Intellectuals and Politics in Central Europe 9789633865705

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Intellectuals and Politics in Central Europe

Intellectuals and Politics in Central Europe

edited by ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

' ,. ..„ � CEU PRESS 4 ' �

Central European University Press Budapest

Published by Central European University Press Október 6 utca 12 H-1051 Budapest Hungary 400 West 59th Street New York, NY 10019 USA © 1999 by Central European University Press

Distributed by Plymbridge Distributors Ltd., Estover Road, Plymouth PL6 7PZ, United Kingdom Distributed in the United States by Cornell University Press Services, 750 Cascadilla Street, Ithaca, New York 14851-6525, USA All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the permission of the Publisher. ISBN 963-9116-22-X Cloth ISBN 963-9116-21-1 Paperback ISBN 978 963 386 570 5 ebook Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book is available upon request

Printed in Hungary by Akaprint, Budapest

Contents

List of Contributors

vii

Acknowledgments

xi

Introduction AndrásBoz6ki

1

Part One: Exits from Communism: The Strategies of Intellectuals Dissenting lntellectuals and Plain Dissenters: The Cases of Poland and East Germany HelenaFlam The Strategies of Intellectuals: Romania under Communist Rule in Comparative Perspective Irina Culic Romanian Political lntellectuals before and after the Revolution Alina Mungiu-Pippidi From Imagined to Actually Existing Democracy: lntellectuals in Slovenia IvanBernik Words and Death: Serbian Nationalist Intellectuals Nenad Dimitrijevié

19 43 73 101 119

vi Part Two: Politics of Identity: Political Intellectuals in the New Democracy Between Tradition and Politics: Intellectuals after Communism

1 51

The Inegalitarian Nature ofHungary's Intellectual Political Culture

1 67

The Politics of Conviction: The Rise and Fali of Czech lntellectual-Politicians

1 85

Marian Kempny Billlomax

Aviezer Tucker

Green Intellectuals in Slovakia Edward Snajdr

207

Part Three: The Rhetoric of Action: The Power and Poverty of Critical Intellectuals Intellectuals and Democracy: The Political Thinking of Intellectuals

227

Reaction as Progress: Economists as Intellectuals

245

The Rhetoric of Action: The Language of the Regime Change inHungary

263

Index

285

András Körösényi

JózsefBöröcz

András Bozóki

List of Contributors

Ivan Bernik is associate professor of sociology at the University of Ljubljana. His main fields of research are new nation-states and social conflicts, and theories of civil society. His most recent book is Dominacija ín konsenz v socialisticni druzbi [Domination and consensus in socialist society] ( Ljubljana: FDV Press, 1992). András Bozóki is associate professor of political science at the Central European University, Budapest. His main fields of research are political ideologies, political and cultural elites, and compara­ tive democratization. His recent books are Konfrontáció és kon­ szenzus: a demokratizálás stratégiái [Confrontation and consen­ sus: strategies for democratization] ( Szombathely: Savaria Univer­ sity Press, 1995), and, as associate editor, Lawful Revolution in Hungary 1989-94 (Boulder, Co.: Social Science Monographs, 1995; distributed by Columbia University Press). József Böröcz is associate professor of sociology at Rutgers Uni­ versity. His main fields of research are historical-comparative soci­ ology, leisure migration, social change, and the sociology of eco­ nomic knowledge. His most recent books are, as co-editor, A New World Order? Global Transformations in the Late Twentieth Cen­ tury (Westport-London: Praeger, 1995), and Leisure Migration: A Sociological Study o/Tourism (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1996). Irina Culic is assistant professor of sociology at the University of Cluj. Her main fields of research are social change and cultural capital in politics.

viii

Nenad Dimitrijevié is associate professor of political science at the Central European University, Budapest. His main fields of re­ search are constitutional theory, political legitimacy, and the his­ tory of ideas. His most recent book is, as co-author, Regionalizam kao put ka otvorenom drustvu [Regionalism as the road to an open society] (Novi Sad: Visio Mundi Press, 1 994). Helena Flam is professor of sociology at the University of Leipzig. Her main fields of research are social movements and opposition identities under communism. Her most recent books are, as editor, States and Anti-nuclear Movements ( Edinburgh: Edinburgh Uni­ versity Press, 1 994), and Mosaic of Fear: Poland and East Ger­ many before 1989 ( Bradenton FL: East European Monographs, 1 998; distributed by Columbia University Press). Marian Kempny is a sociologist and social anthropologist work­ ing at the lnstitute of Philosophy and Sociology of the Polish Acad­ emy of Sciences, Warsaw. His main fields of research are globaliza­ tion and identities in post-communist Europe, and traditions, ide­ ologies, and intellectuals in an East-West comparison. His most recent book is, as co-editor, Cultural Dilemmas of Post-Communist Societies (Warsaw: IFiS Publishers, 1 994). András Körösényi is associate professor of political science at Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest . His main fields of research are comparative government and contemporary political ideolo­ gies. His most recent books are Pártok és pártrendszerek [Political parties and party-systems] ( Budapest: Századvég, 1 993), and A magyar politikai rendszer [The Hungarian political system] ( Budapest: Osiris, 1 998). Bill Lomax is senior lecturer in sociology at the University of Not­ tingham. His main field of research is revolutions and political changes (Hungary, Portugal). His most recent book is Hungarian Worker's Councils ín 1956 ( Boulder, Co.: Social Science Mono­ graphs, 1 990; distributed by Columbia University Press). Alina Mungiu-Pippidi is a political psychologist and political writer and currently News Director of Romanian National Televi­ sion, Bucharest. Her main field of research is political culture. Her most recent publications include Die Rumaenen nach '89 ( Friedrich Ebert Stiftung, lntergraph Verlag, 1 996), and 'The Per-

ix

formance of Intellectuals in Politics,' in lssues of Performance ín Politics and the Arts (Berkeley: Berkeley Academic Press, 1 997). Edward Snajdr is PhD Candidate in Cultural Anthropology at the University of Pittsburgh. His main field of research is social move­ ments in East Central Europe. Aviezer Tucker is associate professor in political science at the University of Olomouc. His main field of research is intellectuals and politics. His most recent book is Fenomenologie a politika: od Jana Patocky k Vaclavu Haveli (Olomouc: Votobia, 1 997). English edition: Phenomenology and Politics: The Philosophy and Practice of Charter 77 /rom Patocka to Havel (Pittsburgh: Pittsburgh Uni­ versity Press, 1 998).

Acknowledgements

This book is a product of collaboration between the authors. First versions of most of the papers were delivered in August 1 996 in Utrecht, the Netherlands, at a panel organized by the editor at the Fifth International Conference of the International Society for the Study of European Ideas (ISSEI). ln Hungary, my research, including this project, entitled "The restructuration of political elites and the changing role of intellectuals" was subsidized by the National Scien­ tific Research Fund (OTKA). Some of the papers have been pre­ sented at departmental seminars and university courses at the Cen­ tral European University, so I wish to express my thanks to my col­ leagues and students at the Department of Political Science at CEU for their critical comments. The idea of editing such a book has been long inspired by the writings of, and conversations with many schol­ ars, especially Iván Szelényi, János Kis, Robert Darnton, Elemér Han­ kiss, Gáspár M. Tamás, Erzsébet Szalai, Gianfranco Poggi, László Bruszt, Franc;ois Hartog, Ágnes Heller, Alfred Stepan, János M. Ko­ vács, Péter Balassa, Miklós Szabó as well as some of the contributors to this book. The Sussex European Institute in Brighton, U.K., and the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study (NIAS) in Wassenaar offered me peaceful and friendly academic environment to finish my editing work. I am thankful for the reviewers of the book for their useful advises and criticisms, and also grateful to Beatrix Gergely from the CEU Press for her helpful technical assistance in word processing and editing. Budapest, September 1 998

The editor

Introduction ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

"I traveled to Prague, Brno, Bratislava, Warsaw, Krakow, Ber­ lin, Dresden, Moscow... and I found myself in the same circle, meeting virtually the same characters everywhere." (Iván Szelényi 1986-87, 115)

The principal aim of this book is to investigate the parts played by different groups of intellectuals in the course of the regime change in Central Europe. Of particular concern is their role in delegiti­ mizing the Communist system, transforming the political language, setting out different political scenarios for the transition period, and determining the character of a new, post-Cold War democratic system. ln order to put this account on firm foundations, the book also describes the ideals and principles that have shaped the politi­ cal thinking of Central European intellectuals. ln Central Europe, intellectuals-particularly those working in the humanities-have a long tradition of political engagement. Au­ thors, poets, journalists, historians, and polyhistors maintained and invigorated their national culture and language, and set out the basic principles of the nation-state in the nineteenth century. These erudite reformers tried to incorporate more and more West­ ern elements into their societies, which they regarded as back­ ward. During this period, their main goal-as a 'knowledge elite' possessing a broad outlook and high erudition-was to further na­ tional progress by drafting reform proposals and promoting the establishment of a Western-type bourgeoisie. ln the nineteenth century, these reformers tended to be followers of liberal-na­ tionalist, then of radical ideologies of social equality. They believed that their knowledge and learning entitled them to pose as the 'living conscience' of their nation, to maintain national identity in the face of foreign oppression, and to uphold democratic values in undemocratic times. The more backward a country was, the wider the gap between the educated knowledge-elite and the uneducated masses. ln these circumstances, typical of Eastern Europe as a whole, intellectuals came more and more to e:xhibit the character-

2

ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

istics of a closed group, almost a social class in their own right­ Russia was a particularly extreme case. East Central European history shows that a distinction can-or even should-be made between the 'intelligentsia' and 'intellec­ tuals'. Furthermore, Eastern and Western Europe have quite differ­ ent cultural traditions in this respect. "The term 'intelligentsia' was first used in Russia in the nineteenth century to refer to those who had received a university education which qualified them for pro­ fessional occupations" (Bottomore 1 982, 70). Since it involved only a small minority, the concept of 'intelligentsia' came to be associated with particular sociological and psychological features, and its own moral-behavioral code. Michael Confino describes the Russian intelligentsia in terms of five characteristic features: "l. a deep concern for problems and issues of public interest... 2. a sense of guilt and personal responsibility for the state and the solu­ tion of these problems and issues, 3. a propensity to view political and social questions as moral ones, 4. a sense of obligation to seek ultimate logical conclusions-in thought as well as in life-at what­ ever cost, 5. the conviction that things are not as they should be, and that something should be done" (Confino 1 973, 1 18). The in­ telligentsia in East Central Europe regarded itself (as many scholars have shown, including Thompson 1 957, Pipes 1 961 , Schapiro 1 96 1 , Shatz 1 967 and 1 980, Brower 1 975, Rougle 1 979, and Na­ hirny 1983) as a secular social group of 'chosen ones' with a politi­ cal-moral mission rather than as a simple status group, or, in a wider sense, as a new middle class. By contrast, the concept of 'intellectuals'-as a number of con­ tributors to this book point out-encompasses "the creators, dis­ tributors and employers of culture: the symbolic world of men" (Lipset 1 958, 3 1 ). This group might include both "bureaucratic" intellectuals interested in preserving the status quo and "indepen­ dent" (Merton 1 957, 209) or "free floating" (Mannheim 1 936) in­ tellectuals who keep their distance from the existing system of institutions-they include writers, artists, scientists, philosophers, and religious and political thinkers. The concepts of 'intellectuals' and 'intelligentsia' were not so strictly separated in Central as in Eastern Europe, however. ln Cen­ tral Europe, because of the greater opportunities which had be­ come available to intellectuals to pursue their occupations by the beginning of the twentieth century they did not evolve into a closed, homogeneous group, isolated from society. Under the Aus­ tro-Hungarian Monarchy, for instance, in addition to those intellec­ tuals who did assume the radical stance of social reformers, there

Introduction

3

were substantial numbers of artists and scientists who kept largely to their own fields, intellectuals in administrative positions, and-as a result of a burgeoning capitalism-a growing number of pluralist, 'forward-thinking' technocrats (Lukacs 1 988; Kuwana 1 994). Hav­ ing said that, the relative backwardness of the region did give rise to some cultural and political enclaves of intellectuals ( Sinkó 1 965; Ignotus 1 966) who were intent on becoming the political avant­ garde of either leftist or rightist 'social revolutions', or on pushing through radical reforms in critical periods such as the one follow­ ing the First World War. ln the years immediately after the Second World War, the Sovie­ tization of Central European countries proceeded rapidly. The new communist regimes attempted to create their own 'organic' intel­ lectuals, recruiting them from social groups (the working class and the rural population) that they considered had been oppressed in the pre-communist period. ln these circumstances of extreme so­ cial mobility, working class youths who would have had no oppor­ tunity to do so earlier could obtain university degrees. For intellec­ tuals during this period knowledge was replaced as the dominant factor of selection by membership of a particular social class or of the Communist Party. lt is worth noting that at that time intellectu­ als were termed 'intellectual workers'. lnitially, all the countries of the Soviet bloc adhered to this prin­ ciple in much the same way; as time went on, however, a number of countries ceased to maintain it in practice. ln the 1 960s, so­ called 'Reform Communism' gained the upper hand in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, and Hungary, which resulted in the lifting of some of the strict barriers to university entrance. Reform Communism above all required experts with the technical­ practical skills to operate the system-and in a more open manner­ rather than ideologically committed but professionally incompe­ tent intellectuals. The Communist Party in these countries wanted technocrats whose academic degrees were the result of the acqui­ sition of knowledge rather than of membership of party cadres. The careers of these technocrats took the opposite course: they obtained a university degree first and joined the party afterwards­ they were co-opted rather than organic intellectuals of the regime. Party leaders attempted to persuade technocrats to participate in projects to devise rational policy objectives at the government levei. This process was halted in Poland and, especially, in Czecho­ slovakia after 1 968, when a dictatorship of 'existing socialism' was stabilized on a narrow social basis with the almost total exclusion of intellectuals.

4

ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

The strategy of co-opting intellectuals was perhaps most fully realized in János Kádár's Hungary, where party representatives were able to convince intellectuals that economic reforms would be viable without political ones by persuading them that there was little or no room for negotiation in the political sphere. A lasting alliance between the administration and the tedinocracy seemed possible, in which the latter might obtain a leading position; fur­ thermore, in this way intellectuals might be able to organize them­ selves as a separate ruling class (Konrád and Szelényi 1 979). A ma­ jor survey on social stratification carried out during this period (Ferge 1 969) showed that technical experts had indeed been able to take up positions near the top of the social ladder, alongside the political leaders. Leading ideologies in the early 1 970s included modernization in Hungary, an expansion of consumption in order to pacify society in Poland, national communism in Romania, and what was known as 'Yugoslavism' in opposition to national and liberal trends in Yugoslavia; by contrast, the political elites in Czechoslovakia and the GDR did not deviate significantly from the political formula of 'developed socialism' announced by Brezhnev. A wave of anti-reformism in the 1 970s, and a changing interna­ tional environment in which détente and the notion of human rights gained a foothold, offered new options to critical opposition intellectuals. The ambitions of the technocrats to obtain political power had already foundered due to the opposition of the nomen­ clatura, and reform of the system from the inside began to seem a less promising option. A new evolutionist strategy, which rejected both violent revolution and internal reform of the system, was drafted by opposition intellectual groups in Poland: their objective was to revitalize civil society and delegitimize the authoritarian state step by step (Michnik 1 987; Raina 1 978). ln Poland, the framework within which this approach was developed took the form of the Solidarity mass movement which came on the scene in 1 980 as a pluralist alliance of opposition intellectuals and workers who were striking to improve their living conditions. ln Czecho­ slovakia and Hungary, on the other hand, dissent was restricted to a relatively small number of opposition intellectuals, although their influence increased over time ( Skilling 1 985; Bugajski 1 987; Csiz­ madia 1 995). Ad hoc groups of dissidents in East Germany and Romania were unable to exert any significant influence; and in Yugoslavia the emergence of critical thinking within the party was restricted to major cities in the Slovenian and Croatian republics. ln the 1 980s, the need to create a new civil society based on human rights became a central ideal of Central European intellec-

Introduction

5

tuals. The development of a civil society-paradoxically both pre­ condition and goal of liberation from the communist system­ seemed most likely to be achieved by means of independent social movements (Bernhard 1 993). lt was on this point that the strate­ gies of leftist intellectuals in Western countries and in Central Europe seemed to converge. While in 1 968 intellectuals dreaming of a 'humanized' society on both sides of the lron Curtain had not spoken a common tongue-the consumer society that was the sub­ ject of harsh criticism in the West was very much a goal to be achieved in the East-in the 1 980s they had a number of shared ideals, including both the ecological and peace movements, and their distmst of existing, institutionalized political power (Konrád 1 984; Havel 1 987; Goldfarb 1 989; Arato 1 993). The formation of a spiritual community of critical intellectuals, embodied in the ren­ aissance of the notion of Central Europe, seemed able to overcome such previously intractable barriers as national borders and mem­ bership of military power blocks (Kundera 1 984; Schöpflin and Wood 1 989; Judt 1 991). ln Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary efforts aimed at changing the system were launched from within: the principal role of Gorbachev's glasnost in these countries was to provide a more favorable external environment. ln Romania and the GDR, however, the internal forces of change remained weak: democratization had to wait for a decisive shift in the external bal­ ance of power. lntellectuals were at the forefront of the democratic transition in Central Europe. They played a major part in fostering greater openness in the first phase of the transition by restructuring public discourse and, more generally, the public realm as a whole, as well as by launching social movements, writing programs, and estab­ lishing political parties. At that time, their initiatives were not iso­ lated: they enjoyed large-scale social support, which took the form of strikes, petition campaigns, demonstrations, and other symbolic actions. Needless to say, the peaceful revolutions of 1 989 were not brought about by intellectuals: they came into being under pres­ sure from other social groups, although in many cases in collabora­ tion with intellectual and other elite formations (Konrád and Szelényi 1 99 1 ; Renwick 1 997). Nevertheless, the events of 1 989 cannot be understood without some knowledge of the political involvement of intellectuals: for example, intellectuals were in the vanguard of attempts to 'design' the institutional framework of the new regimes at the round-table negotiations (Bruszt 1 990; Bozóki 1 993; Elster 1 996; Tőkés 1 996). ln Poland and Hungary, these round-table negotiations paved the way for, while in Czechoslova-

6

ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

kia and East Germany they concluded the institutionalized trans­ formation of the regime. Former reformers and dissidents first became 'transformers', then-in the new democracies-party and administrative leaders. At that exceptional historical moment a significant number of intellectuals attained almost unprecedented heights in terms of social esteem and of moral and political legiti­ macy. The year 1 989 offered politically active intellectuals a wide range of opportunities. They played major roles in peaceful revolu­ tions as writers of programs, leaders of movements, negotiating parties, and opinion-makers happily giving expression to their views in a newly free press; some of them subsequently became party leaders and political consultants. There are many examples of this, mainly in Hungary and Poland (Tadeusz Mazowiecki, Jan 01szewski, Bronislaw Geremek, Adam Michnik, Jacek Kuron, and Aleksander Smolar in Poland; and János Kis, József Antall, Gáspár M. Tamás, Sándor Csoóri, Péter Tölgyessy, László Sólyom, and oth­ ers in Hungary). Even in countries where negotiations started only after the old regime had collapsed, many intellectuals had an op­ portunity to prepare a democratic change and to participate in it, at least as 'symbolic' or 'moral' leaders (examples include Zelhiu Zhelev in Bulgaria, Václav Havel in Czechoslovakia, László Tőkés and Doina Cornea in Romania, and Jens Reich and Stefan Heym in East Germany.) A number of sociological studies of elites have shown that their composition changes in revolutionary periods, a parochial elite being replaced temporarily by culturally marginalized 'symbol­ specialists' and more cosmopolitan intellectuals who think in terms of universal categories (Lasswell 1 961;_ Putnam 1976; Szalai 1990). When East Central Europe's exceptional historical moment had passed, however, intellectuals in the region found it increas­ ingly difficult to find a place in the newly consolidating political systems. While some willingly became politicians, the majority became disillusioned and were either pushed out or withdrew from political life, or somehow tried to maintain a balance be­ tween their roles as intellectual and politician (Bozóki 1 994). The bureaucratic, routine politics of institutionalized democracies was unattractive to many intellectuals who had actively participated in the transition. Some felt that the emerging system was not what they had struggled to create, their dream of a victorious civil society giving way to party elites with partial interests. A number of intellec­ tuals who were unwilling to renounce their earlier critical stance left the world of 'formai' democracy for more diffuse social movements.

Introduction

7

ln this way they played an important part in holding up democracy to critical scrutiny, emphasizing that the process of democratization should not be considered complete simply because the appropriate institutions had been created. They also called attention to the short­ comings of the incipient democratic political culture. Finally, a large number of writings were published in a spirit of disappointment, suggesting that many intellectuals who had previ­ ously been politically active were less concerned with promoting institutionalized democracy than with regaining their lost privi­ leges. This 'literature of lost illusions' burgeoned in the wake of 1 989 ( Dahn 1 994; Grass 1 992; Gyurgyák 1 995; Heym 1 991; Pithart 1 993; Reich 1 990; Siklová 1 990; Szalai 1 995), giving rise to further studies of what active intellectuals had expected of the democratic transformation and the nature of their relationship to it ( Bernik 1 994; Huyssen 1 99 1 ; Jörgensen 1 992; Kovács 1 994; Melegh 1 994; Smolar 1 996; Tismaneanu 1 996). The studies contained in this book were written in the wake not only of the regime change but of the 'period of lost illusions'. The contributors describe typical political and social attitudes of Cen­ tral European intellectuals, comparing the roles played by intellec­ tuals before, during, and after the democratic turn. lt is significant that the 1 989 revolutions, most of them peaceful, themselves re­ placed a system born out of an intellectual quest for utopia, state socialism. The fali of socialism-which they helped to bring about­ encouraged political intellectuals to be more modest than their predecessors in terms of the practical implementation of ideal systems. This contributed to the fact that these revolutions did not 'devour their children', many of whom decided to withdraw from politics of their own accord. The nineteenth-century intellectual role of prophet was replaced in the region by professional, plural­ ist intellectual roles typical of democratic market societies. Former opposition intellectuals turned into party politicians, NGO activ­ ists, journalists, or university professors. Those intellectuals who wanted to maintain a close proximity to politics while preserving their earlier universalist stance became either critics of the new democratic regimes on behalf of an ideal concept of democracy, or, on the contrary, spokesmen of ( ethno)nationalist political groupings opposed to democratic principles-examples of the former can be found mainly in the Czech Republic, Hungary, East Germany, and Romania, while the former Yugoslavia and its suc­ cessor states furnish many examples of the latter. The authors of the following chapters are almost all ( with only one exception) social scientists from Central Europe. They address

8

ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

the issues outlined in this introduction in partly national­ historical, partly comparative, and partly theoretical terms. They do not represent any kind of unified 'Central European' view of the political role of intellectuals: indeed, even their definitions of intel­ lectuals differ-for instance, lrina Culic defines the intellectual (after Lipset, Bourdieu, and Hofstadter) as "a possessor of cultural capital, competing for the privileged place of maker and transmit­ ter of the discourses by which we understand society." For her, intellectuals may act as legitimizers of power (clerisy) or critics of existing society (avant-garde). Some contributors-such as András Körösényi-use 'intellectuals' and 'intelligentsia' more or less inter­ changeably, focusing on a value-oriented social group and exclud­ ing technocratic or policy-oriented intellectuals, as well as tradi­ tional ('clerical') intellectuals. Others-such as Marian Kempny­ claim that the equation of 'intellectuals' and 'intelligentsia' (in a sense closer to Anglo-Saxon usage) does not fit the East Central European experience: in this region 'intelligentsia' means not just a group of intellectuals but "a specific pattern of social class identity" which has remained outside the Western tradition. However, one can find distinctions between the notions of 'intellectuals' and 'intelligentsia' in both the Eastern and the Western literature on the subject: in the latter, 'intelligentsia' means 'technical' intellec­ tuals in contrast to 'humanistic' ones. ln his definition of intellec­ tuals as a group, Ivan Bernik combines the elements of education, internal cohesion, creativity, and a critical stance: for Bernik, while not all educated persons are intellectuals, an intellectual must, by definition, be educated. He concludes, with reference to Jerzy Szacki, that it is rather creativity and a critical stance that elevate the intellectual above the professional and into the 'supra­ professional community'. ln this case, the very definition of terms suggests that the notion of intellectual begins where 'mere' profes­ sionalism ends. (On this, see also Said 1 994.) An even more colorful matrix emerges when one uses a number of different dimensions for the purpose of defining intellectuals. Possible analytical dimensions include definitions of the intellec­ tual which range the political against the non-political, the critical against the status-quo-oriented, the creative against the routine, the professionalized against the supra-professional, the educated against the non-educated (for example, self-educated artists or 'bohemians'), the 'humanistic' against the technical, and so on. These dimensions can be enriched in terms of such things as the degree of closedness or openness of the intellectuals' social posi­ tion and the distribution of rewards (honor, prestige, material

lntroduction

9

benefits), something which in turn may indicate whether they represent a professional stratum ('white-collar workers'), a status group (in Weber's sense of 'Stand'), a new class, or an old social caste. ln editing this book, l have made every effort to avoid homoge­ nizing the contributors' different understandings of _the word 'intellectuals' in favor of a uniform definition. l was encouraged to publish it in response to the wide diversity of views in the litera­ ture, bringing together both theoretical and empirical studies on the region in an attempt to demonstrate the range of current ap­ proaches. l wanted to produce a scholarly book on intellectuals and politics which does not represent one particular school of thought, but which is provocative in the sense that it contrasts different interpretations and different philosophical or ideological (liberal, conservative, radical) preferences. ln Part One, the contributors examine different choices and paths open to politically involved intellectuals as possible exits from com­ munism. A particularly important aspect of this is the political roles of intellectuals in historical and comparative perspective. Helena Flam compares East German dissidents and the much better organ­ ized Polish opposition intellectuals in terms of their identity and strategies prior to the regime change. She points out the differences in their perceptions of their role: for a Polish dissident intellectual, his or her oppositional identity represented a "readiness to sacrifice persona! happiness and mundane comforts for his beliefs... for the glory of heroism." According to Flam, the rich infrastructure of dis­ sent (for example, samizdat publication) also made it possible in Poland to take risks with the prospect of being honored some time in the future. Unlike their Polish counterparts, East German dissi­ dents remained more individualistic and much less organized; among their strategic options, the choice of exit always ranked higher than for Polish oppositional intellectuals. The example of Romania is particularly worthy of investigation because, prior to the revolution in 1 989, the harshly oppressive regime had successfully curtailed political opposition of all kinds. lrina Culic analyses the roots of cultural opposition in Romania in terms of Bourdieu's field theory and by comparing the Romanian political opportunity structure under communism to the Hungar­ ian one. She concludes that the nature of the communist regime in a particular country determined the strategies available to its intel­ lectuals. Alina Mungiu-Pippidi describes the role played by Romanian in­ tellectuals in the revolution and the reasons for their subsequent

10

ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

marginalization. She also locates her primarily country-oriented analysis within the broader framework of post-communist Europe. This chapter is followed by two case studies dealing with the prob­ lems of the former Yugoslavia as it seeks to make the transition to democracy, the first describing something of a success story (Slovenia), the second rather a failure (the new Yugoslavia). Ivan Bernik uses the example of Slovenia to outline the ambivalent rela­ tionship between intellectuals and democracy. He also attempts to contrast the kind of democracy imagined by active intellectuals in the period of the regime change and the institutionalized democ­ racy which in fact emerged. Nenad Dimitrijevié analyses the politi­ cal commitments of Serb nationalist intellectuals: the majority of politically active intellectuals accepted and helped to strengthen the changing ideals of the regime, so helping-directly or indi­ rectly-the nationalistic former communist political elite to retain power. Part Two offers a number of theoretical and empirical explora­ tions of the political identities of intellectuals and the formation of a new political culture in the post-communist context. Marian Kempny, while using the Polish example as his point of departure, attempts to encompass Central Europe as a whole in his descrip­ tion of the motivations and situation of political intellectuals in the period after the transition. Influenced-or rather provoked-by Konrád and Szelényi ( 1 979 and 1 991), he argues that in the new, post-communist age mass democracy is more likely to emerge from the transition than the class hegemony assumed as their birthright by some intellectuals. It is interesting . to note the decisive influence of the works of Konrád and Szelényi-together with those of Bauman, Bourdieu, Gouldner, Hirschman, Lipset, Mannheim, and Verdery-on con­ temporary Central European political sociologists and theorists. While Kempny is the most explicit in his criticism of Konrád and Szelényi's 'new class' approach, other contributors (such as Mun­ giu-Pippidi and Körösényi) also question, if implicitly, the validity of their thesis. The British political sociologist Bill Lomax addresses the prob­ lem of the intelligentsia as a distinct social group in terms of a critical analysis of the part played by Hungarian intellectuals in preserving an inegalitarian political culture. ln his analysis of their attitudes, Lomax ironically compares them to the intellectuals of Victorian England, such as Mill, Shaw, and Sidney and Beatrice Webb, who believed in the "moral authority of intellectual superi­ ority". This line of argument runs parallel with early anarchist-

Introductíon

11

socialist criticism (Bakunin, Machajski) of 'intellectual capital' as a source of new social power. Two other case studies deal with the former Czechoslovakia. Aviezer Tucker illustrates the ambivalences of the intellectual­ turned-politician in terms of the last president of Czechoslovakia and the first of the Czech Republic, Václav Havel. According to Tucker, an ethical shift may be observed from the Kantian ethics of conviction of Havel the dissident to the consequentialist ethics of responsibility of President Havel. Tucker asserts that "politics should be morally driven", but argues that Havel's "non-political politics" was a misconceived form of moral politics which caused him to make avoidable political mistakes. On the subject of Slova­ kia, Edward Snajdr skillfully portrays the political activization fol­ lowed by disappointment of environmentalist ('ochranari') intel­ lectuals in the Green movement during and after 1 989. Finally, Part Three investigates issues related to discourse and ac­ tion concerning democratization, democracy, economic transforma­ tion, and, more generally, the 'symbolic universe' of the intellectuals involved in politics during the regime change. András Körösényi claims that, popular belief notwithstanding, the intelligentsia's rela­ tionship to democracy is at best ambivalent. He argues that one of the greatest dangers facing political democracy is what he calls the "myth of democracy". Körösényi accepts the 'narrower' concept of democracy-advocated by Joseph Schumpeter, Anthony Downs, Samuel Huntington, and others-which focuses on selection among competing elites and uses the analogy of the market to describe the democratic process. ln this perspective, the role of intellectuals as independent political actors is inevitably downgraded under democratic circumstances because democracy, like the market, is guided by 'common taste'. József Böröcz analyses the world, con­ cepts, way of thinking, and references of economists using the tools of Mannheimian sociology of knowledge. ln countries where the communist regime was less strict and allowed some room for reformist initiatives (such as Hungary) the economists became one of the most influential intellectual groups. From the early 1 980s they came to regard themselves as academic scholars, advisors of the reformist wing of the power elite, spokesmen of society, and facilitators of communication between social groups (for example, between the reformist politicians and the democratic opposition). Böröcz is highly critical of this reformist-transformationist intel­ lectual group, pointing out that its rhetoric and way of thinking are "both utopian and ideological in the Mannheimian sense". ln my chapter, the last in the book, I use Hirschman's argument (presen-

12

ANDRÁS BOZÓKI

ted in Th e Rhetoric of Reaction, 1 9 9 1 ) as point of departure for a study of the language of the regime change in Hungary and the transformations of its set of concepts. ln my view, the process of transition can be described as an epoch of constitutional, 'symbolic politics', while consolidation consists in a turn to 'normal politics'. The period of symbolic politics (between, say, 1 985 and 1 994) brought about two types of 'action' on the part of intellectuals: first, the delegitimization of the old regime and the gradual dis­ tancing of the past; second, mainly after 1 989, the dominance of a rhetoric of memory and vision which revitalized some major cul­ tural differences between groups of intellectuals, who reformu­ lated these issues as major political cleavages. Political intellectuals competed to determine the concepts, issues, and framework of public discourse. Mter 1 994, however, with the return to power of former communists in the guise of 'experts', a new type of rhetoric as action could be discerned, the ideology of modernization and the rhetoric of pragmatism as 'problem-solving' politics. This dis­ cursive turn rendered obsolete the ideologically heated political discourse of the regime-changing intellectuals and offered a differ­ ent vocabulary-supplied by the technocratic 'experts'-for the task of consolidation. Cultural elites always played a crucial role in Central Europe in occupying a critical stance and even in shaping politics from a moral-universal perspective. Under dictatorships, politically in­ volved intellectuals had to work hard to "substitute" democracy and to keep hopes alive concerning a better society of the future based on popular will, rule of law, and public good. This political activism of intellectuals was also characteristic during the period of transitions to democracy in this region of Europe. The irony of history lies in the fact that the very success of intellectuals, i.e. to reach democracy based on popular sovereignty, undermines their formerly distinguished political role. ln the new democracies of Central Europe, professionalized intellectuals might remain an important social group - among many others. Professionalization is the order of the day, which is seen by many with the melancholy of post-revolutionary times, and which creates disillusionment and provokes nostalgia among the last European intellectuals.

Introductton

13

References Arato, Andrew. 1 993. From Neo-Marxism to Democratic Theory. Amonk, N.Y.: Sharpe. Bernhard, Michael H. 1 993. The Origins ofDemocratization in Poland. New York: Columbia University Press. Bemik, lvan. 1 994. 'The Forgotten Legacy of Marginal lntellectuals.' ln Tran­ sition to Capitalism? The Communist Legacy in Eastern Europe, ed. János M. Kovács, 205- 1 6. New Brunswick: Transaction. Bottomore, Tom B. 1 982. Elites and Society. Harmondsworth: Penguin. (First published in 1 964.) Bozóki, András. 1 993. 'Hungary's Road to Systemic Change: The Opposition Round-Table.' East European Politics and Societies 7 (2): 276-308. --. 1 994. 'lntellectuals and Democratization in Hungary.' ln A New Europe? Social Change and Political Transformation, ed. Chris Rootes and Howard Davis, 1 49-75. London: UCL Press. Brower, Daniel R. 1 975. Training the Nihilists: Education and Radicalism in Tsarist Russia. lthaca: Cornell University Press. Bruszt, László. 1 990. ' 1 989: The Negotiated Revolution in Hungary.' Social Research 57 (2): 365-87. Bugajski, Janusz. 1987. Czechoslovakia: Charter 77's Decade of Dissent. New York: Praeger. Confino, Michael. 1 973. 'On lntellectuals and lntellectual Traditions in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century Russia.' ln Intellectuals and Tradi­ tions, ed. S. N. Eisenstadt and S. R. Graubard, 1 1 7-49. New York: Humani­ ties Press. Csizmadia, Ervin. 1995. A magyar demokratikus ellenzék [The Hungarian democratic opposition] . Budapest: T-Twins. Dahn, Daniela. 1994. 'Was the Unification of Germany a Truly Great Moment of Democracy?' Paper presented at the conference 'Transition in Europe: Democracy and its Discontents,' Frankfurt an der Oder, Germany, 3-5 June. Elster, Jon, ed. 1 996. The Round-table Talks and the Breakdown of Commu­ nism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ferge, Zsuzsa. 1 969. Társadalmunk rétegződése [The stratification of our society] . Budapest: KJK. Goldfarb, Jeffrey C. 1989. Beyond Glasnost�· The Post-Totalitarlan Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Grass, Günter. 1992. 'Losses.' Granta 42: 99- 107. Gyurgyák, János. 1 995. 'Valami elveszett, avagy az értelmiség árulása' [Something has been lost, or, The treason of the intellectuals] . Kortárs 39

(6): 1 1 9-28.

