democratic Left Alliance The Swedish Peace and Arbitration Society Science, technology, engineering and mathematics United Nations Development Programme United Nations Population Fund United National Movement (Georgia) Unified National Testing World Bank Governance Index Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom Second World War

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The gendered subject of postsocialism State-socialist legacies, global challenges and (re)building of tradition Ildikó Asztalos Morell and Yulia Gradskova

When the Berlin Wall fell in November 1989 and when, two years later, the Soviet Union crumbled and was divided into 15 independent states, the huge space formerly called the Communist Bloc or the countries of state socialism seemed to disappear forever, and an unprecedented process of change began. This process was just as unique from a historical perspective as the earlier attempts to build communism and/or state socialism. The changes had different speeds and directions, and while some states embraced the process of democratisation in order to “return to Europe”, others were experimenting with the ideals of a strong authoritarian state, religion, and a “return to tradition” to build a new society. Now, however, nearly 30 years later, the different countries of this huge geographical space often continue to be addressed according to their common past, or as countries still in a state of transition or transformation from their previous condition – as postsocialist. In some cases the communist past seems to have been totally overcome, and these countries are recognised as European and democratic states with well-functioning market economies (as in the case of many countries that have joined the European Union). However, their position in the formerly socialist space can suddenly be remembered in exceptional circumstances, like during the refugee crisis of 2015 (Dalakoglou, 2016). In other cases, the changes do not seem to be thorough due to the emergence of authoritarian regimes and corruption. Thus, the states that have experienced slower changes are more frequently referred to through their past as “formerly” or “post” socialist. In deference to these temporal interpretations, following Madina Tlostanova, we approach postsocialism not only in temporal terms, but also in spatial terms – as a space populated by millions of people whose experience is “underconceptualized” in the analysis of globalisation (Tlostanova, 2017, pp. 1–3). In choosing to analyse postsocialism as a “critical standpoint” in order to avoid the essentialisation of the region (Stella, 2015, p. 133), we consider it important to explore gendered changes focusing on institutions, discourses, memories, identities, and fantasies that in one way or another connect to this postsocialist condition. Although taking place in varied shapes and degrees, the dismantlement of state socialism and the emergence of “capitalism” in the former state-socialist

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countries led to radical shifts in their economies as well as in the welfare state’s involvement in social citizenship. Gender relations were a key arena for the moulding of state-socialist citizenship where institutions, guarding women’s reproductive rights as well as their work opportunities, were raised to create the ideal socialist citizen. Gender norms and gender relations have also been a prime field for forming the postsocialist citizen. While we assume that the bondage between economic regimes and gender norms is not deterministic (Asztalos Morell, 1999), the contributions to this book further explore the connectivity between gender and economy without assuming reductionist causality or restricting the sphere of gender norms to the sphere of economic importance. Thus, the main aim of this book is to explore changing gendered norms and expectations in relation to the postsocialist transformation in Eastern Europe and Eurasia. We explore how the gendered legacies of state socialism are entangled with the geopolitical reorientation of the region and the simultaneity of socio-economic, political, and cultural changes in this geographical space. How are gender expectations shaped in the conflict between impulses towards more gender equality versus the renaturalisation/retraditionalisation of gender norms, and how are the new gender norms entangled with the neoliberal economic demands, precarities, “multifaceted injustice” (Suchland, 2015, p. 188), new forms of socio-economic differentiation, and insecurities?1 How can the analysis of gender norms and expectations in the space of former state socialism contribute to a study of global developments in gender relationships?

Theoretical approach Following Raewyn Connell and Rebecca Pearse, we assume that womanhood and manhood are not exclusively imposed from the outside (Connell and Pearse, 2015a, pp. 72–74). Indeed, Candace West and Don Zimmerman (1987) showed in their seminal article “Doing gender” that gender norms are produced, reproduced, and challenged in the process of communication. Furthermore, according to Judith Butler, the heterosexual gender matrix – a specific regulatory framework for gender – is culture specific (Butler, 1999, p. 42). Norms always presuppose the active involvement of individuals in “doing gender” and cannot be seen as a stable construct based on biology. Gender simultaneously constitutes and is constituted by institutions. As Connell and Pearse (2015b) wrote: The assumptions, rules and guidelines that we call “norms” are part of the weave of everyday life. They are embedded in institutions as much as they are in individual heads. […] A key question about gender norms, therefore, is how they are materialized in social life. It is this materialisation of gender norms that is particularly important for most of the contributions in this book. While the gender norms of state

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socialism were embedded in the overall guarantees of work, education, and housing, they also in most countries supposed accessibility to abortion and childcare. The beginning of the postsocialist reforms, on the other hand, was connected not only with freedom for political activity and new gender ideals, but also with changing material constraints in the sphere of work, family life, leisure, and education. Furthermore, as Connell and Pearse (2015b) stated, institutions play a particularly important role in the reproduction of norms of gender inequality, but still gender norms can be changed and the “pressures for change are coming from many sources”. However, the changes are often ambiguous. Thus, in this book we explore how much the gender norms have changed since 1989, what the important sources of the “postsocialist” gender norms are, and how they materialise. Norms are also seen as gaining expression through technologies and practices of governing. From the perspective of governmentality theory (Dean, 2010), action in accordance to desired patterns does not require violent oppression when norms are internalised. While totalitarian regimes were installed via the use of force, later state socialism reproduced itself through the agency of the subjects of state-socialist regimes. To some extent, state-socialist gender norms were also shaped by the interests of citizens and became integrated into everyday praxis (Chernova, 2008; Gradskova, 2012). Neither can we perceive state socialism as a unified system of norms. Diverse national and local conditions formed and shaped the institutions through time and national variations on gender regimes inside of the statesocialist camp emerged, among other ways, through local resistance. From its beginning state socialism aimed to unset the established gender norms, which assumed women’s availability as care providers (Goven, 2002). While the state was meant to rationalise, and provide for childcare, women were to be liberated via engagement in spheres of life that previously belonged to men. As part of this modernistic, emancipatory vision, women were to be enabled to engage in work, education and were to enjoy sexual rights similar to men. As a counterforce, from the 1960s onwards, a restoration of “natural” gender norms unfolded. For example, in Hungary the 1956 revolution marked a shift from the gender-homogenising policies of the 1950s (Goven, 2002). After the early 1960s, the social importance of maternity was re-evaluated, leading to the introduction of the three-year paid childcare benefit system in 1967, which was unique for its time (Asztalos Morell, 1999). This re-naturalised gender order led to the strengthening of the model of the maternalistic welfare state (Glass and Fodor, 2007). Maternalistic reproductive benefits emerged in most former state-socialist countries based on the dual construction of women’s alleged emancipation, envisaged through participation in the labour force, which was made possible by state intervention and a political commitment to enable women to combine wage labour and unpaid care duties in the family (Carlbäck, 2007). In the Soviet Union, the period of childcare leave was never as long as it was in Hungary. However, it grew over time, particularly during

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the perestroika years (from 1985). Meanwhile, the proportion of children attending childcare facilities was generally high in state-socialist countries. In the final years of the Soviet Union, about 70 per cent of all children between the ages of 3 and 7 attended childcare facilities (Gradskova, 2012). Two broad grounds for the critique of the state-socialist emancipatory project emerged already during late state socialism. On the one hand, the critique of “women’s policies” was incorporated into the critique of etatism and paternalism. Indeed, Goven (2000) argued that state-socialist women’s policies often were seen by the liberal critical samizdat opposition as an expression of the alliance between women and the paternalistic state and as an intrusion on the sanctity of the family. Thus, the liberal opposition inside the socialist camp pledged for the reconstitution of the sanctity of the bourgeois family (Einhorn, 2006). On the other hand, as it is well known, state-socialist policies towards women were criticised by Western feminism (Einhorn, 2006; Liljeström, 1995). The maternalistic welfare regimes of state socialism did not impact the privilege that men had in lacking responsibility for care work in the family, although it weakened their role as the main providers for the family (Asztalos Morell, 1999; Åberg, 2016). The state-socialist gender regime did not challenge the heteronormative matrix and was complacent towards issues of genderbased violence. Within the state-socialist paradigm of production, both men’s and women’s wage work was needed for the economy, even if in different spheres. The state-socialist countries were secularised and facilitated abortion, but were pro-natalist. However, with the exception of the most totalitarian regimes, such as that in Romania (McIntyre, 1985), they promoted childbirth via diverse childcare policies. After 1989/1991 changes in norms occurred on different levels, including those of individual agency, institutional rules and practices, state intervention, civil movements, and market transitions. We explore, in particular, the gendered outcomes of the divergent forms through which the state-socialist construction of maternalist welfare regimes were dismantled (Glass and Fodor, 2007), and we see this dismantling as inspired and enhanced by neoliberal as well as gender-conservative thinking and practice (Aidukaite, 2009). However, while gender norms formed during state socialism were resisted, their legacies were carried on in complex ways, through the footprints of mind-sets and/or through opportunity structures – institutions that state socialism carved out (Glass and Fodor, 2007; Asztalos Morell et al., 2005). Another important aspect of postsocialist transformation that is underresearched and that is analysed in this book includes the new governmentality and its effects on the individual level. Indeed, the new economic order has often demanded a new, more flexible self, a person who is competitive, flexible, and oriented towards individual success (Makovicky, 2014; Lerner, 2011). Contributors analyse how different contexts and variations of the gendered (dis)appropriation of the neoliberal ideology of the self-reliant individual influence gender norms and identities.

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While the establishment of state-socialist regimes emerged through collisions with pre-socialist gender regimes and norms, the postsocialist formation of gender regimes in the era of capitalist transition emerged in the interplay between global challenges and influences as well as local responses and resistances. Neither the global nor the local can be simplified, and this book’s contributions explore particular cases of these complexities. Indeed we see developments in the former space of state socialism not as isolated and specific, but as influenced by global processes and developments. Globalisation in general terms has been perceived as a growth of “transplanetary” and “super-territorial” connectivity between people (Scholte, 2005, p. 82). This perception of globalisation sees it as the “re-spatialisation of social life”, that is, broader than liberalisation, internationalisation, or Westernisation. The intensification of super-territorial connectivity has accelerated with the expansion of digital technologies and the Internet since the 1980s. This process has dissolved the limitations of space and time (Beck, 2015), allowing a revolutionary transformation of the global expansion of economic transactions and the diffusion of ideas. At the same time this global transfusion has been interrelated with the expansion of the neoliberalist paradigm of market supremacy and techniques of self-governance. Scholte has described neoliberalism as the prevailing policy discourse for globalisation since the 1980s (Scholte, 2005, p. 39). The former state-socialist realm, divided by the new borders of political and economic spaces, entered the postsocialist era with the intent of converging toward capitalism. This path emerged along the “self-colonising” discourse (Éber, 2016) of the “catching up” narrative (Petö, 2016) and aimed to implement democracy and human rights, but it became entangled with a specific version of the capitalism of the developed West that embraced the neoliberal path. This version of capitalism was based on the principles of market fundamentalism (Kováts, 2016, see also Standing, 2014). The formerly over-centralised economies of state socialism after 1989 were exposed to globally influenced constraints shaped by policies in line with the Washington Consensus,2 and often by the politics of deregulation of the state and the cutting of public expenditures designed with the help of Western advisers. In the beginning of the 1990s, the welfare regimes of the newly independent countries were under economic pressure by transnational monetary institutions.3 These pressed forward policy packages for economic, social, and cultural transformation. “Shock therapy”, together with incorporation into the global market, brought forward the mass decline of production capacity in many of the postsocialist countries, leading to mass unemployment. To different degrees, the deregulation of the market, combined with the introduction of workfare regimes and retrenchment of the welfare state, led to large-scale redistributions of wealth (Kóczé, 2016). Dual societies emerged within countries along intersectional (including both ethnicand gender-based) cleavages (Ferge, 2003; Kóczé, 2016). Meanwhile, the economic gap between former state-socialist and capitalist countries has not been overcome. Regional inequalities between postsocialist

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countries and core capitalist countries, as well as between economically more or less developed postsocialist countries, have emerged and been reproduced. These have contributed to transnational mobilities with gender specific incorporation of women through care migration and trafficking. Thus, the growing influence of the global logic of neoliberalism obscured “the great sea of exploitation” (Suchland, 2015, p. 7). In this book we see gender as interacting with other categories in shaping different dimensions of the experiences of the citizens of the postsocialist countries (Crenshaw, 1991, p. 1244). In particular, the intersection of gender with class, ethnicity, and religion is important for our study of the norms, spaces, and marginalities of postsocialism. The (re)establishment of the independent states throughout the wide territories of South and Eastern Europe and Eurasia contributed to the growth of national feelings and cultural development, but in some cases these were connected with the reinforcement of discrimination alongside old (imperial/colonial) and new division lines (as in the case of migrant workers from Central Asia in Russia or in the case of Roma women in Hungary experiencing multiple levels of discrimination). Changes in the role of the state as well as changes connected to the promotion of transnational gender-equality institutions have often provoked counterreactions from gendered postsocialist societies and individuals (Gradskova & Sanders, 2015). The region has experienced protests against welfare cuts, but it has also seen the spread of political movements and ideas on re-establishing traditional family and gender roles. Thus, contributions to this volume explore processes of changing gender norms on the level of individual agency, institutional transformation, social and political mobilisation, and state policy formation in national and transnational contexts. Due to our interest in the social and material, rather than in the purely political and ideological aspects of this transformation, in this book we decided to use the concept of “post-state socialism” rather than “post-communism”. This concept also seems to be more helpful in analysing changes in the gender norms embedded in social institutions. However, we use the terms post-state socialist and postsocialist interchangeably. Finally, a focus on de-etatisation of social institutions helps in our analysis of the socialist remains and their meaning for contemporary gender norms and hierarchies. Even if the scholarship on postsocialist changes numbers several thousand volumes, only a small part of it addresses the fact that all of the changes have been gendered and have had gendered effects (for the latter, see Gal & Kligman, 2000; Ashwin, 2005; Bridger & Pine, 1997; Daskalova, et al., 2012; Johnson & Robinson, 2007; Einhorn, 2006). Also, some of the publications dealing with the broader geographical space of postsocialism were published about 20 years ago (Bridger & Pine, 1997; Buckley, 1997), while many of those published recently deal only with a particular region/problem. Thus, this volume explores postsocialism by focusing on the gender aspects of change in a broader geographical region including both Eurasia and Eastern Europe. We believe that the gender perspective allows us to uncover the problems, contradictions, and conflicts of

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changes that otherwise are not always visible to researchers. Furthermore, gendering postsocialist spaces, institutions, politics, relationships, and identities contributes to further exploration of the global processes of changes in gender norms.

Book structure This volume was inspired by the 2015 ICCEES congress in Makuhari, Japan, and it was composed following a special call for papers and with a specific invitation to several external researchers. As a whole, the volume brings together researchers from different European and Asian countries dealing with a variety of issues that affect gender relationships in the broader postsocialist space. Many of the contributors could be described as embodying the new, postsocialist globality by simultaneously belonging to several different cultures and countries. The same is true for the book editors. Ildikó Asztalos Morell is a sociologist who received her education in Hungary, Canada, and Sweden, and Yulia Gradskova is a historian who received her education in Russia, Hungary, and Sweden. This volume deals with a broad scope of countries – from the Central Asian region in the former Soviet Union to the countries of Central, Eastern as well as Southern Europe. We include countries experiencing opposing vectors of transition in the analysis – those that have become the new members of a united Europe and those that have become the new authoritarian regimes, as well as those that are showing quite high developmental indexes and those that instead can be seen as joining the “developing countries” of the Global South. The geographical breadth of our volume allows a comparison of the changes in gender norms and hierarchies with respect to different ideals – from the postcolonial aspirations of “national rebirth” to “European values”. It also identifies similar developments (for example, with respect to retraditionalisation or the importance of the enterprising self) across the lines of the new geo-political divisions of EU/non-EU countries and North/South. This book’s contributions are based on a variety of sources, quantitative as well as qualitative, including analyses of interviews, documents, laws, published memoirs, and websites. Personal documents – interviews, published memories, and personal Internet posts – seem to be particularly important sources for exploring which gender norms were transformed and which were not and how expectations have changed along with the political and economic changes in the region. The personal documents include, among others, interviews with mothers in Ukraine, interviews with those responsible for elderly care in Russia and with migrant care workers from Central Asia, interviews with female Roma activists in Hungary, interviews with unemployed men in Lithuania, and two memoirs written by former Russian hostesses working in Japan. This personal material gives the reader the opportunity to listen to the voices of those who have lived through the changes and allows a more nuanced understanding of how postsocialism has been gendered.

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The book consists of this introduction and 13 chapters and is organised into four areas where the complex relationships between the legacies of state socialism and new global challenges are particularly important.

1 New gendered geographies This volume pays special attention to the spatiality (Scholte, 2005) of the post-state-socialist changes and their gender implications. Even if it would be wrong to say that late state-socialist societies were exempt from globalisation, it should be recognised that the end of the Cold War has significantly changed the intensity of global challenges for countries that had been behind the Iron Curtain. As Outhwaite and Ray (2005) showed, immediately after the fall of the Berlin Wall, a “borderless” world was expected – goods and ideas as well as people would be able to flow freely. However, the overwhelming optimism surrounding the possibilities of such a borderless world has been challenged through new divisive borders – between the EU countries and the rest, between the new “rich” and new “poor” countries in the former Soviet territories, and by the “bleeding” borders between new zones of conflict in the former Yugoslavia, in Central Asia, and in the Caucasus. The geopolitical divide along which postsocialist countries navigate is also configured with postsocialist economic ruptures of the formally consolidated state-socialist space. While one set of countries entered or signed association agreements with the EU and moved towards being incorporated into and dependent on the global market, another set remained in Russia’s sphere of economic influence and became part of an oligarchic system of economic exchange. Thus, gender norms are commonly formulated in reference to national identities and take centre stage in articulating geopolitical belonging (Yuval-Davis, 1997). The chapter by Li Bennich-Björkman explores elites’ mind-sets with respect to gender equality in Georgia (and contrasts them to those of Armenia); Georgia and Armenia are two countries in South Caucasus characterised by a low representation of women in politics and are usually described as patriarchal. The chapter shows that in spite of militarisation of both societies due to unresolved territorial conflicts, Georgia’s orientation towards the EU and democracy building has contributed to a slow change of opinions among male and female elites and to growing support for more equality among the younger generation. This differs from the gender attitudes among Armenian elites where orientation towards Russia has not contributed to the development of aspirations for gender equality. The chapter by Sanela Bajramovic´ Jusufbegovic´ is particularly concerned with the processes of communication between women’s activists in the “West” and “East” as part of global connectivity. Bajramovic´ explores the encounters of the Swedish donor organisation Kvinna till Kvinna and the female activists in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Stating the important role played by Kvinna till Kvinna in bringing women’s rights and gender equality issues into a war-torn society, Bajramovic´ also suggests that many of the problems encountered in

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the process of communication can be traced back to Cold War ideologies and imaginaries. Finally, integration into the new global neoliberal geopolitical context has created new intersecting gender hierarchies, both between men and women and between women who were formerly “socialist sisters”, within the new nation-state boundaries as well as transnationally (Blagojevic, 2010; Tlostanova, 2010). The contribution by Noriko Igarashi in this volume shows that divisions have become visible between women who are citizens of different post-Soviet countries with different levels of economic development. Igarashi explores elderly care in Russia and shows how women from one part of the former Soviet Union (Central Asia) have become transnational care workers for families in another part of the former Soviet Union (Russia) and how this influences care work, carers’ identities, and gender norms.

2 Neoliberal governance and the gendered enterprising self We consider the neoliberal technologies of governance to be particularly important when discussing gender norms in the post-state-socialist space. The accommodation of neoliberal governance models had drastic consequences for gendered work, parenthood, care work, and leisure and is associated with specific normative expressions. Thus, almost all of the chapters in our book discuss how gender norms in postsocialist spaces are influenced by the new materialities of neoliberal economies and, simultaneously, by the neoliberal discourse on individualism, “personal responsibility”, and recognition (Fraser 2009, pp. 107–109; see also Hann, Humphrey and Verdery 2002; Makovicky, 2014). Growing super-territoriality has contributed to the development of a global mass culture that spreads attractive, but very conflicting, images of women as seductive beauties, successful professionals, and devoted mothers (Kis, 2005). At the same time, previous research has shown that neoliberal governance and the market requires a new subjectivity, the “enterprising self” (Makovicky, 2014). Indeed, mass culture has widely transmitted an image of a self-reliant and happy (male and female) producer and consumer together as a critique of the overly collectivist socialist life of the past (Verdery, 1996; Ghodsee, 2011; Makovicky, 2014). Thus, three contributions to this volume deal specifically with these new technologies of the self. The chapter by Yulia Mikhailova explores the new conflicting technologies from an unusual perspective. Using the published autobiographies of two well-educated Russian women who, in the early 1990s, emigrated to Japan to work as hostesses, the chapter explores how the women confronted the new situation of morally compromising work and their ways of rebuilding their respectability. The contribution by Olena Strelnyk shows that in the context of the neoliberal restructuring of the labour market in Ukraine, women experience difficulties in managing work-life balance and suffer from identity conflicts connected to motherhood. This conflict, described in the chapter as “time famine”, has been aggravated by the arrival of the global discourse of “intensive mothering” to Ukraine.

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Ildikó Asztalos Morell and Yulia Gradskova Furthermore, the chapter by Artu-ras Tereškinas shows how unemployed working-class men in Lithuania present their masculinity in a form that reiterates established masculinity norms and how they explain their lives as “success stories” rather than as failures. The retrenchment of the welfare state in postsocialist countries deepened social cleavages. The responsibility of civil society for the welfare of individuals increased. Ildikó Asztalos Morell, on the example of a Roma women’s organisation in Hungary, shows how Roma women are resisting intersectional marginalities that have emerged in the backdrop of the postsocialist transition. As part of the neoliberal retrenchment of the welfare state, expectations increased for entrepreneurial individuals and civil society to engage on behalf of marginalised individuals. The studied Roma women’s NGO works for the empowerment of Roma women both by enabling them as individuals and by integrating them as members of their local communities.

3 Resilient legacies of state socialism In contrast to previous studies of the post-1989 transformation of gender norms, which have focused mainly on the new aspects of gendered work and activism (Buckley, 1997; Gal & Kligman, 2000; Kuehnast & Nechemias, 2004; Ashwin, 2005; Johnson & Robinson, 2007), this book explores how gender norms with roots in the period of state socialism are connected to emergent postsocialist developments. As we said before, the state-socialist regimes, to varying degrees, have both unset and reset the “traditional” gender roles in a paternalist manner (Goven, 2002). Just as state-socialist gender norms materialised in institutions, mindsets and practices and formed a mosaic along these poles, so have these become contested and preserved in diverse ways in the emerging new nationstates after 1989/1991. State-socialist norms of gender equality, like waged work and the importance of education and travel for both men and women, were also preserved by a large number of citizens in the new postsocialist states. Meanwhile, other aspects of the state-socialist legacies, especially those of the maternalistic welfare state were challenged by neoliberal policy ideals and austerity measures. The most visible examples of resilience are connected to gendered expectations inherited from state socialism with respect to work and education. Kuanysh Tastanbekova shows in her chapter that in spite of the radical reforms to post-secondary education that were realised using a transnational template and supported by international donors, the patterns of involvement of girls in tertiary education in Kazakhstan have not changed much. This latter fact is connected not least to Soviet-era secularism and the belief that education was equally important for boys and girls. Other chapters of the book show the resilience of gendered practices of everyday life. Yulia Gradskova demonstrates how the lack of good quality and affordable housing and a certain resilience of the Soviet practice of

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distributing housing in accordance with a complicated system of privileges contributed to the preservation of the woman’s role, inherited from the period of state socialism, as an intermediary between the family and the state bureaucracy. While Gradskova’s example elucidates how gendered practices materialise in the context of institutions with roots in state socialism, the chapter by Radmila Švarˇícˇ ková Slabáková problematises how the roots of state-socialist practices can often be traced back to the pre-state-socialist period. Analysing women’s memories of different time periods from state socialism up to the present, she comes to the conclusion that many older Czech women have preserved rather patriarchal norms with respect to household practices and responsibilities, in contrast to the sphere of work.

4 The postsocialist societies between marketisation, democratisation and retraditionalisation Describing the “gendered nature of transition in Eastern and Central Europe”, Barbara Einhorn drew attention to new nationalism and described a (neo-)traditionalist discourse that had emerged in the “vacuum left after the demise of state-socialist ideology” (Einhorn, 2006, p. 9). The attempts toward retraditionalisation were frequently boosted by looking for ways of connecting back to pre-state-socialist legacies, assuming a return to the “traditional” gender roles of early industrial or pre-industrial society – including heteronormativity and the norms of the Christian, Christian Orthodox, or Muslim religion – and/ or by reaffirming state-socialist legacies (as in the case of the Hungarian childcare subsidy). Using Eric Hobsbawm’s (1983) concept of “invented tradition”, the retraditionalisation of gender norms in former state-socialist countries can be seen as an important form of opposition to new global inequalities. At the same time, as previous scholarship has shown, the assumption of traditional gender roles justified the neo-traditional transformation of the social policy model (Gal & Kligman, 2000) thus giving women the responsibility for tasks abandoned by state welfare. As argued earlier, in divergent ways, even statesocialist legacies of maternalism reinforced “traditional” gender roles. Retraditionalisation usually leads to negative effects with respect to gender equality because it does not aim to formulate gender justice in new ways. This volume explores several cases of retraditionalisation of gender norms as a response to global pressures and the breakdown of the welfare regimes that existed during the period of state socialism. The renaturalisation of gender roles is not uncommonly related to political identity formations emphasising the nation, heritage, and religious roots in opposition to a diverse array of threatening scenarios associated with global powers or homophobic imagery. Women’s political exclusion and new forms of discrimination are often based on neo-traditional grounds. Previous scholarship has shown that the co-optation of feminism into the neoliberal system of governance has proven to be an “unholy alliance” (Fraser, 2012, p. 4). The neoliberal model of democratisation led to “masculine democracies” (Einhorn, 2006, p. 9) that

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not only negatively influenced social justice, but also questioned the logic of collective action and solidarity in the region. Thus the chapter by Renata Ingbrant in this volume explores the politics of “gender restoration” in Poland, and, in particular, the role of the Catholic Church in the debate on abortion. The anti-abortion legislation served as a crucial arena of this restoration of the “traditional” gender norms with roots in the anti-etatist movements of the state-socialist period. Other contributors explore how gendered expectations with respect to the re-traditionalising norms contribute to changing gendered strategies with respect to professional life and education. Indeed, the chapter by Valéria Szekeres shows how the public expectation for women in Hungary to prioritise family has contributed to decreasing enrolment of girls in educational programmes for technical professions. The chapter by Roman Abramov, Elena Iarskaia-Smirnova, and Denis Saltykov discusses differences between the cinematographic representations of medical professionals (doctors and nurses) in old Soviet and new Russian films. The chapter shows that while the cinema of the 1990s focused mainly on the crises of masculinity and femininity as a result of Soviet politics, the films from the 2000s demonstrated contradictory effects of the inclusion of Russia into the new global system of production and welfare. New developments in cinematographic production led to a shift from the female doctors of Soviet films to the new global template of films/ series set in hospitals. However, as the authors show, the cinematographic representation of the “new Russian doctor” often is connected to sexism.

Conclusion. Postsocialist space, new hierarchies, and gendered choices This book cannot pretend to fully explain how changes in political, social, and cultural life in the former space of state socialism have influenced gender norms and created a new system of expectations, identities, and hierarchies. However, the contributions to this book map some of the changes and explain several “unexpected” results of the political and social reforms, such as “gender restoration” and gendered discrimination of migrant care workers, and they facilitate future research by posing new questions and drawing comparisons from different corners of the former space of state socialism. The contributions to this volume show that gender expectations in the postsocialist space continue to be shaped by both impulses towards more gender equality and the renaturalisation/retraditionalisation of gender norms. The chapter on the abortion debate in Poland shows that restrictions of women’s rights to their bodies could come into force and co-exist with the processes of democratisation and Europeanisation. In particular, in the case of Poland the ban on abortion became possible through the reductionist discourse on women (seen as bodies) in the context of postsocialist grievances over national suffering under communism and “crises of masculinity” as a result of socialist gender politics. Furthermore, the aspirations of the return to the “true” femininity continue to influence the professional and educational

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choices of women in postsocialist Hungary, and despite the market’s demands for female engineers, most female students hesitate in choosing a technical education. The experiences of the past continue to generate influential “paradoxes” in gender norms and expectations in many situations as well. The state-socialist gendered economic and social debris in some cases continues to co-exist with the new political and social developments. The stories of the Czech women of the older generation not only confirm our knowledge about the preservation of many traditional ideals of femininity despite the state-socialist obligation for women to work outside the home, but also show that self-sacrifice and care for others continue to be prized as a kind of “natural” femininity. At the same time, the chapter on women’s involvement in professional tertiary education in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan advises against approaching the state-socialist legacies as something coherent and as bringing one-directional conditionality to the postsocialist developments. Indeed, combinations of factors, including the level of coercion in Sovietisation politics, colonial history, and local traditions interacting with different political contexts of the educational reforms, have led to quite different representations of young women in tertiary education in the two countries, where they are almost equal in number to men in Kazakhstan but are a significant minority in Uzbekistan. Answering the question of how the new gender norms are entangled with neoliberal economic demands and precarities and the new forms of socioeconomic insecurities and injustices, the contributions to this book show that different contexts and variations of gendered (dis)appropriation of the neoliberal ideology of the self-relying and flexible individual, making “free” choices on the way to success, has had a strong influence on gender norms and identities. The new ideology of masculinity – men as self-reliant and professionally successful family providers – was subverted by the unemployed men in Lithuania in the study presented in this volume. Many of the interviewed men have chosen to focus their individual stories on small pleasures and emotional relationships instead of complying with mainstream social expectations. On the other hand, dreams of self-fulfilment in the context of economic insecurity in combination with the post-Soviet subversion of sexual morality led two Russian memoir writers to choose to work in the hostess clubs in Japan as a way towards self-fulfilment. Furthermore, the new ideology of the self forces mothers in Ukraine to comply with more and more pressing conflicts between child-centred motherhood and social demands to contribute to family income through gainful employment. Finally, a lack of satisfactory welfare provisions in combination with ethnic discrimination of Roma mothers in postsocialist Hungary led to the creation of Roma women’s NGOs that have engaged in transnational cooperation and become responsible for compensating for this lack of state-provided welfare. The voluntary organisations created with transnational support have substituted for the state in helping Roma mothers to cope with declining economic means of subsistence and intersecting gender and ethnicity based discrimination.

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The analysis of gender norms and expectations in the space of former state socialism contributes to the study of global developments in gender relationships by showing new hierarchies and divisions. Indeed, the neglect of public welfare with respect to elderly care in Russia inherited from state socialism in combination with marketisation in Russia and Central Asia have created new hierarchies between postsocialist women. The new division lines are constructed alongside the former borders of Russia with the Soviet republics in Central Asia and are marked by the colonial difference in the past, while the new differences are institutionalised through a regime of work permissions and migration regulations. Another kind of hierarchy that has appeared in cases of transnational cooperation around women’s rights and gender equality is shown in the case of cooperation between Swedish women’s organisations and those of postwar Bosnia-Herzegovina. Such encounters became possible partly through silencing the achievements of equality between men and women in former Yugoslavia. Such silencing also reproduces historical stereotypes of the Balkans as being “semiperiphery”, and at the same time it allows the “adding” of Bosnian women to other “dominated” women in need of international help in the Global South. Altogether, the contributions to this volume suggest that gender norms and expectations in the postsocialist space do not necessarily repeat or conform to those typical for global capitalism. Indeed, in spite of the integration into the global political and market system, the postsocialist gendered subject combines strategies from the past with the new global opportunities and often makes unexpected choices in dealing with multifaceted injustices and gendered hierarchies.

Notes 1 See, for example, Standing (2014, p. 1) on the new “bundle of insecurities” as a result of globalisation. 2 The term was first introduced by Williamson (1989) to summarise the key principles that Washington D.C.-based international monetary institutions, such as the World Bank, the IMF, and the US Treasury Department, considered as a standard package of market fundamentalist prescriptions of policies to countries in debt or crisis. 3 For example, in 1995, Hungary experienced international pressures demanding the reduction of social benefits including the country’s generous childcare subsidy.

References Åberg, P. (2016). Vad vet vi om den ryska pappan? Utvecklingen av faderskapsnormer från ett historiskt och internationellt perspektiv, Nordisk Östforum, 30(1) https:// tidsskriftet-nof.no/index.php/noros/article/view/393 [Accessed 1.06.2017]. Aidukaite, J. (2009). Old Welfare State Theories and New Welfare Regimes in Eastern Europe: Challenges and Implications. Communist and Post-Communist Studies, 42(1), pp. 23–39. Ashwin, S. (2005). Adapting to Russia’s new Labour Market: Gender and Employment Behaviour. New York: Routledge.

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Asztalos Morell, I. (1999). Emancipation’s Dead-End Roads. Studies in the Formation and Development of the Hungarian Model of Agriculture and Gender. Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Asztalos Morell, I., Carlbäck, H., Hurd, M. and Rastbäck, S. (2005). Gender Transitions in Russia and Eastern Europe. Estlöv: Gondolin. Beck, U. (2015). What is Globalization? Cambridge: Polity Press. Blagojevic, M. (2010). Non-“White” Whites, Non-European Europeans and Gendered Non-Citizens: On a Possible Epistemic Strategy from the Semiperiphery of Europe. In: B. Young & Ch. Scherrer eds., Gender Knowledge and Knowledge Networks in International Political Economy. Baden-Baden: Nomos, pp. 183–198. Bridger, S. and Pine, F. (1997). Surviving Post-socialism: Local Strategies and Regional Responses in Eastern Europe and Former Soviet Union. London: Routledge. Buckley, M. (1997). Post-Soviet Women: From the Baltic to Central Asia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Butler, J. (1999). Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge. Carlbäck, H. (2007). Wives or Workers?: Women’s Position in the Labour Force and in Domestic Life in Sweden and Russia During the 1960’s. In: R. Kay ed., Gender, Equality and Difference During and After State Socialism. London: Palgrave, pp. 85–104. Chernova, Zh. (2008). Semeinaia politika v Evrope I Rossii: gendernyi analiz. St. Petersburg: Evropeiskii universitet. Connell, R. & Pearse, R. (2015a). Gender in World Perspective. Cambridge: Polity Press. Connell, R. & Pearse, R. (2015b). Gender Norms – Are They the Enemies of Women’s Rights? http://www.unrisd.org/80256B3C005BE6B5/search/483EB74458B76D9DC 1257DF600481024 [Accessed 15.06.2017]. Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color. Stanford Law Review, 43(6), pp. 1241–1299. Dalakoglou, D. (2016). Europe’s Last Frontier: The Spacialities of the Refugee Crises. In: City, 2016, 20(2). http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/13604813.2016.1170467 [Accessed 1.06.2017]. Daskalova, K., Hornstein, C., Kaser, K. and Radunovic, F. eds. (2012). Gendering Post-Socialist Transition. Studies of Changing Gender Perspectives. Vienna: Lit Verlag. Dean, M. (2010). Governmentality: Power and Rule in Modern Society. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE. Éber, M. Á. (2016). Miért nem zárkóztunk fel a Nyugathoz 1989 után? http://kettosmerce.blog.hu/2016/12/27/miert_nem_zarkoztunk_fel_a_nyugathoz_1989_utan_635 [Accessed 2.09.2016]. Einhorn, B. (2006). Citizenship in Enlarged Europe: From Dream to Awakening. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Ferge, Z. (2003). Kétsebességü Magyarország. Budapest: ELTE BTK. Fraser, N. (2009). Feminism, Capitalism and the Cunning of History. New Left Review, 56(97), pp. 97–117. Fraser, N. (2012). Feminism, Capitalism, and the Cunning of History: An Introduction. FMSHWP-2012-17. Gal, S. & Kligman, G. (2000). The Politics of Gender after Socialism: A ComparativeHistorical Essay. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ghodsee, K. (2011). Lost in Transition. Ethnographies of Everyday life After Communism. Durham: Duke University Press.

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Glass, C. and Fodor, E. (2007). From Public to Private Maternalism? Gender and Welfare in Poland and Hungary after 1989. Social Politics, 14(3), pp. 323–350. Goven, J. (2000). New Parliament, Old Discourse? The Parental Leave Debate in Hungary. In: S. Gal & G. Kligman eds., Reproducing Gender: Politics, Publics, and Everyday Life after Socialism. Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 286–306. Goven, J. (2002). Gender and Modernism in a Stalinist State. Social Politics: International Studies in Gender, State & Society, 9(1), pp. 3–28. Gradskova, Y. (2012). Supporting the Genuine Development of the Child. Public Childcare Centers versus Family in Post-Soviet Russia. In: H. Carlbäck, Y. Gradskova & Zh. Kravchenko eds., And They Lived Happily Ever After? Budapest: CEU Press, pp. 165–184. Gradskova, Y. & Sanders, S. (2015). Institutionalizing Gender Equality – Global and Historical Perspectives. Lanham: Lexington. Hann, Ch., Humphrey, D. & Verdery, K. (2002). Post-socialism as a Topic of Anthropological Investigation. In: Ch. Hann ed., Postsocialism. Ideals, Ideologies and Practices in Eurasia. New York: Routledge, pp. 1–28. Hobsbawm, E. (1983). Inventing traditions. In: E. Hobsbawm & T. Ranger eds., The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–14. Johnson, J. & Robinson, J. (2007). Living Gender after Communism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Kis, O. (2005). Choosing without Choice: Dominants Models of Femininity in Contemporary Ukraine. In: I. Asztalos Morell, H. Carlbäck, M. Hurd, S. Rastbäck eds., Gender Transitions in Russia and Eastern Europe. Estlöv: Gondolin, pp. 105–136. Kóczé, A. (2016). Romani Women and the Paradoxes of Neoliberalism: Race, Gender and Class in the era of Late Capitalism in East-Central Europe. In: E. Kováts ed., Solidarity in Struggle. Feminist Perspective on Neo-Liberalism in East-Central Europe. Budapest: Friedrich Ebert Stiftung, pp. 42–54. Kováts, E. (2016). Solidarity in Struggle. Feminist Perspective on Neo-Liberalism in East-Central Europe. Budapest: Friedrich Ebert Stiftung. Kuehnast, K. & Nechemias, C. eds. (2004). Post-Soviet Women Encountering Transition. Nation Building, Economic Survival and Civic Activism. Washington: Woodrow Wilson Center. Lerner, J. (2011). Teleterapiia bez psikhologii ili kak adoptiruiut self na post-sovetskom teleekrane. Laboratorium, 3(1), pp. 116–137. Liljeström, M. (1995). Emanciperade till underordning: det sovjetiska könssystemets uppkomst och diskursiva reproduktion. Åbo: Åbo Akademi. McIntyre, R. J. (1985). Demographic Policy and Social Sexual Equality: Value Conflicts and Policy Appraisal in Hungary and Romania. In: Sh. Wolchyk & A. Meyer eds., Women, State and Party in Eastern Europe. Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 270–285. Makovicky, N. (2014). Neoliberalism, Personhood and Post-Socialism. Enterprising Selves in Changing Economies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Outhwaite, W. & Ray, L. (2005). Social Theory and Postcommunism. Malden: Blackwell. Petö, A. (2016). Feminism and neoliberalism: Peculiar alliances in the countries of former “state feminism”. In: E. Kováts ed., Solidarity in Struggle. Feminist Perspectives on Neoliberalism in East-Central Europe. Budapest: Friedrich Ebert Stiftung, pp. 108–111. Scholte, I. (2005). Globalization. New York: Palgrave.

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Standing, G. (2014). The Precariat: The New Dangerous Class. London: Bloomsbury. Stella, F. (2015). Lesbian Lives in Soviet and Post-Soviet Russia. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Suchland, J. (2015). Economies of Violence: Transnational Feminism, Postsocialism, and the Politics of Sex Trafficking. Durham: Duke University Press. Tlostanova, M. (2010). Gender Epistemologies and Eurasian Borderlands. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Tlostanova, M. (2017). Postcolonialism and Postsocialism in Fiction and Art. Resistance and Re-Existence. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Verdery, K. (1996). What was Socialism and What comes Next? Princeton: Princeton University Press. West, C. and Zimmerman, D. (1987). Doing gender. Gender and Society, 1(2), pp. 125–151. Williamson, J. (1989). What Washington Means by Policy Reform. In: J. Williamson ed., Latin American Readjustment: How Much has Happened. Washington: Institute for International Economics, pp. 1–10. Yuval-Davis, N. (1997). Gender and Nation. London: Sage.

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Part 1

New gendered geographies

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2

“They are hardly feminists and could learn a lot” Swedish-Bosnian encounters for gender equality and peace, 1993–2013 Sanela Bajramovic´ Jusufbegovic´

A commitment to peace and the improvement of women’s situation have long been the platform for contacts between women from different corners of the world. One such opportunity occurred during the break-up of Yugoslavia. The overall aim of this chapter is to provide a glimpse into an example of the transnational encounters that took place in the war/postwar and postsocialist context of Bosnia and Herzegovina (Bosnia) between 1993 and 2013. Although the well-documented Bosnian war was witnessed in homes worldwide, those of us living outside of war zones have the possibility to save ourselves “from horrors by shutting down and forcing our thinking to go in another direction” (Johansson, 2002, p. 47). The women who started the Swedish organisation Kvinna till Kvinna (Woman to Woman) at the outset of 1993 made a different choice. As peace activists, they organised themselves with the aim to support women on both sides of the front and their activism: “As women we take sides with women and children. Our solidarity is directed from woman to woman. We say: We hear your cry, we listen to your words – and we hold out our hands to you.”1 Women in Bosnia welcomed the outstretched hands. In letters of gratitude, written after the much-appreciated humanitarian actions conducted by Kvinna till Kvinna in 1994 and 1995, they thanked the donors for even remembering them at all. Zehra Ganibegovic´ from Tuzla went a step further: You […] give us hope to believe in the existence of humane and objective people who understand this suffering and this war better than politicians who represent us as uncivilized and illiterate tribe members. With this letter, I personally want to thank you as one woman to another for understanding. This package shows your encouragement, it shows that you see us as civilized human beings and that you sense what a woman lacks and needs in these unfortunate times. […] We are a degraded people, all gestures like this one delight us and bring back the belief that somebody understands and respects us.2 In addition to deep gratitude, Ganibegovic´’s letter demonstrates an awareness of the unflattering images of the war-torn area and its people that were

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circulating at that time. While she clearly found them to be both false and humiliating, it was precisely such an image of the “backward Balkans” that was reaching the masses. Western and regional media had along with political elites a huge responsibility for the neo-colonial and stereotypical images that denied agency to Bosnian women. However, research shows that feminists also played an active role in constructing “mute and humiliated [raped] Muslim women” (Žarkov, 2007, p. 144). As Rada Drezgic´ and Dubravka Žarkov note in their article “Feminist troubles with the Balkans”, wartime sexual violence in Bosnia unleashed a feminist body of literature rife with a balkanist discourse and Cold War stereotypes about Eastern Europe. They point out that with the acceptance of these discourses, in which earlier perceptions of Yugoslavia as a positive phenomenon in the socialist world did not fit, some Western and local authors contributed with simplified and dichotomous views on gender relations in the area, generally depicting women as the ultimate victims of war (and later losers during the “transition”) and men as primitive and violent (Drezgic´ & Žarkov, 2005). Needless to say, these negative gendered representations, which were difficult to recognise for people who actually lived in the area, also informed aid efforts (Walsh, 1998). Consequently, gender issues became a sphere of intervention for a number of foreign actors participating in the unprecedented international mission in Bosnia, in which the role of the foreigners was so prominent that the country has been called a protectorate, or even a “small European colony” (Goldsworthy, 2002, pp. 31–32). This article concerns the contacts between “subjects previously separated by geographic and historical disjunctures, and whose trajectories now intersect” (Pratt, 1992, p. 7). What can we learn about the knowledge and attitudes of “Western”3 donors on woman’s status in society and gender equality in countries of state socialism through the analysis of the encounters between Kvinna till Kvinna and women’s organizations in Bosnia? How was the socialist past of the area, including women’s experiences during socialism, perceived within the Swedish organization? How did the views of Kvinna till Kvinna influence its work for the restoration of peace in Bosnia? As indicated above, Kvinna till Kvinna’s concern for women and the empathetic approach of the experienced peace activists who initially led the organisation, won sympathies among local4 Bosnian women from the start. However, given that the Swedish-Bosnian encounters occurred within the realm of an extensive international mission aiming to transform a conflict-ridden and former socialist space, they were inevitably burdened by the asymmetry that is inherent in such donor/recipient relations. My intention is to show that even genuinely benevolent initiatives exhibit problematic traits when they meet unknown territory, which former Yugoslavia was for Swedish donors. I suggest that a fruitful approach is to go beyond simple “donor bashing” and unproblematised descriptions of transnational sisterhood, and to pay attention to the dynamic nature of encounters conditioned by the context in which they took place.

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Introducing the actors The massive sexual violence against women during the Bosnian war triggered the formation of Kvinna till Kvinna, an initiative led by activists from two of Sweden’s oldest peace organisations, the Swedish section of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom and the Swedish Peace and Arbitration Association. It transformed into a fundraising foundation in 1995, still tightly connected to the Swedish peace movement. The organisation started early on to receive grants from the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (Sida), and with Sida on board, it eventually expanded and became a more clear-cut development organisation. The fact that it had sprung up from the women’s peace movement left its mark. As its predecessors did for at least a century, Kvinna till Kvinna has emphasised the interconnectedness between women and peace work, and it views gender equality as a prerequisite for a peaceful world. Knowledge acquired during years of peace activism and feminist thought have informed its ideology and practice. While some of the early actions undertaken in Bosnia were of a humanitarian character, the provision of long-term, multifaceted support to local NGOs has been the organisation’s core activity since it was founded. Instead of implementing its own projects, it has been oriented towards supporting projects carried out by actors from the local area in which the organisation is active. However, the initial idea of helping from a distance in Bosnia was abandoned within the first two years as the circumstances on the ground turned out to be far more complex than initially envisioned at Kvinna till Kvinna. Starting in the fall of 1995 it had several representatives stationed in the area with the task to monitor and advise its local “partners”.5 The ambition with my research was to study encounters between Kvinna till Kvinna and Bosnian NGOs from the perspective of both parties.6 In my forthcoming thesis, the voices of NGO women from several organisations are used. But due to space constraints here, the focus is on two women’s groups that are in many ways representative of the rest of the groups I have studied. Both formed soon after the war, Žene Ženama in 1997 and Lara in 1998, with the intention to participate in the normalisation of life and disrupted interpersonal relations, thus seeking to break the isolation and segregation that had come into existence during the war. In Bosnia, women have indeed been pioneers in crossing the interethnic lines and in many organisations women of different ethnicities have worked side by side. Situated in urban centres, Lara and Žene Ženama have had a significant role in introducing the idea of organising to women in smaller places and in giving them a helping hand with establishing their own organisations. Started by well-educated women who all, except for one who was younger, had careers before the war working as journalists, economists and lawyers, the organisations continued to attract holders of at least a university degree. The founders of the organisations entered activism either during the war (through the Belgrade-based Women in

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Black and Medica Zenica, a women’s therapy centre in central Bosnia) or shortly after it ended. Žene Ženama and Lara have over the years realised a wide range of activities, which are too numerous to account for here. Žene Ženama started out as a centre for returnees to and refugees in Sarajevo, and it was a meeting point and a place where women could receive psychosocial counselling. Its main long-term activity has, however, been the development of NGOs throughout Bosnia. Žene Ženama has also launched women’s studies programmes in the country. Lara has been combining the role of a service provider with advocacy work. The organisation is best known for its engagement in battling human trafficking and was the first NGO in Bosnia to open a shelter for victims of trafficking. It runs a refuge for battered women providing both psychosocial and legal help. Both organisations have over the years offered self-help support, such as information and education and both have been diligent advocates of changes to the law with regard to gender equality. Since 1998, they have continuously demanded increased participation of women in public life and have worked closely with female politicians.

Theoretical points of departure Dealing with a women-centred Western development organisation in a semicolonial, postwar context, fundamental thoughts within postcolonial studies such as, for example, the effect of colonialism on the world and how it still manifests in international development has been a helpful analytical lens in my work (Bajramovic´ Jusufbegovic´, 2012). While essentialism versus context has been discussed among Western feminists (Carlsson Wetterberg & Jansdotter, 2004), the postcolonial feminist critique has been instrumental for understanding why women’s experiences differ vastly across time and space and for questioning the universality of women’s identity, ideas about common oppression (hooks, 1984), and global sisterhood (Mohanty, 1984). However, the use of postcolonial theory could perhaps be seen as inappropriate in connection to Sweden, which has never been a great colonial power and which has historically cultivated a selfimage of an anti-imperialistic and neutral country. This self-image is widespread among Swedish donors, but it is also full of paradoxes. While Swedish development workers firmly differentiate themselves from former colonisers in order to define the “Swedishness”, they also tend to use colonial stereotypes about “the Other” (Eriksson Baaz, 2001). Swedish scholarship has begun to challenge the aforementioned self-image and to emphasise the importance of interpreting colonialism not only in territorial terms, but also by paying attention to its ideological side as well (de los Reyes, Molina & Mulinari, 2005; Fur, 2006). This study also leans on the sociologist Marina Blagojevic´’s work on semiperiphery, a concept that deals with the geographic space focused on here and is particularly applicable to countries going through transition. For the purpose of this study, the focus is on one of the main characteristics of the semiperiphery, lagging behind. The semiperiphery is “lagging behind” the core (West)

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which not only views itself as more developed, but also has the privilege to establish norms. Because the semiperiphery is “different but not different enough” (Blagojevic´, 2009, p. 37), the core constantly strives to improve it. The semiperiphery tries unsuccessfully to “catch up”, but is never able to close the gap. Borrowing thoughts on what Nataša Kovacˇ evic´ (2008) has termed “selfcolonising tendency”, Blagojevic´ is careful to point out that the notion of lagging behind and the need to catch up is not entirely imposed by the core, but is also internalised by Balkaners themselves. However, as much as the semiperiphery strives toward the core it is also resistant to the integration into it, wanting to preserve its own cultural characteristics. Another key assumption underpinning Blagojevic´’s work that makes it suitable for my analysis of Swedish-Bosnian encounters is the suspicion towards universal knowledge and its ability to explain realities in different locations (Blagojevic´, 2009).

Sources and methodological concerns The chapter relies on both written and oral sources. The written material consists of different categories of sources, including official, semi-official and internal documents produced by Kvinna till Kvinna. An especially valuable source of information was the weekly reports. Informal in nature and close in time, they give a unique insight into the organisation’s work on the ground and its contacts with local NGOs. As a channel of communication between the Sarajevo office and the head office in Stockholm, the weekly reports offer information that cannot be found in the official records. I also used oral source material consisting of interviews with representatives of Kvinna till Kvinna, Žene Ženama, and Lara.7 To ensure the reliability of the data, I have, when possible, used the method of triangulation and thus extracted information from sources that are independent of each other (Dulic´, 2011). Reading the written sources I paid special attention to the silence that is particularly noticeable when it comes to how the socialist past was seen within the Swedish organisation. What was omitted in these documents and how can it be interpreted in this particular case? Although usually perceived as emptiness, rhetoricians like Cheryl Glenn offer a different understanding of silence, thus viewing it as a form of communication that has been undervalued. She writes: “Like the zero in mathematics, silence is an absence with a function, and a rhetorical one at that” (Glenn, 2004, p. 4). In other words, silence always has meaning and is used by people in order to fulfil whatever rhetorical purpose they might have at a particular moment in time, “whether it is to maintain their position of power, resist the domination of others, or submit to subordination” (ibid, p. 153).

The “woman question” under state socialism and after Bosnia experienced unprecedented development in all significant fields under socialism. Over three decades, women went from lacking basic human rights

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to gaining relevant political and social rights. For example, the legalisation of abortion began in 1952, and by 1974 Yugoslavia was the first country to proclaim the choice about birthing children to be a human right (KaporStanulovic´ & David, 1999). Women were encouraged to pursue education, which was extremely important for Bosnia where in the early 1930s over 80 per cent of women were illiterate (Ramet, 1999). Industrialisation and the urbanisation of society brought new possibilities, and this was the period of highest attendance in university studies and presence in the labour market for women. While work outside of the home meant economic independency and although Yugoslavia proceeded, even in comparison with Western countries, in opening well-paid traditionally male professions to women, gender equality measures undertaken by the socialist state remained limited to the public sphere, thus leaving gender roles in the private sphere practically untouched (Denich, 1977). The leading structures of Yugoslavia considered the “Woman Question” to have been solved with the socialist revolution. Even though discouraged, women’s political and social activism was not completely stifled in official state-socialist women’s organisations (Bonfiglioli, 2014) or by the feminist movement that emerged in the mid-1970s as one of the first such movements in the socialist parts of Europe (Jancˇ ar, 1988). A small number of women from Bosnia participated in the new movement, but while the movement grew in Yugoslavia as a whole, it never truly came to life in Bosnia itself. However, many women engaged in charitable and cultural societies as well as women’s activities organised through the Communist Party. The break-up of Yugoslavia had devastating consequences on Bosnia. The collapse of the socialist system in combination with the war (1992–1995) turned this geographical space, previously known for its multi-ethnic character, into an impoverished and fragmented society. Wartime destruction was compounded by the post-break-up growth of ethnonationalism and the retraditionalisation of gender roles. Together with the economic hardships endured as a consequence of the war, and the “transition”, it changed people’s lives beyond recognition. One of the consequences was a crisis of masculinity, which was characterised by men’s new role as sole breadwinners and by misogyny. Women, who in the meantime became the majority of the unemployed Bosnians, also became more tied to the home (Blagojevic´, 2002). Many of the well-educated women found a refuge in the burgeoning civil sector, which besides offering employment, allowed them to “integrate their often hindered creative potential in the framework of civil activism” (Popov Momcˇ inovic´, 2013, pp. 215–216).

“Who the hell has heard of an old Communist who knows anything about ecology or feminism? But they know Western progressive code words” The title of this section is a quotation found in a report written by a member of Kvinna till Kvinna’s management team upon her arrival from a trip to Sarajevo in the fall of 1993. She had travelled to the besieged Bosnian capital

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on behalf of the Swedish Labour Movement and Kvinna till Kvinna with the aim of identifying the proper local initiatives to support. What this internal source shows is that apart from nationalism, the communist legacy was early on articulated as a potential threat: Not only is the war going on in Bosnia and Sarajevo, at the same time the people there are trying, with poor results of course, to build a new post-communist society. The communist mentality [emphasis added] still obviously puts its mark on many organisations and initiatives. Therefore, one should so far aim for diversity in terms of projects and initiatives to support.8 While the “communist mentality” was never defined to the readers of the report, the person marked as an “old Communist” was portrayed as authoritarian, anti-feminist, and greedy for money from the West and thus untrustworthy. However, the lack of explanation regarding what is meant by communist mentality implies a common understanding. Viewing communism as a threat and equating it with the Soviet Union has deep historical roots among both conservatives and Social Democrats in Sweden (Peterson, 1992). As we have seen, cautiousness was recommended when donating funds to local projects. Despite the indications that the communist legacy might have been looked upon with suspicion, such a legacy did not seem to have been a serious obstacle either to finding suitable local organisations to support or in subsequent relations with these organisations. It is, however, noteworthy that the only case of a disagreement found in the records that actually led to cancellation of planned support, occurred with a Tuzla-based women’s group described as “a remnant of an old women’s organization”.9 Moreover, Kvinna till Kvinna’s focus exclusively on newly formed organisations suggests that those associated with the old system were kept at distance. Although never displayed in official documents and despite the fact that different persons held the position of Kvinna till Kvinna’s representative in Bosnia, the aversion towards perceived legacies of state socialism tends to appear now and then in the organisation.10 Studying the image of the ideal local activist, I have found that distancing oneself from the socialist past of Yugoslavia was desirable. As in other similar contexts, it was not unusual for Bosnian NGO women to mourn the past times. The narratives these activists shared about the advantages of the old system were, as we learn, something Kvinna till Kvinna “also had to take”11 but clearly did not approve of. From the perspective of the Swedish foundation, sentiments for a country that not only no longer existed, but that was also spoken of by both outsiders and the dominating ethnonationalist forces in the region in terms of totalitarianism, were without doubt hard to understand. However, Bosnians have generally been strongly attached to Yugoslavia, which – as the anthropologist Andrej Grubacˇ ic´ writes – “was never just a country – it was an idea. Like the Balkans itself, it was a project of interethnic coexistence, a transethnic and

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pluricultural space of many diverse worlds” (Grubacˇ ic´, 2010, p. 12). Unrelated to the former political system and the certain disadvantages with it, this idea had a firm foothold in Bosnia which was the only Yugoslav republic without a clear national/ethnic majority, and the hope in the possibility of preserving Yugoslavia intact was alive among the majority of Bosnians well into 1991. The war that started a few months later was in fact such a distant thought that many did not realise the severity of the situation until soldiers appeared on their doorstep. What local women really missed was the peaceful and rather pleasant life that the majority of them had previously enjoyed when it came to ethnic relations, but also in terms of employment, social security and leisure time activities that had become no longer affordable. Something that has been alluded to in the discussion above is thoughts at Kvinna till Kvinna about the incompatibility between feminism and the communist ideology. Thinking along these lines meant seeing women’s agency under a communist regime as strongly limited as well as viewing those who subscribed to the communist ideology as not real advocates of women’s rights. For example, when an officer of one of the Bosnian NGOs proved to be dominant she was described as “an old-style communist who does not care in the least about women’s issues and the question is whether she really thinks that democracy is that important if it is to include everyone”.12 Clearly, despite its good intentions, the Swedish organisation was not resistant to Cold War thinking. We have to be mindful, though, of the fact that qualifications of the communist period as not women-friendly were also sometimes, and perhaps even more than it has been registered, uttered by local activists who either genuinely or due to the need to keep in line with their donors affirmed this notion.13 It is also in this context that we need to understand the prevalent role of education in Kvinna till Kvinna’s methodology concerning the empowerment of Bosnian women, which supports Kimberly Coles’ statement that “the dominant role of the international intervention [in Bosnia] is pedagogical” (Coles, 2007). The rhetoric and practice of Kvinna till Kvinna display a belief, informed by both balkanist and Cold War discourse, that former Yugoslavia in general and Bosnia in particular lagged behind societies in the West. In this “extremely male chauvinist” area where “women often are a forgotten group”,14 Kvinna till Kvinna saw itself as: much more than just aid distributors. As a peace organisation with a feminist perspective, our ways of thinking are often, from a Bosnian point of view, new and radical. By challenging existing patterns of thought we help initiate new thinking in a way that few other donors do.15 In other words, Bosnian activists – whom Kvinna till Kvinna showed sincere care for and publicly portrayed as “good forces” and “strong people who work hard for the future”16 – still needed fixing. Study visits in Sweden, the country generally seen as the forerunner of gender equality and exporter of

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the same (Blomberg, et al., 2017), were already facilitated during the war and on several occasions afterwards. While the study visits were popular among Bosnian activists who were, after a few years of isolation, generally positive towards spending some time abroad, Kvinna till Kvinna saw them as opportunities for gaining inspiration and new insights: “They thought it would be a good idea if we invited them to Sweden to learn more about equality. Although it was more or less a joke, I also think it would be a good idea. They are hardly feminists and could learn a lot.”17

Silence about Yugoslav state socialism and its gender order The silence surrounding the pre-war period is striking. The sources bear little evidence of interest in the historical context of the area that Kvinna till Kvinna actively sought to affect. Even the number of references to positive steps achieved towards gender equality prior to the 1990s and the histories of women’s activism and feminism in former Yugoslavia is limited. Taking into consideration that the organisation presented knowledge about the local context as one of its distinguishing qualities, the silence is quite puzzling. Was this silence perhaps a sign of lack of interest or lack of knowledge, a deliberate choice, or forced by the circumstances in the context? What has been omitted can potentially deepen our understanding of how the Swedish foundation perceived its own role in Bosnia, but also how it handled the context in which it operated. Despite its pronounced desire to favour a context-sensitive approach and feminist outlooks, Kvinna till Kvinna was, after all, a member of the donor community. As Susanna Lennartsson conveyed when touching upon cooperation with local NGOs: “The most important thing for us is to be entirely aware of the fact that we are donors, that we mean money.”18 One must also not forget the struggle for survival that these kinds of intermediary organisations are usually forced to engage in. In order to attract funds, Kvinna till Kvinna needed to provide motives for its presence in Bosnia and be sensitive to the objectives and values of its donors, especially Sida. For example, almost exclusively Swedish citizens were appointed as the organisation’s representatives in the field office despite their move from Sweden to Bosnia costing a lot of money.19 A motive listed as a reason for this was their “extensive experience from working with gender equality and women’s empowerment in Sweden and abroad”.20 In contrast to this, knowledge about the development of gender equality and the perception of such equality in the host country was not mentioned. The very process of making the organisation essential to women’s groups in Bosnia prompted overlooking past achievements, and stressing the transfer of knowledge from Sweden, as if it would be directly applicable to Bosnian realities. Paradoxically enough, downplaying competencies of local women, which were by the way routinely celebrated in the organisation’s official documents, was also a part of this process.

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A few references touching upon the women-friendly reforms during the socialist era found in the internal sources of Kvinna till Kvinna reveal that the silence about the past was not only a tactic used in communication with donors like Sida. It was also a token of ignorance regarding basic facts about Bosnian/Yugoslav women’s history, and even a lack of interest in the subject. It was a totally unexpected finding that a women’s organisation like Kvinna till Kvinna would fail to ensure that this kind of relevant information was procured by its employees before their departure to Bosnia. For example, a person who had already served a period as a field representative in Kosovo learned as late as 2004 during a conversation with local activists that the right to abortion had existed in the former Yugoslav area for several decades.21 While in the early 1990s it became a hot subject in conservative circles and religious institutions in the neighbouring countries and elsewhere in postsocialist parts of Europe (Blagojevic´, 2002; Gal, 2013), abortion never got the same kind of attention in Bosnia. Despite the fact that the right to abortion had existed in the area as long as it had in Sweden and had remained intact throughout the postsocialist period, Kvinna till Kvinna’s representatives seized the opportunity in 2006 at a conference that summoned female leaders of trade unions from Central, Eastern and Southeastern Europe to lecture on the matter: We spoke a lot about abortion and a woman’s right to her body and counted on getting some opposition, but it was unusually quiet. Just got assenting nods from people sitting closest to us […], especially from a woman who was later introduced as Sonja Lokar (had just heard the name earlier), so maybe it was not that odd. However, we were later on criticized by the coordinator of the conference for raising the issues of abortion […], so maybe there was a little bit of discussion at least, we felt satisfied. After all, we were not exactly surrounded by any real [emphasis added] advocates of gender equality (unfortunately), with some exceptions.22 The expected response, in the form of protests, did not materialise as the field representatives envisioned. What this example again shows is a lack of knowledge about the historical context including pivotal female actors.23 The attitude manifested here mirrors superiority rather than context-sensitivity and partnership. The representatives make assumptions and set the norm concerning “real” advocates of gender equality, without any deeper insight into the listeners’ point of view. The message sent is that whatever was realised prior to the international intervention was of little value for the new democratic society that the organisation helped create. The absence of justifications of their own lack of knowledge and any further explanation in the report sent to Stockholm indicates that the thoughts held by the representatives were not completely foreign at Kvinna till Kvinna. Generally, the sources consulted for this research show very few signs of opposition within the organisation regarding certain things that were taken

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for granted, but that does not mean that there was none. According to Åke Daun’s research on the Swedish mentality, which I find helpful here, ethnically and socially homogenous societies create homogenous cultures. In such cultures, everybody knows their place, and silence is often used as a tool to avoid jeopardising one’s own position (Daun, 1989). If we apply Daun’s thoughts to Kvinna till Kvinna, we can understand that it was important for its personnel to know what they could say and, even more so, what to keep quiet about. However, some traces of protests, primarily in connection to hiring primarily Swedish experts and excluding local women from occupying positions at Kvinna till Kvinna, occur in both written and oral sources. Nevertheless, openness about divergent opinions within the organisation was more pronounced during the interviews conducted with former field representatives.24 Having left the organisation and having a longer time since one’s service, were important factors for this openness to emerge. Interpreting silences at Kvinna till Kvinna solely as an expression of opportunism and colonialism would, however, be overly simplistic. In order to more fully understand the omissions, it is important to address the needs of Bosnian women’s groups and their attitude towards the history of women’s organising in the region. After the war ended, women who organised welcomed the involvement of foreign actors. Considering the country’s economy, the opportunities they provided in terms of activity grants and employment would otherwise have been very difficult to obtain. Both at Lara and Žene Ženama, activists recounted how invaluable the support from Kvinna till Kvinna had been for them. Some like Velenka Lazovic´ emphasised the significance of Kvinna till Kvinna’s early visits to women across Bosnia “during the time when Republika Srpska [one of two entities composing Bosnia] was bypassed by foreigners and when it was dangerous for any foreigner to come to Republika Srpska” and the opportunities it provided for Bosnian women to meet.25 Sources show that throughout the period under scrutiny here, the Swedish organisation was intensely active in connecting women from the opposing sides of the conflict and in encouraging cooperation. Sources indicate that the interest among local activists to learn more about the historical roots of activism in Bosnia was limited during the immediate postwar years. Inspiration and role models were imported from all over the Western world. Kvinna till Kvinna’s efforts to convey experiences from Sweden were described as important for local activists’ understanding of gender equality and for learning about activist work in order to achieve such equality: We believed that we were equal [with men]. Only when we started comparing our understanding of equality with the position of women in Sweden, Norway, and some other countries did we become able to properly assess our position. Thus, women working for Kvinna till Kvinna were our first teachers of women’s activism, and they taught us about societies where equality exists. They were the ones informing us of the achievements of

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Sanela Bajramovic´ Jusufbegovic´ women around the world and where we lag behind [zaostajemo], what rights we need to fight for, and how and what we can use in that struggle.26

Active at Lara, Angelina Brankovic´ had had lots of contact with the Swedish donor, which she, like the other interviewees, had only praise for. Her statement above makes visible the self-colonising tendency, and an internalised belief about Bosnia’s need to catch up with the core. Brankovic´ not only says that Bosnian society had yet to achieve the gender equality found in Nordic countries, but she also uses the very expression of “lagging behind” to depict its lower level of development. Without doubt, Kvinna till Kvinna was encouraged by local activists to provide knowledge from its home country. However, by 2009, when I conducted the majority of the interviews with Bosnian activists, some of them were also articulating opposition towards foreign tutorship. Meliha Selimotic´ from Žene Ženama questioned why local activists found themselves in the role of eternal students. Reflecting over the cooperation with Kvinna till Kvinna, she said: The women who started Kvinna had deep sensibility, understanding for the women of the world. Younger women that came into Kvinna did not have this feeling. They were not even interested in getting to know [us]. They came and went through our lives. I will remember them by the demands I never understood and the way they treated us as their subjects […] We had to tell them over and over about our activities, who we are, which was weird. […] Only certain women in Kvinna till Kvinna understood all the strengths and capacities of local women.27 Selimotic´ was also one of the women who made sure to remind me that feminist action has a long history in Bosnia. Nevertheless, she accounted for the absence of women’s feminist organising prior to the 1990s by saying that “everything comes later” in Bosnia, and she explained that the enviable initiatives of women in Slovenia were made possible by that country’s proximity to the core of Europe. Striving towards the core was here mixed with a resistance to it, due to fear of non-recognition of local experiences and knowledge. Generally, my questions about this history were not easily answered. Angelina Brankovic´ admitted to knowing “more about French and English women’s movements than ours”.28 Activists were struggling with a staggering lack of literature on women’s history in Bosnia and some took on the task of tracing sources and documenting stories about instances of women’s activism in previous times. Both in the books produced and the oral sources I spoke with, the focus is on the contributions of women in the Second World War and its aftermath, when the Communist Party successfully managed to set in motion an unprecedented wave of women’s activism (Batinic´, 2015), and not on the liberal women’s movement of the interwar period. This interesting discovery, in itself worth exploring, indicates that Bosnian activists not only sought to throw light on and learn from women before them who engaged in

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challenging gender norms, but that they also promoted “solidarity, dialogue and peaceful coexistence” in an ethnically diverse postwar society.29 Relevant experiences of the latter could, due to the uniqueness of the Bosnian context, hardly be found in other parts of former Yugoslavia, let alone in Sweden.

Conclusion The aim of this chapter was to illuminate two decades of encounters between the Swedish organisation Kvinna till Kvinna and women’s groups in Bosnia. The former started out with genuine intentions to alleviate the sufferings of women in the war-zone and it continued supporting indigenous women’s organising during the postwar period. However, when approached critically, through the lenses of postcolonial theory and the concept of semiperiphery, a more problematic side of the encounters is revealed. This case serves as an interesting example of how even well-intentioned interventions of Western actors in a war/postwar and postsocialist setting during its transformation from state socialism to liberal democracy are often imbued by underlying neo-colonial attitudes and a lack of knowledge that can hamper their goals. With its feminist and peace perspective, Kvinna till Kvinna was ambivalent towards its Bosnian “partners”. On the one hand, local activists were seen as competent peace actors, while on the other hand they were seen as needing to be educated on women’s issues and feminism which were presumed to have been under-prioritised during socialism. The Swedish organisation proved not to be immune to balkanist and Cold War discourses in which the former Yugoslav area was seen as lagging behind the core (the West). While I had not foreseen the silence about the socialist past and women’s experiences in it, the reasons for it were manifold. It was a mixture of the need to legitimise Kvinna till Kvinna’s work in Bosnia and a lack of both knowledge and interest in the area. However, I also sought to contribute a more nuanced interpretation of the silence, taking seriously the perspective of local activists who claimed to have learned a lot in terms of gender equality and activism from the Swedish donor, thus manifesting a self-colonising tendency. My central conclusion is that both parties accepted a sort of hierarchical sisterhood based on a set of shared values, but which at the same time implied a certain degree of power asymmetry that was temporarily accepted for the sake of achieving a higher goal. Early encounters between Western and Eastern feminists have been criticised for robbing Eastern feminists of the opportunity of “defining our difference before we could cancel it” (Blagojevic´, 2009, p. 17). The critics make valid points about problems with importing experiences and theories, because they usually mismatch social realities at the semiperiphery. While welcoming of foreign support certainly had its price, it undoubtedly stimulated women’s organising across Bosnia and helped initiate the dialogue between women in this divided setting. My conclusion is similar to that of the anthropologist Elissa Helms who found it questionable if women’s organising in Bosnia would have occurred to the degree it did without the massive international intervention (Helms, 2014).

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Notes 1 Farmacifacket 3 1994, 7. 2 Letter from Zehra Ganibegovic´. 3 By using the labels West and Western, I do not dismiss historical, cultural and political differences between countries which belong to the Western world. While I reject the notion of a monolithic West, I agree with Stefan Jonsson who views it as a “coherent political-economic network and a closed ideological community”. See Jonsson, 2005, 170. 4 Aware of the pitfalls behind the term local, I use it when referring to Bosnian women and women’s organizations within the country. 5 While Kvinna till Kvinna has had several representatives on the territory of former Yugoslavia, usually one or two were stationed at its Sarajevo office. 6 This chapter is based on the research conducted for my forthcoming dissertation Hierarchical Sisterhood: Supporting women’s peacebuilding through Swedish aid to Bosnia and Herzegovina 1993–2013. 7 To protect the identities of the interviewees, their real names have been replaced by pseudonyms. 8 Report from a trip to Sarajevo, September 10–16, 1993, 4. 9 Final report to Sida, September 30, 1996, 3. 10 See, for instance, Weekly report, September 5, 2000; Weekly report, May 11, 2001. 11 Weekly report, May 14, 1996. 12 Weekly report, August 26, 1997; see also Weekly report, December 1, 1997. 13 Weekly report, February 13, 2007. 14 Kvällsposten, March 28, 1996. 15 Programme proposal for Bosnia and Herzegovina 2008–2011, 29. 16 See, for instance, Kvinna till Kvinna’s newsletter no. 3, June 1995. 17 Weekly report, February 17, 1997. 18 Interview with Susanna Lennartsson, July 2, 2009. 19 This principle was abandoned in 2013 after budget cuts by Sida. 20 Annual request to Sida, 2007, 9. 21 Weekly report, February 2, 2004. 22 Weekly report, August 30, 2006. 23 Sonja Lokar is a sociologist active in formal politics in the early 1990s. Lokar is one of the initiators of the Stability Pact Gender Task Force for South Eastern Europe and a regional expert on gender issues. 24 Weekly report, September 19, 2003; interview with Susanna Lennartsson; interview with Ulla Eriksson, December 27, 2012; interview with Alva Magnusson, July 23, 2013. 25 Interview with Velenka Lazovic´, September 1, 2009. 26 Interview with Angelina Brankovic´, September 1, 2009. 27 Interview with Meliha Selimotic´, September 6, 2009. 28 Interview with Angelina Brankovic´. 29 Forum Žena, Žene u vremenu – Bratunac 2010, 4.

References Bajramovic´ Jusufbegovic´, S. (2012). When West meets the Balkans: Viewing Swedish NGO Kvinna till Kvinna’s Aid Practice in Post-War Bosnia-Herzegovina through a Post-Colonial Lens? In: N. C. J. Pappas, ed., History and Culture: Essays on the European Past. Athens: Athens Institute for Education and Research, pp. 375–386. Batinic´, J. (2015). Women and Yugoslav Partisans: A History of World War II Resistance. New York: Cambridge University Press.

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Blagojevic´, M. (2002). Mapiranje mizoginije u Srbiji: Diskursi i prakse. Beograd: Asocijacija za žensku inicijativu. Blagojevic´, M. (2009). Knowledge Production at the Semiperiphery: A Gender Perspective. Belgrade: Institut za kriminološka i socijološka istraživanja. Blomberg, E., Gradskova, Y., Waldemarson, Y. & Zvinkliene, A. (2017). Gender Equality on a Grand Tour. Leiden: Brill. Bonfiglioli, L. (2014). Women’s Political and Social Activism in the Early Cold War Era: The Case of Yugoslavia. Aspasia 8(1), pp. 1–25. Carlsson Wetterberg, C. & Jansdotter, A. eds. (2004). Genushistoria: en historiografisk exposé. Lund: Studentlitteratur. Coles, K. (2007). Ambivalent Builders: Europeanization, the Production of Difference, and Internationals in Bosnia-Herzegovina. In: X. Bougarel, E. Helms, and G. Duijzings, eds., The New Bosnian Mosaic. Identities, Memories and Moral Claims in a Post-War Society. Aldershot: Ashgate, pp. 255–272. Daun, Å. (1989). Svensk mentalitet: ett jämförande perspektiv. Stockholm: Raben & Sjögren. de los Reyes, P., Molina, I. & Mulinari, D. eds. (2005). Maktens (o)lika förklädnader: Kön, klass och etnicitet i det postkoloniala Sverige. Stockholm: Atlas. Denich, B. (1977). Women, Work and Power in Modern Yugoslavia. In: Schlegel, A., ed., Sexual Stratification – A Cross-Cultural View. New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 215–244. Drezgic´, R. and Žarkov, D. (2005). Feministicˇ ke nevolje sa Balkanom. Socijologija XLVII (4), pp. 289–306. Dulic´, T. (2011). Peace Research and Source Criticism: Using Historical Methodology to Improve Information Gathering and Analysis. In: K. Höglund and M. Öberg, eds., Understanding Peace Research: Methods and Challenges. London: Routledge, pp. 35–46. Eriksson Baaz, M. (2001). Biståndet och partnerskapets problematik. In: M. McEachrane, and L. Faye, eds., Sverige och de Andra: Postkoloniala Perspektiv, Stockholm: Natur och kultur, pp. 169–186. Fur, G. (2006). Colonialism in the Margins: Cultural Encounters in New Sweden and Lapland. Leiden: Brill. Gal, S. (2013). Gender in the Post-Socialist Transition: The Abortion Debate in Hungary. In: I. Grudzinska-Gross and A. Tymowski, eds., Eastern Europe: Women in Transition. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, pp. 45–72. Glenn, C. (2004). Unspoken: a Rhetoric of Silence. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Goldsworthy, V. (2002). Invention and In(ter)invention: The Rhetoric of Balkanization. In: Dušan I. Bjelic´ and Obrad Savic´, eds., Balkan as Metaphor. Between Globalization and Fragmentation. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, pp. 25–38. Grubacˇ ic´, A. (2010). Don’t Mourn, Balkanize!: Essays After Yugoslavia. Oakland, Calif.: PM Press. Helms, E. (2014). The Movement-ization of NGOs? Women’s Organizing in Post-war Bosnia-Herzegovina. In: V. Bernal and I. Grewal, eds., Theorizing NGOs: Feminist Struggles, States and Neoliberalism. Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 21–49. hooks, b. (1984). Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center. Boston, Mass.: South End Press. Jancˇ ar, B. (1988). Neofeminism in Yugoslavia: A Closer Look. Women and Politics 8(1), pp. 1–30.

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Johansson, K. (2002). Krig och våld i det civila samhället – Sverige och stormaktstiden. In: E. Österberg, ed., Socialt och politiskt våld: Perspektiv på svensk historia. Lund: Historiska media, pp. 47–72. Jonsson, S. (2005). Halva världen: Orientalism, eurocentrism och globalisering. In: M. Matthis, ed., Orientalism på svenska. Stockholm: Ordfront i samarbete med Re: orient, pp. 165–174. Kapor-Stanulovic´, N. and David, Henry P. (1999). Former Yugoslavia and Successor States. In: Henry P. David, ed., From Abortion to Contraception: A Resource to Public Policies and Reproductive Behavior Central and Eastern Europe from 1917 to the Present. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, pp. 279–316. Kovacˇ evic´, N. (2008). Narrating Post/Communism: Colonial Discourse and Europe’s Borderline Civilization. London: Routledge. Mohanty, C. (1984). Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses. Boundary 2 12/13(3/1), pp. 333–358. Peterson, A. (1992). Women as Collective Actors: A Case Study of the Swedish Women’s Peace Movement, 1898–1990. Göteborg: Univ., Department of Sociology. Popov Momcˇ inovic´, Z. (2013). Ženski pokret u postdejtonskoj BiH: Inicijative, dometi i kontroverze. Beograd: Diss. Fakultet politicˇ kih nauka. Pratt, M. L. (1992). Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London and New York: Routledge. Ramet, S. P. (1999). In Tito’s Time. In: S. P. Ramet, ed., Gender Politics in the Western Balkans: Women and Society in Yugoslavia and the Yugoslav Successor States. University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, pp. 89–105. Walsh, M. (1998). Where Feminist Theory Failed to Meet Development Practice – A Missed Opportunity in Bosnia and Herzegovina. The European Journal of Women’s Studies 5(3/4), pp. 329–343. Žarkov, D. (2007). The Body of War: Media, Ethnicity, and Gender in the Break-Up of Yugoslavia. Durham: Duke University Press.

3

Elderly care in Russia and sidelka from Central Asia1 Noriko Igarashi

Only 13.4 per cent of the Russian population are aged over 65 years.2 Elderly care in Russia has not yet become an urgent issue as it has in developed countries like Japan. However, Russia is also predicted to become an “aging society”, and the proportion of elderly people is projected to be about 21 per cent by 2050,3 at which time elderly care will begin to become a major issue in Russia. For many years, I have conducted survey-based research pertaining to families and labour in post-Soviet states and have tried to clarify the situation regarding gender norms (Igarashi, 1998, 2009, 2010, 2012, 2016a). From my previous research, it appears that it is considered “natural” for women in Russia to do housework and to take care of the children (Igarashi, 2015, 2016b). Following from this, in this chapter I want to answer two major research questions: 1. Who cares for the elderly at home? 2. What kind of help do they receive from the state? While undertaking this study, I found that in many cases the issue of care for the elderly is closely connected to issues of migration. Indeed, it is often women from Central Asia and some other postSoviet countries who do most of the care work for the elderly, sick, and bedridden persons – and these caregivers are often referred to as sidelka in Russian. First, I review previous studies and research methods. Second, I provide an overview of elderly care during the Soviet era. Next, I analyse the present situation regarding elderly care, including, for example, challenges related to social services and major issues in this general domain. Finally, I explore the situation of migrant workers taking care of the elderly in Russia. In order to place Russian elderly care into the global context, in some cases I use comparisons with the organisation of elderly care in Japan.

Research overview Studies on elderly care in Russia are rare. Kay (2013) examined state-funded homecare services in rural Russia using an ethnographic research approach to highlight interactions between care, work, and kinship with respect to the relationship between home care workers and elderly wards. Using empirical

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methods, Orlova (2015) analysed the quality of life of elderly people living in homes for the elderly on a long-term basis in Lithuania. She showed that together with the importance of being able to influence decisions around their own life, for older citizens of Lithuania (who had spent most of their lives under state socialism) it is particularly important to preserve their economic well-being and their social status (Orlova, 2015, p. 110). Tkach (2015) empirically examined practical, emotional, and economic changes in Russia in the elderly care provided by family members and stressed the pressure that care for ill and bedridden family members puts on the rest of the family. Grigor’eva (2015) provided an overview of social services for the elderly in St. Petersburg. In her article, great attention is paid to the peculiarities of the care system for the elderly in Russia in comparison with Western systems. Particular attention is paid to the organisation of collaboration in caring for the elderly and the role of NGOs in this regard. These studies provide some information on elderly care in Russia; however, they do not discuss changes in elderly care provision in post-Soviet Russia. Comparative care regime research has explored the welfare mix – the specific combination of provision of care by the state, family, and market – for the elderly in the European context. Pfau-Effinger (2005) showed how the development of care policies in different welfare states is embedded in the different paths by which cultural values in relation to formal care have developed in eight European countries. This research focused on EU countries, and Russia does not pay attention to laws regulating provision for the elderly. Therefore, in this work I analyse laws on care and state care systems, including a discussion on who provides care and the kind of state support they receive. For this, I draw not only on the texts of laws and regulations, but also on the results of my own fieldwork. The issue of care migration has been the focus of significant international research. However, the focus of such research has primarily been on mobilities between the developed North and the developing regions of the South. Arny Hochschild was the first to develop the theory of the “global care chain”. According to this theory, female caregivers from poorer countries leave their families behind, and the care gain in the receiving country implies a care drain in the country of origin, which leads to increased social inequality on a global scale. The importance of care migration has been recognised even in Russia, but despite the growing interest in these issues internationally, care mobilities between Russia and post-Soviet states have so far been an unexplored field. One exception is Caldwell (2007), who in her analyses of differences between the Soviet and post-Soviet era in Russia reported a reduced proportion of family-member caregivers and a higher proportion of foreign caregivers. After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, many people from the former Soviet republics, particularly from Central Asia, came to work in Russia. Compared with Central Asian countries, the Russian economy is stronger and the country is notably wealthier. The importance of migrant caregivers in Russia is a

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further aspect of my chapter. Based on my fieldwork, I discuss how the problems regarding elderly care in today’s Russia are connected to the issues of migrant labour and female migrant caregivers. Another inspiration for my study of elderly care in Russia was my knowledge about the importance of this problem and the organisation of elderly care in Japan. Japan is a country with an aging population, and much literature on elderly care in Japan has been published. Kasuga (1997) analysed why only women take care of the elderly and showed the limit of family care and defended the necessity of gender equality through the results of her fieldwork looking at nursing care. The book edited by Sugimoto (1997) reviewed women’s poverty and family changes, due to divorce and the increase in the number of unmarried women in connection to elderly care. Ueno (2011) showed that while Japanese society is aging, the issue of “care”, which is becoming increasingly important and will be even more so in the future, has not been discussed sufficiently. While the need for nursing care workers has increased and their needs are increasing, their working environment is still underdeveloped. Furthermore, care work in Japan tends to be treated as free service labour – much in the same way as the work of a housewife – because it is an area that is strongly linked to the sphere of emotions and the moral consciousness of the family. Comparative study of elderly care provision in Japan and Russia can bring forward aspects that have not been highlighted in research focusing primarily on the conditions in highly developed Western democracies.

Data collection and methods I have studied the problem of Russian elderly care since 2009, focusing on the providers of care for elderly Russians, and gathered extensive research data between March 2009 and August 2016 in St. Petersburg, Vladivostok, and Kazan, as well as in Khujand in Tajikistan. As mentioned above, scant information on the subject is available. I have collected not only materials that directly concern elderly care in Russia, but also complementary material in the form of interviews with researchers and experts. My main interviewees included administrators of the City Social Policy Committee in St. Petersburg, faculty members from the Department of Psychology at St. Petersburg University, members of the Social Charity Organisation, patients at the home for elderly people in Leningrad Oblast, volunteers at the St. Petersburg Jewish Charity Centre, administrators from the Department of Social Welfare in Kazan, a director from the Home for the Elderly and Disabled and approximately 40 people who had previously provided or currently provide care for relatives. To explore the possibilities available for migrant women in the labour market, I also interviewed approximately 20 female migrants from Central Asia who had earned their living providing elderly care at some point in their lives and about 30 people in Khujand who had worked in Russia and who had relatives or acquaintances who would like to work in Russia.

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A survey method relies on acquaintances of acquaintances, and it is currently difficult to conduct research in Russia using non-survey-based methods, especially with migrant workers. Unfortunately, few of the female migrants whom we approached agreed to be interviewed because they did not want to attract any attention to themselves or to cause problems with the authorities. I asked dozens of women from Central Asia working in shops in Russia to introduce us to their friends, relatives, and acquaintances who provide care to elderly persons, or who wish to become homecare workers, but only a few agreed. In this chapter, to ensure anonymity and to protect their privacy I have changed the names and ages of these women.

Elderly care during the Soviet era Although the Soviet state enacted approximately 100 pieces of legislation on social security, only material security for aging persons is mentioned in the USSR Constitution of 1936 (in Article 120). Some additional considerations and social services for elderly persons beyond material security are stipulated in the USSR Constitution of 1977 (Inako, 1998: p. 46), but state-funded elderly care at home in the Soviet era was virtually non-existent, and the only assistance available to the elderly was a pension and live-in facilities for the elderly (Grigor’eva, 2015, p. 254). The live-in facilities existing in the USSR can be divided into two categories – those for the elderly and those for disabled persons. Additionally, there were clear problems with quality and quantity. For example, approximately 14,000,000 elderly and disabled people received pensions in the former USSR, but there were only 1290 facilities with space for only 210,000 people (Madison, 1968, p. 192). Thus there was a chronic shortage of facilities. There have also been no comprehensive studies on the quality of those facilities. Indeed, I was able to find only brief phrases or expressions that concerned quality. For example, bathrooms and toilets were described as poor, and medical equipment was described as not good (ibid., p. 194). Due to the lack of research on qualitative aspects of Soviet care for the elderly, I conducted an interview with two Japanese researchers who specialise on Russia, Professor Otsu Sadayoshi and Ms. Otsu Noriko.4 The interview covered recollections of their visit in 1990, at the very end of the Soviet period. They visited a nursing home in Moscow that was specially designed to be shown to foreign visitors, and then they asked their friend, a Russian economist, to arrange a visit to an ordinary nursing home. They saw many people in the rooms as they passed, but there was no room for the elderly people to sit, and they had to stand up because the rooms were so crowded. The occupants were shabbily dressed; their exact ages were indeterminate, but they seemed to be about 70 years of age on average. Even though they wanted to see an ordinary home, the director did not show them the inside of the rooms. Indeed, given the bad condition they were in, allowing the foreigners to really see the rooms that they caught a glimpse of would have revealed the negative side of the USSR, and they assumed that this was prohibited. The

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director said: “We have better nursing homes in our country. If you want to visit some, we can arrange that.” The Japanese professors agreed to his proposal, and the director placed a call to a better nursing home to arrange a visit. In a few days, Ms. Otsu visited the “better” nursing home, seemingly called “Nursing home No. 1”. Entering the facility, she heard excellent piano music. A world-renowned pianist lived there and was playing the piano. There were famous artists, musicians, ballerinas, etc., living at this facility. There was a doctor on the premises at all times. They had a menu with a good selection of meals, and if you did not like the menu, you could order food à la carte. It was obvious that the facility was for the privileged class and seemed to support the existence of a hierarchical society in the Soviet Union. The conditions in the ordinary home were very poor; therefore, it had never been shown to foreigners. Many of the people interviewed also noted the poor conditions rampant in Soviet nursing homes.

Elderly care in Russia – legal aspects Social services for the elderly in broader terms in Russia began with the “Federal Law on social services for the elderly and the disabled in the Russian Federation” (122-FZ) and the “Federal Law regarding the foundations of social services in the Russian Federation” (195-FZ) enacted in August and December in 1995 respectively. Since then, several amendments have been added, such as the Federal Law of the Russian Federation, N 442-FZ, passed on December 28, 2013, and “On the foundations of providing social services to citizens in the Russian Federation”, which went into force on January 1, 2015, and revised the qualification criteria for assistance beneficiaries (442-FZ). However, because my main field surveys were conducted before these laws went into effect, this paper does not address the content of these revisions. Before the new Law from 2013, social services were rendered according to federal laws adopted in 1995. In 2004, the law was applied with a reference to the standards of individual members of the Russian Federation, and thus the characteristics and application of the services varied depending on where a person lived (122-FZ). This was evident from my oral surveys conducted in St. Petersburg, Kazan, and Vladivostok. In Russia, the main funding for social care is provided by the federal government, individual federation members (oblast and federal republics), and local governments. At present, Russia has no public nursing care insurance system in place. Thus, only limited public care is available for the elderly, although the ones available are largely free. A proposal from 2011 suggested the introduction of a nursing care insurance system, but there have been no developments since then regarding the introduction of such a system.5 Services stipulated by law include material aid, in-home social services, institutional social services, and the provision of temporary resorts, day-care

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services, counselling, and rehabilitation (195-FZ). At first glance, the new care system appears to be well established, but problems have materialised regarding beneficiaries and care payments. Eligibility for services is granted according to a complex set of criteria, where the inability to care for oneself is only one dimension (195-FZ St. 3). Among elderly people, services are regulated as follows. Senior citizens in need of permanent or temporary assistance, due to partial or complete loss of the ability to meet their basic needs and/or movement disabilities, are entitled to social services provided by the public and by non-governmental sectors of the social services system (122-FZ St. 5). People in the following three groups are provided with such services free of charge (195-FZ St. 16): 1

2 3

Those who are unable to support themselves due to age, disease, or disability, whose pension is less than the minimum cost of living in the region, and who have no relatives to support or care for them. The unemployed, victims of accidents, and casualties of natural disasters or armed or ethnic conflicts. Minors without parents or custodians, or with living difficulties due to disability, disease, poverty, or domestic violence.

The elderly are provided with services free of charge if they meet the following conditions (195-FZ St. 16): 1

2

3

Living alone and receiving a pension less than the minimum cost of living in the region, including those with disabilities and those living with a senior spouse. Senior citizens who receive no support or care from their relatives for satisfactory reasons, such as living far away, poverty, or illness, or whose pension is less than the minimum cost of living in the region. Living with family and with an average income less than the minimum cost of living in the region.

There are separate provisions for those who receive services for a fee.6 The criteria for full-fee services are as follows: 1

2

3

Living alone, with a pension exceeding more than 150 per cent of the minimum cost of living in the region (includes those with disabilities and those living with a senior-age spouse). Senior citizens who do not receive support or care from relatives for satisfactory reasons, such as living far away, poverty, or illness, or whose pension is more than 150 per cent of the minimum cost of living in the region. Living with family, and with an average income more than 150 per cent of the minimum cost of living in the region.

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Considering condition (3), elderly people living with family and with an average income exceeding 150 per cent of the minimum cost of living need to pay 100 per cent of the fees for care. Thus, such individuals prefer to employ informal homecare workers, and this would seem to be a pragmatic choice. In short, according to the law, elderly people living with family can receive care services, but in reality this is only the case for elderly people living alone and with a low income. Moreover, according to federal law 1995 N 195-FZ Article 9–2, elderly people living alone can receive in-home care (195-FZ St. 9), whereas those living with family cannot. The Russian care provision for the elderly assumes that the care of elderly persons is primarily the responsibility of their children, and it provides care free of charge only for those without children as well as those lacking economic resources. Children’s responsibility of care is considered to extend not only to their parents, but also to close relatives confined to bed due to age or disease. The number of care facilities is insufficient, and the care regime can be considered rudimentary compared to many European countries with an increasing commodification of care (Pfau-Effinger, 2005). Meanwhile, such care shows similarities with Japan, where during the 1980s welfare services for the elderly also generally only benefited those living alone and with a low income. This was because the family was considered to be responsible for nursing the elderly and because there were not enough facilities available.

Major issues in elderly care Who is the care for? Professional and civil servants’ perspective The limited provision of care by the state is reflected in the perspective of professionals. Regarding caring for fragile elderly parents, some interviewees, including the vice chairman of the St. Petersburg City Social Policy Committee, referred to “Article 87: Family Law of Duty to Support”. Answering the question, “Is it possible to be admitted to a facility if you are living together with family?” she made a striking remark: Russian Family Code stipulates that we should care for our own aged parents, but they can be admitted to a facility for appropriate reasons, or at the elderly person’s request, or on provision of a medical certificate.7 It is clear that she considered that care for the elderly was the obligation of the children. Nonetheless she mentioned that it is not impossible for an elderly person living with family to enter a home for the elderly, although such cases are rare. The vice president of Kazan Medical University also commented on the obligation of children to care for their parents:

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Noriko Igarashi Our mentality is well illustrated in the Act. If children are still alive and are not too old, they should care for their own parents. This is registered in the Family Code, and social awareness accords with that.8

A director of a home for the elderly in St. Petersburg, a non-profit organisation (NPO), explained family responsibilities by the importance of mentality: Family members usually care for the elderly. It is our mentality. We maintain a sense of community. It is natural that the elderly live with their family; moreover, it shames the family to place the aged in a facility. I would never move my mother there.9 In the current system, nursing care is provided by the family, which was motivated in the interviews either by the fundamental idea of care within the family, which is based on the mentality of the “child’s obligation of family care”, or with reference to the obligations stated in the Family Code.

Who is the care for? Family care providers’ perspectives It can be safely said that family nursing care is commonly accepted among Russians, but there is no doubt that this can place a heavy burden on the family. Consequently, it is to be expected that women suffer the heaviest burden with respect to providing nursing care within their family. This is also clear from the following interviews with people caring for their parents at home. Nadya (50s)10 Nadya is a researcher at a government institute. Nadya, living with her parents and nephew, cared for her father at home for about 10 years. He died in 2006 and could not even walk during the last 3 years of his life; thus, his care required much effort. Her father was a veteran who fought in the Siege of Leningrad. Thus, even though he lived with his family, he was entitled to some state-funded care. However, the family did not exercise that option, saying that if their neighbours knew that social workers were visiting, they would wonder why the family was not caring for him. Additionally, Nadya said she could not hire private homecare workers for economic and moral reasons, and she considered she had no choice but to care for her father on her own. Lena (50s)11 Lena, a worker at the Union of the Committees of Soldiers’ Mothers of Russia, had a poor economic situation. She often had to go on business trips to the Chechen Republic. Living with her 90-year-old mother with dementia, it was difficult to leave her alone to go on business trips. Her work with the Union was unpaid, and so she made a living by working three jobs. Her

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mother was known by the regional dementia centre, and when she pushed the emergency button at home, the regional centre would call Lena immediately. Lena was suffering from exhaustion from having to both work and provide care for her mother. She wanted her mother to go into a home for the elderly. According to current law, however, nursing homes for the elderly are not available for those living with family. Lena dreaded the idea of getting ill and suffered through many anxious days. Ira (52)12 Ira was a 52-year-old public worker, and her material situation was difficult, having to economically support her daughter and granddaughter. Her mother, 85 years old, had become unwell over 4 years previously. At that time, Ira did not live with her mother and asked a social worker to visit her mother twice per week. The social worker performed only simple tasks, such as cooking and cleaning. Besides, her mother’s memory impairment was becoming gradually more apparent, and she often forgot having turned on the gas, asking the social worker to buy the same things repeatedly. Thus, Ira could not help her mother while living separately, and ultimately refused the services of state social workers, leading Ira to move in with her. Ira had no free time and was always exhausted, but she could not make her mother move into a care facility, thinking it not acceptable in Russian society to move one’s own relatives into care facilities. Laws concerning nursing care for the elderly do exist and public nursing home care facilities and home nursing care systems are in place, but only a very limited number of elderly people can actually use them.

Is it a luxury to die at home? As mentioned above, living alone and being on a low income is a prerequisite for the elderly to receive free nursing care or be granted admittance to a facility. An important question, then, is whether an elderly person, living alone or with family and who wishes to stay home for the rest of their life even after becoming bedridden or being unable to receive care from the family for some reason, should have that wish fulfilled. Considering the feelings of care receivers, it seems desirable to defer to an elderly person’s wishes to live at home until they die.13 In-home services in Russia include, among others,14 organisation of food and delivery of groceries; assistance in the acquisition of medicines, medical products, food, and necessary items; assistance in receiving medical care, including maintenance in medical organisations; and provision of the living conditions necessary for health and hygiene. In contrast, the services provided by social workers in Japan can be subdivided into physical care and life support. Home-visiting physical care services refer to assistance with using the toilet, bathing, postural transitions, dressing, going

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out, moving and transferring, getting up, going to bed, and other necessary aspects of physical care. Home-visiting life-support care services comprise assistance with daily affairs, such as arranging clothes, cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, shopping for daily living necessities, and receiving medicines. On the face of it, the provision of health and hygiene appears to include similar physical care services as provided in Japan. In reality, however, Russian social workers’ duties exclude most physical care-giving activities. Social workers in Russia are occupied by activities such as preparing meals, delivering groceries, or paying utility bills, and the majority visit an elderly client only twice per week. In addition to these visits, nurses also visit twice per week, so care receivers usually receive four visits in a week. The frequency and content of these visits may be effective for relatively healthy elderly people who are largely self-sufficient, but not for those who are bedridden or who are incontinent. Furthermore, elderly people living with their family are ineligible for such care visits and can receive visiting care services only by paying for them. In such cases, they have to pay in proportion to the total family income, and even then diapers cannot be changed several times a day. This was made clear in an interview with the district director of Home Social Services in the city of Kazan.    

Who changes the diapers of the bedridden? Social workers? Social workers visit on fixed days only. Not all day long, either. Is it not possible to use the service if living with a family? We have no elderly persons registered and living with their family. If you have a bedridden elderly person in your family and cannot take care of them, you go through the procedure to put them in a facility.15

Thus, social workers visit neither bedridden elderly persons nor those living with family. If an elderly person living with family does need services, then the total family income is taken into account. Even if they pay for visiting care services, incontinence care services are excluded. In other words, the service is not available for those with the greatest need. If one desires visiting homecare, public nursing care is not sufficient to cover all needs. Thus, an important question is who performs the physical care work that is beyond the scope of social workers in Russia. Family caregiving is the basis for addressing the shortfall, and a family member is the most likely caregiver, but another option is a sidelka (i.e. a homecare worker).

Sidelka The so-called sidelka plays an important role in Russia in caring for the aged and sick. A sidelka is someone, possibly a registered nurse, who can provide some medical treatment. According to the vice chairperson of the St. Petersburg City Social Policy Committee, sidelkas have different working patterns – a few hours a day, all day, or live-in.

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I examined the meaning and usage of sidelka. In a modern explanatory dictionary of Russian from Efremova, “sidelka” is described as a member of the junior medical staff who looks after patients.16 In an explanatory dictionary from Ozhegov, “sidelka” is described as a woman who is on duty for seriously ill patients, especially those who are confined to their beds.17 It is clear from the dictionaries that sidelka does not describe a nurse. Nevertheless, the meaning of sidelka has probably changed over time. After the dissolution of the USSR, the meaning of sidelka shifted to describe women who take care of patients or elderly people. They visit regularly or live in-home with the patient. Sidelkas as official employees do exist, but very few people want to become sidelkas under present conditions because, unlike social workers, they have to provide physical care. For example, under St. Petersburg city law, there is a system for sending sidelkas to attend to veterans and those involved in the Siege of Leningrad.18 There are no state-funded sidelkas in St. Petersburg; instead, they are hired from NPOs or private companies under contract with St. Petersburg city. Director Kolton of the Jewish Charity Centre said, “The city is not good at caring for bedridden elderly people. On the contrary, we are good at taking care of serious cases; therefore, we would rather accept those in serious condition.”19 This was confirmed by existing public sidelkas in Vladivostok: Sidelkas are classified under the social service sector. You can demand nursing services when someone in a serious condition becomes bedridden. Vladivostok City has 15 sidelkas. They work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. Not enough sidelkas, but we had none 2 years ago.20 State-funded sidelkas provide services for elderly people living alone. An alternative method is to hire sidelkas using a private company or, most commonly, by asking personal friends. According to my research, the lowestpriced sidelka was 150 rub/h or 2,000 rub/day,21 so sidelka is a costly option, which was clear from my interviews. When my mother was seriously ill in hospital, the nurses and social workers were all so busy that I had to take the first few days off to accompany and care for her. While I was on duty, and could not come to the hospital, I hired an unofficial sidelka, or some of my female cousins came over to care for my mother during the day. At night, I always had to hire a sidelka to care for my mother.22 My mother, 85 years old, has dementia. When we lived separately, social workers visited her twice a week, but this did not help me with my mother. Thus, I moved in with her; now we live together. I hire an unofficial sidelka; this is less expensive than from private companies. Nowadays, a woman from Ukraine visits my mother every day for 4.5 hours for 100 rub/h, so I can work.23

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Noriko Igarashi The mother of my colleague is bedridden. She privately hires a sidelka from Central Asia, saying that one from Central Asia is less expensive than a Russian one. It is very natural to hire a sidelka in Russia at present, and we are looking for a cheaper option.24

As can be seen, the number of elderly people actually eligible for statefunded care is very limited. The services provided are so poor that many aged people cannot live at home until their death, even if they are recognised as a care receiver. Furthermore, family care is considered fundamental, with women providing most of the care. Thus, to deal with the burden of their jobs, housework, child rearing, and caring for the elderly, these women need outside assistance, and the only real option is a sidelka, which can be expensive, so many Russians look to hire cheaper sidelkas. According to my last interviews, employment of women from Central Asia has been increasing even though Russians often say that it is better to hire Ukrainians and Moldovans than women from Central Asia. I have researched female immigrants from Central Asia, but, unfortunately, it is very difficult to find statistical information about women involved in this employment.

How can migrants become sidelkas? As stated previously, members of the general public have no alternative to hiring private sidelkas in place of family caretakers. The following is the employment situation of female migrants who are increasingly working in Russia. In 2010, supplementary Article 13.3 was added to the “Legal Status of Foreign Citizens in the Russian Federation”, which was enacted in 2002 (115-FZ St. 13.3). Accordingly, the procedures for entry into the country were greatly simplified for foreigners who intended to work as manual labourers in Russia. Among this group are the workers who provide household help. This situation brings together Russians in need of inexpensive sidelkas and women from Central Asia seeking positions as sidelkas. It naturally follows that increasing numbers of migrant workers will enter the field of homecare in the near future. That is why it is important to study more about migrant workers’ biographies, conditions of work, and life in Russia as well as their opinions about their experience of working as sidelkas. The field surveys revealed that women from Central Asia are seeking positions for economic reasons, regardless of their original occupation in their home country. In Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, and Kyrgyzstan, many are unable to make a living without working away from home, regardless of their educational backgrounds. As a result, both men and women are employed to make a living. The next few summaries of the migration stories reconstructed on the basis of my interviews in St. Petersburg and Khujand help to better understand patterns of gendered care migration from Central Asia to Russia.

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Sveta from Uzbekistan25 Sveta, a 21-year-old worker at a cosmetics store in St. Petersburg, finding it hard to make ends meet, is currently seeking a housekeeping position to provide her with a second job. Her Uzbek friend in her 20s, unemployed and living with her husband and three children, is also seeking work. They knew a woman from the same province working as a live-in sidelka for 25,000 or 30,000 Rub a month. When asked if they would take a live-in position as a sidelka for a monthly salary of 15,000 Rub, Sveta noted that she would take the position immediately for slightly more than 15,000 Rub. Thus the case of Sveta shows that some women in Uzbekistan are very interested in extra income and would easily accept such hard work as a sidelka. The case also shows the care deficit of migrant women working as sidelkas. Niso from Samarkand26 Niso is a 35-year-old Tajik woman from Samarkand, where she worked as a teacher. Coming to St. Petersburg 3 years ago, she currently works as a sidelka for an elderly woman. When in Samarkand, she looked after her mother-inlaw, who had diabetes, resulting in the amputation of her leg. After her motherin-law died, she went to Samarkand to pick up her husband and her eldest son, who was 15 years old. Leaving their 12-year-old son in Samarkand and coming back to St. Petersburg, she found a part-time job through an agency. The elderly woman she works for is bedridden, so Niso changes her diapers and does everything else necessary to care for her. Her eldest son does not attend school because he knows very little Russian. Her husband has worked for 10 years as a cook, and now he is a chef at another restaurant. The family does not plan to remain in Russia forever, because dual citizenship is not permitted. The interviews show that Russian families want to employ reliable sidelkas through agencies or acquaintances. In most cases, men from Central Asia, like Niso’s husband, come to work in Russia first, and then they bring their family members. The women then begin to work, usually not such jobs as correspond to their professions. They often work as domestic servants, which includes working as sidelkas. When they return home in August for a monthlong summer vacation, their relatives or acquaintances substitute for them in their work as sidelkas with their clients in Russia. This is how the migrant care network in Russia is functioning: the extended families become involved in the organisation of work and for provision of care for children and other relatives of the migrant workers who are left at home in Central Asia. Without helping each other, this work would not be possible. Oina from Samarkand27 Oina is a 45-year-old Uzbek from Samarkand. She has been working for 2 years at a cosmetics store in St. Petersburg, finding the job through friends. Oina’s salary is

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18,000 Rub per month, and she is happy with her job and her salary. After graduating from the Uzbek Department of Education College in Samarkand, she worked at a school as an Uzbek language teacher. She now lives in St. Petersburg with her eldest son, who is 25 years old, and has been working in Russia for 4 years. Her 17-year-old daughter, Mekhrangiz, arrived in Russia 3 days ago, and has not yet graduated from high school. Under 18 years of age, it is difficult for her to get a formal job. She wants to get a part-time job as a sidelka. Oina wants her daughter to earn money but is worried for her safety in the Russian city. Oina came to work in St. Petersburg as she wanted to have a nice wedding ceremony for her eldest son. She loved her teaching job and was happy with her life, but her salary was poor. It was difficult for her to secure her husband’s permission to leave her hometown because he is engaged in a small business there. Meanwhile Oina’s parents live with her brother’s family, and they look after Oina’s parents. Her parents are glad that they are in Russia because they are able to earn money, and this also benefits Oina’s parents. Sail from Tashkent28 Sail, a 59-year-old, is from Tashkent, where she finished secondary school in 1972. She graduated from the Moscow Educational College and specialised in the Russian language and Russian literature. She taught Russian at the Textile Institute in Tashkent, and her husband worked as a lawyer. After the situation in Uzbekistan became more difficult, Sail and her husband left Uzbekistan for work in the US. After coming back to Uzbekistan, they bought a car and three apartments for their sons. Life appeared to be good. Their son had a successful firm, but later his business went bankrupt. Sail and her husband thus had to sell their apartments to pay their son’s debts. After that, they decided to go to work in Russia, arriving in St. Petersburg in 2011. First, Sail worked for the family of a 91-year-old military officer. She felt humiliated, because the elderly officer complained a lot, accused her of stealing things, and searched her bags. He constantly used foul language, spoke badly about her ethnic background, and did not allow her to sleep, constantly calling her at night under any pretext. She did not only not get enough sleep but also was sexually harassed. Now she works as a sidelka for an elderly woman, who is very happy with Sail. Thus, the case of Sail shows not only geographical diversity of post-Soviet migration, but also the difficult conditions of work. From the interviews above, it is reasonably said that female migrant workers often work as sidelkas. In Khujand, we did not meet women who worked in Russia as sidelkas, but all of those interviewed were willing to work in any capacity, doing any job, in Russia, including working as sidelkas.

Conclusion My analysis, based on a survey pertaining to elderly care in Russia, revealed several important issues. Official elderly care during the Soviet era was

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virtually non-existent. The only assistance for the elderly came in the form of pensions and the provision of live-in elderly facilities. In Russia today, laws regarding elderly nursing care do exist and, with reference to public care facilities and in-home care systems, they seem well defined. However, a very limited number of elderly persons can actually make use of the services. Within the Constitution and the Family Law, there is an “Article on the Duty to Support”. At present, family members and relatives typically try to manage the care for elderly people in Russia. Thus, the burden of nursing care for the elderly falls predominantly on women. It is more common in Russia to find sidelkas through connections rather than using public or private nursing care systems. Migrant women work in Russia as sidelkas. Migrant workers constitute a more and more important component of those involved in the care for elderly people. They provide support and act as a driving force in the field of elderly nursing care in Russia. However, unlike in other countries, immigration to Russia remains an issue. The conditions of migrant workers are similar to those of women migrating to affluent Western countries. They have to juggle with care deficit (Hochschild, 2000) because the care of their own family typically requires the help of extended relations. Difficulty in maintaining dual citizenship reinforces the pendulum of migration. The women who migrate are often educated and have previous work experience from their home countries, even if some have been housewives. The motivation to migrate is typically to find more work opportunities and higher incomes than in their home countries. They often migrate to achieve specific goals (their son’s wedding, buying a house), but it is just as common to work in order to support their families. Seen from the side of Russia, the need for sidelkas is associated with the rudimentary nature of the Russian state welfare provision for elderly care, the overwhelming responsibility of children for caring for the elderly, and the continued high labour force participation of women. Women typically are the expected care providers. In this respect, the features of the welfare state provisions as well as the cultural pejoratives of a favoured type of care provision in Russia seem to bode well for the expansion of an informal migrant care provision system, such as the sidelkas. Thus, migrant labour-based sidelka emerges in the intersection between pull-push factors formed along economic inequalities between Russia and its Central Asian neighbours.

Notes 1 This work was supported by JSPS KAKENHI Grant Numbers 16K02023, 25360032, 25245034. 2 World Bank, 2016, World Development Indicators 2016. 3 https://esa.un.org/unpd/wpp/publications/Files/WPP2015_Volume-I_ComprehensiveTables.pdf 4 13.11.2015. 5 http://strategy2020.rian.ru/news/20111109/366196040.html (November 4, 2016). 6 Postanovleniye Pravitel’stva RF 1996 N 473 Prilozheniye.

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7 Interview with Vice Chairperson of Saint Petersburg City Social Policy Committee (15.03.2011). 8 Interview with Vice President of Kazan Medical University (27.02.2012). 9 16.08.2011. 10 20.08.2009. 11 22.08.2010. 12 16.03.2016. 13 According to the Cabinet Office of the Government of Japan, more than half of the Japanese population wishes to spend their last days at home. (http://www8.cao. go.jp/kourei/whitepaper/w-2013/zenbun/s1_2_3_03.html). 14 Government decree 1996 N 739. 15 27.02.2012. 16 http://efremova.info/word/sidelka.html#.WR1DQNykKUk 17 http://slovarozhegova.ru/word.php?wordid=28620 18 http://old.gov.spb.ru/gov/admin/terr/reg_admiral/odchaya/social/soc_obsl/sidelki Zakon Sankt-Peterburga 08.12.2010 № 719–166. 19 22.08.2016. 20 Interview with Director of the Administration of Primorsky Krai, 8.09.2011. 21 About 20–25 euros, Igarashi (2015). 22 Interview with Vice President of Kazan Medical University, 27.02.2012. 23 16.03.2016. 24 17.03.2016. 25 14.08.2013. 26 23.08.2013. 27 14.08.2014. 28 22.03.2014.

References Caldwell, M. (2007). Elder Care in the New Russia: The Changing Face of Compassionate Social Security. Focaal 50, pp. 66–80. Grigor’eva, I.A. (2015). Soctial’noye obslujzhibanie pozhilykh. In: I.A. Grigor’eva, L. A. Vidyasova, A.V. Dmitriyeva, O.V. Sergeeva eds. Pozhilye v sovremennoi Rossii mezhdu zanyatost’yu, obrazovaniem i zdorov’em. St. Petersburg: Aleteiia. Hochschild, A.R. (2000). Global Care Chains and Emotional Surplus Value. In: W. Hutton and A. Giddens eds. On the Edge: Living with Global Capitalism. London: Jonathan Cape. Igarashi, N. (1998). Roshiajin no Josei no Rohdo to Katei ni kansuru Ishiki Jyohkyo: Sankuto Peteruburugu deno chohsa o motoni. Annals of the Japanese Association for Russian and East European Studies 26, pp. 110–119. Igarashi, N. (2009). Kyusoren no Kyohwakoku de Tairyoh no Sengyohsyuhu wa Tanjohsurunoka. Hikakutaiseikenkyu 46, pp. 17–34. Igarashi, N. (2010). Jinkohmondai kara mita Jendah. Eurasian Studies 43, pp. 39–44. Igarashi, N. (2012). Kyusorensyokoku no Jendah no Johkyoh. Eurasian World. Tokyo: Tokyodaigakushuppan-sha, pp. 127–153. Igarashi, N. (2015). Roshia no Kohreisya Keajijoh o Jendah kara miru. The Journal of Modern Society and Accounting 9, pp. 19–33. Igarashi, N. (2016a). Women’s Voices: Gender Survey in Tajikistan. Hitotsubashi Journal of Social Studies (co-authored with Kazuhiro Kumo) 47(1), pp. 11–30. Igarashi, N. (2016b). Roshia niokeru Koureisyakea no Genjou-Peteruburugu no Baai. Russian Eurasian Economy & Society 1007, pp. 16–28.

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Inako, T. (1998). Roshia no Shakai Fukushi, Sekai no Shakai Fukushi 2, Tokyo: Junpo-sha, pp. 21–225. Kasuga, K. (1997). Kaigo to Jendah. Hiroshima: Kazoku-sha. Kay, R. (2013). “She’s Like a Daughter to me”: Insights into Care, Work and Kinship from Rural Russia. Europe-Asia Studies 65(6), pp. 1136–1153. Madison, B. Q. (1968). Social Welfare in the Soviet Union. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press. Orlova, U. L. (2015). Parametry kachyestva jizni pojilyh lyudyey, jivushchih v uchryejdyeniyah intyernatnogo tipa. Sotsiologichyeskiye isslyedovaniya 10, pp. 103– 110. Pfau-Effinger, B. (2005). Welfare State Policies and the Development of Care Arrangements. European Societies 7(2), pp. 321–347. Rosstat. (2015). Regiony Rossii. Sotsial’no-ekonomicheskiye pokazateli RF 2015. Moskva. Sugimoto, K. ed. (1997). Shakaifukusi no nakano Jendah. Kyoto: Mineruba-shoboh. Tkach, O.A. (2015). Zabotlivyy dom: Ukhod za pozhilymi rodstvennikami i problyemy sovmestnogo prozhivaniya. Sotsiologichyeskie issledovaniya 10, pp. 94–102. Ueno, C. (2011). Kea no Shakaigaku. Tokyo: Ota-shuppan. World Bank (2016). World Development Indicators 2016.

Laws Federal’nyy zakon, 2.08.1995. N 122-FZ. Federal’nyy zakon, 10.12.1995. N 195-FZ. Federal’nyy zakon, 25.07.2002. N 115-FZ. Federal’nyy zakon, 22.08.2004. N 122-FZ. Federal’nyy zakon, 28.12.2013. N 442-FZ. Postanovleniye Pravitel’stva RF 15.04.1996. N 473. Rasporyazheniye Komiteta po trudu i sotsial’noy zashchite naseleniya, 27.06.2002 № 12-r. Zakon Sankt-Peterburga, 08.12.2010 № 719–166. http://www8.cao.go.jp/kourei/whitepaper/w-2013/zenbun/s1_2_3_03.html (November 4, 2016) http://strategy2020.rian.ru/news/20111109/366196040.html (November 4, 2016) http://old.gov.spb.ru/gov/admin/terr/reg_admiral/odchaya/social/soc_obsl/sidelki (November 4, 2016)

4

Around the corner? Female empowerment, security, and elite mind-sets in Georgia Li Bennich-Björkman

When the Soviet Union was formed in 1922, the South Caucasus territory of Georgia was among the initial republics. Georgia became independent in 1991, along with the other 14 Soviet republics. The country did not experience a strong or progressive transition during the first decade as an independent state, but since the Rose Revolution in 2003, Georgia has changed profoundly in terms of its economy, state structures, and society in general. The country has transformed from an almost failed state in 2003 to a dynamic “star” in the post-Soviet setting by 2017 (Berglund, 2016; Berglund & Engvall, 2015; Engvall, 2012; Grodsky, 2012). Indexes measuring state capacity and corruption, for example the World Bank Governance Index (WBGI), today assess Georgia as one of the countries in the entire post-communist region with the lowest level of corruption. However, Georgia is still not fully democratic. As pointed out in recent Freedom House ratings, the country is only “partly free”, with some troubles lingering regarding elections, media freedom, and national governance. In this chapter, the question in focus is whether Georgia’s dynamic development in the areas of the economy and state reformation has increased the possibility of future gender equality. Georgia has been a distinctly maledominated society and state. Japaridze (2012) calls Georgia “traditional” and “patriarchal”, and shows that half of the women, in a national survey carried out in 2010, think that the wife should obey the husband in marriage and that he is the main decision-maker. Although access to education is relatively equal (Das Gupta, 2015), the share of women, particularly in positions of political power, is below the low global average of 17 per cent, thereby placing Georgia among the countries with the lowest level of female representation in the world. There are women in business, in the media, and in culture, but female leadership is rare. In addition to its central importance for the development of humanity in its own right, gender equality also matters in terms of state security and international relations, as indicated by research on women and security. Hierarchical power relations at the national and subnational level translate into how power relations are regarded and played out at the international level as well (see below for further development). Since the perestroika years in the late 1980s,

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observers have repeatedly characterised Georgia as plagued by “frozen” conflicts and complex webs of controversies, triggered by the break-up of the Soviet Union, which allowed political entrepreneurs to politicise borders and identities (Cornell, 2002). The Georgian struggle with Russia over the Abkhazian and South Ossetia territories, which still are not settled, led to a war between the countries in 2008, and has shaped the image of the country and the region as unstable, scarred by the consequences of these recurrently violent struggles. Adding to this picture, international efforts to mediate and find durable solutions have continuously failed over the years, leaving the country to endure these open wounds in a state of neither secure peace nor open war. This unfortunate and threatening state of affairs, which has plagued Georgia for over 25 years, might significantly improve as gender equality, including physical security for women, grows. How gender equality and international conflict is linked will be explained below. In order to find an answer to whether female empowerment will grow in Georgia, it is central to investigate how people think about gender equality today, and, most importantly, the perceptions held by the elite. Mind-sets, in other words, are in focus. Being the major opinion-leaders and drivers of reforms, the elite profoundly shapes society everywhere, and thereby holds one of the major keys to the future. Consequentially, elite culture is in focus here, drawing on material from a recent survey carried out on behalf of the author. By contrasting the Georgian elite culture to that of neighbouring Armenia, where economic changes and state reformation have not occurred to the same extent, the chapter provides a point of reference for assessing cultural change. Armenia has continued a more “traditional” post-Soviet path of halfway reforms, an economy that functions poorly, and high levels of corruption, in contrast to the recent Georgian development. In Armenia’s case, this state of affairs combines with a heavy dependence on Russia for oil. Nations in Transit (NiT) rate Armenia’s democracy score as 5.39 on a seven-point scale, with one being the most democratic, which indicates that the country is only partly free. What differs between the two countries is thus primarily the economic state of affairs and corruption levels, not levels of democracy. Until recently, the situation for women in Georgia and Armenia has been to a large extent similar. With data assembled in 1995–2001, Inglehart and Norris (2003) show that Georgia and Armenia were among the least gender equal countries globally, and only slightly above the highly traditional societies of Egypt, Jordan, Morocco, and Bangladesh. The United Nations (UN) Development reports show that whereas men and women are today equally educated in the two countries – 12.3 years in Georgia, 11.3 in Armenia – in both countries, women work considerably less outside the home than men (around 55 per cent of the potential work force, whereas for men it is from 73–78 per cent). However, and worth noticing, Georgia today has a significantly higher number of women in leading positions (34 per cent of managers, directors and so on) than Armenia (21 per cent), as the UN shows.

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In both countries, the share of seats in parliament for women continues to be extremely low after the fall of communism, which saw a severe decline when quotas were abolished: 11.3 per cent in Georgia, 10.7 in Armenia. In this respect, this makes them the poorest “performers” out of all the post-Soviet countries (slightly worse than heavily male-dominated Ukraine). This chapter finds that Georgia is indeed in the process of developing into a safer environment for women. The roles of men and women are perceived by the elite as less differentiated in society and in the family than in the reference country, Armenia, and the low political representation by women is considered by both women and men as more of a problem than in the neighbouring country. Hence, the political culture of the Georgian and Armenian elites differs significantly today in terms of gender equality, a finding that does indicate promise for substantial change in the future in Georgia. In this chapter, the findings of an ongoing cultural change in Georgia towards female empowerment give hope that the tensions marking territorial conflicts over Abkhazia and South Ossetia with Russia will wither in the long run as the literature on women and peace introduced next argues. Below, I situate the chapter in relation to literature on women and peace, mind-sets, and elites, and then move on to describe the sampling and methodology of the elite interviews. Thereafter follows the empirical analysis and the conclusion.

Women and peace, mind-sets, and elites Women and peace What scholarly literature calls the “woman and peace argument” comes in two versions. Whereas one suggests that, at the individual level, women tend to hold more peaceful attitudes than men, the other assumes more of a systemlevel connection. Gender equality, in terms of increased physical security for women and less domestic violence, correlates with less aggression internationally. When patriarchal culture, patriarchy being partly rooted in human evolution as opposed to how life is ordered among many (other) animals, gives way to more equality between individuals and groups, this change will also spill over into the relations between states and the international system (cf. Fukuyama, 1998). When brutality towards vulnerable parts of the population decreases at the national level, it manifests as a shift towards less tolerance of violence and suppression generally. Whereas the individual-level explanation gains weak support (Brounéus, 2014), the system-level connection between women and peace seems to gain empirical support in a number of studies, even though more research on the subject is needed (Hudson, et al., 2008; Melander, 2005). In a carefully crafted study in the field, Hudson and her co-authors develop the argument about how the patriarchal structures of human societies – involving suppression and violence towards women and primarily out-group

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men – have led to violence spilling over into international relations (and intrastate relations). Anchored in evolutionary trajectories of male dominance, these patriarchal structures spread violent responses to “others”, including states, making them natural and a commonplace: This strongly suggests that violence at different levels of analysis are connected, in that states that allow violence against women to persist are allowing men – that half of society that holds both physical and political power – to engage in frequent antisocial acts, perhaps even on a daily basis. This increases the likelihood that they will experience low barriers to engaging in violence on an even larger scale, up to and including intrasocietal and interstate conflict. Societal expectations of benefits from violence at every level of analysis will almost certainly be higher if men – who are dominant in political power in virtually every human society – have received many rewards from committing high frequencies of aggressive acts toward women. (Hudson, et al., 2008, p. 26) Hudson and her co-authors furthermore find, when correlating aggregate measures of gender security and equality with state violence and security, that societies characterised by higher levels of violence and aggression against women, also exhibit higher levels of (male) violence in international relations. Stronger than the degree of existing democracy or wealth, two “factors” that belong to the usual suspects for explaining peace, the security of women in society is a better predictor of non-violent international relations. These findings within literature on women and peace are highly significant in the Georgian, and overall South Caucasus, context and point to the far-reaching effects of that which I investigate here. Mind-sets Mind-sets, which are the orientations, perceptions, and attitudes that people hold are keys to understanding agency and human action even though behaviour does not always stem from, or coincide with, beliefs. Basic orientations that individuals carry with them, and that they in turn share with others, thus forming into collective orientations, called political culture, filter the more day-to-day impressions, perceptions, and information from the outside world into the brain so that coherence and some stability prevail (Almond & Verba, 1963). Political culture is a concept that is used to describe the aggregate patterns of politically relevant orientations. In the political culture discourse in political science, a consensus has gradually developed – although with exceptions – so that numerous studies today identify political culture as both orientations and explicit attitudes and perceptions regarding the political system and government, as well as attitudes towards society at large, so-called civic values. Robert Putnam’s investigation on the strong correlation between

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efficient government and civic attitudes, and his work on the decline of civic engagement in the US, are recent, and well-known, examples of political culture research (Putnam, 1993, 2000). Orientations are major dimensions that indicate perceptual division, for example hierarchy versus equality, conflict versus harmony, and trust versus suspicion. The concept of orientation is central to cultural theory, which is the backbone of the research on political culture. Political scientist Eckstein (1991) enumerates a few “super orientations”, whereas four cultural categories of fatalism, hierarchy, egalitarianism, and individualism compose the influential “group-grid theory” originally developed by Mary Douglas and elaborated by, among others, political scientist Aaron Wildavsky (1987; Thompson, et al., 1990). Within the “umbrella” concept of mind-sets, orientations form the core part, and added to them are perceptions and attitudes of a more shallow nature. Elites In this chapter, I explore the Georgian elite’s perceptions and attitudes regarding gender equality, and conflict resolution, by contrasting them to those held by the Armenian elite. This study is thereby a study on elite political culture, or elite mind-sets. In the post-Soviet setting, elites play an even more crucial role than in advanced democracies of the West. The individuals in the elite are opinion leaders, and their mind-sets are thus crucial to the future development of the countries in question. Even though elites in most democratic societies continue to be decisive, there is a tendency that research on elites has grown out of fashion. Classic elite studies, such as Robert Dahl’s (1961) Who Governs?, that investigated whether New Haven had one elite or several, came out in the early 1960s. Dahl’s study was a reply to C. Wright Mills’ (1956) The Power Elite. In The Beliefs of Politicians, Putnam (1973) compared British and Italian political elites in the shape of parliamentarians. Putnam found opposing positions on the orientations that he singled out for investigation: whereas Italian politicians saw the world as a zero-sum game of conflict and struggle, the British recognised compromise and possibilities of harmonising interests. The Italian politicians looked at the world through the lens of hierarchy, while the British saw society as more equal. Since then, democracy has become more widespread globally, not least with the last “wave” of democratisation from the 1970s onwards (Huntington, 1990), and it seems as if research on elites has decreased successively. Political science is today preoccupied to a large extent with studies exploring, through the existing mass-data on population attitudes and behaviour, citizens and voters. Almond and Verba’s pioneering work, mentioned above, mapped mass perceptions, and so do the World Value Surveys (WVS), whose many waves of global investigation are continuously analysed by Inglehart (1990; 1997), by Inglehart and Norris (2003; 2004), and many others. The European Social

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Survey (EES) covers European populations. Another example is the sociologist Hofstede studied the mind-sets of employees at IBM and based his well-known cultural dimensions on that (Hofstede & Hofstede, 2005). Why has the emphasis on mass publics and citizens become so dominant? Democracy does indeed increase the power of the masses and citizens, and the topics of research focus follow from that. The development of survey techniques contributes as well. Mass publics are accessible research subjects today, which was not the case 50 years ago. Thirdly, there is a normative element playing a role as well: to value the importance of citizens is part of democratic development. The reason research on elites has become less of a vital empirical research field could also be due to a fourth factor: it is difficult and often requires time-consuming qualitative research in the field, such as in-depth interviews, the mapping out of informal networks, and data collection on socio-economic background factors (cf. Grohult & Higley, 1972).

Material and methodology The literature on post-communist elites has mostly been biographically and sociologically oriented (Aarelaid-Tart, 2000; Frenzel-Zágorska & Wasilewski, 2000; Humphrey, et al., 2003). Steen (1997), however, surveyed elites in the three Baltic countries to identify aggregated mind-sets. Here, through a unique study carried out in the spring of 2017, I investigate the mind-sets of the political, economic, media-related, cultural, and organisational opinion leaders of Georgia and the reference country of Armenia. Attitudes and perceptions at the mass level in the South Caucasus area are continuously being surveyed through the Caucasus barometer. The mind-sets of the elites, however, remain underexplored. The Caucasus Research and Resource Center (CRRC), which is the principal investigator of mass opinions, also carried out the study of the elite on my behalf through the local branches of CRRC in Georgia and Armenia.1 The questionnaire was developed between September 2016 and January 2017 in close collaboration with the author and CRRC teams. The CRRC in Georgia2 conducted a pilot survey in December 2016, and CRRC-Armenia followed suit shortly after. The respective teams undertook revisions after that. Elaboration of the sampling procedure continued during the fall of 2016 and beginning of 2017, and since there existed no previous Georgian or Armenian elite studies to be used as a blue print, defining and operationalising the term “elite” proved mandatory. Whereas the political, economic, and media segments were obvious choices, the particular importance of the cultural sector in both Georgia and Armenia justified its inclusion. International and non-governmental organisations (NGOs) are definitely visible on the Georgian scene, not least since the country has been in a process of rapid development since the Rose Revolution in 2003, making many of these organisations and their representatives significant advisers to

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policy-makers and entrepreneurs. As mentioned above, these are included in the category “other”. The fieldwork took longer than expected in both countries – more than a month – from February 3 to March 16, 2017 in Georgia and two and a half months in Armenia. The main reason for this was that respondents who participated in the survey were quite busy and kept postponing appointments. In Armenia, parliamentary elections took place in April 2017, which added to the difficulties in finalising the interviews. In addition, it was rather hard to find over 200 respondents who agreed to participate. Selection bias may thus have affected the results to some extent, because those who actually participated were perhaps more genuinely concerned or interested in questions of equality and hierarchies (gender equality was included within a larger battery of topics) than a neutral cross-section would have been. Even so, there is significant variation both within and between the countries in terms of support for the empowerment of women. Elite theories differ in their definitional strictness (cf. Etzioni-Halevy, 1997; Higley & Pakulski, 2000). The elite paradigm emphasises that elites are social groups tied together by various features. Here, I define elite in positional terms, i.e. by positions in the spheres selected for study, and not by sociological features (with some exception for culturally well-known persons). The aim is not to find out if an elite exists in Georgia, but rather to what degree cognitive cohesion at the top level of Georgian society exists, and if the dynamism referred to in the introduction is reflected in the mind-sets of the Georgian elite. For the purposes of the study, I chose to operationalise the “elite” as “opinion leaders”, influential persons who can participate in important decisions or regulatory changes and form the ways in which their societies think. Representing the political, economic, cultural, and media sectors in Georgia and Armenia, 207 individuals in Georgia and 202 in Armenia were interviewed in face-to-face encounters using a close-ended questionnaire (409 persons in total). In Georgia, there is furthermore an additional category called “other”, which includes, for example, representatives of international NGOs. The sample was put together by firstly identifying powerful positions within each sector, and from there continued by using the snowball sampling approach. The teams encountered difficulties that are not usually present in the mass surveys. It was, for example, impossible to interview ministers, deputy ministers, or other high-ranking officials without personal gate-openers. For elite positions in the political sector, we selected members of parliament (heads of committees and factions and chairs), heads of all political parties who participate in elections, members of the executive committee of various political parties who participate in elections, heads of local governmental bodies, and directors or heads of political think-tanks. In the economic and cultural sector, we included persons working in top positions in the ministries of the economy and culture, as well as Chief Executive Officers (CEOs) for larger businesses. Well-known and cherished

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artists and writers were on our list. The media sector elite included directors of the big broadcasting channels and firms and influential journalists. The analyses presented here are mostly descriptive, but it is clear that in both countries, sex, age, and sometimes the work sector have explanatory value. However, the major focus of the study is on providing a general snapshot of how the elite in Georgia think about gender equality as of 2017, contrasting it to Armenians’ perceptions for further clarity.