Havel, Václav. 1 987. Living in Truth. London: Faber and Faber. Heym, Stefan. 1 99 1 . 'Ash Wednesday in the GDR.' New German Crltique 52 (Winter): 3 1 -35.

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Huyssen, Andreas. 1991. 'Mter the Wall: The Failure of German Intellectuals.' New German Critique 52 (Winter): 109-43. Ignotus, Paul. 1966. 'Radical Writers in Hungary.' Journal of Contemporary History 1 (2): 149-67. Jörgensen, Knud Erik. 1992. 'The End of Anti-Politics in Central Europe.' ln Democracy and Civil Society in Eastern Europe, ed. Paul G. Lewis, 32-60. London: Macmillan. Judt, Tony. 1991. 'The Dilemmas of Dissidence: The Politics of Opposition in East Central Europe.' ln Crisis and Reform in Eastern Europe, ed. Andrew Arato and Ferenc Fehér, 253-301. New Brunswick: Transaction. Konrád, George [ György]. 1984. Antipolitics. London: Methuen. Konrád, George [György] , and Iván Szelényi. 1979. 1he Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power. New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich. --. 1991. 'lntellectuals and Domination in Post-Communist Societies.' ln Social 1heory in a Changing Society, ed. Pierre Bourdieu and James Coleman, 337-61. Boulder, Co.: Westview. Kovács, János M. 1994. 'Planning the Transformation? Notes about the Leg­ acy of Reform Economists.' ln Transition to Capitalism? 1he Communist Legacy in Eastern Europe, ed. J. M. Kovács, 21-46. New Brunswick: Transaction. Kundera, Milan. 1984. 'The Tragedy of Central Europe.' New York Review of Books (26 April). Kuwana, Eiko. 1994. 'Intellectuals and Society in Tum-0f-the-Century Hun­ gary.' Paper presented at the Central European University, Budapest, Sep­ tember 1994. Lasswell, Harold D. 1961. 'Agenda for the Study of Political Elites.' ln Political Decision-Makers, ed. Dwaine Marvick, 264-87. New York: The Free Press. Lipset, Seymour M. 1958. Political Man: 1he Social Bases of Politics. New York: Doubleday. Lukacs, John. 1988. Budapest, 1900: A Historical Portrait of a City and lts Culture. New York: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Mannheim, Karl. 1936. Ideology and Utopia. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Melegh, Attila. 1994. 'A Nyugat bűvöletében' [Under the spell of the West]. ln Értelmiség és politika [Intellectuals and politics] , ed. Péter J. Martin and Krisztina Schay, 8-12. Budapest: Széchenyi Kollégium. Merton, Robert K. 1957. Social 1heory and Social Structure. New York: The Free Press. Michnik, Adam. 1987. 'A New Evolutionism.' ln A Michnik, Letters from Prison and Other Essays, 135-48. Berkeley: University of California Press. (Essay originally published in 1976.) Nahirny, Vladimir C. 1983. 1he Russian Intelligentsia: From Torment to Silence. New Brunswick: Transaction. Pipes, Richard. 1961. 'The Historical Evolution of the Russian Intelligentsia.' ln 1he Russian Intelligentsia, ed. R. Pipes, 47-62. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Pithart, Petr. 1 993. 'lntellectuals in Politics: Double Dissent in the Past, Dou­ ble Disappointment Today.' Social Research 60 (4): 75 1 -61. Putnam, Robert D. 1976. The Comparative Study of Political Elites. Engle­ wood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. Raina, Peter. 1978. Political Opposttion in Poland, 1954- 1977. London: Poets' and Painters' Press. Reich, Jens. 1990. 'Reflections on Becoming an East German Dissident, on Losing the Wall and a Country.' ln Spring in Winter, ed. Gwyn Prins, 6597. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Renwick, Alan. 1997. 'The Role of Non-Elites in Democratic Transition: The Case of Hungary.' MA thesis, Central European University, Budapest. Rougle, Charles. 1979. 'The lntelligentsia Debate in Russia 1917-1918.' Stockholm Studies ín Russian Literature 1 1 : 54- 1 03. Said, Edward W. 1 994. Representations of the Intellectual London: Vintage. Schapiro, Leonard. 1961. 'The Pre-Revolutionary Russian lntelligentsia and the Legal Order.' ln R. Pipes (1961, 19-3 1). Shatz, Marshall S. 1967. Jan Waclaw Machajski and the "Conspiracy" of the lntellectuals.' Survey 62: 45-57. --. 1980. Soviet Dissent ín Historlcal Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schöpflin, George, and Nancy Wood, eds. 1989. ln Search of Central Europe. Cambridge: Polity Press. Siklová, Jiiíina. 1990. 'The "Gray Zone" and the Future of Dissent in Czecho­ slovakia.' Social Research 57 (2): 347-63. Sinkó, Ervin. 1965. Optimisták. Történelmi regény 1918- 19-ből [Optimists: a historical novel from 1918-19]. Budapest: Magvető. Skilling, H. Gordon. 1985. 'lndependent Currents in Czechoslovakia.' Prob­ lems of Communism 34 (1): 32-49. Smolar, Aleksander. 1996. 'From Opposition to Atomization.' Journal of Democracy 7 (1): 24-38. Szalai, Erzsébet. 1990. 'The New Elite.' Across Frontiers (Winter): 25-28. --. 1995. 'Feljegyzések a cethal gyomrából: a kulturális elit válsága és az értelmiség dilemmái' [Notes from the stomach of the whale: The crisis of the cultural elite and the dilemmas of intellectuals] . Kritika (November): 3-9. Szelényi, Iván. 1986-87. 'The Prospects and Limits of the East European New Class Project: An Auto-Critical Reflection on The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power. ' Politics and Society 1 5 (2): 1 03-44. Thompson, Stuart R. 1957. The Russian Intelligentsta: Makers of the Revolu­ tionary State. Norman: Oklahoma University Press. Tismaneanu, Vladimir. 1996. 'Truth, Trust, and Tolerance: lntellectuals in Post-Communist Society.' Problems of Post-Communism (March-April): 3-12. Tőkés, Rudolf L. 1996. Hungary's Negotiated Revolution. Cambridge: Cam­ bridge University Press.

PART ONE EXITS FROM COMMUNISM: THE STRATEGIES OF INTELLECTUALS

Dissenting Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters: The Cases of Poland and East Germany HELENA FLAM

Introduction Intellect and dissent usually go together: notwithstanding consid­ erable evidence to the contrary, we tend to associate a radical stance with the intelligentsia. The assertion that the free intellect, much like a whore, is willing to serve any purse and purpose, has also found much scholarly and popular support. Numerous studies present cases and periods in which intellectuals in the first in­ stance served either their own interests or those of the state, busi­ ness, or extremist political parties. The romantics among us, how­ ever, still ding to the cherished image of the intellectual as a social critic and a friend of freedom and of freedom-seeking social movements throughout the world. This chapter has been written from this romantic perspective. My main concern is the inability of East German dissidents-in contrast to their Polish counterparts-to assume the role of suc­ cessful critical intellectuals in their society, both before and during the breakdown of the regime in 1989. 1 Although these dissidents identified many burning issues, East German society remained largely unaware of or indifferent to them before 1989; and during the regime breakdown it was unwilling to take their visions seri­ ously. The question is, 'Why?' In what follows I identify a number of factors which are conduc­ tive to the emergence of successful intellectuals. The fact that they were present in Poland but not in East Germany probably accounts for the sharp contrast between the two movements in terms of the attention and respect they were able to command.

20

HELENA FLAM

Dissent in Poland and East Germany The first non-conspiratorial oppositional organization in Eastern Europe emerged in Poland: the Workers' Defense Committee­ 'KOR'-came into being in 1976. This organization differed from its Hungarian, Czechoslovak, and East German counterparts in that it was not confined to a narrow group of intellectuals: KOR formed an alliance with the workers, addressing itself not only to the authorities but to 'society' as a whole. Furthermore, it quickly evolved from a reform-oriented into an oppositional movement (Skilling 1989, 45, 178, 182- 85). lnitially, KOR had twenty-three official member- signatories and hundreds of activists or 'unofficial co-workers' (Friszke 1994, 347, 355, 357). The immediate, explicit goal of KOR's founders was to lend assistance to the persecuted workers of Radom and Ursus. Thanks to KOR's mobilizing efforts, thousands of people sent or signed protest letters to the Polish Sejm, secretly made financial contributions to support the repressed workers, and began to read its underground publications. ln 1977, thirty member- signatories and co-workers of KOR converted it into a more pronouncedly political, oppositional or­ ganization: KSS 'KOR' (Committee for Self-Defense 'KOR') (ibid., 409- 12). They maintained some continuity with its prestigious, humanist past, but chose henceforth to pursue explicitly political goals. The first declaration of KSS 'KOR' was signed by 110 per­ sons, including 'moral authorities' and core activists (ibid., 409). KSS 'KOR' had several hundred co-workers, concentrated in War­ saw, Krakow, and Wroclaw, but also in Lodz, Gdansk, Lublin, and Poznan. lts activities were multifaceted: it assisted the persecuted, put pressure on the authorities, mobilized domestic and foreign opinion, gathered and disseminated information, and organized spectacular actions, such as hunger strikes or large-scale celebra­ tions of the Catholic mass. The scope of the underground educa­ tional activities and organizations which it sponsored was un­ precedented in the period since the Second World War. ln 197778 the first Student Solidarity Committees, 'flying universities', associations of scientific courses, associations of worker universi­ ties, free trade unions, and smallholders' committees were estab­ lished (ibid., 426- 27). As the strike movement, and then the free trade unions, emerged in 1979, KSS 'KOR' continued its broadly-based informa­ tional activities (ibid., 448-49). A few of its members helped to

Dissenting Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters

21

transform the dockyard strike into one of national solidarity and to expand the number and scope of the strikers' demands (but see üst 1 990, 77). Other members of KSS 'KOR' came to function as Solidarity advisers on such matters as politics, strategy, publishing, and information. As KOR's activists became absorbed in a new movement, KSS 'KOR' lost its raison d'etre; its official dissolution took place at the Solidarity congress of 23 September 1 981. Before the authorities banned Solidarity the following December, ten mil­ lion Poles had joined it. KOR not only broke down the barrier of fear, being the first or­ ganization to mobilize large parts of Polish society (Friszke 1 994, 423, 448), it demonstrated that it was possible to break the infor­ mation monopoly of the Communist Party and to create an 'inde­ pendent circle' of information and thought. Moreover, by display­ ing the virtues of openness, self-organization, and broad social solidarity it served to provide models of conduct by means of which the hitherto supposedly omnipotent communist system might be opposed. Nor should it be forgotten that prominent members, such as Adam Michnik and Jacek Kuroó., not only sat at the round-table, but introduced many ideas which inspired the leaders of Solidarity and the round-table talks themselves (ibid., 370- 75; üst 1 990, 67- 70), perhaps the most important of which were the notions of a self-organized 'civic society' and a dialogue between such a society and the state. If the Polish opposition enjoyed great respect, and even became fashionable on at least two occasions in its history, East German dissent remained for a long time largely unknown to the broader society. As in the case of the Prague Spring, the East German SED government reacted to the formation of 'KOR' in neighboring Po­ land with (preventíve) repression, and its efforts were not wasted. Many critics of the regime were intimidated into silence; many others emigrated. At the beginning of the 1980s, however, state­ independent peace, environmental, and women's movements emerged, in part building on the ashes of earlier dissent. Between 1 980 and 1 985 the peace movement taught many East Germans to overcome their fear of repression to the point where they felt able to meet not only in circles of friends but locally and even region­ ally (Fehr 1 995, 3 1 5). From about 1 980 local churches were opened to host the annual meetings of the Peace Decades move­ ment, while those in East Berlin began to host nationwide annual meetings of Peace Workshops from about 1 982. Although the in­ transigence of the state-which remained deaf to all arguments about the need for dialogue, plural sources of information, and

22

HELENA FLAM

public space-contributed to the large wave of emigration in 1 984, it also brought many new adherents to the movement. ln 1 985- 86, renouncing the protective umbrella of the Evangelical Church for the sake of greater freedom to criticize the regime, a small group of dissidents created the first 'oppositional' organization in the GDR, the lnitiative Peace and Human Rights. Many other groups-al­ though less radical in their programs-also decided at about this time to forego the church control which went hand in hand with its protection. Samizdat publications were particularly numerous in 1 987- 88, when ever more frequent and better attended demon­ strations, candle-light vigils, marches, and letters organized in pro­ test against arrests, alongside other public group initiatives, pro­ vided ample testimony to the slowly growing solidarity and organ­ izational co-ordination of the East German dissident movement. Towards the end of 1 987, after the Liebknecht- Luxemburg de­ monstration organized to counter the traditional official parade, once more orders came from the top to stem the tide of protest. Several prominent dissidents were arrested and interrogated. They were intimidated with threats of trials, charges of state treason, and the prospect of prison sentences of between two and ten years. All agreed to be released in the West German Republic, al­ though some managed to wrest from the communist authorities a guarantee of a legal return within a few months. The Berlin dissident movement limped on. The fact that the at first minuscule demonstrations suddenly gained significant momen­ tum in Leipzig in September 1 989 caught it by surprise (although the founding meeting of the New Forum took place as early as 1 0 September on the initiative of a prominent dissenter, Barbel Bohley [Findeis et al. 1 994, 50] ). The mass demonstrations in October quickly spread from Leipzig to Dresden and Berlin. Prominent dissi­ dents and activists in the citizen movement became involved in cre­ ating broadly based citizen committees, such as Democracy Now. They initiated public debates and followed the Polish example by establishing round-tables (Rucht 1 996, 40- 42). Within the frame­ work of these ad hoc institutions-which attracted many newcom­ ers-the ideas so dear to the dissenters (pluralism, dialogue, toler­ ance, conflict mediation, and an autonomous society) were tested. The communist Modrow Government defended the communist regime, in part by promising reforms, in part by starting a cautious process of reform, co-optation, and concessions. ln November 1 989 the Politburo went along with the demand of the citizen movements to establish a central round-table. The mandate of the East Berlin Round-Table was unclear, however, even as it sent its representatives

Dissenting Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters

23

to government meetings and sought to exercise a veto and to help shape the socialist dream. Under the Modrow Government it became apparent that the no­ tion of a reformed GDRwould never get off the ground. (Under its successor-CDU-government it turned out that the idea of a re­ formed, unified Germany would never get off the ground either [Rucht 1 996, 42-46]). The constitutional proposals worked out by the citizen movements-which aimed at establishing a vital partici­ patory democracy-met with no more party or popular approval than the idea of a partly re-privatized, participatory economy. The unification treaty was signed on 3 October 1 990, and the transfer of institutions began. The critics of the central round-table allege that, rather than curbing the communist government, it served to stabilize it (ibid., 44), though it cannot be denied that the round-tables also provided an opportunity for the exercise of democratic values and discus­ sion of the future without the threat of violence. However, while many East Germans respected the contribution of the dissidents and the citizen movements as initiators of the opposition to the old regime, they did not grant them the role of legitimate shapers of the future, allowing regular political parties to reserve this role for themselves. Why were the dissidents, together with the options they proposed, rejected?

The Absolute Power of the State as Opponent Di Palma argues that one can understand intellectual mobilization against communism by deploying an historical analogy: "[e] merg­ ing civil society under communism is... similar to emerging civil society under absolutism ... Similarly to absolutism, the impetus for civil society to emerge is a reaction to the arcana imperii of the rulers" (Di Palma 1 99 1 , 63). Just as the French dissenting intellec­ tuals in pre-Revolution France, so their East European counterparts "drew sustenance from two sources: domestic bankruptcy, both mora! and material, and the example of more dynamic and more open foreign societies ... The distinctiveness and mora! drive of East European dissidence was inspired in part by the model of Western Europe ... " (ibid., 67, 68). As far as the Polish case is concerned, Di Palma's argument is in­ deed compatible with the usual explanation of the mobilizing suc-

24

HELENA FLAM

cesses of KOR ( 1 976-8 1 ) and, by extension, of Solidarity. lt rests on three basic elements: system breakdown, a popular search for cognitive-moral liberation, and KOR's ability to answer this search (Flam 1 996). However, Western Europe did not serve, as Di Palma argues ( 1 99 1 , 64), merely as a reference society for the early Polish oppo­ sition gathered in KOR, rather it was one of its most important­ passionately embraced and constructed-pillars of identity. Oppo­ sition leaders stylized the opposition movement as a value bearer and themselves as bearers of universal human-that is, Western­ 'civilized' values. They defined the opponent-the evil totalitarian state-as the despotic barbarian. This very definition of the situa­ tion made it possible for the opposition to constitute itself sym­ bolically as a heroic fighter for morally superior values, to make a bid for moral supremacy. Di Palma's line of reasoning fits the East German case only par­ tially. The country's material-if not moral-domestic bankruptcy became evident to everybody at the latest in the 1 980s, but the rulers, in contrast to their Polish counterparts, never abandoned their salvationist stance: they renounced neither their monopoly on political discourse nor their claim to cognitive infallibility (ibid., 6 1 ). They continued to believe in their right to rule. The cadres did not overtly question this belief: three or four generations of pater­ nalized-if also critical, maneuvering, and 'networking'-subjects, confronted with the seemingly eternal regime, preferred to keep dreaming a stale socialist dream. ln Di Palma's view, no, or at best questionable, dissent should emerge in such circumstances. When the rulers self-assuredly do not doubt their right to monopolize power, Di Palma tells us, those "subjects who fail to recognize the rulers' right to rule are not thereby impugning the rulers; rather, they are impugning them­ selves" (ibid., 56). But why should arrogant leaders necessarily produce refutable, objectionable dissent? lt is rather the willing­ ness of the cadres and the population to play along in the party­ staged "as if' game (Kusy 1 985, 1 63 -65) which has this effect. It is noteworthy that in East Germany only a few dissenters rejected outright the socialist project or the SED's right to rule. ln contrast to many East German citizens who merely humored party repre­ sentatives, the dissenters took them seriously and constantly con­ fronted their rulers-by means of earnestly and respectfully phrased letters, petitions, protest letters, candle-light chains and demonstrations-with a wide range of burning social issues. They wanted reform.

Dissenting Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters

25

The East German dissenters created a sub-culture within which, instead of displaying the obligatory 'love', it became possible to openly criticize this rigid 'father' of a state. ln contrast to the Polish opposition-and contrary to Di Palma's thesis-however, they did not counter the Eastern-ness of their state with a contemporary Western model. Instead, they displayed an intense commitment to participatory democracy. This provided them with a very versatile defensive weapon. As an ideal it directly responded to the deeply felt need for individual and group autonomy; it also constituted an attractive counter-image to the centralized, ever-controlling, and initiative-suffocating East German party-state. Finally, it united East German dissenters, not with the capitalist West which they re­ jected, but with their critical counterparts in West Germany for whom they felt respect. The question is whether, if they had eagerly championed the representative rather than the participatory form of democracy, in common with their Polish and Czechoslovak counterparts, they would have projected less of a 'utopian', 'immature', or 'fantastic' image, both in the 1 980s and in the year following October 1 989, the critical period during which the future of the GDR was de­ cided. The mobilized masses turned against the dissidents and their proposals. As the opinion surveys conducted at the time show, they wanted tried and tested institutions-they wanted unification with the West German market economy and democracy (Pollack 1 996, 1 6): it was not the absolutist state but rather the voting pub­ lic which impugned the dissenters in the end.

lntergenerational Continuity: Transfer o/ Values, Status, and Leadership Several generations came together to form the Polish opposition. Although very many pre-war intellectuals perished during or just after the war, enough survived and came to occupy important po­ sitions within the universities and the Party to pass on a critical stance and cherished values to their successors. Official and oppositional status markers combined to construct a social status hierarchy among opposition members. What one might call the 'Exemplars', for example, had the highest social status in recognition of their advanced age, intellectual or artistic achievements, and professional position, but also the courage and

26

HELENA FLAM

integrity they had displayed-it was asserted-continuously since at least the outset of the Second World War ( Flam 1 996, 1 1 0, 1 1 5). They had the power to nominate their successors. When KOR was förmed in 1 976, every effort was made to draw in the most status-laden persons as its constitutive members. By that time, however, some of the younger critics of the regime, such as Adam Michnik-who had dubbed prominent revisionists "crawlers" in the 1 960s-had joined their older colleagues on the status ladder. Their previously completely statusless friends also rose in the ranks. Not only the 'Exemplars' but numerous political clubs played an important role as gate-keepers and nurturers of the dissenting in­ tellectuals. ln the 1 970s and 1 980s the Polish opposition-as Hel­ mut Fehr ( 1 992, 85-93, 1 03 - 1 05) shows, using Warsaw as an ex­ ample-also organized its activities through numerous political clubs. Most of these clubs had a very small membership, ranging from about 8- 1 2 to about 60 persons. They helped specific groups to assert their own goals and values whether they contradicted each other or not, despite the fact that some of their committee members overlapped. Each cultivated its own style of living, think­ ing, and formulating issues, ultimately making a bid for elite status. Their important gate-keeping function took the form of the screen­ ing and testing of aspiring opposition members before they were taken on: acceptance often entailed favored access to, or an active position in the club-related press and its editorial board. The trans­ fer of values, status positions, and leadership can be said to have progressed smoothly, generally speaking. Even if competition for leadership positions occasionally divided the younger generations and cohorts, no acute crisis of succession developed until after the regime had broken down. The protest strategy of putting together committees or editorial boards composed of prominent persons was based on the-in principle correct-assumption that even a communist state could not remain immune to the influence of persona! eminence, which could therefore be engaged to legitimize oppositional organiza­ tions or actions and so both to win over the authorities and to mo­ bilize the public. lt might also be used to rescue younger activists in their hour of need. This implies, however, that the party-state itself-the leaders' atti­ tude towards and criteria regarding eminence-is a decisive factor in the equation: as one East German dissident who had spent 401 days in an isolation cell in 1 975- 76 before deciding to emigrate put it in one of the interviews I conducted to gather source mate-

Dissenttng Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters

27

rials for my research: "I noticed that this made no sense... 1 had no privileges of the kind they [Robert Havemann and Wolf Biermann] had; 1 was not known in the West. 1 had no anti-fascist father. Noth­ ing protected me. They could have finished me off like a tiny worm in their prison cells, since nobody would have cared two hoots about it... The two Great Ones, they were a considerable protec­ tion... but even this was no guarantee... ln this East-zonal system even Gandhi or Martin Luther King would not have made a name for themselves. lt takes a sense of fairness to let a man like Gandhi make his way in the world, doesn't it? One cannot even turn into a martyr under socialism... That is why I said: 'I want [to act] from the outside, from the West.' And that is what I did."3 ln East Germany, perhaps for this very reason, "there was some­ thing missing... a generation ... was missing." Very young dissenters predominated: the average age was between 23 and 35 years and groups with a low average age predominated (Findeis et al. 1 994, 1 00, 1 1 7, 1 28, 1 93). Because of its decentralized structure, insis­ tence on participatory democracy, and issue-orientedness, the young East German movement resembled the 'new' social move­ ments in the West much more than they did their East European counterparts. The age structure also hampered the intergenera­ tional transfer of values. Bidders for leadership positions had to compete with their peers without the pivotal support of the older generation. Youthful peer competition remained largely unchec­ ked and was combined with an insistence on maintaining local autonomy. For both reasons, neither widely recognized leaders nor a common platform emerged. Numerous local groups continued to fight on specific issue-fronts: "Weil, they were after all much more preoccupied with their petty quarrels than with important strate­ gies. By the way, in my view this was the [main] contrast with Po­ land... Apart from Wolfgang Templin I could not name anybody who really thought wisely... An older generation of dissidents was simply missing... No [single] group was able to bring together all the knowledge amassed [about the issues, the country] ... 1 noticed just how alone I was... something was missing, a generation to co­ operate with was missing .. .'' ( Interview conducted by the author). No one came forth to synthesize in a single platform the dozens of issues which the local groups formulated. After Havemann's death in 1 982, an intellectual vacuum opened up: "We had no lead­ ers. ln order to get more public recognition, we constantly tried to recruit prominent intellectuals, such as Stefan Heym or Christa Wolf. But they always declined" (Interview with Poppe in Joppke 1 995, 72). lmportant dissenters decried the absence of such char-

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ismatic, integrating figures as, for example, Václav Havel-a prob­ lem acutely felt during the mass mobilization phase in the fall of 1 989 (see the interviews with Dusdal and Mehlhorn in Findeis et al. 1 994, 73, 1 66). No one who possessed international standing, moral integrity, and intellectual quality emerged from the intellec­ tuals' own ranks.

The Independent Press as a Training Ground and Conveyer Belt to the Official Press Both Reader ( 1 987, 1 0, 2 1 -29) and Jacoby (1 987, 7, 1 4, 1 9) point out that many of the great intellectuals of our century first honed their skills in-and sometimes even established-the independent presses of Paris and New York. These presses created their own 'star system' on which the official presses-at least for a while­ profitably drew. ln Poland, the largest samizdat movement in the Soviet bloc de­ veloped, mostly-but not exclusively-under the auspices of, first, KOR and then KSS 'KOR' (Skilling 1 989, 22 -24; Friszke 1 994, 424, 44 1). It was soon known as the 'second' or 'independent circuit'. Its long tentacles penetrated both the Western and the domestic 'second' economies. It produced newspapers, weeklies, quarterlies, and books whose circulation ranged from hundreds to thousands of copies (Kubik 1 994, 1 60-61). Virtually every KOR group brought out its own newspaper or organized its own book presses (Friszke 1 994, 427; Kubik 1 994, 1 5 5 - 57; Skilling 1 989, 2 2 - 24). Publishing activities, quite apart from lending social prestige, schooled a large number of people in editorial and journalistic skills. They also forced people to develop their organizational skills: people and resources had to be brought together in the se­ eret printing and distribution networks. The distinction between the 'second' and the 'first' circuit disappeared almost completely after the mid 1 980s. Talents and careers nurtured in one could be cashed in in the other. Polish samizdat had a long pre-history. ln contrast to its coun­ terparts elsewhere in the region, the Polish Communist Party con­ solidated its rule by means of a de facto liberalization in 1 956. ln its search for legitimation (Pakulski 1 990), the new party leadership permitted the establishment of many quasi-autonomous institu­ tions and organizations, which came to serve as an infrastructure

Díssenting Intellectuals and Plaín Díssenters

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of dissent, despite the party's moves only a year later to liquidate­ it also periodically put pressure on or tightened its control over the others-some of them. Although not all of the so-called 'Oc­ tober gains' could be defended "Stalinism did not return" (üst 1 990, 45- 48). The party tolerated a great deal of unorthodox activ­ ity in the cultural realm, and even when directly provoked sub­ jected the intellectuals only to comparatively mild farms of coer­ cion. The 'October gains' put the relationship between the party­ state and its revisionist critics on a developmental path which was markedly different to all others in the Eastern bloc (Hirszowicz 1 986, 6 1 - 63; Fiam 1 998). A sufficient number of artists' and writ­ ers' associations, educational institutions, students' associations, discussion clubs, and editorial boards of weekly and monthly pub­ lications were cohesive and felt secure enough to shelter many dissenting intellectuals well into the 1 960s. Although the repres­ sive measures of 1 968 constituted a decisive step backwards, this entire institutional infrastructure, as well as the social milieus which backed it up, managed to educate and protect the future oppositional generations: "This milieu support always existed... Everybody tried to attach [him or her] self to such a milieu. An un­ derground and, from a certain moment on, a political opposition... could actively exist, establish its own publishing houses, because there were enough people to create a... spacious milieu" (Interview conducted by the author). Since an infrastructure of dissent was in place, it was easier to articulate dissent, exchange ideas, and weave new networks. Ar­ guably, because of this institutional context, the Polish intelligent­ sia was more prone to protest and more open to the notion of mo­ bilizing the masses. The emergence of KOR both signaled and ac­ celerated the emergence of the 'second' or 'civic' society which drove the steady expansion of samizdat farward. The party­ monitored-and at times severely curtailed-infrastructure of dis­ sent constituted the first, samizdat the second training ground far dissenting intellectuals. The East German case differed considerably from the Polish one. ln 1 956 party 'revisionists' were very few in number and inhabited a mere handful of institutions (Fricke 1 984, 1 1 7 - 28, esp. 1 28). They never managed to break out of their social isolation. Neither in 1 953 nor in 1 956- 57 did a coalition farm between the critical intellectuals, intra-Party opposition, and the dissatisfied parts of the population (Meuschel 1 99 1 , 32). As Meuschel ( 1 99 1 , 29- 32) and Köpke ( 1 982, 1 08- 1 0) argue, the intellectuals distrusted the popu­ lation which they felt had supported the Nazis. They strove far its

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moral and political re-education. This attitude precluded the possi­ bility of mobilizing together with the workers against the SED leadership, even for the sake of modest reforms. Ulbricht re­ sponded to the de-Stalinization overtures of these isolated party intellectuals with arrests, show trials, long prison sentences, and orchestrated vicious propaganda campaigns. The SED consolidated its power in 1 956 not through liberalization but by silencing its intellectual critics. The few institutions which CQuld have consti­ tuted the infrastructure of dissent were prevented from playing this role. As in Czechoslovakia, the party consolidated its rule by having recourse to purges and repression. This put the GDR on a repressive-legitimational development path in stark contrast to that of Poland. The party-state repressed the regime-loyal critics and samizdats of the mid and late 1 960s, and of the very early and late 1 970s. ln­ siders believe that samizdat began to acquire real importance only from about 1 987. However, its magnitude was minuscule com­ pared to that of its Polish counterpart. ln the Archival Bureau of the Citizen Movements in Leipzig, only about six different under­ ground journals have been gathered. ln contrast to Poland, the East German samizdat and the intra­ church debates constituted a training ground for only a few peo­ ple. Society at large remained largely unaware of both samizdat and church-oriented production. Furthermore, the divide between them and the official publications was absolute, and so they could not serve as a springboard for an official publicistic or artistic ca­ reer.

An Identity of One 's Own A sense of alienation or the establishment of a critical distance from society is often seen as both a prerequisite and a condition of being an intellectual. This sense of alienation has in turn been as­ sociated with the claim to a monopoly on truth. Only an intellec­ tual, Mannheim ( 1 936, 1 55- 64) among others argued, can develop a holistic, objective, true perspective on society because of his "free-floating" nature-the state of freedom from constraining insti­ tutional or class affiliations. lt is seldom pointed out that free-floating intellectuals have sometimes sought to overcome their estrangement from society by advocating the broader social interests of the working class, na-

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31

tion, society, social movements, developing countries, and so on. For my purposes, it is even more interesting that many intellectuals have felt a sense of belonging to a narrower group: a generation or an intellectual elite. This second type of belonging has been their main source of moral and intellectual strength. This thesis sheds light on the problem of why the East German dissident move­ ment-in contrast to its Polish counterpart-produced no great intellectuals. Many Polish educated opposition members managed to establish themselves among the most prominent-Western, with a few East­ ern exceptions-European intellectuals, those who reflect upon the social and moral problems of our times and defend "basic human values against their contemporary threats" ( Sicinski 1 99 1 , 6-7). The Polish opposition stylized itself as a heroic guardian of moral purity and intellectual perfection and issued its own monopolistic claim on truth and superior morality against the waning claim of the Polish communist state. The exchanges with 'the West'-either direct or mediated by the sympathetic émigré community­ sustained the core of the Polish opposition morally and financially, helped it to realize a bid for elite status in a national as well as an international community, and boosted the intellectuals' self-image. The opposition overcame its existential anxiety and sense of es­ trangement from society in another way. Step by step, it worked out the contours of what amounted to a reversed hierarchy of so­ cial status ( Flam 1 996, 1 1 5). At the top, the opposition placed the revered 'Exemplars' who were responsible for the more recent roll of honor and gave off an aura in which the younger opposition members could bathe. Towards the remaining three groups-what we might call the 'Accomodationists', the 'Aspirationists', and the 'Turncoats'-it harbored predominantly negative feelings. The structure of the Polish opposition, which promoted sym­ bolic integration and social resonance, differed markedly from that of its East German counterpart. ln Poland, first KSS 'KOR', then Solidarity dominated the oppositional scene in terms of organiza­ tion, resources, and so on. Their leading members were able to speak out from prominent positions and so had an extremely good opportunity to achieve some social impact. The self-imposed pur­ pose of seeking common platforms resulted in an exchange of ideas and many discussion rounds, which underpinned nearly every circulated text, petition, or open protest letter. This purpose and practice elevated the discussion by at least one level of abstrac­ tion. One such common platform, the KSS 'KOR' Declaration, de­ scribed current Polish maladies and pinpointed totalitarianism as

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their cause. This document set out KOR's goal as the achievement of full civic and human rights in Poland. ln contrast to their Polish counterparts, East German dissidents did not see themselves as standing shoulder to shoulder with the most prominent European intellectuals. They were modest, even deferential, and tended to look eastward: "...when I was 1 8 years old I was not as politicized as Michnik. Oh well, even today I would not [dare to] compare myself to Michnik, heaven forbid" (interview conducted by the author). For them, as for many ordi­ nary East Germans, Poland was 'the West', the land of freedom and open dissent. There one could attend jazz concerts, see modern films and theater productions, and engage in free political discus­ sions in a circle of friends, even at university. Like many • of their fellow citizens, East German dissenters had internalized a belief in the 'bad, rotten' West and the 'good, exemplary' East, while giving a new twist to the idea. They looked up to Adam Michnik or Václav Havel and wished for similar comrades or leaders at home. Slowly they built up a spiritual community with and benefited from ex­ changes with 'the East.' An East German émigré community in the West never coalesced-only a few, very few individuals helped to establish a bridgehead. Until the mid 1 980s, when the Western media was allowed in and began to play a mediating role, East German dissent had to sustain itself with virtually no help from the West. The East German dissidents also enjoyed very little of the kind of mutual adoration so typical of the members of the numerous in­ groups in the Polish opposition. For example, the prominent dis­ senter Barbel Bohley, who initiated the New Forum in 1 989 and the "Round-tables from the Bottom-up" in 1 990, associated distinc­ tion with persona! development, personality, or the achievement of a position in the formai structure: commenting on her fellow dissenters organized in the Initiative Peace and Human Rights (which she co-founded), she concluded that most group members did not meet these criteria. Even for those who did, she does not seem to have felt much enthusiasm: "What 1... regretted [slightly] was always that [the opposition] was more or less [made up of social] outsiders... That is to say, they had all been kicked out of their professions-mostly on the grounds of their political activi­ ties-or were not permitted to study and so they had problems. For this reason a ghetto-mentality developed among us... Some people were niore prominent because of their development, their educa­ tion or personality. Apart from them there was a whole bunch of people who were always just 'around' and did not really contribute

Dissenting Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters

33

anything creatively; who, solely because they participated in the thinking of the group, felt 'oppositional"' (Interview with Bohley in Findeis 1 994, 51 ). lnterview material indicates that many dissenters saw them­ selves and one another as drop-outs and possibly failures. ln con­ trast to their Polish (or Czechoslovak) counterparts, they did not create an inverse hierarchy of social status in terms of which they could find satisfaction in at least some aspects of their life in dis­ sent: instead, their focus remained fixed on the official criteria of success (higher education, professional career, good housing). Unaided by their own symbolic production (Flam 1 997 and 1 998), many dissenters had to cope with the self-doubt and insecurity which the communist authorities had instructed the secret service, the Stasi, to spread among them (Rüddenklau 1 992, 37). ln East Germany no single group critical of the regime rose to dominance. A few attempts were made to create a shared platform or closer forms of co-operation among the scattered groups, but they failed (Gutzeit 1 993, 89-90; Rüddenklau 1 992, 32). lndividual dissenters apparently distrusted each other so deeply and, at the same time, cherished group autonomy so much that they refused to participate in any larger communication networks or debates. Criticism of the SED state remained pointillistic: no shared social vision emerged. East German dissenters shared their Polish counterparts' pas­ sionate devotion for the values threatened within or by the SED state, such as truth, autonomy, freedom of opinion, pluralism, dia­ logue, and so on. But they never defined themselves as exclusive value bearers. With the best known exception of the lnitiative Peace and Human Rights, they never went as far as to confront the state outright or to call it totalitarian. Most internalized a mixture of socialist and Christian values (Elvers 1 994, 226-27). They re­ jected exploitative capitalism, the hedonistic consumer society, and formai democracy. lt was not their adherence to capitalist de­ mocracy, but their idealism which alienated them from an East German society which did not live up to its own ideals. The pater­ nalistic SED state succeeded in the sense that many of its dissenting children did not completely reject it, but rather experienced an intense urge towards reform. They tried out a number of peaceful means to encourage the SED state to show its integrity, to act on its own words. They never went as far as to pose outright a monopo­ listic claim on truth and superior morality.

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Intellectual Charisma and Risk-Taking Intellectuals are "knights of the word", and have a taste for the ab­ solute (Reader 1 987, 1 1 0). A full-fledged intellectual claims a char­ ismatic power which derives from his historical pedigree and dis­ played integrity, the accumulated value reservoirs of his kind, and his willingness to take risks for the sake of the word. As far as French and Polish intellectuals are concerned it may indeed be the case that these characteristics constitute the most important pillars of their charisma (ibid., 2- 5, 86; see also Jacoby 1 987, 13- 1 4, 7377): they are related in that they function as guarantees that propagated ideas are indeed truthful and valuable. I have analyzed elsewhere why and how the Polish dissenting in­ tellectuals leaned on the "noble", "tolerant", "democratic", "honor­ able", and "heroic" version of the past (Flam 1 996). Here let me note merely that they claimed continuity with specific glorious predecessors: the progressive, open-minded Polish nobility and their descendants, the intelligentsia, whose representatives risked their lives in numerous national and revolutionary struggles and, later, in the Polish Resistance. I have also shown (Flam 1 996 and 1 998) that the opposition drew on a code of honor with national and communist historical roots. lt identified informing on others, withdrawing from the opposition, and leaving the country with a loss of face. This code raised the symbolic costs of collaborating with the regime and of individual exit. Both the evoked past and the rewards available under the code soothed persecution-related anxiety, investing with meaning the individual suffering endured during arrests, house-searches, imprisonment, and so forth. The ethical program of the opposition called for the mobiliza­ tion of such virtues as integrity, consistency, duty, and loyalty; it portrayed opposition members as their embodiment, and pro­ jected a positive image of its oppositional life-style, which was shaped by self-sacrifice, good works, and an unrelenting search for truth. The final pillar of charisma was the displayed willingness to take risks and to suffer for the common good. It was common knowl­ edge that prominent opposition members risked different forms of repression, ranging from shadowing, house-searches, and short periods under arrest, to (often temporary) bans on study and work, as well as longer periods of imprisonment-the most prominent oppositional activists (such as Kuroó, Modzelewski, and Michnik) had imposing arrest and incarceration records. Risk-taking testified

Dissentíng lntellectuals and Plaín Díssenters

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to their courage and to their readiness to sacrifice persona! happi­ ness and everyday comforts for their beliefs. Their intellectual work was bathed in the glory of their heroism. ln sum, the prominent Polish dissenting intellectuals, seconded by many others, took the risk of offending and of retribution. They accepted long prison sentences, taking them for granted as part of the oppositional role. Not quite so their East German counterparts. Numerous interviews with East German dissidents show that they were sometimes willing to spend a year or two in jail, but this was the limit: they were quite ready to allow West Germany to buy them out in accordance with an agreement which the two German states had reached in the early 1 970s. The group of prominent dissenters who were arrested in connection with the Liebknecht­ Luxemburg demonstration in 1 987 also opted for West Germany at the very time when the dissent movement seemed more solidaris­ tic and co-ordinated than ever before. Neither the average nor these prominent dissenters had a sym­ bolic world at their disposal which would have made longer im­ prisonment meaningful (Flam 1 997 and 1 998): they did not engage the concept of honor, for example, because it was compromised by its association with German nationalism and Hitlerism. The German past, although it did have honorable non-communist ele­ ments, such as the resistance group White Rose, found its way into the school texts largely in a contorted fashion. ln contrast to Po­ land, dissidents did not deconstruct the official version of the past to heighten the symbolic meaning of these more positive elements, which therefore could not be deployed against the apparently all­ powerful anti-fascist myth which portrayed East German state leaders as fearless fighters against and victims ofHitler. Like their Polish counterparts, East German dissidents took their action models from national literature, but the value reservoirs of these literatures were quite different. As a brief glance into Ger­ man literary history shows (Flam 1 996 and 1 998), German poets and philosophers produced a distinctly 'German' version of the concepts of conscience and self-realization, the Bildungsroman, which Thomas Mann called a "typical German" literary form. ln an effort to legitimate their 'humanist', 'anti-fascist' rule, the East German communist authorities approved and made widely acces­ sible both the Bildungsroman and the newer literature which built on it. Thematically, this literary genre revolves around individuals who try to live according to their conscience and/or to realize themselves, an endeavor which often puts them on a collision course with society and/or the state. This is a literature, one might

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say, which carries within it a seed of dissent, and indeed it was constitutive of East German dissidence, as the contrasting case analysis shows (Fiam 1 996). The East German ideal of 'self-realization' was not so much mod­ ern as German because it mirrored the ideal embodied in the Bildungsroman. Most importantly, again in keeping with this liter­ ary model, a typical East German dissenter realized his or her self by joining, learning from, and then leaving-dissatisfied-a number of social groups. Unlike their Polish counterparts, East German dissenters did not evolve along with their oppositional collectivi­ ties, nor did they stay attached to them throughout their life: 'bourgeois individualization', not the dissident movement as such was important for the East German dissenters. From the point of view of their individual life projects, it was morally neutral whether they remained in their repressive country or left for West Germany. 'Bourgeois' ideals led one into the movement, but also­ when push came to shove-back out of it again. As already noted, the East German dissent movement was young; its history was brief-an older generation and a degree of cohesion were missing. The essential preconditions for forging a collective life and ideals were not in place to restrain the youthful individualists. The young East German movement also failed to re-shape the highly persona! feelings of anxiety, marginalization, and frustrating ineffectuality which aggregated to endanger the movement itself. Leaving the country was but an extreme form of disaffection. At least two large emigration waves-in 1 984 and 1 988-were under­ stood as expressions of a heightened sense of ineffectuality: " [ln 1 984] those who wanted to stay in the country were on a search for motives or justified themselves with a hope of change in the GDR. 'Do I stay or do I apply for a permit to leave?', was the key question for my generation." (ln Kroh 1 989, 238) "My husband and I belonged also to the doubters [ in 1 984] . We asked ourselves: Does what we do have any future? Do we still have hope? Has anything fundamental really changed in this country be­ cause of the activities of the peace movement? Our son will soon start school. Ali he has to look forward to is what we have revolted against for so long. How would we get on? To continue in this way would mean that we would often be in fear. The possibility of an ar­ rest... simply had to [be] include [d] in the calculation ... A friend had the authority to take in our child in case something happened to us. We had taken care, [like] many activists. Somehow one learns to live with it, but we did not want to have to endure it [ all our lives] . (ibid., 1 78)

Dissenttng Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters

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Dissent was a marginal and marginalized phenomenon in East Germany. Most dissenters suffered under the psychological impact of the educational, occupational, and housing 'failures' deliberately orchestrated by the security services. Although specific dissident groups helped the 'misfits' feel that they ultimately belonged, they did not help them to cope with the private feelings of failure, the sense of political and persona! powerlessness so typical of these 'drop-outs'. Not only local groups, but theorists of dissent, 2 the movement as such, and finally the samizdat (Fiam 1 997; Dalos 1 989, 97), which bloomed from 1 987 on, failed to address the vital issues of ineffectuality, marginalization, and repression which, as the interviews conducted for this research make clear, nearly every dissenter and dissent group faced (Fiam 1 997). As a result of its symbolic deficiencies, the world of dissent re­ mained porous, unprotected, at many points open to the official standards of evaluation. ln contrast to their Polish counterparts, therefore, the East German dissenters were starkly exposed to typical oppositional fears and anxieties. Unsustained by the requi­ site cognitive and moral categories or rules, many of them played with the notion of exile to reduce their angst and, when arrested, interrogated, or sentenced, readily succumbed to fear. The symbolic world of dissent was unable to carry the ideal of self-realization through the prison gates; on the contrary, when individual dissenters faced the prospect of a long term of im­ prisonment, they became overwhelmed by fear concerning their own and family life projects which could not be realized while they were incarcerated. An East German dissenter, otherwise will­ ing to pursue the romantic project of self-realization and to suffer the effects of state persecution for its sake, faced with prison turned into a rational egoist. The costs of dissent suddenly seemed much too high. Quitting made more sense. This is why, I contend, so many East German dissenters opted for exit. Even though they strongly disliked West Germany, they let themselves be bought out by it. Their Polish counterparts, by contrast, felt that they could realize their romantic, heroic project equally well whether they were incarcerated or not. This brings us back to the original question about the causes of the inability of the East German dissidents to convince the voters about the desirability of their political programs: if the East Ger­ man dissidents were not willing to suffer for their own idea(l)s, how could these idea(l)s be worth anything? lt is quite likely that the East German voting public did not back the idea(l)s of partici­ patory democracy and the market economy, not only because it

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had doubts about them as such, but because it was unwilling to place its trust in the people who had proposed them.

Conclusion For students of the intellectual the extent to which formai structures underpin eminence is an intriguing question. I have suggested that the state, whether as employer, sponsor, or opponent, plays a pivotal role in this respect. The Polish party-state much more readily ac­ knowledged the eminence of its intellectuals-even those who were its opponents-than its East German counterpart. Moreover, many Polish intellectuals were willing to nurture and nominate their own successors. Both these factors allowed for intergenerational continu­ ity and self-assur;mce in intellectual dissent. This suggests that only if the state or other widely recognized authorities-including universities or private presses-use the same criteria of eminence as the intellectuals themselves, and only if these intellectuals value dissent for its own sake, will the promi­ nence gained by their own methods within their own circles be acknowledged and reinforced beyond those circles. Moreover, the very same formai structures (state, universities, professorial posts, professions, journals, presses, media) may have either a reinforcing or an undermining impact on dissenting intellectuals, depending on whether and to what extent they are tolerant of social critique. Only if they are tolerant of a limited amount-not too much-of dissent, will distinction and prominence be guaranteed for a few dissenting intellectuals. Otherwise, dissent will either be banned or its value downgraded. ln Poland it was possible for a long time to act the part of a suc­ cessful intellectual without a professorial chair (Reader 1 987; Jacoby 1 987). Rather than attributing this phenomenon solely to the Polish historical tradition, I am tempted to argue for the decisive role of the infrastructure of dissent and samizdat in sustaining the visibility and aura of Polish intellectuals. Because of a unique power constellation involving the party-state, the intellectuals, and the workers which produced an unusually tolerant regime, between 1 956 and 1 989 an entire network of clubs, professional and student associations, stu­ dent and regular theaters, journals and weeklies-including Catholic ones-came into being which were quite accessible to those banned and half-banned from official life. Periodically, the authorities re­ pressed some or all of them, but never to the point of complete suf-

Dissenting Intellectuals and Plain Dissenters

39

focation. The official world was porous and, along with the 'second circuit', helped to sustain Polish dissenting intellectuals, not only in the sense that these intellectuals could nurture each other through discussions and polemics undertaken within official and unofficial spheres, but because with the aid of both, the intellectuals' contact with the public was sustained. ln East Germany it was impossible for dissenters, especially if they had once been successful artists or professors, or had ac­ quired scientific titles, to retain their previous social status. They lost their established social contacts and access points to official institutions and so to the general public. Ostracism from the circles of comrades- colleagues and exclusion from official institutions, instituted and orchestrated by the Stasi, often managed to kill the spirit since there was little in the way of social support and, there­ fore, samiz dat opportunities to compensate for the loss. The infra­ structure of dissent and the resources flowing in from the West were very small compared to Poland. The growing number of dis­ senters and the legalized entrance of the Western media into the GDR promised to change all this, but the East German dissidents failed to utilize these new opportunities by declining the role of martyr. Instead, they left for or were bought out by West Germany.

Notes 1 The standard argument on this point is that East Germany presented its critics with the unique problem of 'two states, one nation'. The critics wished to remain loyal to 'their' anti-fascist, anti-capitalist state and failed to manage the conversion of the regime's reformers into outright opponents of the system in the way their Polish or Czechoslovak coun­ terparts had done Ooppke 1 995); at best they remained silent. This ar­ gument holds perhaps for the already established intellectuals and art­ ists, all born before the Second World War, but it fails to explain why the subsequent generations which formed their dissident movement did not give rise to their own intellectuals. 2 The narrator is referring to the fact that Biermann was expatriated in 1 976 while on a concert tour in West Germany. Havemann was put un­ der house-arrest in the same year. 3 Theorists of dissent-see, for example, the essays by Schorlemmer, Neubert, Poppe, and Falcke collected in Pollack ( 1 990)-stylized dissi­ dent groups as necessary and desirable "disquiet groups," endangered, self-doubting, and ridiculed "embodiments of truthfulness, hope and

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courage", "counter-culture", "critical potential", "the second public", and so on. But these stylizations do not seem to have penetrated the auto­ biographical accounts of the dissenters interviewed by me or others, perhaps because they failed to address central cognitive and emotional problems faced by nearly every dissenter.

References Dalos, György. 1 989. '"Grenzfall", "Umweltblatter" und die anderen: Die DDR-Szene im Selbstbildnis ihrer Veröffentlichungen.' Ostkreuz. Politik. Geschichte. Kultur. 93 - 1 0 1 D i Palma, Giuseppe. 1 99 1 . 'Legitimation from the Top o f Civil Society: Politico-Cultural Change in Eastern Europe.' World Politics 44: 49-80. Elvers, Wolfgang. 1 994. 'Politische Einstellungen der Gruppenvertreter vor der Wende.' ln Findeis et al. ( 1 994, 222 -40). Fehr, Helmut. 1 992. 'Unabhangige Öffentlichkeit und Soziale Bewegungen in Ost-Mitteleuropa.' Habilitationsarbeit. Politische Wissenschaften der Freien Universitat Berlin. --. 1 995. 'Von der Dissidenz zur Gegen-Elite. Ein Vergleich der poli­ tischen Opposition in Polen, der Tschecho-slowakei, Ungarn und der DDR ( 1 976 bis 1 989).' ln Zwischen Selbstbehauptung und Anpassung, ed. Ulrike Poppe, Rainer Eckert, and Ilko-Sascha Kowalczuk, 3 0 1 - 34. Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag. Findeis, Hagen, Detlef Pollack, and Manuel Schilling. 1 994. Die Entzaube­ rung des Politischen. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Fiam, Helena. 1 996a. 'Anxiety and the Successful Oppositional Construc­ tion of Societal Reality: The Case of KOR.' Mobilization 1 (1): 1 0 3 - 2 1 . --. 1 996b. 'Through Bourgeois lndividuation to Dissent and Exit in the GDR.' Paper prepared for the regular session 'Collective Behavior and Cultures of Opposition: Recent European Collective Action,' organized at the 9 1 st Annual Meeting of the American Sociological Association, New York, N. Y., 1 6-20 August 1 996. --. 1 997. 'Die poröse und die wasserdichte Sinnwelt der Opposition: der ostdeutsche und der polnische Fall.' ln Zwischen Verweigerung und Protest, ed. Detlef Pollack and Dieter Rink. Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag. --. 1 998. Mosaic of Fear. Poland and East Germany before 1989. Bradenton FL: East European Monographs; distributed by Columbia University Press. Fricke, Karl Wilhelm. 1 984. Opposition und Widerstand in der DDR. Köln: Verlag Wissenschaft und Politik. Friszke, Andrzej. 1 994. Opozycja polityczna w PRL 1945- 1980 [Political opposition in Poland 1 945-80 ] . London: ANEKS. Gutzeit, Martin. 1 993. 'Der Weg in die Opposition. Über das Selbstver­ standnis und die Rolle der "Opposition" im Herbst 1 989 in der ehemali-

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gen DDR.' ln Polittsche Opposition in Deutschland und im internation­ alen Vergleich, ed. Walter Euchner, 84- 1 1 4. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Hirszowicz, Maria. 1 986. Coercion and Control in Communist Society: The Visible Hand of Bureaucracy. Brighton, Sussex: Wheatsheaf. Jacoby, Russell. 1 987. The Last Intellectuals: American Culture in the Age ofAcademe. New York: The Noonday Press. Joppke, Christian. 1 995. East German Dtsstdents and the Revolution of 1989: Social Movement in a Lenintst Regime. London: Macmillan. Köpke, Wulf. 1 982. 'Antifaschistische Literatur am Beispiel Deutschlands.' Propyliien Geschichte der Literatur, vol. 6, ed. Erika Wischer, 97- 1 1 7. Berlin: Propylaen Verlag. Kroh, Ferdinand, ed. 1 989. 'Freiheit ist immer Freiheit... ' Die Andersdenk­ enden in der DDR. Berlin: Ullstein Sachbuch. Kubik, Jan. 1 994. The Power of Symbols against the Symbols of Power. University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press. Kusy, Miroslav. 1 985. 'Chartism and Real Socialism.' ln The Power and the Powerless: Citizens against the State in Eastern Europe, ed. J. Keane, 1 52 -77. London: Hutchinson. Mannheim, Karl. 1 936. /deology and Utopia. New York: Harvest Books. Meuschel, Sigrid. 1 99 1 . 'Wandel durch Auflehnung. Thesen zum Verfall bürokratischer Herrschaft in der DDR.' ln Demokrattscher Umbruch in Osteuropa, ed. Rainer Deppe, Helmut Dubiel, and Ulrich Rödel, 26-47. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. üst, David. 1 990. Solidarity and the Polittcs of Anti-Politics. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Pakulski, Jan. 1 990. 'Eastern Europe and "Legitimacy Crisis".' Australian Journal ofPolitical Science 25 : 272 -88 Pollack, Detlef. 1 996. 'Alles wandelt sich, nur der Ossi bleibt stets der gleiche?' Frankfurter Rundschau 1 6. Pollack, Detlef, ed. 1 990. Die Legitimitiit der Freiheit: polittsch alternative Gruppen in der DDR unter dem Dach der Kirche. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Land. Reader, Keith. 1 987. Intellectuals and the Lejt in France since 1968. New York: St Martin's Press. Rucht, Dieter. 1 996. 'German Unification, Democratization, and the Role of Social Movements: A Missed Opportunity?' ln Mobilization 1 (1): 35-

62.

Rüddenklau, Wolfgang. 1 992. Störenfried. DDR-opposition 1986- 1989. Mit Texten aus den 'Umweltbliittern'. Berlin: BasisDruck. Skilling, H. Gordon. 1 989. Samizdat and Independent Society in Central and Eastern Europe. Columbus: Ohio State University Press. Sicitíski, Andrzej. 1 99 1 . 'Przedmowa: Humanista - pokolenie - wartosci.' ln Sens Uczesnictwa. Wokól idei Jana Strzeleckiego, ed. Andrzej Si­ citíski, 5 -9. Warszawa: Polska Akademia Nauk, lnstytut Filozofii i Soc­ jologii.

The Strategies of Intellectuals: Romania under Communist Rule in Comparative Perspective IRINA CULIC

Introduction The communist interlude in the history of the East Central Euro­ pean countries gave rise to a wide range of social mutations, the most important of which was probably the transformation of men­ talities. While the systematic re-actualization of historical facts ( George Orwell's 1984 captures this phenomenon extremely we11) 1 and historical objects ( the demolition of churches and the construction of megalomaniac edifices in Ceau�escu's Romania are only two examples) is all too tangible, the distortion of cultural forms and discourse is much more difficult to address adequately. The Romanian repressive apparatus operated in two stages: first, it annihilated the cultural and political elite which had emerged during the liberal and Western-oriented period between the two World Wars; secondly, it created its own 'intelligentsia' and diq everything in its power to co-opt it to further the purposes of the regime. The typical intellectual who advanced through political channels-on the Soviet model-in the 1 960s was the writer who praised communist achievements in works in which the manda­ tory positive hero was a worker 'building' socialism and which were pervaded by a 'spontaneously' enthusiastic atmosphere. This chapter seeks to investigate the mechanisms of the cultural and mentality change which took place in Romania as a result of the struggles which characterized culture and politics under com­ munist rule. It attempts to synthesize the strategies of Romanian intellectuals between 1 945 and 1 989, 2 comparing them with those adopted by Hungarian intellectuals. The period 1 97 1 -89 is consid­ ered in the greatest detail, including such key topics as the lack of political dissidence or solidarity within intellectual ranks ( even the suggestion of politically-motivated action was likely to lead to ex­ clusion), 'resistance through aesthetics', and 'bottom-drawer litera-

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ture'.3 Instead of attempting to reach conclusions we outline the consequences of the Romanian intellectuals' communist legacy for their performance in the political arena after December 1 989.

Intellectuals as Possessors of Specific Cultural Capital The word 'intellectual' was used as a substantive for the first time by Clemenceau, and came into use in France in the 1 890s as a de­ scription of the group of prominent defenders of Alfred Dreyfus (see Bodin 1 964, 7; Gagnon 1 987, 5). The adjective 'intellectual' opposed 'intellectual activity' to 'manual activity' and signified a 'gout pour les choses de /'esprit '. S. M. Lipset ( 1 958) gives a more comprehensive definition of intellectuals as those who create, dis­ tribute, and practice culture. The evolution of the notion that history consecrates intellectuals only insofar as they are conscious of their situation and role made intellectual status synonymous with political engagement. Journals such as Esprit, founded in 1 932, and Les temps modernes ( 1 945), contributed to the development of the 'engagement of the intellec­ tual', to the extent that the description 'engaged intellectual' would have seemed redundant. The term was further refined in Max We­ ber's distinction between the ethics of conviction and the ethics of responsibility. Two 'ideal-type' approaches have been used in theoretical stud­ ies in an attempt to establish a link between social institutions and intellectuals. The tradition initiated by Karl Mannheim (1 936) en­ visaged the intellectual as the carrier of universal reason and able to transcend mundane interests (see also Benda 1 993; Shils 1 969). This type of analysis overlooks the impact of the social context on individual behavior: the political affiliation of intellectuals and the ideologies that divide them are usually ignored in favor of their marginality. The second approach, inspired by Marxism, conceives of intellectual production-culture, ideas, visions of the world-as determined by social stmcture, the social position of the actors, the 'demand' for intellectual jobs, and so on (Gouldner 1 979; Gramsci 1 97 1 ; Konrád and Szelényi 1 979). This approach usually overstates the social uniformity of intellectuals, taking the view that intellectuals as such have a common class situation: Gouldner holds that intellectuals form a class because they have a common

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4S

relation to the means of production-they control 'cultural' or 'human' capital, that is, languages, techniques, and skills that gen­ erate income and status (Gouldner 1 979).' Gramsci offers an interesting analysis of intellectuals in terms of their social relations: he was the first to recognize and analyze the complexity of intellectual social-structural ties and the manner in which they influence their ideological outlook (see Brym 1 987, 204-205). Gramsci holds that each new class creates jobs for intel­ lectuals who are recruited from-and are therefore organically re­ lated to-that class. These 'organic' intellectuals must confront the 'traditional' intellectuals, who come from an older, dominant class which exercises considerable ideological influence over the rest of the population. As the power of the emerging class increases, its organic intellectuals struggle "to assimilate and conquer ideologi­ cally the traditional intellectuals." The general argument against this second approach is that cul­ ture and social structure should not be conceptualized as di­ chotomous levels of analysis (see Lamont 1 987, 1 67). Some caution is probably required whenever the term 'intellectuals' is used in a context that would suggest a united collectivity. 4 1 believe that intellectuals do not have any form of class consciousness, and that their struggles to legitimize their 'interpretation' of the social world (including their attempts to win political power) do not constitute class-inspired action. 1 would also avoid the term 'intelligentsia', which was first used in the 1 830s and 1 840s to des­ ignate educated and 'progressive' citizens at the margins of the official elite. It is difficult to distinguish the 'intelligentsia' from 'intellectuals': generally speaking, an intelligentsia tends to emerge as a more self-conscious collectivity ab ovo, and feels itself to be alienated and in revolt against the status quo. The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has developed an approach that offers a larger and more consistent framework of analysis, built on phenomenological assumptions, and conceives of culture as part of the social structure, a system of shared meanings and symbols pro­ duced by people in determinate, structured relations (see Lamont 1 987). ln its institutionalized form, culture shapes status bounda­ ries, so participating in the production of stratification systems. lt also contributes to the institutionalization of power relations. Bourdieu's approach conceives of intellectuals as one of many par­ ticipants in the production and reproduction of the social struc­ ture: as producers of symbols, they contribute to the production of culture. ln what follows I utilize this approach as a framework for my analysis.

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Defining the social world as 'accumulated history', Bourdieu gives a general definition of 'capital'-of which financial capital is only a part-as accumulated labor, which, in an 'embodied' form, permits private agents to appropriate social energy. He asserts that the immanent structure of the social world-that is, the set of con­ straints governing reality, determining the opportunities for suc­ cess of different social practices-is given by the distribution of the different types or subtypes of capital at a given moment ( Bourdieu 1 983, 242). The social world is characterized by an economy of practices in which mercantile exchange is just one of many types of exchange. The difficulty of this approach lies in the ways in which particular practices and objects can be converted into money, particularly because such conversion is repudiated by the very production of such practices and objects. The embodiment of cultural capital ( long-term dispositions of mind and body) can be expressed in terms of 'culture', 'cultivation', 'Bíldung', or what one might call 'accumulated work on oneself. Such capital by its very nature operates as symbolic capital-that is, unrecognized as such, and conceived of rather as legitimate com­ petence-and functions in accordance with the logic of distinction: "any given cultural competence derives a scarcity value from its position in the distribution of capital and yields profits of distinc­ tion for its owner" ( ibid.). 'Objectified' cultural capital ( paintings, books, and so forth) can be appropriated both materially and sym­ bolically; 'institutionalized' cultural capital consists of such things as academic qualifications-certificates of cultural competence­ which provide their owner with conventional, constant, legally guaranteed cultural value. Social capital is "the aggregate of the actual or potential re­ sources which are linked to possession of a durable network of more or less institutionalized relationships of mutual acquaintance and recognition" ( ibid., 248), which provides 'creditworthiness' in a number of senses. It exists only in material and/or symbolic ex­ changes which help to maintain it-that is, praxis. lts quantity de­ pends on the extension and intensity of relationships in the net­ work, which is the product of an endless effort directed towards institutionalization and investments that transform contingent relations into necessary relations and elective ones. The conversion of different types of capital in social exchange is ambiguous, presupposing recognition ( or its failure), good and bad faith, and a subtle economy of time. The convertibility of dif­ ferent types of capital is the basis for strategies for reproducing capital.

The Strategies oflntellectuals: Romania under Communtst Rule

47

Bourdieu defines the field in relational terms, as a network or configuration of objective relations between positions. The various positions are objectively defined by their existence-the determi­ nation they impose upon their occupants by their situs in the structure-as well as by their objective relation to other positions ( domination, subordination, homology, and so on). Every field is considered to have a specific logic, determined by the form of dominant symbolic capital. The logic of a field might be compared to that of a game: it has stakes ('enjeux'), it makes an appeal to the illusio-that is, the investment in the game ( players do not play on the hasis of a contract)-and it has trump cards ( the hierarchy structuring different kinds of capital). The structure of the field is determined by the state of the rela­ tions of force between the players: that is, by the volume and struc­ ture of each player's capital. Its dynamics are shaped by the players' strategies which are a function of the volume and structure of their capital at a particular moment in time, and of their social trajecto­ ries and habitus in the prolonged relation to a definite distribution of objective opportunities. Habitus is another of Bourdieu's key concepts, and refers to the system of acquired habits or schemata which function as categories of perception and thought or as or­ ganizing principles for practice. To give a more condensed formu­ lation, habitus is a system that generates practices. Bourdieu re­ jects structuralist objectivism, but he does not in turn adopt a sub­ jectivist position. He defines the strategy as a product of the prac­ tical sense for a social, historically defined game, obtained through participation in social activities. On this understanding, a strategy must be distinguished from conscious and individual choices, guided by rational thought or affective motivations. If the state is taken to constitute a meta-field, in the final analysis it may be understood as the holder of a monopoly, not only on legitimate physical violence, but on legitimate symbolic violence. Historical analysis reveals a process of concentration of different kinds of capital, resulting in the private ( individual) monopoliza­ tion of public authority and the emergence of a new form of capi­ tal, state capital. This meta-capital exercises power over the rate of exchange of other kinds of capital and their reproduction ( Bour­ dieu 1 992, 1 1 4). The products offered by the political field are instruments for perceiving and expressing the social world ( prin­ ciples of di-vision), and their state and accessibility shape the dis­ tribution of opinions in a given population. The primary unit of analysis, on this approach, is discourse. 5 It discloses the system of rules that permits us to produce statements

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and to order them in terms of value judgments. More specifically, I believe that intellectual activity-including the social or political engagement of the intellectual-is conditioned, assuming or intro­ ducing value systems, even when it pretends to be neutral. The product of intellectual activity is in most cases impregnated with politics: culture in its usual-in contrast, for example, to its anthro­ pological-sense is a form of praxis. As articulators of the cultural order of society, intellectuals produce statements with an implicit political content; more than that, the ideology supported by each faction represents the means of reproducing the corresponding social order.6 To locate intellectuals in the social field, as producers of ideas and manipulators of cultural symbols, we must differentiate be­ tween (i) intellectuals as legitimators and servants of the prevailing social order, and (ii) critical intellectuals, forces for changing the status quo. Following the logic of Pareto's foxes and lions, intellec­ tuals provide a 'circulation of elites' between 'clerisy' and 'avant­ garde'.7 Some have developed the hypothesis that, as the symbiosis of political and intellectual institutions advances-hand in hand with opportunities for intellectuals to speak for rather than to power-intellectuals become more of a clerisy and less of an avant­ garde. Within this conceptual framework, the intellectual is a possessor of specific cultural capital, competing for the privileged place of maker and transmitter of the discourses in terms of which we un­ derstand society. He occupies a space of symbolic significance and legitimization-both the place where existing power is served, and the place where alternative consciousnesses or images of social reality are formed.

Romania and Hungary: Some Comparisons The cases of Romania and Hungary, analyzed in a comparative per­ spective, offer an interesting view of how, on the one hand, the ideological struggles of the socialist state, and, on the other, those of the intellectuals-comprising the different factions that shaped the symbolic-political field-led to a particular (and perhaps ex­ pected) outcome in terms of national ideology and the social sys­ tem known generically as post-communism.

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49

The lntellectual Tradition There is a certain similarity in the intellectual currents that shaped Romanian and Hungarian conceptions of the social and political order, from the turn of the twentieth century to the commencement of communist rule in the 1 940s. Less obsessed by the political as­ pects of the national problem than their nineteenth-century coun­ terparts had been, Romanian intellectuals between the wars pro­ duced divided discourses. Right-oriented scholars appealed to the traditional origins of Romanian culture-which, to their chagrin, had been 'perverted by Western values'-and emphasized its peculiarities (orthodoxy, original cultural-geographical matrix). The work of the intellectuals that promoted a Western-type modernism were per­ haps more durable: for example, Eugen Lovinescu's theory of syn­ chronism, based on a two-stage process of cultural production­ imitation ofWestern forms, followed by their original development. Hungary's intellectual scene at the beginning of the twentieth century featured two movements of particular interest: 8 (i) a group of intellectuals förmed around the journal Nyugat, and (ii) a self-proclaimed 'radical bourgeoisie', which was the first group of intellectuals to embark upon social and political analyses in which the Hungarian situation was compared with a general Western model conceived of as worthy of imitation. Later, in the 1 930s, a 'narodnik' (populist) movement emerged for the first time, which formulated a detailed Eastern-oriented model. ln this period, a so­ called 'Third Way' was worked out, that would go beyond both Western and Eastern models: although it varied from one author to another, it generally took the form of a moral critique of capitalism and socialism. Without having any real political influence, this or­ ganic intellectual movement (termed 'népies' signifying 'folk', with connotations of the countryside and 'pure Hungarian' in contrast to 'Jewish') found its counterpart in another movement, which called itself 'urbanism'. lt is clear that the efforts of the intellectuals in both countries were directed towards the determination of social models along two principal axes: the Western and the traditional. The period between the wars is of crucial importance for an understanding of the intellectual strategies of late communism and the early period of transition, because it consistently represented the point of ref­ erence, the source of legitimation for intellectual activities pene­ trating the realm of politics in the late 1 980s, and was responsible for the 'utopian' development of the intellectual models opposed to Marxism-Leninism (particularly in the Romanian case).

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The Establishment of Communist Control over Intellectual Institutions During the late 1 930s and early 1 940s (1 938-44) Romania was ruled by a series of dictatorial regimes (successively, a royal dicta­ torship, the national-legionary state, and a military dictatorship). On the basis of a number of promises and conditions laid down during the Cairo talks of April 1 944, Romania declared war on Germany in August 1 944, despite the fact that the terms of the armistice entailed the abandonment of Romania to the Soviet Un­ ion. The reluctance of the president of the National Peasant Party to take power in August 1 944 resulted in a power vacuum upon which the Communist Party was able to capitalize, and opened the way for Soviet interference in the internal affairs of Romania Oanuary 1 945). ln March 1 945, the first communist government was formed, recognized by Great Britain and the United States. The communist conquest of Romania was a textbook example of a general model found all over East Central Europe.9 The wide­ spread fraud perpetrated during the national elections of Novem­ ber 1 946 notwithstanding, 1 0 London and Washington signed peace treaties with Romania, so legitimizing a government and Parliament which they had declared unrepresentative. After the king's enforced abdication on 30 December 1 948 the 'Popular Democracy' was brought into being. More or less the same scenario characterized the communist takeover in Hungary. It was clear that the occupation of Hungary by the Soviet army would be at best a dubious form of liberation: 1 1 Hungarian public opinion on the issue was divided into three groups-(i) the 'friends' of the 'Soviet Liberator', who took the view that what had taken place was indeed the liberation of Hungary; (ii) those who had expected a less humiliating and more authentic liberation; and (iii) the opponents of any kind of liberation achieved with the help of the Soviets. 1 2 As far as the intellectuals are concerned, the 1 950s were marked chiefly by the establish­ ment of the Soviet system of appointments in the universities and other intellectual institutions, every intellectual profession being placed within its own political and ideological supervisory struc­ ture (for example, a Writers' Union, research institutes, state en­ terprises for music and fine art, and so forth). These new institu­ tions quickly became the scene of ideological struggles, conducted by the Stalinist state, and proceeded to eliminate real and supposed enemies, starting with those associated with the previous regime, the moderates, and even perfectly respectable left-wing intellectu-

The Strategies ofIntellectuals: Romanta under Communist Rule

51

als, who were suspected of a lack of enthusiasm. The heroic inter­ lude of 1 956, when party intellectuals played an important role, left a legacy that would determine the political struggles of the late 1 980s, and achieve the link that is always a source of legitimacy for those seeking power, the link with the masses. 1 3 Events in Romania followed the same course: starting with the execution or imprisonment of former political leaders and the intellectual elite ( those who either did not or could not go into exile), the communists exterminated the intellectual component of Romanian society, including young students and even educated peasants. 14 Romanian intellectual and cultural life was subject to the same controls as in Hungary, commencing with the establish­ ment of the Writers' Union in March 1 949 and the Institute for Literature and Literary Criticism, which was a subordinate school for agitation and propaganda under the control of the Central Committee. So-called 'rehabilitation' ( working for the Party in ex­ change for regaining one's professional privileges) was also intro­ duced in the 1 950s, which was little better than prohibition or physical imprisonment. The actions taken to show solidarity with the Hungarian revolution in 1 956 were also severely punished. This bleak period of the 'consolidation of the regime'-often re­ ferred to as 'the Obsessive Decade'-ended with the general am­ nesty of 1 964.