The respondents: characteristics of the sample The absolute numbers of interviewees vary between the sectors in both countries. In Georgia, 32 individuals (15.5 per cent) are from the political elite; 26 from the economic sector (13 per cent); 89 from the cultural sector (43 per cent); 15 from mass media (7 per cent); and the category of “other” contains 45 individuals (22 per cent). The total number of interviewees is 207. In Armenia, 93 of the interviewed individuals represented the cultural sector (46 per cent); 42 the political sector (21 per cent); 36 the economic sector (18 per cent); and 30 of the interviewees worked in the sphere of mass media (15 per cent). There is no category of “other” in Armenia. In terms of gender, the Georgian sample is composed of 99 women and 108 men, and the Armenian sample consists of 63 women and 139 men. Since the sample was collected through snowballing based on an initial, pre-determined list of names, the distribution of women and men within the sectors is not necessarily representative of what the sectors look like in their overall composition in reality. The interviewees in both countries range from twenty-four years of age to persons in their sixties, covering a Soviet elite generation socialised under the late decades of communism to a post-Soviet generation that came of age in the first 10 to 15 years after the Union’s collapse. In Georgia, the Rose Revolution/United National Movement (UNM) generation is now an “elder” one. It consists of persons who lived through these turbulent years, and the younger, post-UNM generation, came of professional age in the late years of the Saakashvili presidency or in the early years of the Georgian Dream-led government from 2012 onwards. The figures tell that among the Georgian power elite, women are more numerous the younger one goes down the age scale, whereas the opposite is true for men. The elite in Georgia is young, considering the fact that 50 per cent of those surveyed here are younger than 40. In Armenia, where no such juncture as the Rose Revolution has occurred, a third societal “generation” is discernible, while a fourth is not yet quite discernible. As for religion or religious denomination, a large majority of the opinion leaders, over 80 per cent in both countries, consider themselves Orthodox Christian (Georgia) and Apostolic Christian (Armenia); only a few per cent belong to another religion in both countries, and eleven to twelve per cent do not view themselves as belonging to any religion or religious denomination.

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Most of the public opinion leaders who participated in the survey turned out not to be very religious, however, in a practical, faith-based way. The data shows that 47 per cent of them are not practising religion in Georgia, while in Armenia the figure is 40 per cent. A large majority of the respondents in both countries possessed degrees in higher education (79 per cent in Georgia, 71 in Armenia). Of participants in Georgia, 29 per cent held a postgraduate degree, 27 per cent in Armenia, and only 1 per cent in either country came from a more modest, secondary technical education background (completed high school). Since the absolute numbers in the respective sectors vary so considerably, it is important to observe caution when interpreting percentages. The same goes when separating the analysis according to sector, which is valuable information on the one hand, but on the other, the small absolute numbers for the economic and mass media elites in particular contribute to making the findings less robust. The overall patterns for the Georgian and Armenian elites, which were given by the over 400 interviewees, are however undisputable. Summing up, the elite sample in both countries is highly educated and not overly religious even though they may belong to a church. The elite in Georgia is slightly younger and includes more women than in Armenia. It is in the cultural sector in both countries that we find most women, in the economic sector the least. Georgia, but not Armenia, has a fifth work sector aside from politics, business, media, and culture, where people related to NGOs make up part of the sample.

Elite perceptions on women’s empowerment The Soviet Union practised formal gender equality, which often led to women carrying a double burden: they had responsibility for the home and children, while simultaneously working outside the home. After 1991, when the formal institutions of communism withered away and informal norms changed or once again came to the surface, the situation of women also changed. Many withdrew from public life, and in the 25 years that have since passed, the situation has only changed slowly in the countries of specific concern in this chapter. In the political sphere, there was representation by women, but the real power more often than not stayed with men. After 1991, the entire former Soviet Union quickly experienced a radical decline in female representation. This is not less true for Georgia and Armenia. Women almost disappeared from political life, in part by their own free will and in part because the institutional vacuum that arose gave strong leeway to informal power networks, most of them male-dominated. Shahnazaryan, Badasyan, and Movlud (2016) write about this in terms of a “Cinderella” syndrome. Figure 4.1 (below) sums up how the Georgian and Armenian elites today perceive gender equality when it comes to work life, the separate roles of women and men in the family and in society, and women’s political representation, separated into male and female interviewees.

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When jobs are scarce, men should have more right to a job than women. Women and men should have different roles in the family. Biological differences between women and men predestine them for different roles in society.

Male Armenia Male Georgia Female Armenia Female Georgia

Few women in politics - is it a problem? Your sphere is equally accessible for males and females. Support or not, introduction of gender quotas 00 01 02 03 04 05 06 07

Figure 4.1 Graph showing perceptions on gender equality in Georgia and Armenia

In Figure 4.1, lower scores (towards 0) indicate more gender equal answers whereas higher ones point to answers less supportive of gender equality (towards 7). Below, I investigate each of the five issues more closely. A classic question capturing patriarchal tendencies, which has been used in many previous studies, is the first one presented here: if there is a scarcity of work, do men have priority for the available jobs? Stronger support for letting men “have the jobs” pinpoints an underlying perception of the division of the traditional roles of men as the breadwinner and women as the homemaker as justified. This is the question in which the Georgian and Armenian elites differ the most. The Georgians, regardless of sex, reject this proposition strongly, whereas Armenian males agree with it to a slightly higher extent than the females. Previously, I showed that the actual labour force in both countries is dominated by men, while Georgian women, however, to a significantly higher extent, hold more leading positions than in Armenia. How the elite perceives women and men in the workforce tells us that there exists the potential for future change in Georgia; the persons that constitute the elite do not tend to regard it as overwhelmingly justified or natural that women are locked out of the labour market. Moving on to the issue of the role of the sexes in the private sphere – in the family – a pattern resembling the answers to the first question appears. The Georgian elite, both men and women, supports the idea of a division in the family based on traditional roles less than the Armenian elite does. For Armenians, there is strong, and equal, support for such a division among both men and women, again indicating a significantly more patriarchal society than in Georgia. Among the Georgian elite, in contrast to the issue of jobs, males are, however, more conservative than women, holding on to the idea of differentiated roles. Georgian elite women clearly differ from their Armenian counterparts. On this issue, their views differ from one another most of all.

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The third question on whether or not biological differences should also dictate different roles not only in the private sphere but also in society at large intends to capture if the interviewee thinks about positions and professional spheres as gendered. Consequentially, a similarity once again appears: the Armenian elite agrees to such a differentiation more strongly than the Georgian one, and the least supportive are the Georgian elite women. In assessing whether one’s own sphere of work, whether in politics, business, media, culture, or elsewhere, is equally accessible for both women and men, elites in both countries, regardless of sex, give a positive response. This is surprising, given the very low presence of women in politics and in business. Are the answers focusing on formal accessibility? Not necessarily, since when asked whether sexual minorities have equal access (which, according to the law, should be the case) the answers are much more negative. Georgia and Armenia have among the lowest political representation of women in the world. Even though women are as educated as men are, an indicator of empowerment of great importance, this has not (yet) affected politics. Gender quotas are a way to mitigate the problem of few women in politics. It has been an issue on Georgia’s political agenda during recent years. Brought to the fore by an alliance of NGO activists and state actors, who formed a common task force, a proposition existed to introduce gender quotas at the 2016 parliamentary elections. However, the parliament did not give majority support to the proposition in the spring of 2016, and no formal quotas were in place when the most recent parliamentary elections took place in October 2016.3 Do the elites in Georgia and Armenia consider this a problem? The elite women do, to a larger extent than the men, and Georgian women once again stand out more than their Armenian counterparts. It is also clear that for Armenian elite men, this state of affairs is hardly anything to worry about; the Georgian men find the situation more problematic. However, on introducing gender quotas as a solution, in the last question aimed at measuring gender equality, the Armenian elite women are slightly more positive than the Georgian women are. Elite men in the two countries are not totally opposed to the idea, but hardly favour it, either. Table 4.1 demonstrates that age affects orientations on gender equality, in some instances significantly. Younger cohorts (18–35 years) are supportive to a higher extent, whereas the elderly (56 and over) are considerably stronger in their views on rejecting female empowerment. In Georgia, this age gap is the widest when it comes to gender roles in the family; 72 per cent among the young lean towards being more gender equal, whereas only 40 per cent of those 56 and older do. Distinct age differences appear when the elite assess whether having few women in politics is a problem and in questions on supporting the introduction of gender quotas, but they are smaller. It is clear that the post-Soviet, and in particular the post-Rose generations in Georgia, hold values that endorse gender equality to a considerably higher extent than the Soviet elite cohort.

Table 4.1 Gender equality and age in Georgia and Armenia (%) Country

50

50

More eq

56.9

50.0

42.6

55.3

40.9

41.7

Less eq Total

43.1

50.0

57.4

44.7

59.1

58.3

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

More eq

10.3

12.9

6.4

12.5

9.9

9.5

Less eq Total

89.7

87.1

93.6

87.5

90.1

90.5

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

More eq

63.8

62.4

47.8

38.1

36.2

35.1

Less eq Total

36.2

37.6

52.2

61.9

63.8

64.9

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

More eq

62.1

67.3

48.9

27.1

36.0

31.1

Less eq Total

37.9

32.7

51.1

72.9

64.0

68.9

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

More eq

72.4

64.4

40.4

25.0

24.2

15.9

Less eq Total

27.6

35.6

59.6

75.0

75.8

84.1

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

More eq

98.3

98.0

89.1

68.1

65.9

50.0

Less eq Total

1.7

2.0

10.9

31.9

34.1

50.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

100.0

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For a moment, I now shift to focus exclusively on the Georgian elite’s perceptions when it comes to arguments for and against gender quotas, questions that were also included in the survey. Since the overall pattern has already been established, indicating that the Georgian elite is more in favour of female political representation than the Armenian one, it is of interest to find out more about the reasons behind support and resistance to one of the major constitutional ways of changing low representation of women. What does the Georgian elite say about the arguments for and against quotas? The three most frequent explanations of why having few women in politics is a problem, considered to be so by 59 per cent of the Georgian interviewees, were that women would support more humane and liberal policies (29 per cent); that equality and balance is needed (20 per cent); and that women can bring a new angle to discussions and decisions (8 per cent). The answers allude to commonly articulated factors in the gender equality debate: fairness, that women bring other, softer, perspectives to the table, or that they just generally bring alternative experiences to the discussion. Other responses among those in the Georgian elite who considered the low representation of women in politics a problem, included women’s ability to solve conflicts better, the necessity of having women realise their full potential, and the illogicality of excluding women who are smart and responsible. Of those interviewees in the Georgian elite who believe having few women in politics is not a problem, 27 per cent explain their response by saying that gender does not make any difference; 15 per cent say men and women have equal opportunities; and 13 per cent see no gender discrimination in that women are so little present. Some respondents (6 per cent) mention that the low representation is more a social problem than a legislative one; that there already are some women in decision-making positions (4 per cent); that men are smarter (2 per cent); and politics is not for women (2 per cent). Overall, the not-a-problem interviewees take a formal position: there are formal equal opportunities, discrimination has been prohibited in Georgia since 2010; or they reject the idea that gender influences interests and opinions.

Conflict resolution Finally, let me return to the theme brought up in the introduction as connected to gender equality, international relations and in Georgia’s case, the territorial conflicts with Russia over Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Perceptions that are supportive of gender equality are today prevalent in Georgia to a higher extent than in Armenia, as indicated above. Is there also an accompanying perceptual pragmatism on conflict resolution among the Georgian elite, according to the “women and peace” hypothesis introduced earlier? Hard-line views, which, for example, hold that Abkhazia should remain without autonomy in Georgia, should – if that is the case – be overshadowed by more “dovish” ones on acceptance of the present situation, where Abkhazia is a de facto state. As shown in Figure 4.2, for the large majority of

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Ideas about settling the conflict in Abkhazia (%) 100 90 80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0 Have Abkhazia within Georgia with a high degree of autonomy

Have Abkhazia as a formal part of Georgia without autonomy

Definitely accept such solution

Abkhazia should be an independent country

Abkhazia should be a formal part of Russia

Might accept it under certain circumstances

Would definitely not accept it

Figure 4.2 Conflict resolutions in Georgia: Ideas about settling the conflict in Abkhazia

the Georgian interviewees (91 per cent), the best idea for the resolution of the conflict in Abkhazia is indeed to have Abkhazia within Georgia with a high degree of autonomy (69 per cent would definitely accept this state of affairs and 22 per cent would accept it under special circumstances). The second most acceptable idea, and the more hawkish one, with 39 per cent definitely supporting it, is to have Abkhazia as a formal part of Georgia without autonomy. The Georgian elite demonstrate when asked generally pragmatic perceptions when it comes to how to resolve the ongoing territorial conflicts.

Concluding remarks What do the mind-sets of the Georgian elite, when gender equality is concerned, tell us about the effects of the transformations that have occurred since 2003? The rapid modernisation and post-modernisation of the economic and political spheres have indeed affected an ingrained patriarchal culture. In comparison to Armenia, the Georgian elite is more progressive and supportive of gender equality, and importantly, this goes for men as well as for women. Whereas a significant proportion of Georgian men in the elite supports gender quotas, consider the low representation by women a problem, and do not endorse that women and men should have distinctly different roles in public life, this is not what Armenian men think, although these two neighbours have followed similar patriarchal trajectories previously. Dynamic change is reflected in gender equality, and a generational divide affecting men more than women is perceivable here.

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Moreover, since 2012, when governmental power shifted from the UNM to Georgian Dream, relations with Russia seem to have developed in a more harmonious direction, which means that the relations are less high-strung and more pragmatic (McFarlane, 2015). This is attributed to a difference in policy agendas, where the UNM and President Saakashvili took dogmatic positions that polarised the entire geopolitical situation, which peaked in the war of 2008. The growing pragmatism may, however, also reflect a successively unfolding change in Georgia’s societal hierarchy, where human relations are becoming more equal. That, as pointed out in the introduction, also translates into international geopolitical relations. Japaridze (2012) finds that representatives of NGOs who work with gender issues in Georgia consider that developments have taken place, but these representatives still perceive that there is an overall lack of political will to bring about change, and believe that recent legislation was mostly a way of pleasing the international community. However, the findings here suggest that the values of the Georgian elite are more gender equal than the present behaviour would suggest. There might be, using the classic title of Inglehart (1977), an ongoing “silent revolution” in Georgia. Post-modernisation – urbanisation, increased education, and a move from industrial to a knowledgebased economy – positively affect the values that emphasise the equality of the sexes, as Inglehart and Norris (2012) show in an article on human security. However, national and subnational cultural and historic setups shape these simultaneous processes of urbanisation and post-modernisation, so that it is by no means straightforward. Thus, in Georgia, the recent economic developments and the move towards a modern, democratic, political order are still “filtered” through a culture of patriarchal beliefs and Soviet-style gender equality, which meant that women carried the majority of responsibilities at home while still being engaged in the labour force. In the introduction, I claimed that the elites are the keys to their societies, in that they not only mirror, but form, opinions, and have the agency and initiative to push for reforms. Even if the Georgian elite is overall pro gender equality to a higher extent than their Armenian counterparts, there certainly exists divergence. Women in the elite still endorse gender quotas to a higher extent than men, who have something to lose with a shift in power, and the men are significantly less in favour of differentiated roles between the sexes in the family. As economic, political, and social transformation now proceed in Georgia, there are reasons to expect that the position of women and their empowerment in society and in the family will be significantly higher on the general agenda. Herein lies the next battleground in Georgian political and social life.

Notes 1 The study is financed by the Swedish Research Council (VR), and I am the principal investigator. The two branches of CRRC were commissioned by me to do the

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actual field work in the countries. I and the persons in charge of this particular study at the CRRCs jointly developed the sample procedure and the questionnaire. 2 I would especially thank project leader Kristine Vacharadze (CRRC-Georgia), and Sona Balasanyan, project leader CRRC-Armenia, as well as Tinatin Zurabishvili of CRRC-Georgia and Heghine Manasyan of CRRC-Armenia. 3 However, some of the political parties are using voluntary quotas, which means having mixed lists, for example in which every second or third name is a woman.

References Aarelaid-Tart, A. (2000). Political Generations in Estonia: A Historical Background to the Formation of the Contemporary Political Scene. In: J. Frenzel-Zágorska & J. Wasilewski, The Second Generation of Democratic Elites in Central and Eastern Europe. Warsaw: Institute of Political Studies. Almond, G. & Verba, S. (1963). The Civic Culture. Political Attitudes and Democracy in Five Nations. New Jersey: Princeton University Press. Berglund, C. (2016). Borders and Belonging, Nation-Building in Georgia’s Armenian and Azerbaijani Ethno-Regions, 2004–2012. Uppsala University: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Berglund, C. & Engvall, J. (2015). How Georgia Stamped Out Corruption on Campus. First they fired the Education Ministry. Then Came the Hard Part. Transitions Forum, Curbing Corruption, Ideas that Work. September. http://www.li.com/activities/publica tions/how-georgia-stamped-out-corruption-on-campus/ [Accessed 29.09.2017] Brounéus, K. (2014). The Women and Peace Hypothesis in Peacebuilding Settings: Attitudes of Women in the Wake of the Rwandan Genocide. Signs, 40(1), pp. 125–151. Cornell, S. (2002). Autonomy and Conflict: Ethnoterritoriality and Separatism in the South Caucasus. Cases in Georgia. Uppsala University: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Dahl, R. (1961). Who Governs? Democracy and Power in an American City. New Haven: Yale University Press. Das Gupta, M. (2015). “Missing Girls” in the South Caucasus Countries. Trends, Possible Causes, and Policy Options. Policy Research Working Paper, 7236, World Bank Group. Eckstein, H. (1991). Regarding Politics. Essays on Political Theory, Stability, and Change. Berkeley: University of California Press. Engvall, J. (2012). Against the Grain: How Georgia Fought Corruption and What It Means. Washington, D.C. Silk Road Paper, September 2012. http://www.silkroad studies.org/publications/silkroad-papers-and-monographs/item/13117-against-thegrain-how-georgia-fought-corruption-and-what-it-means.html. [Accessed 29.09.2017] Etzioni-Halevy, E. ed. (1997). Classes and Elites in Democracy and Democratization. A Collection of Readings. New York and London: Garland Publishing. Frenzel-Zágorska, J. & Wasilewski, J. eds (2000). The Second Generation of Democratic Elites in Central and Eastern Europe. Warsaw: Institute of Political Studies. Fukuyama, F. (1998). Women and the Evolution of World Politics. Foreign Affairs, 77(5), pp. 24–40. Grodsky, B. (2012). Co-optation or Empowerment? The Fate of Pro-Democracy NGOs after the Rose Revolution. Europe-Asia Studies, 64(9), pp. 1684–1708. Groholt, K. & Higley, J. (1972). National Elite Surveys: Some Experience from Norway. Acta Sociologica, 15(2), pp. 168–183.

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Higley, J. & Pakulski, J. (2000). Elite Theory and Research in Postcommunist Societies. In: J. Frenzel-Zágorska & J. Wasilewski eds, The Second Generation of Democratic Elites in Central and Eastern Europe. Warsaw: Institute of Political Studies. Hofstede, G. & Hofstede, G. J. (2005). Cultures and Organizations: Software of the Mind (Revised and expanded 2nd ed.). New York: McGraw-Hill. Hudson, V.M., Caprioli, M., Ballif-Spanvill, B., McDermott, R. & Emmett, C.F. (2008). The Heart of the Matter. The Security of Women and the Security of State. International Security, 33(3), pp. 7–45. Humphrey, R., Miller, R. & Zdravomyslova, E. eds (2003). Biographical Research in Eastern Europe. Altered Lives and Broken Biographies. London: Ashgate. Huntington, S. (1990). The Third Wave. Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century. Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press. Inglehart, R. (1977). The Silent Revolution. Changing Values and Political Styles among Western Publics. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Inglehart, R. (1990). Culture Shift in Advanced Industrial Society. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Inglehart, R. (1997). Modernization and Postmodernization. Cultural, Economic, and Political Change in 43 Societies. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Inglehart, R. & Norris, P. (2003). Rising Tide. Gender Equality and Cultural Change Around the World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Inglehart, R. & Norris, P. (2004). Sacred and Secular. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Inglehart, R. & Norris, P. (2012). The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Understanding Human Security. Scandinavian Political Studies, 35(1), pp. 71–96. Japaridze, E. (2012). Assessment of the Gender Equality Policy in Georgia by Women’s Organizations, Center for Social Sciences, Gender Equality Program, August 2012. McFarlane, S. N. (2015). Two Years of the Dream. Georgian Foreign Policy during the Transition. London: Chatham House, Russia and Eurasia Programme, Research Paper May 2015. Melander, E. (2005). Gender Equality and Intrastate Armed Conflict, International Studies Quarterly, 49(4), pp. 695–714. Mills, C. W. (1956). The Power Elite. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Putnam, R. D. (1973). The Beliefs of Politicians. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Putnam, R. D. (1993). Making Democracy Work. Civic Traditions in Modern Italy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Putnam, R. D. (2000). Bowling Alone. The Collapse and Revival of American Community. New York: Simon & Schuster. Shahnazaryan, N., Badasyan, E. & Movlud, G. (2016). From the Cinderella of Soviet Modernization to the Post-Soviet Return to “National Traditions”: Women’s Rights in Azerbaijan, Armenia, and Georgia. Paper presented at PONARS conference Helsinki, June 10–12 2016. Steen, A. (1997). Between Past and Future: Elites, Democracy and the State in Postcommunist Countries. A Comparison of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Aldershot: Ashgate. Thompson, M., Ellis, R. & Wildavsky, A. (1990). Cultural Theory. Boulder: Westview Press. Wildavsky, A. (1987). Choosing Preferences by Constructing Institutions: A Cultural Theory of Preference Formation, American Political Science Review, 81, pp. 3–21.

Part 2

Neoliberal governance and the gendered enterprising self

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5

Russian hostesses in Japan A way towards self-fulfilment? Yulia Mikhailova

It has been claimed by some authors that, in response to the challenges of neoliberal governance dominating the world nowadays, individuals are becoming entrepreneurs who shape their lives through the choices they make from among the options available to them (Rose, 1999; Hofmann, 2010). As noted in the introduction to this volume, the concept of the “enterprising self” should be studied first and foremost in terms of gender to understand what implications the neoliberal technologies of government might have for women in the postsocialist space. Having lost the protective umbrella of the socialist welfare state, many women in Russia and Eastern Europe have looked for alternative strategies of survival. Thus, Swader and Vorobeva (2015) analysed the process of commodification of intimate relations through the compensated dating system. This chapter concentrates on one more example of commodification of women through the use of their “erotic charms”. These are hostesses at Japanese nightclubs who use their emotional and communicative skills, such as conversing with, comforting, and cheering men, as a way to earn money. Some Russian women found the Japanese example enticing and ventured to work in Japan. Although Japan was not the only country where Russian men and women went in search of opportunities for improving their lives after the collapse of the Soviet Union, this Asian country could have seemed particularly attractive because of its image as an affluent and modern society (Tsvetov, 1986). This chapter explores the narratives of two Russian female migrant workers who worked in Japanese hostess clubs in the 1990s. It demonstrates how these women benefited from Japan’s affluence, which allowed them to earn money through selling their “erotic charms”, and how they attempted to present this demeaning work as an achievement. This chapter argues that these women’s self-representations should be seen in relation to a discriminative gender order and as being nothing more than constructions that helped the women to overcome the denigration and dehumanisation that they were faced with and to establish their respectability (Skeggs, 1997).

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Method This chapter is based on two books written by Russian women in which they describe their experiences of working in Japan. These are Iznanka veera. Prikliuchenia avantiuristki v Iaponii [The Backside of a Fan – An Escapade of an Adventuress in Japan] by Yulia Andreeva (2013, 1st edition 2006) and Poslednii poezd so stantsii Roppongi [The Last Train from Roppongi Station] by Vera Svechina (2005). Both stories start from the moment the decision to go to Japan is taken and end when the women return to Russia with a feeling of self-fulfilment. Andreeva lived in St. Petersburg, and by the time she went to Japan she had already published three books. This time she intended to write about Japan, and she produced the book that is under consideration here. It consists of short chapters of no more than three pages each. The chapters are not written in chronological order, but as flashes of memory that resemble the Japanese literary genre zuihitsu [following the brush], which Andreeva was familiar with. The Backside of a Fan does not pretend to be a deep analysis of Japanese society, and the author simply conveys her feelings experienced in hostess clubs, during festivals, or on the occasion of meeting the Japanese mafia. The book by Vera Svechina tells the story of how an ordinary girl from Moscow, at that time a student of the Moscow Institute of Culture, was able to use her personal resources to earn money in Japan for an education in America, how she became acquainted with the international cinema community, and how she conceived the creation of a film. Both books can be regarded as autobiographical travelogues, and it is important to note that only the opening up of the Soviet Union at the end of the 1980s made such travels possible. Contrary to professional academic writing, travelogues give more space to express what the meeting with a foreign culture means personally to the author in terms of his or her national, ethnic, professional, gender, and sexual identity. As claimed by the travel writer M. Morris, women write about their travels differently from men. Men primarily expose “the world outside, never revealing anything about who they are, their own inner workings … For many women … there is a dialogue between what is happening within and without” (Morris, 1992, p. 68). And it is this dialogue that is of interest to us in the two books analysed here. In the sense that travelogues expose the inner feelings of their authors, they may be seen as having common features with life stories collected and explored by researchers of oral history that are typically seen as self-construed accounts of the self-realisation process and identity formation (Asztalos Morell, 2015, p. 183). We see the same intentions with the authors of travelogues. However, in the case of oral histories it is the interviewer who sets the topic, while in travelogues it is the authors themselves who do this. Scholars engaged in the study of oral history through interviews often raise the problem of “silence” and possible ways to interpret this. Some tend to explain silence as the result of a psychological trauma that the interviewees do

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not want to reveal. Others suggest that it could mean that individuals have nothing to say about some particular issue. Still others imply that it is more difficult to describe the private life for which no public discourse exists (Leinarte, 2016, pp. 3–15). In a similar way, Andreeva and Svechina apparently conceal those features of their experiences that might have been particularly traumatic or unpleasant for them, and they highlight those that help to see their work in Japan in a more favourable way. Yet, the authors of the two travelogues under consideration here vary in revealing their own intimate experience as hostesses working in Japan. It is difficult to determine whether this difference derives from their understanding of the boundaries of “openness” or simply by the lack of experience in a certain area. Andreeva’s purpose was to write about Japan. For Svechina, it was her own life with all its peripeteia and her aspirations for achievement that were the main issues of concern.

Hostess clubs in Japanese corporate culture Before describing the literature on the topic of hostess clubs, a brief explanation of who the hostesses are is necessary. The Income Tax Act of Japan defines them as “entertainers who please guests through dancing, talking, serving drinks and other amusements in special establishments such as cabarets, nightclubs and bars” (Shotokuzeiho, 2005). Hostess clubs appeared in Japan around the time of the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, and they burgeoned during the period of Japan’s economic growth (1960–80). The practice of entertaining a company’s employees and clients outside the company premises after business hours had existed for some time in Japan and could take place at golf courses or in bars and nightclubs. For Japanese businesses, this was simply one more way to control their employees and help maintain their loyalty to the company. Women were invited to make the socialisation process more pleasant, and in this way hostess clubs became a part of Japanese corporate culture (Masuda, 2008, p. 188). Companies began to allocate special budgets for such entertainment and could apply for tax deductions for such expenses (Allison, 1994, p. 9). With the collapse of the “bubble economy” in 1991, hostess clubs lost their former chic, but the business itself did not die out. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, it occurred to the managers of these clubs that unpretentious women from Eastern Europe would cost them less to employ and that they would bring some fresh spirit into the business. These women could enter Japan on an entertainer’s visa valid for three months, and the visas could be extended for another three months.

Literature and sources The topic of hostesses and hostess clubs does not figure very prominently in academic research in Japan. However, several serious publications are

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included in collections of articles discussing issues of sexuality and gender, and most of these are based on evidence collected through participant observation. S. Masuda (2008) evaluates this work in the framework of gender studies emphasising that hostesses epitomise the image of “ideal female behavior” as seen from the masculine viewpoint, and she argues that hostesses must perform as “feminine and subservient women” to please the men’s egos. She also explains that the main part of the hostesses’ job consists of engaging in conversation with the guests, but that young and inexperienced hostesses often have to resort more to their sexual charms than the older and more experienced hostesses (Masuda, 2008, pp. 209–210). These two behaviours are the reason for what she calls “paradoxical images” of hostesses – they are supposed to use their female charms in entertaining guests, but at the same time overt sexual behaviour is considered inappropriate and is forbidden in clubs. If a client wants to establish personal relations with a hostess, this should be practised outside the club. Of particular interest for the present chapter is research conducted by T. Kawabata who worked as an amateur hostess for a year (Kawabata, 1998, pp. 161–194). Kawabata analysed in detail the psychological difficulties she experienced working in a club, and she described the power relations that were at play there. She found that in hostess clubs men perceived the hostesses not as equal human beings but as a “commodity” to be consumed. Thus, one woman could be distinguished from others only if she were to become a “special commodity” for some man. Much of the Japanese-language writings on the topic belong to the socalled “how-to” genre. For example, they contain advice on the best topics for making conversation with clients (Mizuki,1 2015; Asakawa, 2007). Such literature does not seek to explain gender or sexuality issues as they pertain to hostesses’ work, and they simply take the existence of the clubs as a feature of Japanese life. English-language literature on the topic is represented by the research of A. Allison (1994), which, Markus argues, “opens a window onto Japanese corporate culture and gender identities” (Markus, 1994). Allison suggests that the main purpose of hostess clubs is to project an image of a man that is pleasing and potent (Allison, 1994, p. 22). She argues that these images of superiority function as compensation for losses Japanese salarymen experience in other areas of life (for example, long working hours and strict hierarchies) and that they indicate salarymen’s ideologically privileged position in society. In hostess clubs, the hierarchy, which operates during the daytime at work, is broken down. Men feel themselves equal and friendly, but this is achieved at the expense of their treatment of women. Often it is the women’s bodies, especially their breasts as the most visible part, that become the first object of jokes serving as a trigger for relaxation (Allison, 1994, pp. 47–48). The 2012 book Champagne Salary: Diary of a Tokyo Hostess, written by Rose Beach, a former hostess from Canada working in Japan, allows a comparison between stories told by Russians and hostesses from other countries.

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Readers learn that Eastern European women were paid half as much as those from the English-speaking world and experienced more humiliation (Beach, 2012, p. 69). Russian hostesses received an average monthly salary of $1000 plus $15 for daily meals, which was quite a good sum according to Russian living standards of the time. Many women, both Russian and Western, went to Japan to earn money in the hope of fulfilling their dreams, for which money was essential. Beach wanted to write music and release CDs, a woman from Czechoslovakia planned to open an art gallery in her home country. Svechina used the money she made in Japan to receive education in the US and she also conceived creating a film. However, in fact hostesses’ earnings appeared to be insufficient for realising all their dreams. So far no research specifically on Russian hostesses in Japan has been conducted; however, 11 former hostesses were among the 50 informants interviewed by K. Golovina for her PhD thesis about life strategies of Russian women who were married to Japanese men. She suggested that although most of the hostesses cited economic and financial hardships in Russia as the reason for their move to Japan, in reality their reasons were more complicated (Golovina, 2012, pp. 154–155). Usually some family crisis or psychological trauma, such as a divorce or betrayal, instigated the decision to go to Japan in the hope of overcoming such crisis. Golovina also noted that among the migrant hostesses there were “adventuresses” who simply wanted to see Japan and the world. The two “heroines” of this chapter seem to belong to this particular category.

At the intersection of Japanese and postsocialist Russian gender norms The stories told by Russian hostesses were analysed here against the background of the literature on transformation of gender norms and intimacy in postsocialist states, and changes caused by the introduction of a market economy were accentuated. It is generally acknowledged that in the Soviet Union the state played the dominant role in regulating the gender order and in attributing to the family the function of reproducing citizens, while images of romantic love figured on screen and in literature (Temkina & Rotrikh, 2002). Many Soviet citizens tended to see the latter image as the ideal. Authors like D. Shlapentokh claim that in contemporary Russia “buying love became the most desirable way to entice the opposite sex … and many women had no other option but to sell their bodies” (Shlapentokh, 2003, p. 129). However, commodification of sexuality in post-Soviet Russia did not completely oust love as the fundamental value in relationships between men and women. In exploring the new emotional culture of contemporary Russia and its articulations of the concept of love, J. Lerner revealed a complex mechanism between the pulls of a rationalised Western “emotional capitalism” and the historical and cultural energies of “emotional socialism” that resist it. Perceptions of love as a destiny, a moral act, and a value, Lerner argues, permeated the Russian and later the Soviet cultural world (Lerner, 2015, p. 350). Lerner’s

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nuanced analysis helps to understand that although Russian hostesses in Japan might have traded their “erotic capital” for economic benefit, they also sought to establish their respectability in a different way and expected to have romantic relationships with foreign men. Another question discussed in this chapter refers to the problem of how Russian women imagined the Japanese Other in their construction of Selfness. It is now accepted knowledge that any cross-cultural perceptions divide reality into “us” and “them” weighting the scales in favour of the home team (Minear, 1980, p. 515). A historical interrogation into Russian perceptions of Japan demonstrates that alongside encomia towards traditional Japanese culture, attitudes about Japan abounded with racism (Lim, 2013; Bartlett, 2008). However, this has mainly only been explored through the masculine perspective, and the books by Andreeva and Svechina analysed here allow us to see that cultural racism mattered in women’s narratives too. The analysis of gender order in Japan is important for understanding the situation Russian women were put in. The social structure of postwar Japan envisaged the gendered division of labour where men devoted themselves entirely to working in companies, while women acted as housewives. Once married, women were expected to quit their jobs and devote themselves to family life. They could resume work after their children started school, but they were usually employed as office workers serving tea or doing other clerical jobs that did not allow them to develop professionally. Moreover, men and women lived in completely separate worlds. Hired on conditions of life-time employment, the salarymen were required to fully dedicate themselves to the interests of their company, including the after-hours life of drinking and socialising with workmates or customers, often in the company of female bar hostesses (Gordon, 2009, p. 255). The enactment of the Equal Opportunity Law in 1986 and subsequent amendments to it created the legal framework that eliminated many forms of discrimination against women in education and employment practices. However, Japan’s social system provided only limited childcare, inadequate parental leave, inflexible schedules, and long working hours, such that women still had to choose between work and children (Assmann, 2014). The restructuring of the Japanese economy along neoliberal lines starting in the 1990s offered new patterns of work grounded on temporary and contractbased employment for both men and women. This opened new possibilities for women who preferred to achieve financial independence from men and to pursue their personal professional goals (Mirza, 2016, p. 22). Women now tend to postpone the time of getting married, and in their married lives they no longer expect the security guaranteed by their husbands’ employment and instead look for emotional satisfaction and the sharing of domestic work. Contrary to these contemporary Japanese women, some Russian hostesses in Japan hoped to improve their wellbeing by marrying Japanese men. Naturally, the candidates were sought mainly among the club clients and, ironically, after marriage the husbands continued to visit the clubs while the women

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turned into “professional housewives” (Golovina, 2012, p. 158). Neither Yulia Andreeva nor Vera Svechina intended to follow this pattern.

Analyses Yulia Andreeva: Japan – exotic and consumable In what follows we shall see how two Russian hostesses described their job in Japan, what strategies and cultural resources they mobilised to establish their livelihood, what sense was made of these life strategies, and what self-representations were formed. Andreeva tells readers that in 1999 the publisher she worked with went bankrupt as a result of the financial crisis, and she lost her job and was compelled to earn money by dancing in a second-rate club. At this time she came across an advertisement in a newspaper about recruiting hostesses to work in Japan. She thought of herself as a clever, beautiful, talented, and intelligent woman worthy of a decent life, and looked at the hostess job with the suspicion that she would be involved in prostitution, but decided to try it anyway. She justified the decision to go to Japan by her interest in the country and the wish to write a new book. As though trying to uplift her status, Yulia embarked on an airplane to Japan with a volume of Skaldic poetry, hardly the usual reading for the average person. The description of the hostess work by Andreeva follows. When a client first comes to a club, he is shown photographs of hostesses, and as soon as he selects one he has to pay for his request. The chosen woman receives a certain percentage from the sum. The more alcohol the guest drinks and the more requests he makes for a particular girl, the more tips this hostess earns. According to Andreeva, these personal requests depend significantly upon the ability of a hostess to flatter the client by praising his singing, his kindness, or his fine look. Andreeva was proud that she could combine entertaining clients with conversation and dancing performances for which she received additional tips. Otherwise her usual work consisted of pouring drinks, lighting cigarettes, playing games, singing karaoke, making clients sing, and telling interesting stories. In the beginning of the employment period, the Russian hostesses hardly spoke any Japanese or even English, so often they simply sat smiling beside a client. However, as time passed and some competence in Japanese was gained, they became able to prepare topics for conversation. Andreeva writes: No one will pay you just for your beautiful eyes. You must earn it through your talent and work. You have to dance, sing karaoke, be able to suggest a theme for a conversation and find a clue to your client’s heart. You must be able to understand why he has come to the club, what he lacks in his usual life. Find out his dreams and hidden wishes and promise to make them come true. This is a great skill, psychology, and a way of life. (Andreeva, 2013, p. 120)

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The other part of the hostesses’ work, as explained by Andreeva and Svechina, consisted in the so-called dohan – a meeting with a client before heading to a club together for the evening. This time could be spent going to a restaurant, shopping, or sight seeing, and it guaranteed the client’s visit to the club. The number of dohan per month was prescribed in the contract, and hostesses received about 20 dollars or more for each depending upon the level of the club. However, clients often gave hostesses additional money or gifts. This is what Beach called the “champagne salary”, meaning that it seemed easy to earn the money, but receiving them could inflict various dangers. According to Andreeva, the work of a hostess involved various health risks such as drinking alcohol every day or consuming food during the night, which could cause weight gain and subsequent problems with the club managers who required that hostesses maintain a particular weight. The women lived in apartments not equipped with air conditioning or heaters, and there were cases where heart attacks occurred during the summer heat (Andreeva, 2013, p. 151). Sometimes an agreement between hostesses and managers to substitute alcohol with non-alcoholic drinks could be reached, although the clients were still charged the price for alcohol (Andreeva, 2013, pp. 125–126). The Russian hostesses, as explained by Andreeva, were very attentive to their health because this influenced their ability to work and, hence, their financial gains. The club management could impose a penalty for returning home later than one hour after work. Allegedly, this was an issue of security, but in fact it was to prevent communication with clients outside the club and to limit the hostesses’ freedom (Andreeva, 2013, p. 130). Some clubs even regulated hairstyles and organised daily meetings in which the hostesses’ performance was assessed (Beach, 2012, p. 72). However, mutual assistance and solidarity between the hostesses often allowed them to negotiate better working and living conditions. Andreeva’s book The Backside of a Fan contains a chapter under the title “Drunks, rags, lousy – but overall the Japanese”. In this particular chapter she merely points out that the Japanese drink too much, come to clubs in unkempt clothes, and behave rudely. Nevertheless, this title might also stand for her general irritation with many aspects of Japanese life. For Andreeva, Japan, in spite of its affluence, was quite a boring country. From her viewpoint, the company of merry, though poor, Russian girls could provide the Japanese with precious emotional experiences that they would talk to their co-workers about for weeks. Most of all, Andreeva was indignant with the attitude of Japanese men towards Japanese women; their behaviour, according to her, was devoid of any chivalry or romanticism (Andreeva, 2013, pp. 47–48). She claimed that Japanese women were obliged to take care of the home and to ensure that the family upheld the social standards of decorum. At the same time, she believed that married Japanese women were deprived of any possibility to express their emotions, including sexual needs or feelings. The explanation for this she saw in cramped living conditions and the obedience of women to men. Most likely

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her accounts were based on stories she heard from club guests who, as a rule, belonged to the older generation. As such, in her book she reproduces many stereotypes about Japan dating back to the 1970s and 1980s. Nowadays, more and more marriages in Japan are based on mutual affection, and living conditions have significantly improved. However, these stereotypes helped her ascertain the superiority of Russian women, to elevate her own status as a Russian and to denigrate the Japanese (Andreeva, 2013, p. 21). If Andreeva treated contemporary Japanese society with a certain irritation and contempt, old Japan – with its temples and shrines, traditional festivals, and exotic nature – infatuated her. For example, she writes: Japan, with its small gardens and temples, eagles hovering above in the sky, a little heron, which lived on the river nearby our house and seemed to be woven out of fantasies, such Japan is a treasure. This glaring and unusual treasure remains in dreams and visions of everyone who has ever stepped on the soil of Japan. (Andreeva, 2013, p. 177) An elderly photographer from among Andreeva’s clients used to take her to natural places not frequently visited by tourists, and she writes with excitement about swimming in a whirlpool and crossing a river in the mountains over a hanging bridge. However, the delight she experienced towards Japan, be it visiting a temple or bathing in a hot spring, always contained a glimpse of irony; it looked “cool” and “edgy”, but was in fact a contemporary expression of Orientalism and positioning herself as Japan’s Other. Her book is full of descriptions which emphasise Japan’s uniqueness, difference, and exoticism, but she admits that after staying in Japan for nine months it remained to her no less a topsy-turvy land than when she had first arrived there. In many instances, she could not understand the behaviour of the Japanese who seemed to her like fish locked in an aquarium. Moreover, she insisted that Japan should remain an enigma – otherwise its charm would be lost. In this way she distanced herself from Japan. However, many readers praised her book for these particular features. This means that in contemporary Russia, a yearning for Japanese exoticism continues to exist in the same way as it did a hundred years ago. Other readers, in contrast, criticised her book for being too emotional and lacking substance and honesty (Ozon. ru, n.d.). At the same time, Andreeva writes that the work of a hostess might give women many opportunities for self-realisation: Living in the world where no relatives and friends exist nearby, hostesses have to rely only on themselves. These girls acquire personal strength and confidence, which helps them survive. … They master foreign languages and learn dancing, they retell interesting stories, and they gain psychological qualities that enable them to understand their clients better …

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Yulia Mikhailova They learn how to work with various people, how to become wise and patient. It is no wonder that many former hostesses established their own businesses or were employed by the most prestigious companies in Russia. Those who have experienced the process of schooling as hostesses in Japan are now able to conquer the world. (Andreeva, 2013, pp. 242–244)

In evaluating Andreeva’s book, it should be noted that she described a phenomenon new to Russian readers. She showed well the dehumanising nature of the hostesses’ work, but she also assessed it as an opportunity to enhance women’s chances for crafting their own life courses. At the same time, her perceptions of Japan and its people conveyed a certain sense of superiority, which might be interpreted as a device to assert oneself. Vera Svechina: a sweet feeling of unlimited freedom In the beginning of her book, Svechina gives a description of her Soviet childhood. She lived in the small town of Obninsk near Moscow. As elsewhere in the Soviet Union, diligent study at school and social activities were considered most important; no one thought about money because no one had any. She was brought up in a typical well-regulated Soviet family with average means for existence. Clothes were passed from elder to younger children, and family members toiled in the summer on their plot of land in the countryside, and in the winter they consumed the food they had preserved. She recalled with regret her seventh birthday when, instead of cakes and salads, boiled potatoes and borsch were served (Svechina, 2005, p. 16). Her parents strictly controlled their daughter’s behaviour, requiring her to come home before dark. Her assumptions about relations between men and women were rather orthodox. Like many other Soviet girls, she dreamed about “a prince on a white horse” whom she would marry and live happily with until the end of her life. At the same time, she was also interested in self-fulfilment through other means than marriage and raising children. She wanted to realise herself as an individual. Longing for some creative activity, Vera began studying in the Department of Cultural Programs of the Moscow Institute of Culture. In 1993, she went with a friend who had an interview at a company that recruited Russian women to work as hostesses in Japan. She was afraid that her friend would be hired as a prostitute and wanted to protect her, but the atmosphere during the interview seemed trustworthy and she herself was given the offer of going to Japan for a monthly salary of $600. It was not Japan itself that attracted her, but rather an expectation of a “sweet feeling of unlimited freedom” – she was eager to see the world (Svechina, 2005, p. 24). The work in the hostess clubs appeared to be easy and pleasant for Vera, though in the beginning she felt discomfort with the Japanese practice of giving gifts – she was puzzled as to how to interpret them. Vera wondered whether she had to reciprocate with sex, as some clients wanted, and if so,

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whether this man was obliged to marry her or not (Svechina, 2005, p. 53). As mentioned earlier, traditionally Russian women expect to be courted by men in a romantic way, and some manifestation of love is supposed to be expressed. In Russia of the 1990s, giving gifts for sex often replaced love (Swader and Vorobeva, 2015), thus it was logical for Vera to anticipate that as soon as a man begins to “invest” money into a woman, he would demand possessing her in return. However, in the Japanese context this was not always a necessity, and soon Vera managed to avoid requests for sexual intimacy, which she found repulsive. She learned how to manipulate men so as to receive gifts that she wanted and could sell for cash at resale shops. Vera believed that in Japan she would find her love, but the young man she got acquainted with in the club and seemed to fall in love with was not attracted sexually to her; he had a family and socialised with other hostesses, but at the same time gave her generous presents. Analysing her state of mind at that time, Vera writes: “I could not understand what the words ‘I love you’ really mean. How could one be married, but simultaneously attend a club and meet with hostesses” (Svechina, 2005, p. 76). Summing up her first period of stay in Japan, Vera remarks: “Now I understand that I am only a toy, an amusement for them, though very much longed for. I am amazed at my own naïve belief that I would find sincere understanding and love here. However, I knew that in Japan I could earn a lot of money” (Svechina, 2005, p. 106). What was going on inside her consciousness was a collision of old Soviet, contemporary Russian, and old and new Japanese value systems. Towards self-fulfilment The work at the hostess clubs caused Vera to re-evaluate her notions about love and marriage, and she began thinking about her future life more seriously. Upon returning to Russia, she graduated from the Moscow Institute of Culture and took a job in a company where she could master computer technology. Seeing that many Russians were moving to America, she decided to go there too and study filmmaking. She applied to various educational institutions only to find out how costly the education was. The easiest way to earn money seemed to be the work she had done in Japan. At that time, a deeper shift in identity was going on inside Vera. A casual meeting on an airplane with a man from New Zealand and subsequent email correspondence with him made Vera reconsider her life. The New Zealander discussed with her such serious problems as the meaning of life and encouraged her to strive for achievement. He also made her think of herself as an interesting individual. She was ashamed to tell him the truth about her work in the hostess clubs, and she felt guilt that her behaviour was wrong. Vera understood that it was necessary to change her life and to find a way to fulfil the dreams she had in her youth, but she was afraid to give up earning money. The only thing she was sure about was her rejection of the prospect of

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becoming the wife of a Japanese businessman and thus losing her independence. So, Vera went again to Japan to earn money for her study at San Francisco Academy of Arts, which she had been accepted to. One day Vera received a video camera as a present from one of her clients, and she began carrying it with her all the time. However, the clients did not like her using the camera because her attention, which they had paid for, was now directed not at them, but at what she was seeing through the lens. As Vera points out, “A girl who studied in America did not look like a weak and submissive creature” as a hostess was supposed to be (Svechina, 2005, p. 139). Also, from that time on she decided to use her real Russian name, not the moniker she had at the club. This was a small but important sign of her changing identity. No more did she want to serve the Japanese, and she aspired to become an independent woman who could achieve all of her personal goals. That summer, Vera shot some clips of the hostess club. She attempted to address the topic of why the Japanese, who themselves go to clubs, consider them to be a “dirty place”. However, the number of her guests began to decrease, and it became clear that no one in Japan wanted to know the truth about the “hostess business”, and no one was interested in her as an individual with her own ambitions. However, when she showed her dean in San Francisco the film clips shot in Tokyo, he was shocked by the novelty of the topic and advised Vera to assemble the clips together and to work on the film. During the three years she spent studying in San Francisco, she returned to Japan several times to earn money. This made her feel more ambivalent about herself; was she a Japanese hostess or a Western girl dreaming of making a film? Was the topic she had chosen worthy of a film, or did she just want to get revenge on the Japanese men who humiliated her? At the same time, thanks to her own wits, Vera became acquainted with Tom Luddy, an American film producer and the co-founder of the Telluride Film Festival held in Telluride, Colorado since 1974. She got a job as an interpreter there and became acquainted with film directors, scriptwriters, and other people from the cinema world of different countries including Russia, Kazakhstan, Japan, France, and the US. She also managed to get to the Cannes Film Festival and to stand on the famous staircase covered with red carpet. Her photographs shot there for a Russian newspaper were published, though she does not specify in her book which newspaper it was. She also realised that in Russia films were treated more as art, and not as a way to earn money. She continued taking photographs, publishing them in magazines and exhibiting at various places on occasion. Even the small sums of money she received for this work made her feel happy because she earned them as a professional. In 1999, she graduated from the Academy of Arts. It was the famous Russian-Georgian-French film director Otar Iosseliani who read Vera’s sketches for the film about hostesses and advised her to write a full script. The Russian filmmaker Alexander Borodiansky also liked the

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idea of such a film and helped her with having the script translated into English. The Japanese producer Mata Yamamoto suggested the title – The Last Train from Roppongi Station. Another Russian producer and scriptwriter, Sergey Sel’yanov, famous for his films Brat [Brother] and Brat-2, promised to find her money for making the film on the condition that she finds a Japanese co-producer. Asai Takashi agreed and, according to her book, work on the film started in Russia in 2005, but ended quite quickly because the promised funding from the State Committee for Cinematography never materialised. Nevertheless, the book with the same title as the planned film was already written by this time. In the book, Vera refers to her correspondence with a French friend from the cinema world. While she was proud of having unique knowledge about this aspect of Japanese life, hidden from outsiders, and was ready to tell the world the truth about Japan, this friend admired her more for her personality as a Russian woman who desperately struggled for survival. He wrote: “I respect you for being able to go to Japan, for saving money earned in hostess clubs, and for going to study in San Francisco.” Somewhat stereotypically, he emphasised the valour and dignity of Russian women pushed by life circumstances into overcoming various hardships, and he compared her courage to that of soldiers fighting on the front-line (Svechina, 2005, p. 221). Vera was grateful to Japan as the country that provided her with financial means, but she has never stopped making fun of the Japanese who, according to her, had a strange custom of giving money to everyone everywhere as if trying to raise their status and self-esteem. Vera came to Japan in the hope of finding her “prince”, so it is somewhat remarkable that when a man who offered her his hand and heart appeared, she made the choice in favour of her professional interests. When she met with the Russian cinema world and observed Russians at international film festivals, she felt proud of being a Russian in the international arena.

Conclusion This chapter has presented stories of two Russian women who sought selfachievement by working in Japan as hostesses. Realising the disparaging nature of this job and feeling ambiguity about the means they had chosen, these women created narratives in which they attempted to justify their choices and to present their life and work in a more respectable way. They aspired to become professionals – a writer, photographer, or filmmaker – but their work at the hostess clubs continued to plague their future lives. Another book published by Andreeva tells readers how to upsell clients for money. Here she attempts to affirm even more strongly than in The Backside of a Fan that it was the women who “consumed” men in the hostess clubs, and not the other way around, and she calls this a “perfect way of obtaining financial independence and the respect and love of friends” (Andreeva, 2005).

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Svechina wanted to earn money to study at an American university and to create a film telling the truth about hostess clubs. Though she managed to graduate from the university, she failed to complete the film, which would have revealed one side of gender discrimination in Japan. Instead, she opened a striptease café in San Francisco ostensibly with the purpose to “demonstrate the beauty of the female body” and to “eradicate the stereotype that the work of a stripper is disgraceful” (Skopintseva, 2010). This brings us to the conclusion that although in theory the neoliberal economy might have opened new possibilities for women in Japan and elsewhere, the realities of their options were shaped by the patriarchal gender order that placed them in a discriminative position. In their autobiographies, Andreeva and Svechina confront this morally demeaning situation, but rather than placing themselves in the role of the victim, they represent themselves as aspiring, purposeful, and active entrepreneurs. Utilising Skeggs’ (1997) notion of respectability, these narratives can be seen as manifestations for handling the denigration they experienced in real life and establishing themselves as human beings deserving of respect.

Note 1 “Mizuki” is not a proper name but a word constructed to define the hostess business where “mizu” (water) refers to drinks poured into clients’ glasses.

References Allison, A. (1994). Nightwork. Sexuality, Pleasure, and Masculinity in a Tokyo Hostess Club. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Andreeva, Y. (2005). Kak raskrutit “klienta” na dengi. Available at http://fanread.ru/ book/9525532/ [Accessed 1.05.2017]. Andreeva, Y. (2013). Iznanka veera. Priklyucheniya avatyuristki v Iaponii. 2nd ed. Sankt-Peterburg: Amfora. Asakawa, N. (2007). Yoru no Ginza no shihonron – okane o moteru hito ni naru. Tokyo: Chuokoron Shinsha. Assmann, S. (2014). Gender Equality in Japan: The Equal Employment Opportunity Law Revisited. The Asia-Pacific Journal: Japan Focus, 45. http://apjjf.org/2014/12/ 45/Stephanie-Assmann/4211.html [Accessed 1.05.2017]. Asztalos Morell, I. (2015). Self-Sacrificing Motherhood: Reconciling Traumatic Life Experiences of Hungarian Collectivisation. In: Melanie Ilic & Dalia Leinarte, eds. The Soviet Past in the Post-Socialist Present: Methodology and Ethics in Russian Baltic and Central European Oral History and Memory Studies. New York: Routledge, pp. 179–198. Bartlett, R. (2008). Japonisme and Japanophobia: The Russo-Japanese War in Russian Cultural Consciousness. The Russian Review, 67, pp. 8–33. Beach, R. (2012). Champagne Salary: Diary of a Tokyo Hostess. New York: Pegasus Books. Golovina, K. (2012). Russian Female Migrants Married to Japanese Men: The Process of Life-Crafting from the Perspective of Agency. PhD Thesis. Tokyo University.

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Gordon, A. (2009). A Modern History of Japan. 2nd ed. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hofmann, S. (2010). Corporeal Entrepreneurship and Neoliberal Agency in the Sex Trade at the US-Mexican Border. Women’s Studies Quarterly. (Fall), pp. 233–256. http://www.proquest.com/products-services/ProQuest-Research-Library.html [Accessed 28.02.2017]. Kawabata, T. (1998). Shiroto hosutesu kara mita “onna rashisa” no wana. In: K. Kawano, ed. Shirizu “Josei to shinri” 2. Sekushuarite o megutte. Tokyo: Shinsuisha, pp. 161–194. Leinarte, D. (2016). Silence in Biographical Accounts and Life Stories: The Ethical Aspects of Interpretation. In: M. Ilic and D. Leinarte, eds. The Soviet Past in the Post-Socialist Present. New York and London: Routledge, pp. 11–18. Lerner, J. (2015). The Changing Meanings of Russian Love: Emotional Socialism and Therapeutic Culture on the Post-Soviet screen. Sexuality and Culture, 19(2), pp. 349–368. Available at https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007%2Fs12119-014-9261-2 [Accessed 11.12.2016]. Lim, S. (2013). China and Japan in the Russian Imagination, 1685–1922. London & New York: Routledge. Markus, G. (1994). Nightwork. Sexuality, Pleasure and Corporate Masculinity in a Tokyo Hostess Club. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Masuda, S. (2008). Hosutesutachi wa nani o uru? In: S. Inoue ed. Seiyoku no bunka shi. Tokyo: Kodansha, Vol. 1, pp. 184–216. Minear, R. (1980). Orientalism and the Study of Japan. Journal of Asian Studies, 39(3), pp. 507–517. Mirza, V. (2016). Young Women and Social Change in Japan: Family and Marriage in a Time of Upheaval. Japanese Studies, 36(1), pp. 21–37. Mizuki. (2015). How Hostess Number One on Ginza Talks. Tokyo: Daiwa Shobo. Morris, M. (1992). Women and Travel. Ms, 2(6). Available at Proquest Research Library. [Accessed 2.05.2017]. Ozon.ru (n.d.) Reviews of the book by Y. Andreeva. http://www.ozon.ru/context/detail/ id/2507565/ [Accessed 2.05.2017]. Rose, N. (1999). Governing the Soul: The Shaping of the Private Self. 2nd ed. London: Free Association Books. Shlapentokh, D. (2003). Making Love in Yeltsin’s Russia: A Case of ‘Demedicalization’ and ‘De-Normalization’. Crime, Law and Social Change, 39, pp. 117–162. Available at: Proquest Research Library. [Accessed 2.05.2017]. Shotokuzeiho 204 ni tsuite. (2005). Available at http://zeirishi.tk/81.html [Accessed 1.05.2017]. Skeggs, B. (1997). Formations of Class and Gender. Becoming Respectable. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage Publications. Skopintseva, L. (2010). V bleske tel. http://www.chaskor.ru/article/v_bleske_tel_18476 [Accessed 2.05.2017]. Svechina, V. (2005). Poslednii poezd so stantsii Roppongi. St. Petersburg: Redfish. Swader, C. and Vorobeva, I. (2015). Receiving Gifts for Sex in Moscow, Kyiv, and Minsk: A Compensated Dating Survey. Sexuality and Culture. Special Issue on Post-Soviet Intimacies, 19(2), pp. 321–348. Available at doi: 10.1007/s12119–014– 9269–7 [Accessed 2.05.2017]. Temkina, A. and Rotrikh, A. (2002). Sovetskie gendernye kontrakty i ikh transformatsiya v sovremennoi Rossii. Sotsiologicheskie issledovaniya, 11, pp. 4–14. Tsvetov, V. (1986). Pyatnadtsatyi kamen sada Ryoanji. Moskow: Roslit.

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Postsocialist gender failures Men in the economies of recognition Artu-ras Tereškinas

In her book on Oprah Winfrey, the sociologist Eva Illouz looks into the mechanisms that convert personal failure into success. She argues that American culture “has a cultural mechanism to transform failure into a positive experience”. The example of Oprah Winfrey, who skilfully exploited the cultural phenomenon of the “therapeutic biography” points to the ways that failures can be recycled into personal victories and successes (Illouz, 2003, p. 34). Illouz also raises the question of the gendering of failure and psychic distress. In her view, in postindustrial capitalism women are more likely to experience psychic disorders as well as failures because of patriarchy and the multiple gender roles that they are forced to perform. The relation between gender and failure has also been examined in more detail by Judith Halberstam. According to her, personal failure can be regarded as a refusal to conform to the dominant logics of power and discipline offered by capitalism. By practising failure, one not only exploits “the unpredictability of ideology and its indeterminate qualities”, but also looks for alternative ways to survive and flourish in a market economy (Halberstam, 2011, p. 88). Differently from Illouz, Halberstam conceptualises failure not only as a source of misery and humiliation, but also as an act of resistance and liberation. She also argues that for women, failures “often mean being relieved of the pressure to measure up to patriarchal ideals, not succeeding at womanhood can offer unexpected pleasures” (Halberstam, 2011, p. 4). The same can be said about some groups of socially excluded men, including unemployed men who refuse to acquiesce to the dominant discourse of manhood. The gendering of failure and success is particularly relevant in postsocialist contexts marked by interlocking logics of historically inherited optimism and capitalist precarity. In the socialist society of optimistic fantasies designed to sustain the reproduction of life, the stories of success and winning prevailed. The state promised working-class dignity and freedom, equal rights for men and women, and human flourishing. Officially, people were required to be full-time workers and were guaranteed employment by the state. In the words of Katherine Verdery, “Inequality, hunger, poverty, and exploitation – to these perennial features of the human condition socialism offered a response” (Verdery, 1996, p. 4), but in the end the state failed to make good on these haughty promises.

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Postsocialist economic and social changes that brought along disorientation, disappointment, and disenchantment challenged these optimistic fantasies. Yet, paradoxically, in attempting to adjust to complex economic and social environments, both men and women invented a new “optimism of learning from one’s precarity” (Berlant, 2011, p. 93). In my view, this optimism derived from their passionate attachment to socially approved and widely accepted genres of the good life based on the objects that direct people to happiness. These objects customarily include financial security, stable employment, conventional intimacy, traditional family/partnership, and reliable social welfare. Illouz, Halberstam, and Berlant’s ideas about success, precarity, and failure encouraged me to ponder not only what failure means but also how some social groups turn it into a social norm in postsocialist Lithuania. This article focuses on men who bear their personal failures as an identity. The narratives of unemployed men are examined against the backdrop of the public discourse that produces the social framework through which male subjects are recognised as men. Unemployed men were chosen not only to demonstrate the complexity of the issues of failure and success, but also, to use Halberstam’s words, to criticise “static models of success and failure” (Halberstam, 2011, p. 2) in a postsocialist society dominated by neoliberal rhetoric. In choosing this topic, I did not intend to produce a therapeutic story about transformations of postsocialist gender regimes, but instead sought to examine masculinity as a social genre that is particularly prone to failure. How do unemployed men conceptualise the relationship between failure and masculinity, and in what ways do they gender their personal failures? How does the prevailing ideology of neoliberalism based on individual rationality, competition, and economic growth affect gender normativity in postsocialist Lithuania? In answering these questions, I focus in the first part of the article on the relation of masculinity and recognition that is relevant to the analysis of men’s failures. In the second part, I examine the neoliberal rhetorics that predominate in the public space in Lithuania and their intersection with normative masculinity. In the third part of the article, I analyse unemployed Lithuanian men’s understanding of masculinity and failure.

Masculinity and recognition: from socialism to postsocialism To discuss gendered failures, it is necessary to dwell on the concept of masculinity. In this article, masculinity is thought of as a flexible social genre that patterns men’s expectations and organises their behaviours, hopes, and emotions. This conception complements the dominant research tradition (Carrigan, Connell & Lee, 1985; Adams & Savran, 2002; Connell, 2005) that conceives masculinity as a practice through which men reiterate socially established gender norms. Because of its flexible and unstable nature, different masculinities can be seen as “spaces of transformation, nodal points that are supposed to produce general social intelligibility while encrusted with constantly changing noncoherent meanings” (Berlant, 1997, p. 86).

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Another contention I make here is that masculinity as a social genre is related to the process of social recognition. Men desire recognition that makes them socially vital beings (Butler, 2004, pp. 1–2), but to be recognised they must reproduce themselves as subjects who conform to dominant social norms. In talking about social recognition, it is important to point out that this is not equal to self-definition and that it is indeed dependent on hegemonic norms and concepts (Butler & Athanasiou, 2013, p. 79). On the other hand, the norms that one has to ceaselessly actualise are compulsory but not totally deterministic. First of all, normative schemes might contradict each other due to broader processes of power that either consolidate or destroy them. For this reason, there are always some men and some lives that are not acknowledged or recognised as “real” (Butler, 2009, p. 4). Second, by (re)citing the norms of masculinity that might be distorted during this process, men realise themselves in their everyday interactions with others. Third, the norms of masculinity are rarely explicitly expressed; most often they are only implied (Butler, 2004, pp. 41–48). These norms are most conspicuous only in their effects, i.e., in socially recognised or unrecognised men and their behaviours. Beverley Skeggs associates social recognition with respect and differentiates these two phenomena by class. In her opinion, each class, and even men and women of the same class, adhere to different criteria for respect and recognition. Different forms of masculinity practices are also based on class (Skeggs, 2004, pp. 99–103). For instance, working-class men earn their respect for their ability to carry out physical work, and they emphasise such features of masculinity as physical strength and sexual prowess (Connell, 2005; Heron, 2006). Middle-class men tend to be less focused on a powerful and physically enduring male body and relate their masculinity to personal responsibility, rational choice, and the ability to control their lives. The masculinity practices and values of this class prevail in contemporary Western societies; therefore, according to Skeggs, the “reflexive, enterprising, individualizing, rational, prosthetic, or possessive self” (Skeggs, 2011, p. 496) comprises the essence of a governmental normative subject. In postsocialist Europe, the capitalist subject of value is “pre-disposed to labour [and] driven by the lure of money”, and conspicuous consumption “is promoted across government policy, political rhetoric, popular culture and academic discourse as the normative, the good and proper subject” (Skeggs, 2011, p. 502). Following Skeggs (2011), it is possible to argue that it is this perception of the capitalist subject of value that makes men accept compulsory normative masculinity. This is particularly obvious in postsocialist states that are attempting to rethink and reconstruct the notions of personhood. As it has been argued by researchers of gender in socialist countries (Ashwin, 2000; Meshcherkina, 2000), under socialism male identities were determined by their position in the service of the state, and the official discourse defined men “as workers and soldiers – that is, as defenders of the country and of socialism” (Oates-Indruchova, 2006, p. 429). In the official socialist rhetoric, no failed masculinity was possible. The official positive

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outlook excluded all gender failures as relics of the bourgeois past, and both men and women were forbidden to dwell on pessimistic wavering and ideological dead ends. Normative masculinity was based on the optimistic working-class hero capable of almost superhuman victories and triumphs. Physical strength, discipline, and optimism comprised the core of this masculinity. It can be said that this masculinity as a social genre served perfectly as a means of social control directed at disseminating historical optimism and positive thinking. For this reason, an alienated and lonely hero was largely invisible or visible only in some spheres, and although some researchers argue that the lonely, psychologically fragile, and tearful man was characteristic of some canonical . literary works and film in late socialist Lithuania (Mikonis-Railiene & . . Kaminskaite-Jancˇ oriene, 2015), the image of the socialist “super-hero” dominated the official discourse. Nonetheless, it should be added that, according to Asztalos Morell and Tiurikova (2014), the Soviet system was not all pervasive and in addition to normative masculinity, alternative masculinities existed in informal economies that served as arenas of survival strategies for some men. Thus, besides the socialist super-hero visible in the professional sphere, men as responsible fathers and caretakers emerged as an alternative to official images of manhood (see Kukhterin, 2000; Kay, 2006). However, in this chapter, I focus more on the public discourse than on informal economies that might have produced different logics for masculine behaviour. Paradoxically, the shift from the optimistic working-class super-hero extolled in the public socialist discourse to the compulsory capitalist subject of value appears rather inconspicuous and smooth in Lithuania. The only major change that occurred in the perception of masculinity was that it lost its connection to the state and succumbed to the individualising logic of neoliberal markets. But, as in socialist Lithuania, an optimistic ethos of winners that values such masculine characteristics as efficiency and competitiveness is exalted in the country. It should be mentioned, however, that the collectivism of official socialist doctrine was replaced by burgeoning individualism of neoliberal rhetoric in which an enterprising and self-reliant man became an emblem of contemporary gender politics. To be socially recognised, men have to stick to the norm of postsocialist masculinity based on economic and financial success and on the delegation of all responsibility for their successes and downfalls only to themselves.

Intersection of neoliberal rhetoric and masculinity In the Lithuanian public discourse, neoliberal ideology, based on the advocacy of individual rationality, competition, and economic growth, is naturalised and regarded as a core of the capitalist economy. According to Skaidra . Trilupaityte, both the prevalence of neoliberal ideology and disdain for the socialist past influenced the obliteration of the issues of social welfare in the postsocialist Lithuanian public discourse. After more than 20 years of independence, neoliberal “common sense” continues to halt the discussions on

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social justice and even capitalist exploitation in the country that “‘only . recently’ got rid of the Soviet regime” (Trilupaityte, 2015, p. 199). The Lithuanian Institute of Free Market, one of the most important institutions of neoliberalism, has been persistently advocating “an individual freedom and an . opposition between a (good) market and a (bad) public sector” (Trilupaityte, 2015, pp. 23–24). The public sector is often described as a genuine evil that produces all of the flaws in managing public resources. Even one of the most visible public intellectuals argued in his essays that “nobody, except some ideological dinosaurs, believe[d] in grand alternatives to liberal democracy, free market economy, private property and the leading role of the West in modern world” (Donskis, 2004, p. 95). Moreover, the predominant public rhetoric extols instability as a powerful stimulant of global and transnational economy. The Lithuanian economy will react, in the words of the founder of the Forum of Knowledge Economy Arvydas Sekmokas, to the “changes and spaces for [future] visions inseparable from globalization” (quoted in . Trilupaityte, 2015, pp. 87–88). As some public commentators have noted, in the dominant neoliberal rhetoric, “any protest, a demand for social justice and the questioning of property redistribution (so-called ‘prikhvatizacija’ from the Russian word that means ‘grabbing away’) was instantly labelled as a sign of a complaining homo sovieticus” (Martinkus, 2010) who could not keep up with economic and social changes. Furthermore, anyone who talks of the welfare state, generous social benefits, a large public sector, and progressive taxes is automatically categorised as a socialist or even a socialistically inclined populist. The incessant promotion of neoliberalism as a dominant capitalist philosophy in Lithuania goes along with responsibilisation, i.e. “the process of producing self-reliant individuals” (Butler, 2009, p. 35), and the individualisation of poverty and social inequalities. It is not too far-fetched to say that the goal of this neoliberal philosophy is “the generalization of precarious wage labor and social insecurity, turned into the privileged engine of economic activity” (Bourdieu & Wacquant, 2001, p. 3). A self-reliant and enterprising citizen responsible for himself is at the epicentre of the neoliberal rhetoric appropriated by both the political right and centre in Lithuania. This citizen “is encouraged to bravely face the challenges of globalization, i.e. to labor [consistently] instead of being . dependent on the state” (Trilupaityte, 2015, p. 109). All who do not fall under the label of such a citizen are reproached as an economic underclass and shamed into stigmatised existence. One of the influential media commentators calls these citizens “trailer trash … village drunks, drunkards, people giving birth to children for social benefits, alcoholic cockroaches, or, in an exact and neutral manner, people on social welfare” (Užkalnis, 2013). This underclass only matters insofar as it is used as an object of hatred and shaming, which becomes a “powerful and potentially destructive and violent way to patrol the borders of normality” (Probyn, 2005, p. xvi). Violent shaming and the politics of contempt directed towards the most

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vulnerable (blaming the vulnerable for being vulnerable) is part of neoliberal cynicism in Lithuania. Yet, the neoliberal discourse has its own pitfalls and paradoxes. As one of the staunchest neoliberal ideologists and a former representative of the Lithuanian Institute of Free Market argued, there is no longer “genuine capitalism”, and we live in a version of capitalism adapted for postsocialist states that differs from that of Western countries. This version of capitalism “is no longer a space of individual freedom and creativity but a mechanism subjected for so-called societal needs … State regulation penetrated the heart . of economic processes” (Azguridiene, 2009, p. 415). The public scandal related to the three-day boycott of supermarkets in mid-May of 2016 organised by Lithuanian consumers via social media, due to rapidly rising prices of basic . foodstuffs like vegetables, vividly illustrates Guoda Azguridiene’s insight. Responding to the boycott called “We will not go to the supermarket for three days”, Maxima LT, a leading retailer in Lithuania, announced its plans to turn to the State Security Department and the Ministry of Defense with a request to investigate whether the boycott was not a state security threat. Allegations were made that it served the interests of Russia (Kelleher, 2016). Although the retailer rapidly withdrew the announcement and apologised publicly, the incident demonstrated the tight fit of business and state – the role of the state was to preserve and defend the interests of the biggest corporations and business groups. The crucial neoliberal ideas of free markets, free trade, and minimal state intervention (Harvey, 2005) were quickly forgotten in the wake of declining profits. The schizophrenic neoliberal discourse and the “capitalism adapted for postsocialist states” that serve the interests of capital are unashamedly gendered, although gender is often omitted in economic discussions. Penny Griffin noted, “As sexually configured, neoliberalism embodies specific notions of economic success and financial viability that have become thoroughly embedded in the gender identity of modern (dominant) masculinity” (Griffin, 2005, p. 11). The main desirable characteristics of this masculinity, such as competitiveness, efficiency, and individualism, reflect the organising principles of neoliberal ideology (in Griffin’s words, “marketisation, flexibilisation, deregulation and privatisation”) and stand in stark contrast to less desirable ones such as effeminacy, weakness, dependency, and indecisiveness (Griffin, 2005, p. 18). In other words, neoliberal ideology is thoroughly masculinised. The public discourses that inextricably tie men and masculinity with power, success, and efficiency also point to the dominant masculinising principle of neoliberalism. Neoliberal ideologists, in their articles and public pronouncements, never fail to mention the financial worth, technical expertise, physical strength, and sexual potency of contemporary Lithuanian men. Furthermore, conservative writers and columnists often single out the growing tendency towards the feminisation of masculinity and the masculinisation of femininity, processes through which men and women are losing their traditional qualities, roles, and symbols in the country. In this toxic rhetoric, only genuinely

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successful male subjects are accorded empathy and recognised as “essential” men. Therefore, failures and not measuring up to the standard of masculinity are considered as effects of bad behaviour rather than consequences of historical, social, and structural conditions.

Failure and disappointment of (de)valued male subjects The analysis presented in this chapter is set against the ideas of neoliberalism, masculinity, recognition, and failure. Young unemployed men were chosen as the case study to illustrate the gendering of failure “on the ground”. In this case study, I show how men conceptualise their individual failures and construct their masculinity against the background of the described neoliberal discourse. The material consists of 18 semi-structured interviews with 25–39-year-old unemployed men conducted in 2013 in the two biggest cities of Lithuania, Vilnius and Kaunas, as well as in several villages close to Kaunas. The main blocs of the interview questions ranged from men’s individual values and personal priorities to their social participation, the establishment and maintenance of social networks, and their cultural capital as well as their attitudes towards state institutions such as the Lithuanian Labour Exchange. The respondents discussed their perceptions of work, professional life, visions of a good life, strategies of coping with unemployment, future aspirations, and social and political activities. The median length of the interviews was 1 hour and 40 minutes. Most men had several previous jobs, and some of them held illegal seasonal jobs. None of the interviewed men were married or lived with a partner. Some had only casual relations and one-night stands. As the interviews demonstrate, unemployment and the lack of steady income prevented most of the men from having long-term interpersonal relations. More than a half of the respondents had completed university studies and belonged to middle-class families that supported them financially during the period of unemployment. The rest had a college or secondary education and relied on unemployment benefits or occasional earnings from the informal economy. None had children who would require financial support. All interviewees had been unemployed for more than 6 months. To analyse the empirical data, I used a thematic coding strategy focusing on the relationships between unemployment, working identities, masculinity, and failure. This type of analysis not only helped me to understand how normative ideals and socially established discourses constructed men as gendered subjects, but also prevented me from romanticising the voices of the respondents who were at risk of social exclusion. According to their attitudes towards masculinity, work, failure, and success, three groups of men were distinguished in the case study. The first group, called “men of toxic normativity”, included men who were passionately attached to the norm of successful neoliberal masculinity that enabled them to sustain the illusion of both social recognition and self-value. Most men in this group had a university or other higher education. The second group of

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respondents called “impasse men” largely consisted of men with high school education and with experience working illegal and temporary jobs. A negligent attitude towards work, success, and recognition was characteristic of these men. One respondent named Ricˇ ardas who worked on a farm for room and board did not fit either group of men. He could be assigned to the category of the underclass or precariat (Wacquant, 2009 and 2012). His life did not often rise much above a matter of day-to-day survival and poverty, but he was prepared to fight, at least in his imagination, for a better version of life for himself, which included a relatively well-paying job, his own home, and a stable interpersonal relationship. Men of toxic normativity The first group of men thought of work as a main ingredient of male identity because men were family breadwinners (in the words of 29-year-old Mantas with a high school education, men had to “support their families”). Therefore, it was necessary for men to find a job that would correspond to their interests and would guarantee a stable income and family welfare. These men took the traditional model of family breadwinner for granted. According to university-educated 25-year-old Motiejus, “A man must take care of the material welfare [of a family] and earn money, and if he cannot do it, he experiences psychological difficulties since he’s a man and a breadwinner and if he doesn’t have money and others need to support him, you know, this situation makes him suffer psychologically.” For him and other respondents of this group, a “responsible man” was an ideal to aspire to and was “educated, polite, … goal-oriented in life, responsible for his own actions and life … in short, he’s not an unaccountable playboy …” (25-year-old Motiejus). Modestas (27 years old) who had an unfinished university education argued: A real man is first of all a genuine human being … I mean, a responsible individual, an industrious person, clever and educated, respectful of others … Well, such is a real man, in my opinion. I would also add that an ideal man should also be healthy both physically and emotionally. For me, an ideal man is the one who constantly works on himself and tries to overcome problems whatever they might be: related to his work or relationships or problems due to childhood traumas … Almost all of the respondents belonging to the “men of toxic normativity” category mentioned a man’s industriousness and his ability to support himself and to look after his family. In the atmosphere of individualism and competitiveness, they attempted to maintain the tenet of neoliberal masculinity based on the ideals of the free market, financial success, and excessive consumption. It is possible to call these respondents representatives of global masculinity as advocated in the neoliberal economic discourse.

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These men craved to be recognised as efficient participants in the free market, i.e. as conforming to the dominant form of neoliberal masculinity, because this recognition automatically conferred to them self-esteem and selfrespect. Because of the widely-accepted view that men had to support their families financially, unemployed men often felt discomfort; it was not good “to live off others, you know, or to be a dependent. Well, it makes me feel really bad” (29-year-old Mantas). According to 39-year-old Kajus with a university education, unemployed men could feel psychologically crushed: “I think that … well … since I studied psychology a little, [I know that] unemployment makes men suffer psychologically.” According to 29-year-old Dovydas: “In general I gather that if one is reasoning in a standard way, unemployment affects men more than women. Because, according to a traditional perception, a man has to work and earn money. If he doesn’t have a job, he is influenced more by it [than a woman].” Therefore, after being out of work for a longer time, these men became frustrated and even resigned as if they were losing an important part of their masculinity and respectability. In the words of 27-year-old Modestas with some experience of both unqualified and qualified work: Well, it is difficult to admit to yourself that you are a man and unemployed. And if you’re a man, then automatically you have to work from your adolescence … to be a millionaire and so on and so forth … according to the normal idea of a successful man. Well, you must be a millionaire, and only then are you highly valued … This respondent related success to a well-paying job and the accumulation of wealth that accorded a man social status and recognition. In other words, he emphasised a well-paying job as a socially valuable asset that helped men to maintain masculine dignity and pride. In reflecting on the relationship between unemployment, masculinity, success, and recognition, the “men of toxic masculinity” felt that their unemployment devalued them because of the unstable and pessimistic Lithuanian economy. According to 25-year-old Lukas with a university education, every day Lithuanians hear “various absurd pronouncements by government representatives, and [one doesn’t feel] any certainty about tomorrow”. For the group of “men of toxic normativity”, the norms of traditional masculinity, including paid work, stable income, and a breadwinner role, functioned both as a form of social power that created a field of capitalist subjects defined by competitiveness, self-reliance, and efficiency and as an apparatus consolidating the gender binary (Butler, 2004, p. 47). Men of this group affirmed the gender binary according to which men and women play different roles and men remain the main family breadwinners. Tadas, 27 years old, argued, “It is more important for a man [than a woman] to realise himself. I don’t mean only in the professional world … If a man doesn’t succeed, it shows, and it affects him psychologically…”. According to him, if women are

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not successful in the labour market they can still fulfil themselves with a family. For men, successful employment was the main measure of their masculinity. Men of this group were prone to adhere to this conservative gendering of success and failure. Following Butler and Athanasiou (2013), Skeggs (2011), and Illouz (2003), it is possible to argue that unemployment as a manifestation of their failure in the labour market oppressed these men and made them miserable, but it did not destroy their attachment to normative masculinity and toxic optimism. Their belief that success was imminent and that failure was only a temporary state made these men perfect purveyors of the neoliberal ideology of competitiveness, efficiency, and individualism. Impasse men and their masculinities Attitudes of the second group of men, called “impasse men”, towards both masculinity and failure contradicted the views of those discussed above. This group largely consisted of men with high-school education and short-term unqualified jobs. The lack of professional skills interfered with their ability to plan their professional careers. These men did not think of paid work as an integral part of their masculinity, and they did not care enough (or pretended not to care) about being recognised as capitalist subjects of value. For most of them, waged employment was only a means to consume because, in their opinion, not work but consumption defined a “real” man. They said that earning money from random short-term jobs was sufficient for them. Material shortages or the lack of money was, in the respondents’ words, the only inconvenience in their lives. Some of these men argued that only men who had money could enjoy life because money was a measure of all things. If one had money, there was nothing else to desire. According to 26-year-old Jurgis who had only some experience of legal and illegal short-term unqualified work, “You work, you get paid, you buy something for yourself … Do you need anything else?” He thought that “… if you have money, you don’t need anything else. That’s it”. Asked how his unemployment affected him, 24-year-old Renatas with experience of temporary unqualified work (in car repair) and qualified work (as a hostel manager) noted that unemployment limited his consumption: How does your unemployment affect you personally? Beautifully. Of course, at first it’s not good, you know, it’s not funny when you cannot travel or buy cigarettes. It bugs you, of course. But it’s your own fault (laughs). Q: So, unemployment is bad only because it limits your material capabilities? A: Yes, that’s true. But in general it doesn’t disturb me… Q: A:

Similarly, 26-year-old Jurgis, who had previously held only unskilled jobs, said that “[unemployment] did not affect me. But it is my character. It hasn’t

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affected and won’t affect me.” Other respondents argued that being unemployed did not make them disadvantaged. They earned some income by getting shortterm seasonal, often illegal, jobs. It is possible to explain these men’s rather negligent attitudes towards waged employment as an integral part of male identity by the fact that the jobs they previously held were poorly paid and did not ensure them either financial stability or social recognition. Their views of paid work contradict the findings of previous research on unemployed men, according to which the lower the professional qualifications of the respondents the more they are oriented to the norm of being a family breadwinner (Weil, et al., 2005, p. 111). The shame and discomfort that often accompanied unemployment did not bother the “impasse men”, and they were cynical towards the widely accepted masculinity defined by the norm of paid work, competitiveness, and financial success. Their version of masculinity was not constrained by a family, childcare, or breadwinning responsibilities. In this regard, the story of 32-year-old university-educated Vytautas who had been unemployed for more than four years and had been living on his savings was very instructive. After losing his job, he divorced his wife and his thinking has changed radically. You start to understand that all things are temporary and you get fed up by everything. All that you buy loses value. You sell it and give it away for free. It means that you exchange your time into money, then you buy some things, and finally you throw them away. So, you squander, for instance, two months of your work … You spend two months of your life for nothing …. International research on young unemployed men shows that the number of men who reject a normative model of masculinity based on waged employment has increased in recent years. One of the rationales for their choice is related to men’s aspiration for a meaningful and personally fulfilling job (Weil, et al., 2005). Dissatisfied with a previous job that made him unhappy, the respondent quoted above argued that being unemployed enabled him to feel like “a real person because you could do anything that you wanted. You get up when you want, and you go to bed when you want. You meet friends. You are a free man.” Work was not a necessary ingredient in these men’s masculinity. On the contrary, unemployment was regarded as a way to live a pleasant and successful life. As was mentioned above, social recognition is dialectically related to selfworth and self-value. Hiding under the exterior of bravado, the “impasse men” rejected recognition as superfluous. For some, like 32-year-old Vytautas, refusal to adhere to the traditional masculinity based on paid work meant a newly discovered personal freedom and improved quality of life. For the rest, recognition was secondary because of their daily attempts to survive. These respondents earn the name of “impasse men” for many reasons. First of all, taking up illegal seasonal jobs and not having a definite vision of the future point to their being stuck in the same point of life and sometimes even

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being at a voluntary impasse. Moreover, it can be argued that these respondents’ masculinity is more closely related not to their desire for recognition but to their struggle to survive and their dreams of a “liveable life” (Butler, 2004). According to Athanasiou, the relation between recognition and survival is always melancholic because of its dependence on social normativity. Different “normative and normalizing operations of power including poverty, racism, heteronormativity, ethnocentrism, and cultural recognition” form and differentially allocate survival to people (Butler & Athanasiou, 2013, pp. 78–79). Therefore, only a male subject able to articulate his losses and failures can turn his painful experiences into a survival strategy. The “impasse men” highlight that in the economy of recognition they are regarded, to quote Skeggs, as a valueless subject “who only consists of lacks and gaps, voids and deficiencies, sentimental repositories, sources of labour, negative value that cannot be attached or accrued and may deplete the value of others through social contagion” (Skeggs, 2011, p. 503). The norms of masculinity exist only insofar as they are actualised by men’s everyday behaviour and repetitive social practices. In this regard, the respondents’ bravado and carefree attitude towards paid work contradict normative masculinity. It appears that the “impasse men” are least attached to this masculinity and embody the most amorphous male identity. Their negligent view of success and only occasional forays into thinking about failure also point to the flexibility of masculinity as a social genre articulated from the point of view of exploitation, immobility, and survival. Moreover, unemployment can be considered an enabling practice for the “impasse men” that allows for a carefree life contradicting the norm of a responsible capitalist subject of value. The “impasse men’s” failures and disappointments masked by their bravado and carelessness function in opposition to toxic normativity and the neoliberal winner ethos. The precariat: surviving social immobility One respondent in this research did not fit either the category of “men of toxic normativity” or “impasse men”. Thirty-one-year-old Ricˇ ardas’s life story is symptomatic of what can be called the precariat or the underclass. After spending his adolescence in an orphanage and working odd jobs, at the time of the interview he had been working as an assistant on a farm for room and board for more than eight years. His participation in an unwaged informal economy left him with low self-esteem, hurt, and dissatisfaction: “Oh, what do I need most? I need a good life that would allow me to live quietly, nicely and beautifully. Not like I live now, because this cannot be called life, it is only an existence. I merely exist as a person who doesn’t have anything…” As Verdery pinpointed, “Growing unemployment and poverty resulting from market reforms have ensured that, surrounding the conspicuous winners, there are many silent losers in postsocialism” (Verdery, 1996, p. 4). As a silent loser, the respondent was marginalised in the labour market not because of

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motivational deficiency but because of his lack of any economic, social, or cultural resources that would allow him to be gainfully employed. The scarcity of social support networks and money prevented him from looking for a job outside the farm (his only income was a social benefit amounting to 101 EUR, while the threshold of poverty at the time of the interview was 235 EUR per person in Lithuania). He simply did not have enough money to travel to a job interview. The deficiency of social and family relations and professional skills made him feel most redundant and disoriented in his life: Well, you feel really terrible when you don’t have a place to stay or people to help you. You don’t have anything. You leave the orphanage thinking what are you going to do. You have no acquaintances or money. You can sleep only at homeless shelters, but they are often full and it is impossible to get a bed there. As part of the underclass, this respondent experienced poverty during his childhood when his parents started drinking and he was placed in an orphanage. Remembering his disadvantaged childhood, he described a good life as one “when both parents work, when you have food and clothing, when you can ask your parents for money. Such is a good life.” It could be argued that his experiences of inequality and failure resulted not only from his unemployment but also “reflected the problems of becoming unemployed in specific social environments” (Gallie, et al., 2003, p. 27), in his case an underprivileged childhood and a lack of professional education and working skills: Yes, I feel wronged because no one helps me and they don’t think about my future. I live with people who never realise that I need money or help. Since they don’t care about me, they only exploit me. You work for them, do them good and attempt to sustain their so-called farm. But when you need anything, they turn their back on you. So, it’s a real injustice. However, differently from the “impasse men”, this respondent was not happy with his life and wanted to start it anew: I would like to begin my own life and to create something that is mine … Once, I woke up in the morning, looked in the mirror and thought to myself: “Why am I still here?” After so many years, I woke up and realised it … “Isn’t it time for me to be somewhere else?” This man’s main desire was to find a “real” job instead of labouring in the informal economy. In his words, he was thinking every day how to find a [new] job. You only want to get employed and earn your living … If I found a job, I would work, earn,

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and save some money and would buy something in 10 or more years, for instance, a room or a house perhaps. Experiencing disillusionment, discontent, and even hopelessness, he still thought that he deserved the good life promised by capitalist culture of a steady job, financial stability, and private housing. He used dreaming as a survival strategy: Do you have any dreams at this moment? Yes. To work, rent a room, and leave this village [laughs]. Q: What would you like to change most in your life? A: To get my life together and make it better. I just want to live for myself and not for strangers who exploit me and fail to acknowledge it. Q: A:

His economic circumstances prevented his efforts to conform to an acceptable version of the enterprising and self-reliant man. However, despite having “a sense of being frozen out of the future” (Berlant, 2011, p. 81) defined by his traumatic past, differently from the “men of toxic masculinity” this respondent refused to individualise poverty and social inequalities, and he blamed neoliberal cynicism of the postsocialist welfare state and the people surrounding him for his social vulnerability.

Conclusions As has been argued in this article, the transition from socialism to capitalism in Lithuania was not exceedingly dramatic as far as changes in gendered practices and masculinity as a social genre are concerned. The positive thinking and perennial optimism of socialism turned into ideologically or materially manufactured success as a main measure of masculinity in neoliberal postsocialist economies. In socialist Lithuania, failure was excluded from the public discourse as a sheer impossibility because of socialism’s positive outlook towards human possibilities. It is paradoxical that although marred by some contradictions, the postsocialist neoliberal discourse also measures men by the norm of success, winning, and optimism. Only economically successful subjects count as viable in the postsocialist state, and failed men and their lives are being shamed into non-existence and devaluation. Although, as the . above-quoted cultural critic Trilupaityte argues, currently a “significantly lower number of public figures considers the idea of a radical free market as an essential component of democracy and as a solution of real social pro. blems” (Trilupaityte, 2015, p. 199), the public discourse is still predominantly based on neoliberal cynicism, shaming of failed subjects, and individualising of social inequality and poverty. In the insecure and precarious “capitalism adapted for postsocialist states” . (Azguridiene, 2009), failure is thought of as an inability to exercise individual entrepreneurial freedoms and skills. Any attempts to protest the capitalist

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precarity as an “affective atmosphere” (Berlant, 2011, p. 192) and “the almost existential condition of vulnerability” (Tsianos & Papadopoulos, 2006) are met with shaming by leading neoliberal ideologists and public figures. People are forced to believe that their failures are merely their own fault and therefore they must remain docile in the face of precariousness and exploitation. The three groups of men – toxically normative men, impasse men, and underclass or precariat men – discussed in this article differ in their attitude towards their understanding of the capitalist subject of value and the norms of masculinity. The first group still believes that it is possible to turn their current failures into success. By sticking to the optimistic scripts of capitalist subjects of value, these men refuse to downsize their personal expectations. Instead, they succumb to social demands that make all of their failures merely effects of their individual responsibility. On the contrary, the “impasse men” were able to turn their failures into success by disregarding normative masculinity and constructing their lives outside the frames of traditional manhood. Although living beyond a socially approved genre of masculinity might be costly and uncomfortable, its rewards lie in accepting and wearing failure as a badge of male identity. While the “men of toxic normativity” attempt to adjust to the version of masculinity influenced by global capitalism, neoliberalism, and the new right, the “impasse men” live an unstable ordinariness as misrecognised underachievers. Their biographies, to remember Illouz’s (2003) insights, are far from therapeutic. Instead they rely on alternative ways of casting survival as some kind of success. The one respondent whose life story indicated his connections to the underclass or precariat diverged from both the men of toxic normativity and the impasse men. Labouring in the informal economy and living below the threshold of poverty, this man pinpointed the structural barriers and failings of the Lithuanian social welfare system in helping him rise up from everyday misery and social vulnerability. Despite his failure to fulfil the norm of postsocialist masculinity based on economic and financial success, this respondent refused to blame himself for his precarious work and social insecurity. The stories of these three groups of men, especially those of the impasse and underclass men, intersect in rather unexpected ways with the toxic positivity of the official socialist rhetoric and dominant neoliberal discourse in postsocialist Lithuania. Although the former relied on collectivist logics of victory through strenuous labour, the latter advocated precarity and insecurity as an inevitable condition of personal successes or failures. Therefore, not succeeding in both ideological regimes could bring unexpected rewards and pleasures. Coming to terms with failure is a haunting reminder of the violence of normativity and the ordinariness of toxic optimism.

References Adams, R. and Savran, D. eds. (2002). The Masculinity Studies Reader. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers.

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Ashwin, S. (2000). Introduction: Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-Soviet Russia. In: S. Ashwin, ed., Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-Soviet Russia. London: Routledge, pp. 1–29. Asztalos Morell, I. and Tiurikova, I. (2014). Single Men, Single Stories: Alternative Paths in the Transition from the Late Soviet to the Neoliberal Market Economy in the Light of Life Stories. Debatte, 22(3), pp. 329–351. . Azguridiene, G. (2009). Logikos šuolininkai arba postideologija. Naujasis Židinys-Aidai, 10–11, pp. 414–415. Berlant, L. (1997). The Queen of America Goes to Washington City: Essays on Sex and Citizenship. Durham: Duke University Press. Berlant, L. (2011). Cruel Optimism. Durham: Duke University Press. Bourdieu, P. and Wacquant, L. (2001). NewLiberalSpeak: Notes of the New Planetary Vulgate. Radical Philosophy, 105, pp. 2–5. Butler, J. (2004). Undoing Gender. New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (2009). Frames of War: When is Life Grievable? London: Verso. Butler, J. and Athanasiou, A. (2013). Dispossession: The Performative in the Political. Cambridge: Polity Press. Carrigan, T., Connell, R. and Lee, J. (1985). Towards a New Sociology of Masculinity. Theory and Society, 14(5), pp. 551–604. Connell, R. (2005). Masculinities, 2nd ed. Berkeley: University of California Press. . . . Donskis, L. (2004). Pilietine visuomene ir jos priešai: autoritetas, tiesa ir viešoji erdve XXI a. pradžios Lietuvoje. Vilnius: Versus Aureus. Gallie, D., Paugam, S. and Jacobs, S. (2003). Unemployment, Poverty and Social Isolation: Is there a Vicious Circle of Social Exclusion? European Societies, 5(1), pp. 1–32. Griffin, P. (2005). Neoliberal Economic Discourses and Hegemonic Masculinitity(ies): Masculine Hegemony (Dis)Embodied. IPEG Papers in Global Political Economy, 19, pp. 1–23. Halberstam, J. (2011). The Queer Art of Failure. Durham: Duke University Press. Harvey, D. (2005). A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Heron, C. (2006). Boys Will Be Boys: Working-Class Masculinities in the Age of Mass Production. International Labor and Working-class History, 69(1), pp. 6–34. Illouz, E. (2003). Oprah Winfrey and the Glamour of Misery: An Essay on Popular Culture. New York: Columbia University Press. Kay, R. (2006). Men in Contemporary Russia. The Fallen Heroes of Post-Soviet Change?Aldershot: Ashgate. Kelleher, R. (2016). Skyrocketing Supermarket Prices and ‘Reds Under the Bed’. http://en.delfi.lt/opinion/skyrocketing-supermarket-prices-and-reds-under-the-bed.d? id=71229052 [Accessed 21.03.2016]. Kukhterin, S. (2000). Fathers and Patriarchs in Communist and Post-communist Russia. In: S. Ashwin, ed., Gender, State, and Society in Soviet and Post-Soviet Russia. London: Taylor and Francis, pp. 73–91. Martinkus, A. (2010). Apie inteligentų ‘verkšlenima˛ ’. Šiaure_s Ate_nai. http://www.sa tenai.lt/2010/10/08/apie-inteligentu-„verkslenima“/ [Accessed 15.04.2016]. Meshcherkina, E. (2000). New Russian Men: Masculinity Regained? In: S. Ashwin, ed., Gender, State and Society in Soviet and Post-Soviet Russia. London: Routledge, pp. 105–117. . . . Mikonis-Railiene, A. and Kaminskaite-Jancˇ oriene, L. (2015). Kinas sovietų Lietuvoje: sistema, filmai, režisieriai. Vilnius: VDA leidykla.

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Oates-Indruchova, L. (2006). The Void of Acceptable Masculinity During the Czech State Socialism: The Case of Radek John’s Memento. Men and Masculinities, 8(4): pp. 428–450. Probyn, E. (2005). Blush: Faces of Shame. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Skeggs, B. (2004). Class, Self, Culture. London: Routledge. Skeggs, B. (2011). Imagining Personhood Differently: Person Value and Autonomist Working-class Value Practices. The Sociological Review, 59(3), pp. 496–513. . . Trilupaityte, S. (2015). Ku-rybiškumo galia? Neoliberalistines kultu-ros politikos kritika. Vilnius: Demos. Tsianos, V., and Papadopoulos, D. (2006). Precarity: A Savage Journey to the Heart of Embodied Capitalism. Transversal 10. http://eipcp.net/transversal/1106/tsianospapa dopoulos/en [Accessed 14.04.2016]. . Užkalnis, A. (2013). Visuomenes gailestis bomžams yra mirtinas žiaurumas sau. http:// protokolai.com/2013/01/21/visuomenes-gailestis-bomzams-yra-mirtinas-ziaurumas-sau/ [Accessed 21.03.2016]. Verdery, K. (1996). What was Socialism and What Comes Next?Princeton: Princeton University Press. Wacquant, L. (2009). Punishing the Poor. The Neoliberal Government of Social Insecurity. Durham: Duke University Press. Wacquant, L. (2012). Crafting the Neoliberal State: Workfare, Prisonfare, and Social Insecurity. Sociological Forum, 25(2), pp. 197–220. Weil, S. W., Janen, T. and Wildemeersch, D. (2005). Unemployed Youth and Social Exclusion in Europe. Aldershot: Ashgate.

7

“A mom who has time for everything” Mothers between work and family in contemporary Ukraine Olena Strelnyk

In April 2014, I carried out a number of webinars (internet-conferences) on contemporary mothering for scholars, journalists, and women activists in Ukraine. One of the topics was dedicated to the problem of a lack of time for contemporary mothers who combine paid work and care for children. During the discussion, one of the participants, who raised a child in Soviet times, said that she did not understand what the problem was because she worked as well but never had the same problem of time shortage that contemporary mothers have. This chapter focuses on practices of combining work and family responsibilities by employed mothers in contemporary Ukraine that are realised in the new context of a market economy, a child-centred parenting culture, and a changing state role in supporting working mothers. The primary research question is why “a lack of time” has recently become the burning issue for mothers in Ukraine and how this new context affects everyday work and family balance in Ukraine. Analysing the structural context of the issue, I explore the main statesocialist legacies of the working mother gender contract, particularly parental leave and public childcare services, and how these institutional arrangements impact on the mothers’ position in the labour market and childcare practices in post-Soviet Ukraine. I analyse this context by using the statistical data on women’s and mothers’ employment rate, women’s full-time and part-time work, the number of children in Ukraine enrolled in formal childcare in comparison with the EU and the OECD states, and data from sociological surveys on the topic. My own empirical research, based on surveys and interviews with employed mothers, focuses on temporal tensions of everyday practices of combining work and care for children by employed mothers who live in two large Ukrainian cities and have at least one child aged 3 to 10 years old attending a kindergarten or primary school.

Background As Bryson and Hochschild argue, a market economy and intensification of paid employment time have a destructive impact on individuals, families, and societies by contributing to a “care deficit” and to women’s “temporal

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poverty” (Hochschild, 1997, p. 243; Bryson, 2011, pp. 174–181). Mothers in contemporary Ukraine are sandwiched between a market economy and a child-centred parenting culture against a background of a reduced state role in supporting families and working mothers and cuts to public resources for childcare. The Soviet policy, which was focused on productive work by both men and women, led to the creation of the gender contract1 of a working mother – the Soviet state simultaneously motivated labour and motherhood as a woman’s civic duties (Temkina & Rotkirch, 2002). The social, political, and economic changes at the end of the Soviet era led to the transformation of gender relations – the state had lost its monopoly on forming the gender contract, and the system of social and ideological support of motherhood weakened. As Temkina and Rotkirch argue, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, market mechanisms and a liberal public sphere promoted differentiation of gender norms and practices in different social groups, along with the formation of new gender ideologies and gender contracts such as the gender contract of a housewife or a career-oriented mother (ibid.). The gender contract of a working mother has kept its cultural normativity, but the legitimacy of this contract has been changed, and in the context of low standards of living and labour payment in contemporary Ukraine, women’s paid employment is a necessary contribution to a family’s income. In contemporary Ukraine, the state supports working mothers mainly through legislation of parental leave and women’s labour rights as mothers and by providing public childcare services. In the context of a market economy, this state policy affects mothers’ employment in a contradictory way and, in fact, makes women’s and mothers’ position in the labour market vulnerable. For instance, the duration of parental leave is up to three years (in some cases up to six years if a child needs home care because of health problems).2 According to Ukrainian law, any family member can take parental leave, but it is mainly mothers who take advantage of this. The special “father’s quota” in this leave (as, for instance, in Sweden) is absent, and only 2 per cent of fathers took parental leave in 2013. Parental leave in Ukraine is not paid, but according to the law an employer guarantees the person’s job position at the end of the leave period.3 The current Ukrainian system of parental leave is a contradictory one. It gives a mother an opportunity to provide home childcare for a long time, but it is not effective in combining employment and parental responsibilities and thus consolidates women’s responsibility for the private sphere. The absence of effective state or corporative mechanisms of professional reintegration of women after parental leave (for instance, through flexible working time arrangements)4 leads to their loss of skills during this leave and, in general, to gender inequality in the labour market. The market economy creates new challenges and risks for mothers that are not compensated by current instruments of social politics in terms of protecting women’s and mothers’ labour rights. Sociological research has shown numerous violations of the laws

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protecting these rights, especially in the private sector of the economy, for example, discrimination against mothers in the employment sphere and not keeping job positions for mothers who are on parental leave (Verhulenko, et al., 2013; Liha sotsial’nykh pratsivnykiv, 2013). Public kindergartens are the main instrument in supporting working mothers in contemporary Ukraine. In 2014, 74 per cent of children aged 3 to 5 years attended kindergartens – 82.5 per cent in urban areas and 57.5 per cent in rural areas (Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky, 2015a, p. 14) – and only 1 per cent of these attended formal private child-care services (ibid., p. 36). The number of children in the ages up to 3 years old attending kindergartens in Ukraine is significantly lower in comparison with the EU and OECD states. In 2013, only 15.3 per cent of children up to the age of 3 years old attended kindergartens in Ukraine (Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky, 2015b, p. 14) compared with 34.4 per cent of children of the same age group who were enrolled in formal childcare or were cared for by paid (professional) nurses in 28 OECD states.5 The most urgent problem to emerge from the cutting of state support for working mothers in Ukraine is a lack of free places in public kindergartens. Many of these kindergartens were closed during the 1990s because the birth rate had rapidly declined. As of 2014, there were 120 children for every 100 places, and in some regions with high fertility6 there were 170–180 children for every 100 places (Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky, 2015b, p. 7). Other public resources for childcare were also cut in the 1990s such as out-of-school educational programmes for children and extended-day school groups. The level of women’s employment in Ukraine is high, and in 2013 55.3 per cent of Ukrainian women were employed compared to 45.7 per cent in 27 EU states.7 This was an increase from 2000 when 51.6 per cent of women aged 15–70 years were employed in Ukraine. The level of employment among men also increased from 60.5 per cent in 2000 to 65.9 per cent in 2013 (Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky, 2015a, p. 122). Most women in Ukraine work full time mainly because of the low standards of living and low wages. As of December 2013, 6.8 per cent of employed women were employed on a part-time basis compared to 5.4 per cent of part-time workers among the total number of employees (Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky, 2014b, p. 95).8 This index is considerably lower than in Europe as a whole. In 2009 31.5 per cent of employed women in the EU countries worked part-time (European Foundation for the Improvement of Living and Working Conditions, 2011, p. 40). Family responsibilities, including childcare, are among the most common reasons for women’s unemployment, especially in the age group of 25–34 years old. In Ukraine, the employment rate of mothers who have children under the age of 15 is 66.8 per cent, which is close to the average for the OECD countries (Ukrayins’kyy tsentr sotsial’nykh reform, 2012, p. 141). In Ukraine, just like in the OECD countries,9 the employment rate of mothers declines with the more children they have. Also, the level of employment of women with children has declined from 2007 to 2011 (Figure 7.1).

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70.4

66.4 61

57.3

60

49

50

50.1 39.8

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Figure 7.1 The employment rate of women aged 25–49 years depending on the number of children they have (in per cent). Source: Ukrayins’kyy tsentr sotsial’nykh reform, 2012, p. 142

A market economy affects both mothers’ position in the labour market and childcare practices. In promoting the gender contract of a working mother, the Soviet state claimed superiority in the ability to raise children and created the system of state childcare services, including kindergartens, free out-ofschool centres (kruzhki, sektsii), children’s camps (pionerskiy lager), etc. The collapse of the Soviet Union led to the transfer of moral responsibilities for children’s upbringing from the state level to the family level. Along with the shortage of public childcare resources, there were increasing demands by the state and society on the socialising role of the family and parental responsibility along with the dominance of an intensive parenting culture in parents’ attitudes and practices (Asonova, 2010; Majofis & Kukulin, 2010; Sveshnikova, 2010; Isupova 2014). Taking into account that childcare is constructed primarily as women’s responsibility both on the level of institutions and in everyday practices, this new cultural climate affects mothers first and foremost. In the post-Soviet Ukraine of the 1990s, the public expectation on “good parenting” grew to be based on intensity, responsibility, and being “involved” with children. A market economy based on neoliberalism contributed to the increasing intensity in parenting culture and practices. Scholars view this contribution as part of a broader neoliberal project based on individual responsibility and risk management. There is an assumption that parents (particularly mothers) have the ability to control and shape the lives of their children so that their children grow into responsible citizens. Parents are increasingly held responsible for risk management and life planning, and “bad parenting” is thought to be behind numerous social problems (Shirani, et al., 2012, pp. 26–28).

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A market economy contributes to an intensive parenting culture as well through the idea of “investing in children” (Becker, et al., 2016; Folbre, 2008). According to the survey сonducted by the research centre “Social Monitoring” in 2009, 72.1 per cent of respondents believed that the upbringing of children in modern Ukraine required more time and costs than it did 20–30 years previously (in the 1980s) (Instytut demohrafiyi, 2009, p. 200). Russian scholar Tatiana Cherkashina, on the basis of the study of families’ time and economic investment in children, concludes that the trend of the last 15 years is one of increasing monetary costs for children’s upbringing and education and an increasing role for institutional (market) services in children’s education, and one can assume the same is the case in Ukrainian society as well. Cherkashina offers two explanations of this. First, there is a new parenting culture based on the greater participation of professionals in children’s upbringing, and secondly there is the growing use of institutional services accompanied by an increase in the employment of women of both working and retirement age, thus the consumption of educational services “releases” mothers or grandmothers for employment (Cherkashina, 2012). This new structural and normative frame affects mainly mothers’ everyday practices of childcare because mothers in Ukraine are the prime caregivers in the majority of families and because public expectations on care for children as primarily a woman’s role are rather strong. For instance, during the fourth round of the European social survey in 2008, 74 per cent of women and 75 per cent of men in Ukraine supported the idea that women should work less in paid employment and should focus more on their families, and this was the highest percentage among all countries that participated in the survey, including Russia.10

Research question and approach I consider mothering as a particular set of gendered practices of care for the physical, emotional, and intellectual well-being of children that are realised by a mother in particular temporal and spatial contexts. Practices are defined as routines that are carried out in a usual way during everyday activities (Giddens, 1984). In this chapter, I focus on the experiences of mothers who are at a similar point of their life course related to their return to paid labour after giving birth to a child and who provide care for young children in a similar context of living in large Ukrainian cities. Because this chapter focuses on temporal aspects of mothers’ experiences of combining work and family, my approach proceeds from research on time as a gendered phenomenon. Most of the surveys on time issues both in international and in post-Soviet studies are based on the methodology of time-budget studies, and they focus on the amount of time that women and men spend on different activities and thereby provide information about the quantitative characteristics of time. This means that the qualitative characteristics and temporal strains of everyday family and care practices are not well studied.

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Time is not only a matter of duration, and a number of studies have demonstrated the complicated character of the temporal organisation of everyday family life and women’s experiences of time. Daily family care, which is mostly provided by women, is related to specific temporal experiences and practices. Scholars have identified a number of such temporal dimensions of daily care, including the coordination of family members’ daily lives, the intensification of time use and multitasking activities at home, and the synchronising of women’s personal time with the rhythms of life of the family members. Married women and mothers also feel a lack of time, a pressure of time, and “time squeeze” (Smirnova, 2010; Craig, 2006; Southerton, 2003). In the context of intensification of labour and technological changes, the socio-cultural value of time has also been changing in both a global and local context. In the context of the “hurried culture” (Daly, 1996), working mothers are the first victims of the accelerated pace of life that encourages them to be the “time and motion experts” (Hochschild & Machung, 1989, p. 9). The need to coordinate the daily lives of family members leads to aggravation with feeling hurried and having a lack of time. “Time famine”, “juggling lifestyle”, and “the temporal poverty” (Bryson, 2011, pp. 175–177; Smirnova, 2010) are the main outcomes of contemporary maternal practices.

Research design and methods My research design is based on a combination of quantitative and qualitative methods. I conducted the quantitative part of the research in the city of Poltava11 from December 2014 to February 2015 by conducting a survey using a paper-and-pencil questionnaire. The parent population in the city, namely working mothers with children aged 3 to 10 years old attending kindergarten or primary school, is about 13,730 people.12 The sample included 373 respondents who were employed mothers having at least one child aged 3 to 10 years and attending a primary school or a kindergarten. A multi-step sampling method was used. In the first step, I made a list of state-owned schools and kindergartens distributed by city districts. In the second step, I randomly selected six schools and six kindergartens so that each city district was presented. In the final sampling step, I randomly selected the classes from the primary schools and randomly selected the groups from the kindergartens as the field for the survey. In the primary schools, the survey was conducted during parent meetings, while in the kindergartens the questionnaires were distributed to parents by pre-instructed educators. The demographic characteristics of the sample were close to the parent population. Sixty-eight per cent of the respondents had one child, 30 per cent had two children, and 2 per cent had three or more children. Sixty-six per cent were from nuclear families with two parents, 14 per cent were from extended families with two parents, 13 per cent lived alone with their children, and 9 per cent were single mothers living with their parents. A qualitative study was conducted using semi-structured interviews. Fifteen interviews were conducted in Poltava from April to July 2015, and 12 interviews

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were conducted in Kyiv in September 2015.13 The informants were recruited among mothers whom I know personally, by snowball sampling, and during the quantitative study when respondents were asked to provide a contact number if they wished to participate in an interview. The average age of the informants was 33 years old.

Research results “Good mothering” and care for children In the qualitative part of my research, I evaluated the mothers’ ideas about “good mothering” and “care for children”, as well as their ideas about “contemporary parenthood” compared to parenting practices in the previous (Soviet) generation. The leitmotif of time was often central in the mothers’ narratives concerning “good mothering”. According to Tatiana, a “good mother” successfully combines the roles of an educator, a teacher, a professionally successful woman, and a “manager” of family life: This is a mom who has time for everything. It is a mother who can teach a child to be independent, and to tidy up after him or herself, and can teach mathematics …. In addition, of course, a good mother can build a career such that a child would not be ashamed to say who his or her mother is. (Tetyana, 31) For Natalia, successfully combining several roles and having the ability to find time for everything is a part of the image of the “good mother”: A mother who can find time for her child, and for a husband, and for herself. She is a harmoniously and comprehensively developed person. A calm and balanced person. This mother is a professional person who is seen as necessary in her profession. (Natalia, 34) Some of my informants emphasised the overriding priority of motherhood and argued that “good motherhood” is sacrificial: “A good mother keeps her child as her first priority no matter what happens in her life. Whatever happens – her own parents, a husband, a job, any circumstances, the child always comes first” (Hanna, 28). One should take into account that the informants could reproduce in these discourses the socially desired model of a “good mother”, which might be something different from what is seen in practice, as one of my informants mentioned: “It is very hard to be such an (ideal) kind of mom” (Larysa, 34). The image of the good mother was supplemented with ideas about caring for a child. Attention and time are the central characteristics of this care in

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my informants’ views: “It means spending as much time with a child as possible and doing what a child wants … I am not talking about material things like buying something, but about spending time” (Nadiya, 31); “It’s just to live with a child all the time … it means that I must know everything about him (a son – O.S.), I must know by what he breathes, by what he lives, what’s troubling him” (Inga, 40). The vast majority of my informants considered contemporary motherhood to be a particular set of practices that involves building the dialogical, partnership, and empathic relations with a child, thus reducing the distance between parents and children and reducing the hierarchy in child-parent relationships. Larysa, who was born in 1981, noted remembering her childhood: We began to understand children more. I remember my childhood, and we always ate alone. If there were children’s parties, it was always a separate table for children and a separate one for adults. Just recently, when one more generation appeared, we all began to gather around the table, and children, who eat messily and who shout at the table, eat together with adults …. Now … all are equal. Yes, the parents are older, they are experienced, they can help, but all are equal. Narratives of some informants actualised the impact of the market economy and consumerist society on childcare practices in Ukraine: I cannot say that children were loved less during Soviet times … but now, we more indulge them … My daughter came home from school and said she wanted a tablet [IT- device – O.S.] … If there are 32 pupils in a classroom and 28 of them already have a tablet, then I will definitely buy it … This race is constant. (Nadiya, 31) Socio-economic inequality might cause an additional pressure on parents and children, as Natalia noted: Now everything has changed, and the difference between parents’ income has become apparent. How are kids dressed at school? Before, there was a school uniform and all children looked the same. Now some are in trendy jeans and T-shirts, and some are in ordinary ones. So, parents experience this inequality, and they are nervous and worry about this as do the children. (Natalia, 34) In the quantitative part of the research, the questionnaire asked respondents to assess their position on a scale of 1 to 10, where “1” meant that their interests were focused exclusively on the child or children and their upbringing and “10” meant that their interests were exclusively focused on work, career,

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and professional growth. Two-thirds of the respondents indicated that their interests were focused mainly on the care of their children. A child-focused interest (from 1 to 4 on the scale) was reported by 64 per cent of the respondents, a career-focused interest (from 6 to 10 on the scale) was reported by 12 per cent of the respondents, and the remaining 24 per cent took a balanced position by reporting a score of 5. Of course, one should take into consideration that the respondents might seek to give “socially desirable” answers given the gender stereotypes about female inferiority in comparison to other roles for parents. Forty-three per cent of my respondents reported that they would work even if they had the economic resources that would allow them not to have to work. The same number of the respondents agreed with the statement “If I had the opportunity not to work, I would not work” (27 per cent strongly agreed with the statement, and 16 per cent agreed with it).14 These results might indicate the cultural legacy of a “housewife gender contract” and a one-breadwinner family model. In this work I assume that mothers “make choices” under conditions that are not of their own making. In this case, the “choice” of a housewife’s role can be interpreted as a woman’s response to structural constraints, in particular, the weakness of institutional support for work and family balance in Ukraine. Working time as a factor behind the temporal strain of combining work and daily care for a child Ninety-two per cent of mothers who participated in the quantitative survey work full time, which is close to the average rate of full-time work among all employed women in Ukraine. The data were analysed according to three types of working time. The typical working hours are an 8-hour working day from Monday to Friday. The atypical (or “non-social”) working hours15 are other types of working time, namely increased working hours (more than 8 hours per day or more than 40 hours per week) and shift work (daily or weekly). I include shift work in atypical working hours because it usually involves compressed (or increased) working days and/or work on weekends. The third type is flexible (free) working time in which the mother is free to choose the number of hours she works and which hours she works. According to the survey results, 87 per cent of the respondents employed in the public sector work typical hours compared to 60 per cent of those who are employed in the private sector; 4 per cent of the respondents employed in the public sector work atypical hours compared to 18 per cent of those who are employed in the private sector; 8 per cent of the respondents employed by public companies work shift hours compared to 15 per cent of those employed by private companies; and fewer than 1 per cent of those employed in the public sector have flexible working schedules compared to 7 per cent of those employed in the private sector.

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In addition to working times, I also evaluated some temporal characteristics of the respondents’ work practices that can complicate the combining of work and family responsibilities. According to the survey data, 54 per cent of the mothers work on the weekend at least once a month, including 44 per cent of those working in the public sector and 68 per cent of those working for private companies. Thirty per cent work overtime at least once a week, including 26 per cent of those working in the public sector and 37 per cent of those working in the private sector. Twenty-seven per cent of the respondents have unpredictable working hours (they might be called into work at short notice) at least once a week, including 22 per cent of those employed in the public sector and 34 per cent of those employed by private companies. Thus, private sector employment has the less favourable conditions for successfully combining work and family. At the same time, this sector provides somewhat greater opportunities for flexible working time. The working mothers’ experiences of time According to the survey, 28 per cent of the respondents constantly feel “time pressure” and a lack of time at home, 60 per cent have this feeling from time to time, and 12 per cent never have this feeling. In the mothers’ narratives, weekday mornings are especially strained in terms of time. “We get up at seven o’clock in the morning. I dress the children and brush and braid their hair. We eat breakfast very quickly, then I send them to school very quickly and am off to work” (Lidiya, a 6-year-old and a 10-year-old child, from a nuclear family with two working parents, Kyiv). Everything goes very quickly, I always hurry my child and run around the apartment shouting ‘hurry, hurry, hurry’ (begom, begom, begom), then we run to the school, we are always late, and then I run to work. In the evening it looks the same, I’m running from work, picking up my child, and running home. (Tamara, one 8-year-old child, single mother living with her parents, Kyiv) Mothers’ subjective feelings of time pressure and a lack of time at home depend on several factors, for example, the type of household and the degree of their partner’s involvement in doing housework. In nuclear families with two parents, there is often the availability of support in caring for the children and doing household chores, but in general the extended family is the most common resource for supporting working mothers in Ukraine. In case of a conflict between work and childcare, 65 per cent of the mothers said they rely on their parents’ help, 39 per cent rely on their partner’s help, 4 per cent expect to get help from an ex-husband (which is 16 per cent of mothers living alone with children), 3 per cent expect to get help from neighbours, and about 1 per cent rely on the help of hired child-minders.16 In the context of mothers’

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feelings of time pressure at home, the most favourable is the extended type of household, where a single mother lives with her child (children) and her own parents. Only 13 per cent of mothers in this type of household experience constant time pressure, a lack of time, and rushing at home. At the same time, 37 per cent of single mothers have the same experience constantly. In nuclear families with two parents, these experiences of time constraints depend on the degree of the partner’s involvement in doing household chores. For example, among mothers who said that they do almost all the housework, 40 per cent constantly feel rushed and a lack of time at home compared with 23 per cent of respondents who indicated that such work is distributed equally between them and their partner. Some scholars argue that the stress and time tension experienced by working mothers are not simply a matter of the number of hours of paid employment and domestic work, but also the issue of intensity of time use (Southerton, 2003), including multitasking at home: “O.S. – Does your son do his homework by himself ? – I sit next to him or I rush from the kitchen to the room (perebezhkami iz kuhni v komnatu) and see if he is writing” (Tetyana, one 7-yearold child, a nuclear family with two working parents, Poltava). The opposite tactic is the separation of domestic work and the care of children because of the desire to spend more time in direct communication with one’s children. However, this practice is associated with fatigue and physical exhaustion: The feeling of fatigue is always there. I put her [the daughter – O.S.] to bed at 10 p.m. and I go to bed at 12 a.m. or even later. I get up 10 or 20 minutes to 6.00 in the morning, sometimes at 5.20 a.m. I put her to bed, and then … there are clothes to wash, things to clean. I pack up her school bag (slozhit’ portfel’) and get her clothes ready for the morning. I only get enough sleep on the weekends. (Oksana, one 7-year-old child, a mother-headed family, Poltava) The daily life of working mothers depends on different social rhythms – on their working time and on the opening times of kindergartens, schools, and after-school clubs. The different and unsynchronised rhythms of family members’ lives require additional efforts to coordinate their daily interactions (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 2002, p. 91). Because it is mostly the mothers who are the prime carers in families, they have to balance between multiple temporalities, and they are responsible for the temporal coordination of their family’s daily routines. “My goal is to organise the day so that everyone is comfortable … and everyone gets to the right place” (Veronica, one 9-year-old child, a nuclear family with two working parents, Kyiv). There are some temporal conflicts that complicate the everyday life of employed mothers. One of them is related to pre-school and out-of-school educational programmes for children. This tension is caused by two opposing processes: on the one hand, there is a high demand by parents for such

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educational services due to the phenomenon of “intellectualization of childhood”17 (Asonova, 2010, p. 81) and parents’ dissatisfaction with state-run preschool education (Hors’kyy, et al., 2013), and on the other hand there is increased parental attention to child safety outside the home. Mothers regard the city as a space that is hostile to children, and these fears affect the everyday practices of caring for children as well. The mothers reported in the interviews how they feel the need to monitor and to control the movements of their school-aged children (for example, via mobile phone) or to accompany their children to educational centres, which might conflict with the mothers’ working time. Olha formulated this conflict in the following way: “It would be better if the working day started at 9.00 a.m. and ended at 3 p.m. to be on time for all the clubs (kruzhki) and all the sport clubs (sekcii)” (Olha, a 3year-old and a 9-year-old child, a nuclear family with two working parents, Poltava). One of the characteristics of contemporary mothering is “temporal poverty”, which is a lack, and sometimes a complete absence, of “free time”. As Lidiya noted: “I have no days off. When I have a day off at work, I have a full workday (na vsju katushku) at home” (a 6-year-old and a 10-year-old child, a nuclear family with two working parents, Kyiv). Even when a mother is free from paid work, the amount of free time is not increased: “When we were at home [with the children – O.S.] because we [workers – O.S.] were sent on unpaid leave, I did not read any books. … I always needed to run somewhere, to accompany someone somewhere. I rarely have enough time for myself” (Olha, a 3-year-old and a 9-year-old child, a nuclear family with two working parents, Poltava).

Discussion and conclusion This study has shown how the new structural conditions affect the everyday work and family balance for employed mothers in contemporary Ukraine. Three main challenges were identified that affect this balance and lead to the problem of “temporal poverty”. Mothers in contemporary Ukraine are sandwiched between (1) a gender contract of a working mother and high involvement in paid labour, (2) the social expectations on “good mothering”, which consist of child-centred (or intensive) parenting and practices that require a great amount of time and attention devoted to childcare, and (3) an unfriendly labour market, especially in private companies, that is characterised by working time patterns (for example, overtime work, weekend work, and unpredictable working hours) that complicate mothers’ ability to balance their careers and their families. These challenges and pressures have a negative effect on mothers’ daily work and family activities and cause mothers to experience an increased intensity of time use, the need for more multitasking, and a lack of free time. These three trends together indicate that socialist legacies of the working mother contract seem to continue to be shaping women’s dual roles in society.

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Meanwhile, working conditions indicate intensified pressure, especially in the private sector. Also due to low wages part-time work is not so common in Ukraine as in “Western” societies. During state socialism, women’s high employment rate was combined with the state’s alleged moral superiority for raising children and providing childcare facilities. In contrast, and in response, as in many other postsocialist societies moving towards retraditionalisation of gender roles, the intensive parenting culture and emphasis on good mothering has been strengthened in Ukraine. This increased maternal responsibility is supported by the marketisation and neoliberal sentiments for the “producing” of self-reliant individuals, thus placing responsibility on mothers to practise good-mothering. These dual and contrasting pressures related to the postsocialist transition of women’s dual roles as paid workers and contributors to the family economy and as mothers, explain the concerns that working mothers have about temporal poverty and time pressure.

Notes 1 Here I use “gender contract” as defined by L. Rantalaiho to be the rules, rights, and responsibilities determining the division of labour based on gender in the areas of production and reproduction and mutually responsible relationships between women and men, including belonging to different generations (quoted by Temkina and Rotkirch, 2002: 4). 2 Three-year parental leave was implemented in 1989 along with the public debate about “women’s return to the family” (Zdravomyslova & Temkina, 2003: 143; Zhurzhenko, 2008: 86). During other periods of Soviet history, it was from 2 months (at the beginning of Bolshevik era) to 18 months (in 1982). 3 The state provides a grant on giving birth to a child that is 40,000 UAH (1,600 EUR) as of 2016. The first instalment of this payment (10,320 UAH) is paid immediately after the birth of a child, and the rest is paid in equal parts of 860 UAH a month for 36 months. 4 The flexible working time (e.g. self-regulation of the beginning and the end of the working day or accumulating working hours for days off, etc.) is available according to the labour code but is still not common in labour practices. 5 www.oecd.org/els/family/database.htm, 2014. 6 Another reason is current armed conflict on Donbas that caused mass internal displacement, particularly of families with children. 7 In Ukraine among women in the age group 15–70 years old and in the EU states among women above 15 years old. 8 There is another index in Ukrainian statistics, “involuntary part-time employment”, when a company shortens employment hours and reduces salary accordingly but there are no available statistics on gender specifics. 9 OECD Family Database (http://www.oecd.org/els/family/database.htm), retrieved on 05.03.2015. 10 http://www.europeansocialsurvey.org/download.html?file=ESS4e04_3&y=2008. 11 A large city in central Ukraine with a population of 294,000. The Poltava region has a birthrate and women’s employment rate that are similar to the country as a whole. 12 By my calculations based on statistical data on the number of children in this age group attending kindergartens and primary schools in Poltava (the information was given by the regional statistical service), the fertility rate in Poltava

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14 15

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(Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky, 2016: 49–50), and the rate of mothers’ employment in Ukraine (Ukrayins’kyy tsentr sotsial’nykh reform, 2012). In Poltava, I conducted all interviews personally, while in Kyiv the interviews were conducted by students of the Department of Sociology of Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv. The field data were collected by Maryna Zakrynychna, Viktoriya Kolokolceva, Daniyil Tolmachov, Yuliya Sirash, Anastasia Sharipova, and Dana Reva. All informants’ names that are used in the text are replaced by assumed names. After quotations from the interviews, some informant characteristics are indicated depending on the particular context, e.g. age, type of household, number and age of children, and city. The rest, 14 per cent, had difficulty in replying. Atypical working time is all kinds of situations in which people are forced to work at times that are usually set aside for family or recreation, namely working in the morning (up to 8.00 a.m.), late in the evening or at night (after 18.00 p.m.), or on weekends (Le Bihan & Martin, 2004, pp. 566–567; La Valle, et al., 2002). The respondents were asked: “Imagine that your child is sick or their school has announced a quarantine, and you need to go to work. Who would you expect to help care for the child?” There is a deep shift to the notion that intellectualism rather than carelessness is a virtue of a child. This does not mean that children become more intelligent, but adults want to see them as such. For instance, the popularity of so-called “early child development” is evidence of this process (Asonova, 2010).

References Asonova, E. (2010). Novye tsennosti v detsko-roditel’skikh otnosheniiakh. Pro et Contra 14(1–2), pp. 78–93. Beck, U., and Beck-Gernsheim, E. (2002). Individualization: Institutionalized Individualism and its Social and Political Consequences. London: Sage. Becker, G.S., Murphy, К.М., Spenkuch, J.L. (2016). The Manipulation of Children’s Preferences, Old Age Support, and Investment in Children’s Human Capital. Journal of Labor Economics, 34(2), pp. 3–30. Bryson, V. (2011). Gender i politika vremeni. Kyiv: Centr uchebnoj literatury Cherkashina, T.Ju. (2012). Vremennye i ekonomicheskie investicii roditelej v vospitanie detej. In: Ye.G. Yasin ed., XII Mezhdunarodnaja nauchnaja konferencija po problemam razvitija jekonomiki i obshhestva, vol. 3, pp. 489–500. Craig, L. (2006). Where Do They Find the Time? An Analysis of How Parents Shift and Squeeze Their Time Around Work and Childcare. The Levy Economics Institute’s Working Paper. Vol. 439. URL http://www.econstor.eu/bitstream/10419/ 31678/1/508794218.pdf (retrieved on 10.01.2015). Daly, K. (1996). Families & Time: Keeping Pace in a Hurried Culture. Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications. Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky (2014a). Ekonomichna aktyvnist naselennya Ukrayiny 2013. Kyiv. Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky (2014b). Pratsya v Ukrayini v 2013 rotsi. Statystychnyy zbirnyk. Kyiv. Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky (2015a). Doshkilna osvita Ukrayini u 2014 rotsi. Statystychnyy byuleten. Kyiv. Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky (2015b). Naselennya Ukrayiny za 2014 rik. Kyiv.