Apparent Liberalization ín Romania and Hungary It is interesting to compare the situation in both countries at the beginning of the 1 960s and the different course of events taken by the regimes associated with the names of Nicolae Ceau�escu and János Kádár. The ideas of Hungary's intellectuals were shaped by the notion of the 'Third Way', and took the concrete form of democratic socialism. 1 5 Works inspired by this notion-and others based on development of the Western-type model-ascribed an important role to intellectuals in the social order and were charac­ teristically utopian, conceiving of the intellectuals as social engi­ neers (for example, the 'civic radical' Oszkár Jászi), who would be instrumental in bringing about the desired social and political changes. This shaped the manner in which intellectuals defined themselves as political actors in the 1 980s, and marked the begin­ ning of the transition in Hungary. The progressive way in which the 1 960s began in Romania, al­ though it could not eradicate the memory of the traumas of the

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'Obsessive Decade', gave rise to the notion of opposition through aesthetics. 16 The rules governing cultural production were relaxed with a view to creating a cultural bureaucracy, which the Party needed both to maintain and to increase the penetration of party ideology at all levels of society. This apparent liberalization could not keep pace with the growing number of intellectuals pressing for more influence and more rights, however. This became particu­ larly evident at the 1 968 Writers' Conference, when younger writ­ ers tried to get themselves appointed to leading positions at the Institute of Literature and demanded the total abolition of censor­ ship, the decentralization of the institutions of literary production, and greater opportunities to have their work published. The num­ ber of intellectuals attempting to enter the system-and so to ob­ tain access to all its attendant privileges-increased. This intensified the struggles both between intellectuals, and between intellectuals and the Party. The ideological 'guidelines' announced at the 1 969 Party Congress were followed in 1 97 1 by the 'July Theses', which amounted to the commencement of an offensive against the autonomization of culture, stressing the necessary socio-political role of intellectual activity. Over the next few years there was a series of assaults on the independence of such intellectual institu­ tions as the Writers' Union and the Romanian Academy, and of whole fields, such as sociology and psychology, historical research, and cultural publication. The 1 980s were marked by the leadership's transformation of its definition of the character of culture from an elite phenomenon to something belonging to the masses. The institutionalization of the 'Song of Romania' (which began as a national festival) reflected the same exaltation of popular culture. The party leadership also 'neutralized' the Romanian Academy, imposing upon it Elena Ceau�escu, wife of the dictator, who expropriated the Academy's independent funds to the central budget, and forbade new elec­ tions. One result of the Party's assaults on the independence of cultural activity was the division of the cultural field into conflict­ ing sides: occupation of the few positions of influence was vio­ lently disputed, along with the power to define fundamental cul­ tural values. The principal means used by the communist regime in Romania to control its intellectuals were symbolic-ideological in contrast to the material means employed in Hungary. lt adopted a national ideology as a frame of reference, engaging in intellectual conflicts for which, as before, the Nation provided the fundamental vocabu­ lary. According to Verdery, national discourse became so powerful

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53

in the cultural and political life of Romania that, in the end, it un­ dermined the Marxist discourse on which the party leadership was founded (Verdery 1 994, 77). Within the framework of state encouragement of amateurism, strict ideological control in all intellectual institutions in terms of the cult of personality and national ideology, the strategies adopted by the intellectuals were elitism and professional solidar­ ity, in the form of a 'silence' concerning explicit politicking and the political signification of texts. 1 7 "Salvation through culture" (Ion Negoifescu) and "irresponsible aesthetics" (Matei Calinescu), to take two examples, constituted a turn away from history and politics, and the expression of more or less political messages only through the agency of fiction. Professional solidarity amounted to a self-imposed restriction to specific problems, and distancing oneself from any member of the community who initiated open opposition to the communist regime. 18 After the ']uly Theses' the intellectual field in Romania, charac­ terized by the Party's strict central control, tended to polarize be­ tween the so-called 'court poets' (intellectuals serving the authori­ ties) and those intellectuals who favored a Western definition of culture and insisted upon academic competence as the principal criterion of authority. The latter, occupying as they did a marginal position that made it possible for them to make distinctions and to gain a certain distance in the struggle for the definition of culture, 'resisted' central control by affirming that dominance requires something more than universally acknowledged cultural author­ ity-for example, a model of pubik conduct. Culture became the "most practicable means of subsistence during the [communist interlude] " (Andrei Ple�u). Western-oriented intellectuals advo­ cated a form of cultural reproduction different from the official one, in terms of both practice and institutions, and replaced com­ munication based on indirect suppression with directness and openness, democratizing access to philosophy and a particular definition of culture. Evidence of more explicit cultural resistance came in March 1 989, when the poet Mircea Dinescu was excluded from the Party and the Writers' Union for, among other things, giving an interview critical of the regime to the French journal Libération. ln response, a group of seven public figures signed an open letter of protest addressed to the President of the Writers' Union, a gesture with few precedents in Ceau�escu's Romania. The Hungarian bureaucracy, by contrast, in recognition of its in­ ability to supply consumer goods and services in sufficient quanti­ ties, and afraid of the likely social consequences, permitted inde-

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pendent forms of organization, activity, and resources. Kádár's 'social contract' was based on the segregation of different groups and the concomitant differentiation of living standards-this was a policy of social isolation by means of privileges and rewards. By the 1 980s, Hungarian intellectuals had abandoned the pose of uto­ pian prophet in exchange for the promotion of the 'existing West­ ern' model which required 'real and professional' politicians. 1 9 The start of the transition was marked symbolically by the aban­ donment of the dichotomy 'capitalism-socialism' in favor of the opposition 'East-West', representing 'totalitarianism versus democ­ racy'. This was to be the banner under which the 'radical' opposi­ tion intellectuals would march during the transition. The trans­ formation began in 1 979, when a book of seventy-five essays was published in samizdat form, in honor of István Bibó. The debates started by this collection concerned such topics as embourgeoise­ ment, the evolution of a true bourgeoisie in opposition to totali­ tarianism. These debates were also promoted by Hungarian dissi­ dents-the philosopher Mihály Vajda declared that experience sho­ wed that, because all societies based on a critique of bourgeois society ended up by being deprived of all of its positive traits, this form of society could not be surpassed. ln September 1 987, a meeting of populist writers and intellectu­ als provided an opportunity to found the first big opposition movement (the Hungarian Democratic Forum, which later became a political party with the same name). They tried to maintain an intermediate position between the reform communists and the democratic opposition (formed along the lines of Charter '77, tak­ ing party political form as the Alliance of Free Democrats in No­ vember 1 988). The period between May 1 988 and January 1 989 was marked by attempts to found a 'socialist pluralism', and saw the formation of new political parties (ín addition to the above­ mentioned Hungarian Democratic Forum and Alliance of Free De­ mocrats, the Federation of Young Democrats came into being, while such historical parties as the Smallholders' Party and the So­ cial Democrats were revived). The climax came in 1 989 when the Alliance of Free Democrats split from the Hungarian Democratic Forum, asserting that the so­ called 'Third Way' did not exist, and that "[any] way that avoided Europe led precisely to dictatorship or left totalitarianism." By means of their radicalism, the Free Democrats-who were also strugglihg with the other members of the Round-Table for the right to pose as society's legitimate representatives during the dis­ cussions of the summer of 1 989-were able to shape the results of

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the first free elections. Refusing to sign the agreement of 1 8 Sep­ tember, they launched a referendum challenging the presidential component of the Round-Table negotiations, making the public more aware of them and shattering the hopes of the reform com­ munists to become the first communist government to be elected by a free vote. One of the most important features of the course of events de­ scribed here is the importance of the Western model as a mode of resistance and opposition to communist rule in both Hungary and Romania. lt represented the 'ideal type' that offered a valid alterna­ tive and an exemplary definition of values. Even the open letter sent to Ceau�escu in March 1 989 by a group of six former Roma­ nian Communist Party officials, protesting against his policies, as­ serted that: "Romania is and remains a European country... You have started to change ,the geography of the rural areas, but you cannot move Romania to Africa." Hand in hand with the return to traditional values, it became the ultimate reference point for intel­ lectuals under a communist system in its death throes. While in Hungary it helped to establish a radical stance-which proved to be decisive in the struggles of the transition-and to change intellec­ tuals into real politicians, in Romania this phenomenon was char­ acterized by an elitism and lack of pragmatism that led to the with­ drawal of intellectuals from politics in the post-1 989 transition. The most important factor that shaped the strategies of the intel­ lectuals under communism, one that was radically different in Ro­ mania and Hungary, was the type of control exercised over society by the communist authorities. While in Romania it was mainly symbolic-ideological and resulted in the total atomization of soci­ ety, the 'silence' of the intellectuals, 'bottom-drawer dissidence', and extreme centralization; in Hungary, control through consum­ erism-'material' control-made possible independent forms of organization and a radical critique of the regime.

Romanian Intellectuals under Communism Writing on the position of intellectuals in bourgeois society Hof­ stadter ( 1 963, 4 1 7) notes: " ... when bourgeois society rejects them, that is only one more proof of its philistinism; when it gives them an 'honored place', it is buying them off. The intellectual is either shut out, or sold out." I believe that under a democratic system the

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intellectual has two principal alternatives: (i) to divide himself into two separate and almost irreconcilable figures, each independent of the other: the political expert and the cultural expert; or (ii) to become a politician and nothing else (that is, to renounce his other vocation). The usual way for an intellectual to acquire political power is to convert his cultural capital-chiefly consisting of his expertise and credibility-into political capital. Totalitarian regimes favored the opposite course, however: one had to enter the field of politics in order to gain recognition in other fields (for example, culture). ln this way, two different types of criteria were confused, or both roles were adopted alternately, so generating a strategy which was impossible to control: on the one hand, one could ob­ tain a position of power enabling one to impose the (more or less aesthetic, more or less ethical) criteria of evaluation and authority; on the other hand, one could follow the (ideological or other) pre­ scriptions of the authorities, in terms of which aesthetics was eluded, and only brutal political propaganda counted as a cultural achievement. The negotiations, games, and struggles of Romanian intellectuals in the cultural and-inevitably-the political sphere during the communist period and the subsequent transition make them a case apart. If we start with the main division between the 'proto­ chronists' and the 'anti-protochronists', 20 and consider the stormy debates which followed in its wake, we may obtain a rough idea of the main actors in the cultural field and their interaction with the political field. While the first can be held responsible for the resus­ citation of nationalist ideology in Romania and for the increasing politicization of culture through the creation of new means of domination (access to publication opportunities, monopoly over official history books and school readers, and so on), the latter have on their conscience, throughout the Ceau;:;escu period and afterwards, the guilt of complete withdrawal and their inability to show solidarity on the few occasions when it was called for (the case of Paul Goma in 1 977 and several others in the late 1 980s).

The July Theses' The wind of change that marked the 1 960s, accompanied by the emergence of a talented and oppositional generation (Stanescu, Blandiana, Liiceanu, Manolescu, Paunescu, and others), was stopped in its tracks by Ceau;:;escu's cultural policy, the so-called

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']uly Theses' of 1 97 1 . These ideas signaled a brutal return to the Stalinist period: competence and aesthetics were to be replaced by ideology; professionals were to be replaced by agitators; and cul­ ture was to become an instrument for political-ideological propa­ ganda once again. During the time which passed between the proclamation of the 'Theses' and the National Party Conference in July 1 972 the strate­ gies that were to be followed by the cultural elite and the conflicts that would dominate the 1 970s and 1 980s were crystallized. First, in an unprecedented gesture, Paul Goma sent abroad the manu­ script of his censored novel Ostinato, instead of submitting it to the Press and Printing Committee. The novel appeared in the fall of 1 97 1 , first in Germany, published by Suhrkamp, then in France ( Gallimard). lts immediate success was boosted by the closure of the Romanian stand at the Frankfurt Book Fair, in protest at the presence of Goma's book on the Suhrkamp stand. As Monica Lovinescu observes ( 1 990, 51 6), East European literature-closed off as it is in languages little known outside the region-tends to attract attention in the West because of the ethics of the writer rather than the aesthetics of the work. This was the case with Hun­ garian literature after 1 956, Polish literature after Poznan, and Czech and Slovak writings after the Prague Spring. Goma's attempt laid the ground for the first Romanian success in the West. The critics also praised the novel: the authenticity of the experience, the obsession with the duty of memory, and the modernity of the language and technique all brought approbation. Using one of his characters as a mouthpiece, Goma complains of the lack of consis­ tency between the work of art and the artist who produces it, a feature that changed the whole course of Romanian literature. '"Oh! The Romanian intellectual!,' Marian declared angrily, in ref­ erence to the successive cowardices of his own father, who, like other opportunists, 'was afraid for his position' and did not dare, as some ordinary people could, to rise up against the caricaturing of the doctrine in which he had believed." And again: " ... You cannot serve the bad when you are full of grace. There is an incompatibil­ ity; the moment you do this, you negate yourself, you deny your fate, you deny yourself, firstly as an artist, then as a man" ( ibid., 529). Censorship seemed to be the most important means of neutraliz­ ing writers. Any suspicion that a work contained a political tint, or any persona! difference of opinion with those who ran the politi­ cal apparatus that governed literary activity ( literary journals, pub­ lications, the Writers' Union) resulted in prohibition: this hap-

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pened to Tepeneag, Dimov, Dinescu, and Blandiana. Censorship was ( in common with the system as a whole) unpredictable, cha­ otic, and "mostly hypocritical. How else can we explain the fact that, besides the prohibited books, 'pulverized' books also remain on the censor's list? ... 'Pulverization' is... the distribution of � book in only one or two bookshops in the center of town, in a small edi­ tion which is sold out in one or two days. The book's obscurity is thus ensured and appearances preserved" ( ibid., 53 1 ). The conse­ quences of censorship could be even more serious. If an author was not published and did not have a stable workplace, he was both denied the income due to his authorship, and risked being accused of parasitism and the social marginalization that went with it. After the initial confusion, Romanian writers, who had never taken a stand or fought for their rights, but sought only to extend as far as possible the privileges granted by the authorities, realized the importance of what had been lost as a result of the new policy. At first, the 'July Theses' invoked at least some degree of solidarity: the spirit of resistance is obvious at such meetings as the one held in Neptun, between Ceau�escu and Romanian writers, and in the talks broadcast by Radio Free Europe, in which Dimov and Tepen­ eag-who were abroad at the time-discussed the freedom of crea­ tion. The first signs of weakness appeared in the period just before the National Writers' Conference, for which the authorities made careful preparations. First, a new law was passed concerning authors' rights ( although its only beneficiaries were already privi­ leged intellectuals). On 1 8 December, a new law on state secrets was issued, containing several paragraphs directly concerning writers. Another important preliminary event was the trial of someone who had written a volume of poetry which he had then submitted to a critic for evaluation. He was accused of having writ­ ten 'hostile' verse, condemned by a military court despite the fact that the critic had come forward in his defense, and sentenced to 1 2 years' imprisonment ( ibid., 537). Nevertheless, resistance seemed to be growing, and this was confirmed by the Writers' As­ sociation elections in Bucharest. As the Writers' Conference loomed, however, there were a number of setbacks. As the authorities withdrew, the solidarity which had begun to emerge among writers disappeared. The old conflicts were revived, and the struggle for the leadership of Lu­ ceafarul produced more wrangling. 2 1 The 'Document' which trailed the Conference was not really a victory for the writers, but

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rather a combination of the former 'socialist realism' and the liber­ alization of the 1 960s. Another important factor was the demand of the top party lead­ ership that the Conference should be organized on a delegatory basis: that is, the writers were to elect-by secret ballot-one writer to take part in the Conference from two names which would be offered to them. This numerus clausus was one way of excluding 'intruders'. Although the elections commenced with protests from several young poets ( including Malancioiu), Tepeneag and Goma were shouted down by some of their colleagues, and the delega­ tory principle was accepted. Even more important for the authori­ ties was to have the conference establish that Paul Goma had no talent, and this it managed to do. The same envy haunted Tepen­ eag, some of whose work had been translated into French. Al­ though many hardliners failed at the elections to the Council and the Bureau of the Writers' Association, others ( mostly younger candidates) were elected. The Conference marked the failure of the first attempt among the writers to establish solidarity concern­ ing a principle. Monica Lovinescu describes four fundamental features of the literary field as it stood after the Writers' Conference and which persisted until the fall of the regime ( 1 990, 542-5 1 ): füst, the in­ termittence of courage; second, position in the social order trans­ formed into an aesthetic criterion; third, the efficacy of some means of corruption; and fourth, the breaking down of the borders between generations: each wave of liberalization was understood in terms of the coming of a new generation, but many young pro­ testers were ready to compromise, and some members of the older generation were ready to resist.

Dissidents and 'Bottom-drawer Literature ' The only case of Romanian dissidence was famous not only be­ cause of its meandering course ( which ended with the person in­ volved being sent to jail, and subsequent exile-after an interna­ tional outcry-in November 1 977), because the human rights movement it initiated was the only political stand ever taken within the literary community, and because it gave expression to the views of a large proportion of ordinary Romanians, but also because it was not followed by any awakening of consciousness

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among Romanian intellectuals. The only exceptions were Tepen­ eag, who was in Paris, having been deprived of his Romanian citi­ zenship by presidential decree (because he edited the journal Ca­ hiers de l'Est), and Virgil Tanase, who was also in Paris: both re­ mained constant in their rejection of concessions. 22 Another unique feature of this wasted opportunity was the excuse given by the writers for agreeing with the authorities: Paul Goma did not have any talent. Otherwise, one assumes, everything would have been different. The third important actor in the cultural field, besides the writ­ ers, poets, and literary critics-'silent' dissidents or 'ushers' of the authorities-and the authorities' own 'clercs', was the Romanian intellectual exiles, particularly the team at Radio Free Europe, which consistently presented a graphic picture of Romanian real­ ity and stood up to the communist regime. The team did invaluable work in tempering persecution, making the Western public well aware of · the few cases of Romanian resistance. 2 3 Monica Lovi­ nescu, one of the most ardent and lucid critics of the Romanian communist regime, made cultural broadcasts on Radio Free Europe together with Virgil lerunca from 1 962. The struggles within the cultural sphere in Romania in the 1 970s and 1 980s can be retraced clearly from the texts of her broadcasts. One of the cases 'consecrated' by Radio Free Europe was that of Dorin Tudoran. He was the subject of an official response to Radio Free Europe and its literary broadcasts, in the form of a Bureau of the Writers' Union 'Comunicat' in March 1 983, after the broadcast of some of his censored articles. The Romanian government com­ plained about Tudoran's "defamation of the realities of Romanian society". His story begins in 1 98 1 with his election to the Council of the Writers' Union at the National Conference in June. He was soon dismissed, however, for having protested against the fact that both the Bureau and the president of the Writers' Union were im­ posed from above, instead of being elected by the Council. ln March 1 982 he resigned from the Communist Party (resignations were extremely rare: only dismissals were publicly acknowledged). ln a text broadcast by Radio Free Europe, Dorin Tudoran stated: "I believe that being a dissident in Romania represents only a gesture of internal liberty.. . which does not necessarily become, unlike elsewhere- for example, Poland -dissidence, but loneliness .... That is, [a] persona! experience, probably insignificant, maybe even absurd ... " ln this atmosphere, another assault was made on Romanian cul­ ture, even worse than the one initiated by the ']uly Theses': the

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Conference at Mangalia in August 1 983. This pre-figured the re­ appearance of the compulsory 'positive hero' and demanded the 'embellishment of reality'; furthermore, competence was to be substituted by militancy, and culture was to be brought into line with activist propaganda. The conference devastated the cultural sphere, which was sup­ pressed or 'cleansed'. The number of pages which could be pub­ lished was reduced, the delays before publication could take place were increased, qualified professionals were removed from cul­ tural journals, and editorial plans were revised (this included the suppression of translations). The symbolic victim of the confer­ ence, Octavian Paler, was dismissed as editor-in-chief at Romania Libera. Monica Lovinescu summarized the results of the Confer­ ence in the following terms ( 1 994b, 1 63 ): 'Albanization' (prog­ ressive isolation and withdrawal of Romania from the international cultural circuit) and 'Analphabetization' (more and more emphasis on amateurism to the detriment of professional literary work by means of reducing the circulation of journals and books, tougher censorship, and the undermining of cultural institutions). ln the same broadcast she asked: "How many genuine writers-many of them very well known-are not shrugging their shoulders indiffer­ ently at some of their colleagues' efforts to express [society's] dis­ content... at the... rare meetings of the Council? 'He's up again, he's speaking again, he's protesting again'-they seem to be saying, su­ premely annoyed by the futility of such gestures and convinced that true resistance can only be expressed by the aesthetic im­ maculation of the work. Still, this is completely wrong... since... for this work to come out [only] minimal cohesion [is required] , a complicity of value... the resistance of those involved... Isolating the ones who dare to speak openly, the writers are only smoothing the path for the authorities, are only inciting them to demolition" (ibid., 1 65). The National Writers' Conference was not held in 1 985. The Council became useless, as did the Bureau, and was replaced by an 'Operative Leadership'. At the national literary awards in 1 985, no prize was given for the best volume of poetry by a newcomer be­ cause no such volume had been published. Censorship was stronger than before, and the obstacles to publication had been 'creatively' multiplied. Prizes awarded in previous years were an­ nulled, and the publication Viafa Romaneasca and its highly pro­ fessional Critical Notebooks were banned. The critic and essayist Nicolae Steinhardt wrote in 1 988 (Lovinescu 1 995, 29): "The blackmailer needs the assent, the com-

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plicity of the blackmailed, blackmailing is like a drama ... that can­ not be played by oneself. The oppressor ánd the oppressed make up a couple." This was echoed by Octavian Paler (ibid., 44): "I un­ derstood that ... internal liberty degrades not only through lies, but also through the illusion that you can remain innocent without having to choose." But one of the best diagnoses of Romanian intel­ lectuals was delivered by a French lecturer in the city of la�i: 24 The aspect of intellectual life which struck me most was the guilty conscience of the intellectuals; the depressing lucidity with which they analyze their own behavior. The guilty conscience is obvious. When Paul Goma produced a scandal in 1 977, very few intellectuals followed him, for various reasons, the first being, naturally, fear. Seven years later, Romania is still talking about this .... 'We should have ... If it weren't for .. .' First, they have a guilty conscience for not having done anything, and second, for being compelled to look for excuses that nobody believes, not even one­ self. All the arguments are good: Goma shouldn't have provoked the President; he shouldn't have gone that far; he shouldn't refer to the Czechs, etc., etc. Then, to justify oneself, one appeals first to destiny... secondly to denigration (he wasn't a good writer in any case). Obviously, no one was sincere, but obsessed with the feeling of having missed an opportunity. Acting in this way, the intellectu­ als are perfectly aware of their dependence on a wholly detested system.... It is therefore not surprising that the normal state of the Romanian intellectual is a kind of sweet schizophrenia. What were the self-confessions of the intellectuals withdrawn into their own world and surviving only by means of cultural ges­ tures? The following excerpts from two diaries published after 1 990 (Marino 1 993; Antonesei 1 995) speak for themselves. During a visit abroad, Marino contemplated, " ... the individualism and autism of a widespread species of [ Romanian] writer, which lacks any notion of cultural solidarity. Should I turn my back on them? Should I publicly address them? I don't know .. .'' ( 1 993, 94). He also deplored "the impossibility of communication and discus­ sion ... [ and] the real situation of the honest and independent Ro­ manian intellectual, caught between two structures, between two series of dogmas and clichés" (ibid., 1 06). ln reference to the interview given by Dan Petrescu to Libéra­ tion, Antonesei reflected: "Does his gesture really save our honor in any way? No, it is more honest to acknowledge that it saves only his own. And, by contrast, we are in fact even more worthy of be­ ing despised. lt is hard to face the fact, but this is how things are .. .'' (Antonesei 1 995, 1 8). Furthermore, elsewhere in the diary, " ... all

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acts of dissidence ended with the emigration of the protagonists, and I do not want to emigrate. Unwilling to emigrate and aware that the end of this historic interlude is very close, my interest is in keeping open all opportunities for the future here in [Romania] . So I will not react openly, violently, unless I am provoked beyond the limits of my endurance" (ibid., 27). The writer tried to find out what these limits were, but he could not give a definite answer. Inspired by an essay 'Three Solutions', published in exile and signed 'Nicolae Niculescu' (Nicolae Steinhardt), Antonesei discov­ ered that the moment when continued passivity becomes impossi­ ble provides the 'first occasion' to react (and this was soon offered by an opportunity to sign a letter demanding the removal of Ceau­ �escu from the party leadership, weeks before the Party Congress of November 1 989). The condition of such a reaction was "at the moment when the conflict opens, to already consider myself dead, to tel1 myself, like the great Russian [Solzhenitsyn] , 'From now on I am a dead man'... Once dead, when all hope is gone, it is possible to have an even better perception of what happens to you, of what is happening" (ibid., 91-92). Furthermore: "No doubt we are all guilty-a people which puts up with such a government for decades on end, actually deserves it... At the same time, we must acknowledge the ability of this gov­ ernment to keep power, the manner in which it achieved the de­ politicization and total allegiance of the masses and what was left of the elite... This fact does not absolve us of guilt, it only makes it more explicable" (ibid., 45). And again: 'When you get used to obedience, it's hard to regain the desire to be free. This seems to be the fundamental tragedy of the Romanian, whether ordinary citi­ zen or member of the elite: the lack of a desire to be free" (ibid., 53). All this may suggest that the communist state was able to render futile all struggles for hegemony in the literary (and cultural) field, and therefore that there was indeed no alternative except exile. As Bourdieu notes (1 992, 1 1 4), the state possesses meta-capital ('state capital') which exercises power over other species of capital, and particularly over their rate of exchange. There is no doubt that in Ceau�escu's Romania political capital was the most effective 'currency', although there was constant insecurity regarding how long it would be held. Political capital was easily transformed into cultural capital, despite not being acknowledged by those who pretended to hold sway over determination of the relevant criteria, and who did not show their allegiance to political and ideological demands (the embodied form of capital was almost completely

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lacking): they had access to publication, and were awarded prizes and honors, and given important positions in cultural institutions (objectified and institutionalized forms of capital). But the inter­ ference of the authorities also manifested itself in the use of vio­ lence. If it were the case that the state used violence in order to dominate the cultural field, Bourdieu's concepts would not apply here, since the symbolic struggles would have had no object: the distribution of rewards (entirely on the hasis of party directives) and schemata of perception and valuation (provided by party guidelines). ln my view, however, these two variables-state vio­ lence and the play of the actors within the field, which took the form of strategies-were checked by an independent variable which I have already mentioned: the third type of actor 'negotia­ ting' the principles of consecration and reproduction in the cul­ tural field, the 'intellectual diaspora', particularly the group at Ra­ dio Free Europe. Radio Free Europe was able to draw attention to political abuses in Romania and to mobilize a number of foreign cultural and political personalities in support of expressions of liberty-despite the efforts of the Communist Party during its last years to completely isolate Romania-and so to neutralize state violence. Intellectuals related to the authorities in two ways. The first was a certain complicity, a tacit pact made so that one would be able to write, and requiring the playing of a subtle game between the writer (cultural producer) and the occupants of political-ideo­ logical positions in the cultural field: editor, censor, cultural activ­ ist, and so forth. The written word-its meaning, the interpreta­ tions to which it might give rise-was subject to continuous nego­ tiation. As central political control became stricter at the end of the 1 970s and the beginning of the 1 980s, this pact was redefined again and again, maintaining an atmosphere of ambiguity. The sec­ ond way in which intellectuals related to the authorities was through denunciation, practiced by the regime's intellectual sup­ porters. 2 5 They denounced, of course, high treason, Jewish plots, cultural fraud, and so on, but they also played a subtle game of their own, combining obedience to party directives with the ac­ cumulation of persona! power. The 1 980s witnessed the rise of a new generation of writers whose aesthetics included an 'Eastern ethics'. 26 By the end of the 1 980s, the number of public protests was increasing (Dinescu, Cangeopol, Petrescu, De�liu), accompanied by an unexpected wave of solidarity, and gestures of opposition and revolt, and not only in pursuit of aesthetic goals. As history began to accelerate, it was wit-

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ness to more courageous and cohesive behavior on the part of Ro­ manian writers, strongly supported by those in exile. ( It seems that the point of departure was the impressive interview given by Mircea Dinescu to the French journal Libération-see section 3.3.)

The Fall of 'Political Intellectuals' ajter the Revolution The appearance of Mircea Dinescu on national television on 22 December 1 989 marked the return of the poet to the public stage and the public's identification with his courage in the face of per­ secution. The euphoria would be short: bleak reality uncovered a general sense of guilt. The urgent need to enter politics in order to make up for the years of silent passivity was the leitmotiv of the intellectuals' involvement in politics after 1 989. On the other hand, the changes brought by the events of December 1 989 resulted in a restructuring of the cultural field, including access to publication opportunities, organs of cultural consecration, and the system of rewards. All of a sudden, those intellectuals who had continued to do only what they had done before found themselves marginalized, while the rest began to compete for the privileges that accompany the possession and exercise of power. The form of politics that the intellectuals put up against the com­ munists of the second rank turned liberals overnight can best be described as 'dissident romanticism' (Capelle-Pogacean 1 994). The intellectuals followed an elitist, romantic vision of politics, translat­ ing a literary message into political terms and refusing to accept a changing reality. 27 One of the reasons they failed was their adoption of the logic of exclusion and their claim to have a monopoly on truth and democratic values, blocking political dialogue. They counter­ posed to parliamentary democracy the romantic model of the 'revolutionary masses', and, as Alina Mungiu-Pippidi has noted, 28 there was a "hypertrophy of declarations at the expense of actions." Although immediately after the Revolution the intellectual elite had perhaps the best claim to power, having access to both the mass media and international public opinion, and having played a major part in mobilizing mass support during the revolution, it was unable to transform itself into a real contender. The human crisis, alienation, and its emphasis on spiritual and moral matters ren­ dered it "harmless, in spite of the resolution [with which it] stood, from the first days of the Revolution, in the front-line of the battle

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for the control of political power and for the removal of the group led by Ion Iliescu, which, after all, represented... the political inter­ ests of the technocracy" ( Pasti 1 995, 240). The first political organization of intellectuals after 1 989 was the early Provisional Council for National Unity ( CPNU). Since what was then at stake was the distribution of privileges, it was thought that conflicts could be settled by ensuring the participation of all contenders. The Provisional Council functioned as a kind of par­ liament for the political parties then existing ( the National Salva­ tion Front, and a number of revived historical parties) and, as Pasti puts it ( ibid., 1 53), "although förmed as a result of... opposition... to Ion Iliescu and the group represented by him, the CPNU was, in fact, his great victory. lt was the very incarnation of the doctrine that was closest to him... national consensus." The basic ideas of this doctrine were that the most important problems of the transi­ tion could be solved by technocratic means and that everybody would gain if a compromise could be reached. ln the complex situation of 1 990, both these premises turned out to be false. Nev­ ertheless, the idea of a consensus appealed to a disoriented popula­ tion, and their constant rejection of compromise and the solutions elaborated by the Iliescu administration tarnished the image of the intellectual elite. Even today many believe that the opposition and the intellectual elite have betrayed the country's interests. 2 9 The broadcast of CPNU debates increased Iliescu's popularity enor­ mously and brought him an overwhelming victory in the May 1 990 presidential election. The discourse elaborated by the intellectual elite and their efforts to organize a moral trial of communism­ former communists were to be banned from public life-in a coun­ try with over three million former communist party members, failed miserably. As a result, it was the intellectual elite which de­ veloped the first form of political extremism. ln addition to its reputation for a lack of flexibility and a ten­ dency towards exaggeration, the intellectual elite had no real un­ derstanding of the economic problem, no involvement in the ad­ ministration or the economy, and as a consequence did not man­ age to mobilize the support of the working class, the peasantry, or the emerging entrepreneurs. Another weakness of this elite, as Pasti notes ( ibid., 245) was the fact that it could not hold any kind of power other than the po­ litical variety, and that it could obtain the latter only by attracting votes. And this was its weakest point, on the one hand because of its political message, and on the other because of its elitist character....

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By uniting members of the numerous opposition parties, the Civic Alliance managed to mobilize, at an anti-government demonstration in Bucharest in November 1990, over one hundred thousand people, but its support outside the capital was minimal, and after this brief success it went into terminal decline. lt eventually dissolved, and its members were absorbed by other opposition parties-including the so-called Party of the Civic Alliance-or gave up politics altogether.

Although the opposition became more and more united, the formation that eventually emerged, the Romanian Democratic Convention ( RDC), had little success outside the larger cities, in­ cluding Bucharest: above all, it did not manage to stay 'together', despite its electoral slogan "Only together can we succeed." The ill­ effects of the competition between different factions for positions of power was compounded by incongruities that undermined its credibility and ability to function, including: the pro-monarchist attitude of the principal faction in the RDC, the National Peasant Party, which conflicted with the notion of putting up a presiden­ tial candidate; the struggles within another major component of the RDC, the National Liberal Party, between older representatives of the ( former) historical party and its younger members-mainly new entrepreneurs; and the co-optation of the ethnic Hungarian Party, the Democratic Union of Hungarians in Romania ( DUHR), which had a stable electorate, but whose membership antagonized part of the RDC's supporters. The elections of 1 992-in which the Romanian Democratic Con­ vention was opposed by Iliescu's Democratic Front of National Salvation-ended any illusions they might have had concerning their popularity.3 0 The resignation of Ana Blandiana from the lead­ ership of the Party of the Civic Alliance some weeks Iater marked the retreat of writers from the political arena and back to the realm of the 'innocents'.

Notes 1 ln the late 1980s, many issues of the party newspaper Scanteia and other publications from the 1970s and early 1980s were destroyed, to be replaced with ever re-actualized versions of what 'should' have hap­ pened. There is no need to mention the mystification of recent history, nor its re-interpretation. 2 The term "strategy" is here understood in Pierre Bourdieu's sense (Bourdieu 1986; 1990; 1994).