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Derzhavna sluzhba statystyky (2016). Naselennya Ukrayiny 2015. Kyiv. European Foundation for the Improvement of Living and Working Conditions (2011). Part-Time Work in Europe: European Company Survey 2009. Luxembourg: Publications Office of the European Union. Folbre, N. (2008). Valuing Children: Rethinking the Economics of the Family. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Giddens, A. (1984). The Constitution of Society. Cambridge: Polity. Hochschild, A.R. (1997). The Time Bind: When Work Becomes Home and Home Becomes Work. New York, NY: Metropolitan Books. Hochschild, A.R., and Machung, A. (1989). The Second Shift: Working Parents and the Revolution at Home. New York: Viking Penguin. Hors’kyy, A.Ye,. Budanova, O.B., Barmatova, I.V. and Ovchar, O.V. (2013). Kompleksne doslidzhennya stanu systemy doshkil’noyi osvity Ukrayiny. Analitychnyy zvit za rezul’tatamy doslidzhennya. Кyiv: Vseukrayins’ka blahodiyna orhanizatsiya “Hromads’ka sotsial’na rada”. Instytut demohrafiyi ta sotsial’nykh doslidzhen’ NAN Ukrayiny, Ukrayins’kyy tsentr sotsial’nykh reform, Fond narodonaselennya OON (2009). Simya ta simeyni vidnosyny v Ukrayini: suchasnyy stan i tendentsiyi rozvytku, Kyiv. Isupova, O. (2014). TyzheMat’: neizbezhnyj geroizm i neizbyvnaja vina materinstva. In: Zn. Karaganova ed., Gendernye stranicy: sbornik statej. Moskva: OOO “Dizart Tim”, pp. 35–48. La Valle, I., Arthur, S., Millward, Ch., Scott, J. and Clayden, M. (2002). Happy Families? Atypical Work and Its Influence on Family Life. UK: Policy Press. Le Bihan, B. and Martin, C. (2004). Atypical Working Hours: Consequences for Childcare Arrangements. Social Policy and Administration 38(6), pp. 565–590. Liha sotsial’nykh pratsivnykiv (2013). Doslidzhennya potreb bat’kiv pid chas povernennya yikh do profesiynoyi diyal’nosti pislya vidpustky po dohlyadu za dytynoyu. Kyiv. Majofis, M. and Kukulin, I. (2010). Novoe roditel’stvo i ego politicheskie aspekty. Pro et Contra 14(1–2), pp. 6–19. Shirani, F., Henwood, K. and Coltart, C. (2012). Meeting the Challenges of Intensive Parenting Culture: Gender, Risk Management and the Moral Parent. Sociology 46(1), pp. 25–40. Smirnova, A. (2010). Vremja i prostranstvo zaboty: praktiki rossijskih domohozjaek. In: E. Zdravomyslova, V. Pasynkova, A. Temkina & O. Tkach eds., Praktiki i identichnosti: gendernoe ustrojstvo. St. Petersburg: Izdatel’stvo Evropejskogo universiteta v Sankt-Peterburge, pp. 99–127. Southerton, D. (2003). ‘Squeezing Time’. Allocating Practices, Coordinating Networks and Scheduling Society. Time & Society 12(1), pp. 5–25. Sveshnikova, O. (2010). Rossijskie roditeli: novoe v povedenii i mirovosprijatii. Pro et Contra 14(1–2), pp. 61–77. Temkina, A., and Rotkirch, A. (2002). Sovetskie gendernye kontrakty i ih transformacija v sovremennoj Rossii. Sociologicheskie issledovanija 11, pp. 4–15. Ukrayins’kyy tsentr sotsial’nykh reform, Instytut demohrafiyi ta sotsial’nykh doslidzhen’ imeni Ptukhy, M.V. (2012). Analitychne doslidzhennja uchasti zhinok u skladi robochoi syly Ukrainy. eds. E. M. Libanovoyi, O. Makarova, S. Aksyonova, et al. Кyiv: Fond Narodonaselennya OON. Verhulenko, I., Humen, K., Tymets, O. and Tkalich, O. (2013). Materi na rynku pratsi. Spilne. Zhurnal sotsialnoyi krytyky 6, pp. 70–77.

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Zdravomyslova, Y. & Temkina, A. (2003). Transformacija gendernogo grazhdanstva v sovremennoj Rossii. In: T.I. Zaslavskaia ed., Kuda prishla Rossija? Itogi societal’noj transformacii. Moskva: MVShSEN, pp. 140–150. Zhurzhenko, T. (2008). Gendernye rynki Ukrainy: politicheskaja jekonomija nacional’nogo stroitel’stva. Vil’njus: EGU.

List of interviewees cited in the text (an assumed name, age, ages of the children, family type, city, date of interview) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Natalia, 34, one 5-year-old child, a nuclear family, Poltava (April 30, 2015) Tetyana, 31, one 6-year-old child, a nuclear family, Poltava (May 11, 2015) Oksana, 29, one 7-year-old child, a single mother, Poltava (May 17, 2015) Olexandra, 37, a 3-year-old and an 8-year-old child, a nuclear family, Poltava (May 21, 2015) Iryna, 36, a 6-year-old and an 11-year-old child, a nuclear family, Poltava (May 26, 2015) Olha, 37, a 3-year-old and a 9-year-old child, a nuclear family, Poltava (June 1, 2015) Nadiya, 31, one 7-year-old child, a nuclear family, Poltava (June 5, 2015) Valentyna, 31, one 7-year-old child, a nuclear family, Poltava (June 9, 2015) Larysa, 34, two 8-year-old children, a nuclear family, Poltava (June 16, 2015) Hanna, 28, one 4-year-old child, an extended family, Poltava (June 20, 2015) Veronica, 29, one 9-year-old child, a nuclear family, Kyiv (September 16, 2015) Inga, 40, one 10-year-old child, a nuclear family, Kyiv (September 18, 2015) Lidiya, 37, a 6-year-old and a 10-year-old child, a nuclear family, Kyiv (September 19, 2015) Tamara, 30, one 8-year-old child, a maternal extended family, Kyiv (September 16, 2015)

8

The agency of Roma women’s NGO in marginalised rural municipalities in Hungary1 Ildikó Asztalos Morell

In the postsocialist period, Roma women have been recurrently politicised as undeserving mothers, giving birth to too many children and abusing the generous state-financed childcare support system (Durst, 2001; Asztalos Morell, 2017). Less common is to portray Roma women’s agency and resistance towards such allegations. One such example is the protest action by 369 Roma women from two villages who pressed charges against the mayor in one of the neighbouring villages for defamation. The mayor stated at a municipal meeting: In villages where the majority of inhabitants are Roma … women consume by intention such medicine, that leads to the birth of crazy [bolond] children, in order to get entitlement to double family benefits … I have checked, and it is true that a pregnant woman hit her stomach with a rubber hammer in order to give birth to handicapped child. (Origo, 2009) Similar conflicts indicate the sensitivity of local community cohesion and highlight the broken trust between municipal administrations and the local Roma communities. Such cleavages have intensified in the context of the crises of the postsocialist socio-economic transition that have left peripheral rural communities in a state of continuous decline. Roma women’s mobilisation and the emergence of their independent political voice face multiple challenges. Their marginalisation is reinforced by their overrepresentation among the underprivileged in terms of both low employment rates and the consequences of broken inter-ethnic social trust. Meanwhile, their gender roles within the family, including care responsibilities that are often combined with early pregnancy, lead to dependencies both in intimate relations to men and in their contact with the local welfare state (Balogh & Kóczé, 2011). As political agents, they are positioned outside of both Roma men’s organisations and of women’s organisations. Thus, Roma women’s organisations represent interests that are partly deviating from mainstream organisational frameworks (Kóczé, 2011; Asztalos Morell, 2015, 2016). This intersectional and underprivileged position opens for diverse alliances and strategies for framing the specific interests of Roma women.

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This chapter focuses on one Roma women’s NGO and explores the strategies this organisation uses to meet the intersectional aspects of hindrances and difficulties that characterise Roma women’s situation in Hungary in the aftermath of state socialism. It seeks to unravel Roma women’s agency through this organisation and how they collaborate with surrounding stakeholders and how the NGO’s relations to diverse power holders and social workers representing different municipal, regional, and state institutions (in short the “local state”) influence the NGO’s abilities to work on behalf of its constituency. By studying the interface between Roma women’s organisations and the local welfare state this chapter explores how these organisations negotiate the normative discourses influencing the opportunities available to their constituency.

The case, method, data, and analysis This chapter analyses Borsodi Roma No˝k Egyesülete (Roma Women of Borsod County, RMBC). I conducted interviews on two occasions with members of this organisation, once in 2012 and once in 2016. At the first occasion, I interviewed the chair of the organisation, Diána Tamás, as well as the leader of the Tanoda (afterschool study support) that is run by the organisation. At the second occasion, I again interviewed the chair as well as one member of the organisation. The case studies generated six hours of interview material, which made up the core of the data used in this analysis. I also conducted two interviews with the chair of the “mother” organisation of RMBC and with the chair of another NGO that collaborated with RMBC, in which the issues of their collaboration were discussed. Furthermore, I interviewed eight mayors in the region where the RMBC has its main activity, one of whom was active in the municipality where the NGO’s main office is located. Finally, I studied the homepage and Facebook page of the organisation, including documents that concern the operation of the NGO. This research is part of a broader research project on Roma women’s civil organisations in Hungary (Asztalos Morell, 2015, 2016, 2017). The interview material was transcribed and analysed by using content analysis that proceeded by repeated categorisation of the texts (Kvale, 1997). First, I categorised the activities of the NGO according to the different areas within which it has worked to improve Roma women’s situation. Second, the analysis focused on the specific resources the NGO mobilises to realise its specific goals. Finally, I explored the strategic positioning of the NGO in relation to key stakeholders, such as other Roma and non-Roma NGOs, municipalities, and the NGO’s own constituency.

Social citizenship and intersectional inequalities in the context of transition Social citizenship guides the entitlements of citizens to ensure that they have access to the basic necessities and services required to live on a socially

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acceptable level. However, gender and ethnicity open up for differential access to these rights (Walby, 1997). The collapse of state socialism and the subsequent transition to capitalism changed the fundamental norms and institutions of social, economic, and political systems in alliance with a “neo-liberal transition package” (Likic-Brboric, 2003) that included major cut-backs in social expenditures and placed major responsibility on the individual to engage in improving his or her employability (Garsten & Jacobsson, 2004). In Hungary, despite increasing unemployment, social spending on principle support systems declined from 30 per cent of the state budget in 1991 to 22 per cent in 1996 (Baxandall, 2004). The fight against social exclusion was not an integral part of the Copenhagen Criteria (1993) that guided the accession process (Potucek, 2007). Access to an increasing proportion of social benefits became means tested and was dependent on approval by employees of the local welfare state. State-socialist legacies, such as seeing work as a moral obligation, still prevail and form layers with neoliberal and conservative understandings of unemployment (Schwartz, 2012). While normative expectations of work societies are reinforced (such as restricting eligibility to certain social benefits to the “deserving poor”), an ethnified underclass of long-term unemployed has grown against the backdrop of the state-socialist transition (Ladányi & Szelényi, 2004) symptomatic of the postsocialist hinterlands of global economies (Standing, 2011). Employees of the local welfare state are in a hegemonic position in relation to citizens in need of accessing these entitlements, and they have the power to allow access to these rights by interpreting the law along the lines of internalised norms. Thus, the abilities of marginal groups to access social rights are dependent upon the judgement of the “moral communities” (Kay, 2011) that are formed based on shared norms by the local agents of the state in a hegemonic position towards marginalised groups including Roma women. Following the emergence of capitalism and the retrenchment of state functions, the role of civil society as an important agent working for social rights of marginalised groups increased. Hungary adopted the EU vision of local development which envisaged a Schumpeterian civil society (Schierup, et al., 2010) as the facilitator of socio-economic development through bottom-up activities (Kovách, 2000). Skocpol (2008) is critical about the one-sided focus on the role of civil society for local development and argues that the quality of the relations between the local state and civil organisations is crucial for the development of local communities. I argue, following Skocpol, that due to the hegemonic position of the local agents of the state, the state-civil society nexus and the way Roma women’s organisations are embedded in local society are of great importance not only for the well-being of Roma women, but also for the community at large.

The “Roma issue” as a social issue under state socialism State-socialist morality placed in high regard the wageworker providing for his or her own subsistence through hard and disciplined work. Not having a job was seen as immoral and was a criminal offence. Work was a social

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equaliser and provided the eligibility for social rights (Baxandall, 2004). The extensive labour demand of the state-socialist economy was explained as a consequence of the soft budget control of the state-socialist economy (Kornai, 1980). Labour force participation was extended even to poorly educated and marginal populations located in distant rural areas. Roma men, often from the fringes of the country, formed a central part of this commuting labour supply for the factories and mines (Kemény, et al., 2004). Industry was also moved to rural areas, where typically small-scale industrial production was sourced out to agricultural production cooperatives (Asztalos Morell, 1999) often employing less mobile rural women, including Roma women. Prior to state socialism, the Roma typically lived in poor, low-quality segregated colonies at the edges of villages. Analphabetism was high. State socialism saw the “Roma question” as a social question (Szalai, 2005), and the way of solving Roma marginality was through overcoming social segregation, which was to be achieved by incorporating the Roma into the labour force and thus turning them into good socialist citizens. Proletarianisation was a tool for homogenising society (Szelényi, et al., 1988). Despite the high degree of Roma incorporation into the labour force, ethnic inequalities were reinforced by the marginal position of Roma in the labour market. This “civilising” approach failed to have a positive effect on Roma ethnic identity formation, and it was only during the 1980s that Roma civil organisations were allowed to emerge (Majtényi & Majtényi, 2012).

The making of the social issue into a “Roma issue” in the transition to capitalism The emergence of capitalism in Hungary implied major structural changes in society, especially with the release of a third of the labour force, mostly in industry due to the closing down of factories and mines and in agriculture due to decollectivisation and reprivatisation. The economic dependency ratio2 increased from 98 per 100 employees in 1990 to 167 in 1995 (Baxandall, 2004). The figure remained high and was 162 in 2011, among the highest in the EU (Loichinger, 2014). Dealing with social marginalisation is a municipal responsibility in Hungary. This has transposed social inequalities into spatial inequalities and has cut society into two (Szalai, 2007; Ferge, 2002) by detaching the stratum of those in deep poverty located in “poor” municipalities from the central core of society. The number of ethnically segregated rural and ghettoised settlements with high unemployment rates is increasing (Havas & Zolnay, 2010). Welfare dependency of large portions of this population has become institutionalised and has become intergenerationally reproduced. After 2010, when the national conservative Fidesz-led government came into power, access to social rights was further infringed. From 2015 onwards, eligibility for the meagre monthly social allowance became preconditioned by a minimum of 30 days’ work within the past year. The highly criticised institution of public work gradually

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emerged as the major vehicle for “active labour” programmes (Köllo˝ & Scharle, 2011), access to which is conditioned by the good will and judgement of deservingness by the power holders of the local state. Roma who worked primarily as unskilled workers under state socialism suffered the most during these transformations (Ladányi & Szelényi, 2004). For the majority of Roma citizens unemployment and welfare dependency became an issue for subsequent generations. The structural disadvantage of the Roma as the primary losers in the transition from state socialism is used as a discursive means to frame the “Roma issue” as a matter of collective culture. As Szalai (2005) has argued, while under state socialism the poverty of the Roma was seen as a social issue, under capitalism such poverty has been turned into a Roma issue. The growing issue of poverty is discursively transformed into a “Roma” issue combined with the ethnification of undeservingness (Schwartz, 2012).

The integration of Roma women during state socialism According to state-socialist gender norms, women had a dual role as wageworker and mother, while men primarily had a provider responsibility. Reproductive rights were intended to enable women to combine these roles and to maintain their willingness to give birth to children (Asztalos Morell, 1999). As a result of such vision, state responsibility for childcare increased. Up to the 1960s, women were to orient themselves towards all spheres of male jobs. In contrast, from the 1970s onwards, the institution of the family and maternity was reappraised, and the family became the primary institution to raise children up to the age of three. New reproductive rights, including the three-year paid childcare subsidy, were to provide an institutional framework that would allow women to combine motherhood and wage labour. Even though eligibility for basic childcare support was extended to those who did not have employment, this benefit was primarily thought of as a support for working mothers. Roma women’s status also emerged in the intersection between citizenship rooted in care and work. The extensive labour demand also mobilised Roma women’s participation in the labour force (Jánky, 2003) strengthening their role as providers. While the fertility rate of women at large declined during state socialism, Roma women’s fertility rate remained high. One-third of Roma women gave birth prior to turning 20 years of age. Nonetheless, early childbirth did not conflict with labour force participation because the labour demand was primarily for low-skilled labour that did not require continued education (Kemény, et al., 2004).

The politicisation of Roma women in the postsocialist transition Reproductive rights proved to be the most resilient of the state-socialist gender regime institutions (Glass & Fodor, 2007; Saxonberg, 2013). While the right to the childcare subsidy until the child turns three was maintained, the

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composition of those utilising it reversed due to the massive decline of women’s economic activity rate to 56 per cent, one of the lowest in the EU in 2012 (Fodor, 2013). Roma women’s economic activity declined the most (Jánky, 2003; KIM, 2011). While in 1988 working mothers claiming the allowance were twice as many as those claiming the allowance on grounds of parenthood only, in 2016 those claiming the allowance on grounds of parenthood without employment were 1.8 times higher compared to entitlements paid to working mothers (KSH, 2017). The issue of the childcare subsidy has become highly politicised, and the left/liberal politicians have promoted it as a support to the poor while the conservative populist bloc has supported the state-socialist legacy of a preferential benefit to working women who contribute to the expense through taxes (Saxonberg, 2013). The increasing proportion of Roma children in the younger cohorts – 36.8 per cent of those under 14 years of age were classified as Roma in 2003 (Kemény, et al., 2004, p. 18) – formed the backdrop against which the childcare subsidy discourse became ethnified in conservative/nationalist politics (Goven, 2000). Zoltán Balog, Minister of Human Resources, argued that children born in disadvantaged families would “appear as a burden on the social welfare system in the future” (Népszava, 2014). His statement follows suit with the politicisation of Roma women’s allegedly “undeserving motherhood”, as shown above. An increase in fertility is desired among “ordinary”, i.e. working mothers, while women with higher fertility rates, implicitly Roma women, are foreseen to give birth to and raise children who are becoming a “burden” to society. In the public discourse, Roma women are constructed as deviant from the hegemonic norms of responsible citizenship, and their high fertility rate and welfare dependency is a trope through which distrust concerning moral citizenship is constructed. As the mayor of a community with a high proportion of Roma minority argued in describing the social problems associated with the Roma in her constituency, “Everybody knows that a large proportion of the children are born in order to serve as a source of income” (HVG, 2013). Roma mothers are also seen as not being committed to the education of their children. With reference to developmental concerns for children, the national conservative coalition government made day-care attendance compulsory from the age of three in 2015.3 Paternalistic notions include strengthened surveillance of non-attendance, which can lead to state custody of the child. Local welfare state agents play an important role in this process. Roma children are more frequently placed into state custody compared to non-Roma (Asztalos Morell, 2017). Thus, public discourses contribute to Roma women’s intersectionally marginalised position (Balogh & Kóczé, 2011) by amalgamating social, ethnic, and gender-based inequalities. Roma women have occupied a particularly disadvantaged position in the transition from state socialism and have been sidetracked from the labour force leading to an ethnified feminisation of poverty (Emigh, et al., 2001). Roma women on average give birth to a higher number of children compared to the population at large, even if measures vary greatly among different Roma populations (Jánky, 2003). The early age of childbirth

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contributes to difficulties in completing one’s studies, which are needed to find employment and to improve one’s life. The lack of alternative paths for young parents can explain the strengthening of traditional gender and generational dependencies. As Durst (2001) argues, it is often the lack of a future alternative for a better life – rather than some kind of Roma culture per se – that leads young Roma women to try to gain respect by stepping into adulthood by becoming a mother.

Roma women’s mobilisation Women’s NGOs in Hungary have been described as hybrid organisations (Fábián, 2009) that with few exceptions do not challenge patriarchal structures. Many of Hungary’s Roma women’s organisations emerged in the wider context of radical civil organisations supported by international foundations. Nonetheless, Roma women’s organisations are firmly rooted in local societies (Asztalos Morell, 2015). They face challenges both from majority society institutions and, because most Roma organisations are led by men, often also from mainstream Roma organisations concerned with the standing of Roma in society at large (Kóczé, 2011). These NGOs are addressing Roma women’s issues that have taken shape in the context of patriarchal relations both within the majority and minority society. However, Roma women’s organisations vary to the degree to which they address the intersectional aspects of women’s inequality and to the degree to which they form critical versus complementary frames when addressing these (Asztalos Morell, 2016). Regardless of these differences, they all serve the mutual purpose of opening up for Roma women’s agency and giving them the opportunity to voice their concerns (Vincze, 2014). Roma women’s NGOs’ engagement with the provision of welfare functions has increased in recent years. The activities of these NGOs for Roma women are often conflated with social work for disadvantaged Roma children from resource-poor families who are facing problems of segregation in mainstream public childcare and education (Ferge & Darvas, 2012).

The foundation and development of the NGO Roma women of Borsod County The Roma Women Spokesmen (RWS) NGO was founded in 1995 in Budapest (Asztalos Morell, 2016), and in 2002 the leader of the RWS initiated the opening of a rural unit in Borsod County, which is a marginalised rural region. The unit in Erdény focuses on fighting poverty as well as supporting Roma women’s concerns in broader terms: The programme is focused on livelihood and easing vulnerability, marginality, and degradation. Thus, in essence, we want to soften this feeling. All activities are just a drop in the glass.

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RMBC became independent in 2012, and the leader of RWS has argued that it is important to let these subsidiaries work on their own. Although the main target group are Roma women, most of the programmes run by RMBC explicitly aim to reach out to both men and women and both Roma and majority society members. This broader reach is part of a strategy to create bridges between different segments of society, often groups that are divided from each other by relations of broken trust. A selective approach would increase the social distance between the Roma and majority society and between women and men. Some of the Roma women, especially those who are coming from traditional “oláh” families, find themselves under their husband’s control. To facilitate these women’s ability to participate, the programmes are designed on a family basis by inviting men to participate.

Combining the facilitation of individual skills and social cohesion Community development is an explicit goal in most projects. In one of the RMBC’s first projects, fifteen women from five settlements obtained training in childcare services. The training lasted 3 months. In the second stage of the project, the RMBC opened a mobile babysitting service, and the women who obtained the childcare certificate could offer volunteer services as babysitters. The RMBC mediated babysitter services for the whole community, which were mainly used by non-Roma women. The NGO could provide a kind of guarantee for the skills and trustworthiness of the women providing the service. This dual insurance was also important in providing other kinds of services: This was the very essence. That we should send someone who can be trusted. This was, in a way, us providing a guarantee. “Send me someone who can cut my lawn. But send a proper [rendes] one.” … and it was a guarantee for both parties. Through the NGO’s guarantee, the volunteers could engage in social interaction with the mothers needing their services. The babysitting service was offered for free. However, the NGO has not looked into whether the service provider and the receiver of the service agreed on other terms: “It was their own business after that, and what they did was between each other. There were some who received something for the service, and there were some who did not receive anything.” The establishment of social contact, when assured by good personal experience, could serve as a bond that could be actualised for further exchanges of services. One important goal was to increase inter-ethnic trust. As a method towards achieving this goal, RMBC, similar to their strategy in other programmes, included both Roma and non-Roma women in the training and service. There has also been an ethnic mixture among those utilising the services: “It happened that a Roma woman provided the service in the home

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of a non-Roma woman, and the other way around. And there was a desire for this at the end.”

Reciprocal exchange programmes RMBC has been working in communities with different types of disadvantaged groups among which trusting relations were broken. On the one hand, they work with communities composed of elderly, poor pensioners, most typically non-Roma, and on the other hand they work with younger, long-term unemployed and impoverished Roma. One of the projects was to establish reciprocal assistance relations between these different segments of society. The site for the project was located in a childcare centre run by RMBC. The NGO received one large donation of clothes, shoes, and furniture, but instead of simply distributing these to the needy they opened an exchange centre. People could come with what they had and could offer it in exchange for something they needed. This exchange included both material things and services: There was someone who needed to cut her lawn. She had no scythe. Someone had a scythe and offered to cut the lawn. Then we asked her, “What could you give in exchange?” “I have this and that kind of vegetables in my garden. He can take some.” It is typically the non-Roma elderly women who need such services, and they are the ones who have kept the gardening tradition and have self-produced vegetables that they can offer in exchange for services. On the other hand, many of those who need the help of the NGO are Roma: “The elderly nonRoma women ask us to send someone who can be trusted. They trusted them more, even if we sent a Roma helper to them.” RMBC has initiated several programmes engaging the wider community. By this, the trust towards the NGO has grown – “people trust us more, and they trust in letting programmes work through us”. Thus, the NGO has become the depository of trust and bonding between parts of the community that have been separated by distrust.

Facilitation of the re-entry into the labour force of women receiving the childcare subsidy The childcare service provided by RMBC was developed to allow women on paid childcare with children younger than three to leave their children at the centre. There were no crèches where children younger than three years could be accommodated in the smaller settlements. In the project, children were taken care of by professional childcare pedagogues. Women could leave their children on an ad hoc basis as needed, but could even have their children there on a regular basis. This could allow women to take occasional

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employment. Mothers of toddlers could also stay with their children at the centre as a way of relieving their own isolation. Beyond the childcare services, the childcare centre run by the NGO became the facilitator of community engagement. The centre accepted donations, and “some came with toys for the children, others prepared meals”. Meanwhile, a part of the activities for the children turned towards older community members: “The children prepared for the locals, or for the elderly, small presents for Christmas. They performed different programmes. They [the children and the elderly] helped each other.” By connecting Roma children and the elderly, the isolation of elderly non-Roma whose adult children had moved away could be broken.

Strategic collaboration with local stakeholders One of the potential facilitators of sustainable interventions by NGOs is to be found in reciprocal relations with supportive municipalities. Supportive municipalities might utilise the competence of those who participate in educational programmes of the NGO in their public work strategies. Because the pool of eligible persons is typically larger than the number of available positions offered by the municipalities, municipal leaders prioritise those who are perceived as the “deserving poor”. In the case of the mobile childcare programme, RMBC succeeded in winning the collaboration of a local municipality that decided to employ those women who obtained certificates in care positions within public work projects: They employed her as public worker, but she was not tasked to clean the street. Rather her role was to help other families or the elderly, to do the shopping for someone, or if a single mother had to go away to arrange something with the authorities, then she could help with caring for the child. Municipalities can apply for the expense of such public workers from the state budget. In its most common form public work would not be an expense for the municipal budget. Meanwhile, the municipality is helping not only the unemployed, but also those who obtain help through such services. A supportive municipality helped the NGO to maintain expert resources, which were required for the NGO to be able to maintain its activities through applications for project funding. NGOs like RMBC cannot rely on the volunteer work of experts. While RMBC could not obtain financing for an expert, the municipality employed an expert as a public worker who performed her duties within the NGO. In a reciprocal engagement, the NGO helped the municipality that had financing for public workers but for whom they could not find meaningful employment. These public workers were placed out for work to RMBC, and the NGO was responsible for finding tasks for these workers. Thus, the NGO

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and the municipality collaborated to secure eligibility for the long-term unemployed. This can be challenging for the NGO because they do not have so many work opportunities, and many of the NGO’s activities require skills that the persons sent by the municipality often lack. Certified volunteer work can also secure eligibility for social benefits for the long-term unemployed, and RMBC has been granted a certificate by the Ministry of Human Resources to be able to issue such certification. It is important to be able to show that registered volunteers perform a meaningful activity. As a gesture of good cooperation with the municipality as well as to help the long-term unemployed, RMBC accepted the responsibility to organise activities for these volunteers: They help in organising our programmes. We had three cleaning ladies at one point in time. We had no other duties, and they wanted to clean. … On another occasion, they helped with distributing leaflets. Sometimes we find an activity, such as garbage collection, together with the volunteers. When no such activities can be organised, RMBC has encouraged volunteers to find an activity they can help their neighbours or someone in need of help with: We have a person who used to arrange the volunteers in this regard. We prepared a printed formula, which they have to get signed, if they help, for example, their neighbours. … They have to take a photo and show what they have done. Encouraging such local neighbourhood work is common when volunteers do not live in the municipality where the NGO has its activities or who live in the fringes, which would make travel expensive and difficult. As examples from media appearances of municipal leaders from the region indicate, RMBC is working in an environment where Roma women are associated with “undeserving motherhood” in public discourses. With a focus on the long-term improvement of relations, RMBC has a pragmatic position towards surrounding municipalities. Meanwhile, the readiness of municipal politicians to collaborate with Roma NGOs in order to promote social programmes varies.

Challenges in relation to men RMBC addresses the issues of Roma women, who are an intersectionally disadvantaged constituency. While confronting intersectional disadvantages, RMBC seeks primarily collaborative approaches both in relation to majority society and to men. In relation to men, family centredness enables women with controlling partners to participate. Similarly, strengthening women’s maternal roles through the mother’s club provides social cohesion for mothers without challenging men’s status. They also promote women in the acquisition of skills

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and resources that could enhance Roma women’s ability to engage in wage labour and become independent providers. However, many work programmes are also open to men. On one occasion, RMBC provided support to a trafficking victim. RMBC intervened in order to help the Roma woman to receive respectful treatment from the authorities. She had been arrested by police for selling sexual services at a prohibited place. However, even if RMBC could not effectively intervene to resolve her vulnerability in relation to the traffickers who had forced her to solicit at the prohibited place, the case prompted engagement with consciousness raising on trafficking. RMBC has good collaborations with Roma civil organisations that are successful themselves in fundraising for projects. Such organisations, even those headed by men, seek collaboration with them, but RMBC is careful in not trying to reach further than these organisations run by men: “We are always one step behind them. … therefore, we watch that we should not surpass them. We go after them. If they have three programmes, we have two.” In contrast, they experienced envy and hostility from some of those Roma leaders who did not have a proper understanding of the terms of EU projects and lacked themselves the human capital to compete for such. This implies that this kind of project-based support for local development assumes cultural capital that the most vulnerable groups do not possess, and there is an implicit challenge that this type of financing contributes to aggravating existing frictions in society.

Discussion and conclusions RMBC, like other Roma women’s NGOs, works in an intersectionally complex context. Marginalised Roma women, who are often long-term unemployed and low-skill mothers with small children, are their primary constituency. These women’s lives are constrained both by relations in the private and in the public spheres and both within the Roma community and within majority society. Although challenges in relation to Roma men in private and public relations were also discussed above, the focus below will be on relations with the public and with majority society. In public, these women’s lives are constrained by structural as well as discursive inequalities. On the one hand, they are unemployed, welfare dependent, and lack the resources needed to break out of their isolation. On the other hand, they are often constrained by normative discourses of undeservingness that dictate the practices of local power holders who decide on the allocation of welfare resources. These discourses are thus entangled with relations of broken trust within local communities that are legitimised by discourses of ethnified undeservingness and mistrust. As media examples have indicated, such feelings of mistrust are legitimised by constructing Roma women as allegedly acting against the norms of “proper citizenship” by “profiting” from welfare resources and not living up to expectations of a “working” society as

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formed from the amalgamation of state-socialist and neoliberal and conservative ideologies (Schwartz, 2012). This idea of work as the foundation of respectable citizenship is entangled with ethnified and gendered discourses of undeservingness. These relations negatively influence underprivileged Roma women’s access to the social entitlements and support that municipal power holders decide upon, and they constitute hindrances in being able to exchange services and mutual support between community members. They position Roma at large and Roma women specifically as a group characterised by common cultural features, and thus they are made responsible for their own marginality. RMBC, as well as other Roma NGOs, works to counter the assumptions in populist opinion that construct welfare dependency as an integral part of Roma culture. They work for Roma women to be perceived as “normal” women. However, they also indicate that their constituency is varied, including women both rich and poor in resources. One of the key goals and strategies of the RMBC in working with these public challenges is to improve social relations between Roma and non-Roma by community building. This is achieved by creating activities and programmes that connect Roma women with the broader community, and the NGO promotes connections by functioning as a trustee. Through the guarantees of the NGO, diverse groups belonging to segments of society usually characterised by mistrust can be connected to each other. And through this, services can be exchanged and social cohesion can be strengthened. This is the type of social capital building activity that Putnam (2000) describes as “bridging” capital that connects people situated in different social positions and which Putnam highlights as crucial for local development. RMBC has had good collaborations with a number of regional municipalities, and such collaborations have led to win/win outcomes. An important focus of the collaborations usually concerns employment. For example, the municipality has supported the NGO in financing staff members crucial for the continued activity of the NGO as public workers, and on other occasions the NGO has helped the municipality by developing activities for many of the long-term unemployed for whom the municipality cannot find employment. This collaboration has facilitated the ability of the long-term unemployed to remain within the social security system. The success of RMBC in this regard indicates the presence of municipal power holders whose agency goes against those normative tropes that the media discourses discussed in this chapter usually express. Thus, RMBC established collaborations with socially sensitive municipal power holders who were ready to support the work of the NGO for the improvement of Roma women’s status through the development of the community at large. However, taking into account the overall framework of the workfare regime, the local municipalities could be seen to be acting, using the term of Sen (1999), as “benevolent rulers” who have the power to differentiate between the deserving and undeserving poor. Socially sensitive agency is at the discretion of the benevolence

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of “rulers”. However, RMBC’s collaborations with municipalities provide examples of positive synergies, pointing at the importance of the supporting hand of the local state towards civil society and its citizens as crucial for local development, as emphasised by Skocpol (2008). Such collaborations focus on the improvement of the cultural, human, and social resources of Roma women in parity and in collaboration with other underprivileged groups. Thus, the focus is not on the cultural dissimilarity and specificity of Roma women per se. RMBC’s projects thus focus on enabling women to provide for themselves economically via labour-based incomes while creating enabling systems to combine motherhood and work. Even if the long-term effectiveness of these projects needs to be evaluated, their efforts resemble the state-socialist gender ideal as a model to follow. These activities and models challenge the racialised framing of Roma women’s fertility and undeserving motherhood as discussed above, and they provide an arena for Roma women where they can construct an identity and future goals free from such tropes. Meanwhile, through these projects they are also agents in challenging and transforming the ethnified boundaries that such images reinforce within local communities. Through inter-ethnic collaboration, the projects enable the building of bridges between separated segments of local societies. Beyond positive experiences, this chapter has also revealed some weaknesses associated with the neoliberal civil society-based community development model. The precondition for RMBC to be able to attract support for its projects is the cultural and human capital of its leaders. The leader of the NGO only has a high school level education, but nonetheless she has acquired the experience and knowhow that are important for being able to prepare applications. Her social network has also been of importance, and she has developed mutually supportive relations with similar regional Roma NGOs that have also been successful in their programmes and projects. However, RMBC experienced backlash from those Roma NGOs that did not have the necessary cultural and human capital to apply for projects and to manage them. These conflicts have undermined trust relations with RMBC and are indicative of the precarious position of Roma women’s organisations. To be able to qualify for support assumes high human, cultural, and social capital and collaboration with organisations in majority society. Success, on the other hand, leads to challenges in relation to other Roma organisations that might perceive the successful organisation as a threat. Another problematic aspect might be the temporality of the projects run by RMBC. Due to project-based financing, the different initiatives are discontinued when their funding is over. This jeopardises the continuity of the programmes’ benefits, although the leaders of RMBC report that some contacts formed through the projects are able to survive without the structural prerequisites created by the project.

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Notes 1 The research for this chapter was supported by VR project Negotiating poverty Dnr 2011–02220. The name of the studied organisation, places, and persons named are fictive. 2 The economic dependency ratio is calculated as the size of the total number of economically dependent population (counted as the total number of children, unemployed, domestic workers, retirees, and other non-working individuals) in relation to workers. Names of persons and organisations are fictive. 3 2015 modification of NKT § 8 (Law on National Public Education).

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Schwartz, Gy. (2012). Ethnicizing Poverty through Social Security Provision in Rural Hungary. Journal of Rural Studies, 27(1), pp. 99–107. Sen, A. (1999). Development as Freedom. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Skocpol, T. (2008). Bringing the State Back. Retrospect and Prospect Scandinavian Political Studies, 31(2), pp. 109–124. Standing, G. (2011). The Precariat: The New Dangerous Class. London: Bloomsbury. Szalai, J. (2005). A jólétifogda. In: M. Neményi and J. Szalai, eds., Kisebbségekkisebbsége. A magyarországi cigányok emberi és politikaijogai. Budapest: Ùj Mandátum, pp. 43–93. Szalai, J. (2007). Nincs két ország? Társadalmi küzdelmek az állami túlelosztásért a rendszerváltás utáni Magyarországon. Budapest: Osiris. Szelényi, I., Manchin, R., Juhász, P., Magyar, B. and Bill, M. (1988). Socialist Entrepreneurs, Embourgeoisement in Rural Hungary. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Vincze, E. (2014). The racialization of Roma in the “new” Europe and the political potential of Romani women. European Journal of Women’s Studies, 21(4), pp. 443–449. Walby, S. (1997). Gender Transformations. London: Routledge.

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Part 3

Resilient legacies of state socialism

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9

“Women have always had harder lives” Gender roles and representations of the self in the oral recollections of older Czech women1 Radmila Švarˇícˇ ková Slabáková

The famous Velvet Revolution, which started in Czechoslovakia on 17 November 1989, ended not only the forty-one-year rule of the one-party communist government, but also enabled the conversion of what was since 1993 the Czech Republic into a parliamentary democracy with a liberal economic system. In 2003, the Czech Republic signed the Schengen Agreement, and in 2004 it joined the European Union. Although many vestiges of communist rule have disappeared, gender equality remains a sensitive issue. Czech women are still underrepresented in politics, even at the local level (they make up 20.5 per cent of the Chamber of Deputies and 18.5 per cent of the Senate, they hold three ministries (17.6 per cent), and they make up 4 per cent of the mayors in the 26 largest cities of the Czech Republic). The unadjusted gender pay gap – the overall difference in income between women and men – is significantly higher in the Czech Republic (25.5 per cent) than the EU-27 average (16.4 per cent) (Mottlová, 2016). In light of these numbers, to “promote and achieve” gender equality is one of the priorities of the Czech government, which has developed various actions and founded several bodies with this aim.2 On the public level, about forty women’s platforms and organisations seek to promote gender equality by striving towards a similar goal – to eliminate discrimination and inequalities in the labour market, to pursue women’s interests in society, to increase their civic participation and capacities, and to advocate for gender equality in science (ATHENA, 2016). Paradoxically, and in contrast with the above-mentioned data proving the existence of gender inequality in the Czech Republic (and also in contrast with the efforts of the Czech government and numerous women’s NGOs), stands a widely accepted belief among the Czech population that women have long been equal to men, and much of the population sees the efforts to promote gender equality as spreading hatred towards men or as a struggle for certain suspicious advantages for women to the detriment of men.3 This belief has its roots not only in the democratic tradition, emphasised after the fall of communism, of the first Czechoslovak Republic, which gave women the right to vote as early as 1920, years earlier than in many other Western countries,

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but also in the emancipatory project of communist ideology from 1948 to 1989. Feminism was viewed by the Communist Party as a “bourgeois ideology” that had nothing to say to “socialist” women (Šmejkalová, 2004, p. 169). As stated by official communist propaganda, the question of women was resolved in the course of social revolutions, and women already supposedly enjoyed full equality (ibid.). Nevertheless, recent Czech public opinion surveys on the roles of women and men in the household indicate that the distribution of household chores and caring roles in families in the Czech Republic is still very traditional. Women still do a majority of the household work and care for the children (in 2016, cooking and tidying up were considered as typical women’s activities), although the majority of them are also employed full-time. Men who usually identify themselves strongly with the role of a main provider (in the opinion poll organised in 2016, almost two-thirds of the population believed that men should primarily be occupied with earning money), do not engage themselves ˇ ervenka, 2016). A to a significant degree in the activities of the family (C majority of families live according to a traditional family model, and women spend more time doing housework and caring for the children than men. The opposite model and the model of equal distribution of roles are very rare (Krˇížková, et al., 2006, Marˇíková & Vohlídalová, 2007). The situation concerning gender norms in the modern-day Czech Republic appears quite paradoxical. On the one hand, there is a deeply rooted belief in already achieved equality, while on the other hand there are statistical data affirming the underrepresentation of women in the political and public sectors, within decision-making positions, and in pay. Regarding the private sector, opinion polls and qualitative research exploring the distribution of roles in the household and in families confirm that women are less satisfied than men with the current situation (Ettlerová, et al., 2006) and that, for instance, young women enjoying full freedom of choice in their lives begin to feel dissatisfaction and a deterioration of their social position when they become mothers and become oriented to the fulfilment of family duties (Kubová, 2008). This chapter seeks to understand the reasons behind the current paradoxical situation of gender issues in the Czech Republic by examining the heritage not only of state socialism but also of the previous period of the first Czechoslovak Republic. It makes the argument that subtle changes in gender norms of femininity and masculinity (if any) can be detected in oral recollections, particularly in the recollections of women who have lived through different socio-political systems ranging from the patriarchal society of the first Czechoslovak Republic, through the state socialism proclaiming the emancipation of women, to the post-1989 society when neoliberal tendencies and a “restart” of a democratic society created an atmosphere of equal opportunities for everyone regardless of their gender (particularly in private business). How will these women talk about their lives? How will they understand their gender role, and will their positioning be reflected in the way they talk about themselves? Will the form and the content of their recollections reflect the

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changes in gender roles and norms (if any) brought about by the different social regimes they have experienced in their lives?

Women and state socialism While the literature on gender issues under the first Czechoslovak Republic is rather modest (Burešová, 2001; Feinberg 2006), the period of state socialism has recently become a favourite target of research publications (see, for example, Havelková & Oates-Indruchová, 2014, 2015). According to these publications, the period from 1948 to 1989 can be divided into three phases, each of which differed in their approach to women’s issues. The first phase, in the 1950s, can be characterised as an “attempt to deconstruct a traditional gender order” (Havelková & Oates-Indruchová, 2015, p. 33). The Constitution of 1948 and the Law on the Family of 1949 made women officially the equal of men in all areas of family and work law (taking account of the specificity of women in the work force, which in practice meant that some jobs – considered as more important for socialist industry and therefore better paid – were reserved only for men). The 1950s were the years of a rather dogmatically asserted socialist emancipatory model, emphasising the employment role as a primary role of women, while the maternal role was secondary. To support this model, nurseries and kindergartens were propagated and collectively secured household services such as cleaning were organised, but with only a modest level of success (Wagnerová, 2009). In the 1960s, the second phase, the famous double burden of women (the worker versus the mother and the harmonisation of a professional life with the needs of the household) started to be the subject of debates in society. These debates, however, did not carry with them a question of a radical new distribution of women’s and men’s roles in the household and families; on the contrary, the motherly role of women was emphasised and progressively supported by, among other things, a longer paid maternity leave from the original 14 weeks to 26 weeks in 1968 and a second paid maternity leave until the age of two of the second child in 1971 (ibid.). The third phase, in the 1970s and the 1980s, was the phase of stagnation brought about by a normalisation period after the occupation of the country by the armies of the Warsaw Pact in August 1968. Characterised as a “return to conservative gender order” (Havelková & Oates-Indruchová, 2015, p. 33), this period was the time of an “escape into the family” (Wagnerová, 2009, p. 17) and of an evaluation of the function of the family as the place of an internal emigration from the dominating and all-powerful political regime (Vodochodský, 2007). The question, then, is which legacies of state socialism still dominate in the population? The following text will try to find the answer to this by analysing the oral accounts of older Czech women. No particular research has been carried out with older Czech women, especially not with the aim of examining their evaluation of gender roles and their positioning towards gender issues

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over the course of their lives. Since the 1990s, several books simply retelling the experiences of various generations of women under state socialism have been published, but up until recently no research has been carried out that would provide a systematic and detailed analysis of such women’s accounts. One exception is the recent work of Katerˇina Zábrodská (2014) who focused on the identity of Czech women under socialism and who contested the widely shared view that there was harmony between men and women under state socialism (according to this opinion, both had one common enemy – the powerful state ideology). The interviewed women, in contrast to this common view, expressed their deep dissatisfaction with the distribution of gender roles under state socialism. In spite of the growing economic egalitarianism during the communist era, the interviewed women still had to face inequality in everyday interactions, ranging from marginalisation, sexism, and discrimination to psychological or sexual violence (ibid., p. 127).

Interview material The following analysis draws on 10 interviews with older Czech women, all of whom were born between 1923 and 1930 in the period of the first Czechoslovak Republic. Two women were born in 1923, one in 1924, three in 1927, two in 1929, and one in 1930. All of the interviewed women came from a small city of 50,000 inhabitants and its neighbouring villages, which is a typical size for the Czech Republic. Seven of these women were born into peasant (five) or worker (two) families, lived in the villages in their infancy and youth, and had completed only elementary school education (usually eight years). Two of these women moved into the city during their adult lives, while the five women remaining in the villages worked for their adult lives in jobs reserved by state socialism for village women – toiling on cooperative and state farms or working in small, light industry factories. The other three women were born into urban middle-class families and had finished high school and taken the final exam required for university entrance. During their adult lives, two of them were employed as teachers in pre-school and primary school education – another domain attributed by the state-socialist ideology to women – while the third was a worker in a light industry factory. One woman never married, while the rest all married in their twenties, which means at the end of the Second World War or around 1948, the year of the communist take-over. Most gave birth to their first child very soon after their marriages and had one (two women), two (five women), or five children (two women). Legislation passed in 1964 stipulated that women with two children should retire at the age of 55. Thus, all of the women interviewed had retired before the fall of communism in the 1980s and had been retired for many years at the time of the interviews (although a few of them had continued to be employed long after their retirement age). All but one of the married women were widows at the time of interviews.

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The interviews had two parts. In the first part of the interview, the women were asked to provide memories of their youth and adult lives, and the aim of the second part was to raise some gender-relevant issues. The interviews were conducted in 2010 (eight interviews) and in 2016 (two interviews). In 2017, a second round of interviews was conducted with the available women (five interviews). The interviews, which lasted from 45 to 90 minutes, were recorded and subsequently fully transcribed for analysis. In order to protect the interviewed women’s anonymity, pseudonyms have been used in place of real names.

Analytical methods In my analysis, I focus on the norms guiding the femininity of the women interviewed. These norms emerged in the context of specific gender roles the women held in their lives – first as daughters; then as wives, daughters-in-law, and mothers; and finally as grandmothers recollecting their lives. Three themes, which I identified as a result of repeated reading of transcribed interviews, can be understood as the guiding norms for the different roles the women have had through their lives and represent, as such, different aspects of their femininity. These themes relate to (1) their emphasis on their need to obey and their ability to suffer silently, (2) their stress of their caring and willingness for selfsacrifice, particularly in relation to the members of their family (children, husbands, parents), and (3) their ability to endure hard work (particularly, but not exclusively, by women coming from worker and peasant backgrounds) and their somewhat contrasting image of themselves as superwomen. I introduce these themes as aspects through which the interviewed women constructed their selves, and I discuss them in the context of the various discourses concerning gender issues that circulated in society during various periods of the women’s lives. Each of the themes is presented below and is introduced by a quotation from the interviews that reflects the content of each identified theme.

The older women’s representations of self Obedience and silent suffering: “There was no choice but to obey my father-in-law and mother-in-law.” (Bozena) The first theme encompasses several interrelated components through which the interviewed women characterised their lives and themselves. Especially the women coming from peasant and worker backgrounds articulated their upbringing as having been extremely strict with no tolerance for disobedience, and they recollected several situations in which they were punished because of their supposed bad conduct. Although corporal punishment was primarily reserved, according to some of these women, for boys, they themselves as girls

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often suffered the same, as recounted by Olga: “When we did something wrong, my father took a belt and spanked us with the belt.” The women viewed it as justified – “we did not do it again”, Vlasta said. Dana explained that by beating them when one of them did something wrong, their father taught them to show respect. She was not angry about his conduct. It was apparent to her afterwards that she had to be obedient and meek. Her parents had educated her in this manner. Meekness and obedience were the expected behaviours of these women even after they got married (five of the interviewed women married at the age of 20, three at the age of 21–25, and one of them married when she was 31, meaning that they all married in the period from 1945 to 1957). Four of these women from rural backgrounds moved to their husband’s farms and provided surprisingly similar unhappy accounts of their lives living with their in-laws, in particular with their mothers-in-law: I got married in 1949. … It was the kingdom of his mother and she was angry with me, she was very angry with me. I had to obey. I had to leave my baby at home and go for hay. (Dana) As documented in the international literature, young farm wives were not only subordinated to their husbands but also to their mothers-in-law (Haugen, 1990; Sireni, 2008; Asztalos Morell, 2013). “Everything was decided by my mother-inlaw”, recounted Dana, “I had to care for my child and for her cattle and fields alike.” “It was very cruel for me”, she continued, “I had to do everything and had nothing to show for it.” Her mother-in-law did not care about her children at all, although several of the interviewed women recollected how it had been the elderly women of the family whose task it was to care for the children while the young mothers worked on the farm or went to their jobs. Dana’s accounts show that she as a young farm woman desired to care for her own children but had, without the help of others, only two possibilities – either carry her children with her out to the field or leave them at home, alone. The second solution, to leave a baby at home alone, had been a source of a great emotional stress, which was clearly expressed by the tears that accompanied Dana’s recollections of that hard time: I would keep my baby locked at home … and she [mother-in-law] would send me home [from the field] when we finished. I would go, but was always scared. Once, I came home and my baby had chewed a hole into the curtain. I am to this day still frightened that she could have pulled down the curtain and suffocated. (Dana, crying) Nobody knew about Dana’s suffering, not even her husband: “I did not say anything to my husband. I was glad he was with me a while, and I did not

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want to disturb those moments by complaining and crying. And he would get angry, so I was silent.” As the account above indicates, the relationships between wives and husbands did not necessarily correspond to the new laws that proclaimed equality between spouses. The new Act on Family Law of 1949 modernised family relationships and brought about de jure equality between husband and wife (Havelková, 2014, p. 33). The institution of the “head of the household”, which determined that the husband ran the household, decided the place of residence, and was deserving of the help and obedience of his wife, was abolished, and “domestic chastisement” was also outlawed (ibid.). In spite of the new legal instructions stipulating “equality”, submissiveness, in the case of the interviewed women, was still expected to be extended to relations with their husbands. Although four of the interviewed women stated that they had happy marriages, the others expressed serious reservations towards the conduct of their husbands, in particular in the earlier years of their marriage. When I said something, he was usually against me. … He used to go away, he was away three days once and I had to feed and comb the horses for him on the farm [meaning the state farm where both spouses were employed in the 1950s] … Even now I do not know where he was. (Bozena) Submissiveness in relation to their husband could also be detected in the words of the middle-class women, as illustrated by Ludmila who clearly depicted her behaviour at the time as a self-sacrifice: He liked that I did what he wanted. Because who else would drive with him around the world to look for violins! I had to listen to him playing the violin. I did not understand it at all, but I had to do it so that he would be happy. (Ludmila) Dana had to confront her husband’s alcoholism and expressed, with sorrow in her voice, how she used to deal with his physical aggression when he returned drunk from the pub (where he used to go after work). “He would even beat me, but the kids would guard me … my son would grab onto his legs and slow him down”, she said as she explained the way she used to escape to the courtyard. Helena recollected how difficult it was for her, because of her heavy workload in the household and her work on her husband’s private farm, to challenge her husband’s psychological abuse: So, you know, I was so tired so I did not feel like sleeping with him at night. And if he did not get what he wanted, he did not talk to me for a

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However, at that time in the 1950s, according to the interviewed women, divorce was not possible, although it was in theory made more accessible thanks to the new socialist constitution in 1948.4 Not only did they not even think of divorce, they never told anyone about their suffering and unhappiness. The silence about the mistreatment that women endured in their marriages was another fact that the women emphasised in their accounts. Helena’s father told her: “When you marry, that’s what you get. But never come to me to complain.” So she never complained. Bozena did not even think of leaving her husband either. “No such thought existed … there were children, so there had to be a father too … nobody knew anything”, recounted Bozena. “Why complain? Nobody would help me. They would be happy about his bad conduct or there would be only gossip, so nobody heard anything about him from me.” The women claimed that they were consequently patient and caring for their families no matter how their husbands and other relatives behaved. They were responsible for the proper functioning of the family, and in the case of divorce all of the guilt would fall on them. “If I had left, I would have been ashamed”, said Bozena. This is also why the women emphasised the image of their family as being smooth functioning with no divorces, although in reality the situation was not so ideal. They emphasised that their way of dealing with the situation was proof of their own moral abilities and strength. A very interesting feature is the women’s acceptance of the necessity of different attitudes of men and women. Dana explained that gender roles, in her youth, were characterised by a certain behaviour that everybody took for granted: “My father was of a fierce temper, but he was a man, so we accepted that he had the right to boss us around.” She evaluated the behaviour of her “kind”, but in fact aggressive and violent, husband in a similar manner as we can see from her statements above. Not surprisingly, the opinions of the women about an “ideal” woman shared this view. The women unanimously defined an “ideal” woman as a “housewife” – caring for the family and the household (Anna), bringing up the children, and being able to cook and working hard (Bozena). What is striking is that in six cases, an “ideal” woman was explicitly defined through her relationship to a man (meaning her husband), and the position of the wife in each case was absolutely submissive. An “ideal” woman should “seek to understand her husband, be helpful to him, acknowledge her faults, make efforts so that they get on well together, so that he is not forced to seek distraction elsewhere” (Vlasta). She should also “submit to her husband and balance everything, it is not possible to do it otherwise” (Helena), “make efforts so that they stay together” (Ludmila), “be kind and obliging to him” (Dana),

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“wash the laundry and cook so that her husband is not hungry and complaining” (Olga), and “be able to cook so that her husband does not leave her” (Marta). Such a description of an “ideal” woman brings us back to the interviewed women’s lives. They behaved according to this “ideal”, and by defining themselves by such ideals they provided evidence that through this behaviour they had found meaning in their own lives. “Divorce was considered immoral”, said Marie. An interesting situation occurred when the women tried to compare the past with the present. The comparison was made with a certain unease, and the women hesitated when asked whether the relations between women and men were better in the past or in the present. I knew several cases where a husband beat his wife sometimes, when he had been drinking in the pub. But calm was restored, and they did not divorce. Earlier, they made efforts to understand each other more. Today they would have divorced already. Today it is more comfortable for everybody, but earlier they were more calm, more content. (Vlasta) It is obvious that according to Vlasta it is the wife who has to “understand” the bad and violent conduct of her husband, as well as his drinking habit. A wife’s patience would be returned by “calm” and the preservation of the family, which was considered as a moral value under the responsibility of the woman. Divorce, again, was understood as a threat to the good image of the family and, consequently, to the status of the woman. The women presented themselves as the keepers of moral values, which had been inculcated in them since their infancy. These values served to preserve their families and marriages, and when asked what was the most important for them in their lives, the women all agreed that it was their families, their children, and their marriages (except for one woman who named her religious belief as the most significant thing in her life). Care and self-sacrifice: “I liked that he was very poor and I could care for him.” (Ludmila) In many of their stories, the women emphasised situations in which they took care of others, and this was indicative of the second theme – care and selfsacrifice. They did not talk very extensively about care with respect to their children because this care was to some extent reserved, as documented above, to their mothers-in-law or their own mothers. Particularly young peasant mothers conformed to the generational gender contract of the peasant family that ordered them to prioritise hard work in the field over caring for their children. Successively, the women mentioned their natural role as caregivers of their grandchildren when they became grandmothers. Ludmila recounted:

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“I used to take my son’s children to school and then pick them up. We went to my apartment and I cared for them until four in the afternoon.” An interesting contrast to how this generational gender contract collided with everyday praxis can be given not only in the case of Dana who had to both care for her children and work in the fields, but also in the case of Bozena who explicitly stated that an ideal woman should “care about neatness, be able to cook, and care for the children and educate them”. Bozena expressed her deep satisfaction with the way she had educated her children, similarly to Olga who said she was very happy that she succeeded in educating her daughters (although in their childhood her daughters were cared for also by Olga’s mother and mother-in-law). Instead of emphasising the care of their children, the women tended to emphasise the care of older and ill parents, younger siblings, and husbands. Anna recollected how she used to “serve [her mother] till the end” in spite of her mother’s cruel behaviour towards her in her childhood. The other women also recounted how they cared for their parents or parents-in-law. Vlasta and Eva went into early retirement, and thus received a lower pension, in order to care for their parents. Eva was under pressure from the whole family to do so because she was the only one without children of her own. Ludmila cared for her mother on her own: “I did not go to the theatre, nowhere, because I could not leave her alone.” Only her sister came once a week so that Ludmila was able to sleep elsewhere, because it was not possible to sleep when caring for her mother. She also recalled how she shared their family flat with her widowed mother-in-law during the winter (“I was always glad when those three months were finally over”). The women provided the reasons for their need to care and suggested that it was their moral duty. “So I said, no, I have to serve her till the end, because I would blame myself if nobody cared for her”, recounted Anna, “I have a clear conscious in this.” Ludmila, in contrast, explicitly regretted her decision to move to her hometown and leave her first job in a distant town so that her recently widowed mother would not be alone. She loved her prosperous job a great deal and gave excited descriptions of it. She said that leaving it was “the biggest mistake [she] had made in [her] life”. The ambiguities in Ludmila’s thinking – between her self-sacrifice as demanded by social norms and by her own feeling of having made a mistake that cost her career – demonstrate that the provision of care as a distinctive role of women and providing self-sacrificing care, i.e. putting others’ care needs ahead of their own needs, as a feature of femininity was deeply inculcated into the behaviour of the women despite the new ideal of the socialist working woman of the 1950s. Today, Ludmila realises the lost opportunity to have her own career in the same way as Eva who wanted to study the German language and who was very good at composing stories but her father needed her help on their family farm and she did not even think to protest. In contrast, Olga never regretted that she, at the age of 14 (in 1941), started to work in a local textile factory even though she would have loved to have

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taken an apprenticeship to become a dressmaker. Her parents needed money to pay to build a new house, and she had to go to work to help them pay the loans back. In this respect, the image the majority of these women gave about themselves corresponded, in spite of the new model of a socialist working woman, to the ideal of womanhood valid in the nineteenth century – women had to be dutiful caregivers, kind, and self-sacrificing. Superwoman: “It was not a good life, but I endured everything.” (Helena) This third theme shows that for the women, particularly for those coming from peasant and working-class backgrounds, physical work was a natural part of their lives. They were accustomed to work, and they even did it with pleasure. Already in their infancy and youth, before they got married, the women cared for their younger siblings and for the household; they cooked, washed, cleaned, and worked in the field or in the garden and cared for the domestic animals. After they got married, their workload only increased when they became mothers. Officially unemployed, these women made up an indispensable workforce at the private farms of their husbands or their fathers. Upon marriage, peasant women moved in with the extended family. They brought with them a dowry into their new household, and in the case of Bozena also some finances – but no fields or estates. The men on whom the young women were dependent decided the destiny of the young women in accordance with the needs of their private farms: “I wanted to be a teacher, I had the best grades, even my teacher came home to talk with my father, but he said: ‘You don’t need any schooling to take care of the cows’” (Dana). An interesting feature of the peasant women’s stories is their almost absolute omission of the fact that they had become employed outside their households at one point. It seems that the proclaimed revolutionary emancipatory steps of the government in the 1950s had almost no effect on the peasant women’s lives. After the private farms of their husbands and fathers had been collectivised (in the case of the women interviewed here, this was around 1957), they again changed the place of their work – to cooperative or state farms – and continued to do the same work they were accustomed to since their infancy. The salaries were small so that “I could not dare to buy something”, Eva said, and Bozena said that she knew how to economise but they still did not save much. Olga emphasised that it was a lack of finances that forced her to be employed again after she had spent five years at home caring for her two small children: “It was terrible, I don’t even want to recollect these 1000 crowns [earned by her husband], how to manage with it, it meant 200 crowns per week, it was poverty.” In the following sentences, she compared her miserable financial situation in the 1950s with that of her parents in the period of the economic crisis in the 1930s. For Dana, it was an effort to escape from the power of her evil mother-inlaw that made her seek paid work: “It was a release for me, I liked it there, I

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had learned how to work since my youth, anything that was needed, I did not mind hard work, and I could not stay with my mother-in-law.” Depicted as a natural part of their lives, the women – especially those from peasant and worker backgrounds – did not consider their paid work as a means for their self-realisation; instead, they advanced the financial reasons and, in the case of young mothers, the possibility not to be alone, to be “in society”, and to have some fun. The second underlying assumption here is that, in contrast to both preceding aspects, the women represented themselves as strong women who were capable of hard work and of managing both their official employment and their domestic responsibilities. They particularly emphasised that they had been able to do some “masculine work” and to do it even better than the men. With reference to her life prior to collectivisation on the family farm, Helena’s ability to “ride with horses to the field, to mow with a scythe, to do everything outside” helped her change her mother-in-law’s initial bad conduct towards her. Bozena, who was able to construct a threshing machine better than boys and used to mow with a scythe in a row with the men, did not contest that “cooking, washing, ironing was our [women’s] work”. She did not need a man’s assistance in this respect. Similarly, Olga confirmed: “It did not come to my mind that my husband could wash or anything, and I did not ask him.” But she also admitted that “women have had always more work if they were employed than men” and that she “had to manage everything, it was a very hard workload”. A very interesting observation is that the women did not complain when describing their hard workload on the private farms or their “double burden” of being fully employed women in their adult lives. On the contrary, they gave the impression of being proud to be able to manage everything without anybody’s help. In that way, they seem to show again their moral superiority over men. On the one hand, they construct themselves as “victims”, but on the other hand their ability to endure everything allows them to emphasise their own superiority, be it by their skilfulness or their always exemplary moral behaviour. In this way, their silent suffering is turned into a moral strength and their victimhood into heroism, as can be illustrated by the statement of Bozena: Nobody heard a word from me about my husband’s conduct. And when we celebrated the fifty-year anniversary of our marriage and the mayor and others came to congratulate us, he [her husband] said in front of everyone: “I was doing harm to our mummy”. And I said it was all in the past. (Bozena)

Discussion and conclusion When recollecting their lives by depicting their roles as daughters, wives, daughters-in-law, mothers, and grandmothers, the women showed an

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unprecedented stability and continuity of gender norms. The silent suffering and self-sacrifice, along with the pride in their strength, thanks to which they were able to endure everything, appear to be the guiding norms of the women during different social, economic, and political conditions of the 20th century and even today. A striking observation in the older women’s accounts is their conviction that women have always had harder lives than men. According to the older women, this is caused by nature – women have had harder lives, but they have endured more, and they have been more courageous. Olga believed that this was the case for her mother and grandmother (who cooked and worked harvesting the fields the next day after their babies were born) and that it was also the case for herself and for her daughters. Dana said that she did not mind that men were superior to women and earned more money because it has been always like that. When asked if they would have stayed at home with their children and not gone to work if they had sufficient finances to do so, the women said that they would. The emancipatory employment rhetoric of the 1950s did not seem to have had a great effect on the older women’s thinking other than, perhaps, the appreciation of the collective education of children (which is somewhat in contrast with their evaluation of mothers being home with and educating their children). Rather, the legacy of the 1970s and the 1980s, with its return to the conservative model of gender relations, can be detected in the women’s stories. This rhetoric relied on the inter-war belief that a woman should be a good housewife and be caring and submissive, and that this was the basis for a good married life (Lenderová, et al., 2009, p. 318). An analysis of popular manuals on marriage destined for the broader public published between 1949 and 1989, in which the authors defined the “correct” relations between spouses, and through them also legitimised patterns of behaviour valid for men and women, demonstrated that the most published and best-selling publications were those that were published between 1973 and 1989 and emphasised the traditional reproductive function of the family with a traditional distribution of roles between spouses – the woman cared for the household, the man was the breadwinner (Vodochodský and Klvacˇ ová, 2015, p. 224).5 These books were re-edited after the fall of communism and have continued to be published up until the present day. In contrast, the manuals that presented more democratic and feminist views and called for a change in traditional gender patterns, distributions of roles, and marriage functions, have disappeared and been all but forgotten (ibid., p. 238). The manuals that consolidated the patriarchal distribution of gender roles characterised women as “less rational, more emotional and manipulative … creating the opinion that it is women who are the source of unequal communication in the couple” (ibid., pp. 227–228). Therefore, it is the woman who has to make some “sacrifice” that will be rewarded in the form of a happy marriage: “In contrast, if they rebelled against this condition, they

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would challenge the stability of marriage and do themselves great harm” (ibid., p. 230). It is important to note that in their accounts, the interviewed women directly engaged with the question of gender issues only in association with their family and their marriage. Work-related issues were described, if at all, without gender controversy. This fact might be explained by the long-time retirement of these women but also by the absence of an available public discourse in the media. The outcomes of this analysis indicate that the discourses preceding the emancipation of the 1950s and that re-entered the public life in the 1970s and the 1980s, as shown in the study of Vodochodský and Klvacˇ ová (2015), continue to shape the identities of the older women in the study to a considerable extent. The outcomes also support the hypothesis that the gender inequality is perceived particularly in the private life of women, in their families, and in the distribution of marriage roles. The older women’s essentialist view of gender relations might be attributed to the absence of a relevant feminist discourse during the last decades of the communist era and, probably, in the contemporary period as well.

Notes ˇ R (The Czech Science Foundation) grant 15– 1 This research was supported by GAC 02993S entitled Family Memory and Intergenerational Transmission of Identities. 2 The Government Council for Equal Opportunities for Women and Men was established by Government Resolution No. 1033 of 10 October 2001. https://www. vlada.cz/cz/pracovni-a-poradni-organy-vlady/rada-pro-rovne-prilezitosti/the-go vernment-council-for-equal-opportunities-for-women-and-men-29830/ [Accessed 5.10.2016]. 3 Various stereotypes associated with feminism in the contemporary Czech Republic have been described, for example, in Krobová (2017). 4 In 1948, the accessibility to divorce was still limited by the obligation to find a guilty partner. The requirement of proof of guilt was weakened in 1955 and finally abolished by the new Family Code in 1963. 5 In one of his books, published in 1980, Miroslav Plzák, the author who gained an “almost monopoly” in the sphere of manuals on marriage in the period between 1973 and 1989, suggested a normative attitude toward women by writing: “By the way, I believe that a normal woman likes to take care of the household.” His books were re-edited several times and sold in large numbers during this period and were extensively popularised in the media (Vodochodský and Klvacˇ ová, 2015, p. 231).

References Asztalos Morell, I. (2013). Handing Down – Taking Over/Taking Care: Generation Transfer in Hungarian Farm Families in the Context of Transitions. Acta Ethnographica Hungarica, 58(1), pp. 57–86. ATHENA. (2016). Overview of Gender Equality Issues in the Czech Republic. http:// www.gender-equality.webinfo.lt/results/czech.htm [Accessed 5.10.2016]

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Burešová, J. (2001). Promeˇ ny spolecˇ enského postavení cˇ eských žen v první polovineˇ 20. století. Olomouc: UP. ˇ ervenka, J. (2016). Názory verˇejnosti na roli muže a ženy v rodineˇ, Public Opinion C Research Center, February 2016, 15 March 2016, https://cvvm.soc.cas.cz/media/ com_form2content/documents/c2/a2029/f9/ov160315b.pdf [Accessed 20.09.2016]. Ettlerová, S., Kucharˇová, V., Mateˇ jková, B., Svobodová, K. & Šťastná, A. (2006). Harmonizace rodiny a zameˇ stnání – soucˇ asné možnosti a jejich reflexe u mladé rodicˇ ovské generace. Praha: VÚPSV. http://praha.vupsv.cz/Fulltext/vz_239.pdf [Accessed 20.09.2016]. Feinberg, M. (2006). Elusive Equality: Gender, Citizenship and the Limits of Democracy in Czechoslovakia 1918–1950. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Haugen, M. (1990). Female farmers in Norwegian Agriculture: From Traditional Farm Women to Professional Farmers. Sociologica Ruralis, 39(2), pp. 197–209. Havelková, B. (2014). The Three Stages of Gender in Law. In: H. Havelková and L. Oates-Indruchová, eds., The Politics of Gender Culture under State Socialism. An Expropriated Voice. London, New York: Routledge, pp. 31–56. Havelková, H. and Oates-Indruchová, L. (2014). Expropriated Voice. Transformations of Gender Culture under State Socialism. London, New York: Routledge. Havelková, H. and Oates-Indruchová, L. (2015). Vyvlastneˇ ný hlas. Promeˇ ny genderové kultury cˇ eské spolecˇ nosti 1948–1989. Praha: SLON. Krˇížková, A., Marˇíková, H., Hašková, H. and Bierzová, J. (2006). Pracovní a rodinné role a jejich kombinace v životeˇ cˇ eských rodicˇ u°: plány versus realita. Sociological Studies. 14, http://studie.soc.cas.cz/index.php3@lang=cze&shw=283.html [Accessed 20.09.2016]. Krobová, T. (2017). O tom, co není feminismus, Feminismuscz. 20.06.2017. http:// www.feminismus.cz/cz/clanky/o-tom-co-neni-feminismus [Accessed 10.07.2017]. Kubová, V. (2008). Past genderových stereotypu° aneb postoj cˇ eských žen k tradicˇ ním hodnotám manželství a rodiny, Master Thesis, Brno: PdF MU. http://is.muni.cz/th/ 105778/pedf_m/ [Accessed 15.10.2016]. Lenderová, M., Kopicˇ kováB., MaurE. and Burešová, J. (2009). Žena v cˇ eských zemích od strˇedoveˇ ku do 20. století. Praha: NLN. Marˇíková, H. and Vohlídalová, M. (2007). Trvalá nebo docˇ asná zmeˇ na? Usporˇádání genderových rolí v rodinách s pecˇ ujícími otci. Sociological Studies, 11, http://studie. soc.cas.cz/index.php3@lang=cze&shw=294.html [Accessed 20.09.2016]. Mottlová, M. (2016). Czech Republic: Politics remains a male domain, http://www. europeanyoungfeminists.eu/2016/03/20/czech-republic-politics-remains-a-male-doma in/ [Accessed 5.10.2016]. Sireni, M. (2008). Agrarian Femininity in the State of Flux: Multiple Roles of Finnish Farm Women. In: A.I. Morell and B. Bock, eds., Gender Regimes, Citizen Participation and Rural Restructuring. London: Elsevier, pp. 33–56. Šmejkalová, J. (2004). Feminist Sociology in the Czech Republic after 1989: A Brief Report. European Societies, 6, pp. 169–180. Vodochodský, I. (2007). “Superženy” a “velké deˇ ti”: konceptualizace postavení mužu° v rámci genderového rˇádu státního socialismu. Pražské sociálneˇ veˇ dní studie – Sociologická rˇada (SOC-01), pp. 1–32, http://publication.fsv.cuni.cz/publication. php?id=4306, [Accessed 24.06.2016]. Vodochodský, I. and Klvacˇ ová, P. (2015). Normativní podoby manželství v prˇedlistopadové populárneˇ -naucˇ né literaturˇe. In: H. Havelková and L. Oates-Indruchová, eds., Vyvlastneˇ ný hlas. Promeˇ ny genderové kultury cˇ eské spolecˇ nosti 1948–1989. Praha: SLON, pp. 207–249.

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Wagnerová, A. (2009). Co prˇinesl a co neprˇinesl cˇ eským ženám socialistický model rovnoprávnosti – aneb nejen jesle a traktoristky. In: L. Sokacˇ ová ed., Gender a demokracie: 1989–2009. Praha: Gender Studies, pp. 11–19. Zábrodská, K. (2014). Between Femininity and Feminism: Negotiating the Identity of a ‘Czech Socialist Woman’ in Women’s Accounts of State Socialism. In: H. Havelková and L. Oates-Indruchová, eds., The Politics of Gender Culture under State Socialism. An Expropriated Voice. London, New York: Routledge, pp. 109–131.

10 Home is the “place of women’s strength” Gendering housing in Soviet and post-Soviet Russia Yulia Gradskova While the Soviet shortages of goods and lack of freedom for travel seem to belong to the past, housing continues to be a significant problem for a large part of the Russian population even 25 years after the end of state socialism. During the post-Soviet years, precarity and shortage of housing together with problems connected to mortgages and construction rules have continued to be a significant source of social tensions and a reason for social mobilisation (Cleman, et al., 2010; Shomina, 2008; Khmelnitskaya, 2015, p. 10). Nevertheless, similar to the period of state socialism, the authorities in contemporary Russia continue to use housing as a way to demonstrate the state’s “caring” for its citizens, and the Russian news sometimes proudly reports on improvements in housing conditions for certain categories of the population as a very important achievement of state social policy.1 At the same time, the neoliberal reforms of housing since 1991 have aimed for emancipation of the state from responsibility for its citizens’ housing. The reforms were to expand ownership and shift the responsibility for maintaining and repairing flats from the state to the owners (Khmelnitskaya, 2015, pp. 1–10). The newfound freedom of the media and the transition to the market economy contributed to the dissemination of the commercial idealisation of the “home” not only as a space for the production of identity of its inhabitants, but also as a specific space of women’s strength and creativity. The housewife was presented in advertisements enjoying her nice home and furniture, while issues of how to acquire a spacious and modern home were not discussed. The aim of this chapter is to explore gender aspects of housing in postSoviet Russia compared to the Soviet norms and women’s experiences with improvement in housing. Although housing is an important topic of scholarly research, the housing aspects of the Soviet legacies and post-Soviet reforms are rarely explored from a gender perspective. The important theoretical background for thinking about relationships between housing, home, and gender norms are the publications by Iris M. Young. She draws attention to the connection between identity and materiality of living and criticises those feminist theorists who see home as a place of “confinement of women for the sake of nourishing male projects” (Young, 1997, p. 134). According to Young, “we can dwell only in a place”, while

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commitment to the “democratic enactment” of the values of home for everyone “could have enormous critical political potential in today’s world” (Young, 1997, p. 136). Thus, in the first part of the chapter I analyse the most important post1991 changes in housing regulations, discourses, and outcomes from a gender perspective. The second part of the chapter is dedicated to the analysis of the memories of women of the Soviet generation with regard to their housing problems and strategies for improving their housing. The last part of the chapter analyses contemporary publications and discussions on the improvement of housing and the place of a home in a woman’s life. This chapter is based on statistical data, reports, and publications discussing different problems with housing in Russia during the 1990s and 2000s and ways of solving them. For comparing the contemporary situation with the Soviet era, I used interviews with women of the Soviet generation collected in Moscow in 2013 that focused on their strategies for improving their housing situation during the period of state socialism. Finally, I studied Internet forums concerning housing problems in contemporary Russia in order to explore current perceptions of housing problems by Russian women.

New house(wife) – gender aspects of the changing housing conditions The “return” of the woman to the home, and the reintroduction of the home, family, and children, as the centre of a woman’s life, as opposed to work outside of the home and a career, was very important from the beginning of the social and political reforms after 1991 (Zhurzhenko, 2008). The new glamour magazines published pictures of well-kept homes and suggested that new, post-Soviet women’s happiness was connected to a well-kept home, a place of cosiness and creativity. One of the numerous popular websites dedicated to giving psychological advice to women stressed, for example, the importance of having one’s own home (apartment or house) – as opposed to a rented apartment or to living together with older members of the family. Only one’s “own” home could be considered to be a proper home. On the basis of the article’s content, it is possible to say that one’s “own” home in this case did not mean having a home as a private property, but mainly not having to share a living space with extended family, and thus that it clearly implied the model of the nuclear family. The article presented the problem of housing as merely a psychological choice and not as an economic constraint, as simply the choice between having one’s “own home” and sharing one’s “home” with other relatives. The right choice, according to the author, could be made only after overcoming certain fears – the woman and her family might be afraid of losing contacts with relatives, maintaining one’s “own home” requires more money and time, it might be more difficult to organise childcare, etc. Buying a proper home is presented on the website as obvious and the only correct choice. The author stresses, however, that to have one’s “own” home would be more important for a woman than for a man. For a woman, her house is the

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“place of strength” and a woman risks “losing herself” and her femininity if she does not have “her own home” (Dzutseva, 2014). Thus, my interest in this section is the housing nexus in the postsocialist construction of the house(wife). What kind of housing situation did the women in Russia meet after 1991? According to the statistics, the living conditions of the Soviet people in the mid-1980s were the worst among all of the countries practising state socialism, and by 1986 about a quarter of the urban population was placed on the waiting lists for housing (Khmelnitskaya, 2015, p. 39). Even in the late 1980s, the apartments of Soviet cities were massively overcrowded, and in terms of the availability of running water, bathrooms, and toilets, the Soviet Union occupied the lowest place among the state-socialist countries, and 13 per cent of the Soviet population was living in residences without these facilities (Khakhulina & Tuchek, 1995, p. 34). The beginning of the neoliberal transformation was connected to the unprecedented possibility of privatisation of housing. As a result, about 80–90 per cent of Russian citizens are now owners of some form of housing. Even if in some cases families and individuals became owners of several apartments,2 the housing situation of other families living in overcrowded and dilapidated housing did not improve much as a result of privatisation. Taking into account the quality and size of their apartments and houses, it is possible to understand that the life of many of the new “house ladies” did not come very easy. According to the Russian Statistical Yearbook (RSY) from 2015, the proportion of old and dilapidated3 housing (in all housing) increased from 1.3 per cent in 1990 to 3.2 per cent in 2005. Even if it slowly decreased – to 2.7 per cent in 2014 – this proportion continues to be significant. The growing social differentiation between Russian citizens made housing an even greater marker of social stratification compared to state socialism.4 According to RSY 2015, of the group with the lowest income (of 5 groups) 66.7 per cent were living in a flat compared to 75.3 per cent in the group with highest income, and 31 per cent of those with the lowest income occupied a house or part of a house compared to 23.5 per cent of those with the highest income. This indicates that those with higher incomes are more frequently living in modern apartment houses, while more than 30 per cent of the representatives of the low-income group live in individual houses (or parts of houses) that are more characteristic of rural housing. The individual houses are in precarious conditions and lack sewage systems, hot water, and other modern facilities more frequently than apartment houses. Indeed, the RSY shows that only 70 per cent of those with the lowest income had access to a sewage system and only 80.8 per cent had hot water in their house. Further, 40.6 per cent of the representatives of this group had less than 9 m2 per person, while only 7.8 per cent of those with the highest income had less than 9 m2 per person. Thus, it is possible to say that the housing situation for the group with the lowest income did not improve much from the period of state socialism when the norm often was about 5 m2 per person. Finally, the

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statistics show that while the amount of housing acquired through buying is increasing – in 2005 1,788,000 properties were bought compared to 3,535,000 in 2014 – the rate is still far from satisfying the need for new housing. The official statistics are also supported by the data of different agencies and researchers showing that the housing problem in Russia is quite serious. In the 2000s, mortgages were only available to 10 per cent of Russians (Khmelnitskaya, 2015, p. 8). According to the Rosbisneskonsalting analytic agency, in order to solve the housing problem the amount of housing would have to be increased 1.5 times (Obzor, 2016), while according to the Novaia gazeta housing would have to be expanded by 46.1 per cent (Gribanova, 2004). Furthermore, the book on housing policy by Levashov (2004, p. 234) declared that 45 per cent of the Russian population needed improvement in their housing conditions. According to the NGO report mentioned above, the waiting list for improvement of housing conditions consisted of 4,427,700 families. However, according to RSY data, the list of those who are expecting state help with housing has continued to be quite long even in more recent years, and according to RSY 2015 7 per cent, 6 per cent, and 5 per cent of the families registered as waiting for improvement of their housing conditions received real improvement in 2012, 2013, and 2014, respectively. In the 1990s–2000s, the state housing policy was defined by several laws and programmes, including “Housing” (1993), “Special program on Housing for 2002–2010” (2001), and “Special program on housing for 2011–2015” (2011). Also in 2005 the national project “Affordable and Comfortable Housing for Russian citizens” was initiated by the government. However, as it is possible to see, the results of these programmes have not been very satisfactory. According to Tikhonova, et al. (2007), about 50 per cent of the Russian population was living in two- or three-room apartments and 9 per cent was living in a oneroom apartment and about 11 per cent of citizens needed improvement of their housing (they rented housing or lived in a dormitory or communal apartment). It is important to take into account that many of those who lived in one- or two-room apartments had significant shortages of space, and that there were many people who were living in dilapidated houses that needed extensive and expensive repairs and renovations. As Tikhonova and colleagues stress, many of the new property owners found themselves in a “trap” – the state did not fulfil its obligations to repair apartment buildings that were in precarious conditions already before privatisation, and their condition continued to worsen (Tikhonova, et al., 2007). Already from the beginning of the period of reforms, housing problems were seen as a potential threat for social stability. The book by Levashov (2004), for example, warned that while the state was attempting to transfer all of the maintenance costs to the owners and tenants, it was obvious that they would not be able to do this due to tenants’ lack of resources and to increasing protests against these plans. Finally, it must be noted that in 2003 an international research team exploring housing in Russia using the city of Syktyvkar as their research subject came to the conclusion that the new housing

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stratification of the city was also changed with respect to gender, and they state, “Comparing to the Soviet period when women constituted 60.8% of the main tenants of the flats, after 1991 the number was reduced to 46.3%” (Krotov, et al., 2003). The statistics and previous research show that the practical conditions of post-Soviet life had difficulties following the propaganda of the new way of life in one’s “own” house. In the next section, I explore in more detail how Soviet housing problems are remembered and how problems of housing – first of all a shortage of space, sharing flats with strangers, and a lack of sanitation and other facilities – affected women’s lives. But my main focus is on women’s stories on how the Soviet housing could be improved.

How was it to get “better” housing under Soviet rule? Access to housing in the Soviet Union was intended to be governed according to principles of justice and equality, and the collective forms of housing were considered to be one of the central elements of the future society. However, in practice, the shortage of housing as well as overcrowded, poor quality, and dilapidated housing continued to be a reason for discontent and complaints of the Soviet people during the entire Soviet history. In her study of gender and housing in Russia, Lynne Attwood stated that shortages of housing negatively influenced the intimate and family life of most of her interviewees (Attwood, 2010, p. 239). Women, who were considered to be more responsible for the home (Field, 2007; Reid, 2005), found themselves in a particularly vulnerable position. The problems of housing (zhilischnyi vopros) continue to be remembered as one of the most difficult problems of everyday life under state socialism, and the collected stories describe how without the use of informal practices it was impossible to improve one’s housing conditions. My six informants were born between 1929 and 1968, and I asked them to tell their life stories focusing on their “housing career” – changes of housing conditions throughout their life (Abramsson, 2003). Five of my informants came from rather educated middle-income Soviet families, and one had a working-class background. Four at some point in their life got married, and all six had either one or two children, which corresponds to the average number of children for parents in Moscow. The informants were asked about their family background, how their parents used to live, and how they lived during their childhood years. The living condition in their parent’s house during their childhood was of particular interest for my study. Informants were also expected to tell about changes in their housing situation, including those in connection to the important biographical changes in their lives. Thus, all of the stories in one way or another reflected the influence that political events and changes (including evacuation during the Second World War and Stalin’s repressions) had on the housing situation of their families. During their childhood, almost all of my informants lived in one or another kind of communal apartment (except the youngest, Y, born in 1968).

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However, X (born 1956), the daughter of Jewish war migrants from Ukraine, spent the first years of her life in a small apartment given to her mother through her workplace – by a hospital near Moscow – and it was only in about 1963 that they could get a room (and simultaneously the permission to settle in Moscow – propiska) in a communal apartment (kommunalka). Life in kommunalka is rather well studied by historians of Soviet everyday life (Gerasimova, 2000; Semenova, 2004; Utekhin, 2004), and here I will only remind briefly that as a rule each family had its own room and shared with others a kitchen and bathroom. While in the 1920s this form of housing was considered to be temporary, in practice it remained during the whole Soviet period and became a symbol of the horrors of the overcrowded “communist life”. In most of the cases, the houses where families lived in the 1940s and 1950s were built before 1917 and lacked such facilities as hot water or indoor toilets or baths. Towards the end of the Soviet period, however, all of my informants were living in individual family apartments, the last to move out from the communal apartment, W, did so in 1981. In two cases at the end of the Soviet period, my informants lived in so-called cooperative houses where flats were bought on certain conditions rather than simply “offered” by the state (see Attwood, 2010). Each Soviet family was supposed to have a right to improvement in their living conditions if the individual living space was smaller than locally established (usually 5–8 m2 per person) as well as in cases of aging housing. Most of the informants or their family members were using this official way of improving housing conditions. However, the results depended a lot on in which district and to which city authorities the application was made. The results also depended on how the applicant fit into the multiple and complex categories defining different degrees of privilege, which were based on the constantly changing state priorities for social welfare. The priority in getting better housing could depend on one’s place of work, profession, privileges based on service to the “Soviet Motherland” (Second World War participation or party ranking, for example, were important criteria) as well as social factors such as family size, illnesses, and disabilities. Although housing was given to families, applications in most of the cases were individual and could be made by men or women alike. However, it is easy to see that some privileges, first of all connected to military service, were more male-specific. At the same time, the stories show that the formal channels of improving housing were almost always mixed with informal ones. The interviews also show that women were very active in their efforts to get better housing for themselves, their families, and even their grown-up children. Housing could be improved by direct application to the local authorities and even to the building management (in the case of some small changes). Indeed, in the case of Z’s family, they were given permission by the building management to move from the cellar to the upper floor. According to Z, her father’s position as an engineer could have played a role in this case, and those who had to take Z’s family’s place in the cellar were described by Z as probably “not having any possibility to influence their situation at all”.

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Soviet families and individuals had the right to exchange their rooms and apartments on the basis of mutual consent and if all the rules with respect to square metres were observed. The exchange was developed also thanks to the special office for exchange of housing founded in 1946 (biuro obmena zhiloi ploshchadi) as well as to the publication of a special newspaper with announcements on available and desirable housing (in the 1970s–1980s it had a circulation of about 25,000 copies). Z, for example, said that in the 1960s– 1980s she changed her room in a communal apartment several times with the goal of getting more comfortable housing (for example, having hot water) with fewer neighbours. As shown in previous studies, the most decisive improvement in housing came in the 1960s when mass construction of pre-fabricated buildings with small family apartments (khrushchevka) began (Attwood, 2010, pp. 154–178). However, it is much less articulated that although many Soviet people improved their housing situation at that time, not all of them got the possibility to have their “own” apartment, and many were stuck trying to improve their living conditions within the system of communal apartments. Thus, in 1961, R, who was 30 years old and still living with her parents in a room in a dilapidated building in the centre of Moscow, could move with her parents into a room in a communal apartment in a new building nearby the old one. The most usual way of improving housing was to apply through one’s workplace. In this case, one’s work and education record was an important benefit. W and X remembered that their families were getting apartments through the workplace of one of their parents. An important semi-formal practice for improving housing conditions was writing letters and complaints. Thus, in the case of W who lived with a newborn baby in a communal apartment without hot water or a telephone in the 1970s, the crucial role was played by her colleagues’ letter addressed to the Communist Party congress in 1977. The letter complained about unacceptable living conditions for a mother in a socialist country. To her surprise, the special commission from the local party committee was sent to check W’s living conditions, and within three years she was able to move to a one-room apartment in a new building on the outskirts of Moscow. Finally, as already mentioned, starting from the late 1950s those Soviet citizens who had higher incomes could also become members of a cooperative and could contribute money for improving their housing (usually about 30 per cent of the whole sum had to be paid from the beginning). It was possible in the case of K – both she and her husband worked as doctors and worked extra hours – to get an apartment of their own in the early 1970s and to pay it off in instalments over the next 10 years. In most of the cases, however, the price for a cooperative apartment was seen as extremely high. For example, W, who was a single mother and lived in a single room without hot water, remembered that the price of a cooperative apartment was several hundred rubles per month while her monthly salary as a research librarian at the university was only 120 rubles.

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Thus, it is possible to say that the solutions to the housing problems usually required solidarity of the extended family, including representatives of different generations, and the stories show that women’s role in securing and protecting housing by maintaining family relationships was very important. The informal practices described by my informants included bribes and making connections. First of all, they were used in order to deal with the propiska,5 the practice of mandatory registration that seriously restricted individual choices and family life. For example, X’s mother, according to X, could get Moscow registration for herself and her daughter only as a result of a short-term marriage (in the early 1960s when X was about 7). Later in the 1960s–1970s it was possible to ignore the rules of propiska to a certain extent. For example, when Z got married in the late 1960s, the only option for her, her husband, and their child was to start living with one of her divorced parents (both of them had a room in the communal apartment, and her husband’s family lived in the barracks on the outskirts of Moscow). Z had the possibility of using her father’s room for her family, however, according to her, she was frequently reminded by the neighbours about her “illegally” living there, and they were always threatening to turn her in to the police. Finally, in some cases families were renting (and renting out) their housing privately. For example, in the case of Y, her parents were renting a room in a tworoom apartment in a barracks in the late 1960s. According to her, both of her parents, who were young researchers, had difficulties in living together with either of their own parents, but were happy to share a small barracks apartment with an unknown landlady. The conditions of the rented housing seem to be comparable with ordinary communal apartments. X remembers the room they rented with her mother in the early 1960s: “The part of the room was separated by a divider. Maybe it was because I was a small child, but I remember that it was a big room with a high ceiling … it was illegal, of course.” On the basis of these interviews with Moscow women, it is possible to see that housing was an important institution influencing many other choices in the life of Soviet women – from reproduction to work and marriage. The interviews show also that while Soviet authorities and formal regulations were not very helpful in solving housing problems, Soviet citizens were using combinations of formal and informal practices (like bribing civil servants, writing letters of complaint to the Communist Party and Soviet authorities, and renting housing privately) in order to solve the problems. In some cases the solution to the housing problem was connected with extra work by the whole extended family, including women, in order to buy a cooperative apartment, and in many other cases improvements were made through (or combined with) complicated family agreements and alliances that were considered to be women’s responsibility.

What should a woman know and what can she do about her housing in the new Russia? This section is intended to explore more post-Soviet responses to housing problems and to the new challenges connected to the liberalisation and

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commodification of housing. I also show how the lack of easy, accessible, and transparent ways of improving housing conditions requires women to resort to using the well-established techniques and strategies known from previous times. The Russian authorities saw better housing as an important condition for increasing the birthrate, and this is why the programme on “maternity capital” (2007) included a housing allowance (Rivkin-Fish, 2010). The opposite assumptions seem also to be true, and in her study of post-Soviet housing Jane Zavisca observes important connections between growing assumptions about the “normality” of having a family apartment and the normality of a nuclear family with the decreasing birthrate starting with Khrushchev’s promises of the “normal life” (Zavisca, 2012, p. 46). During the last 15 years, the available advice on homemaking has become much more diversified. Together with the image of the happy housewife from the 1990s, it includes, for example, new Orthodox preaching on thinking about the purity of home rather than luxury (Emelianov, 2001, p. 8), and the blessing of the house is proposed to be an important solution to all the problems at home. At the same time, the market does not see women as only fragile homemakers, but provides them with professional advice on doing full reparations of the house. According to the book When a Woman is Alone in a House, “Be bold, take solution of all your problems into your nice, but still skillful hands” (Belianskaia, 2005, p. 2). Still, as it is clear from the introduction to this chapter, for the majority of the population the problem of improving their housing situation would not be resolved by blessing the apartment by the invited priest or by undertaking serious reparations. The overcrowded apartments, temporary dormitories and second-hand flats, high rent, non-functioning facilities, and sharing of the apartment with one’s own or one’s husband’s relatives for many years are still the most important problems for a great many Russian women. My study of women’s rights as presented in the yearly reports of the regional Commissioners for the Protection of Human Rights (also called the Human Rights Ombudsman in Russia) in northwestern Russia showed that in most of the regions women constitute the greater number of those complaining about violations of social rights, and usually it is housing problems that are connected to such complaints (Gradskova, 2012, p. 94). For example, the report from the first year of activity of the Ombudsman in Arkhangelsk (2002) stated that “housing problems and low levels of the housing services continue to be among the most serious issues” in the region. Every sixth complaint to the Ombudsman is connected to housing problems. Among the most serious violations of the housing rights of the citizens are long waiting times for “those living in old and dilapidated houses, victims of fires, the postponing of general reparations, and the use of houses for commercial purposes” (2002, p. 4). Later reports have also paid attention to housing problems. The report from Nenets autonomous district from 2009 states that “violations of the rights for housing are at the top of the list” among other violations of rights (2009, p. 71). The Report by the All-Russia Ombudsman, Pavel Lukin, from

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2009 stated that every fourth complaint was connected to violation of the socio-economic rights of citizens. According to this report, complaints connected to housing rights referred to the rights of those performing military service, participants in the Second World War, people living in old and dilapidated housing, and those new owners who lost their property due to large federal construction projects (Lukin, 2009). As it is possible to see, the reports to the Ombudsman continue using most of the categories of privileges established during the Soviet period. The report from Arkhangelsk region from 2009, for example, states: “In 2009 the Federal budget helped to get housing for 118 war [WWII] veterans, 30 invalids, and 1 veteran of the military conflict” (2009, p. 17). Thus, it is possible to assume that preservation of the previous categories for improvement of housing and the introduction of new categories, most of which are connected to military and state service where women are underrepresented, would leave in force a lot of the practices that were described by my informants from the Soviet times. However, in the current situation with drastic differences in incomes, the “old” categories start sounding different. For example, a report from Arkhangelsk from 2002 described how many of the applications from the “cooperative houses” were from inhabitants who could not get lower rates for the communal payments (2002, p. 5). In some other cases the accumulated old problems (dilapidated and old housing) are supplemented by the new ones – especially worsening housing conditions for those living near big new construction sites. For example, the special report of the Ombudsman from Samara stated in 2004 that the number of complaints connected to housing had increased compared to the previous year and that about 50 per cent of these complaints came from those living in dilapidated housing and those close to places of construction of new housing (2004).6 In view of the serious crisis in the housing sphere, the Ombudsmen’s reports sometimes contain some observations and hopes that are reminiscent of the old Soviet promises of expected progress and explanations about “temporary” problems. Thus, in the report from Arkhangelsk quoted above, the Ombudsman states that only 44 families could improve their living conditions. He continues by saying, “Compared to those who need improvement in their housing conditions, these numbers are very limited, but, hopefully, after the end of the economic crisis the situation will be better” (2009, p. 20). As in many post-Soviet countries (see Polanska, 2016), during the last 20– 25 years housing has not just been a reason for complaints, but also for protest activism. And women have been actively participating and leading some of these actions. During the recent mortgage crisis in the context of the low value of the Russian ruble, a series of protest actions was organised by the wealthiest of those who were in need of improving their housing conditions. Radio Liberty reported in January 2016 that according to Oksana Semenova, the representative of the all-Russian movement of those who had to pay their mortgage in foreign currency, about 300 mortgage holders occupied one of the offices of the Delta Bank and demanded the revision of the mortgage

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conditions. Some of the protesters fastened themselves to the chairs in order to show the seriousness of their plans (Radio Liberty, 2016). The most visible part of the protesters during 2000–2015 consisted of owners and tenants of the apartments who were not satisfied with the attempts of the government to raise prices for housing facilities, rent, and payments for future reparations. One of the strongest protests took place in March 2004 – for example, in Khabarovsk, several hundred people took part in such a meeting. The restrictions of activities of NGOs and the further increase in authoritarian control over social activism during the last three years has reduced the possibilities for widespread protest actions and the defence of women’s rights, including housing problems, by women’s NGOs and crisis centres (Shomina, 2008). At the same time, housing continues to be an important problem for women in Russia similar to how it was in the Soviet period. Interesting and very emotional examples of this can be found in multiple discussions of housing problems on Internet forums. Such forums are usually found on websites dedicated to femininity or motherhood and offer space for advertisement of goods and, simultaneously, through forums with different trends, function as a form of social media. For my analysis, I have chosen three forums – one allRussian site and two dedicated to particular regions of Russia (Ural and Sakha Republic). The following entry by a participant of the forum at Women.ru describes her experience of getting access to a mortgage: When I felt that I really needed a new flat, I was doing everything possible! For a long time I was trying to get it [the possibility of getting loan for buying a flat] under the category of “young family”. I invented the mechanism that allowed me to get a subsidy first [but, she had to go to the Prosecutor’s office and to complain to the head of the region]. I found on the administration site that for a long time some land not useful for housing is being sold in a very remote place. When they announced it “without exact price” I took a loan from the bank and bought it for 200,000 rubles. In 1.5 years I sold it for 1,000,000 rubles. As a result I needed only 350,000 roubles more, so I asked the bank about a loan again and, finally, I have my one-room apartment!7 The participant of another forum, in Sakha, started a discussion thread titled “How to collect money for a mortgage?”: It becomes totally impossible (my salary is 20,000, my husband’s 30,000, and we have two kids). We cannot make it. We try to save about 10,000 a month, but then something happens and we have to take part of this money: rent, electricity, kindergarten, medicine, food, transportation. It is a vicious circle. It is already 3 in the morning, but I cannot get to sleep. I am horrified.8

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Even if the centre of discussion in most of the cases is an apparently new and market-oriented way of acquiring new housing – through buying and paying a mortgage – the practices of approaching the mortgage-contract are also connected with a lot of other informal and semi-formal practices that are very much reminiscent of Soviet times. In particular, the involvement of the extended family seems to be an obvious condition for getting new housing. For example, the advice of one of the forum participants says directly: “You can save money only if your parents are ready to maintain you. Then you can spare all of your salary”9. On the other hand, dreaming for years about new housing can lead to family quarrels and thoughts about divorce.10

Conclusion – what changed? What did not? Soviet legislation established many regulations around the distribution, reparation, and use of the socialist housing facilities. But in spite of these regulations, housing was one of the most difficult problems affecting the lives of the Soviet people. The gender dimensions of housing problems were connected with the presumed woman’s responsibility for the family’s everyday wellbeing, in particular due to their involvement in childcare and caring for the elderly. While living in communal and dilapidated apartments and houses was very difficult for everybody, the collected interviews with women about their Soviet experiences show that women were usually seen as those who could not only keep extended family together, but could also organise relationships around using and improving housing in the best possible way. Furthermore, as mothers (and in some cases as single mothers) women were frequently responsible for the housing space for their children that required many of them not only to negotiate with relatives, but also to spend time looking for the best fit for changing rooms and flats, working extra hours for earning money for a cooperative apartment, and even engaging in new (and sometimes unwanted) partner relationships. The beginning of the reforms in Russia did not lead to rapid solutions of the housing shortages, and other problems began to accumulate over the subsequent decades. The withdrawal of the responsibility for housing from the state and the attempt to make citizens fully responsible for their own housing aggravated many problems, including long waiting lines for those categories of people and families who continued to be considered as having special privileges with respect to access to communal housing. Furthermore, privatisation and commodification of housing in the situation of rapidly growing social inequalities caused many categories of citizens to experience even worse housing situations. For people with low income, these problems were connected, for example, with repairing and paying for housing facilities, getting expensive mortgages, and renting second-hand housing in case of marriage, divorce, or job change. According to the latest report of the Ombudsman of the Russian Federation, Emma Pamphilova, the recent economic crisis has contributed to further growth of social inequality, and 60–70 per cent of the new poor are families with children (Pamphilova, 2015, p. 12).

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At the same time, the new and widely spread discourse on “happy housewives” and a home as a special place where a woman should feel herself strong and energetic – even more than the discourse on the Soviet home – gendered housing by linking problematic housing with deficient femininity. The continuing problems with housing led to the partial preservation of many practices that were used for improvement of the housing situation during the Soviet period. These are connected to the practice of complaints (to local authorities, but also to a new institution – the Ombudsman office) and to the use of extended family who now, as the Internet forum materials show, should be used as an important resource when applying for a housing loan. It is also easy to suppose that practices of family loans for housing (in contrast to state-socialist practices of individual rights to housing) are also connected to many quarrels within the family and between partners. Finally, many women have to choose specific jobs (frequently not matching their education) or take extra jobs in order to save for housing loans or for repairs and renovations, and this leads to new aspects of the conflict between motherhood and paid labour. In the context of the new discourse on “home as a place of women’s strength” and happiness, housing constitutes an important stress factor for many women in Russia.

Notes 1 See, for example, Gazeta.ru (2016) from 9 May 2016 on widows of Second World War veterans receiving 1 million rubles for improvement of housing conditions in Chechnya. 2 According to a Levada Center study from 2014, about 8 per cent of the inhabitants of “big Moscow” have two or more apartments (Levada Center, 2014). 3 Dilapidated housing is housing that is not suitable for habitation due to undermaintenance, old age, and low comfort. 4 For more about vertical and horizontal inequality with respect to housing in the context of state socialism, see Zavisca, 2012, p. 39. 5 Propiska – a registration according to the place of living – was an important form of Soviet population management. Introduced in 1932 it was checked often by the police and was required for getting work, education, and medical care. 6 The ombudsman reports usually do not pay attention to the problems connected to division of housing as a result of divorce. However, as the Internet discussions show, the problems of paying the mortgage or dividing a private apartment after divorce are new problems with which many women are confronted. 7 http://www.woman.ru/psycho/medley6/thread/4257299 [Accessed 1.06.2017]. 8 http://forum.ykt.ru/viewtopic.jsp?id=2220699 [Accessed 1.06.2017]. 9 https://www.u-mama.ru/forum/family/housing/600512/index.html [Accessed 1.06.2017]. 10 “My husband pays only 10,000 for the kindergarten … Thus, I think, maybe I should divorce him”, http://forum.ykt.ru/viewtopic.jsp?id=2220699 [Accessed 1.06.2017].

References Abramsson, M. (2003). Housing Careers in a Changing Welfare State. Umeå: Umeå Universitet.

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Attwood, L. (2010). Gender and Housing in Soviet Russia. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Belianskaia, L. (2005). Kogda zhenshchina odna v dome. Moskva: Drofa+. Cleman, K., Miriasova, I. and Demidov, S. (2010). Ot obyvatelei k aktivistam? Zarozhdayushchiesia sotsialnye dvizheniia v sovremennoi Rossii. Moskva: Tri kvadrata. Dzutseva, T. (2014). Dom – mesto sily dlia zhenshchiny. Ili, pochemu u vas net doma? 02.10. http://womancosmo.ru/womans-space/dom-mesto-sily-dlya-zhenshhinyili-pochemu-u-menya-net-doma.html [Accessed 1.06.2017]. Emelianov, G. (2001). O zhilishche pravoslavnogo khristianina. Pastyrskoe slovo. St. Petersburg: Blagoveshchenie. Field, D. (2007). Private Life and Communist Morality in Khrushchev’s Russia. New York: Peter Lang. Gazeta.ru (2016). V Chechne vdovy veteranov poluchili po odnomu million rublei na uluchsheniie zhilishchnykh uslovii, 9 May, https://www.gazeta.ru/social/news/2016/ 05/09/n_8609621.shtml [Accessed 1.12.2017]. Gerasimova, K. (2000). Sovetskaia kommunalnaia kvartira kak sotsialnyi institut. Doctoral Dissertation, European University, St-Petersburg. Gradskova, Y. (2012). Regional Ombudsmen, Human Rights and Women. The Soviet and Post-Soviet Review, 3, pp. 84–109. Gribanova L. (2004). Novaia zhilishchnaia politika. Moskva: Agenstvo sotsialnoi informatsii. Khakhulina, L.A. and Tuchek, M. (1995). Zhilishchnye usloviia v byvshikh sotsstranakh. Monitoring obshchestvennogo mneniia, VTSIOM, September-October, 33–36. Khmelnitskaya, M. (2015). The Policy-Making Process and Social Learning in Russia The Case of Housing Policy. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Krotov, P.P., Buravoy, M. and Lytkina, T.S. (2003). Zhilishchnaia stratifikatsiia goroda: rynochnaia evoliutsiia sovetskoi modeli. Syktyvkar: Komi nauchnyi tsentr. Levada center. (2014) Moskva i moskvichihttp://www.levada.ru/2014/10/16/moskva-i-m oskvichi/ [Accessed 1.06.2017]. Levashov, K.L. (2004). Gosudarsvennaia zhilishchnaia politika. Uchebnoe posobie. Moskva: Raag. Obzor rynka gorodskoi nedvizhimosti (2016) http://marketing.rbc.ru/reviews//realty/ chapter_1_1.shtml [Accessed 1.06.2017]. Polanska, D. (2016). Squatting in the East (special issue of the magazine Baltic Worlds). Radio Liberty (2016). V Moskve zaemshchiki po valiutnoi ipoteke proveli dve aktsii protesta, 20.01.2016 http://www.svoboda.org/content/article/27499426.html [Accessed 1.06.2017]. Reid, S. (2005). The Khrushchev Kitchen: Domesticating the Scientific-Technological Revolution. Journal of Contemporary History, 40(2), pp. 289–316. Rivkin-Fish, M. (2010). Pronatalism, Gender Politics, and the Renewal of Family Support in Russia. Slavic Review 69(3), pp. 701–724. Semenova, V. (2004). Equality in Poverty: the Symbolic Meaning of Kommunalki in the 1930s–50s. In: D. Bertraux, P. Thompson and A. Rothkirch eds. On Living through Soviet Russia. London: Routledge, pp. 54–67. Shomina, E. (2008). Zhilishchnoe dvizheniye v sovremennoy Rossii. Moskva: Novaya Evraziia. Tikhonova, N.E., Akatnova, A.M. and Sedova, N.N. (2007). Zhilishchnaia obespechennost I zhilishchnaia politika v sovremennoi Rossii. Sotsiologicheskie issledovaniia, 1, pp. 71–81.

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Utekhin, I. (2004). Ocherki kommunalnogo byta. St. Petersburg: OGI. Young, I.M. (1997). Intersecting Voices: Dilemmas of Gender, Political Philosophy, and Policy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zavisca, J. (2012). Housing the New Russia. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Zhurzhenko, T. (2008). Gendernye rynki Ukrainy. Vilnius: EGU.

Ombudsman’s reports Lukin, P. (2009). Doklad upolnomochennogo po pravam cheloveka v Rossiskoi Federatsii http://rg.ru/2010/05/28/doklad-lukin-dok.html [Last accessed 10.06.2017]. Pamphilova, E. (2015). Doklad upolnomochennogo po pravam cheloveka v Rossiskoi Federatsii. Doklad o deiatelnosti upolnomochennogo po pravam cheloveka v Arkhangelskoi oblasti v 2002 godu (2002). Doklad o deiatelnosti upolnomochennogo po pravam cheloveka v Arkhangelskoi oblasti v 2009 godu (2009). Doklad o deiatelnosti upolnomochennogo po pravam cheloveka v Nenetskom Avtonomnom Okruge v 2009 godu (2009). Spetsialnyi doklad o situatsii c cobliudeniem prav grazhdan pri vedenii stroitelstva zhilogo fonda na territorii oblasti (2004) http://www.ombudsman.samara.ru/editions/ 203 [Last accessed 10.06.2017].

Internet forums discussing housing Forum U-mama.ru (Ural) Stream “Kak vy nakopili na kvartiru?” (about 100 entries) https://www.u-mama.ru/forum/family/housing/600512/index.html [Last accessed 10.06.2017]. Forum Woman.ru Stream “Tak znachit nakopit na kvartiru realno?” (50 entries) http://www.woman.ru/psycho/medley6/thread/4257299/ [Last accessed 10.06.2017]. Forum from Sakha Republic Stream “Gospodi! Nu kak zhe nakopit na kvartiru?” (43 entries) http://forum.ykt.ru/viewtopic.jsp?id=2220699 [Last accessed 10.06.2017].

Interviews in Moscow K, born in 1929. R, born in 1931. Z, born in 1948. W, born in 1948. X, born in 1956. Y, born in 1968.

11 Post-Soviet legacies in girls’ education in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan Kuanysh Tastanbekova

At the dawn of independence of the Central Asian republics that followed the demise of the Soviet Union, gender equality in education at all levels was generally accepted as an achievement of Soviet educational policy and a positive legacy that had been inherited from the Soviet system. The following years of political, economic, social, and cultural transformations formed new realities for girls and women, but did not change gender-related norms and expectations concerning their role and place in the family and society. Particularly, education reforms that were implemented with the support of international donors mainly focused on adjustment of national education systems to the global education market’s requirements such as individualisation, standardisation, and optimisation. Among the expected outcomes were expansion of access to and diversification of choices of post-secondary education. This chapter focuses on how real outcomes affected girls’ enrolment in secondary vocational and tertiary education in two countries of Central Asia, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. Notwithstanding comparatively high literacy rates and gender parity in the general education level in both countries, differences in girls’ presence at higher levels of education are eye-catching. Drawing on a large amount of research that acknowledges Soviet-legacy gender parity in primary and general secondary education, and a comparatively high ratio of girls’ enrolment in secondary vocational and tertiary education (Olcott, 1991; Ishkanian, 2003; Silova, 2004, Silova, 2009; Magno, 2007; DeYoung, 2009; Kandiyoti, 2007), I examine how these indicators have changed since independence through comparative analysis of education reforms that were implemented in these two countries. Numerical data for this chapter were compiled from various sources, including national statistical agencies and from databases and publications of the World Bank, UNESCO, and the Asian Development Bank (ADB). To simplify the terminology, I include post-secondary non-tertiary education in secondary vocational education and use terms like tertiary education and higher education interchangeably.

Cultural background and political aspects of education reforms Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan are the largest and most populated countries in the Central Asian region. They share borders (more than 2000 km) and have

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common historical, socio-economic, and cultural backgrounds (including colonialism by the Russian empire, incorporation into the USSR, interrelated nomadic and sedentary lifestyles, Turkic languages, and Sunni Islam) (Roy, 2000). Both countries are multi-ethnic, counting more than 100 ethnic groups, but dominated by the titular ethnic groups of Kazakhs (around 63 per cent) and Uzbeks (more than 80 per cent) in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, respectively. While traditionally high fertility rates (Olcott, 1991; Kandiyoti, 2007) have declined in Uzbekistan and recovered in Kazakhstan (Figure 11.1), the negative population growth that was experienced in Kazakhstan in the beginning of the 1990s due to considerable outflow of Slavonic groups (Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians) has been overcome only in the 2000s (Figure 11.2). The

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Figure 11.2 Population in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, 1991–2014. Source: World Bank Data Bank: Health Nutrition and Population Statistics

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populations of both countries are comparatively young, and the age group of 0–29 year olds accounts for 51.6 per cent of total population in Kazakhstan and 59.1 per cent in Uzbekistan (CIS Statistical Committee & UNFPA EECARO, 2014). Such a large share of youth, half of which is females, requires appropriate educational provision that will ensure their active participation in society and the labour force. Understanding of the significance of education reforms that were implemented in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan after independence will not be complete without an understanding of the countries’ cultural backgrounds. It is commonly agreed by scholars (Moghadam, 2000; Ishkanian, 2003; Silova & Magno, 2004; Hämmerle, et al., 2008; DeYoung & Constantine, 2009; Kane & Gorbenko, 2016 to name just a few) that in the process of constructing national identities in Central Asian countries, the revival of religious norms, “traditionalism”, and ethnic values have led to the reassertion of women’s place and role both in the family and society. Traditional values that survived under the socialist system with the predominance of a positive view on patriarchal systems did not deteriorate with changes in the political system and the introduction of liberal values and principles. They were rather preserved by paradoxical social policies of the Soviet regime that aimed to emancipate women and simultaneously promote motherhood as a social duty to address fertility shortfalls in the more industrialised republics, and this sat well with the social value attached to large families in predominantly rural Central Asia (Kandiyoti, 2007, p. 607). If during the Soviet time this “traditionalism” was concealed by a wide range of social benefits for full-time working women, the consequences of postsocialist transformations such as a decline in real income and output, disproportionate unemployment and underemployment among women, widespread impoverishment, a rapid deterioration of living standards and social safety nets, and the loss of maternal and childcare benefits (like maternity leave and well-developed early childhood and pre-school education systems) have made the presence of traditional cultural perceptions implicit and vibrant. For understanding the difference in the outcomes of education reforms, it is also important to bear in mind that despite these commonalities, there are more differences between the cultural norms of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, as well as between rural and urban regions and ethnic and language groups within both countries. It is difficult to make generalisations considering the multi-ethnic conditions of both countries, but the Kazakhs’ and Uzbeks’ positions on gender relations are usually referred to as representative ones seeing as how these are the dominant groups. As will be discussed in the next section, it is argued that the Kazakhs’ ancestors’ nomadic lifestyle, in which women enjoyed relatively more freedom and were more active, stronger, and more emancipated than women of the sedentary cultures of neighbouring countries, still influences Kazakh parents’ strong intention to educate their daughters. However, it should be admitted that in modern days primarily

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Russian-speaking urban families raise their daughters to be free and emancipated, while Kazakh-speaking rural families tend to preserve traditional gender roles (Mendikulova, 2008; Shakirova, 2015). In contrast, Uzbeks have a memory of a massive unveiling campaign that, in spite of the expectations of the Soviet government, solidified gender conservatism. Thus, adherence to traditional stereotypes in terms of family gender roles is demonstrated by both urban and rural families. However, at the same time there is acknowledgment of the importance of women’s professional self-realisation (Kim, 2008). These perceptions are based on an amalgam of Soviet achievements in women’s emancipation and attachment to traditional values (Tursunova & Azizova, 2008; Tursunova, 2014). Considering the political aspect of educational reforms, it should be stressed that almost all reforms were supported by international donors and were based on Western policies and practices of humanisation, decentralisation, and liberalisation. Silova and Steiner-Khamsi (2008) call reforms related to education a “post-socialist education reform package” and situate them in a broader framework of “traveling policies” or “policy borrowing and lending” practices that have a long history of implementation in developing countries and regions around the world. Scholarly debate on the discourses and consequences of international education development assistance in Central Asian countries (Heyneman & DeYoung, 2004; Anderson & Heyneman, 2005; Steiner-Khamsi et al., 2006; Silova & Steiner-Khamsi, 2008; Silova & Abdushukurova, 2009; Silova, 2011; Niyozov & Dastambuev, 2013) reaches the common conclusion that neoliberal educational reforms were not accepted by governments blindly, rather they stagnated at different levels of implementation and the outcomes of the reforms diverged from those that were expected. For example, in Tajikistan, the government’s commitment to international norms of gender equality has been transmitted into the introduction of gender quotas for admission of girls, particularly from rural areas, to universities with the purpose of increasing the number of girls receiving higher education. However, factors such as poverty, patriarchal values, religious gender stereotypes, poor quality of school education, and a gender-segregated labour market along with the prevalence of female quotas in usually low-paid “feminine” professions (teachers and nurses) have devalued the significance of this gender-oriented reform (Silova & Abdushukurova, 2009). Niyozov and Dastambuev (2013, p. 18) argue that “using the one-sided demonization of the socialist/communist ideology; the failure of socialist welfare policies; the Soviet citizens’ ignorance about neoliberalism and market economy, the postsoviet poverty; Islamic ‘threat’; the money and co-optation of the Soviet elite; lack of critical scholarship; and disguising itself as inevitable and benign road to prosperity for all, neoliberal globalization has tried hard to infiltrate Central Asian societies and educations”. Hence, the postsocialist neoliberal education reform package did not fulfil expectations for quality, relevance, and equity for all; rather, it has broadened and deepened the crisis in education systems.

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Pre-Soviet conditions and achievements of Soviet policy on girls’ education Before the establishment of the Soviet regime in Central Asia, the populations were largely illiterate, and universal primary education did not exist. According to Muminov, et al. (2010), who cite the works of Ostroumov N., a Russian researcher of Turkestan (territories of contemporary Central Asia that at the end of the nineteenth century were under the colonial rule of the Russian Empire), by 1913 there were 7,290 traditional primary schools – maktabs – with some 70,864 students, and 376 Islamic religious schools – madrasas – with 9,637 students (Muminov, et al., 2010, p. 229). There were also 89 Russian-native mixed schools established by Russian colonial rule attended only by around 7,000 indigenous students from the total population of 40,000 students (Patnaik, 2005, p. 550). Education at these schools was limited to the children (mostly boys) of the local and colonial elite. By 1917 there were 92 so-called “new method” schools opened by local intelligentsia who were followers of modernist views of Jadidism (ibid., p. 551). These schools provided curricula and teaching practices in a modernised way, teaching core Islamic values and subjects like geography, algebra, and history, and they accepted girls because Jadidists aimed “to modernize society, partly through improving the position of women” (Kane & Gorbenko, 2016, p. 722). The literacy rate at the end of the nineteenth century was only 4.2 per cent for indigenous men and 0.5 per cent for indigenous women (Patnaik, 2005, p. 550). The Soviet government aimed “to mobilize the masses by co-opting them into ideological project and vision” (Akyildiz, 2012, p. 1) and launched the massive literacy campaign likbez for adults by introducing free, secular, and compulsory education for boys and girls into the “core secularization programme” (ibid., p. 1). At the same time, a variety of traditional discriminatory practices such as polygamy, underage marriages, marriage by abduction, and payment of bride price were prohibited and subjected to criminal penalty (Kandiyoti, 2007, p. 604). Another campaign that aimed to emancipate women was unveiling. For the Soviet regime, the veiling of Central Asian women symbolised “backwardness”, and unveiling was seen by the Communist Party both as a civilising mission and as an instrument for breaking down women’s seclusion and drawing them into public life (Kamp, 2006, p. 165). However, although both Kazakh and Uzbek women lived in patriarchal, patrilineal societies that defined their places and roles, the rules of these societies (for instance concerning mobility outside of the home) were less severe for the nomadic Kazakh women, and they were rarely veiled, if at all. Hence, the unveiling campaign was not carried out in the Kazakh steppes at the scale that it was in Uzbek settlements, where “widespread resistance to it transformed the veil and ultimately gender conservatism into a mark of religious and national identity” (Kane & Gorbenko, 2016, p. 730). As part of Soviet education policy, universal primary education was introduced in the 1930s. After experiencing a slowdown during the Second World

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War, the gradual growth of school education in scope and duration in the postwar period reached 9 years of incomplete and 11 years of complete free universal secondary education by the 1980s with further vocational and professional training available for all. Gender parity in general secondary education was accomplished by the 1960s, and the number of girls enrolled in post-secondary and tertiary education has grown considerably since then. By the 1980s in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, nearly 40 per cent of university seats were taken by women, while in Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenia the female share varied from 22 per cent to 33 per cent (Avis, 1983, p. 209). At the same time, the feminisation of certain subject areas of higher education reinforced very strong occupational stereotypes inherited from the Soviet period. In the 1960s, women made up to 60 per cent of doctors in Uzbekistan and 70 per cent in Kazakhstan (Alimova, et al., 2005, p. 522). This chapter argues that although education reforms after independence did bring transformations of the system, in terms of girls’ enrolment in post-secondary education and occupational stereotypes the situation did not change significantly. It should be stressed, however, that by the time of independence these republics had solid infrastructure for educational provision and administration, fundamentally egalitarian and free mass educational schooling, and a diverse system of vocational training and higher education (Silova, et al., 2007, p. 164). In the next two sections, this chapter takes a closer look at major reforms in the two countries and their influence on girls’ enrolment in secondary vocational and tertiary education.

Kazakhstan: liberalisation of access to higher education Economic growth of Kazakhstan in the 2000s intensified with rapid increases in the export of natural resources, predominantly hydrocarbons, deregulation of the market, and further expansion of foreign investments. However, an average annual economic growth of 8 per cent in real terms and the highest GDP per capita among Central Asian countries ($12,602 in 2013 according to the World Bank country profile) did not necessarily mean an increase of public expenditure on education, and it had barely reached 3 per cent of GDP in 2011, which is below the OECD average of 5.6 per cent (OECD, 2016). In 1991–2000, years of “crisis” in education, overall $65 million were received from the ADB in the form of education rehabilitation and management improvement grants and $1.5 million as technical assistance grants for the education and training sector. A rationalisation policy called for the integration of schools in rural areas in order to reduce administrative, maintenance, and instructional costs. This led to the closing of 335 rural schools in 1997 alone. As a result, 26,900 eligible children were denied an education (Asanova, 2006). The changes in the number of educational organisations and students studying in them are shown in Table 11.1. The extension of compulsory education from 11 to 12 years, the introduction of a new national assessment system called Unified National Testing, and

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Table 11.1 Number of educational organizations and students (in thousands) in Kazakhstan, 1990–2015 　 General secondary schools Number of students studying at general secondary schools Professional schools Number of students studying at professional schools Colleges Number of students studying at colleges Universities Number of students studying at universities

1990

1995

2000

2005

2010

2015

8,487

8,732

8,309

8,157

7,755

7,511

3145.6

3059.8

3247.4

2824.6

2531.0

2799.6

… …

404 154.3

282 86,089

307 104,184

309 113,247

… …

247 247,650

262 200,415

293 168,189

415 397,631

494 490,997

780 498,965

55 287,367

112 272,715

170 440,715

181 775,762

149 620,442

127 459,369

Source: Data base of the Committee on Statistics of the Republic of Kazakhstan www.stat.gov.kz

joining the Bologna Process with the purpose of participating in the European Higher Education Area are the biggest reforms of the period 2000–2010. A new round of reforms started in 2010 and was marked by the establishment of 20 secondary education schools for gifted children with trilingual (Kazakh-RussianEnglish) instruction and a brand new university with a focus on innovative education and research, all named after lifetime president Nazarbayev (Bridges, 2014). However, public expenditure on education as a proportion of GDP has not increased, and dependence on international donor assistance remains. In 2010, Kazakhstan’s government borrowed $29 million from the World Bank for modernisation of technical and vocational education (World Bank, 2015). In 2017, another World Bank loan will be provided for the modernisation of secondary education (State Program of Education Development, 2016). Here I focus on one of the most recent reforms – Unified National Testing (UNT) – that plays a crucial role in the expansion of access for youth, and particularly girls, to secondary vocational and tertiary education. UNT is part of the postsocialist reforms package that was implemented to standardise the assessment of school graduates’ mastery of secondary and general education programmes and to tackle academic corruption in university admissions. UNT is the integrated form of the final attestation of secondary school graduates and entrance exams to universities. Organised by the National Testing Centre, it has been held in the first week of June since 2004 and consists of four mandatory tests (two language tests: one is the language of instruction at school, second is the language that was taught as a subject (e.g. Russian for

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students who studied in Kazakh or Kazakh for those who studied in Russian), the history of Kazakhstan, mathematics, and one elective multiple choice test). Based on scores on the test, school graduates can apply to three universities and will be accepted based on the minimum scores set by the universities. UNT results are also required for enrolment in professional colleges. UNT results are crucial for receiving state scholarships that are mostly concentrated on particular specialties such as engineering, medicine, teacher training, and agricultural professions. Only receivers of scholarships can study at university for free. Each year approximately 60 per cent of school graduates take the tests, and around 25 per cent of them do not earn the minimum required score set by the Ministry of Education for every specialisation, and only 30 per cent of those who reach the minimum score receive scholarships (Ministry of Education and Science of the Republic of Kazakhstan, National Center of Educational Statistics and Evaluation, 2013). An alternative form of university entrance examination is Complex Testing (CT) that is organised after UNT for school graduates who could not pass the UNT exam or who did not take it in the previous year, for graduates of colleges and professional schools, for graduates of ethnic minority schools (Uzbek, Uighur, and Tajik), for graduates of national music boarding schools, and for graduates of schools abroad. I could not find any gender-related statistical data on UNT and CT at either the state or regional level, nor in gender-focused research. However, according to the Ministry of Education, girls made up 40.3 per cent of students accepted to university in 2014, and “Conception of Gender and Family Policy in Kazakhstan until 2030”, which was approved in December, 2016, notes that 60 per cent of all students receiving state scholarships are girls. Summing up, this chapter argues that combined with factors such as a significant number of universities (131 universities with more than half of them private), colleges, and professional schools along with the existence of a state scholarship system, UNT in Kazakhstan serves as an important precondition that determines girls’ enrolment in secondary vocational and tertiary education. In other words, UNT opens doors to various types of post-secondary education. Girls can continue to obtain vocational education at colleges or professional schools after lower-secondary education (grade 9). Further they can participate in CT to enter university, and if they choose a similar profession they can be accepted to the second or third year at the undergraduate level. Because the majority finishes upper general secondary education (grade 11–12), those who wish to continue their education participate in UNT and according to their results can be accepted either to university or college. This system allows larger numbers of girls to study at universities in Kazakhstan in comparison with Uzbekistan, as will be discussed further below.

Uzbekistan: ensuring a profession at an early stage Uzbekistan is the most populated country in Central Asia with a growing young population (30 per cent of all Uzbeks are under the age of 15). Since

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the mid-2000s, its economy has been growing by over 8 per cent per annum, and this has supported a set of policies for increasing access to and improving the quality and equity of basic public services, including education, that had significantly deteriorated in the 1990s (World Bank, 2016b). However, reliance on donor assistance is still present. From 1996 to 2009, ADB provided loans with a total value of $1.29 billion, of which $290.5 million (22.5 per cent) were loans to the education sector (Asian Development Bank, 2011). Since Uzbekistan joined the World Bank in 1992, it has received around $2 billion, of which more than $50 million have been loans to the education sector (World Bank, 2016b). The major reform that was implemented as part of the postsocialist education reform package in Uzbekistan was an extension of compulsory education from 9 to 12 years, the last 3 years of which are divided into general studies and vocational training. The originality of this reform lies in including secondary vocational education in the compulsory stage (Sheeraz, 2013). The central principles of educational reform were declared in the National Program of Personnel Training (NPPT, 1996), which is a comprehensive plan of reforms for all aspects of education in Uzbekistan (Weidman & Yoder, 2010). The central idea of the NPPT is the development of a unified and continuous education and training system based on a 4+5+3 (primary, lower secondary, upper secondary education) pattern, where the last three years are provided in two types of specialised secondary education institutions, namely academic lyceums and professional colleges. Every student is obligated to obtain a secondary education and to study three more years, that is, to finish academic lyceum or professional college and to train for a certain profession or to improve their academic skills. As a result, even if a student is not diligent and does not have good academic progress or has poor attendance, he or she will still obtain a graduation diploma. This is a kind of equalisation with students with high academic grades and satisfactory levels of knowledge because both receive a graduation diploma. As Tursunova and Azizova (2009) explain, by implementing three years of compulsory vocational education, the government sought to remove disparities between rural and urban schools and to provide free and equitable access to complete secondary and professional education for all, thus allowing students from all social groups to acquire a profession and adapt to labour requirements. At the same time, considering the fact that young people of the age group 16–29 make up 29 per cent of the population, this system can be seen as a measure to prevent unemployed youth from engaging in antisocial behaviour by occupying them with an education that will allow them to move straight into the labour market. On average, 500,000 students graduate from 9th grade or lower secondary school annually in the country, of which the top 10 per cent continue their studies at academic lyceums and the rest at professional colleges. It is intended that graduates of academic lyceums will continue to tertiary education, whereas graduates of professional colleges will join the labour force (UNDP Uzbekistan, 2016). Table 11.2 shows that the number of professional colleges

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Table 11.2 Number of educational organisations and students (in thousands) in Uzbekistan, 1992–2012 　

1992

2000

2006

2012

General secondary schools Number of students studying at general secondary schools Professional colleges and academic lyceums Number of students studying at professional colleges and academic lyceums Universities Number of students studying at universities

8,500 4,900

9,726 6,017

9,796 5,707

9,765 4,468

440

481

1,056

1,411

220

216,7

1,075

1,552

53 321

61 183

66 286

58 250

Source: Data compiled from Sheeraz (2013: 248–249) and Information-Educational Portal www. eduportal.uz

has increased significantly since 2000. In addition to prioritised state-funded financing, significant donor funds (mostly from the ADB) were invested in the system of secondary vocational education, totalling at least $300 million. As a result, by the beginning of the 2006–2007 academic year 957 vocational colleges and 99 academic lyceums were constructed or remodelled, and a lot of work was done to develop appropriate state standards and curricula and to re-train teaching staff (Asminkin and Nemirovskaya, 2007). In the system of higher education of Uzbekistan, all 75 universities, including branches of Moscow State University, University of Westminster, and the Management Development Institute of Singapore, are state-owned. Uzbekistan’s tertiary enrolment ratio of 9 per cent is amongst the lowest in the region and the world (World Bank, 2016b), indicating that 9 out of every 10 secondary school graduates cannot enter university, even though demand is high and there are over six applications for every university place on offer. The higher education system is characterised by low access and concerns about the quality and relevance of the skills of its graduates. Central planning influences both the number of students in universities and their course of studies. Government decrees determine the allocation of spaces for higher education by topic of study, and students enrol in higher education based on their results on a national entry test conducted by the State Testing Center under the Cabinet of Ministers. At least 60 per cent of university students are men (World Bank, 2016b), and the smaller share of university spaces occupied by women is determined by complex interactions among economic, cultural, and structural factors. Economic factors include the high cost for limited places, which means that a university education is not affordable for girls from economically disadvantaged families. Cultural factors include traditional gender stereotypes of the lack of need of a university degree for girls.

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Structural factors include the obligation to choose and obtain a profession at the stage of secondary vocational education that makes obtaining a professional degree at a university a cost-intensive option that is more favourable for boys than for girls. It is also important to mention that in the practical absence of alternative opportunities, not only girls but boys too have to make a life-changing decision at the young age of 15 years old.

Comparison The overview of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan’s education policies and reforms show clear differences between the two countries. Kazakhstan is still in the process of shifting to 12 years of compulsory education, whereas in Uzbekistan this process is already complete. The selection of educational tracks after finishing secondary education is limited in Uzbekistan by including secondary vocational education in compulsory schooling and by strict regulation of tertiary education. In other words, this system restricts youths’, and specifically girls’, access to university. In Kazakhstan, secondary vocational education is an option that does not limit access to university. Moreover, variations in the requirement for a minimum score in UNT give a scope of choice between state and private universities, as well as between university and college.