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3 'Bottom-drawer literature', in contrast to the samizdat literature that was common in other communist states, was literature which the writer knew would probably remain confined to the bottom-drawer of his desk. ln many cases, the author was also the only reader, since the 'community' of writers, like Romanian society as a whole in the 1 980s, was extremely atomized and permeated with a lack of trust. A vivid ac­ count of 'bottom-drawer literature' and the risks its production in­ volved may be found in Paul Goma's novel Bonifacia (Bucure�ti: Edi­ tura Omega, 1 99 1). A French translation of the novel was published in 1 986 (Bonifacia, trans. Alain Paruit. Paris: Albin Michel). 4 Verdery ( 1 994) also rejects the 'collectivization' of the 'subject' which is the intellectual, suggesting instead a structural or relational space, defining the intellectual not in terms of his intrinsic qualities, but in terms of the position he occupies in the system of dependencies repre­ sented by society (p. 37). See also Bauman ( 1 987). 5 ln Michel Foucault's sense (1 980). 6 Bourdieu's analysis of 'les grandes écoles' is particularly relevant here. 7 Hofstadter's terms ( 1 963). 8 The outline of the evolution of intellectuals in Hungary that follows owes much to Melegh's article ( 1 994), published in Durandin's collec­ tion of texts on the commitment of intellectuals in Eastern Europe un­ der totalitarian rule and during the transition. 9 Communist party members numbered less than 1 ,000 in 1 944. 10 The Democratic National Front claimed to have won 79.86 per cent of the vote! 1 1 I am indebted in what follows to Pierre Kende's article ( 1 994). 1 2 Also worth mentioning at this point is the high proportion of Jews in the Communist Party leadership in the early days in both Hungary and Romania. This made it possible to view communist rule as a kind of 'foreign occupation', and, in the case of Romania, at a later date to break from the Soviet Union. 1 3 ln the 'politics of the calendar' and confrontation between the com­ munist regime and the opposition that took the form of a competition to mobilize the greatest number of people, the reburial of Imre Nagy, Prime Minister of Hungary during the 1956 uprising ( 1 6 June 1 989), was the peak of mass participation in the period of transition. 14 The atrocious experiment known as 'the Pite§ti phenomenon' (feno­ menul Pite§tt), which consisted in re-education camps, where intellec­ tuals were humiliated, tortured both physically and mentally to the limit of human endurance-great care being taken to make sure that no one committed suicide-to force them to acknowledge anything that their torturers demanded of them and to become torturers themselves. See Virgil Ierunca, Fenomenul Pite§ti (Bucure�ti: Humanitas, 1 99 1 .) 1 5 Melegh ( 1 994, 1 7) suggests as examples of this approach three essays written by István Bibó, Marc Rakovski (a pseudonym of János Kis and György Bence), and György Konrád. 1 6 For an excellent analysis, see Verdery ( 1 994).

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1 7 See section 4. 1 8 See the cases of Dorin Tudoran and-especially-Paul Goma. 1 9 ln the longer term, however, this approach began to look like just an­ other utopia, since the Western models employed were, in most re­ spects, not empirical, but normative, and so did not provide analytical instruments adequate to the task of describing the situation in East Central Europe. 20 From the Greek proto-chronos (first in time). Protochronism emerged as a movement which encouraged literary critics and historians to search for developments in Romanian culture which anticipated those of the more recognized cultures of Western Europe. Beyond this cul­ tural form, its political potential drew the attention of the party leader­ ship, which transformed it into one of the most important manifesta­ tions of national ideology. For an extended analysis, see Verdery ( 1 994). 2 1 Leading Romanian literary journal. 22 The literary critic Ion Negoitescu retracted his support for Goma's protest after the repression he suffered as a consequence. 23 One of the cases that was not supported in this way was that of Gheor­ ghe Ursu, whose private diary was confiscated by the police. Believing the investigators' promises that if no fuss was made abroad he would be fine, he chose not to alert Radio Free Europe during the first phase of the investigation. Deprived of the only weapon to which the Roma­ nian authorities were susceptible, he was arrested in September 1 985 and tortured to death in November. 24 Published in the journal L 'alternative (May 1 984); see Lovinescu (1 994b), 1 00-1 0 1 . 2 5 The most notorious was Corneliu Vadim Tudor, editor-in-chief of the weekly Siiptiimana, and now leader of the extremist Greater Romania Party. 26 This was the title of the collection of Monica Lovinescu's broadcasts, January 1 983-December 1 987 (Lovinescu 1 994b). 27 On 30 December 1 989 the Group for Social Dialogue was formed, which attempted to practice politics at a high intellectual levei. ln No­ vember 1 990 the Civic Alliance was set up, led by Ana Blandiana, which sought to halt the dangerous atomization of society by means of an ideal of solidarity as the 'superlative of liberty', a self-limiting state, and establishment of the rule of law. 28 ln Sfera Politicii CTanuary 1 993). 29 The most alarming instance of this was of course the case of Doina Cornea (see Chapter 3, Section 4). 30 One event which might mark the end of the 'extended childhood' of the opposition was the death in November 1 995 of Corneliu Coposu, leader of the National Peasant Party and symbol of the unwillingness to compromise and of resistance during the whole period of communism and afterwards.

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References Antonesei, L. 1995. ']urnal din anii ciumei: 1987-1989.' Íncerciírl de socio­ logie spontanií. lasi: Polirom. Banac, Ivo, ed. 1992. Eastern Europe in Revolution. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Bauman, Zygmunt. 1987. Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, Post­ Modernity and Intellectuals. Cambridge: Polity Press. Benda, Julien. 1993. Triídarea ciírturarllor [La trahison des clercs]. Bu­ charest: Humanitas. Bodin, Louis. 1964. Les Intellectuels. Paris: P.U.F. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1983. 'The Forms of Capital.' ln Handbook of Theory and Research for Sociology of Education, ed. J. G. Richardson, 241-58. New York: Greenwood Press. --. 1986. Economia bunurllor simbolice, translated and with a preface by Mihai Dinu Gheorghiu. Bucharest: Meridiane. --. 1989. Noblesse d'état. Paris: Seuil. --. 1990. ln Other Words. Essays towards a Reflexive Sociology. Cambridge: Polity Press. --. 1994. 'Stratégies de réproduction et modes de domination.' ln Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales 105 (décembre): 3-12. Bourdieu, Pierre, Loic Bourdieu, and J. D. Wacquant. 1992. An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology. Cambridge: Polity Press. Brym, Robert J. 1987. 'The Political Sociology of Intellectuals: A Critique and a Proposal.' ln Gagnon (1987, 199-209). Capelle-Pogacean, Antonela. 1994. 'Les écrivains roumains et la politique apres décembre 1989. A la recherche de l'innocence perdue.' ln Du­ randin (1994), 127-59. Durandin, Catherine, ed. 1994. L 'engagement des intellectuels a l'Est. Mémoires et analyses de Roumanie et de Hongrle. Paris: L'Harmattan. Foucault, Michel. 1980. Power/Knowledge, ed. C. Gordon. Sussex: Has­ socks. Gagnon, Alain, ed. 1987. Intellectuals in Liberal Democracies: Political Injluence and Social Involvement. New York: Praeger. Gouldner, Alvin. 1979. The Future of the Intellectuals and the Rise of the New Class. London: Macmillan. Gramsci, Antonio. 1971. Selectionsfrom the Prison Notebooks," ed. Quintin Hoare and G. N. Smith. New York: International Publishers. Hofstadter, Richard. 1963. Anti-Intellectualism ín Amerlcan Life. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Kende, Pierre. 1994. 'Les avatars de l'intelligentsia de gauche hongroise de 1945 a nos jours.' ln Durandin (1994, 81-95). Konrád, György, and Iván Szelényi. 1979. La marche au pouvoir des intel­ lectuels. Le cas des pays de l'Est. Paris: Seuil. Lovinescu, M. 1990-95. Vol. 1, Unde Scurte (1990); Vol. 2, Seismograme (1993); Vol. 3 Posterltatea Contemporanií (1994a); Vol. 4, Est-etice (1994b); Vol. 5, Pragul (1995). Bucharest: Humanitas. Lipset, Seymour M. 1958. Political Man: The Social Bases of Politics. New York: Doubleday.

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Mannheim, Karl. 1936. Ideology and Utopia. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Marino, A. 1993. Evadari in lumea libera. Ia�i: lnstitutul European. Melegh, Attila. 1994. 'Le modele occidental.' ln Durandin (1994, 15-24). Pasti, Vladimir. 1995. Romania in tranzifie [Romania in transition]. Bucharest: Nemira. Shils, Edward. 1969. 'The lntellectuals and the Powers: Some Perspectives far Comparative Analysis.' ln On Intellectuals: Theoretical Studies, Case Studies, ed. P. Rieff. New York: Doubleday. Verdery, Katherine. 1994. Compromis # rezistenfd. Cultura romana sub Ceaiqescu [ Compromise and resistance: Romanian culture under Ceau�escu] . Bucharest: Humanitas.

Romanian Political Intellectuals before and after the Revolution* ALINA MUNGIU-PIPPIDI

Introduction ln the civic movements active before 1 989 and during the revolu­ tions, intellectuals in East Central Europe seemed to have found their place and proper audience; after the extraordinary enthusi­ asm of 1 989, East Central European intellectuals and dissidents were promoted by the Paris and New York intellectual establish­ ments and, to quote Vladimir Tismaneanu, "glorified as the apostles of a new revolutionary dawn" (Tismaneanu 1 994). Over the last few years, however, this enthusiasm has been replaced by serious disenchantment: for most Western observers, the region's intellec­ tuals seem to have lost the battle to become the ruling class of their post-communist societies and to have wasted the best chance of the post-war European intelligentsia to inaugurate the stable rule of 'philosopher kings'. But is this disenchantment justified? First, did the East Central European intellectuals really lose the peace after winning the war? Secondly, is this defeat-or at least tempo­ rary eclipse-their own fault? Did something in their nature favor it: was their political performance after 1 989 so inadequate, or did Western observers overestimate the dissidents' representativeness? Thirdly, could this loss of influence have been avoided? If so, is there something shameful or immoral about it? ln this chapter 1 attempt to provide brief answers to all these questions. lt is undeniable that what authors such as Timothy Garton Ash saw as "revolutions of the intellectuals"-the 1 989 revolutions-did not usher in the rule of the intellectual class, except for brief peri­ ods at the very beginning. Václav Havel may well be the last famous intellectual-dissident holding high office, and even he was eventu­ ally sidelined by Prime Minister Václav Klaus: Theodore Draper and others have attempted to contrast the values of the two men in order to prove that while Klaus represents the future, Havel is a

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figure of the past. ln any case, the much-vaunted success of the Czech Republic was unanimously attributed to Klaus, a strong supporter of decommunization legislation and radical market re­ form, rather than to Havel, who opposed the policy of lustration and advocated a more moderate approach to the market economy. Jacek Kuron obtained less than 1 0 per cent of the vote in the first round of the 1 995 presidential election in Poland, and was elimi­ nated from the race, while Nicolae Manolescu, a literary critic, was unable to gather more than 2 per cent in the 1 996 Romanian presidential election. ln Poland, the government of Tadeusz Mazowiecki, which was "[the] nearest [thing] to a government of philosopher-kings that Europe has witnessed since the war" ( Schöpflin 1 991) quickly be­ came unpopular. Now Western admirers of this government cannot take back their praises quickly enough: "ln my earlier book, Surge to Freedom, 1 waxed if not lyrical, then enthusiastic about Poland's new democratic leaders", writes J. F. Brown ( Brown 1 994), who said of the Mazowiecki government that "it was not only a popular govern­ ment: it was a good one", to conclude later on that "it soon turned out to be neither" and that its members "were not good politicians, least of all the premier himself, Tadeusz Mazowiecki." The ineffective performance of Polish intellectuals continued after the fall of the Mazowiecki government. Because they were unable to put their common interests before their differences-an all too frequent oc­ currence among intellectuals, who are generally less willing than professional politicians to accept compromise solutions-the demo­ cratic parties in Poland remained divided in the most recent elec­ tions, as a result of which they were defeated by the former commu­ nist party: the apparatchiks were thus able to resume positions only temporarily occupied by intellectuals. ln Hungary, the revolution was also attributed to the activities of the intellectuals, who dominated the political sphere immediately afterwards, and were described by Mária Kovács in these terms: Today's pluralistic party structure is largely an outcome of the plural­ ism among intellectuals and so, more than anything else, this pluralism reflects the special concerns of the intellectuals. To illustrate this point, let me draw a few of the dividing lines: anti-communist cosmopolitan intellectuals in one party, anti-communist populist intellectuals in the other. Anti-communist intellectuals with a record of active dissent in one party, anti-communist intellectuals with a record of passive resis­ tance in the other. Jewish intellectuals in one party, non-Jewish intel­ lectuals in the other, and, bordering on the almost comical, historians in one party, philosophers in the other. (Quoted in Brown 1994, 86)

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This was the situation in 1 990, when the parties that had co­ existed with communism were considered compromised for that very reason. Four years later, a government which had hesitated in the face of full-scale economic reform and vacillating between nationalism and anti-nationalism had managed to make unpopular the intellectual post-communist political class as a whole. As in the case of Poland, the former communist ruling class was able to take advantage of this, returning to power in the 1 994 elections, after four years in the wilderness. Was this the result of the 'iron laws of history', which never tire of disillusioning us, or of the intellectuals' unwillingness to adjust to new times? Furthermore, was 'the West' an innocent bystander in this battle for influence? The answers to this complex problem may be divided into three categories: historical, psychological, and political.

The Failure of the Intellectuals to Capitalize on Their Achievements The political involvement of East Central European intellectuals began late, but effectively. At the turn of the century, the intellec­ tuals were able virtually to invent their nations and their politics since the overwhelming majority of the regional population was rural and illiterate. During this period, intellectuals were "caretakers", according to the classification of S. M. Lipset and A Basu (Lipset and Basu 1 976): as the fathers of the nation, they spoke for the voiceless and ignorant masses who could not speak for themselves. Paternalistic and with a keen sense of responsibil­ ity, an integral part of the nation and of its political life, they ex­ erted influence by means of political parties, giving those parties a 'mission' beyond mere political representation, incarnating the will to free the region from the Austro-Hungarian or Russian (later So­ viet) Empires and to transform their provinces into nation states. As Tony Judt puts it: "From Fichte to Masaryk, through Palacky and Kossuth, the mark of the intellectual was his place as nation maker" Oudt 1 994). After the First World War these intellectuals became presidents, prime ministers, and high officials, their projects hav­ ing been largely accomplished. But this success did not last. ln Romania, the technocratic gov­ ernment of Nicolae Iorga, perhaps the most prominent intellectual

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in the country, was ultimately unable to cope, and Iorga was assas­ sinated by members of the fascist Iron Guard, his former students. ln Hungary, Oszkár Jászi left the country for the USA and was completely forgotten: only a few hundred people gathered to honor the return of his ashes in 1 99 1 , while a similar ceremony in 1 993 for Miklós Horthy, head of state in Hungary in the interwar period, was a national event. Hitler temporarily ended Tomas Masaryk's 'Czechoslovakia project', but its definitive termination is now being carried out by politicians such as Vladimir Meciar and Václav Klaus. Authoritarian regimes in Central Europe also had support from intellectuals, particularly the younger generation: the young Emil Cioran voiced the revolt of the small nations against their medio­ cre fate, declaring the solution to be the "systematic and sustained cult of force". This generation, which admired Mussolini and Hit­ ler, and studied philosophy with Heidegger, threw away its re­ cently acquired liberal values and so was the first to reach an ac­ commodation with the coming Bolshevism: some resisted it and died in prison, but many became its first apostles. One former fas­ cist sympathizer, the Romanian philosopher Constantin Noica, wrote in the 1 960s to his friend Cioran, then in Paris: "Now it seems to us that it is not liberty which is proper to man, but neces­ sity; that man does not revolt against whoever takes his liberty [such as the Soviet occupation-author's note] , but against who­ ever takes his necessity, his necessary sense of living, or, as you would have it, his necessary 'nonsense' of living" (Tismaneanu 1 994). What was particularly important about this generation-the first to experience serious intellectual unemployment-was its ha­ tred of party politics and its lack of constructiveness: once they had power they did not know what to do with it. lt is perhaps sig­ nificant that the same Constantin Noica, the spiritual leader of the present day Romanian intelligentsia, in the 1 970s constructed a new ideology of anti-politics, rather than one of dissent. The third important period of intellectual political activity was that of dissent. The best Central European intellectuals were not communists: they either tried simply to escape from socialist real­ ism and to isolate themselves in the realm of culture, or to oppose communism, while claiming that their fight was apolitical. They counterposed to politics what they called 'civil society'. "To be sure, it was not the Lockean concept of civil society at work; the individual was not invited to participate in public affairs, but rather offered a means of escape from public life. Civil society un­ der communism meant flight from the ubiquitous state into private

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forms of organization", wrote Vladimir Tismaneanu ( Konrád 1 984). Intellectuals of this kind correspond to what Lipset calls "moralists" and to the French notion of 'intellectual', which is re­ stricted to those who are 'engaged', either politically or against politics. Something similar happened to dissidents in East Central Europe after 1 989: they opposed political formalization in an attempt to prolong the life of their grassroots civic organizations. Havel even proposed an electoral system which would make it possible to elect independent personalities rather than representatives of po­ litical parties. Furthermore, when the intellectuals finally created or joined parties their discourse continued to emulate the lan­ guage of civic movements. They were also unable to decide which constituency they should seek to address: they continued to broadcast the same universalist message as before, when the popu­ lation had had to remain silent in the face of government repres­ sion. After the regime change the population was still silent-out of habit and perhaps a sense that they were powerless-but now self­ proclaimed spokesmen ( ranging from nationalists to reformed communists) came forward from all sides to speak in their name, instituting a veritable maelstrom of persuasive appeals. We are still living through the fourth and last period which I would like to consider, in which the intellectuals might be said to have been cast adrift in the free market of political communica­ tion. As we have seen, they are not doing very well. Nationalism is a great deal easier to 'sell' in this market than pan-Europeanism-and not just in East Central Europe, as polls on the Maastricht Treaty showed in some Scandinavian countries and even in France. The same can be said of populism, in a region where populism has a strong tradition-despite the fact that the communist regime sought to use it for its own purposes populism was able to come through more or less unscathed. The 'anti-political' feelings of dissident intellectuals are rooted partly in their unconscious internalization of the most serious in­ terdictions of the totalitarian regime and partly in the conscious pact they made with the regime, exchanging political participation for cultural autonomy. But, as our historical review makes clear, the roots of this anti-political attitude go even deeper. Havel's theory of "morals and civics", together with his personal­ ity, allowed yet another interpretation of politics. At the time of the first free elections Plato's view, expressed in Th e Republic, that only those who do not love power should be allowed to wield it, was widely taken up. This appeal to an eternal political dilettantism

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had many followers and was instrumental in delaying the creation of a new, non-communist political class. The exercise of power by someone who finds it abhorrent poses a number of serious issues: for example, what sense of responsibility is someone likely to have who does a job he neither wants nor cares for? Is it not hypocriti­ cal-especially for intellectuals skilled in pursuing struggles within their professional or academic groups-to pretend that we can eliminate competition for power? Are not political struggles in fact the only overt and the least hypocritical of all power struggles? The problem was that very few intellectuals-those, of course, who did not share this point of view-became integrated in the new political class: combined with the emergence of a new busi­ ness class, this failure to integrate diminished drastically the influ­ ence of the apolitical former dissidents. The second cause of the maladjustment of the intellectuals to the new age was what we might call their "anti-capitalistic mental­ ity". At first sight, this seems strange because no one had fought as hard as they had to bring about Western-type democracy. There are three main reasons for their apparently incompatible attitude. First, intellectuals in general are anti-capitalistic, for reasons that Ludwig von Mises has explained perhaps most clearly (von Mises [1 956] 1 978). Secondly, although they will not admit it, the com­ munist system was more than generous to those intellectuals who were politically correct. Finally, accustomed as they had become to speaking for society as a whole, the intellectuals were unwilling to accept anything less. The main characteristic of the political activities of the dissident intellectuals under communism was perhaps their consummate gra­ tuitousness. Nobody-they least of all-believed that a change of sys­ tem was possible. Moreover, a political position within the system did not interest them. The only way out was to escape the system by virtue of their own marginality: they knew that protest was futile, but herein lay the strength and beauty of the enterprise: to fight an eternal, immutable power. It was an autistic game, with rules and stereotypes understood only by the 'players': the secret police and the dissenters themselves. "ln Eastern Europe," wrote György Kon­ rád in Antipolitics more than a decade ago, "this confrontation be­ tween informal spiritual authority and formai worldly authority is genuine theater... But there is no reason why the game between the intellectual elite and the power elite should be bitter and barbarous, even in those states of Eastern Europe where there is less room for maneuver. lt can be a civilized and even sporting affair, relative to the levei of political sophistication of the players" ( ibid.).

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Significant psychological obstacles stand in the way of making the transition from the kind of situation described by Konrád to one in which one suddenly finds oneself in competition for public attention and the right to speak. Suddenly to have to appeal for votes, either for oneself or for one's party; to have to persuade vot­ ers that it is in their interest to choose you as their representative from among so many political actors, after having been for so long the only possible choice; this task seemed humiliating to many former dissidents. Furthermore, persuasion is a matter of credibil­ ity, and was not their credibility stronger than anyone else's? The problem was that the relative importance of the issues had changed. The dissidents did not lose their credibility: simply their pet topics were no longer 'the topics of the day'. All that talk about morality in public life began to seem less and less important once economic reform got under way, with all its difficulties and re­ wards, and peasants and entrepreneurs started to manage their own farms or businesses. Even in Romania, where the situation is far from being on course to produce a 'normal' market economy or democracy, the intellectuals are still incapable of selling their political message to the rural electorate ( almost 50 per cent of the population). Indeed, they are not even trying to do so, since they find the compulsion to reduce everything to its simplest form, so that even illiterates can understand it, degrading. As a philosopher member of the Group for Social Dialogue in Bucharest once told Le Nouvel Observateur, while Romanian intellectuals are able to communicate perfectly well with Westerners, for some unknown reason the Romanian people do not understand them at all! A creative intellectual grows up convinced that not all opinions are equal; he would never dream of popularizing his work; and if he had to choose between success with the public and success with the critics, he would un­ doubtedly choose the latter. Reduced during communist rule to an inferior position in society, the intellectuals expected the new era to usher in a meritocracy. Instead, they now find that the votes of those who had been too cowardly even to acknowledge them in communist times are equal to their own and therefore that they have to seduce the population-for which they have already done so much-in order to prevent it from voting nationalist, commu­ nist, or whatever. Besides, their audience has good reason to avoid them: as Tony Judt puts it, "they are perceived as culturally mar­ ginal and an embarrassment, a reminder of a time when most of their audience did not wish to associate with them and an annoy­ ing prolongation of a dissident conscience with which most Hun-

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garians, Czechs, Slovak:s, Poles and others had, and still have, little in common" Qudt 1 994). Campaigns of defamation have been conducted against dissidents in Poland, Hungary, and Romania on an unimaginable scale and very few voices have ever been raised to defend them, even when those assailing them had also done so during communist times. Judt considers these intellectuals as heirs to the interwar socialist illusions about 'the people', neglecting crucial religious, national, and ethnic factors, and recommends that, if they wish "to be taken seriously at home", they should ad­ dress these issues carefully. Tismaneanu, by contrast, defends the intellectuals against this charge, and indeed one might ask what greater understanding of these factors would enable them to do? They are hardly likely to want to become spokesmen for Serbian, Hungarian, or Romanian nationalism, or for Polish Catholic intol­ erance. lt is true that they have tended to ignore the deplorable state in which their fellow citizens have been left after a hundred years, only twenty of which were spent under democratic regimes, but they have begun to wake up to the problem. A yawning gulf separates the East Central European intellectuals, who managed to save their books and their values over the last half-century, and many of their fellow countrymen, who remained cut off from such values and were förmed into a mass, like the psychological entities Zinoviev describes in his Homo Sovieticus. The bridging of this gulf is now the main problem facing the intellectuals: its objective, unavoidable character should finally be admitted, and no more time wasted on turning former heroes into scapegoats for current misfortunes. The problem could have been-and in a small number of cases, was-a political one, in the period when former dissidents were in power in Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Poland. They did make mistakes, primarily because they did not formulate the main prob­ lem they had to solve- decommunization-in the correct way. Decommunization was seen by the intellectuals as a moral prob­ lem. But what did society need most: purification or conciliation? The intellectuals' answer was clear and, as former opponents of the regime, they felt they were in the best position to provide it: con­ ciliation. According to Adam Michnik: "On the one hand, there were those who followed the path of a velvet revolution, one that would take place through democratic change, without violence, hatred or revenge; and on the other, there were those who wanted 'cleansing', and who campaigned for rigid decommunization­ using the quintessential Bolshevik technique of destroying people by using information from police archives" (Michnik 1 994). Havel

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wrote several articles along the same lines. ln political terms, how­ ever, the issue of decommunization was not so much about 'morals' as about power: how can a democratic transition be as­ sured when the only functioning network is in the hands of the communist elite? Is it not in the interest of society to prevent the communist network from retaining its supremacy, underpinned as it is by internal solidarity, and common habits and interests, while an alternative elite has yet to be formed. After all, what was the revolution for? Václav Klaus understood this problem and intro­ duced the lustration law which prevents former communist offi­ cials or collaborators with the secret police from running for office for five years. Elsewhere, no such measures were taken, with the result that former communists were able to return to power in Hungary and Poland, and economic reforms have been blocked and restrictive laws against the press reinstated in some parts of the region. Samuel Huntington wrote in The Th ird Wave that an agreement was made between those who agreed to surrender power-for instance, the communist ruling class in the Visegrád countries-and those who received it from them, that no one would be prose­ cuted: in the absence of such an agreement these regimes would have been inclined to defend themselves to the bitter end. How­ ever, decommunization was not intended to prosecute communist leaders, but to prevent them from remaining in office. lmagine the difficulties which West Germany might have experienced in be­ coming a democratic state after the Second World War if former N azi officials had been allowed to run for office. We have no rea­ son to assume that they would have been unable to find support­ ers. Was the decision to prevent them from standing undemo­ cratic? This issue was difficult to discuss in these terms when all the while the intellectuals themselves took evident pride in pro­ claiming their lack of interest in 'power', a soft Judeo-Christian liberal hypocrisy which has been-and will continue to be-quite costly for their fellows. They did not lose influence, as Tony Judt and Theodore Draper claim: with their policy of non-decom­ munization they practically gave it away. What was really at stake is best illustrated by events in Romania, where the officials still in power after the revolution, facing the unanimity of the intellectu­ als in favor of decommunization, appealed to the coal miners to put an end to the debate once and for all. The second important political issue after decommunization is the pro-Western stance of Central European intellectuals. This was never likely to stir up much enthusiasm in what are still largely

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rural societies. Such societies tend to be xenophobic-or at best indifferent to the outside world-and the post-communist coun­ tries are no exception. Xenophobia in Central Europe was at per­ haps its lowest ebb in 1 989 when it was generally felt that the West had helped liberate them by opposing the Soviet Union so obdu­ rately. Once it became clear that the West had no intention of bail­ ing them out, however, either by means of some kind of Marshall Plan or by speeding up their entry into the various European or­ ganizations of integration, xenophobia began to increase. Some even feared that the West would not lift a finger if the Russian im­ perialist threat re-emerged. As Judt puts it: "As a result, those same intellectual dissidents who were most outspokenly 'European' in their pronouncements and ideals are now multiply discredited with the local electorate" Oudt 1 994).

The Romanian Intellectuals Most elements of this 'clinical' description also apply to Romanian intellectuals. However, the differences are important the Romanian contribution to the vast literature of East Central European dissent is slight. There were only a few notable Romanian intellectual­ dissidents, even fewer-if any-programmatic texts of dissent, and practically no oppositional intellectual organization, not even in the guise of a human rights movement. One of the few dissidents, the poet Mircea Dinescu, wrote just after the revolution that, while re­ viewing drafts of protests prepared with his fellow writers, he had been shocked to discover that they usually started with the words "To our highly esteemed and beloved comrade Ceau�escu." Dinescu himself had eventually found. enough courage to speak openly against Ceau�escu, but none of his fellow writers had followed him. The same fate had befallen another writer, Paul Goma, fifteen years earlier, when he had tried to gather support in Romania for Charter '77 and for the rebellious coal miners in theJiu Valley. The main cause of this lack of dissidence was the extreme, al­ most unparalleled rigor with which the Ceau�escu regime main­ tained its grip on Romanian society: even Poland under martial law did not compare. ln Romania, political parties other than the Com­ munist Party were completely forbidden: even if their existence was merely formai, alternative parties could be found in, for exam­ ple, Poland and even in Bulgaria. Furthermore, Ceau�escu's totali-

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tarian project was extremely ambitious, seeking as it did to deprive of autonomy every aspect of life: because children under six and non-members of the Communist party were forced to register in . national associations every citizen could be accounted for as a member of one communist organization or another. Economic liberalization in Poland allowed the importation of paper and printing presses which could later be used to print dissident publi­ cations: in Romania, on the other hand, every typewriter was regis­ tered with the police and writers' homes were often searched for undeclared machines. ln Romania, clandestine opposition was almost impossible. Those who wanted to defy Ceau�escu could only do so openly and by means of foreign radio stations such as Radio Free Europe. But while Radio Free Europe was able to popu­ larize dissenters and their letters of protest ( smuggled out by Bu­ charest-based foreign diplomats, sometimes at personal risk), it was completely ineffective in helping Romanian dissidents to communicate among themselves and to establish networks. The only alternative was the desperate, isolated gesture, gener­ ally followed immediately by imprisonment or enforced exile. Paul Goma, indisputably the most courageous Romanian opposition figure, was forced into exile in 1 977, as were the historian Vlad Georgescu, later director of the Romanian Department of Radio Free Europe, and the writer Dorin Tudoran, among others. For most Romanian intellectuals resistance to generalized indoctrina­ tion and the total perversion of culture by socialist realism was an everyday, although less spectacular struggle. ln 1 988-89, every foreword had to include extensive quotations from Ceau�escu's books or speeches: nothing that failed to conform to the principles of socialist realism could be published, however apolitical. ln 1 989 the literary magazines received from the Party's propaganda sec­ tion a list of forbidden words, including "abstract" and "ludicrous", but also "food" and "meat", products which had by that time be­ come more difficult to obtain. ln this context the main concern of the intellectual class was to survive and to keep alive opportunities for writing decent literary critiques, making decent translations, and publishing Romanian literature that was not socialist realism. 'Dissident' books or articles were those that, while not being directed against the regime, did not conform to the principles of socialist realism or the list of for­ bidden words. Most pieces of this kind were exercises in contor­ tion because of the authors' efforts to express themselves without provoking the censors. ln this way, a few islands of cultural resis­ tance emerged which eventually produced real political resistance.

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One such island was the Writers' Union, the main literary paper of which was Romania literarii, which managed for twenty-five years to remain a literary reference poínt, resísting índoctrínatíon and, eventually, fightíng back. The Wríters' Uníon was a breeding ground for díssídents, although they never constítuted an organ­ ízed group. Paul Goma fought chíefly to mobilize hís fellows. ln hís autobíographícal novel Le tremblement des hommes he recounts wíth bítter humor how he waíted for days for Nicolae Breban, the most authorítatíve figure ín the Uníon, to come over to the opposi­ tíon síde, a gesture whích would surely have attracted many others. Breban never came, however, ínstead taking this opportunity to bargain for approval to publish his prohibited novel Bunavestire [Annunciation] . This difficult choice between public oppositíon and outwitting the censors by publishing books which did not conform with communist ideology lasted for twenty years and prevented many writers from turning into dissidents. The so-called 'Paltini� Group' considered its Heidegger translations to be more important than open opposition to the regime, and Nicolae Mano­ lescu wished to bring out his impressive History of Romanian Literature. Most intellectuals regarded the publication of their works-at least the non-conformist ones-as more important than criticízing the regime through the microphones of Radío Free Europe. The fear of being unable to function as a writer out­ weighed all other kinds. The full importance of the Wríters' Union as an organizatíon be­ came evident when ín 1 989 a group of wríters drafted a collective protest agaínst the persecution of Mircea Dinescu by the Securi­ tate: they addressed theír protest not to Ceau�escu, but to the presídent of the Writers' Uníon. As a result of their action the sig­ natories became 'forbidden writers': no publisher was allowed to print so much as theír name. The other important intellectual group was the unofficial 'Paltini� group'-whose Heídegger translatíons have already been mentíoned-which consisted of the philosopher Constantín Noica and his 'dísciples'. The group's standpoint was expounded ín The Diary of Paltin�, wrítten by one of these disciples, Gabriel Li­ iceanu. Formerly associated with the Iron Guard and a product of the most successful cultural generation ín twentieth-century Ro­ mania, the 'Criterion Generation'-which also included Emil Cio­ ran, Mircea Eliade, and Eugene Ionesco-Noica wrote very little on politics, but his prison memoírs Pray for Brother Alexander is an extraordinary document (Noica 1 990). Mter his baníshment for political reasons, Noica's books were published again ín the late

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1 960s, and ten years later he had become the undisputed intellec­ tual leader of Romania. The most important achievement of the Paltini� group was perhaps the new edition of Plato in Romanian: it was completely isolated from Romanian society as a whole and showed no interest in politics. ln the diary of Gabriel Liiceanu, Noica's bitter denunciation of Western 'consumer society' is cited, along with his division of the world into two parts: one in which material values are dominant, the so-called "butter society"-his favorite example was West Germany-and one in which spiritual values still prevail ( occasionally identified with intellectual life in Communist Romania). Noica was never a democrat or a liberal and could not accurately be described as an opponent of the regime, but he did save a generation from indoctrination and cultural isola­ tion. However, one of the members of the group, Andrei Ple�u, later Minister of Culture ( and from 1 997 Foreign Minister), man­ aged to annoy Ceau�escu's secret police enough to be exiled to the countryside, where he remained until the Revolution. The books of the Paltini� group enjoyed an amazing success. Li­ iceanu's Diary and even his translation of Heidegger were practi­ cally sold out before they appeared in the bookshops. The group eventually emerged as the most powerful reference point for young Romanian intellectuals, especially students. Of all Romanian cities Bucharest was subject to the heaviest sur­ veillance. Elsewhere, the political police were less vigilant. ln Ia�i, an old university town in Moldova, for example, two university journals, Opinia studenfeasca and Dialog, were bastions of cultural resistance and, eventually, of dissent during the 1980s. These journals were of course subject to censorship, but somehow they managed to publish without compromising themselves out of existence. Significant op­ ponents of the regime were to be found mostly outside mainstream intellectual life: Doina Cornea, a teacher of French in Cluj, and Radu Filipescu, an engineer in Bucharest, are two examples. Even Mircea Dinescu and Dan Petrescu never held leading positions in the cul­ tural sphere, unlike Nicolae Breban, Nicolae Manolescu, and the Paltini� group. This suited the Securitate very well, since it enabled them to portray dissidents as second-rank intellectuals or simply bad writers ( as in the case of Paul Goma) who were using political agita­ tion to achieve a position that their talent alone could never have won them. What is more, a significant portion of the intellectual establishment was willing to accept this explanation as an expedient to excuse their own behavior. Most dissidents shared a background in the humanities; occa­ sionally a mathematician or an engineer 'enlisted' in the struggle

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against Ceau�escu, but no social scientists or economists, a fact which was to have important consequences after 1 989. The major­ ity of dissidents were 'pure' intellectuals without a social vision or contact with other social strata. It is not surprising that they were unable to generate a more pragmatic oppositional organization.