Rights, opportunities, and realities of girls in post-secondary education and employment From the universalist position on women’s rights, the principle of gender equality in education generally has meant gender-neutral policies focusing on equality in terms of access (having the same opportunity to participate in school or university), attainment (the same number of years of education), and achievement (demonstrated learning of the same quality and type of knowledge) (Silova & Magno, 2004, p. 426). Both countries have maintained gender-neutral policies that are supported by a number of national laws. In Kazakhstan, the constitution (1995, Article 14, part 2) prohibits discrimination on the basis of sex. The “Law on State Guarantees of Equal Rights and Equal Opportunities of Men and Women” (2009) defines basic concepts of gender discrimination and restates gender equality in such spheres as civil service, the labour market, health care, education, and family. The “Law on Education” (2007, Article 3, part 1) states equal rights to education for all. In Uzbekistan, the constitution (1992) and other legislative acts (Labor Сode 1996, Criminal Сode 1996) protect against discrimination on the basis of sex. The “Law on Education” (1997, Article 4) guarantees the right to education regardless of sex. Both states have also ratified major international conventions on human rights and gender equality. Kazakhstan ratified the Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC) in 1994, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) in 1998, and the International Convention on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) in 2006. Uzbekistan

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ratified the CRC in 1994 and the CEDAW and ICESCR in 1995. However, as Silova and Abdushukurova (2009) and Shakirova (2015) point out, ratification of those international conventions and adoption of national laws in compliance with international norms was used as fulfilment of requirements to be recognised as full members of the international community and was not followed by the realisation of efficient mechanisms for reaching gender equity. The two countries differ in gender-related indexes. The Gender Development Index (GDI) developed by the United Nations Development Program shows disparities between women and men in three basic dimensions of human development – health, knowledge, and living standards. Kazakhstan’s GDI is 1.0002 and ranks 56th in the world, whereas Uzbekistan’s GDI is 0.945, ranking 105th (UNDP, 2015). The Gender Parity Index (GPI) in education, compiled by the World Bank based on national statistics, shows whether girls and boys are equally enrolled at all levels of education. Although at the primary and secondary education level Uzbekistan’s GPI is only slightly lower than in Kazakhstan, at the tertiary education level the difference is significant (Table 11.3). According to Tukhtamirzaeva (2016), the gender disparity at the secondary education level can be partially explained by the early marriages of girls, particularly in rural areas. The legal age for marriage is 17 for girls and 18 for boys. However, as the UNFPA report on child marriages in Uzbekistan notes, article 15 of the Family Code states that with permission from the khokim (head of local administration), the age can be reduced, though not by more than one year, under exceptional circumstances like unplanned pregnancy. The report on child marriages by the UNFPA underlines that although officially underage marriage counts for only 2.6 per cent of the total number of marriages, many girls go through an Islamic religious ceremony – nikah – and are considered to be married. There are no data on the number of religious marriages (UNFPA, 2014, p. 2). Table 11.4 is a comparison of the two countries’ statistical data on student enrolment by gender at different educational levels. In 2014, only 37.5 per cent of students enrolled in Uzbek universities were women. This ratio stands in sharp contrast to Kazakh universities where female students’ proportion of 57.1 per cent (62.8 per cent at the graduate level) surpassed that of male students in 2013. Moreover, while its neighbours have made progress in enrolling more women in universities over the past decade, in Uzbekistan the share of female students has declined from 45 per cent to under 39 per cent in the period from 2000 to 2011 (World Bank, 2016b, p. 48). Another distinct disparity can be observed in enrolment in secondary vocational education. In Uzbekistan, fewer young women are enrolled in academic lyceums that open the path to university (only 43.2 per cent), and more are enrolled in professional colleges that are linked to the labour market. In Kazakhstan, enrolment rates in secondary vocational education are more balanced. Fields of study that women and men choose in preparation for employment are another interesting subject for comparison, and gender segregation in academic subjects is apparent in both countries (Table 11.5). Both in

1.15813

…

0.96635

0.82692

0.98737

…

…

Primary education Secondary education Tertiary education

0.691

0.98903

0.98753

2007

…

…

0.99685

2007

Source: World Bank Data Bank: Gender Statistics

1.00516

1990

　

2000

1.04315

…

Uzbekistan

1.00653

1.04398

Primary education Secondary education Tertiary education

2000

1990

　

Kazakhstan

0.66318

0.99414

0.98828

2008

…

…

0.99735

2008

Table 11.3 Gender Parity Index in education by level

0.68285

1.0019

0.98569

2009

…

…

0.99986

2009

0.6732

0.99794

0.98058

2010

1.2716

1.0055

1.0049

2010

0.63694

0.99037

0.97643

2011

1.26329

1.007

1.00462

2011

0.59183

0.99039

0.97638

2012

1.27428

1.0098

1.00364

2012

0.5901

0.98718

0.97636

2013

1.26878

1.01964

1.00169

2013

0.61388

0.98456

0.97666

2014

1.26328

1.02544

0.99985

2014

0.62263

0.98358

0.97715

2015

1.2774

1.03462

1.00113

2015

Girls’ education in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan

185

Table 11.4 Students in educational organizations by gender (%) Kazakhstan, 2013

Uzbekistan, 2014

Educational organisation

Female

Male

Female

Male

General education school Secondary vocational education organisation

49.3

50.7

48.5

51.5

48*

52*

University Graduate school

57.1 62.8

42.9 37.2

49.1** 43.2*** 37.5 34.4

50.9** 56.8*** 62.5 65.6

Source: For Kazakhstan: Statistical Bulletin “Women and Men in Kazakhstan, 2009–2013”, for Uzbekistan: “Gender Statistics of Uzbekistan” www.gender.stat.uz Notes: *Both professional colleges and technical lyceums, **Professional colleges, ***Academic lyceums

Table 11.5 Enrolment of female and male students by areas of specialisation in secondary vocational and tertiary education (%) Country

Kazakhstan, 2013

Educational level

Secondary vocational education

Area of specialisation

Female

Education Health care/ Physical training, sports Industry and construction Agriculture Transport and communication Economics/ Law

Uzbekistan, 2014 Tertiary education

Secondary vocational education

Tertiary education

Male

Female

Male

Female

Male

Female

Male

70 79

30 21

60 72/24

40 28/76

71.8 76.6

28.2 23.4

56.9 39.4

43.7 60.6

30

70

48

52

43

57

18.1

81.9

32 25

68 75

55 27

45 73

40.6 29.6

59.4 70.4

24.4 11.4

75.6 88.6

51

49

62/37

38/63

50.4

49.6

21.6

78.4

Source: For Kazakhstan: Statistical Bulletin “Women and Men in Kazakhstan, 2009–2013”, for Uzbekistan: Gender Statistics of Uzbekistan www.gender.stat.uz

Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, women are concentrated in traditional female fields of study such as education and health care, while young men are overly represented in technical subjects, particularly those connected with transport, communication, industry, and construction. However, agriculture, for instance, is more preferred by women at the secondary education level in Uzbekistan and at the tertiary education level in Kazakhstan. Industry and

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construction are more chosen by women at the tertiary level in Kazakhstan than in Uzbekistan. While women in Kazakhstan tend to choose economics at both the secondary vocational and tertiary level, women in Uzbekistan select it predominantly at the secondary vocational level and significantly less at the tertiary education level. Preferences in fields of study are determined by the occupational segregation of the labour market in both countries. According to ADB’s country gender assessment (Asian Development Bank, 2013, p. 20), in Kazakhstan women represent over 70 per cent of total employees in spheres such as education and health care, which are paid through the state budget and thus offer low salaries and few opportunities for career advancement. A high proportion of women also exist in spheres like food services, the hospitality industry, financial services, and insurance, whereas men predominate in the industrial fields, representing over three-quarters of employees in mining, transport, storage, and construction, and they account for almost two-thirds of workers in electricity and gas supply, water supply, and waste management. The sectors where men are highly represented are also the most profitable and have the highestpaying jobs. Industry accounts for 36.0 per cent of the GDP and mining for 22.0 per cent, while education accounts for only 3.4 per cent and health care and social services for only 2.0 per cent. Another important point is that in Kazakhstan women’s higher levels of academic success are not reflected in their professional achievements. In particular, women’s educational levels do not correlate either with top-level and management posts nor with higher salaries. There is a real risk that female students will lose motivation to enter professional and higher education if education is not seen to correlate with a successful career (Asian Development Bank, 2013, p. 28). Regarding Uzbekistan, the ADB’s country gender assessment shows that basically only a few fields of employment – agriculture, trade, catering, and sales – exhibit a good degree of gender balance among employees (Asian Development Bank, 2014, p. 14). Men account for 52 per cent of workers in agriculture and trade, and women make up 54 per cent of employees in catering and sales. Other sectors show greater segregation. Approximately one-third of all working women are employed in the sectors that are considered traditional for women – education, health care, the arts, and culture. The majority of employees in the fields of construction, transport, and communications are men. It is fairly important to note that large labour migration from Uzbekistan to Russia and Kazakhstan determines the prevalence in professions chosen by men. Similar to Kazakhstan, sectors in which women dominate, particularly education and health care, are low paying, whereas men are overly represented among the workforce in fields with comparatively high salaries. Overall, a lower proportion of women in Uzbekistan participate in the labour force than in Kazakhstan (see Figures 11.3 and 11.4). Another factor stressed by ADB’s gender assessment reports on both countries is unemployment. Like patterns of women’s economic activity, formal unemployment rates in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan show distinct

Girls’ education in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan

187

Kazakhstan 90 80 70 60 50 40 30 20

Labor force participation rate, male

2015

2013

2014

2012

2010

2011

2009

2008

2007

2005

2006

2004

2003

2002

2001

1999

2000

1997

1998

1996

1995

1994

1993

1992

0

1991

10

Labor force participation rate, female

Figure 11.3 Labour force participation rate by gender: Kazakhstan (% of population 15 years and older). Source: World Bank. Gender Statistics. Uzbekistan 80 70 60 50 40 30 20

2015

2014

2013

2012

2011

2009

2010

2008

2007

2006

2005

2004

2002

Labor force participation rate, male

2003

2001

2000

1999

1998

1997

1996

1995

1994

1993

1992

0

1991

10

Labor force participation rate, female

Figure 11.4 Labour force participation rate by gender: Uzbekistan (% of population 15 years and older). Source: World Bank. Gender Statistics.

gender patterns. In Kazakhstan, women made up about 60 per cent of officially registered unemployed persons in 2008–2010 (Asian Development Bank, 2013, p. 24). In Uzbekistan, according to data from 2010, 53.7 per cent of the total unemployed population are women. Yet women comprise 43.5 per cent of the officially registered unemployed population (Asian Development Bank, 2014, p. 13). Women are commonly overrepresented among the long-term unemployed in both urban and rural areas. The paradox of lower labour force participation and lower unemployment rate in Uzbekistan than in Kazakhstan can be explained by a difference in the methodology of calculating statistics.

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In Uzbekistan, so-called “home-based work” is recognised as a type of selfemployment and oriented toward women but is not included in calculations of labour force participation (Asian Development Bank, 2014, p. 14). Throughout this section, the contrast between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan has been defined regarding tendencies in girls’ enrolment in secondary vocational and tertiary education. Although this chapter has mostly analysed how educational reforms have created different educational paths for girls in the two countries, it has to be admitted that socio-economic factors such as occupational segregation of the labour market and unemployment influence girls’ enrolment to a much greater degree. Ishkanian, relying on Moghadam (2000), argues that unlike many developing countries, women in Central Asia have relatively easy access to education and employment, but during the transition to the new economic order women suffered much more than men from unaccustomed material hardship and loss of security, including loss of jobs, prolonged non-payments of salaries, hyperinflation, loss of savings, and erosion of accustomed supports such as low-cost or free social services and subsidies (Ishkanian, 2003, p. 483). As Tukhtamirzaeva (2016) finds through her field study in urban and rural areas of Uzbekistan, these living experiences of their parents’ generation undoubtedly affect girls’ opportunities, real options, and final choices concerning continuing education at the post-secondary level.

Post-Soviet changes in girls’ education of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan This chapter focused on the effects of postsocialist educational reforms on girls’ enrolment in secondary vocational and tertiary education. Comparative analysis of major reforms in the two countries demonstrated that introduction of liberal measures in tertiary education in Kazakhstan increased girls’ opportunities to continue education after completion of their general education. In contrast, strict regulation of educational paths in Uzbekistan limited the variety of educational opportunities for both girls and boys. The establishment of free compulsory secondary vocational education can be seen both as a strong social policy guaranteeing every young boy and girl a profession and as a political intention to divide society into an intellectual elite and a working class. Nevertheless, girls remain on the margin in both cases because their opportunities to embark on upward mobility are more limited than boys’ due to cultural and socio-economic factors. Consequently, taking into consideration the complexity of these historical, political, economic, and cultural factors that determine gender equality in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, girls’ education in the post-Soviet period in the two countries can be presented in three major themes: preservation of high literacy rates and gender parity at the compulsory education level as the Soviet legacy; diversification (in Kazakhstan) and unification (in Uzbekistan) of post-secondary education options due to implementation of neoliberal reforms; and conservation of gender stereotypes through revival of pre-Soviet ethnic and religious norms and values.

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My analysis confirms conclusions made in previous work that “Soviet rule did not bring the promised liberation of women” (Olcott, 1991, p. 251) and that the “double burden” borne by women both in private and social spheres under the socialist regime “made gender equity largely a myth” (Silova & Magno, 2004, pp. 417–418). Although varying from country to country, gender disparity in post-secondary education did exist in Soviet times, and post-independence political, economic, and social shortcomings did not change these realities significantly, but rather intensified them (Ishkanian, 2003, p. 484). Finally, recent trends of radical religious views that have been spreading among younger generations should not be left unnoticed. Autocratic regimes, lack of deliberative democracy, weakness of social support, poverty, and an increasing gap between rural and urban lifestyles are powerful preconditions for the further deepening of radical fundamentalist perceptions.

References Akyildiz, S. (2012). Aims, Goals and Implementation of Soviet Education. The Eurasia Studies Society Journal, 1(1), pp. 1–14. Alimova, D., Kian-Thiebaut, A. and Moosvi, S. (2005). The status of Women (1917– 1990). In: Palat, M. and Tabyshalieva, A., eds., The History of Civilizations of Central Asia Vol. VI. Towards the Contemporary Period. Paris: UNESCO, pp. 515–525. Anderson, K. and Heyneman, S. (2005). Education and Social Policy in Central Asia: The Next Stage of Transition. Social Policy and Administration, 39(4), pp. 361–380. Asanova, J. (2006). Emerging Regions, Persisting Rhetoric of Educational Aid: The Impact of the Asian Development Bank on Educational Policy Making in Kazakhstan. International Journal of Educational Development, 26, pp. 655–666. Asian Development Bank (2011). Development Effectiveness Brief. Uzbekistan. A Partnership for growth. http://www.adb.org/sites/default/files/publication/28290/decbuzb.pdf (Accessed 15.03.2016). Asian Development Bank (2013). Country Gender Assessment: Kazakhstan. http:// www.adb.org/sites/default/files/institutional-document/34051/files/kazakhstan-countrygender-assessment.pdf (Accessed 15.03.2016). Asian Development Bank (2014). Uzbekistan. Country Gender Assessment. http:// www.adb.org/sites/default/files/institutional-document/42767/files/uzbekistan-coun try-gender-assessment.pdf (Accessed 15.03.2016). Asminkin, Y. and Nemirovskaya, O. (2007). Toward Compulsory Vocational Education in Uzbekistan: A Decade on. Technical and Vocation Skills Development, 48, pp. 41–42. Avis, G. (1983). Access to Higher Education in the Soviet Union. In: Tomiak, J., ed., Soviet Education in 1980s. London & Canberra: St. Martine’s Press, pp.199–239. Bridges, D., ed. (2014). Educational Reform and Internationalization. The Case of School Reform in Kazakhstan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. CIS Statistical Committee and UNFPA EECARO (2014). Youth in the Commonwealth of Independent States: A Statistical Portrait. http://www.cisstat.com/youth/eng/you th-eng.pdf (Accessed 1.03.2016). DeYoung, A. and Constantine, E. (2009). Re-Gendered Education and Society in the Newly Independent states (NIS) in Central Asia. In: Wiseman, A., ed., Gender,

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Equality and Education from International and Comparative Perspectives. International Perspectives on Education and Society, v.10, Bingley: Emerald Group, pp. 255–299. Hämmerle, C., Langreiter, N., Lanzinger, M. and Saurer, E., eds., (2008). Gender Politics in Central Asia. Historical Perspectives and Current Living Conditions of Women. Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag. Heyneman, S. and DeYoung, A. eds. (2004). The Challenges of Education in Central Asia. Greenwich, Conn.: Information Age. Ishkanian, A. (2003). Gendered Transitions: The Impact of Post-Soviet Transition on Women in Central Asia and Caucasus. Perspectives on Global Development and Technology, 2(3–4), pp. 475–496. Kamp, M. (2006). The New Woman in Uzbekistan: Islam, Modernity and Unveiling under Communism. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Kandiyoti, D. (2007). The Politics of Gender and the Soviet Paradox: Neither Colonized, Nor Modern? Central Asian Survey, 24(6), pp. 601–623. Kane, D. and Gorbenko, K. (2016). Colonial Legacy and Gender Inequality in Uzbekistan. Current Sociology, 64(5), pp. 718–735. Kim, L. (2008). Mass Perceptions of Gender Roles in Modern Uzbekistan: An Empirical Study. In: Hämmerle, C., Langreiter, N., Lanzinger, M. and Saurer, E., eds., Gender Politics in Central Asia. Historical Perspectives and Current Living Conditions of Women. Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag, pp. 133–144. Magno, C. and Silova, I. (2007). Teaching in Transition: Examining School-Based Gender Inequities in Central/Southeastern Europe and the Former Soviet Union. International Journal of Education Development, 27, pp. 647–660. Mendikulova, G. (2008). Kazakh Women: The Impact of Three Different Socio-Political Systems within Two Centuries. In: Hämmerle, C., Langreiter, N., Lanzinger, M. and Saurer, E. eds., Gender Politics in Central Asia. Historical Perspectives and Current Living Conditions of Women. Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag, pp. 21–34. Ministry of Education and Science of the Republic of Kazakhstan, National Center of Educational Statistics and Evaluation (2013). Comparative analysis of UNT results: 2004–2013 (in Russian). http://edu.gov.kz/ru/analytics/sravnitelnyy-analiz-rezulta tov-edinogo-nacionalnogo-testirovaniya-2004-2013 (Accessed 19.03.2016). Moghadam, V. (2000). Gender and Economic Reforms: a Framework for Analysis and Evidence from Central Asia, the Caucasus and Turkey. In: Acre, F. and GunesAyata, A., eds., Gender and Identity Construction: Women in Central Asia, the Caucasus and Turkey. Boston: Brill. Muminov, A., Gafurov, U. and Shigabdinov, R. (2010). Islamic Education in Soviet and Post-Soviet Uzbekistan. In: Kemper, M., Motika, R. and Reichmuth, S. eds., Islamic Education in the Soviet Union and its Successor States. London & New York: Routledge, pp. 223–279. Niyozov, S. and Dastambuev, N. (2013). Exploiting Globalization While Being Exploited by It: Insights from Post-Soviet Education Reforms in Central Asia. Canadian and International Education, 41(3), part 3. http://ir.lib.uwo.ca/cie-eci/vol41/ iss3/3 (Accessed 20.03.2016). OECD (2016). Multi-dimensional Review of Kazakhstan: Vol. 1. Initial Assessment. Paris: OECD Publishing. Olcott, M. (1991). Women and Society in Central Asia. In: Fierman, W. ed., The Soviet Central Asia. The Failed Transformation. Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, pp. 235–254.

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Patnaik, P. (2005). Education, the Press and Public Health. In: Palat, M. and Tabyshalieva, A., eds., The History of Civilizations of Central Asia. Vol. VI. Towards the Contemporary Period. Paris: UNESCO, pp. 548–571. Roy, O. (2000). The Central Asia. Geopolitics and Birth of Nations. New York: I.B. Tauris. Shakirova, S. (2015). Gender Inequality in Kazakhstan and the Role of International Actors in Its Institutionalization. In: Gradskova, Y. and Sanders, S. eds., Institutionalizing Gender Equality. Historical and Global Perspectives. Lanham: Lexington books, pp. 211–225. Sheeraz, A. (2013). Changes in Post-soviet Educational System of Uzbekistan, Revista Romana de Studii Eurasiatice, IX(1–2), pp. 239–250. Silova, I., ed. (2011). Globalization on the Margins. Education and Postsocialist Transformations in Central Asia. Charlotte N.C.: Information Age. Silova, I. and Abdushukurova, T. (2009). Global Norms and Local Politics: Uses and Abuses of Education Quotas in Tajikistan. Globalization, Societies and Education, 7(3), pp. 357–376. Silova, I., Johnson, M. and Heyneman, S. (2007). Education and the Crisis of Social Cohesion in Azerbaijan and Central Asia. Comparative Education Review, 51(2), pp. 159–180. Silova, I. and Magno, M. (2004). Gender Equity Unmasked: Democracy, Gender, and Education in Central/Southeastern Europe and Former Soviet Union. Comparative Education Review, 48(4), pp. 417–442. Silova, I. and Steiner-Khamsi, G., eds. (2008). How NGOs React. Globalization and Education Reform in the Caucasus, Central Asia and Mongolia. Bloomfield: Kumarian Press. State Program of Education Development (2016). State Program of Education Development 2016–2019, Adopted by the Decree No. 205 of the Republic of Kazakhstan on March 1, 2016. http://control.edu.gov.kz/sites/default/files/gpron_ukaz_ot_1.03. 2016_no2015_1.pdf (Accessed 25.01.2017). Steiner-Khamsi, G., Silova, I. and Johnson, E. (2006). Neoliberalism Liberally Applied. Educational Policy Borrowing in Central Asia. In: Ozga, J., Sedon, T. and Popkewitz, T., eds., World Yearbook of Education: Education, Research and Policy: Steering the Knowledge-based Economy. New York: Routledge, pp. 217–245. Tukhtamirzaeva, M. (2016). Social Transformation and Education in Modern Uzbekistan, PhD dissertation (in Japanese), Tokyo University of Foreign Studies. http://repository.tufs.ac.jp/bitstream/10108/85982/1/dt-ko-0213.pdf (Accessed 30.08.2016). Tursunova, Z. (2014). Women’s Lives and Livelihoods in Post-soviet Uzbekistan. Ceremonies of Empowerment and Peace Building. London: Lexington. Tursunova, Z. and Azizova, N. (2008). Women’s Progress in Uzbekistan: Political Participation. In: Hämmerle, C., Langreiter, N., Lanzinger, M. and Saurer, E., eds., Gender Politics in Central Asia. Historical Perspectives and Current Living Conditions of Women. Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag, pp. 113–132. Tursunova, Z. and Azizova, N. (2009). Building Knowledge Based Society in Uzbekistan: The role of Colleges in Uzbekistan. In: Raby, L. and Valeu, E., eds., Community College Models: Globalization and Higher Education Reform. Dordrecht: Springer, pp. 545–559. UNDP (2015). Human Development Report. http://hdr.undp.org/sites/default/files/ 2015_human_development_report.pdf (Accessed 15.03.2016).

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UNDPUzbekistan (2016). Changes in Industrial Demand for Personnel. http://www.uz. undp.org/content/uzbekistan/en/home/ourperspective/ourperspectivearticles/2016/05/ 05/changes-in-industrial-demand-for-personnel.html (Accessed 15.03.2016). UNFPA (2014). Child Marriage in Uzbekistan. Summary. http://eeca.unfpa.org/sites/ default/files/pub-pdf/unfpa%20uzbekistan%20summary.pdf (Accessed 20.03.2017). Weidman, J. and Yoder, B. (2010). Policy and Practice in Education Reform in Mongolia and Uzbekistan during the First Two Decades of the Post-soviet Era. Excellence in Higher Education, 1, pp. 57–68. World Bank (2015). The World Bank Implementation Status & Results Report Technical & Vocational Education Modernization (TVEM) (P102177). http://www.worldbank. org/projects/P102177/technical-vocational-education-modernization-tvem?lang=en&ta b=overview (Accessed 20.03.2016). World Bank (2016a). The Little Data Book on Gender 2016. http://data.worldbank. org/products/data-books/little-data-book-on-gender (Accessed 20.03.2016). World Bank (2016b). Uzbekistan. Modernizing Tertiary Education. http://www-wds. worldbank.org/external/default/WDSContentServer/WDSP/IB/2016/04/11/090224b08 4282e47/1_0/Rendered/PDF/Uzbekistan000M0r0Education0Project0.pdf (Accessed 20.03.2016).

Part 4

The postsocialist societies between marketisation, democratisation and retraditionalisation

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12 “Gender restoration” and “masculinisation” of political life in Poland The controversies over the abortion legislation after 1989 Renata Ingbrant The dissolution of state socialism in 1989 in Poland implied radical economic and social reforms, and these emerged interwoven with the restoration of traditional gender norms and patterns.1 Similar developments could be observed in the process of law-making and government policies in other postcommunist countries, which in masculinity studies have often been referred to as “male democracies” or “new patriarchies” (Kimmel, et al., 2005, p. 150). The “retraditionalisation” in Poland manifested itself through growing conservatism, nationalism, homophobia, and restrictions on women’s rights – particularly reproductive rights. The women-friendly social rights and institutions, including the state provision for childcare, maternity leave, nurseries, and kindergartens, were cut back, and the importance of the family as the major institution for children’s care was reinstated (Fodor, et al., 2002). Contrary to the role of women under state socialism, women in post-1989 Poland were predominantly defined discursively as mothers and homemakers, at the same time as the public sphere was laid out as an area of a more and more evident “male” dominance. In 1993, despite wide-ranging protests, one of the most restrictive abortion laws in Europe replaced the communist-era law that had made abortion widely available. Since then, the abortion law has been the subject of repeated public disputes and has occasionally incited conflicts between the proponents of the total ban on abortion (the “pro-life” movement, also called the “antichoice” movement by its adversaries) and those who defend the rights of women (the “pro-choice” movement). Most recently, the Polish Parliament has debated and rejected the total abortion ban on several separate occasions in 2011, 2013, and 2015. In September 2016, two alternative civil law proposals were voted on in the Parliament – a liberal draft submitted by the “Save the Women” initiative2 and an anti-abortion project “Stop Abortion” submitted by the ultra-right Ordo Iuris foundation. The lower house of Parliament voted to reject a “Save the Women” bill proposing abortion on demand and to continue the legislative process on a “Stop Abortion” petition that could result in a total ban of abortion and in criminal penalties for the involved

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woman. Not a single MP has publicly supported the “Save the Women” petition, at the same time thousands3 gathered outside the parliament building in Warsaw to protest against the “Stop Abortion” petition for a near total abortion ban. The increase of anti-abortion campaigns in recent years might be regarded either as an upshot of the political developments that have been taking place in Poland or as a symptom of a “national identity crisis” – a consequence of which is the polarised Poland of today (Koczanowicz, 2008; Johnsson, 2017). At the same time, similar campaigns have taken place in several European countries – the development of which is called the “illiberal turn” (Zwahlen, 2016). As a consequence, today’s Poland appears as a country of enormous contrasts and ongoing debates, where the conservative Catholic tradition is always at odds with liberal attitudes.4 The discussions about family policy and reproduction law involve a constant (re)negotiation of women’s space in society and reflect the struggles over the relation between church and state. Beyond the transition crises, the postsocialist retraditionalisation of gender has previously been argued to have been formed within two important areas. The first is in regard to women’s participation in the politics that emerged in the underground Solidarity movement in the 1980s5 and their access to power before and after the fall of state socialism (Watson, 1996 and 1997; Graff, 2001; Kondratowicz, 2001; Baldez, 2003; Penn, 2005; Buhr, 2013). The second is in regard to the role of the Catholic Church as the most powerful guardian of national identity and national values, including family values (Nowicka, 1996; Miller, 1997; Fuszara, 2005; Janion, 2007; Graff, 2010), and as the most powerful adversary to the feminist and LGBTQ activists and as waging the war on the so-called “gender ideology” (Graff, 2014; Grzebalska, 2015). Moreover, Poland’s political right of today often takes its language from the discourse of the Catholic Church, and the newly reawakened Polish nationalism often employs religious symbols as tools for the creation of the collective “we – Polish people” (Graff, 2008, p. 16, p. 28; Pankowski, 2010; Porter-Szücs, 2011). In both the Catholic and nationalist discourse, heteronormativity is a prerequisite for the construction of the Polish nation, while the non-normative sexualities have to be kept completely outside (Janion, 2007; Graff, 2008). The overall purpose of this chapter is twofold. Firstly, it aims to present an overview of the emergence of the political agenda promoting stricter sexual politics, where women’s issues were increasingly subordinated to male control, and to address the legacy of the Solidarity movement, the role of the Catholic Church, and the impact of national-conservative ideology – which were the main forces behind the petrification of hegemonic masculinity.6 A specific focus is laid upon the disagreement about the abortion law as well as the abortion policy as a means to stabilise hegemonic masculinity in times of national identity crisis. Secondly, the chapter attempts to shed light on the range of theories exploring the postsocialist changes in gender relations in Poland (or the so-called “gender restoration”, as coined by Eley (1998)) as

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shaped by the masculinisation of Polishness in the public discourse against the backdrop of the post-1989 national identity crisis and its offshoot, the so-called “crisis of masculinity”.

The Polish abortion law and the abortion debate before and after 1989 The disagreement about the abortion law is a prime example of a complex political dispute that contains moral/ethical, legal, and religious dimensions. It also involves historical and cultural meanings that are quite specific to its cultural and historical context. The Polish discussion about abortion has been going on with varying intensity since at least the interwar period, when the first debate on abortion started after Poland was restored as a sovereign state in 1918 and the work on the Polish constitution, including the revision of the penal code on abortion, began. As a result, in 1932 Poland became one of the first countries to accept abortion in the case of pregnancies resulting from a crime or when a woman’s health or life was threatened (up until then abortion in Poland had been banned without exceptions). At that time, Soviet Russia was the first and only country in the world to legalise abortion in all circumstances (1920–1936). After the Second World War, when abortion for social reasons was re-legalised in the Soviet Union (1956), there began a discussion about the legalisation of abortion even in other countries of the Eastern Bloc, including Poland. The debate resulted in liberalisation of the abortion law between 1956 and 1993. Abortion was thus allowed for medical and social reasons, for example, in case of difficult living conditions, and both public and private abortion clinics were allowed. The new law of 1956 was adopted despite the protests from the Church authorities (Miller, 1997, p. 70). One of the purposes of this law was to protect women from the dangerous consequences of poorly executed underground abortions (Kulczycki, 1995, p. 476). With the introduction of the new law, the number of legal abortions increased sharply, and women began more and more to invoke the right to abortion for social and economic reasons. The new regulation in 1959 further liberalised the abortion law, giving women the right to abortion practically on request. The renewed intensification of the abortion debate coincided with the crises of the communist regime in Poland. The struggle for and against a stricter abortion law began in 1988, when the Catholic forces in the Parliament organised a conference on the need to protect “unborn life”.7 During the conference, a special committee was formed in order to work on a proposal for a new bill. On March 1, 1989, members of Polski Zwia˛ zek Katolicko-Społeczny [the Polish Catholic-Social Union] presented a bill on legal protection of the “unborn child”, which was prepared in cooperation with a number of experts from the Polish Episcopate. The Parliament eventually rejected the bill; however, from the year 1988 onwards, until the new abortion law finally came into force in 1993, women’s right to abortion was gradually restricted. In fact, the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare had begun to introduce new regulations and

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restrictions even before the law was ratified.8 In 1990, a resolution to protect “unborn life” was adopted at the Second Congress of Solidarity, the most respected political entity after 1989. This happened despite the protests from female activists within the Union. The measures to further restrict the abortion law continued on many fronts, and their initiators came from the antiabortion forces within the Church, from among medical professionals, and from some conservative political groups. The two sides that have been engaged in the abortion debate since the late 1980s have been the self-described “pro-life” and “pro-choice” movements (thus indicating their adherence to the global camps in the abortion debate) that took shape in the 1990s when the work on the new Polish constitution was in full swing. In 1991, Federacja na Rzecz Kobiet i Planowania Rodziny, FEDERA (Federation for Women and Family Planning) – the most important and the largest pro-choice organisation that struggles for women’s rights and for the legalisation of abortion – was established.9 In November 1992, a parliamentary committee tried to pass a bill that prohibited certain contraceptives and only allowed abortion in those cases where the life of the woman was at risk. In any other case, both the woman and the doctor would risk imprisonment for up to two years. When the new abortion law was finally signed on January 7, 1993, it was milder than the 1992 bill, but it was still significantly stricter than elsewhere in the western world.10 Ironically, the new law was implemented and enforced during Hanna Suchocka’s period of administration as the first Polish female prime minister.11 In 1996, Sojusz Lewicy Demokratycznej (Democratic Left Alliance), and in 1997 the Solidarity Trade Union, attempted to liberalise the abortion law, but instead contributed to tightening it when the proposal went to a trial in the Constitutional Court in 1997.12 The Constitutional Court ruled that the amendment was inconsistent with the Polish constitution because it infringed on the constitutional guarantee of the protection of human life at every stage of its development (Nowicka, 2007, p. 171). Since then, Polish women’s organisations (FEDERA in particular) and the left-wing Women’s Parliamentary Group have taken on the task of working for the liberalisation of abortion laws in the Polish as well as European Parliament (ibid., p. 172).

The legacy of the opposition to the communist regime In order to understand postsocialist politics of “gender restoration” in Poland, one has to go back to the 1980s – the period when the Solidarity movement began. NSZZ Solidarnos´c´ was a labour union that developed into the largest opposition movement (with up to 10 million members) to emerge in Eastern Europe after 1945. It was formed from various strike committees after a nationwide labour strike that took place in November 1980.13 After 1989, it became clear that the Solidarity movement was not politically homogeneous, and most Solidarity members either had social-democratic views or were generally left wing with strong ties to the Catholic Church (Buhr, 2013, pp. 43–48).

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Solidarity was essentially a worker’s movement, but it was led by a group of charismatic men and their ideological advisors. In this oppositional organisation, women played a significant role, especially during the period of martial law in 1981–1983, but their efforts have been effectively erased from Solidarity’s history. After December 13, 1981, when many Solidarity leaders were imprisoned, it was primarily women who organised the underground activities. They also handled the publication of Tygodnik Mazowsze, the largest underground newspaper; smuggled money, printing materials, letters, and messages; and managed to create a well-functioning subterranean network between different cities. They hid their male colleagues, provided them with necessities, and protected them (Penn, 2005). Nevertheless, they tended to downplay their part in the conspiracy work and considered the men to be the true leaders.14 As the above-mentioned studies show, the majority of women within the opposition did not feel they needed to defend women’s concerns and issues outside the movement. However, in order to raise feminist awareness among Solidarity’s female members, some of them began to organise, went underground during the period of martial law, and came back in protest of the antiabortion legislation proposed in the parliament in 1989 (Baldez, 2003, p. 267). From the beginning, women’s rights were located beyond the rights Solidarity was fighting for, thus women’s political engagement did not grant them easier access to the public sphere in Poland after 1989. In fact, their civic energy was repressed and eventually rejected, and “Polish democracy has proven to be of masculine gender”, as Maria Janion pointed out during her speech at the Congress of Polish Women in 2009. The Church had an important role in shaping the ideological attitudes of the opposition in the 1980s and of the liberal-conservative groupings during the transition period in the 1990s (Miller, 1997, pp. 74–75). In the early years of the communist regime, the Church was subjected to brutal oppression from the state; however, in 1956 the Communist Party established an informal truce with the Episcopate, as long as the Church stayed out of politics and recognised the legitimacy of communist rule. During the 1970s and the 1980s, when resistance against the communist regime began to grow, the opposition leaders relied on the priests for assistance and support in their underground activities (Szelewa, 2016). The clergy supported social protests and Solidarity strikes in the 1980s, even though they were suspicious of their intelligentsia leaders, many of whom had leftist views. With time, both sides began to move closer together, recognising their common goal. The election of Polish Cardinal Wojtyła as Pope John Paul II further strengthened the ties between the opposition and the Church. During his nine papal pilgrimages to Poland (in the years 1979 to 2002), the Pope managed to gather hundreds of thousands of people for religious meetings that became, in fact, political mass demonstrations. After the collapse of communism, the engagement of the Church in the fight for freedom was regarded as being as crucial as the Solidarity movement’s (Porter-Szücs, 2011; Szelewa, 2016). When the confrontation with democracy and freedom after 1989 put the Polish national identity at bay, the

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political ambitions of the Catholic Church went on to strengthen the identity of the “Polak-katolik” (the “Polish-Catholic”). In her book Magma i inne próby zrozumienia, o co tu chodzi (Magma: and Other Attempts to Understand, What’s Up with It) (2010), Agnieszka Graff explains the strong position of the Catholic Church in Poland, its great influence on the Solidarity movement, and the enormous impact it had later, especially on the formation of the nation and family policies after 1989, as follows: The Church […] has entrenched itself in its privileged position. Its power is not waning, but growing. Reproductive rights continue to atrophy: today we don’t even discuss the possibility of making abortion legal again. […] The quagmire whose fumes we breathe is a blend of politicized Catholicism and national identity, an identity assumed to be homogenous and unchangeable. It is an ideological attitude uncritically adopted from the eighties, the time of struggle with the totalitarian system.15

Postsocialist transition politics and the abortion issue The former Solidarity leaders played an active role in the formation of the postsocialist political parties.16 Eventually, except for liberal-conservative political groupings, quite small but sharply cut Christian-democratic and right-wing groups emerged.17 The time of political divisions was accompanied by neoliberal economic reforms and changes in ownership (the so-called “shock therapy”), which ultimately resulted in a country divided into more prosperous and successful areas around the big cities and a poor, declassed countryside and industrial towns. However, the most urgent social issues, such as growing unemployment among people who lived in these areas, were rarely addressed. It is precisely this gap that the populists, the Catholic Church, and later also Fr. Tadeusz Rydzyk – the founder of the ultra-conservative Catholic radio station Radio Maryja, tried to fill. Since the mid-1990s, right-wing political groups have sought support from Fr. Rydzyk, who also owns the nationalist newspaper Nasz Dziennik (Our Daily) and the Catholic television station Trwam (I Persist). On the other hand, the postsocialist parties’ dismissal of progressive left-leaning social policymaking, including reproductive freedom and gender equality, has prompted the establishment of new organisations in the form of grassroots movements, NGOs, and activist groups engaged in specific areas of interest, including gender equality, women’s and sexual minorities’ rights, the environment, anti-globalisation, animal rights, health care, ecology, etc. The issue of abortion became one of the most important political concerns in the early 1990s and became a clear dividing line in Polish politics. The 1993 abortion law was a disappointment for the women’s rights activists who have since been marginalised by the political elite regardless of the “political colour” of the sitting government (Korolczuk, 2016). In order to be heard, they have turned towards non-parliamentary forms of activism, such as

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women’s rights marches, demonstrations, strikes, and collecting petition signatures. Since the 1990s, the Catholic conservative “lobby” (consisting of the “pro-life” organisations, the above-mentioned ultra-Catholic network connected to the Institute for Legal Culture Ordo Iuris, and Catholic and rightwing media such as the radio station Radio Maryja) has had much control over the decision-making and the political agendas concerned with abortion and other social issues. As argued here and in other studies, the restrictive legislation and official legal discourse has had a strong Catholic undertone and has led to a shift in political, public, and medical discourses that have increasingly embraced the language of the Church in relation to abortion and abortion policy (where, for example, “foetus” has been replaced by the term “unborn child” or “unborn life”, etc.) (Szelewa, 2016, p. 751). When the national-conservative Law and Justice party won the 2015 elections, the abortion debate started with renewed vigour following the anti-abortion sentiments of Donald Tusk’s period of administration (2007–2014) (Szelewa, 2016, p. 754). At the time of the takeover in 2015, Law and Justice had for a long time collaborated with a number of organisations, such as Ordo Iuris, in advocating for a total ban on abortion (Gober, 2016). When in the autumn of 2016 it appeared that the total ban could become a reality, the feminist and democratic opposition began to mobilise. The initiators of the protests against the abortion ban were essentially grassroots organisations; however, several political parties participated (the left-wing Together Party, the Green Party, the liberal Your Movement, and the neoliberal Modern). The protest movements culminated in a nationwide strike on Monday the 3rd of October – hence its name: Czarny Poniedziałek [Black Monday] or the Black Protest (Korolczuk, 2016, p. 4). The mobilisation against the abortion ban has meant a further polarisation of Polish society, accompanied by a strengthening political involvement among citizens. People who would not usually call themselves feminists would more and more often see the political development after 2015 as an attack on democracy, European norms, and the values shared by large portions of the population.

The abortion debate and the transformation of femininity Due to the parliamentary debate prior to the elections of 1993, the abortion issue became a significant part of the greater political debate in the country. Małgorzata Fuszara’s discourse analysis of this abortion debate shows the different approaches that the debaters used. The advocates of the liberalisation of abortion built their arguments on empirical facts and statistics. In the speeches made by the opponents of abortion, the consequences of the legalisation of the procedure were compared to “Nazi and Stalinist genocides”, and the defenders of free abortion were called advocates of the “civilisation of death”. The other side of the dispute responded by accusing their opponents of “medieval ignorance, backwardness and feminicide” (Fuszara, 1994, pp. 55–57).

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In her classic text S´wiat bez kobiet (The world without women), Graff (2001) argues that following the introduction of the abortion law in 1993 both the discussions about abortion as well as the procedure itself “went underground”. The word “abortion” disappeared almost completely not only from the political discourse, but eventually also from the feminist discourse. Politicians started to avoid such words as “abortion”, “foetus”, and “pregnancy” and instead began to talk about an “unborn child” (or “nasciturus”) and “the protection of conceived life” while the actual abortion was called “killing”. Graff points out that if the political discourse takes such forms, it is difficult to discuss issues such as “free choice”, “family planning”, or “the right to conscious motherhood” (p. 112). It is also difficult to speak of women’s rights because the word “woman” has virtually disappeared from the political debate. In fact, in the articles on abortion, one rarely reads the word “woman”, which was replaced by the word “pregnancy” (pp. 112–113). Thus, from a feminist perspective, the abortion debate might be perceived as an example of the transformation of the feminine gender in the public discourse into a state of nonexistence. The invisibility of women in the public sphere in the 1990s and the dismissal of “women issues” to the margins of political concerns prepared the ground for the expansion of the hegemonic masculinity that has evolved into its present form within the discourse of Polish nationality, patriotism, heterosexuality, and Catholic religiosity.

National identity, homosociality, and “masculinisation” Literature on the restriction of the abortion law in Poland in 1993 is quite extensive, and numerous authors have emphasised the fact that the implementation of the abortion law was in line with the overall masculinisation of public discourse and the retraditionalisation of gender roles (Fuszara, 1994; Graff, 2008; Hauser, 1995; Szelewa, 2016). Research on the tensions caused by the postsocialist political and social transformation (Watson, 1996 and 1997; Novikova, 2000; Kimmel, et al., 2005) often employs theories of gender and nationhood (Yuval-Davis, 1997). As Zarana Papic argued: “The most influential concept in post-state socialist state-building was the patriarchal nation-state concept, the ideology of state and ethnic nationalism based on patriarchal principles inevitably became the most dominant building force” (Zarana Papic, quoted in Kimmel, et al., 2005, p. 149). The social tensions after 1989 reflected in public debates were often related to gender issues envisaging a Polish national identity “threatened” by Europeanisation after Poland’s entry into the EU: [T]he democratic transition reopened the discursive field in which Polish national identity was defined and led to a conflict in which the proponents of the old ethno-religious understanding of Polish nationhood stood against adherents of a more civic definition. (Brier, 2009, p. 68)

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At the same time, according to the sociologist and historian Paweł S´piewak, the political debates in Poland in the 1990s were characterised by what he calls “moral aggression” (cited in Brier, 2009). This was most evident in the period of Poland’s EU accession in 2004 in the discussions between the advocates of Europeanisation and democratisation on the one hand and the defenders of Poland’s “true” identity constructed around religious values and national sovereignty on the other. The recurring issues that came up in the heated public debate included such gendered issues as abortion, in vitro fertilisation, and the legalisation of same-sex marriage. R. W. Connell’s (1995) theory of “hegemonic masculinity” and its “crisis tendencies” might contribute to exploring the so-called “national identity crisis”. “Hegemonic masculinity” consists of cultural ideals combined with institutional power and appears to be obvious to members of society. It is the most empowered of all masculinities and is at the top of the male hierarchy (supported through historical patriarchal power structures) – but this is an aspirational standard that only a few men can live up to. (The standard of Polish hegemonic masculinity could be whiteness, heterosexuality, Catholic religiosity, patriotism, paternity, etc.) It is a “configuration of gender practice which embodies the currently accepted answer to the problem of the legitimacy of patriarchy, which guarantees (or is taken to guarantee) the dominant position of men and the subordination of women” (Connell, 1995, p. 77). Nonetheless, hegemony is open to historical change, where “older forms of masculinity may be displaced by new ones” (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005, p. 832). Gender identity, as any identity, is always in transition, if not inherently unstable. Connell explains that the inherent instability of masculinity results from social practice, where it is constantly challenged and renegotiated in people’s interactions with each other (p. 71). Like feminism and other new ideas that came to Poland from the West, “masculinity crises” as well as the new masculinity models became the objects of much media attention in the 1990s. In the period before the EU accession, the Western models of femininity were considered as a threat to hegemonic masculinity (or the “traditional Polish male identity” of the public discourse). According to the public media in Poland, the main cause of the “masculinity in crisis” was women’s liberation and feminism.18 That is, contrary to the academic discourse, in the public discourse the changes of masculinity models were not perceived as a possibility of positive change and as a development towards men’s awakening and their final liberation from the restraints of stereotypes and the so-called “traps of manhood” (Melosik, 2002). As Ewa Mazierska has pointed out, in these times of social changes in Poland men and women started to perceive their gender roles differently, and the shift in their perception could be conceptualised by two contrasting paradigms: “the rise of masculinism” (violence, misogynism, and homophobia), which has dominated the feminist discourse, and the less prevalent idea that “men are in a state of crisis” (Mazierska, 2006, p. 114), which spread mainly in the media. Agnieszka Graff in her study on gender in Polish weeklies showed that

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“gender talk” intensified in the Polish media in the period preceding and immediately following Poland’s accession to the EU. The cover stories were focused on questions concerning gender roles, sexuality, and reproduction and revolved around topics such as the so-called “masculinity crisis”, “family crisis”, “women’s emancipation”, “decline in Poland’s population”, homosexuality, “homo-condemnation”, etc. (Graff, 2008, pp. 72–74). Most importantly, the withdrawal of the communist authority, claims Graff, enabled the “return of the Real Man” from its castrating satellite position within the hierarchy of socialist power into a traditional position of power within the family and society. (Drawing on Connell’s theory, the hegemonic masculinity of today’s Poland has evolved from its earlier form of “traditional masculinities” prior to communist-era masculinities.) Graff points out that in the intersection of gender and nation in the public discourse there happened something bizarre, yet very Polish: The resurrection of the nation is compared to the return of the “traditional values”, especially in the areas of gender and sexuality. The so-called sexually disregarded queers are presented as enemies of the nation, as a foreign element that must be combated and marginalized in order to restore the moral order. The female symbols of the nation regain their glory, elevating the Woman – the symbol, the myth and the allegory. (Graff, 2008, pp. 17–18) Because the nation is perceived as a stable entity, nationalism invents an identity based on an assumption of the homogeneity of the nation, which Polish nationals might take for granted because, since the Second World War, Poland has been considered the most homogenous country in Europe. However, this homogeneity is constantly questioned by the fact that there are different minorities – if not ethnic, then religious or sexual – within each nation. In the nationalist discourse, there is a longing for a community based on an illusion (or in Benedict Anderson’s words, an “imagined community”) that is kept alive through exclusion, opposition, and control (Anderson, 1983). An example of such control is the urge to preserve the stability of gender identity. The category of masculinity, together with an idealised image of a community of men, plays an important role in the creation of national identity. Graff maintains that the concept of nation is “highly masculine” – that it is based on a symbolic bond between men and an ideology that celebrates manhood, which is best conveyed in the metaphor of “brotherhood” (Graff, 2008, p. 55). As such, nationalism praises manhood and debases women and poses a threat to women’s rights. The concept of homosociality (Kosofsky Sedgwick, 1995) inspired many scholars who explored postsocialist Polish nationalism. Among others, Maria Janion (2007), in her essay Niesamowita Słowian´szczyzna (Uncanny Slavdom), deconstructs the Polish national romantic myth – and the idea of the Polish nation and national identity – by emphasising, among other things, its homosocial aspect (p. 273). She argues that idealised national communities

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unavoidably assume “stereotype masculinity – as a praise of strength, even pure violence, brotherly ties, male friendship […]. In other words, such community is based on homosocial relations …” (Janion in an interview with Kurski, 2006). However, she emphasises that homosociality does not mean homosexuality, even if such associations contain “a certain element of homoerotic fascination”. This element of “homoerotic fascination” might lay the groundwork for the presence of an “extremely strong fear of homosexual amity. This is why national heterosexual honour is so strongly emphasized. Suddenly, homophobia has become a major problem for all homosocial communities” (Kurski, 2006). From a feminist perspective, the symbolic “return of the Real Man” after 1989 and the advancement of nationalism could thus be analysed in relation to masculinity and homosociality, as Maria Janion and Agnieszka Graff have shown in their studies of gender, culture, and society in Poland. The traditional view of masculinity that prevails in Poland shares similar characteristics with right-wing extremism, namely white skin colour (xenophobia), heterosexual sexuality (homophobia), and male power order (patriarchal totalitarianism). Under the reign of nationalistic male homosociality, Polish femininity is constructed around the idealised femininity of the “Matka Polka” (Polish Mother) – a romantic figure that in today’s language stands for a certain Polish female stereotype – a mother who raises her children in patriotic spirit and who is supposed to make sacrifices for her family. In the Polish right-wing discourse, a true Polish woman represents this idealised form of womanhood and motherhood.

Conclusion This chapter has explored the political agenda of retraditionalisation in Poland through the case of abortion legislation. As I have argued, the search for a new national identity after 1989 might be considered a major reason why sexual policy in Poland has become more stringent. If before 1989 Polish identity was strongly linked to people’s resistance to communism, the collapse of communism has meant a corresponding breakup, or at least a considerable weakening, of the former identity. I showed how the state-socialist regime was perceived as damaging masculinities and leading to a crisis of national identity, and thus how the transformation crises of post-state socialism revitalised the combined restoration of these two damaged constructs. The post-1989 changes often have been perceived and theorised as a phenomenon rooted in a “masculinity crisis” in which women’s issues were increasingly subordinated to male control. The secondary place that women’s rights had in the Solidarity movement and the important role of the Catholic Church in the success of the movement constituted an important context of gender restoration in Poland. The fact that Poland’s exceptionally strict abortion law was regarded as an exception with connection to Poland’s accession to the EU confirms the strong link between strict sexual policymaking and the Polish self-image.

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Finally, the rebuilding of the nation and neoliberal economic reforms restricting employment possibilities created a climate where claims on women as first of all mothers gained support from the wider population. The discursive battle over women’s reproductive rights formed an important arena for the vindication of political power, marginalising women’s political representation and enforcing control over their reproductive resources. Thus, men’s vindication of political power and the battle for women’s control over reproduction emerged in close association with each other. The application of masculinity theories to the case of abortion legislation in Poland helped to explore the gendered character of post-1989 changes. As R.W. Connell explains, the social practice of gender is intricately organised in relation to reproduction (Connell, 1995, p. 71), and in this chapter I have argued that the amount of control a gender group has over reproduction rights might affect the gender pattern within a society. The developments in Poland prove that restricting women’s reproductive rights reduces their power to challenge men’s hegemony on many different levels – which in R.W. Connell’s terms include relations of power, relations of production, and relations of cathexis/emotional attachment (ibid., pp. 73–75) – and results in growing discrimination against women as well as other (not only sexual) minorities. The restrictions of women’s reproductive rights thus opened the possibility for a “masculinisation” of Polishness that reinforced the restoration of traditional gender roles. The consequences of abortion legislation, the ban of contraceptives, the conscience clause, the war on “gender ideology”, the ignoring of women’s issues, and other restrictions aiming at the limitation of women’s rights have led to the exclusion of women from the public sphere and at the same time strengthened hegemonic masculinity, which in Poland has given way for the radicalisation of masculinity by the extreme right. However, at the same time such changes have incited the mobilisation of women’s activism and the rise of civil society.

Notes 1 On gender discrimination in the labour market, gender-segregated education, and employment and on changes in women’s social status and rights, see e.g. Malinowska, 1995, Łobodzin´ska, 2000, Grabowska, 2012. 2 “Ratujmy kobiety”/“Save the Women” is an informal, liberal initiative led by Barbara Nowacka from the left party Twój Ruch [Your Movement]. From 2015, Nowacka has been the leader of the party United Left. 3 The demonstration called the “Black Protest” was initiated by informal activist groups, such as the Facebook groups “Gals to Gals” and “All-Poland Women’s Strike” and other (mainly virtually) interconnected communities, with the support from women’s NGOs and a variety of oppositional groups, including the Committee for Defence of Democracy (KOD) and such political parties as the leftist Razem [Together] (see: Korolczuk, 2016). 4 Historically, liberalism has never been strong in Poland. The dominant political liberal formation represented by the liberal-conservative Civic Platform (Poland’s governing party from 2007–2015 with Donald Tusk as the prime minister) has

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never challenged either the Catholic Church or the conservative right as a liberal ideology of a Western model would require. According to Shana Penn’s interviews, the female Solidarity members did not perceive themselves as rebels, and they accepted the patriarchal hierarchy within the organisation (Penn, 1994, pp. 3–16). I use the concept as defined by R.W. Connell (1995, p. 77). Also in 1988 the President of the USA, Ronald Reagan, issued an Emancipation Proclamation of Preborn Children and proclaimed January 17, 1988, as the National Sanctity of Human Life Day. As M. Fuszara points out: “The questioning of women’s rights during the Reagan era in the United States is similar to the impairment of rights in Poland after 1989” (Fuszara, 2005, p. 1073). According to the regulation issued in April 1990, health insurance no longer covered abortions on demand, which meant that the costs of an abortion became insurmountable to many women (Githens & McBride Stetson, 1996, p. 59). In addition, women had to present a certificate from two gynaecologists, an internist, and a psychologist before they could obtain an abortion. Also, hospitals could at any time refuse to perform abortions according the “conscience clause”. Poland’s conscience clause (klauzula sumienia) under article 39 of the 1996 Constitution permits the providers of health care not to provide certain medical services – in this case abortion – for reasons of personal values or religious beliefs. http://isap.sejm.gov.pl (Internetowy system aktów prawnych. Accessed 05.08.2017). FEDERA is an NGO established in 1991 by five women’s organisations. Since then the federation has prepared several drafts of bills on reproductive rights and health, responsible parenthood, etc., and has become the basis for the Women’s Parliamentary Group and various other NGOs. www.federa.org (Accessed 05.08.2017). Poland’s abortion law from 1993 emphasises the “unborn child’s” right to life and no longer permits abortion due to, for example, difficult living conditions. Abortion is prohibited, except if the child has been conceived under criminal conditions, if there is evidence of disability in the foetus, or if pregnancy poses a threat to the mother’s health. Doctors or other persons who carry out an illegal abortion can be sentenced to imprisonment for up to three years (Articles 152 and 154 of the Criminal Code), while the pregnant woman is not punished. Hanna Suchocka was the Polish prime minister from 1992–1993 under the presidency of Lech Wałe˛ sa. She was elected as prime minister partly because she was believed to be the only Polish politician who was trusted by both the fundamentalist Roman Catholic parties and the moderates in the parliament. Also, in 1997 the left-wing party Unia Pracy (Labour Union) collected over one million signatures in order to initiate a referendum on legalisation or criminalisation . of abortion, but this was ignored by the authorities (Chmielewska & Zukowski, 2006). Its roots, however, can be found in the underground resistance movement that began to form in the 1960s and the student demonstrations against the communist regime in March 1968, which met with hard repression but nonetheless led to growing political awareness among a whole generation of dissidents. Sometimes their willingness to remain anonymous had a simple but serious reason – no one listened to a woman. In her work as the head of Solidarity in the Lublin region, Danuta Winiarska used her male colleague’s identity, a certain Abramczyk, to ensure that all her directives and mobilised forces could be implemented (Graff, 2001, p. 27). “The Quagmire Effect. On the Special Role of the Catholic Church in Poland” (Heinrich Böll Stiftung, https://pl.boell.org/en/2014/01/07/quagmire-effect-specialrole-catholic-church-poland, accessed 5.08.2017) based on the original Polish book.

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16 Parties such as Unia wolnos´ci (Freedom Union) with Hanna Suchocka and Jacek Kuron´ in the lead and Kongress Liberalno-Demokratyczny (Liberal Democratic Congress, with such forefront figures as the later prime minister Donald Tusk (today the Platforma Obywatelska [Civic Platform]). 17 Among them Zjednoczenie Chrzes´cijan´sko-Narodowe (Christian National Union) and Porozumienie Centrum (Center Agreement – Lech and Jarosław Kaczyn´ski’s party). 18 Particularly feminist activists have caused much hostility amongst traditionally minded men and women, and together with their “gender ideology” they are seen as the root of various evils within society – from the falling childbirth rate and dissolution of Polish families to prostitution and all kinds of moral degradation.

References Anderson, B. (1983). Imagined Communities. New York: Verso. Baldez, L. (2003). Women’s Movements and Democratic Transition in Chile, Brazil, East Germany, and Poland. Comparative Politics, 35(3), pp. 253–272. Brier, R. (2009). The Roots of the “Fourth Republic”: Solidarity’s Cultural Legacy to Polish Politics. East European Politics & Societies, 23, pp. 63–85. Buhr, N. P. (2013). Contemporary Perceptions of the Solidarity Movement held by Polish Nationals. Electronic Theses and Dissertations. Paper 1168. http://dc.etsu. edu/etd/1168 [Accessed . 26.09.2017]. Chmielewska, K. and Zukowski, T. (2006). Aborcyjny kompromis? Tygodnik Przegla˛ d, November 19, 2006, https://www.tygodnikprzeglad.pl/aborcyjny-kompromis/ [Accessed 05.08.2017]. Connell, R.W. (1995). Masculinities. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Connell, R.W. and Messerschmidt, J. W. (2005). Hegemonic Masculinity. Rethinking the Concept. Gender & Society, 19(6), pp. 829–859. Eley, G. (1998). From Welfare Politics to Welfare States: Women and the Socialist Question. In: H. Gruber and P. Graves eds., Women and Socialism. Socialism and Women. Europe between the Two World Wars. New York: Berghahn, pp. 516–546. Fodor, E., Glass, C., Kawachi, J. & Popescu, L. (2002). Family Policies and Gender in Hungary, Poland and Romania. Communist and Post-Communist Studies, 35, pp. 475–490. Fuszara, M. (1994). Debata o aborcji a kształtowanie sie˛ sceny politycznej w Polsce po upadku komunizmu. In: Chałubin´ski, M. (ed.) Polityka i aborcja. . Warszawa: Agencja Scholar, pp. 52–67. Fuszara, M. (2005). Between Feminism and the Catholic Church: The Women’s Movement in Poland. Czech Sociological Review, 6, pp. 1057–1075. Githens, M. and McBride Stetson, D. (1996). Abortion Politics: Public Policy in CrossCultural Perspective. New York; London: Routledge. Gober, G. (2016). Driven lobby bakom förslaget om totalt abortförbud i Polen. Feministiskt perspektiv, October 7. Grabowska, M. (2012). Bringing the Second World In. Conservative Revolutions(s), Socialist Legacies, and Transitional Silence in the Trajectories of Polish Feminism. Signs, 37(2), pp. 385–411. . Graff, A. (2001). S´wiat bez kobiet: płec´ w polskim zyciu publicznym. Warszawa: W.A.B. Graff, A. (2008). Rykoszetem. Rzecz o płci, seksualnos´ci i narodzie. Warszawa: W.A.B. Graff, A. (2010). Magma i inne próby zrozumienia, o co tu chodzi. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Krytyki Politycznej.

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13 Obstacles for women in technical higher education in Hungary Valéria Szekeres

An important segment of gender segregation in Hungary is technical and science education. There were supportive mechanisms in society under state socialism to promote women’s employment, which was considered almost as important as men’s. However, the share of women in technology was rather low. At present, despite policy requirements by the EU to increase gender equality, there is a lack of policy measures for the promotion of women’s entry into technical education. Paradoxically, the proportion of women students in these fields has modestly increased compared to the state-socialist period, but it remains low just like under state socialism. Technology’s importance is shown by the variety of functions that it serves in education, medicine, business, and communication. In particular, computers have become an integral part of society. Advancements in technology have contributed to research in fields ranging from genetics to robotics. Meanwhile, there is an increasing demand for female engineers and IT experts by companies that also have female customers on the demand side, and thus making workplaces diverse with respect to gender can be financially rewarding. Management strives to create a gender balance to promote dynamics and cooperation and to involve different perspectives in order to help bring the company forward (Bell Research, 2015). This aspect is in particular recognised by multinational companies that are present in large numbers in the Hungarian labour market. During the socialist era, the presence of women in the labour market was substantial. Segregation was present in many fields, but women even having small children had the possibility of finding a kindergarten to care for their children while they worked. Men remained the main breadwinners, and women led the household and also worked outside their homes. Women’s care duties in the home, however, were not seen as being of equal value to men’s wage labour, and the difference-based model was clearly led by male norms (Asztalos Morell, 1999). The post-Soviet transition in 1990 had a complex impact on gender relations. Although women’s position deteriorated in many respects, which included losing jobs, fewer childcare places due to welfare state cutbacks, and a decline in the real value of subsidies, new aspects of gender inequality moved to the centre of attention, such as violence against women. The first democratic

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governments tended not to address gender inequality as a problem and avoided taking measures in this respect, but the preparations for EU membership in the early 2000s led to legislation in the field of gender relations (Fodor, 2013). However, the political and economic emancipation of women during state socialism has come to be remembered as a forced process and has taken on a negative connotation. This negative experience might have been, among others, an important factor behind a backlash in public opinion. The traditional gender order of society is reinforced by various institutional systems, and in recent decades considering the gender situation has been a marginal issue for both the public and professionals. Pushing forward gender equality has not become an integrated part of the people’s set of values, but rather has remained a negligible issue. The real meaning of the gender mainstreaming required by the EU has neither been understood nor been considered to represent important values for society, and thus has largely been neglected. Consequently, measures aiming at decreasing gender inequality were neglected, above all by the right-wing governments in power in 1998–2002 and 2010– 2014 (Nagy, 2013). Even though socialist governments had committees and programmes that dealt superficially with gender inequality issues, they consolidated the traditional gender roles in an implicit way. In contrast, the present conservative parties’ government, being in its third term, explicitly emphasises the cult of mothers and largely neglects any approaches to decrease gender inequality. Gender norms refer to socially defined behaviours regarded as appropriate for the members of each sex; on the other hand, stereotypes involve attributes thought to characterise women or men as a group, like “supportive” women or “ambitious” men. Boys are socialised to use technologies and computers more than girls. Fields of technology are not considered appropriate for girls/ women, which is communicated and reinforced through the media and other channels. The aim of this chapter is to show what kind of impediments hinder women from participating in technical higher education programmes. To answer these questions, qualitative research was performed at a university to explore the interplay between gender norms and fields of opportunities. On the one hand, conservative gender expectations on women’s abilities and career paths are transmitted by norms that govern girls’ own perceptions, but which are also sanctioned by societal gatekeepers such as parents, peers, and teachers. On the other hand, the transition to capitalism seems to have opened opportunities for women due to increasing demand for technical expertise. Thus, the focus of this chapter is to explore the persistence of, as well as potential resistance against, these norms in the context of the emergent postsocialist educational system.

Problems in higher education In recent decades, much attention has been devoted to recruitment problems in the field of technology and science education. The Hungarian education

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policy emphasises the building of a knowledge-based society, which is in accordance with the aims of the Lisbon Strategy and the goals of the Europe 2020 programme (EC, 2010). However, technical and science careers are unpopular, particularly among girls, and this significantly endangers reaching these aims. This unpopularity also entails a problem in the labour market, and there is a shortage of electrical and mechanical engineers and IT professionals within some segments of the Hungarian labour market. Since 2007, many policy makers and scholars have drawn attention to the problem of the lack of sufficient supply of technical and science professionals. Educational policy-making responded by increasing the number of places financed by the state (Fábri, 2008). This approach nevertheless had a deficiency because it has contributed to a further decline in the quality of education by allowing students into some of these higher education programmes without proper selection procedures and with very low entrance criteria (Kurkó, 2008). Besides the limited knowledge of the students, it is also problematic that the percentage of those who choose technical fields is too low relative to the total number of students applying for higher education. It also poses a problem that fewer pupils choose technical fields as their first choice when applying for higher education than the final number of pupils gaining admittance to these fields (Kiss, 2008). The decline in the knowledge of science and technical students and the negligible interest to study in these fields have been associated with the not-sopositive images of scientific innovation reflected in the news by the media, with the low public appreciation of the positive benefits of science, and with the low quality of science education in secondary schools (Kurkó, 2008; Réti, 2011). According to a national report, teachers and the textbooks of science subjects generally use an old methodology placing emphasis on lexical knowledge instead of practising or developing competences (OKNT, 2008). It should be a vital goal to increase the number of students applying to technical and science fields in order to increase the competition among students and to ensure that the students admitted to university are well prepared for further studies. This goal can be attained by getting more women to choose these fields. UNESCO (2016) connects the demand for women in STEMrelated professions as a way to reverse the “talent shortage” in these spheres with the importance of STEM fields for sustainable development. Efforts to bring forward gender balance at workplaces can, however, be observed only in the last decade, and the ratio of women at such Hungarian companies is not known.

Gender differences in higher education Similarly to developed countries (Freeman, 2004), there are more women in higher education than men in Hungary (Róbert, 2000). Girls as compared to boys are more inclined to choose universities immediately after finishing their secondary school studies. If they are not accepted, they persist, and a greater

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proportion of them choose to apply again. Girls are more determined during their studies in higher education, and a lower percentage of them fail in higher education compared to boys (Liskó, 2003). The majority of boys do not proceed to higher education, and they prefer vocational schools that do not give the higher level of final examination necessary for entrance into universities. Also, many of them choose to earn qualifications that can be attained more quickly than a university degree (Fényes, 2009). Girls have better marks in secondary school, which makes their entrance into higher education easier. Behind their better results are their different learning techniques, greater self-control, and a greater willingness to meet expectations, all of which might be due to gender differences in socialisation (Rostás & Fodorné-Bajor, 2003). There is no difference in the results of the PISA-surveys between girls and boys regarding most aspects of science knowledge, though in mathematics there is a slight advantage for boys (Balázsi, et al., 2010). As shown in Table 13.1, in the fields of informatics and engineering the proportions of men are 6.6 and 4.3 times higher, respectively, than those of women. However, female students can obtain a degree even in these fields at a higher rate of efficiency because a lower proportion of them fail at university. Consequently, a higher proportion of women than men obtain their degree.

Table 13.1 Percentage of students participating in the bachelor and master level higher education by gender and by subject in Hungary in 2008 (%)

Education Arts Humanities Social sciences Business and management Law Sciences Informatics Engineering Agronomy and animal health Health and social sector Services Total

Women

Men

All

71.9 57.6 66.6 64.4 58.8

28.1 42.4 33.4 35.6 41.2

7.0 2.7 10.4 9.4 19.7

62.5 49.6 13.1 18.9 47.3

37.5 50.4 86.9 81.1 52.7

4.2 4.8 4.3 17.3 2.5

68.2

31.8

10.1

60.2 52.6

39.8 47.4

7.8 100.0

Source: KSH, SzMM, 2009, p. 62.

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As reflected in the figures, men are in a significant majority in engineering and IT in spite of the higher numbers of women in higher education. The gender segregation in these fields has been pointed out in several societies, and its causes have been linked to gender stereotypes among teachers, students, and in society as a whole. In addition, a lack of self-esteem among girls is also emphasised (OECD, 2007). International research shows that female students in engineering or IT faculties need to explain their career choice from time to time because their environment finds it unusual (Szekeres, et al., 2013). Fighting against gender stereotypes and supporting policies of equal opportunities in education are among the most important horizontal aims of the EU. To increase the number of girls in technical and IT fields, countries like Germany started various programmes such as Girls’ Day, where they can gain personal experience and talk to employees through visits to technical departments and laboratories. To make technical fields more attractive for girls and to increase the number of female students, universities have started interdisciplinary academic programmes. German experiences show that fields like media-informatics can attract a greater number of female students than the more traditional technical education programmes, such as mechanical engineering (Szekeres, et al., 2012).

Change in the share of women studying technology and IT in higher education Table 13.2 shows how the share of women in technology changed in the socialist era from 1958 to 1989 and after the transition. In the 1950s, probably due to the impact of the cold war, politicians urged women to get educated and to take jobs in traditionally male professions, which might have led to the large share of women studying technology in the 1960s. However, in 1967, in response to social issues as well as addressing the oversupply of labour, a generous maternity leave (2.5 years, extended later to 3 years) was offered to mothers. Women seemed no longer interested in studying technology at the same rate as in the 1960s. They preferred other fields, which led to the gradual decrease of their share until the year of transition. Soon after the transition, we can see a rapid increase in the share of women (Table 13.2). However, there was no obvious policy measure that could be the reason for this. The increase was rather related simply to the growing number of students accepted into higher education in general and specifically within education in technology. In the early 2000s, the impetus for the increase was lost and reversed for some years. However, a slow continuous increase can be seen since 2006, two years after Hungary joined the EU. There are no government initiatives to strengthen the trend, but the efforts of civil organisations, such as the Association of Hungarian Women in Science, might have a slightly advantageous impact. The Association organises various events to support the idea that engineering and IT are not specifically male occupations.1

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Table 13.2 Share of female students in higher education in technology and IT in Hungary between 1958 and 2011 (%)

1958 1966 1970 1974 1979 1984 1989 1994 1998 2003 2005 2006 2007 2008 2010 2011

Share of women (%) Technology Informatics* 11.9 – 25.1 – 20.1 – 19.5 – 17.2 – 17.1 – 14.6 – 19.6 – 23.7 – 23.2 15.0 22.2 12.2 18.7 12.3 18.6 12.9 18.9 13.1 19.2 15.0 20.0 17.2

30 25 20 15 10 5 0 1958 1966 1970 1974 1979 1984 1989 1994 1998 2003 2005 2006 2007 2008 2010 2011

Capitalism since 1990

Socialism

Year

Technology

IT

* No separate data available for IT before 2003, it was considered as part of technology and science. 1958–1998: Statisztikai Tájékoztató. Felső oktatás 1958/59–1998/99. 2003–2005: Nők és férfiak Magyarországon 2005. KSH, 2006. 2006: Nők és férfiak Magyarországon 2006. KSH, 2007. 2007–2008: Nők és férfiak Magyarországon 2008. KSH, 2009. 2010–2011: Nők és férfiak Magyarországon 2011. KSH, 2012.

Research methods I conducted a comprehensive qualitative study2 in the school year of 2011/12. Erzsébet Takács from Eötvös Loránd University and Lilla Vicsek and Beáta Nagy, both from the Corvinus University of Budapest, were also involved in the research. We organised semi-structured interviews and focus groups with female students. Each of the three group sessions involved six or seven students and lasted approximately one hour. To create an atmosphere open for discussion, no video record was taken. The semi-structured interviews were organised for students in their first year, while the focus groups were for students from the second or third year. On the basis of that research, I used grounded theory to analyse the gender narratives of female students and professors in the male-dominated technical faculties at a university. Abstraction on the basis of the narratives was made in an inductive way. Focus groups were found to be an appropriate method for the study because our research was explorative in nature and our aim was to obtain as profound and detailed a description as possible of the phenomenon under investigation. However, an important constraint of focus group research is the limits of generalisation (Vicsek, 2010). As a consequence, the results are only true for this group of interviewees, and only an assumption can be made that the results might apply to other female students. Semi-structured interviews were also conducted with five professors from each of the three faculties. The professors have experience of several years in the education of technical subjects and have given lectures or seminars for about a few

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hundred students each semester. Among the interviewees from each faculty, there was at least one woman and the vice-dean or the coordinator of the faculty. All of the focus group sessions and interviews were recorded and transcribed afterwards.

Results of research with female students The focus groups and semi-structured interviews with female students provided a look into the life of three university faculties: electrical engineering, mechanical engineering, and IT. In order to get an insight from the other side, there also were semi-structured interviews with five professors from each of the three faculties. Although the vast majority of professors at the faculties are men, we succeeded in getting one woman from each faculty among the interviewees. Circumstances for getting into university – incentives and disincentives Prosperous job Students had various expectations of the university. Among the motivations they mentioned were the greater likelihood of getting a job, the prospect of making a career, and getting well-paid work of high prestige. What was the most important factor behind choosing electrical or mechanical engineering? ERIKA: … the real factor was that it is connected to money, and opportunity. MODERATOR: And for the others how did you happen to choose this faculty? GIZELLA: … I had heard much about mechanical engineering, and it is quite strong in Germany, and it’s even better if there is money in it and a future, and especially if it interests me… MODERATOR:

Students in the focus groups were very optimistic about their future career even in a male-dominated profession, and quite a few were thinking about a career abroad. Nearly half of the students intended to study further after getting their bachelor’s degree. Impact of role models Most female students in the focus groups had an ancestor working in a technical field, or a brother or sister who took part in technical higher education. The impacts of friends and teachers in secondary school were also striking. Each of the students could mention someone in her environment who provided information about the chosen faculty. … an acquaintance told me about this faculty [electrical engineering], and I came here because I always liked math and physics … KLÁRA: … as a child I wanted to get a job in everything from astronomy onwards, but my father graduated from this faculty … OTTILIA:

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Self-realisation of interest against all odds Most of the students had been engaged in tinkering since childhood and were familiar with the jobs of engineers and IT experts. Thus, their ambition was so strong that even a considerably strong negative experience could not change their decision. I worked as an engine-fitter. There were my bosses … great male persons … they did simply not accept that I really knew anything. So this was my motivation … to get accepted in this profession, because my boss always stood next to me and saw what I did, although I always do everything flawlessly, since I do the same activity at home as well … to graduate from a university and to be considered as a human being in this profession. SZONJA: I totally agree. ANGI:

Several students in the groups and interviews were faced with criticism that they would become unfeminine and would wear boyish clothing. In the case of such women, stereotypical attitudes did not pose any problem in their career choice because they loved technical fields since childhood. … it attracted me so much that it would not bother me even if everybody tells me that I am wacky …

FRUZSI:

However, students who had a family member or relative familiar with technical fields were not necessarily supported in their career choice. [My parents] were rather against it, “because you are a girl” … “you do not have any chance there”. I say that it does not matter; we will see who laughs at the end. And it seems that it is me who will laugh because I see in the eyes of my parents …, that I have really made a good decision … [My brother’s] application to the faculty of mechanical engineering was alright, but what I wanted to do there, they could not understand.

PANNI:

Teachers, just like parents, had an ambivalent role in the process of making a decision about a career. Some teachers specifically gave help, but sometimes scepticism by the teachers led to an attempt to discourage pupils to apply for technical higher-education programmes. My math teacher wanted to discourage me by saying that I would not succeed …

GABI:

Attitudes of male students It seems that male students were the norm, i.e. they were the “natural” candidate for the field, and the women perceived male students’ attitudes in these fields in two different ways.

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Misogynous attitude There were many examples of extreme situations. Students complained about the unfriendly atmosphere of the university, the rudeness of the men, and the lack of friendship with students. … boys do not open at all towards us. … I have a very bad feeling … when they look through us, but do not say hello …

OLÍVIA:

They received not only nonverbal mistreatment, but also met with an indignant and rather disdainful attitude. Discrimination might have been considered positive and other times negative, even hurtful. I have gotten that … “a girl’s place is in the kitchen”. They might have said that like a joke … GIZELLA: I have gotten the same for three years; “why you have come here” … MÓNI:

MÁRIA:

All female students in the focus groups told how their decision to become an engineer or IT expert often caused astonishment in their environment. They might not have perceived much difference in the sexist attitudes within and outside the university. … “you are a female IT professional, hmmm … that is like a guinea pig, neither from Guinea nor a pig”. I got this a few times. ÉVI: … we are still keeping the pace, but they keep asking why [I came here] … EDINA: But we get that from everybody, that “Oh my God, you’re a girl!” SZONJA:

A macho attitude among male students was sometimes related to the decisions of women to abandon their studies at university. One student contemplated quitting the university because of the unpleasant atmosphere and the behaviour of the male students (Takács, et al., 2013). Supportive attitude A lot of female students benefited from the fact that they were in much lower numbers than male students, who were rather willing to provide help if the women had some kind of difficulties at the university. I could have help in plenty any time, and even if I do not ask the boys, they want to help me.

KLÁRA:

Distinctive attitude of female students Internalised stereotypical view on women in professions Female students at the faculty of light industry, where the presence of women is much higher and lower test scores are needed for admission, were the

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objects of misogynous opinions by some of the women in our interviews. These women in the IT faculty internalised the gaze of men when looking at women from the faculty of light industry. Three women from the faculty of light industry were sitting polishing their fingernails in the hall of the IT faculty. Me and my two girlfriends had our laptops with us and decided to show off. We sat down in front of them and set up a LAN party while they were doing their nails. The boys all stopped by to check out what we were doing. What a huge difference!

SONJA:

They must have wanted to demonstrate their higher intelligence as opposed to that of women from the faculty of light industry. This story might reflect how female students have to fend for themselves in a male-dominated environment and have to show that they are not like other women (Takács, et al., 2013). Related to this finding, the majority of women in the groups were convinced that it was easier to get along with boys than with girls, so they were happy about the situation. In opposition to male homosociality, the women often despised each other. Some of the women were even inspired by the majority of men to perform better and to get ahead of their male classmates. MÓNI:

It stimulates me very much that I am better than the boys.

The focus groups showed that even those students who were aware of and disliked gender stereotypes still sometimes used stereotypical expressions against other women. Is it good that more girls are accepted [to the university]? I am not glad about it. SZONJA: Nor me. MANDI: Such girls come here, who ought not to be here. … they just mug the curriculum up … but we will probably cope better with the situation at a workplace. MODERATOR: FRUZSI:

Rejecting the stereotypical view Some female students created themselves as narratively superior to men. Negative experiences and attitudes did not distract female students from their career ambitions, who seemed determined and conscious about their competencies. In the focus groups, they emphasised the gender difference in performance at the university. Diligence, preciseness, and thoughtfulness were considered the most important characteristics that might explain the better performance of women compared to men (Takács, et al., 2013).

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… if a woman applies here, then she knows that she definitely wants to graduate. But if a man applies here, he might just think about hanging around and seeing how things go [and not be as determined]. …

MAGDA:

Female students’ perceptions of the attitude of professors Supportive attitude Female students pointed without exception to the help of professors. The majority of them thought that the greater attention on the part of the professors was due to the fact that they are women. … I do not say that [the professor] favours only me, as a girl, but … during the exam he goes to a few boys to help, but he always comes to me. He specifically asks if I have a problem, and he leads me to understand [the task].

LÉNA:

There were some students who profited from the permissiveness of the professors. Well, I went to the professor and said I would like to have that one [the task to be worked on]. And I got it.

JUDIT:

Other times, however, the differentiation might have been disdainful, although students perceived it as a positive approach, and it could also be considered to be a misogynous attitude. I received an easier assignment. I could choose which I wanted, but he said: “This will be suitable for you, this is the easiest one. Any random guy would solve it, even the doorman”.

BIANKA:

Misogynous attitude Students also received openly stereotypical opinions. However, such attitudes did not cause problems for the female students in the exam. … “There is no place for a woman in this profession”. This is common particularly for older professors, who have such an obsolete worldview. But if you are respectful and pull yourself up, then you can smoothly pass the exam.

MAGDA:

Students also mentioned various gender-related jokes and comments by professors. Latent or explicit forms of masculinity were present within the walls of the university, and though they may seem harmless, they reinforce the use of gender stereotypes.

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Professors’ gender-specific opinions Performance All of the professors in the interviews thought that female students were more hard-working, enthusiastic, determined, and more aware when they chose a technical career. In terms of grades, professors did not in general see any gender difference, but some of them, especially the female interviewees, said that women might have better grades. So if I consider ratios, there are more good students among the few girls than among the many boys …

PROFESSOR (F, FEMALE):

On the other hand, male students were regarded as more creative-minded and more educated in the field of their studies. Gender differences were emphasised by positive stereotypical adjectives of women: diligent, precise, conscientious, persistent, single-minded, socially competent, and good at time management. Boys were described as better at maths, but overconfident about their preparedness. However, cramming was also exclusively mentioned in the case of women (Nagy, 2013). A girl is more willing to study every day … But a boy has 15 other interests, and rather deals with those …

PROFESSOR (M, MALE):

A dichotomy was mentioned to describe the attitudes of genders towards solving tasks: negligent boys and reliable girls. Positive femininity and organisational culture The beneficial impacts of women as opposed to men on the university environment were evaluated very highly because of their social competencies. The essential difference [between women and men] that induces me to increase the number of women, lies in the [difference in their] social competencies.

PROFESSOR (M):

There were many cases mentioned by the professors in which female students had positive impacts on male students with respect to motivation, organisation, discipline, conscientiousness, and kindness. Every professor agreed that the presence of women is remarkable from the viewpoint of organisational culture (Nagy, 2013). But fortunately I see that [female students] can have positive impacts on boys … one or two girls in the group have a positive impact on the whole group.

PROFESSOR (M):

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Focus groups and interviews about university life showed that the culture is permeated by masculine behaviour, which leads to difficulties for female students. Their behaviour reflects stereotypical gender thinking. Professors also think in stereotypical terms about students. Attitudes towards subjects and drop-out The responsiveness of women was considered as good as men’s, although there were some marginalised opinions among the male professors that women are less attracted by technical subjects. The lower interest, however, was thought to be compensated by increased diligence. So I think that boys have a greater interest in technical subjects, because a boy sooner or later takes a watch apart at home, but a girl does something else. …

PROFESSOR (M):

Although fewer than half of the students admitted can pass the final exam, professors either did not find any gender difference, or thought that women had a better chance to graduate. So I must say that the girls who come here are serious about it, so diligent. They have to struggle … so their attitude is better.

PROFESSOR (M):

Low number of female students In the interviews, some professors thought the question of why there are so few women in technical education was irrelevant. There were different views concerning why the low number of female students is not a problem. We just need the same number of women that we already have, and the same number of male nurses that hospitals already have, because otherwise the conditions, the market, and I do not know what else, would change as a whole. So now we are trying to win over nature, or I do not know what we are trying to do.

PROFESSOR (M):

This articulates a view that forcing a change in the ratio of sexes among the professions might disrupt the functioning of society as a whole. There were different attempts to give explanations for the low number of women. The first group of factors concerned the differences in the characteristic features of the sexes. … in my opinion this is basically a kind of evolution problem. In general women have better communication skills, and men have better spatial vision.

PROFESSOR (M):

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Another approach concerned social roles. The feminisation of the teachers’ profession was also mentioned as a significant factor in the explanation. … all the time it was considered that this was not feminine, and such things were rather connected to men … it is expected that the man fixes things at home … these stereotypes are deeply rooted in society. PROFESSOR (M): … in schools where women are in the majority in the teaching force, I think it is more likely that there is a little talk about opportunities in technical fields … PROFESSOR (F):

Opinions of professors in the interviews were divided as to the present situation. Although some emphasised that girls should be encouraged, others thought that the preference of women had already been decided in secondary schools. Those professors who contemplated earlier how to increase the number of students confessed that they did not think about girls as a target group (Nagy, 2013).

Token role: comparing male and female professors’ strategies The very low ratio of women entails the problem of great visibility, which might have various consequences. Female professors’ sensibility seemed different from their male colleagues, and they mentioned different strategies for women, but both were based on the men’s norm. Female professors’ strategies Female professors took inspiration from their own experiences as students feeling that they were perceived as boyish. Showing a boyish attitude seemed a successful strategy for them to gain respect in a male-dominated environment. Yes, a girl must have great, great difficulties to fit in such places … I personally worked all the time at such places, where many male colleagues were around me … I was told you have to become boyish … men are inclined to disdain girls at such places.

PROFESSOR (W):

An important impact of the great visibility is the assimilation, or becoming like boys in terms of hairstyle, clothing, and behaviour. Those women who were unsuccessful at such assimilation tended to quit the university. … girls in particular at the beginning disappear, after the first one month she realises that she cannot fit in this world … here it is necessary to become boyish.

PROFESSOR (W):

A female professor was very sensitive to the problems of women who might be objects of sexist poems or club stories and she tried consciously to help them.

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So when they are sitting in a lecture of 150–200 persons … I think the girls become even more reserved in this respect, especially at the beginning … they need more care. I try to open towards them at the beginning.

PROFESSOR (W):

Male professors’ attitudes towards female students One of the male professors considered that there were cases where female students used their special situation to get a better grade, and professors took a benevolent view. It might happen that … a woman’s performance is not taken into consideration so severely so that only a single woman might remain in the group.

PROFESSOR (M):

Some male professors viewed the great attention towards female students as positive on the part of professors, focusing on traditionally positive female traits. My colleagues, especially those who are unmarried, pay special attention to the female students’ problems and help them because they are kind, young, and pretty …

PROFESSOR (M):

Discussion According to Yvonne Hirdman, gender systems are based on two principles. The first is the differentiation between men and women; for example, that by nature men are good in technical fields versus women who have caring functions and sexual accessibility. The second is the hierarchical and normalising position of men; for example, women are not good at technology and are therefore stupid, and need protection, and view themselves through men’s gaze (Hirdman, 1991). Theories of gender equality, however, include perceptions such as men taking men as norms, and women’s caring know-how can also be considered as an asset of a different, yet equally important, kind. Gender neutrality takes another position stating that differences between genders are constructed. Table 13.3 suggests categories of assumptions about gender. The categories are divided into three sets, one taking men as the norm (signed with code Mn), one taking woman as the norm (Wn), and one considering no difference (Nn). These categories can be used to make an abstraction of the interviews. Female students, when talking about their motivations, are mainly expressing self-affirmation (M1) or aspiring for excellence and beating the men in their own game (M2), though there were examples of making one’s own choices based on one’s interest (N1). In many cases they faced misogynous (M1) attitudes by men (for example, by former bosses), and we can also find parents and teachers trying to protect them from such attitudes. When they talk about their experiences with male students and professors, mainly protective (M3)

Socially changeable difference

M3

N N1

W W1

Exceptional women can break out, “Queen bee”

M2

Men

Men

Norm

Women need protection, extra support Assuming gender difference making women norms as valuable and complementary Difference Women have special traits Women and men contribute (communicative, differently industrious) Gender neutrality No difference Women should have same No gender opportunities, capable to stereotypical norm do anything they wish

Benevolent, patronising

Differential treatment of diligent girls

Assuming gender difference making men the norms Essentialist difference Misogynous

Men’s attitude towards girls

M M1

Assumption about gender

Table 13.3 Women students’ perspectives/narratives

Open, same as to men

Complementary know-how

Inclusive in a different way

Differential treatment of diligent and not diligent girls

Exclusionary

Attitude to women

Making own choices based on interest

Emphasising difference

Resilience Becoming boyish Self-affirmation Aspiring for excellence, beating the men at their own game Utilising positive discrimination

Women students’ strategies

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and sometimes misogynous (M1) attitudes are experienced. Some female students find themselves exceptional (M2) compared to women at the faculty of light industry, and they talk in a misogynous (M1) way about them. Professors, when expressing their own opinions, often mention the essentialist difference (M1) they see, but they rather behave in a patronising (M3) way and do not make the studies of female students more difficult. The majority of the interviews show that the dominant way of thinking among the actors of STEM education is according to men’s norm; however, some female students spoke in a gender-neutral way when talking about their motivation. Gender stereotypes have very strong impacts and might further perpetuate individuals’ low self-esteem; however, female students were able to avoid being scared off by chauvinist comments mostly due to the fact that they had hobbies related to technology. Cases of female students at technical faculties were exceptional because they had relatives or friends working in technical professions. The educational institution was a place of severe and explicit gender biases. Nevertheless, female students were thinking in gender stereotypes against other women at the same university who were considered less intelligent. Female students benefited from the male-dominated environment and received a greater level of help at the university, but they also suffered from the negative experiences of being in the extreme minority. Professors’ handling of this situation was often burdensome for students. Female students were eager to show that their performance was better than that of their male classmates, while professors thought that women were more diligent, but not so creative. Professors differentiated between women and men on the basis of learning strategies, and the diligence and preciseness of women were thought to be less useful than the cleverness of men. The professors emphasised that the presence of female students had a highly beneficial impact on men in respect to social competencies.

Conclusions This chapter has shown some of the diverse obstacles that hinder women in technical academic programmes in Hungary. As a possible legacy of state socialism, concepts about gender stereotypes are very strong, and mothering, household management, and the related obligations cannot be (or can only partially be) delegated to the father or other members of the family. Although an important group of civil organisations makes efforts to attract more women into technical fields, which is a new phenomenon compared to under socialism, the government does not provide any resources for such an objective. The lag in the proportion of women in technology, despite its moderate increase, results in missing out on the possibility of an improvement in gender equality in socio-economic terms, but it also has an unfavourable impact both on the efficiency of companies and, indirectly, on their economic performance. Companies are interested in showing gender diversity in their employment strategy because they also have female customers who frequently use technological devices. It is also a business strategy to increase the ratio of women

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among game developers because they should represent the gender distribution of the customer base. Individuals’ assessments of their own technological competences might be significantly affected by the resilience of gendered beliefs, which in turn leads to gendered decisions concerning a career in STEM. Because the normative engineer is a man, according to both students and professors, there seem to be three narratives to handle this situation: (1) a misogynous attitude, (2) a supportive attitude comprising benevolence, yet seeing women as needing help, and (3) making a distinction between skilful women and feminine women. Among the attitudes, misogyny might have been reinforced after the transition from state socialism because of the strengthening of the right wing in society. Due to the features of capitalism and consumer society, beauty work by women has become more accentuated. Thus, even childcare and housework have become more burdensome for women (and girls) who are becoming more distracted from aspects that would mean real advantages in their lives. As opposed to the sociability of men, female students internalise the thinking of their male peers and look down on their feminine classmates and on those who jeopardise their privileged situation by creating a higher proportion of women. However, diligent female students elevated themselves compared to men and regarded the stereotypical feminine role as useful in their future career. Accordingly, female students’ strategies involve (1) becoming boyish among male students, (2) utilising the role of weak females, and (3) considering themselves as superwomen who are skilful and ambitious at the same time. The behaviour patterns of students and professors do not facilitate a change in male dominance in technical programmes of higher education and continue to exclude women. Although the transition into the international economy provided women with new labour market opportunities, they cannot fully benefit from the increased demand due to the rigidity of gender norms that heavily influence the choice of career leading to the reproduction of gender segregation in STEM fields.

Notes 1 Their programs include STEM Meetings, RailsGirls, Digigirls, Shadowing Program, Father-Daughter Day, Teachers’ Day, and Girls’ Day. The Girls’ Day was organised for the fifth time in 2016 and involved 1,600 secondary school girls at 57 locations in 17 cities. 2 The research project was a part of the gender sub-project of TÁMOP 4.2.2/B-10/12010-0020. The Hungarian acronym TÁMOP refers to the Social Mobility Programme of the European Union.

References Asztalos Morell, I. (1999). Emancipation’s Dead-End Roads. Studies in the formation and development of the Hungarian model for Gender and Agriculture (1956–1989). Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis.

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14 Gendered identities among medical professionals in postsocialist Russian cinema1 Roman Abramov, Elena Iarskaia-Smirnova and Denis Saltykov The 2000s witnessed the return of the special attention to “doctors” and “medical professionals” as the heroes of postsocialist drama and melodrama. However, these images are often misogynistic, and it is possible to say that cinematographic metaphors reflect developments in social attitudes. Medicine and the field of illness and health are constantly present in the works of mass culture, taking a prominent place alongside the genre of criminal dramas and action stories. This is reinforced and buttressed by the considerable power and almost sacred status enjoyed by doctors in the social environment. The medical profession is surrounded by a halo that shrouds the initiation rights to the secret world of health, life, and death. Doctors are seen to possess an all-encompassing knowledge of the body’s structure and to hold extraordinarily potent powers of insight. According to Susanne Sontag (1978), the metaphors used by a given society can tell us much about the belief systems, fears, and prohibitions existing within it. The metaphors and descriptions of doctors and medical practice show how the social environment perceives the strengths and weaknesses of the medical profession (Kirklin, 2001). The images representing doctor and nurse relations often embody status inequality and conflict, a context ripe for erotic gameplay, a bubbling war of the sexes, and a resistance to the status quo (Weaver, 2013). Although nurses can be portrayed in some Western television programmes as knowledgeable and experienced professionals, there are often negative connotations that highlight dysfunctional and dangerous elements in the health care system such as constant power battles between medical staff that are often driven not by professional status but by gender and ethnicity or race (Weaver, 2013). Some aspects of the hospital and the medical profession, typically focusing on nurses rather than doctors, became the object of erotic fetishising in some cinematic genres, a phenomenon that gradually became consolidated as a well-known pornographic cliché (Penley, 2004, pp. 315–316). Patriarchal hierarchy within medical professions is a well-known phenomenon. For a long time, women had to assert their rights to be doctors, and at first they could be allowed into the male world of “white coats” only through the side doors of nursing and obstetrics. In the twentieth century, important

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changes occurred in this area; in a number of socialist countries (starting in the USSR), feminisation of medical professions had taken place by the 1980s, although men were still at the top of the medical hierarchy. These changes are reflected in one way or another in the cinema, which often accumulates, sublimates, and transforms real trends, transformations, and stereotypes into movie images, although often in a modified form. Therefore, building a chronological series of film images of doctors can help better understand how gender orders in medicine have been transformed not only on the screen, but also in practice. This chapter is the first attempt at analysing post-Soviet films and TV series dedicated to the medical profession. Our main aim was to analyse the construction of gender identities through the images of the professionals in cinematic texts – including mainstream and art films as well as television series produced in Russia.2 In this chapter, we analyse representations of the medical profession in post-Soviet cinema and explore how perceptions of gender and the representation of work practices among this professional group have changed. We consider how, by employing consistent and stable images and stories, the dramas at play in social relations are revealed. We discuss new cinematographic images as partly based on Western cultural impact (after 1991) and partly on Soviet cultural legacies. Special attention is paid to the construction of new gender identities in the period of transition, including the divide between the living reality of the professions and their cinematic representations. To select the material for the analysis, we used the resource kino-teatr.ru to read the descriptions of films sorted by their year of release. We selected and analysed films related to the topic of medicine and doctors, which we selected after reading the plot summaries as well as further information about the film and reviews. Further on, we watched and analysed films that (1) became iconic for their time (such as the films by Kira Muratova), (2) were oriented towards a mass audience and could be considered typical for their historical period, and (3) could be considered as representing the trends (or starting points of the trends) in cinema on the topic of medicine and medical affairs.

Soviet representations of gender and the professions The Soviet Union consistently demonstrated a commitment to equality among men and women in employment and professional activity. In many respects, the speed with which women’s professional emancipation proceeded in the USSR was far ahead of other countries. This was most noticeable in the 1920s and 1930s when images of vigorous female workers were not merely for Soviet propaganda posters, but in fact went hand in hand with the rapid inclusion of women in physical and intellectual labour across the country. In the films of the Stalinist period, it was common to find images of women engaged in professional work, often appearing to receive social recognition for these roles (Bulgakova, 1993; Dashkova, 2006). Empowered and romantic, the women of the 1930s were shown to be the proud builders of communism,

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trusting in the bright future. During the Second World War, the heroism and victimhood of women were emphasised, although in the postwar period up to Stalin’s death there was a return to patriarchy (Kenez, 2001; Gradskova, 2007). Later, in the Khrushchev thaw era, Soviet cinema of the late 1950s and 1960s moved away from the classic one-dimensional propaganda-poster style image of women at work and the professions. In its place, a new tendency emerged portraying the professional world through the personal experiences and stresses of heroes who, in reflecting on their duties and colliding with others in everyday working life, acquired their own professional identities. In most cases, the central character in such films was a young man, often an intellectual working in science or medicine rather than a representative of the working class with a technical vocation. This shift was linked to the desire to endow central characters with the features of a “reflective intellectual” (see Prokhorov, 2001). With rare exceptions, women were usually relegated to the role of companions who, while still a member of the same social and professional circle, performed in a space where men retained their dominant role. From the late 1960s, the conflict between personal and professional life often served as the main plot device, and female characters were both forced into the workplace and pressured to have children (see Attwood & Turovskaya, 1993). In many films from the period of late socialism, it became common to link professional success and career advancement to problems in family life, including the absence of a husband or a family, conflicts with loved ones, and contradictions between work and personal life. The gendered images of doctors in the cinema of late socialism often included a reflecting and a somewhat infantile intellectual male character who is unsuccessful in his personal life, and sometimes in his professional career. In particular, such images are exemplified by Andrei Myagkov’s characters in the films The Irony of Fate (Ironiia sud’by, 1975) and The Morning Round (Utrennii obkhod, 1979). Women less often performed as doctors, and they were assigned roles of nurses, while male nurses were practically absent in Soviet cinema.

Gender and the medical profession in Russian cinema of the 1990s While the cinema of the late Soviet period employed physicians on an almost mandatory basis as the heroes of the mass intelligentsia in regularly produced dramas on the topic of the medical profession, the intellectual professions, including doctors, were rarely the subject of interest in the cinema of the 1990s. The period of the 1990s was distinguished by other prolific popular genres such as semi-erotic comedies and action films with mafia shoot-ups that were roughly copying third-rate Hollywood equivalents against the backdrop of a world lacking an ordered social structure, established morals, or clear economic and political landmarks. This was an era during which the main social institutions in science, medicine, and education were experiencing serious change, when whole categories of professionals were tagged with the

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designation “biudzhetniki” (state employees) – those receiving a meagre salary to work in public institutions. Images of the professions were clearly anchored in a gender-segregated area, where female professionals tended to play a series of stereotypical roles, such as tax collectors or accountants, culture workers, teachers, librarians, clerks, prostitutes, and, on some occasions, businesswomen. Female characters were often left to play the role of housewife or a secretary to a more glamorous male companion, most often a successful businessman or criminal boss. Hospitals during this period are often shown as treatment factories and anonymous spaces without individuality as a “non-place” (Augé, 1995), such as in the movie Eyes (Glaza, 1992). Doctors and nurses appear in episodes of thrillers and comedies, portrayed as accomplices and/or victims of criminal activity, while female doctors appear to be little more than an object of flirtation, rather than committed professionals, such as in The Streets of the Smashed Streetlights (Ulitsy Razbitykh Fonarei, 1998–2015). In one of the episodes, a low-income nurse is being tempted toward crime as a way to earn money even if it means risking her own life. Here, as in other films covering medical professions, women have a subordinate position. Representations of medical professions also indicate the discourses referred to as the crises of masculinity (Asztalos Morell & Tiurikova, 2016). The hero of the comedy I Do Not Want to Marry (Ne khochu zhenit’sya, 1993) is a plastic surgeon, the head physician of a medical clinic. The doctor is a habitual bachelor and philanderer who seems to correct his own deficiencies in his surgery. He reconstructs a “normal” social order by helping a woman to perform her femininity by acquiring a beautiful appearance and marital status, while normalising himself as a family man. In one scene, the doctor refers to draft legislation of a state family policy to encourage reproductive behaviour by taxing the childless and bachelors. It is worth pointing out that now, a decade later, such pronatalist social policy has been consistently implemented at the state level (see, for example, Rivkin-Fish, 2010). Thus, the solution for restoring immature or damaged masculinity can be found in conforming to the binary gender roles of a traditional family, while desirable femininity is achieved by perfect bodily beauty. The search for a new trope of Russian manhood also characterises the action film Son for Father (Syn za ottsa, 1995). In contrast to the image of the “weak male doctors” of the Soviet time, the new Russian intelligentsia, including doctors, show they are able to stand up for themselves. Well-educated and wealthy, enterprising and morally stable, they restore linkages in such time periods when national roots are ruptured by the Soviet collapse. They demonstrate their masculinity shoulder to shoulder with other “muzhiki” (macho men). Within this system of images, female doctors and nurses perform their traditional gender roles in that they provide the main male characters with a favourable tint, helping them to show off their best masculine qualities. In the post-Soviet cinema of the early 1990s, there was an open flirtation with previously forbidden topics that opened up the possibility of new and

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freer reinterpretations of the gender roles formed during the Soviet period. One good example of this can be found in the film Hammer and Sickle (Serp i molot, 1994), which attempts to make sense of Soviet totalitarianism in the 1930s. At the centre of the film is a village woman who is ordered by Stalin to undergo sex-change surgery that allows her to enter a new career and, thus, become a shining example of the new Soviet person (sovietskii chelovek). The roles of subway construction worker and shock-worker (stakhanovite) are usually associated with male labour, which is not seen to fit well with feminine traits, especially the ability to experience and give romantic love. In the sarcastic view of the filmmakers, women are seen to be able to perform prestigious occupations within the hierarchy of industrial labour, yet at the expense of being transformed into a man. By subjecting the female character to “men’s work”, the “essence” of her is transformed physically in the most obvious way. Totalitarian violence here is embodied in the idea of forcing women into a way of life that is abhorrent to them. The underlying assumption in the film is that gender roles are rooted in biological sex and that the Soviet policies that lifted women into men’s jobs violated the laws of nature, putting “natural” femininity in danger. A kind of damaged femininity is a recurrent image in the cinematography of this early post-Soviet epoch. Some of the most notable dramatisations of the medical profession can be found in the films of Kira Muratova.3 In her 1994 film Passions (Uvlechenya), the nurse Lilia (Renata Litvinova) develops an unusual obsession with the hospital morgue. Her monologues are filled with “psychology and medicine, love for death, enjoyment of solitude and admiration for pathology” (Tkacheva, 2017). Turning her passion into a profession, Lilia is constantly feeling the cold of the morgue, listening to the silence of the hospital, taking in her loneliness. The fusion of the natural and the artificial in this image was likened by critics to a carnival mirror offering a certain distorted reflection of this period in Russian society (ibid.). According to Sontag (1978, p. 80), “to liken a political event or situation to an illness is to impute guilt, to prescribe a punishment”. In Muratova’s next film Ophelia (released in 1997 as a second part of the Russian-Ukrainian trilogy Three Histories), this punitive mission is taken up by another nurse (again played by Renata Litvinova). She manically murders mothers who have abandoned their babies. Being herself an “abandoned child”, she discovers her mother’s address in the hospital archive and proceeds to track her down and kill her. Thus, adverse consequences of betrayed motherhood, i.e. the murderer was an abandoned child, are found in this film. The adverse conditions of a damaged status of motherhood even emerge as a topic mirrored in an institutional context. One of the films that most fully embodies the atmosphere of Russian cinema in the 1990s was Larisa Sadilova’s semi-documentary Happy Birthday! (1998), which shows the everyday life of a deteriorated maternity hospital. This film owes much to the legacy of perestroika-era cinema, which sought to expose the darker side of life of various social institutions, be they hospitals, orphanages, prisons, or factories. In the film, we witness the dreadful conditions in which expectant mothers live and

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how they are forced to undergo medical procedures in shambling conditions in overcrowded wards lacking modern medical equipment, furniture, and trained medical staff. The film shows the daily work of the least studied social and professional groups of the health care system – the laundry workers washing in the hospital basement, the nurses and cleaners doing the hardest and dirtiest work in the hospital, the cooks toiling in the dining room. In addition, real employees of the maternity hospital and real-life expectant mothers were brought in for the shooting of the film. The camera impassively captures the disintegration of the Soviet health care system, a process that began as early as the late Soviet period and became particularly noticeable by the end of the 1990s. At the same time, the film shows how something new is born out of this utter devastation and, even against such a gloomy backdrop, there is cause to hope for better. In summary, post-Soviet cinematography of the 1990s gave expression to parallel concerns of the crises of masculinity and femininity, two interrelated legacies of the Soviet era. While male antagonists found validation in taking on the double command as male professionals and family providers, female protagonists were portrayed as pathological and without any way out, or as finding their way in a new position as the subordinate companion of a successful man.

New cultural policy in Russian cinema and television at the turn of the millennium On the 31st of December, 1999, President Boris Yeltsin announced his resignation from the Russian presidency ahead of schedule, ushering in an era dominated by Vladimir Putin’s leadership of the country. From 2000 onwards, a variety of new cultural forms emerged from the interactions between a mutated Soviet culture, mass capitalism, and consumerism. This was accompanied by the implementation of neoliberal reforms (Hemment, 2009) alongside the widespread growth and dissemination of conservative values, as well as a rise in patriotism and support for the traditional family. The head of the Russian Cinematographers’ Union since 1997, Nikita Mikhalkov is one of Russia’s most renowned directors, well known in the country for his conservative and patriotic political views. As early as May 1998, he called for the return of state management in the Russian film industry. However, the Russian state really turned its attention to the film industry only from 2005 onwards, because by this time it had accumulated the needed funds to indulge in a cultural policy. The result of this spending was increased activity in filmmaking from the Russian Ministry of Culture, and active fund-raising for new Russian blockbusters, as well as, to a lesser extent, an increase in smaller independent films and directorial debuts (Condee, 2009, pp. 76–80). While Russian films have once again started making money in cinemas, the economic support of the state has brought about a diversification in the films being made. On the one hand, we can see the rise of new mass entertainment

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films that show loyalty and patriotism towards the state, with the most striking examples found in the work of Mikhalkov himself and that of Fyodor Bondarchuk. On the other, we can find many examples of non-conformist independent cinema emerging in Russia, much of which offers a critical look at the social and political context of post-Soviet changes. During the first two decades of the new millennium, new television series and movies were produced offering increasing coverage of the role of women involved in professional activity. Here we find women investigating crimes in more equal partnership with men and working as doctors and teachers, even if, in general terms, these women still tend to occupy secondary roles in the plots. From the viewpoint of how the medical profession was represented, the television series of this period were highly influential, and they complemented and corrected the image of the medical profession from how it was shown in the 1990s and had remained in the consciousness of much of the audience. This is because they combined an orientation toward a mass audience with a high level of saturation in everyday life due to mass broadcasts on numerous television channels. In the early 2000s, conditions in Russia’s television and film production industry gradually started to change. On the one hand, new funding poured into the industry, which was a result of a general upturn in the overall economic situation of the country. Furthermore, Russian audiences began to demand more than crime dramas, even if this genre still dominates Russian television screens to this day. In the meantime, new genres have emerged, such as love stories with nostalgic themes, much of which are associated with memories of the Soviet past. Generally, there has been a significant diversification in terms of heroes and locations for new series. This could range from modern students and provincial journalists to office employees, reflecting an expansion in the range of new subjects for television producers. In the 2003 series Give Me Life (Podari mne zhizn’) we find novelty in the plot – for the first time it is focused on the problems of private commercialised medicine, such as the difficult moral dilemma faced by parents who lack money for their son’s treatment. In fact, this series is symbolic of the transition in post-Soviet health care from that of a guaranteed social service accessible to the majority (even if of low quality) towards a new status as a marketable commodity that can only be acquired by those with the means to do so. In the film The Escape (Pobeg, 2005), a new generation of post-Soviet doctors is at the forefront; here we find rich neurosurgeons with their own private clinics whose standard of living is comparable to that of their prosperous American counterparts. The characters in the film wrestle with one another for success and prosperity, a fight that has no rules or moral boundaries. From the mid-2000s onwards, the Russian government shifted social policy and ideology towards the support of motherhood and childrearing. In a sense, this can be seen as being in line with the expectations of Russian society, which had recovered somewhat from the economic hardships of the 1990s. Also in 2006, a new National Project entitled “Health” was initiated,

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promising to bolster state expenditures for the development of primary health care, strengthen preventive health care, and increase the availability of high-tech medical care. A particular focus was put on strengthening primary medical links between municipal clinics and district hospitals and increasing the salaries of district doctors and nurses while equipping these health facilities with the necessary equipment, retraining general practitioners, and introducing new generic certificates in maternal care. It is against this backdrop that we should consider the surge in the number of films and television series with medical topics from 2008 onwards. These included Requiem for a Witness (Rekviyem dlya svidetelya, 2008), General Therapy (Obshchaya terapiya, 2008–2010), I Am Curing (Ya lechu, 2008), A Woman Wants to Know (Zhenshchina zhelayet znat’, 2008), Morphine (Morfii, 2008), and Another Face (Drugoie litso, 2008). It was not until 2010, however, that a real explosion of television series about doctors occurred, which was largely triggered by the success of the American series House M.D. (produced by Fox from 2004 to 2012 and shown in Russia from 2007 to 2012), a programme following an eccentric and cynical doctor working for a prestigious clinic. Two particularly successful series were launched in 2010. The first was Doctor Tyrsa (Doktor Tyrsa, 2010), which concerned a sports doctor, and the second was Interns (Interny, 2010–2016), which was about an experienced doctor who followed a group of young doctors. To some extent, these series and their main characters have much in common with House M.D. in terms of the plot and the character traits of doctors, including irony, cynicism, and commitment to the profession. Some films and series of the time focused on such issues as reproductive health of women and touched on the theme of motherhood and childhood, or covered the work of gynaecologists and maternity hospitals. The emergence of these programmes can be seen as a response to pronatalist social policies that have been actively promoted since 2005. The next section of this chapter explores one of the many TV series produced during this period – Interns – which aired from 2010 to 2016 and was one of the most popular series about doctors in Russia.

The television series Interns The series clearly exploited and built on the themes at play in the American series House M.D. The lead character in Interns, the head of the therapeutic department of the hospital Dr Bykov (played by Ivan Okhlobystin), is represented in such a way that in many respects he echoes Hugh Laurie’s character in House M.D and John C. McGinley’s character in Scrubs. Being commercially successful, Interns remained on air for a significant length of time and was brought to an end not due to falling ratings, but at the request of the show’s producers. The popular series strove towards realism, and the programme’s writers claimed that most episodes were based on actual cases from real medical practice. The representation of the profession of doctor here contains many stereotypes about gender and class, much of which are embodied both in

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relations within the profession (doctor-doctor, doctor-intern, intern-intern) and in relations with patients. One of the key themes linking Dr Bykov’s various jokes is the assumption that a woman cannot be a doctor. First of all, Bykov assumes this on the basis of the fact that the sex of a person predetermines his or her skills. The behaviour of the other characters in the programme does little to refute this; if anything, they tend to support his idea.4 For example, one female intern (Varvara) demonstrates diligence, but at the same time is emotionally naive and is never seen to doubt the opinion of the doctor. The girl often cries, and it is very easy to deceive her. And it is not only other interns who exploit this; patients are also seen to willingly take advantage of this weakness. Another aspect of the specific gender hierarchy can be seen in the management structure of the hospital. In formal terms, the head physician Anastasia Kisegach is the head of this medical collective. But Dr Bykov is her lover (and husband from season 10) and at work he often talks with her primarily as he would with “his” woman, and not as he would with the boss. For example, in episode 26, Kisegach calls Bykov into her office and gives him a small reprimand. The protagonist reacts to this: “Or is it an excuse? […] Did you miss me, my little horse?” – at which he jumps onto the table and playfully approaches her all the way across her desk. In response to her refusal to immediately engage in sex, Bykov takes offense and announces a strike. Thus, a woman is depicted here first of all as a sexual object and not as a professional. In another episode after the departure of the senior nurse of the therapeutic department, Dr Bykov and Kisegach must decide who should take over in this position. Both understand that the nurse Margarita Koroleva is a good candidate, but the decision is complicated by the fact that Bykov has had sexual relations with her. Kisegach’s jealousy of Bykov becomes the basis for the next episode, with the result being that Koroleva is hired for the vacant position. However, she is not presented as an innocent novice in this unfolding hierarchy. Koroleva keeps her distance from the other interns, and the way she uses her previous intimate relations with Bykov to guarantee her better career prospects and a stronger position in the power structure of the hospital is presented in an unproblematic manner; it is as if this is “normal” behaviour for female staff. Thus, we find sexual life and sexual desire intertwined with professional identity in the representation of gender. The individual merits of a given male doctor can be strengthened or weakened by the actions of female characters. One clear type of female worker that can be found is the “weak woman” category; these women crave the advice and guidance of men and are best represented in the characters of Anastasia (the head physician) and Varvara (the new intern). Weak women are made vulnerable though their sexuality and emotional ties that weaken their ability to act professionally and to act in accordance with the responsibility and power they are entrusted with through their positions. Another type of professional woman was also represented, the

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“militant and rude” archetype, which can be found in the intern Ulyanova, who aspires to becoming a strong and independent professional woman. However, even she ultimately agrees with Bykov’s terms – that the road to enjoying an independent medical career can only be opened by offering one’s total submission to his professional prerogatives. Thus Ulyanova incorporates a masochistic attitude (even if not sexual, although one can argue that a sexual dimension is implied here) to her male boss in building her professional strategy, similarly to Koroleva, while she disassociates herself from her female colleagues (similarly to Kisegach). It is also possible to detect significant levels of racial prejudice in Interns. This is reflected firstly in the extreme lack of episodes involving non-Slavic people, including those coming from other parts of Russia like the Caucasus.5 Thus it is possible to speak about the relative racial homogeneity of the hospital staff.

Conclusion In the history of late Soviet and post-Soviet cinema, we have identified how interest in the medical profession has evolved, from the constant presence of doctors on screens as typical representatives of the Soviet intelligentsia to a reduced prominence in films and television screens during the 1990s. The 2000s witnessed the return of the special attention to “doctors” and “medical professionals” as the heroes of postsocialist drama and melodrama. Following Sontag, it is possible to say that these, often misogynist, cinematographic metaphors reflect developments in social attitudes. Indeed, Soviet cinema, although not isolated from international trends in filmmaking and film production, remained deeply original both in terms of plot subjects and in filming style. Films served propaganda tasks for the education of the “Soviet person”, with some scenes using Aesopian language to bypass strict censorship and offer a critique or discussion of the problems of Soviet society. The communication modes between patients and doctors that prevailed in Soviet medicine were based on the unquestioning authority and dominance of the doctor who, in turn, viewed patients as mere objects upon which to apply his knowledge. The conceptual framework for more ethical interactions between patients and doctors was, therefore, relatively poorly developed. Soviet cinema as a whole reflected the overall domination that medical experts enjoyed in Soviet society, even if, at times, attention was paid to more troubling ethical aspects of medical work. This means that the state endowed doctors in the USSR with considerable power, which affected the style of communication with patients towards a rather authoritarian mode. This was most noticeable, for instance, in such areas as gynaecology, the treatment of sexually transmitted diseases, psychiatry, etc. In Soviet cinema, the mapping of the gender roles of doctors and nurses reproduced the established gender hierarchy in medicine. Professional and personal dominance of male doctors was complemented by the

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subordinate position of female nurses who took on the functions of maternal care or signified an eroticised femininity. Male nurses were absent in the Soviet films. Rare images of female doctors appeared, but only in stories about the conflict between their personal and professional life. Reflective and somewhat infantile intellectual male doctors, who were unsuccessful in their personal lives, and sometimes in their professional careers, emerged in the cinema of late socialism, while women as doctors were still trapped in the work-family dilemma. After 1991, perceptions of women’s work outside of the home changed, and the antecedents to these developments can be found already in cinematic representations of late socialism. Indeed, several late-Soviet films suggested that a woman, in choosing her career as a priority, was bound to face unhappiness in her personal life. In the first years of the existence of post-Soviet commercial cinema, directors tried to find new stories and stylistic manners, but budgetary restraints ultimately stopped them from making their intentions a reality. In this period, doctors did not often appear in films as central characters, and given the destruction of the old orders, the authoritative and powerful characters of the business and criminal world were, perhaps, in greater demand. A number of films from the 1990s documented the decline of the health care system in a context of social and political transformation and economic crisis, depicting the decaying medical system in a grotesque manner. This was done to more vividly present the anomie and ill health accompanying these shifts in the social order. At the same time, a hopelessly sick society in need of first aid was the central metaphor for a television series on the emergency services in the 1990s. This new Russian generation of doctors was depicted as mostly male professionals who were integrated into the market economy, capable of standing up for themselves even when faced with gang warfare. Women in these representations stood in the background, playing the secondary role of catalyst for spurring on the masculinity of the main characters. In particular, the nurses were often shown to be stupid, sexualised, and sometimes criminalised. The doctor’s task in this context was implied to be the reparation of the social order and the restoration of the correct hierarchy that had been damaged by social disease. The revival of Russian cinematography in the 2000s was tied to the growth of home-produced television series that combined features of Soviet cinema and elements of post-Soviet commercial films while reinterpreting and reproducing the plot lines of popular foreign programmes. The Russian television industry at the same time was more and more built on the model of foreign (Western) television, while more recent growth of political censorship has prevented the inclusion of many important controversial public discussions on television. Indeed, many of the Russian TV series and films from the 2000s have been based on Western originals, and American blockbusters are still at the top of the ratings of film screenings in Russian cinemas. The competitors on the side of the new Russian cinema – first of

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all the films about the Soviet past with nostalgic and patriotic overtones, as well as examples of fantastic fighters – often are made according to the patterns of American mass cinema as well. Distinctly Russian TV and film production prevails on television, and it is there where its main audience of different ages and social status is located. Interest in the medical profession on Russian TV experienced something of an explosion after the overwhelming success of House M.D., which gave rise to a whole slew of imitations on Russian television. At the same time, new post-Soviet Russian series, while turning medical workers into heroes, combined the features of traditional melodrama with a purely traditionalist division of gender roles, resulting in ironic black comedies, social cinema, and dramas. In part, this genre mix was a reflection of the widespread clichés in the Soviet period concerning doctors and the configuration of the hospital space, which began to be perceived already in the 1990s as a socially unfavourable and unfashionable space and as a melting pot for various social groups. The images, however, were endowed with elements of sexism and a clear division of professional roles and were marked by a fair share of cynicism. The series Interns continued to emphasise that the profession of doctor is intended for men. There are many more male doctors and male interns in the show’s fictitious hospital than women. The male doctors are represented mostly as strong and self-confident, having a sense of humour and being able to use their professional power for the patients’ sake. Female characters in Interns mostly have only bureaucratic or professionally lower positions (e.g. nurses). They are associated with emotional instability and they are challenged in their authority while engaging in intimate relations with male colleagues. They talk mostly about their image of family and men, usually gossiping about their colleagues. Male interns are represented as novices, whose professional capabilities are yet underdeveloped, but they compensate for this with open-mindedness and devotion to the profession. Female interns are shown as the ones who tend to know medical theory better than their young male colleagues, but their naïveté and sentimental emotions interfere with the process of becoming a real doctor. The aggravation of gender inequality in professional medicine was reflected in the cinema. In the post-Soviet period, the power relations came to be influenced by the ideology of the patriarchal renaissance, which has been actively pursued in film presentations. In the 2000s, the brutish Dr. House (from the famous American television series) became the prototype of many cynical male doctors in Russian serials, whose dominant position in the profession was emphasised by contempt for the rules, black humour, and sexual harassment of female colleagues. The real life of medical professionals is influenced by all sorts of factors, including political reforms and change in economic fundamentals and moral guidelines, and many of these factors are reflected in film presentations. The gender stereotypes on the screen have changed slowly, however, they are still often used as clichés in various scenarios.

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Notes 1 The study was implemented within the framework of the Basic Research Program at the National Research University Higher School of Economics (HSE) in 2016. 2 Some of the works analysed here are produced in Russia in collaboration with Ukraine and/or Belorussia. 3 Kira Muratova is a famous Soviet and Russian filmmaker. Her work has a recognisable and distinctive style. She has also been familiar from childhood with the medical profession; her mother worked as a doctor in a maternity hospital in Bucharest, visited Romania’s deputy Minister of Health, and even wrote a textbook for young mothers. Muratova’s biography was symbolic for the time of the wider suppression of freethinking filmmakers in the USSR. From the 1970s onwards, Muratova was almost completely banned from working in cinema for her nonconformist stances (Taubman, 2005). Nancy Condee describes Muratova’s films of the 1990s as showing “a neoprimitivist naïveté and stylised romanticism that only occasionally shifts into an ironic register” (Condee, 2009, p. 118). 4 During all episodes there is always one female intern, and three (up to season 9) or two (from season 10) male interns. While the characters might be different, the gender structure remains the same for all episodes. 5 One notable exception is Dr Timur Alabaev who starts working in the hospital in episode 229 and resigns in episode 264. These late episodes provide the only image of an ethnic Asian (he’s Kazakh) doctor with a significant role in the show.

References Asztalos Morell, I. and Tiurikova, I. (2016). Single Men, Single Stories: Alternative Paths in the Transition from the Late Soviet to the Neoliberal Market Economy in the Light of Life Stories. In: Sätre, A. and Asztalos Morell, I. (eds) Attitudes, Poverty and Agency in Russia and Ukraine. London: Routledge, pp. 42–63. Attwood, L. and Turovskaya, M. (1993). Women on the Silver Screen: Soviet Women and Cinema from the Beginning to the End of the Communist Era. London: Pandora. Augé, M. (1995). Non-places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Super-Modernity. London: Verso. Bulgakova, O. (1993). The Hydra of the Soviet Cinema: the Metamorphoses of the Soviet Film Heroine. In: Attwood, L. and Turovskaya, M. (eds) Red Women on the Silver Screen: Soviet Women and Cinema from the Beginning to the End of the Communist Era. London: Pandora, pp. 149–175. Condee, N. (2009). The Imperial Trace: Recent Russian Cinema. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dashkova, T. (2006). Visual’naia representatsia zhenskogo tela v sovetskoi massovoi culture 30-h godov. In: Logos 1991–2005. Selected works. Vol. 1. Moscow: Territoria budushchego, pp. 410–444. Gradskova, Y. (2007) Soviet People with Female Bodies. Performing Beauty and Maternity in Soviet Russia in the mid 1930–1960s. Thesis in History at Stockholm University, Sweden. Hemment, J. (2009). “Soviet style Neo-liberalism”? Nashi, Youth Voluntarism and the Restructuring of Social Welfare in Russia. Problems of Post-Communism, 56(6), pp. 36–50. Kenez, P. (2001). Cinema and Soviet Society from the Revolution to the Death of Stalin. New York: I.B. Tauris.

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Kirklin, D. (2001). Metaphors for Medicine: Revealing Reflections or just Popular Parodies?, Medical Humanities, 27(2), 89. Penley, C. (2004) Crackers and Whackers: The White Trashing of Porn. In Williams, L. Porn Studies. Durham and London: Duke University Press, pp. 309–331. Prokhorov, A. (2001) Springtime for Soviet cinema. Re/Viewing the 1960s. Transl. by Dawn A. Seckler. Pittsburgh. https://www.rusfilm.pitt.edu/booklets/Thaw.pdf [Accessed 15.07.2017]. Rivkin-Fish, M. (2010). Pronatalism, Gender Politics, and the Renewal of Family Support in Russia: Toward a Feminist Anthropology of “Maternity Capital.” Slavic Review 69(3), pp. 701–724. Sontag, S. (1978). Illness as Metaphor. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Taubman, J. (2005). Kira Muratova: The Filmmaker’s Companion. London: I.B. Tauris. Tkacheva, E. (2017). Renata Litvinova. Tvorcheskaia biografia, available at http:// www.russkoekino.ru/books/star/star- 0002.shtml [Accessed 15.07.2017]. Weaver, R. (2013). Games, Civil War and Mutiny: Metaphors of Conflict for the Nurse–Doctor Relationship in Medical Television Programmes. Nursing Inquiry, 20(4), pp. 280–292.

Films Another Face (Drugoie litso, 2008, Igor Shternberg). A Woman Wants to Know (Zhenshchina zhelaiet znat’, 2008, Svetlana Muzychenko). Doctor Tyrsa (Doktor Tyrsa, 2010, Aliona Zvantsova, Dmitriy Konstantinov). Eyes (Glaza, 1992, Valentin Khovenko). General Therapy (Obshchaya terapiia, 2008–2010, Oleg Fesenko, Grigorii Zhikharevich). Give me Life (Podari mne zhizn’, 2003, Vladimir Krasnopol’skii). Hammer and Sickle (Serp i Molot, 1994, Sergei Livnev). Happy Birthday! (S dniom rozhdeniia, 1998, Larisa Sadilova). House M.D. (produced by Fox from 2004 to 2012, Greg Yaitanes et al., shown in Russia in 2007–2012). I Am Curing (Ya lechu, 2008, Olga Perunovskaia, Kira Angelina, Karen Zakharov). I Do Not Want to Marry (Ne Khochu Zhenit’sia, 1993, Sergei Nikonenko). Interns (Interny, 2010–2016, Vyacheslav Dusmukhametov). Morphine (Morfii, 2008, Aleksei Balabanov). Ophelia (Ofeliia, part of Russian-Ukrainian film “Three Histories” (Tri istorii), 1997, Kira Muratova). Passions (Uvlechenia, 1994, Kira Muratova). Requiem for a Witness (Rekviiem dlia svidetelia, 2008, Vladimir Krainev). Son for Father (Syn za Ottsa, 1995, Margarita Kasymova). The Escape (Pobeg, 2005, Aleksandr Chupakov). The Irony of Fate (Ironiya sud’by, 1975, Eldar Ryazanov). The Morning Round (Utrennii obkhod, 1979, Aida Manasarova). The Streets of the Smashed Streetlights (Ulitsy Razbitykh Fonarey, 1998–2015, Aleksandr Rogozhkin, Vladimir Bortko et al.).

Index

abortion 3–4, 12, 26, 30, 195––206 aging societies 37, 39 anti-abortion 12, 195–196, 201 capitalism 1, 5, 14, 77, 88, 93, 101, 102, 123–125, 212, 216, 228, 236 capitalist 5–6, 88, 90–92, 96–99, 101–102 care 13, 28, 80, 95, 97, 100, 106, 121, 125–127, 129–130, 146–151, 154, 158, 182, 185–186, 195, 200, 211, 224, 231, 236; deficit of 105; free 99; providers 3; unpaid 3; work(er) 4, 7, 9, 12, 37 care/caring for: child 105–106, 109; the elderly 3, 7, 9, 14, 37–53 childbirth 4, 125–126, 208. childcare 3–4, 78, 98, 106–109, 112, 114, 116–117, 121, 125, 128, 129–130, 158, 168, 174, 195, 211, 228; subsidy 11, 14, 125–126, 129. child-centred 13, 105–106, 116 church 12, 62, 196–201, 207 civil society 10, 123, 134, 206 corruption 1, 54–55, 178 democratisation 1, 11–12, 58, 203, discrimination on the basis of sex 182; see also gender discrimination domestic violence 42, 56 double burden 62, 143, 152, 189 education: post-secondary 10, 94, 172, 177–180, 182–185, 188–189; university 95–96, 181 elderly woman/women 49, 50–51, 129, 146 emancipation 3, 142, 154, 157, 175, 204, 207, 212, 232 employment 5, 13, 26, 28, 31, 48, 78–79, 88–89, 97–98, 105–109, 114–115, 117,

121, 125–127, 130, 133, 143, 152, 182–183, 186, 188, 206, 211, 227, 232; self-employment 188 empowerment 10, 28–29, 54–57, 59–64, 67–68 enterprising self 7, 9, 71, 73 equality among men and women 232; see also gender equality ethnic discrimination 13 ethnification/ethnified 123, 125–126, 132–134 femininity 12–13, 93, 142, 145, 150, 159, 167, 169, 201, 203, 205, 222, 234–236, 241 feminisation 93, 126, 177, 232 feminism 4, 11, 26, 28–29, 33, 142, 154n3, 203 fertility rate 117, 125–126, 173 gender: assessment 186; contract 105–106, 108, 113, 116–117, 149–150; differences 213–214, 222; discrimination 66, 86, 182, 206n1; equality 2, 6, 8, 10–12, 14, 21–6, 28–33, 39, 54–56, 58, 60–68, 141, 172, 175, 182, 188, 200, 211–212, 225, 227; expectations 2, 12, 212; failure 88, 91; identity 93, 203–204; inequality 3, 106, 141, 154, 211–212, 242; norm 2–4, 6–14, 33, 37, 77, 89. 106, 125, 142, 153, 157, 195, 212, 228; order 3, 29, 73, 77–78, 86, 143, 212, 232; pay gap 141; quotas 63–68, 175; restoration 12, 195–196, 198, 205; role(s) 6, 10–11, 26, 64, 88, 117, 121, 141–145, 148, 153, 175, 202–4, 212, 234–235, 240, 242; see also discrimination on the basis of sex

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Index

heterosexual/heterosexuality 2, 202–203, 205 homophobia 195, 203, 205 homosexuality 204–205 housewi(fe/ves) 39, 51, 78–79, 106, 113, 148, 153, 157, 165, 169, 234 insecurity 13, 92, 102 intersectional: disadvantages 131; marginalities 10 Islam 173, 175–176, 183 kindergarten 105, 107–108, 110, 115, 117n12, 143, 167, 195, 211 local welfare state 121, 123, 126 marginalit(y/ies) 6, 10, 124, 127, 133 masculinisation 93, 195, 202, 206 masculinity: crises of 12, 26, 197, 203, 205, 234, 236; damaged 234; hegemonic 196, 202–203, 206; as a social genre 90, 101 maternity: capital 165; leave 143, 174, 195, 215 migrant care/caregivers; see also care migration 7, 12, 38, 39, 49, 51 misogyny/misogynous/misogynism/ misogynistic 26, 203, 219, 221, 225–226, 228, 231, 240 motherhood: betrayed 235; child-centred 13 mothering, intensive 9 mothers, undeserving 121, 126, 131, 134 Muslim 11, 22 non-governmental organisation (NGO) 10,13, 23–25, 27–29, 38, 59, 60, 62, 164, 168, 121, 127–134, 141, 160, 167, 200 non-profit organisation (NPO) 44, 47

patriarchal 8, 11, 54, 56–57, 63, 67–68, 86, 88, 127, 142, 153, 174, 176, 202–203, 205, 231, 242 patriotism 202–203, 236–237 poverty 39, 42, 88, 92, 95, 99–102, 106, 110, 116–117, 124–127, 151, 175, 189 precarity 88–89, 102, 157 pregnancy 121, 183, 202 religion 1, 6, 11, 61–62 re-naturalisation 2, 11–12 reproductive rights 2, 125, 195, 200, 206, 207n9 respectability 9, 73, 78, 86, 96 responsible citizenship 126 retraditionalisation 2, 7, 11–12, 26, 193, 195–196, 202, 205 sexual harassment 242 self-fulfillment 13, 73–74, 82–83; realisation 74, 81, 152, 175, 218; reliance 4, 9, 13, 91–92, 101, 117; sacrifice 13, 147, 149, 150, 153 social: capital 133–134; citizenship 2, 122; inequality 38, 101, 168; rights 26, 123–124, 165, 195 state-socialist 1–13, 105, 123–6, 133–134, 144, 159, 169, 202, 205, 211 stress 115, 145, 146, 169, 233 traditional family 6, 89, 142, 236 trafficking 6, 24, 132 transition 1,4, 5, 7, 10, 11, 22, 24, 26, 45, 54, 101, 117, 121–126, 156, 188, 196, 199–200, 202–203, 211–212, 215, 228, 232, 237 trust 58, 121, 128, 129, 134 unemployment 5, 94, 96–100, 107, 123–124, 125, 174, 186–188, 200 workfare 5, 133