After the Fali The first to break the news-on national television-of Ceau�escu's flight in December 1 989 were two intellectuals: Ion Caramitru, a famous actor who had had a great success in Hamlet a few months earlier, and Mircea Dinescu, who had been under house arrest. Both were later members of the Council of the National Salvation Front ( CNSF), alongside Doina Cornea and a few other well-known intellectual-dissidents, but also together with the group of Ion Iliescu, later president, who effectively monopolized power. When Iliescu decided in January 1 990 that the National Salvation Front would participate in the May elections, the intellectuals denounced his action as an abuse of power and an attempt to create a new one-party state. They subsequently lost a formai vote on the issue in an NSF Council which Iliescu had crammed with his own sup­ porters. Doina Cornea was the first to resign, followed by Ana Blandiana; Caramitru remained vice-president until the elections, while Dinescu took an interest only in the resuscitation of the Writers' Union. Generally speaking, the intellectuals who under the provisional government had held important positions-we might also mention Andrei Ple�u, appointed Minister of Culture, and Mihai �ora, Minister of Education-either gave up their posi­ tions immediately ( Cornea, Blandiana), or did not join the opposi­ tion against Iliescu until after the elections ( Caramitru, Dinescu, �ora). Andrei Ple�u remained Minister of Culture until September 1 99 1 , when the government of Petre Roman was forced to resign by the coal miners' actions. January-May 1990 ( until the elections) was a critical period in which the dissidents lost two important battles: one for influence, the other for popularity. The battle for influence was lost immediately. The December Revolution succeeded so easily because the army ( which had re­ pressed the demonstrators in Timi�oara), the Securitate, and the state bureaucracy immediately recognized in Iliescu a potential protector and were quick to 'sign up' to the Revolution on condi-

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tion that he lead it. lt is a delusion to think that Doina Cornea could have silenced Iliescu in the NSF and made herself leader. Ana Blan­ diana was right when she said that when they resigned from the NSF their presence had already become merely formal, and en­ dured for no other reason than that it helped to legitimize Iliescu. Caramitru claimed he had remained in order to continue the struggle from inside, and it is true that he was instrumental in pre­ venting a counter-rally ordered by the NSF against an opposition rally which could have turned into a blood-bath. Ple�u, on the other hand, who was criticized by his friends for not resigning from a government responsible for the violence of the coal miners, did an excellent job dismissing Ceau�escu's collaborators from practically all important positions and appointing pro-European, reputed intellectuals in their places. lt was only after his dismissal that national communists began to return and to occupy key cul­ tural and academic positions once more. A more subtle contributory factor in the loss of the battle for in­ fluence was the new freedom to publish. Having been forbidden to issue any political text for fifty years, in 1 990 the intellectuals be­ came lost in the infinite possibilities of publication: for almost all of them the very action of writing exhausted their spirit of opposi­ tion, leaving them with no inclination or energy to found alterna­ tive institutions or to work out how to address a public beyond the readers of literary journals. When in January 1 990 Doina Cornea attempted to challenge Ili­ escu, she used the same means as she had against Ceau�escu: an appeal to international public opinion. The situation, however, was completely different because everyone could speak for himself and any message might, at least in principle, attain electoral impor­ tance, not just those addressed to the West. ln an interview given to Trlbune de Geneve on 1 0 January, Doina Cornea claimed that the revolution had been expropriated and asked the international community to cease giving aid to Romania until a democratic gov­ ernment was in place; in another interview, this time with France Presse Oanuary 1 990), she added: "As long as these conditions are not fulfilled, no kind of assistance should be granted to Romania: on the contrary, the same means as during the last period of Ceau�escu should be used [an economic embargo] . We are accus­ tomed to misery. I think many Romanians are aware that it is more important to live in a free country than to eat [while one is] denied freedom." She completely misjudged the situation. Abstract issues such as freedom had never been very popular and under no cir­ cumstances would they have been preferred to economic issues by

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a population the vast majority of which was both poorly educated and poorly paid: after the privations of the Ceau�escu era anyone advocating the cutting off of foreign aid was bound to become unpopular: opinion polls carried out in March 1 990, however, showed that Doina Cornea, who had defied Ceau�escu so coura­ geously, had become not only the most unpopular public figure in Romania, but an object of hatred. The intellectuals made a belated attempt to organize themselves during this critical period. After the revolution, one of the authors of the letter defending Dinescu-Octavian Paler-became director of the important daily newspaper Romania libera; he was the first to write that the National Salvation Front was heading not towards democracy but towards what Ion Iliescu had already qualified as "a unique democracy" (Paler 1 990). A group consisting mainly of the authors of the letters of "The Six" and "The Eighteen" and members of the Paltini� group, formed the Group for Social Dialogue (GDS). The name was suggested by the former Stalinist journalist and dip­ lomat, Silviu Brucan, later an opponent of Ceau�escu and the 'brain' of the NSF until the elections. However, although inspired by the Polish KOR, the Romanian GDS was never able to engage in 'social dialogue' and remained a closed association with some fifty members. The GDS also published a journal, 22, which, under the direction of Stelian Tanase, could claim significant successes in 1 990. An even more radical oppositional intellectual group was formed in Timi�oara, the cradle of the Revolution. The main con­ tribution of the Timi�oara Society-which printed a daily with the same title-was its manifesto 'The Timi�oara Proclamation'. This text, written mainly by George �erban, was the only attempt to organize the discourse of the intellectual opposition; its main de­ mands were for truth and justice, and it was the first to propose decommunization. According to �erban, Timi�oara had risen up for something more than higher wages-a strike would have been enough for this-Timi�oara had taken to the streets for democracy. The group's Western orientation was clearly stated, together with principles of tolerance and co-existence with the ethnic minorities. The opposition made a desperate attempt to gather enough signa­ tures for the paragraph on decommunization in order to prevent Ion Iliescu from running in the elections. Around 4 million people signed the Proclamation, according to the Timi�oara Society. Al­ though the true figure was-a still formidable-1 . 5 million, the sig­ natories included most of the Hungarian minority, in the form of its main representative party. The Proclamation became the su-

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preme ordinance of the major rally held in University Square in Bucharest. This rally, which was started on 24 April by a number of small discontented groups of December 'revolutionaries', quickly be­ came popular after President Iliescu branded the protesters "hooligans". A few days later a significant portion of the Romanian intelligentsia was in the square, proudly wearing badges with texts such as "Hooligan Mathematician" or "Hooligan Professor". lts cul­ mination came when Romanian-born playwright Eugene lonesco sent a letter of support signed "Hooligan Academician". The Group for Social Dialogue-especially Tanase-also supported the rally. Meanwhile, the election campaign had started, and Romania libera was henceforth composed almost entirely of editorials writ­ ten by writers, poets, literary critics, and philosophers who sup­ ported the Timi�oara Proclamation and campaigned against the government. For almost all of them this was the first time they had spoken out in public. The articles were read in the evening from the balcony of University Square and the crowds cheered on hear­ ing the names of the authors, the best the intellectual class could produce, with the notable exceptions of Ple�u and Dinescu. These were the 'golden days' of the Romanian intellectuals, the period they are most proud of. For the first time they had become a community: the sense of sharing the same values and ideals with others was overwhelming, particularly during the shows in the evenings, which regularly turned into rock concerts. Furthermore, most of the intellectuals in attendance had never opposed Ceau;;,escu and had found it difficult to live with their compliant past. The rally had a cathartic function: it freed people of guilt and anxiety. It was their first overt act of opposition, and they were thrilled by the risk they were taking. Ali could express themselves freely and find listeners: it was their first experience of an 'agora'. The rally's manifestos, slogans, and songs were marked by an ex­ traordinary wit and inventiveness: foreigners compared it with the events of May 1 968. The rally rapidly became an end in itself, however. The intellec­ tuals-including their spiritual leaders from the GDS-made no at­ tempt to impose a more practical meaning on it: they were simply waiting for Iliescu to resign under the sheer weight of the 300,000 daily protesters in University Square. They did not consider it ím­ portant either to join the opposition parties or to establish a party of their own, although they did present a list in the Bucharest elec­ tions with Paler and Liiceanu at the top. While Iliescu was cam­ paigning in the rest of the country with the slogan 'Order and

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Peace'-a strategy which brought him 85 per cent of the votes-the GDS addressed the same audience every night in University Square with the motto (typically derived from a philosopher, Plato), "Only those who do not love power should approach it." An extraordi­ nary campaign was launched in the communist journals-now 'independent' and pro-NSF-against the intellectuals, which made use of the Securitate's secret files and even sought individual ar­ rests. Caramitru and Ple;m made a last desperate attempt to broker a meeting between Iliescu and the protesters, but failed. As Iliescu cruised towards victory, the intellectuals in University Square metamorphosed into what Elias Canetti calls a 'closed crowd': the crowd had reached its limits, and the process of self­ consumption began. After the elections a sense of helplessness and despair predominated. The students' organizations officially re­ treated and the coal miners called in by the government to clear the square found only a few remnants of the rally. Nevertheless, having been told by the communist newspapers that the intellec­ tuals had supported the rally, the miners set out on what amounted to an anti-intellectual pogrom: anyone caught wearing glasses or a beard (a sign of non-conformism), or carrying a book or an opposi­ tion newspaper was beaten savagely, 'arrested' with the complicity of the police, and released only a few days later. The headquarters of oppositional newspapers and parties were destroyed, along with some buildings belonging to Bucharest University. Even the largest publishing house, Humanitas, was invaded by miners who wanted to shut it down. The old Fascist slogan 'Death to the intel­ lectuals!' was heard once more in the streets of Bucharest. As a final blow, the two lists of intellectuals were defeated, even in Bu­ charest: moderates (Ple�u, Dinescu, Caramitru) and radical anti­ communists (GDS) alike failed to attract support, although they could have won with the votes of their University Square support­ ers, who in the event chose to lend their support to the former 'bourgeois' parties rather than to the politically 'independent' for­ mer dissidents. The Parliament elected on 20 May included no former dissi­ dents, a fact which even the prime minister considered a loss. Not that it was devoid of intellectuals: some of the former apostles of cultural resistance had been clever enough to stand for election as 'independents on the NSF list'. They were members of groups with a range of orientations and had fewer supporters than the anti­ communists, but they managed to play an increasing role over the next five years: they could broadly be divided into a 'nationalist' and an 'apolitical' group.

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One positive outcome of the miners' descent upon Bucharest was the revival of solidarity among the intellectuals. Dinescu stepped forward again to protest against the anti-intellectualism encouraged by the Government. ln the fall of 1 990, the intellectu­ als tried to establish their first grassroots organization. Since politi­ cal parties were already allowed to exist and to compete for power the one thing left for such an organization to do was civic educa­ tion. To this end it was instrumental in organizing large protest rallies (more than 500,000 Romanians reportedly participated in the Civic Alliance rallies in November 1 990 and April 1 991 ), but involvement was limited to Bucharest and the movement was from the outset restricted to the larger cities. It had no political pro­ gram, only the slogan 'Bread and Truth', which became identified with the opposition as a whole. It campaigned for an investigation into the events of December 1 989, the putting on trial of commu­ nism, and, after a first attempt by the former King Michael to re­ turn to the country in December 1 990, for the restoration of the constitutional monarchy.

Conflicts among Anti-Communist Intellectuals Soon after the creation of this first common organization differ­ ences between anti-communist intellectuals began to come to the fore: even at their first press conference they did not speak with a single voice, but undermined their position by questioning and contradicting one another. One of the founders, the painter Sorin Dumitrescu, criticized a statement issued by the Civic Alliance Charter, "The human being is the supreme value", considering it "a masonic and French Revolution-type blasphemy", and proof of "communist-like satanology" (Dumitrescu 1 991). Dumitrescu be­ came the spiritual leader of a small group of students and young Eastern Orthodox priests who declared themselves in Romanía líbera, edited by Dumitrescu, and established their own founda­ tion and publishing house. Later, a political party was set up, the Movement for Romania, based on Dumitrescu's notion that "the destiny of Romania cannot be separated from the destiny of Chris­ tianity" (ibid.). The students' organizations, especially the League of Students-organizers of the rally in University Square-have be­ come increasingly dominated by this way of thinking: the only public actions undertaken by the League in the past two years

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were in protest against the attempt to remove provisions punish­ ing homosexual consensual sex from the Romanian Penal Code, which was in fact a condition of Romania's admission to the Coun­ cil of Europe. The Orthodox Christian lobby led by Dumitrescu also launched other discriminatory actions, Oumitrescu usually complaining that the Orthodox Church showed too much toler­ ance towards its enemies. There was also a liberal group within the Civic Alliance, consist­ ing of GOS members with social science connections. This group was the first to decide that the intellectuals needed a political party with its own political and economic program. ln April 1 99 1 they separated from the Civic Alliance and established the Party of the Civic Alliance (PAC). This constituted the first public recognition of the fact that the intellectuals had been unable to find a place in the 'historical' parties, which were dominated by former political prisoners, putting an end to the monopoly on political opposition which the intellectuals had held until 20 May: even when PAC al­ lied itself with the historical parties under the aegis of the Oemo­ cratic Convention of Romania (OCR) conflicts of ideology and interest continued between the two groups. Unfortunately, the Party of the Civic Alliance, despite its more realistic approach to politics, was doomed from the beginning. Chronic tensions with the Civic Alliance and the historical parties finally produced a split (March 1 993) and then PAC's withdrawal from the OCR (March 1 995). The endless conflicts which continue to divide Romania's anti­ communist intellectuals, rendering them so ineffective, derive from ideological differences. We can distinguish a number of indi­ vidual groups. The anti-communist intellectuals with the strongest popular sup­ port make up the conservative group. Their main political goal is to take Romania back to how it was before communism. The three main pillars of their program are: (i) recognition of the 1 92 3 Con­ stitution and restoration of the constitutional monarchy; (ii) resti­ tution a d integrum of property nationalized or confiscated by the communist regime; and (iii) prosecution by means of a Nurem­ berg-type trial of those who consolidated the communist regime by destroying the former elite and repressing any opposition. This was also, more or less, the program of the 'historical' parties, but the intellectuals were more radical in pursuing it. Their arguments ranged from the abstract-formal to the purely mystical: Adrian Niculescu declared in 22 (l May 1 992), "We can legitimately state that, strictly juridically, from 1 947 until today Romania has never

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ceased to be a constitutional monarchy; that the proclamation of the republic was invalid; and that the abdication act of King Mi­ chael (which he denounced immediately after arriving in the free world as having been forced upon him by violence) is null. lt would be therefore all too natural and right for Romania to have returned from 22 December 1 989 de facto to the situation which already held de jure, that is, to a constitutional monarchy." Conservative discourse also characterizes the intellectuals who returned from exile: even more than those who had remained in the country they nourish the illusion that the period of their ab­ sence could be simply erased from history, and that the clocks should be turned back to begin once again on 23 August 1 944, 1 the day that had seemed to mark the rebirth of a new democratic Ro­ mania, only to be annihilated almost immediately by the Red Army's entry into Bucharest. There are a number of reasons why most Romanian intellectuals are monarchists. Although not a good speaker, on his visít in 1 992 King Michael gave the impression of being a deeply religious and moral person, with a conciliatory na­ ture. He could easily have been taken as the figurehead of national reconciliation, in contrast to Iliescu who to the intellectuals would always be the man who had sent in the miners to destroy them. The King also has the advantage-in stark contrast with the intel­ lectuals themselves-of never having compromised with the re­ gime: by becoming monarchists, it may be that intellectuals feel that they are taking from the King something they lost long ago, innocence and grace. The King made it possible for these low-born and Marxist-educated intellectuals to feel part of something higher, something they could not otherwise attain. lt was also obvious that Romania needed the help of an arbiter to overcome its deep con­ flicts, as did the intellectuals themselves, someone who stood above their exhausting daily confrontations. The liberal group is less well represented and enjoys considera­ bly less popular support, for the reasons already given. lt was this group, led by Nicolae Manolescu, Stelian Tanase, and others-either GDS or former GDS members-which set up PAC, which duly split when Tanase and his group began to promote the idea of unifying all liberal parties. Tanase also became editor of Sfera politicii, a political science journal which campaigned for this issue. Mano­ lescu remained president of PAC, while the rest joined the Liberal Party, and later the Liberal Alliance. Neither Manolescu nor Tanase was able to construct a functioning coalition around his ideas, however. At the same time, this parting of the ways, as all too often in Romanian political and intellectual life, was not ideological, but

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persona!. Liberalism in Romania still lacks an outstanding intellec­ tual personality, someone with both the intellectual and moral legitimacy to be able to unify the liberal movement or to give it a more definite direction. Even so, it does have the best of the younger generation of intellectuals on its side, even if they are still restricted to organizing informal groups. The writings of the latest 'name' among Romanian essayists, H. R. Patapievici, plead also for the "reinvention of Romanian identity", particularly by political means, and the abandonment of the traditional exaltation of the values of a 'peasant civilization' at the expense of the 'enforced modernization' imposed by the West and its Romanian followers (Patapievici 1 995). There is also a left-oriented group among the anti-communist in­ tellectuals, but its spokesmen do not have a political movement of their own, nor do they label their ideas as left-wing. J. Goldfarb quotes somewhere a joke he heard in Poland: those who say they are neither on the left nor on the right are leftists who dare not say so. The situation in Romania is very similar: after fifty years of communism nobody other than the national communists are will­ ing to admit to being leftist. The apolitical group was constituted in early 1 990 in response to the radicalism of the GDS. lts spiritual leader, Eugen Simion, a literary critic, considered that cultural resistance had been more than enough, that its main product-Romanian literature written during the Ceau�escu regime-was excellent and had no need whatsoever of a new form of hierarchization, and that the problem of collective guilt for collaborating with the former regime had been overstated. He thought that intellectuals should concern themselves only with cultural matters and have nothing to do with politics. The group was virtually extinct after a few months, but its most promi­ nent members made important careers after Iliescu had consoli­ dated his power: Eugen Simion became vice-president of the Ro­ manian Academy, while Marin Sorescu was Minister of Culture for two years. Other members went into Parliament in 1 990. The nationalist group, finally, was more heterogeneous and took longer to organize itself, mainly because most of its members had fanatically and shamelessly supported Ceau�escu in his last 'national communist' period, and had waited out 1 990 in order to see who would emerge as political victor. When it became clear that former collaborators had nothing to fear, they began to pub­ lish newspapers, organized a political party, Romania Mare, and openly promoted a policy of intolerance towards ethnic minorities

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(Hungarians, Gypsies), characterized by anti-Semitism, and of xenophobia. They also advocated hatred towards other intellectu­ als, especially former dissidents. As if to confirm the findings of K. Verdery (Verdery 1 99 1 ), historian Dan Zamfirescu, a member of this group, declared after the Revolution that in fact they had used Ceau�escu for their nationalistic purposes, and not vice versa. Al­ though the group included some often quoted intellectuals, there was no first-rank thinker among them. They were incapable of rising to the top of the cultural hierarchy on their own meríts, which is why they identified themselves with the nationalist cause, both during the Ceau�escu period and after 1 989. This group sup­ ported Saddam Hussein during the Gulf War and Slobodan Mi­ losevié during the Bosnian crisis. One of its members, Romulus Vulpescu, a distinguished translator of French medieval poetry, was the true voice of national communist paranoia, while Paul Everac, a Stalinist playwright and editor of Romdnul, a nationalist weekly, was appointed president of Romanian National Television, on which he broadcast nationalist editorials every weekend: in one of them he stated that, because the Romanian people are the an­ cestors of Western Europeans through their alleged forefather, the Emperor Trajan, the Council of Europe should be honored to let them join. When the Council of Europe suggested that the transla­ tor of the Protocoles des sages de Sion was not a fit person to head a national television station, Everac was dismissed, although he later received appointments at the Romanian Embassy in Vienna and the Romanian cultural center in Venice.

Issues and Battles ln addition to their involvement in post-communist politics, intel­ lectuals engaged in a number of other battles. ln 1 990, the majority of literary magazines published mostly political editorials. Looking over these editorials a few years later, one is struck by the fact that their only certainty seems to be negative: the intellectuals knew very well what they opposed, but were much more vague about what they were in favor of. The cult of the 'Criterion Generation' began in the closing years of the Ceau�escu regime as a manifesta­ tion of opposition to communism and was denounced as morally ambiguous after the Revolution, when the pro-Iron Guard texts of Noica, Eliade, and Cioran came to light. ln a number of excellent

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articles Alexandru George contributed to the demythification of the 'Criterion' group by revealing their lack of enthusiasm for de­ mocracy. George claimed that these writers had made an unhappy choice to say the least: taking the view that the problems then be­ ing experienced by the new-born Romanian democracy were structural problems of democracy as such they succumbed to the apparently simpler solutions of fascism. Because most Romanians know nothing of the Iron Guard past of Eliade, Cioran, and Noica, however, they remain the strongest cultural reference group, a fact which serves only to increase the confusion of values among the intellectual class: the expurgated and apolitical scholarly works of these famous figures cannot provide a system of values at the time it would be most needed. Apart from a conviction that they are anti-communist and pro-European-but which Europe are they in favor of? That of the nineteenth century; 1 968; or Maastricht? And would it be neo-liberal or social democratic?-most Romanian intel­ lectuals today would be hard put to explain what they stand for. After a while, however, survival became the most important is­ sue for most intellectuals. ln 1 990, the Writers' Union was among the richest institutions in Romania: all the buildings and funds en­ trusted to it by the Communist Party had become real assets over­ night. Dinescu also managed to have a stamp duty imposed on every newly published book, the revenues from which went to the Union, regardless of whether the author was a member or even Romanian. This might reasonably have been expected to provide a constant source of financing, from which, for example, thousands of writers might have received a Union pension. Only two years later, however, inflation, a lack of proper financial advice, and the writers' stubborn insistence on printing more than twenty differ­ ent literary magazines instead of concentrating on a few, led the Union straight to bankruptcy. Most of the literary magazines dis­ appeared: even Romdnia literara, the leading literary journal, has had an intermittent existence over the past few years and is now supported by the Soros Foundation. Private publishing houses started after 1 990 did better than the state-owned ones, most of which have now either ceased trading or have been reduced to a merely symbolic existence. The private publishers were primarily concerned with the rapid acquisition of wealth and had no interest in publishing Romanian literature. Writers who under Ceau�escu used to complain they could not be published for political reasons, now complain that they cannot be published for economic ones. No publisher is willing to take the financial risk of printing poetry or new writers, and most writers make a living from journalism or

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similar work. The Writers' Union found the most inappropriate scapegoat for all these misfortunes, Mircea Dinescu, who resigned from his position as president without anyone expressing regret. This was a bitter fate for the last famous dissident with a public position, and one who as recently as 1 990 had enjoyed such a wealth of sympathy. The alliance of the national communists with Iliescu's left-wing government also affected the cultural field. Even international or­ ganizations tried to intervene to stop Iliescu ousting important intellectuals from a wide range of top positions, from publishing house staff to theater directors. ln fact, Iliescu gave the national communist group absolute freedom to destroy the pro-Western intelligentsia, whom he had not forgiven for the suspicion and open hostility it had shown him in 1 990. On one occasion he went as far as comparing the journal 22 with the xenophobic and anti­ Semitic Romania Mare, declaring that both papers were equally extreme. The appointment of national communists to all important cul­ tural positions reduced practically to nothing the cultural ex­ changes with the West that had begun to get off the ground in 1 990. Saddled as they are with their pre-1 989 directors and staff the research institutes of the Academy are condemned to medioc­ rity, not to mention their chronic underfunding. The non-com­ munists who did manage to get elected to the Romanian Academy in 1 990 are condemned to fight a constant battle to avoid expul­ sion. The Academy is perhaps the best symbol of Romania's aborted Revolution. Because no one was excluded from the Academy in 1 990 its members still include a majority of old Stalinists and col­ laborators with the communist regime. Some new blood was in­ troduced just after the Revolution because the old guard was afraid that change would be forced upon it if it did not appear to be at least making a move in the right direction. No such fears are abroad today: it is clear that Liiceanu, perhaps the most highly re­ puted Romanian intellectual, will never be accepted by this Acad­ emy; nor will Nicolae Manolescu, whose History of Romanian Lit­ erature is perhaps more important than anything written by his rival Simion, who in only five years has risen from new member to vice-president. This state of affairs is particularly serious in respect of fields of scholarship with political implications, such as history; and the philosophy and social science section members would have felt entirely at home in the Central Committee's Department of Propaganda. ln December 1 995 a rival Academy, the Romanian

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Academic Society, was founded, whose members included Li­ iceanu, Ple�u, and Tanase. However, this new organization chose to become more like an American NGO, running several programs (among them a training course for new political representatives, similar to the one at Harvard), rather than a classic Academy with an exclusive membership. The Romanian Academy presents re­ formers with a number of serious problems, even after the long delayed victory of the political opposition. Should old Communists be excluded, and in favor of whom? The revolutionary spirit of 1 989 is gone, and even if other parts of society can be reformed the Academy is likely to remain a monument to late Stalinism. Moreover, in the late Iliescu period there were fewer opportuni­ ties in journalism than there had been in 1 990. There are very few intellectuals in Parliament or other official positions, the victory of the opposition in 1 996 notwithstanding. However, the newly elected president, Emil Constantinescu, is the product of such intellectual groups as the Civic Alliance, which was instrumental in preventing several persons considered morally unfit from becoming ministers in the Ciorbea government. As for their role from now on, it is 'business as usual'. The famous dissi­ dent and poet Ana Blandiana, leader of the Civic Alliance, put it very well after her first visit to Constantinescu, a former colleague who had turned out to be a real politician: "We are here to remind them of the promises they made."

Notes * An earlier version of this paper was published in East European Politics and Societies 10 (Spring 1996): 333 -64. 1 Date of the military coup headed by King Michael which led to the arrest of pro-German Dictator Antonescu and to Romania joining the Allies.

References Brown, J. F. 1994. The Surge to Freedom. Durham, USA: Duke University Press. Dumitrescu, Sorin. 1991. Editorial. 22 (3 May). Huntington, Samuel P. 1991. The Third Wave. Norman, Oklahoma: Univer­ sity of Oklahoma Press. Judt, Tony. 1994. 'The End of Which European Era?' Daedalus (Summer).

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Konrád, George [György]. 1 984. Antipolitics. London: Methuen. Lipset, Seymour M., and Asoke Basu. 1976. 'The Roles of the lntellectuals and Political Roles.' ln The lntelligentsia and the Intellectuals, ed. Alek­ sander Gella. Newbury Park, USA: Sage. Michnik, Adam. 1994. The Church and the Lejt. Preface. Chicago: Chicago University Press. von Mises, Ludwig. [1956) 1978. The Anticapitalistic Mentality. South Holland, Illinois: Libertarian Press. Noica, Constantin. 1990. Rugafi-va pertru fratele Alexandru [Pray for Brother Alexander]. Bucharest: Editura Humanitas. Paler, Octavian. 1990. 'Sfir#tul iluziilor', [ 'The End of Illusions.'] Romania libera, editorial. Patapievici, H. R. 1995. 'Cerul viizut prin lentila ' ['The Sky Through a Lens.'] Nemíra. Schöpflin, George. 1991. 'Post-Communism: Constructing New Democra­ cies in Central Europe.' International Affairs 67 (2). Tismaneanu, Vladimir. 1994. 'NYR, TLS and the Velvet Counter-revolution.' ln Common Knowledge. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Verdery, Katherine. 1991. National ldeology under Socialism. Berkeley: University of California Press.

From Imagined to Actually Existing Democracy: lntellectuals in Slovenia IVAN BERNIK

Intellectual Skills and the Skills ofIntellectuals The focal theme of the current debate concerning the changed role of intellectuals in the Central European new democracies is aptly expressed in Timothy Garton Ash's claim that "the independent intel­ lectuals have fallen from abnormal importance, which they had be­ fore 1 989, into abnormal unimportance" (Garton Ash 1 995, 153). This statement is representative in two respects; on the one hand, it clearly illustrates the widely held belief that intellectuals as a group are one of the major losers of the transformation process, and on the other, it indicates, in terms of a rather vague notion of 'abnormality', that this dramatic change still awaits a systematic explanation. Finally, Garton Ash's bald assertion implies a wide range of issues which must be examined before it can be properly understood: in a word, the present 'abnormal' situation of intellectuals cannot be grasped unless their previous favorable position is first analyzed and then put for­ ward for comparison. This chapter focuses on some of the issues implied in Garton Ash's assertion. First, I ask whether and, if so, in what way the role of intellectuals in Central European state socialist societies could be designated as 'abnormally important'. My analysis is not con­ fined to the political role of intellectuals: I also examine how the intellectuals' ideology and actions related to their position in the hierarchy of socialist society. I use data from Slovenia to illustrate a number of aspects of the transformation of the intellectuals' politi­ cal role. Finally, I present some hypotheses concerning the current role of intellectuals in Central Europe as a whole. Because a detailed discussion of the concept of 'intellectuals' is beyond the scope of this chapter, before we go any further it is worth indicating which definition of it I intend to employ. At the core of most definitions lies the notion that the possession of intel-

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lectual skills is a necessary but not a sufficient constitutive charac­ teristic of intellectuals: only those in whom these skills have been 'upgraded' by means of the adoption of a critical attitude towards the social and-especially-the political order may properly be de­ scribed as 'intellectuals'. ln accordance with this view, the intellec­ tuals' social role is in fact composed of two different-and some­ times even incompatible-roles: that is, "the role of specialist in one or other field of intellectual work (writer, scientist, professor, phi­ lologist) and the role of one who for some reason feels the call to active participation, or even leadership, in some supra-professional community" (Szacki 1 990, 232; see also von Beyme 1 994, 1 02). This understanding of the role of intellectuals is also broadly con­ sistent with the definitions which stress creativity as a basic char­ acteristic (see Geiger 1 949; Etzioni-Halévy 1 985, 9): in this context, creativity is seen as a means which enables 'intellectual workers' to transcend their professional specializations and form an intellec­ tual community. These definitions are constructed on the basis of a distinction between 'intellectuals proper' and the merely 'educated': "only those educated people are intellectuals ... who criticize the world of the possible, which is the principal concern of the practical peo­ ple, including those doing intellectual work" (Bendix 1 988, 342). But there are also important similarities between the educated stratum as a whole and the intellectuals. We may assume that they possess-clue to their possession of similar intellectual skills-a simi­ lar economic, social, and political status in society. ln light of these similarities, the central question in the study of intellectuals con­ cerns what it is that motivates some members of the educated stra­ tum to answer "the call [to] active participation in some supra­ professional community". To avoid an inconclusive discussion of the point at which (mere) intellectual skills and activities turn into the skills and ac­ tivities of intellectuals, l will be forced to rely upon rather unso­ phisticated definitions of the merely educated and of intellectuals. The former shall be deemed to include all those with a university education and whose social position is primarily determined by their intellectual skills (that is, not, for instance, by their possession of political power or wealth); the latter is a sub-group of the edu­ cated stratum as a whole, characterized by a high levei of internal cohesion and a critical stance towards the social and political or­ der.

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The Educated Stratum and Intellectuals in State Socialist Societies Acceptance of this definition of the educated stratum depends of course on whether it is possible to speak of the holders of university degrees as a social stratum in its own right in state socialist societies, that is, as a recognizable social entity. ln these countries, as in other industrial societies, such persons were active in different organiza­ tional and functional settings, such as the economy, the civil service, and social welfare provision. ln light of these differences, it seems unlikely that all members of the educated stratum can be considered to have occupied a similar position in the hierarchy of socialist socie­ ties, let alone to have had similar interests. The 'normal' tendency towards the disintegration of the edu­ cated stratum into separate professional groups was blocked in socialist societies by the attempts of the political elite to shape the social hierarchy in accordance with its political and ideological priorities. Although the effective regulation of social stratification was limited mostly to the redistribution of income and access to political power, it had important homogenizing effects on the educated stratum. The main precondition of such regulation as it affected members of this stratum was the almost complete elimina­ tion of opportunities for state-independent employment. A further consequence of this was the strict curtailment of professional autonomy. Another important effect of the political regulation of social stratification-in keeping with the centrality of egalitarian­ ism to the dominant ideology-was the maintenance of a low levei of income differentiation between the educated and other work­ ers: the earnings of so-called 'intellectual workers' did not differ much-sometimes not at all-(see Cirtautas and Mokrzycki 1 993, 8 1 4) from those of blue-collar workers. The effects of state redistribution of income were limited, how­ ever. Studies conducted in the former Yugoslavia in the 1 970s showed that members of the educated stratum were able to com­ pensate for their relatively low money income by appropriating a substantial share of state-provided cultural, educational, and recrea­ tional goods (Popovié 1 977; Klinar 1 979). Similar surveys in other socialist countries showed that the better educated also managed to secure privileged access to accommodation (see Walder 1 995, 322). ln these circumstances, it seems possible to conclude-as one soci­ ologist did on the basis ofHungarian surveys-that, during the social­ ist period as a whole, "highly qualified salaried employees, for in-

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stance doctors, engineers (technicians) and teachers, were better off than the other social strata, except the leading elite or power elite" (Andorka 1 994, 503) in state socialist societies. The limits of political control over the distribution of social re­ wards were even more obvious in respect of professional prestige. ln the course of two decades, opinion surveys conducted in Slovenia showed that, on average, the highest prestige was ascribed to mem­ bers of the educated stratum rather than to politicians or members of other strata. These findings speak in favor of a more general the­ sis, formulated by Wlodzimierz Wesolowski as early as the late 1 960s on the hasis of Polish surveys, that social stratification in socialist societies was characterized by "the decomposition of the attributes of social position" (Wesolowski 1 979, 1 1 5). Different studies con­ firmed that a high level of status inconsistency was a stable charac­ teristic of stratification systems in Central European societies (see Kolosi and Wnuk-Lipinski 1 983, 1 9 1 ; Tomc and Pesec 1 986, 1 76). The educated stratum was affected by status inconsistency in a par­ ticular way: their high educational status and occupational prestige were not matched by commensurate access to economic rewards and political power. This gave rise to a sense that they were being deprived of their legitimate share of social rewards. Status inconsis­ tency was therefore a source of growing frustration and discontent among members of the educated stratum. These findings suggest that the better educated were united not only by common privileges but by common status frustrations. Addi­ tional arguments in favor of the thesis that they constituted a rela­ tively homogeneous social group are provided by mobility studies. Polish mobility studies showed that "in the formative years, that is, until 1 956, recruitment [in other words, opportunities for social mobility-author's note] at each stage was controlled by the political machinery of the Party" (Kurczewski 1 994, 400). ln these circum­ stances, members of the educated stratum were not able to pass on their status to their children. Subsequently, direct political control over social mobility decreased, the political elite managing to retain control only over access to its own ranks. These findings are similar to those of mobility studies conducted in Croatia in the 1 980s and of more recent studies conducted in the former East Germany. These studies showed that direct political control over the allocation of individuals among different social positions almost disappeared in the course of the 'maturation' of the socialist order, and that the edu­ cated stratum managed to establish the highest rate of self-re­ production of a11 social strata (Sekulié 1 987): although political loy­ alty remained a condition of social promotion it was of only secon-

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dary importance compared to educational achievement (Solga 1 994, 539). Although in the 'mature' state socialist societies of Central Europe the educated stratum managed to strengthen its social position rela­ tive to other social strata, it was unable to overcome its status frustra­ tions. Over time, it became more and more obvious that this frustra­ tion was both 'material' and 'moral'. This stratum's 'material' frustra­ tion arose from the fact that its share of economic rewards was lim­ ited by political regulation: most of its members saw clearly that the allocation of economic goods on the basis of market competition would benefit them above all. 1 The main source of their 'moral' frus­ tration was the political supervision of their professional activities: although in the 'mature' socialist societies this supervision took mostly subtle and defensive forms, it clashed with the growing self­ assurance of the educated stratum, as a result of which they sought to curtail radically the prerogatives of the political elite, not only in the economic but in other spheres. These homogenizing tendencies notwithstanding, the educated stratum included a number of sub-groups which experienced differ­ ent levels of 'material' and 'moral' frustration. One sub-group in par­ ticular felt the latter frustration very strongly: it consisted of those individuals who were able to articulate new culturally and politically important ideas, and was recruited mostly from philosophers, social scientists, journalists, writers, and artists. Because of their specific intellectual skills, the professional activities of members of this sub­ group were subject to close political surveillance in order to ensure their loyalty: of all sub-groups within the educated stratum, it was the members of this one who were exposed to the most obvious "expropriation of their professional prerogatives" (Bauman 1 992, 121). These are the people who came to be known as 'intellectuals'. The degree of control to which the intellectuals were subject ren­ dered the emergence of overt political dissent a long and complex process. Although there were short periods of permissiveness, cul­ tural and-especially-political dissent were severely punished in all Central European societies until the end of the 1970s. ln the 1 980s, the ruling elites crystallized two main strategies for dealing with political non-conformists. While in some countries the political elite clung to the tried and tested strategy of repression, elsewhere a more flexible strategy of selective co-optation was gradually intro­ duced. Where the first strategy continued to be used-for example, Czechoslovakia and East Germany-the political elite managed to marginalize political non-conformism. The strategy of co-optation, which was followed in Hungary, Slovenia, and-to a greater or lesser

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extent-in Poland, was an attempt to contain political non-con­ formism by establishing a dialog with some non-conformist intellec­ tuals and marginalizing the rest. Contrary to the expectations of the political elite, however, this strategy resulted in the gradual de­ marginalization of non-conformist intellectuals; it also facilitated a certain amount of internal differentiation in their ranks and in those of the political elite. 2 ln this way the preconditions of a gradual and relatively well-regulated 'exit from socialism' were created; the strat­ egy of repression, on the other hand, gave rise to sudden outbursts of accumulated tension and the more revolutionary overthrow of the regimes which pursued it. Although the course of events which ended in the overthrow of the state socialist regime was different in each country, in all cases the role of intellectuals was of exceptional importance ( see for ex­ ample Bernik 1 994; Garton Ash 1 99 1 ; Glenny 1 990; and Meyer 1 993). At the same time, the other sub-groups which constituted the educated stratum did not openly express their dissatisfaction with the regime in the early phases of democratization. Nevertheless, it would be wrong to underestimate the role of the 'silent majority' in this process.3 The educated stratum's covert withdrawal of political support for the regime provided a crucial foundation for the intel­ lectuals' pursuit of active opposition to the regime. To understand better the role of the 'silent majority' of the edu­ cated stratum, however, one must bear in mind that it also included a number of sub-groups which directly 'served' the political elite: for example, those employed in the armed forces, the police, and other branches of the state apparatus. The fact that these groups saw little purpose in upholding the old regime contributed much to the sur­ prisingly peaceful nature of democratization in Central Europe. When the ruling elite realized that it could not rely on the political loyalty of those parts of the educated stratum on whose services it was most dependent, the only remaining solution was to withdraw gracefully. 4

The Ideology of the Intellectuals: Defending the Interests of Society So far nothing has been said about the ideology in whose terms the non-conformist intellectuals articulated their 'material' and­ especially-'moral' frustrations and legitimized their political dissent. The question of the intellectuals' ideology under a socialist regime

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seems particularly relevant given the widely accepted assumption that intellectuals are able-because of their undefined position in the social hierarchy-to take the role of "a watchman in what otherwise would be a pitch-black night" (Mannheim 1 949, 141) in a range of social conte:xts. The widespread belief that intellectuals are able to elaborate an unbiased view from the perspective of society as a whole should explain why, in periods of political and cultural crisis, their ideology tends to attain a high degree of popular support. I shall argue, by contrast, that the ideology developed by the non­ conformist intellectuals was not unrelated to their position in the social order and their group interests. This relation remained ob­ scure, however, because the ideology of the non-conformist intellec­ tuals was couched in abstract and universalistic terms. The key characteristics of the intellectuals' ideology are epito­ mized by the notion of 'civil society', which "had been the demo­ cratic (and revolutionary) password of the opposition since the mid 1 970s" (üst 1 993, 455). The main attraction of this idea for the critics of socialist regimes was its focus on the dichotomy between state and society, in which the state represented control and rigid­ ity, and society represented self-organization and spontaneity. As applied to state socialist societies, the notion of civil society proved to have both analytical and motivational potential: in its terms, the crisis facing the non-democratic societies of East Central Europe could be explained as a consequence of the mortification of society's evolutionary and self-regulatory potential by the om­ nipotent communist state. ln this perspective, the transformation of state socialist societies could be effected only by reviving their internal capacities and by 'rolling back the frontiers of the state' to their natural limits. The non-conformist intellectuals also defined their 'mission' within the framework of the notion of civil society. They saw themselves neither as 'organic intellectuals' belonging to a specific class, stratum, or professional group, nor as advocates of their own group interests, but rather as defenders of the 'rights' of society as a whole against the encroachments of the authoritarian state. Their political non-conformism was conceived as a means of realizing not particular political aims, but universal ones. This is why they did not perceive their ideas and activities as political, but rather as a form of 'anti-politics' (Konrád 1 984). Paradoxically, this sophisti­ cated anti-political and seemingly disinterested stance had far­ reaching political consequences. Two aspects of this 'civil society ideology' seem particularly im­ portant. First, although the non-conformist intellectuals saw them-

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selves as the 'vanguard' of resistance to the authoritarian regime, they did not conceive of their role in terms of the exclusion of other political actors: their avowed aim was to create a free space in which different social interests could express themselves, or, more pathetically, to help society to express itself spontaneously in the form of different social movements, forums, and initiatives. Secondly, the unfolding of civil society and the demise of the so­ cialist state was seen as an evolutionary process rather than as a sudden, revolutionary overthrow of the old order. ln the early phases of the democratization process the civil society ideology legitimized an openness to different forms of political dissent on the part of the non-conformist intellectuals. It enabled them to respond sensitively to the dissatisfactions of 'the People' and even to act as the organizers and legitimizers of mass protest. By stress­ ing the importance of spontaneity and evolution, this ideology was another reason why the socialist anciens régimes withdrew so peacefully in most Central European countries. Although 'principled' and 'unbiased', the criticism of the old re­ gime implied in the civil society ideology was nevertheless strongly related to the vital interests of the intellectuals. As already indicated, their main interest was to ensure their professional autonomy and to improve their economic status. The attempts to revive civil society and the corresponding envisaged radical limita­ tion of the prerogatives of the state would clearly be instrumental in the realization of these interests. From this point of view, it can be argued that the civil society ideology was the most 'appropriate' one, not only for the intellectuals but for the educated stratum as a whole.

Slovenia: The Vícissitudes of the 'Intellectual Movement' ín the Great Transformation Although non-conformist ideas and activities in Yugoslavia ( Slovenia was one of the federal units of Yugoslavia until 1 99 1 ) were subject to less strict surveillance than in other Central Euro­ pean countries, the pattern of the control exercised over intellec­ tuals did not differ much from that which prevailed in other dicta­ torships in the region. While during the periods of reform initiated by the political elite the intellectuals were given some autonomy, in the period of consolidation of the socialist regime all forms of

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intellectual non-conformism had been marginalized. The rather benevolent reform period of the l:ite 1 960s was followed in the 1 970s by strict control, not only over political non-conformism, but over other non-conformist intellectual activities (Rupel 1 987, 243). At the beginning of the 1 980s the death of the undisputed po­ litical leader of the Communist Party in Yugoslavia, Josip Broz Tito, profoundly altered the political landscape: because of his pivotal role Tito's death destabilized the whole political system. At the same time, the country was experiencing a worsening economic crisis. This political and economic instability was further compli­ cated by a high degree of economic and cultural heterogeneity. For the intellectuals, however, the crisis situation opened up new op­ portunities, particularly because of the declining ability of the in­ creasingly internally divided political elite to keep intellectual non­ conformism under control. ln Slovenia, this situation led not only to increasing intellectual activism, but to a gradual transformation of its substance and orientation: in contrast to earlier non-con­ formism which had been motivated either by a desire to make so­ cialist society more efficient or to bring it more in line with avowed communist ideals, the new non-conformism was marked by a deep disenchantment with both existing socialism and the socialist project as such. The growth of political non-conformism in Slovenia was marked particularly by the emergence of independent journals which made possible the dissemination of ideas which had previously been available only to close intellectual circles. The decisive steps in this direction were the establishment of the independent jour­ nal Nova revija [New Review] in 1 982 and the gradual 'takeover' by non-conformists of Mladina [The Youth] , the weekly publica­ tion of the communist youth organization (up until the beginning of the 1 980s one of the pillars of the regime). The group around Mladina consisted mostly of younger intellectuals, whereas most members of the Nova revija group were middle-aged. This was not the only difference between the groups: the ideology and activities of the younger group were strictly anti-political-the main aim of their political dissent was to facilitate the emergence of a civil so­ ciety and so to create space for "autonomous social actions" ( Mastnak 1 992, 1 43-63). At the core of the Nova revija group's dissent was the notion that political democratization in Slovenia would be inseparably linked to the solution of the Slovenian 'national question'-that is, to a redefinition of the position of Slovenia in the Yugoslav federal state and in a changing Europe

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(Bucar 1 993). This belief stimulated a range of lively activities which culminated in an issue of Nova revija in 1 987 devoted to the Slovenian national program and one on Slovenian independ­ ence in 1 990. Furthermore, in 1 988 publication of an alternative draft of the Slovenian constitution was initiated by the Nova revija group. The initial attempts of the Slovenian political elite to suppress dis­ senting ideas and activities, particularly those of the group around Nova revija, proved unsuccessful. As a result, the authorities re­ sorted to a strategy of selective co-optation as regards political dis­ sent. The unintended consequences of this strategy were much more important than the intended ones, however: instead of curtail­ ing the activities of non-conformist intellectuals, it bolstered their self-confidence. Nevertheless, this strategy also enhanced the ability of the political elite to adapt to the changed situation. ln the pro­ cess-in which there were no formai negotiations between the old and the emerging political elite-the non-conformist groups were gradually transformed into an organized political opposition, whereas the Communist Party was transformed into a recognizable political party. At the same time, the other indispensable institutional prerequisites of the first democratic elections-which were held in 1 990-were established. This process was characterized also by growing consensus between the old and the new elite concerning the solution of the Slovenian 'national question', a consensus well reflected in the referendum on independence which was organized in 1 990 and in the proclamation of independence in 1 991. The emergence of consensus on the forms of transition to de­ mocracy and state-building in Slovenia was facilitated by concur­ rent political and economic developments in Yugoslavia. The at­ tempts to reorganize the federal state after Tito's death had re­ sulted in the disintegration of the ruling elite along the lines of the individual federal member states and, in some cases, even within them. The disintegration of the Yugoslav political elite was re­ flected also in the emergence of different strategies far coping with political dissent among the federal member states: the exter­ nal pressure put on the Slovenian authorities, particularly by the Serbian leadership and the armed forces, to clamp down on politi­ cal dissent in Slovenia had the opposite effect, however. To retain public support, the Slovenian elite had to endorse, however reluc­ tantly-at least at the beginning-the demands of the non-con­ formists far greater autonomy far Slovenia inside the federal state, and finally far its withdrawal. ln the late l980s, the abovemen­ tioned external pressures even resulted in tacitly co-ordinated ac-

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tion on the part of the old and the emerging political elites for the purpose of countering these pressures. The triumph over the old regime by the "intellectual movement" (Hribar 1 992) was also the occasion of the first disappointments for the protagonists of democratization. The results of the first democratic elections showed that the anti-political part of the in­ tellectual movement had not been able to adapt to democratic po­ litical competition: not only had their candidates been unable to win a seat in the new parliament, but their critical voices had lost almost all resonance in the new political and institutional frame­ work. Because they saw themselves as custodians of civil society, their disappointment was primarily directed towards its 'behavior': they interpreted the decline of their own political influence as a consequence of the rise-in the course of democratization-of those parts of civil society which were "politically and democrati­ cally undeveloped" (Mastnak 1 992, 1 58). The success of both political latecomers and of the transformed Communist Party at the first elections was a sign that the meríts of other veterans of the drive towards democratization had not been recognized by the voters. This was most clearly demonstrated in the case of the Slovenian Democratic Alliance, a party which had been founded mostly by members of the Nova revija group. Al­ though the party was the second strongest member of the new ruling coalition after the first election, it had little cause to be satis­ fied with its political influence: it was 'surrounded' in the coalition mostly by rightist parties funded by politicians who had joined the democratization process rather late in the day. After a brief, heroic period in which political activities were concentrated on state­ building and the establishment of democratic institutions, tensions began to grow between the Democratic Alliance and its political partners. The disappointment of the Democratic Alliance with its partners was not based only on disagreements over individual policies, but on its feeling that the coalition was dominated by forces which might endanger the fledgling democracy. These feel­ ings were expressed in a dramatic tone in a newspaper article 'Stop the Right', written by one of the leading personalities of po­ litical non-conformism in Slovenia (at that time both a member of the Democratic Alliance and a member of parliament). ln the arti­ cle, she argued that the political and ideological activities of the increasingly aggressive rightist parties were endangering the achievements of democratization initiated by "the intellectual movement" (Hribar 1 992) and having mortifying effects on the dynamics of civil society. 5

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Although the article was intended to revive an 'intellectual movement' for the defense of democracy on a non-party hasis, it received almost no response from those to whom it was addressed, only rabid reactions from those who felt that the appeal had been directed against them. ln the final analysis, the article was one more stage in the process which led to the dissolution of the ruling coalition. ln the new ruling coalition, formed in 1 992, the Demo­ cratic Alliance found itself in a more friendly environment, with­ out the rightist parties. Nevertheless, the troubles of the Democratic Alliance were not over: weakened by internal divisions (which led to the party being renamed the Democratic Party), it was one of the losers in the sec­ ond parliamentary elections at the end of 1 992. The election re­ sults intensified internal tensions: as most of the leading members had left the party and joined the Liberal Party, the strongest party in the ruling coalition after the 1 992 elections, the Democratic Party/Alliance was reduced to a small and rather insignificant rump. The attempts of the party leadership-now consisting of a journalist, an university professor, and a writer-to avoid political marginalization do not seem to have been successful: at the par­ liamentary elections in 1 996 the party lost its last seats in Parlia­ ment.6 The bleak history of the Democratic Alliance demonstrates not merely that the intellectuals have been squeezed out of politics and marginalized once again in the advanced stages of democratiza­ tion, but that their role in the transition from imagined to actually existing democracy has been shaped by a double process of differ­ entiation. The first aspect of this is political and ideological: in the early stages of democratization the intellectuals were united by both a common enemy and common political and ideological aims. As these uniting forces have gradually diminished in the advanced stages of democratization, differences in the political and ideologi­ cal preferences of the members of the 'intellectual movement' have become manifest. ln these circumstances, the call to "stop the right" was only one attempt to halt the dissolution of the "supra­ professional community" of the veterans of democratization. As already mentioned, the attempts to revive this community failed and former political non-conformists have since become active as politicians in different, even opposing parties. The disintegration of the "supra-professional community" has also led to the differen­ tiation and specialization of professional roles: whereas the politi­ cal roles of the non-conformist intellectuals were highly diffused (that is, they could be both social scientists and politicians, or

From Imagined to Actually Existing Democracy: Intellectuals in Slovenia

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rather, neither social scientists nor politicians in the strict sense), in the new circumstances the farmer specialists in general criti­ cism have had to concentrate their energies either on their pri­ mary professional specialization or on politics as a profession. Many intellectuals have faund it difficult to adapt to the pressure to specialize and to limit their primary loyalty either to their politi­ cal community or to their professional group. This difficulty can be interpreted as a sign that "intellectuals and especially artists have trouble... cop[ing] with modern life and democracy" ( Rupel 1 996, 75). It is not, therefare, surprising that attempts to maintain a 'metapolitical' stance have not disappeared, either in Slovenia or elsewhere in the post-communist region ( see Bozóki 1 996, 33). But even these attempts cannot escape the pressures towards speciali­ zation in the sense that they often serve, whether they want to or not, merely as 'intervals' in the round of regular party politics.

Intellectuals: Losers among the Winners? The case of Slovenia described in the previous section seems to support the claim that intellectuals "clearly belong to the losers of [the] transfarmation" ( Zapf 1 994, 299, commenting on the farmer East Germany; see also Bozóki and Lomax 1 994, 52, on Hungary; Pithart 1 993, 756, on the farmer Czechoslovakia; and Bauman 1 992, 1 2 5, on Poland) and, of course, Timothy Garton Ash's asser­ tion about the "abnormal unimportance" of intellectuals in post­ communist Central Europe. At the same time, it contradicts the claim, made earlier in this chapter, that democratization and mar­ ketization in farmer staie socialist countries should have benefited the intellectuals and indeed the educated stratum as a whole. For this reason we must ask whether the intellectuals have in fact lost out 'overall' as a result of the transfarmation, or have gained at least in some respects from their close involvement in radical social and political change. The case of Slovenia, together with most of the studies cited in the previous paragraph, indicates that the intellectuals can be des­ ignated as losers in the democratization process because "the intel­ lectual leaders of the anti-communist revolutions ( were)... squeezed out of the freely elected parliaments by rabidly national­ ist-populist farces and post-communist guardians of nostalgia" ( Bauman 1 992, 1 25). Their defeat is therefare related to the de-

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cline in their political fortunes. But it would be wrong to claim that all the intellectual leaders of the democratic transformation have had to leave the political scene. Under the new conditions, their access to positions of political power has been largely determined by political competition: although many non-conformist intellectu­ als have found it difficult to adapt to democratic political competi­ tion, there is no reason to claim that they were less well 'equipped' to deal with this than the members of other sub-groups of the edu­ cated stratum, let alone the members of other strata. ln these terms, it would be perverse to claim that the role of ( former) intel­ lectuals in politics has been reduced to an 'abnormally' low levei. The designation 'abnormal' would be better applied to the fate of intellectuals as a group or as a "supra-professional community": as already indicated, as democratization has advanced the political and ideological unity of the intellectual community has disappeared. However, this unity was largely the product of the limitations im­ posed on intellectuals by the old regime: from this point of view, the disintegration of intellectuals as a broadly homogenous group may be interpreted as a sign that the causes of the intellectuals' frustra­ tions-particularly the 'moral' ones-have been removed in the course of democratization. This boon has been shared by the edu­ cated stratum as a whole: the institutionalization of democracy has made it possible for its members to fully utilize its cultural and social capital in the political field. This does not mean that all educated persons have direct access to positions of political lJt>wer, or that they have identical political interests; rather, different sub-groups within the educated stratum have much better opportunities effec­ tively to articulate and express their political interests than the members of most other social strata. Along the same lines, it can be argued that both intellectuals and the educated stratum as a whole have benefited from the marketization of the economy. Research conducted in Poland has shown that "cultural capital is proving helpful in mobilizing economic capital... which was not [previously] the case" ( Rychard 1 996, 475). These findings indicate that in the post-socialist countries the structural causes of the 'material' frustra­ tion of the educated stratum have been removed. Needless to say, it may be assumed that different parts of the educated stratum-that is, different professional groups-have also benefited from market competition. It is only to be expected that the different opportuni­ ties open to individual professional groups to secure a beneficial market position will result in the disintegration of the educated stra­ tum to a point at which it becomes no more than an aggregate of different professional groups.

From Imagined to Actually Existing Democracy: Intellectuals in Slovenia

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There are signs that members of the professional groups from which (former) intellectuals were recruited (for example, phi­ losophers, social scientists, writers, artists, and journalists) have had the most trouble adapting to market competition. The particu­ lar nature of their cultural capital rather limits their opportunities to prosper in the new circumstances. Moreover, the pervading marketization of society may also endanger their professional autonomy: 7 it seems that of all professional groups they will be most susceptible to the frustrations peculiar to the new economic and political order. ln the final analysis, however, these difficulties do not justify thc::ir designation as losers or even the downgrading of their role.

Notes 1 Analyzing social changes in China, A. G. Walder also acknowledged that "professionals do not receive the returns [ on] education that they would in a market economy" (Walder 1995, 324). His conjectures are not sur­ prising: "Therefore, Chinese professionals might reasonably expect that a transition away from central planning and Party dictatorship would bring them authority and material compensation more consistent with their education and occupational prestige" (ibid., 324). 2 According to András Bozóki (1993, 94-96), in Hungary four groups of intellectuals could be distinguished, each with a different-but always critical-stance in respect of the regime: (i) intellectuals as reformers, (ii) the populist critical intelligentsia, (iii) the urban intellectual opposi­ tion, and (iv) the mediacracy. The urban intellectual opposition repre­ sented the hard-core of political non-conformism. 3 lt would be equally wrong to underestimate the role of mass unrest and mass protests in the transformation process. An analysis of their role is beyond the scope of this chapter, however. 4 This rapid and peaceful withdrawal surprised even the protagonists of the democratic movements. Petr Pithart, the first post-communist prime minister of Czechoslovakia, reports that representatives of the old re­ gime offered the Civic Movement the opportunity to nominate new ministers even before they were ready to do so (Pithart 1993). S The author of the article, Spomenka Hribar, retired from politics before the parliamentary elections of 1992. 6 The decline of the Democratic Alliance is, in some respects, similar to the fate of the Green Party. After considerable success at the first par­ liamentary elections, and somewhat less at the second, it practically dis­ appeared from the political scene after the 1996 elections. Its history was characterized mostly by internal tensions and divisions.

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7 The new challenge faced by the farmer non-conformist intellectuals is bluntly described by Zygmunt Bauman: "Authors who once learned how to dupe the censors must yet learn how to deal with market-wise man­ agers" (Bauman 1992, 128).

References Andorka, Rudolf. 1994. 'Ungarn - der nachste Anlauf zur Modernisierung.' BerlinerJournalfür Soziologie 4 (3). Bauman, Zygmunt. 1992. 'The Polish Predicament: A Model in Search of Class Interests.' Telos 92 (Summer). Bendix, Reinhard. 1988. Embattled Reason. Essays on Social Knowledge. Vol. 1. New Brunswick: Transaction. Bernik, Ivan. 1994. 'The Forgotten Legacy of Marginal Intellectuals.' ln Transition to Capitalism? 1'he Communist Legacy in Eastern Europe, ed. János M. Kovács, 205-16. New Brunswick: Transaction. Beyme, Klaus von. 1994. Systemwechsel in Osteuropa. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Bozóki, András. 1993. 'Intellectuals and Democratization.' 1'he Hungarian Quarterly 34 (4): 93-106. --. 1996. 'Intellectuals in a New Democracy: The Democratic Charter in Hungary.' East European Politics and Societies 10 (2): 173-213. Bozóki, András, and Bill Lomax. 1994. 'Die Rache der Geschichte: Transi­ tionen in Portugal, Spanien und Ungarn. Einige Vergleiche.' Berliner Debatte Initial 5: 47-60. Bucar, F. 1993. 'Socializem in nacionalno vprasanje pri nas' [Socialism and our national question] . Nova revija 2 (15/16). Cirtautas, Arista M., and Edmund Mokrzycki. 1993. 'The Articulation and Institutionalization of Democracy in Poland.' Social Research 6 ( 4): 787 819. Etzioni-Halévy, Eva. 1985. 1'he Knowledge Elite and the Failure of Proph­ ecy. London: George Allen and Unwin. Garton Ash, Timothy. 1991. We the People: 1'he Revolution of '89 Wit­ nessed in Warsaw, Budapest, Berlin and Prague. Cambridge: Granta Books. --. 1995. 'lntellektuelle und Politiker.' Transit 10. Geiger, T. 1949. Aufgaben und Stellung der Intelligenz in der Gesellschaft. Stuttgart: Enke Verlag. Glenny, Misha. 1990. 1'he Rebirth ofHistory. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Hribar, Spomenka. 1992. 'Ustavite desnico' [Stop the Right] . Delo (18 April). Klinar, P. 1979. 'O zvljenjskem stilu druzbenih slojev na Slovenskem' [Life­ styles of social strata in Slovenia] . Teorija in praksa 16 (2).

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Kolosi, Tamás, and Edmund Wnuk-Lipinski, eds. 1983. Equality and lne­ quality under Socialism. Poland and Hungary Compared. London: Sage. Kurczewski, Jan. 1994. 'Poland's Seven Middle Classes.' Social Research 61 (2): 395 -421. Mannheim, Karl. 1949. Ideology and Utopia. An Introduction to the Soci­ ology ofKnowledge. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Mastnak, Tomaz. 1992. Vzhodno od raja [East of Eden] . Ljubljana: DZS. Meyer, Gerd, ed. 1994. Die politischen Kulturen Ostmitteleuropas im Um­ bruch. Tübingen - Basel: Francke Verlag. Ost, David. 1993. 'Thé Politics of lnterests in Post-Communist East Europe.' Theory and Society 22 (4). Pithart, Petr. 1993. 'lntellectuals in Politics: Double Dissent in the Past, Double Disappointment Today.' Social Research 60 (4): 751-61. Popovié, M. et al. 1977. Drustvene nejednakosti [Social inequalities] . Bel­ grade: Institut za socioloska istrazvanja FF u Beogradu. Rupel, D. 1987. 'Alternativna gibanja v kulturi' [Alternative movements in culture] . ln Neformalne dejavnosti v slovenski druibi, ed. D. Rupel. Ljubljana: SSD. --. 1996. 'Pismo prijateljem razumnikom' [Letter by an intellectual friend] . Nova revija 15 (165/66). Rychard, Andrzej. 1996. 'Beyond Gains and Losses: ln Search of "Winning Losers".' Social Research. Sekulié, D. 1987. 'Regrutacija na elitne plofaje' [Recruitment to elite posi­ tions] . Sociologija 29 (4). Solga, H. 1994. '"Systemloyalitat" als Bedingung sozialer Mobilitat im Staat­ sozialismus am Beispiel der DDR.' BerlinerJournalfür Soziologie 4 (3). Szacki, Jerzy. 1990. 'Intellectuals between Politics and Culture.' ln The Political Responsibility of Intellectuals, ed. 1. MacLean, A. Montefiore, and P. Winch, 229-46. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tomc, G., and M. Pesec. 1986. 'Druzbena enakost in neenakost v Sloveniji' [Social equality and inequality in Slovenia] . Revija za sociologiju 16 (14). Walder, Andrew G. 1995. 'Career Mobility and the Communist Political Order.' Amerlcan Sociological Review 60 (3 ). Wesolowski, Wlodzimierz. 1979. Classes, Strata and Power. London: Rout­ ledge and Kegan Paul. Zapf, W.'1994. 'Die Transformation in der ehemaligen DDR und die soz­ iologische Theorie der Modernisierung.' Berlíner Journal für Soziologie 4 (3).

Words and Death: Serbian Nationalist Intellectuals NENAD DIMITRIJEVIé

On the Peculiar Nature of the Subject and How It Is Possible On Method The main aim of this chapter is not to analyze the role of Serbian intellectuals in the transition from communism to democracy, for one simple reason: in Serbia no transition from totalitarian rule has yet taken place. 1 Not that everything has remained the same as it was under the communist regime. The second Yugoslavia, of which Serbia was a federal unit, no longer exists, and the regime's institutional form and ideology have changed. The 'new' system is only superficially new, however, being based on fundamentally the same premises as the 'socialist construction of reality'. Serbia today is a closed society governed by beliefs imposed from above and by the unpredictable whims of the ruling elite (Pesié 1 994, 9), rather than by general and abstract norms that are public and applicable equally to all members of the community. The communist and the post-communist eras in Serbia are di­ vided by the war in Bosnia. Although the conflict that destroyed the socialist Yugoslavia is not our principal concern, the analysis carried out in this chapter must be seen as one more contribution to the ongoing endeavor to understand the tragic outbreak of vio­ lence in the Balkans. Our main thesis is that words were both the principal cause of the outbreak of war and the principal weapon of mass murder and destruction. The familiar sayings 'Terror begins in the head' and 'Words can kill' are usually taken as very strong metaphors or hyperbolic ex­ pressions pointing up the unifying and mobilizing role of ideology in the processes that generally precede a war: a significant degree of ideological unification is necessary in order to legitimize the decision to shatter the peace, chiefly by constructing an 'us against them' scenario. Our argument in this chapter, however, is that the war in Yugoslavia can be understood only as a 'war of words': that

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is, the war was not merely preceded by the misuse of words, by taking ideology as 'false consciousness' to a destructive extreme. Only ideas (and ideas of a particular kind) were capable of destroy­ ing the state of Yugoslavia as it then was (see Slapsak 1 992, 53). Moreover, the central role in this process of 'killing and destruc­ tion by words' did not belong to the ideological apparatuses of the state as traditionally understood, but rather-at least during the initial and decisive phase-to independent intellectuals. More abstractly, our thesis is that ideology produces reality. In­ evitably, the view that a Weltanschauung can play such a pivotal position in the processes of construction and reproduction of the material world will be seen by many as highly disputable: such a­ methodologically speaking-'idealistic' concept therefore require� some elaboration before we can introduce it as a conceptual tool for the study of our main theme. The first thing to be established must be what makes it possible for intellectuals to act as artificers of reality.

Socialism At the most general level, the source of the ability of ideas and their promoters to play a constitutive role in society and politics should be looked for in the constitution of the ancien régime: in Marxist terms, the real 'basis' of socialist societies was (despite aggressive ideological recourse to 'historical materialism') the idea-the socialist system was, strictly speaking, 'idealistic'. "Politics-the ideological command structure-was the actual base of the social order, while so-called material production was, ac­ cording to the logic of the system, some kind of superstructure" (Puhovski 1 994, 206).2 This standpoint is paradoxical, if not prob­ lematic in the extreme. First, it is methodologically quite easy to dispute the very meaningfulness of a discourse that treats ideas as the foundation of social and political phenomena. Secondly, Marx's own historical materialism, supposedly the core of socialist ideol­ ogy, would appear to speak against it. With some oversimplifica­ tion, for Marx the communist revolution was (logically at least) the unavoidable outcome of the scientifically deducible historical ob­ solescence of bourgeois society, an obsolescence which is inherent in the logic of this society's development because the material progress made possible by capitalism brings with it an increasing number of internal contradictions, including the rise of the work­ ing class, a social stratum that, due to its social condition, is capable

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of reflecting upon the given and of offering an alternative to it. ln these terms, the communist revolution takes place when capitalism is no longer able to control its inner contradictions, when it is no longer able to prolong its existence: the working class, when it reaches the conclusion that capitalism is no longer able to repro­ duce itself, constitutes a new form of reproduction of life, the main elements of which were developed within the old system ( Marx [1 850] 1 975, 37-38). The constitution of socialism took place under very different so­ cial, political, and ideological circumstances, however. If any logic may be discerned in the course of human history, socialist revolu­ tions must be said to have contravened it: they were usually launched independently of, and even contrary to, what Marxist theory would consider a favorable "balance of social, political, and cultural forces ( Puhovski 1 993, 1 3). All the socialist revolutions were carried out as radical interventions in the existing world on behalf of something, communism, that existed only as a promise for the future; whose economic, political, and social framework, being non-existent, had subsequently to be realized in thought. The methodological place of Marx's concept of 'new form of life production' was taken by an image of history, an ideal society which did not exist, but which 'had to be'. The fact that the formu­ lated image of history had nothing to do with the actually existing social context was not seen as a good reason to give up the proj­ ect-what was really at stake, according to Lenin and his followers, was the identification of the best way of ensuring the project's reproduction. Furthermore, since the 'interests of the working class' are not socially relevant, the 'project's reproduction' meant primarily the establishment of a compulsory interpretation of what the historical interest of the working class should be. The inevita­ ble consequence was the abandonment of Marx's historical materi­ alism, followed by the promotion of the Communist Party to the position of sovereign representative of the socially and politically immature working class.3 Whereas the new type of community is­ in social terms-essentially a ( pre)capitalist structure ruled by communists, the principal normative status is given to the program of overcoming the given ( Puhovski 1 983, 66). Socialism is re­ garded as establishing a 'dialectical tension' between movement and order, and has the permanent task of realizing the ideal. Since social integration is considered possible only by means of this ideological program, those charged with bringing it to fruition must have unlimited power at their disposal, from which the car­ dinal formula of the system derives: The amount of power at the

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NENAD DIMITRIJEVIé

Party's disposal is proportionate to its knowledge of the future. Given that such knowledge-according to the Party's own binding proclamation-is possessed by no one but the Party, the formula can be rewritten: (Self-proclaimed) transcendental knowledge ought to be translated into (absolute) power. The Party is the pos­ sessor of historical knowledge, the embodiment of generalized reason which by definition allows nothing to stand in its way. Because the inherited circumstances offered no hope that the promise of radical intervention to safeguard the future could be kept-that is, since the original program was itself deeply irrational­ the tension between movement and order had to be resolved in fa­ vor of the latter: with Stalin, the original revolutionary intention of uncompromised change was reduced to a ritualistic dogma, and the main objective became the preservation of power as such. ln shott, socialism became an essentially conservative system. Since nothing of the originally legitimizing anti-capitalist program remained on the agenda, the only way for socialism to survive was to construct its own reality, "a reality of a substantially different quality, incommen­ surable with the reality characteristic of the modern type of produc­ tion of social life" (Puhovski 1 994, 204). The main feature Stalinism inherited from Leninism was the ide­ alistic construction of reality; the result might be called 'ideological reality', "a situation in which the ideological self-reproduction of the order is an essential condition for the functioning of the sys­ tem, and not only one of its phenomenal aspects" (Vojnié and Pu­ hovski 1 993, 43). ln these terms, reality is perceived essentially as the object of ideology mediated by communist power structures: "This reality deals with the concept of society as a work of art, with society as a medium of theory and not of practice" (Puhovski 1 994, 205). The formula is relatively simple: the party elite formulates an idea, then the party-state Leviathan is put into motion in order to realize it; as a result, individuals and society as a whole exist, 4 con­ ceptually speaking, only as products of power-mediated ideological activity. 5 None of this should be understood as mere metaphor. The case of 'self-management socialism' in Yugoslavia clearly shows that nothing of social or political significance was allowed to exist without the permission of the artificers of reality. ln Yugoslavia, every individual was designated to belong to one of a number of ideologically formulated 'camps', as an agent performing the social role allotted to him by the Communist Party. No free individual existence was possible outside a pre-determined category: teacher and pilot, miner and violinist were allowed to exist-in social

Words and Death: Serbian Nationalist Intellectuals

1 23

terms-exclusively as "workers in associated labor"; that is, as parti­ cles in an all-embracing universe of self-management. As a result, the ideological definition of individual identity was both the fun­ damental constituent feature and the ultimate limit of human exis­ tence in society. The same holds for the global constitution of so­ ciety, the self-managing nature of which was not only imposed but exclusive. lt is important to understand that this destruction of both individuality and civil society cannot be reduced to a by­ product of the totalitarian pursuit of power: it is the inevitable consequence of a basic principle which states that only the un­ questionable political will is able to produce reality. Since the idea of unity is proclaimed with a view to establishing it as a productive force, any attempt to challenge its legitimacy also challenges the very fundamentals of the system. lndividuals or groups who are unwilling to accept the roles assigned to them necessarily mark themselves out as enemies of the regime. The Conceptual Kinship of Communism and Nationalism The most important aspect of the discussion so far concerns the extent to which the idealistic construction of reality has survived the fall of communism. Socialist totalitarianism is always based on an imposed ideological leveling which delegitimizes differences: that is, on the dogma of a predestined general will established as a paradigm of thinking and living. The principal victims of this im­ posed unity of thought-and of the enforced unity of common life that goes with it-are individual liberties, civil society, free eco­ nomic activity, political pluralism, and democracy. The status of national identity stood out among the many re­ pressed civic, social, political, and cultural features of individual and social identity. ln an effort to compensate for its own inability to thematize reality, the regime turned towards the past. The so­ cialist regimes in Bulgaria and Romania are clear examples of how communist elites manipulated national identity in order to stabi­ lize their power-nationalism was the only form of ideological communication that offered common ground for the regime and its subjects ( those belonging to the majority population, at any rate). Not surprisingly, nationalism was often the focal point for the opposition as well, as a symbol of differentiation or a proof of their resistance to assimilation. On the conceptual level, the similarities between nationalism and communism are striking. ln the search for legitimacy the na-

1 24

NENAD DIMITRIJEVIé

tionalist-mediated tradition is grasped as the logical option, primar­ ily because of its essentially illiberal structure: nationalism, like communism, depends on a radical desubjectivization. Both are forms of collectivism, based on the same ideological pattern: the substantial (as opposed to procedural) subjectivization of a speci­ fied collectivity within the community ('working class', 'nation'). ln contrast to the abstract legal subjectivity of the citizen, the notion upon which modern democracy as a formai category is based, both nationalist and communist discourses create and raise to the po­ litical levei the particular identity of a substantially delineated col­ lectivity, turning its ideologically inscribed values into the founda­ tions of the community. These discourses in principle exclude those who do not beiong to the ideologically privileged group. The communist collectivist image of class struggle can easily, without any substantial change in the basic construction of society, be ex­ changed for the nationalist collectivist image of 'our' nation as the 'natural' community, in relation to which 'the others' are enemies. ln conclusion, in stark contrast to the ideological seif-image of communist regimes as 'internationalist', the communist myth of the future as something harmonious and inevitable is much closer to the nationalist myth of the past as something glorious and unique. Both ideologies eievate non-existent categories to the highest levei of importance. ln order to be able to base a society upon such fundamental norms, both have to use all the means at their disposal to homogenize people regardless of the human cost: they must make their subjects believe in, or at least extort their assent to, 'living a lie'. ln other words, both nationalism and com­ munism are mythical categories, ideological concepts which reiy upon the same matrix, nameiy the productive capacity (philosophers would say: 'ontological status') of power-mediated ideas. Nationalism, like communism, requires a grand alliance be­ tween, on the one hand, artificers of ideas and, on the other, the absolute power that can tailor reality in accordance with those ideas. Beyond words that are ideologically pre-defined and made compulsory through the communicative channels of absolute power there is no reality.

Approaching the Tragedy. Yugoslav National-Socialism ln socialist Yugoslavia ideology produced reality. The seif-manage­ ment project may be regarded as a failed alternative to the Stalinist modei of 'actually existing socialism'. The roots of its failure lie in

Words and Death: Serbian Nationalist Intellectuals

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the Party's unwillingness to dismantle the quasi-utopian project of the certain communist future, or, in other words, to renounce its status as exclusive agent of social construction. However, the status and meaning of Yugoslavia were further contested by the Party's ideological turn to the right in the late 1 960s and early 1 970s, 6 which became transparent with the adoption of the 1 974 Constitution, which was passed mainly in order to legalize the ideological change: alongside the utopia of the workers' society now stood the principle of exclusive national identity within the borders of federal units, calling for national homogenization within a multi-national state. 7 The Constitution formalized nation­ alism as the systematic basis of both state and society, in effect legalizing the homogenization of Yugoslav nations within the framework of individual republics. ln this way, Yugoslavia became "a group of nation-based federal units acting as watchtowers, from which every nation was continuously watching and controlling all the others, taking care that 'the others' did not take any action that would threaten 'us'. This institutionalized distrust was the funda­ mental attribute of the former Yugoslavia" ( Pesié 1 995). Yugoslavia was turned into a mixtum compositum of national socialisms, emptying the federal community of any political content and rele­ vance ( the President of the Federation and the Army being impor­ tant exceptions). Yugoslavia was a quasi-federation, with the na­ tion as a mystical entity, the center of a web woven from the fed­ eral units, the national branches of the Party, and the organs of self­ management. This peculiar combination of socialist and nationalist exclusivity lasted for several more years, due principally to the charisma of the President of the Republic, Marshall Tito. Immediately after Tito's death, however, the forces of disintegration began to assert them­ selves. Left without the pater familias, the confused national­ communists exhausted themselves and society as a whole in quar­ rels and mutual blockades. lt is fascinating that, up to 1 987, Yugo­ slavia's differentia specifica lay not only in the serious crisis it was undergoing, but in the ruling elites' dogged refusal to recognize the existence of a crisis. Still, it was obvious that it was only a mat­ ter of time before the masks of the ritual remnants of communist ideology would start to drop-the real question was, who would be the first to say openly that communism was dead and that only nationalism remained as the operational principle of the six fed­ eral units.

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1985-87, or, The Intellectuals as Avant-garde. How Serbian Nationalist lntellectuals Entered the Political Stage The 'Jndependence ' ofIntellectuals

If the Party is the artificer of ideas and the communicative capacity of absolute power plays the crucial role in the translation of ideas into reality as a 'work of art', it would seem that no place exists far intellectuals outside the ideological apparatus of the state. If this were true, it would be possible to consider the Party as a "col­ lective intellectual" in Gramsci's sense. Nevertheless, at the begin­ ning of the chapter I argued that the war had been both provoked and tailored by intellectuals who had not directly participated in power. They had created and promoted the ideology of hatred that only later was mediated-that is, materialized-by the powers-that­ be in Serbia. At this point, the difference between Yugoslav social­ ism and 'actually existing' socialism must be taken into account. A number of analyses of Yugoslav socialism have underlined its "soft­ totalitarian" nature. lt is true that the self-management model was accompanied by the-compared to other socialist countries, con­ siderable-extension of individual liberties. 8 Within this frame­ work, there existed limited but significant scope far intellectual independence, in the sense that there was a certain amount of leeway within which ideas could be articulated without the direct ideological or administrative control of the party-state. This 'space far intellectual freedom' was not guaranteed by procedural norms, but granted by the regime on the hasis of an implicit 'authorization covenant': 'We, the State, authorize you, the intellectuals, to act freely within the borders we define, on condition that (i) you do not try to extend this privileged space beyond the area we mark off, and (ii) that you do not call into question the legitimacy of the regime.' It should not be assumed that the implicit nature of this covenant gave rise to a lack of clarity concerning the limits of free­ dom: the Party line was always very clear, albeit coded. Party con­ gresses and conferences, and related documents, the speeches of political leaders, and commentaries in the official media provided intellectuals with reliable signals and guidelines. A central pillar of this scheme was the requirement that intellectuals did not demand the broadening of political liberty: that is, Western-type democracy must not be put on the agenda. Yugoslav intellectuals continued to

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observe this restriction until the mid 1 980s, when the political disintegration of the country became too obvious to overlook. ln a country with much more 'freedom' than, say, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, or Poland, classic dissident political activities among in­ tellectuals were surprisingly rare.9 Three main currents of thought and action were identifiable among 'loyally independent' Yugoslav intellectuals during the 1 970s and the 1 980s. The first was a radical Marxism that relied upon the same ideological premises proclaimed by the Party as its own ( worker self-management, council democracy, and broad de­ centralization, all intellectually mediated in terms of Marx's early works). The second was 'mild nationalism' ( mild in the sense that its proponents were careful to avoid open conflict with the Party), whose representatives were to be found mainly among writers. The third-and weakest-was liberalism, which could be found primarily among writers for the theater and film. It should be noted that these three intellectual groups were not dealt with equally, especially in Serbia. The clampdown on the internationally renowned 'Praxis' group of Marxist philosophers was merciless, as was the treatment of the liberal cultural current, the most prominent part of which was the-again internationally recognized-"Black Wave" in cinematography. 1 0 ln contrast, in Belgrade, particularly after the fall of the so-called 'liberal' leadership of the Communist Party of Serbia in 1 972, a strange alliance was gradually established between the Party and the so-called 'loyal nationalists' . 1 1 The latter were allowed to organ­ ize themselves (primarily through the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts and the Serbian Writers' Association) and to articulate their positions on social issues, which they did in an indirect way, in the form of scholarly or aesthetic elaborations of the Serbian national question (again, on the understanding that the regime would not be challenged). 1 2 Feathers were ruffled occasionally, but the regime managed to remain remarkably tolerant: only open messages of hatred were subject to censure. During the 1 980s, the political and social crisis continued to deepen, and the state of Yugoslavia was gradually falling apart at the same rate as the Yugoslav Communist Party was losing its le­ gitimacy. The concept of 'totalitarian consociationalism' that called for the consent of national party elites to political decisions at the federal level, rather than helping to hold the tottering structure together, in fact proved to be the best way of bringing it down. Yugoslavia was living in a political vacuum, but the ruling elites were not ready either to redirect the course of events by offering a

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rational political reconstruction of the system, or to give them­ selves up openly and exclusively (that is, without reference to the old ideology) to the national principle.

The Memorandum of the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts Uniquely unbalanced as it was under the circumstances, national­ ism was the only creed ready to fill the emerging void in Yugosla­ via: it was capable of offering a solution of sorts to the identity crisis of the state, and it already had organized agents. ln May 1 985, the Serbian Academy of Sciences decided to prepare its so-called 'Memorandum': for the first time, the leading national intellectual institution was to become openly engaged in political questions, 1 3 to assume the role of political actor. The legitimation formula for this radical step into the political arena was given as "the need to bring to light the most pressing societal, political, economic, social, scientific and cultural problems" (Godisnjak SANU za 1 985). It is difficult to overestimate the importance of this document. The Memorandum came before the public on the wings of a political scandal, when in September 1 986 a Belgrade daily newspaper pub­ lished a draft copy. The Serbian Communist Party immediately or­ chestrated hysterical attacks on the document and its authors, which accused them of betraying socialism, awakening national hatred, and calling for a new war among the Yugoslav nations. Accusations soon began to come in from all over Yugoslavia, the gist of which was that implementation of the Memorandum would amount to a death sen­ tence for a united Yugoslavia. On the other hand, the text provoked considerable excitement among Serbian nationalists, who praised it as a long-awaited protest against the oppression of the Serbian peo­ ple in Yugoslavia, the first great step towards putting the 'Serbian question' on the political agenda with the aim of 'restoring the lost dignity' of the nation. The Memorandum has already acquired mythical status, being referred to as the "finally articulated" Serbian national program, or even "The Holy Book of Serbdom". What does the Memorandum offer; and what made it so impor­ tant at that stage of the Yugoslav crisis? It is a stra!lge document: 1 4 while, o n the one hand, its language bears a strong resemblance to the prevailing socialist ideological vocabulary, on the other hand, it is dominated by a strong nationalist rhetoric that came to be ac­ cepted as the ruling political discourse in Serbia. The Memoran­ dum opens with a detailed examination and critique of various

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social, economic, and political aspects of the Yugoslav crisis ('Part l: Crisis of the Yugoslav Economy and Society'). 1 5 This analysis is only instrumental to the second part-'The Position of Serbia and of the Serbian People'-however, which claims that economic, po­ litical, and cultural discrimination is practiced against Serbia within the Federation, and that Serbs have a low status in the other Yugoslav republics (Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Macedonia). While the first part argues for "democratic integrative federalism, in which the principle of the autonomy of the constitutive parts would be balanced by the principle of their integration within the common polity" (Memorandum, 1 1 2), the second part concludes with the following: "The Serbian people must be given the oppor­ tunity to find itself again and to become a historical ac�or, to regain the consciousness of its historical and spiritual being, to identify in an unambiguous way its economic and cultural interests, [and] to create an up-to-date social and political program that will inspire present and future generations" (ibid., 1 44). The text should be analyzed in terms of the subsequent devel­ opment of Serbian nationalist ideology, that is, by investigating which of its main theses were used in subsequent years as the core of that ideology. The first relevant set of messages concerns the position of Serbia within the Yugoslav federation. A motive of the utmost importance for the future state ideology was clearly articu­ lated here for the first time: the Serbian people had been victim­ ized by 'the others'. Throughout the history of socialist Yugoslavia, Serbia had been oppressed by the other federa}. units and treated as unequal, denied its basic rights, and discriminated against socially, economically, culturally, and politically. ln the words of the Memo­ randum, the main characteristics of the second Yugoslavia were the "traditional discrimination against Serbia", the "politically infe­ rior position of Serbia", "domination over Serbia", and the fact that "its economy [was] being intentionally subordinated, neglected and exhausted." At this point, the authors of the Memorandum introduced another matter of far-reaching importance for the fu­ ture: they detected the existence of an "anti-Serbian coalition" in Yugoslavia, led by Slovenia and Croatia, inspired by Tito, and char­ acterized by "chauvinism and Serbophobia". The campaign of genocide conducted against the Serbian population during the Second World War was merely the most horrible manifestation of a phenomenon which remained in existence throughout the social­ ist period, albeit in new forms. ln other words, the Memorandum introduced into public discourse concerning the 'Serbian Ques­ tion' the classic totalitarian friend-foe dichotomy.

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The Memorandum's second 'discovery' pertains to the position of the Serbian people in Yugoslavia. Serbs were being exposed to "genocidal terror", "neo-fascist aggression in Kosovo", and "refined but efficient assimilationist policies in Croatia". ln other republics, Serbs were being denied the right "to use their language and al­ phabet", "their cultural and spiritual identity [was] being system­ atically destroyed", the study of Serbian history in schools was "reduced and subjected to chauvinistic interpretations", and some of the best Serbian writers were being "stolen by others", b"eing publicly portrayed as, for example, Croats. The second part of the Memorandum consists mainly of very strong, morally colored judgments that bear little relation to any­ thing resembling serious analysis of the 'Serbian national question'. With such conclusions, no one is likely to expect a serious explora­ tion of the reasons behind the alleged condition of Serbia and of the Serbian people in Yugoslavia. Instead, the most prominent Serbian intellectuals were able to offer only another ideological contribution, one that would soon be drawn upon extensively, a conspiracy theory which revealed the continuity of the plot di­ rected against Serbia and the Serbian people. The continuity of the Communists' anti-Serbian policies were traced back to the period between the wars, when they were formulated by "the Communist Party of Yugoslavia, under the decisive influence of Comintern". Tito, as a kind of secret Comintern agent, pursued anti-Serbian policies long after this organization had ceased to exist, through­ out the years of socialism. "The nation which, after long and bloody struggles, finally re­ gained its own state, which was able to build civic democracy without the help of others, [and] which in the two world wars lost 2.5 million of its compatriots ... is after four decades the only nation in Yugoslavia without its own state. It is not possible to imagine a worse historical defeat in peacetime" (Memorandum, 1 33). This excerpt from the Memorandum points with striking clarity to the essence of Serb nationalism as it would be developed in subse­ quent years. The political aim of the document was to increase tension by arguing for a re-definition of Yugoslavia in accordance with "Serbian national interests". The worst possible means was chosen for this purpose: the construction of a "resentment nation­ alism" ( Pesié 1 995, 1 1 ), centered around an analytically meaning­ less but ideologically powerful concept of Serbian martyrdom in Yugoslavia. The Serbs were presented as victims of a conspiracy inspired, carefully planned, and carried out by a coalition of its traditional enemies behind the mask of communism. The central

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message of the Memorandum was that the Serbian nation had been oppressed, that it had been subject to severe injustices, and that the time had finally come to re-gain a national dignity that had been so violently destroyed. The time had come for the Serbian people to re-establish justice and, bearing in mind the nature of the injustice it had suffered, every means would be legitimate. Stripped of the layers of ideological fog and the 'scientific' manipulations of both historical and current circumstances, the essence of this document lies in its legitimation of hatred against 'the others'. Fol­ lowing the familiar pattern of resentment nationalism, this pre­ liminary legitimacy of hatred was established in the form of a "na­ tionalist defensive reaction": "The purpose of such an interpreta­ tion is to develop a feeling of injured self-respect, on the basis of which a sense of external danger and the need to prepare for 'defense' are 'naturally' spread" ( ibid.). The objective was not to examine state and society, but to create passions and fears as justi­ fications for hatred; it is astonishing that such a document was produced by the highest intellectual institution in the land ( Popov 1 994, 1 5). The Memorandum and the reactions to which it gave rise have shown its authors the capacity of their ideas to construct a new reality by presenting a particular ideological interpretation as fact: the inherently chauvinistic image of the nation as an inno­ cent victim surrounded by a coalition of enemies. While the ideo­ logical apparatus of the state was still bound by the old clichés, intellectuals realized that in Yugoslavia reality could indeed be created like a 'work of art'. The first stage in this process is the homogenization by national­ ist tribunes of all members of 'their' nation. But homogenization of this kind can serve as an effective political concept only if the na­ tion itself is molded in a particular way: in other words, the nation­ alist tribunes have to invent the nation. They must present as natu­ ral and inevitable something that does not actually exist. ln keep­ ing with this task the tribunes themselves must be elevated to the rank of prophets who are uniquely capable of understanding and articulating national interests as the sole possessors of truth­ which must be carefully made resistant to rational argument and closed to any alternative ( Mostov 1 995, 69). Once such an image of the 'nation' has been implanted in the minds of the majority of the targeted group, and stabilized as the standpoint from which they will henceforth perceive social life, the production of the pre­ ferred reality can begin.

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1987-91: Intellectuals Hand in Hand with the Regime: The Dance Macabre of the Grand Coalition Farming the Alliance The publication of the Memorandum in 1 986 at first seemed to have completely alienated its authors and their followers from the regime. ln spring 1 987, however, divisions within the highest ranks of the Serbian Communist Party and the state leadership became apparent. lt was at this time that the inter-ethnic tensions between Albanians and Serbs in Kosovo reached their height, 16 coming to the brink of open conflict. ln his crucial speech to Kosovo Serbs in April 1 987, Slobodan Milosevié (then President of the Communist Party of Serbia), claiming the 'natural right' of Serbs to protect themselves, substantially softened the negative connotations which the Communist Party generally ascribed to the term 'nationalism'. Almost immediately afterwards, the public at­ tacks on the Academy and the Memorandum ceased. ln September 1 987 Milosevié organized a successful intra-Party coup d'état which raised him to the position of indisputable leader of Serbia. The last chapter of the history of the second Yugoslavia was about to begin. After Milosevié and his neo-Bolsheviks had consolidated their hold on power, their behavior was quite unlike that of the late communist regime. The Party, claiming both its "faithfulness to Tito's heritage" and "the task of protecting the security and dignity of the Serbian people", instigated a wave of intolerant populist demagogy and mass mobilization, officially dubbed "people's hap­ penings" and, more generally, the "anti-bureaucratic revolution". Milosevié promoted a distinctive totalitarian policy, centered around a myth of national unity and involving the constant fabrica­ tion of 'enemies' against whom 'we' must unite. But the new ideol­ ogy was only promoted by the regime, it did not produce it: during the most critical stages of the 'anti-bureaucratic offensive' (1 98788) the regime did not openly advocate extreme nationalism, choosing to remain rhetorically cautious. lnstead, the regime was trying to legitimize its new-already clearly identifiable in terms of both ideological content and political action-nationalist course by taking the official Yugoslav mixture of socialism and nationalism to its logical conclusion, discovering and using 'hidden capacities' on

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the basis o f the national principle: at mass meetings in 1 987 -88 (termed 'spontaneous', but in fact orchestrated by the Party), such slogans as "Solidarity with the Kosovo Serbs", "Dignity far all Serbs", and ''Just reform of the Yugoslav political system to make Serbia equal to the other federal units" were legitimized primarily as necessary steps far the preservation of Yugoslav socialism. ln general, Milosevié's public discourse-especially at the beginning of his rise to power in 1 987-88-was a strange mixture of old communist phraseology and the most volatile elements of the Memorandum. ln the struggle to consolidate power, hitherto pro­ scribed concepts were re-introduced, although still shackled to communist ideological rituals. 17 Milosevié, although immediately identified by nationalists as primarily a Serbian rather than a Communist leader, still lacked both legitimation far his rule and an operational concept far political conflict at the Yugoslav level. 1 8 The role of creator of Serbian national consciousness in the farm of a paranoid nationalism-this would also serve as a political pro­ gram-was taken on by intellectuals. The regime's new relationship to the process, particularly to the ideological directions laid out by the Memorandum, was clearly expressed by both the abrupt change in the nature of its relationship with SANU, 1 9 and the free access it granted nationalist intellectuals to the state-controlled media. ln ret­ rospect, it is clear that these intellectuals assumed the task of devel­ oping a new ideology, clearing it of the remnants of 'Titoism', and legitimizing the future radicalization of official Serbian policies. ln other words, the regime, by making room far radical nationalism, provided its actors with an opportunity to constitute nationalist ide­ ology as the only legitimate political discourse. The party-state needed a new ideology capable of creating a new reality: unable to devise this ideological coup by itself-that is, unable to fashion a radical ideological change that would not threaten its position-the old ruling elite turned to the nationalist intelligentsia. But instead of making them formally part of the ideological state apparatus, the regime opted far a simpler solution: it assigned nationalists the task of creating a new symbolic universe by offering them communica­ tive channels and instruments of power, at the same time keeping them outside the established power structures. This might be seen as a development of the authorization covenant mentioned in section 2. 1 : 'We, the regime, give you, the intellectuals, full access to the pub­ lic, provided that you accomplish what we need far survival. There­ fore, we forbid you to discuss "what really is", authorizing yoú in­ stead to express freely your old ideas in order to create a false image of reality. lt is our task to make that image real, regardless of the

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cost.' Formally, the position and strategy of the nationalist intelli­ gentsia remained the same: to listen and watch carefully for authori­ zation from the regime and to act within the limits marked out for it ( Slapsak 1 994). But while under socialism the compulsory image of reality was produced by the Party as 'collective intellectual', the new version of the covenant transferred this creative authority to 'independent' intellectuals. ln this way a peculiar coalition between the nationalist intellec­ tuals and the conservative totalitarian party-state was formed. The task of the farmer was to create the image of reality that the latter would realize. Both sides expected to benefit from the affiliation: the intellectuals-frustrated writers of bad books, disappointed scholars who had formerly glorified communism, and bitter priests who in their cells nourished hatred against everything secular­ were presented with the opportunity they had been waiting for, to fulfill their dream of becoming 'engineers of the human spirit'; for its part, the old regime was able to re-legitimize and preserve its power: "although their motivations were different, this 'red and black' coalition was carefully balanced, and ... undertook the... an­ nihilation of Yugoslavia: Yugoslavia would be either a state tailored to the needs of the Serbs ( a 'real' federation), or the Serbs, with guns in their hands ( 'if necessary') would go their own way, creat­ ing a Greater Serbia that would gather together all Serbs. 'Yugoslavia' was always on their lips, but they had in mind some­ thing quite different" ( Pesié 1 995, xxvi)2 0 Intellectuals Performing Th eirAuthorize d Task

"Those who have lived in this country for the past few years and have watched the preparations for war and its outbreak with their own eyes, have no doubts: the bloody conflict in Yugoslavia started as a television war" ( Lukovié 1 993, 73). Again, this is no mere metaphor. Having been given the task of creating a particular im­ age of the nation, the nationalist intellectuals used the media as their principal weapon-the right message had to reach every indi­ vidual. Analysis of the Serbian media shows how the use of lies and stereotypes, and the selective presentation and misinterpretation of facts was used ( i) to invent and impose a false-that is, non­ existent-national identity based on the mystical concept of the Nation as 'natural community', and ( ii) to create political, social, moral, and psychological perceptions of the present as a Hobbes­ ian state of chaos, terror, and fear. ln these terms, the regime's de-

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mand for arbitrary powers to do whatever it found necessary for the preservation of the 'security of the Nation' could easily be de­ picted as 'natural'. The principal function of television was as a populist tool; the main forum for promoting nationalist discourse in its intellectual form was Politika, the most prestigious Belgrade daily newspa­ per. 2 1 Having been conquered by Milosevié as early as spring 1 987, however, the newspaper was given the task not of informing, but of creating public opinion. Soon after the reconciliation of the regime and SANU, the President of the Academy described Politika as the "spiritual cornerstone of the Serbian people", and the na­ tionalist intellectual elite frequently used it to publish their 'irrefutable' judgments on the 'Serbian national question'. 22 The main purpose of the intellectuals whose work filled Politika's pages was to establish a bond between the intellectuals and the 'people', with a view to obtaining legitimization as the voice of the 'will of the people'. 2 3 Special columns were created ('Economic and Political Commentary', 'lnterview', 'Open Telephone', and, above all, 'Reflections and Reactions', in which the statements of prominent scholars, writers, and artists were carefully intermin­ gled with the opinions of 'common people'. 2 4 'Reflections and Reactions' was soon identified as a "democratic discovery" of the highest order, "the mirror of the people's spirit", and an "invaluable contribution to the revival of the people's self-consciousness and of the historical originality of its being to which, until recently, it had no right to lay claim." 2 5 Intellectual opinions were reduced to unquestionable axioms, the stereotype of 'objective truth' and an aggressive, intolerant manner of presentation coming to replace any attempt to offer arguments and evidence for the most far­ reaching claims (Milosavljevié 1 995, xxx). The balance between the opinions of the 'common people' and those of the intellectuals was stmctured along the axis: (popular) wishes- (intellectual) ar­ ticulation- (regime's) solution. Letters expressing 'popular views' on a chosen problem (selected on the basis of its importance for the Serbian political leadership) were printed, intellectuals then added their authoritative interpretation, and the whole campaign was concluded with the relevant political measure. Before long, this 'intellectual support for the people', coupled with the orches­ trated wave of mass demonstrations, rose to the levei of destruc­ tive national hatred directed against all who dared to express posi­ tions and views different from those advocated by 'Serbia'.

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"Pseudo-Mystical Nonsense " as Instrumental Rationality The promotion of uncontrollable hysteria, aggressive xenophobia, and chauvinistic hatred were the most horrifying features of intel­ lectual participation in the "anti-bureaucratic revolution". But, as 1 have already argued, this was not merely "pseudo-mystical non­ sense" (Arendt) taken to extremes. The dogmas of the Serbiah na­ tionalist intellectuals, mystical to the point of absurdity though they seemed, 26 were strictly in the service of the regime's instru­ mental rationality, that is, of its efforts to preserve its monopoly on power by annihilating all opposition in both thought and deed. ln this section I attempt to re-conceptualize the main theses of Ser­ bian nationalism, from the viewpoint of its creation and justifica­ tion of the regime's political direction. Message One: 'You Are What We Say You Are'

"The national idea is not an abstract theoretical concept; it cannot be reached in a rational way, either from inside or from outside; the way to it leads rather through passion, love, solidarity, common suffering, interiorization of the mythical past" (Durié 1 994). These words of a respected Belgrade professor of philosophy accurately portray the essence of the newly composed Serbian national iden­ tity. 27 lt consists mainly of rationally ungraspable notions and val­ ues that, once identified by intellectuals, ought to be translated into actions. ln order to identify the right direction for such ac­ tions, and in an apparent effort to re-conceptualize Marx ("Sie wis­ sen es nicht, aber sie tun es"), the professor concludes that 'we have to do what we want to know'. This is a valuable statement for our purposes, since it points to (i) the logical priority of ideologi­ cal concept over reality; (ii) the voluntaristic creation of that ideo­ logical concept; and (iii) the unavoidability of its materialization. Nation-building on the hasis of such a concept is a complex process. lt is of the utmost importance to create what does not exist, that is, to present the nation as a mystical entity, the unity of which is unquestionable because it is a natural community. The intellectual elite must be engaged to accomplish this task: histori­ ans must re-interpret the past in order to re-invent it, taking care that this re-invention be presented as merely the recovery of what had been forgotten, or, even better, repressed; archaeologists will dig up graves to show the ancient origins of the Nation (and, more often than not, to prove 'genocidal crimes' committed against 'us'); and writers will glorify epic traditions, myths, and cults to reveal

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the Nation's timelessness. These intellectuals must "trace the na­ tion's roots to an ancient past in which cultural values were pure and the 'natural' character of the people was undiluted" (Mostov 1 995, 70). These values and virtues are of course exclusive, creat­ ing dichotomies that by defiriition categorize those who do not belong to the community as outsiders and even enemies. 28 The first stage in this process is the destruction of individual identity. Addressed to a population already confused by the disso­ lution of the old system, the mythological concept of the Nation offered a ready-made alternative: You are all members of the Great 'One', your individual identities compose the National Identity. You have your place in the world-your Nation: "Faith and nation create a man and create the people, their soul, their essence, their identity, their being. If you change your faith, you lose yourself, that is, you kill yourself." 2 9 National identity provides one's life with meaning and dignity; merely belonging to the Nation guaran­ tees security and protection against external threats. The techniques by means of which the objects of this ideology were caused to interiorize it have already been described: propa­ ganda, the creation of stereotypes, and manipulation through the mass media, education,3° and popular culture were applied to produce a mythologized political discourse. But it only seems to be meaningless: "the oldest people in Europe", the people which is "unique" and "glorious", was taught to accept as its primary virtues cults of death and martyrdom, the epics of betrayal and defeat. But once "the holy right to restore lost dignity" by means of retaliating for the "innocent victims" of the past was declared, the situation became much more transparent. lt is true that 'We' are unique, that 'Our' defeats were uniquely glorious, but the time has come to achieve victory, once and forever. At this point, the essentially po­ litical character of the whole body of newly-crafted mythological nonsense was crystallized: intellectuals turned their attention to the streets in which "the people are happening" in mass meetings. As self-proclaimed national prophets the intellectuals listened care­ fully, for "one ought to be able to hear the voice of the people."3 1 Direct democracy was being practiced in the streets of Serbian towns and villages, the people were expressing their political pref­ erences, and no one had the right to raise doubts, for that would be tantamount to an act of betrayal: "The resistance that was formu­ lated and carried out by the critical intelligentsia... has culminated over the last two years in a popular, democratic rebellion by means of which the Serbian people is re-establishing its role as a historical actor in the democratic and civilized meaning of the word."3 2 ln

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the words of Professor Ratko Markovié (who would later draft both the Serbian and the Yugoslav constitutions): "Today, the whole of Serbia is a single community, a spontaneous and continu­ ous constitutional convention, in which the people is directly writ­ ing its constitution."33 The intellectual elite and the people having been assigned their places, only one more element was needed to complete the Ser­ bian 'Holy Trinity', the Leader, perceived in mythical terms as the traditional Serbian patriarchai father. ln intellectual terms, the Leader springs almost naturally from the logic of Serbian "history at work in full consciousness": "ln the glorious struggle of its peo­ ple, and with the courage and unity of the new national leadership, Serbia has regained its sovereignty and statehood."3 4 The intellec­ tuals were to complete the task of crafting the Nation by building up the cult of Slobodan Milosevié: "Let me assure you, finally, that 1 am one of the many who see your personality as the paradigm of everything that is Serbian. lt is a privilege to walk side by side with you and to fight for the unity of Serbian national being. You belong to... all Serbs, regardless of where they happen to live."3 5 The ultimate purpose of this discourse was to furnish a new jus­ tification of totalitarian power by supplying it with new legitimacy. The totalitarian core of the regime-the ideology of imposed unity-remained the same, but the new concept of unity was much more appealing and much easier to have accepted 'voluntarily': based on the mystical 'We' which was said to express the 'essence of national being'-that is, on the basis of the primordial nature of the Nation and the unique values that pertain to each of its mem­ bers-its annihilation of freedom and individual autonomy was accepted by the majority of people as just and 'natural'. Once the Nation was crafted and its essence interiorized, the people were only too ready to bestow their lives ( lives that were already de­ picted in terms of a particular 'destiny') on Behemoth, legitimized as a personification of the Nation, the 'finally discovered' expres­ sion of its unquestionable 'general will'. ln this way, the ideologi­ cally manufactured Nation enters on the political stage ( Flego 1 993, 1 1 8). The task of fulfilling 'holy goals' and the political prac­ tices of the regime brought into being in this way were character­ ized not only by unquestioned leadership, but by open flouting of the rule of law and the procedural rules of politics: "The solutions [ to the political crisis-author 's note] are not to be looked for in procedures, in their ambushes great and small, in their intrigues and tricks. The solutions are to be found in the politics supported by the majority of the people of this country; support which can be

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both institutional and extra-institutional, both legal and extra-legal, both on the streets and inside the home, both populist and elitist, both with arguments and without arguments; what counts is only that this politics be for the benefit of Yugoslavia" (Milosevié 1 989, 333). Message Two: 'You Have the Right to Live in One State '

By the time the "anti-bureaucratic revolution" had reached its peak (the Belgrade rally of November 1 988), the political program for­ mulated by intellectuals 'on behalf of the people' and embraced by the regime ( also 'on behalf of the people') had become clear: Yugoslavia had to be either re-constituted in accordance with the demands of Serbia, or destroyed. Serbia as a federal unit and the Serbian people in Yugoslavia were not equal to the other units and peoples. Moreover, the existing Yugoslav political system was in essence the culmination of a continuous conspiracy against Serbia. Consequently, Yugoslavia was the prison of the Serbian people: what defined the Yugoslav Federation was "the unequal and hu­ miliating condition of the Serbian people under the rule of an anti­ Serbian coalition, embodying a 'Serbophobia' which over the last couple of decades [had] spread among the majority of the Slove­ nian, Croatian and Albanian people."3 6 Besides, the Serbian people had been deprived of its necessary statehood. It was politically cut into pieces, with large parts of the nation living in Croatia and in Bosnia-Herzegovina, so hindering its necessary political, social, and cultural renaissance. After this diagnosis, the remedy appeared almost spontaneously: To re-constitute Yugoslavia meant to make it possible for all Serbs to live in one state. This is how the concept of a Greater Serbia entered public discourse in Yugoslavia. The contours of a Greater Serbia as an ideological notion appeared for the first time in a document issued by the Serbian Writers' Association, entitled 'Contribution to the Public Discussion on the Constitution.'3 7 After proclaiming the need for a democratic reconstruction of Yugosla­ via along the lines of constitutionally granted individual rights, political pluralism, and a free market economy, the document states that "the borders between the federal units... were defined without [reference to] the people living in disputed territories and, consequently, they are often not ethnic boundaries".3 8 Fur­ thermore, "democratic reforms in Yugoslavia" demand that na­ tional and cultural identity and ties with the ethnic Motherland be established through constitutionally guaranteed collective rights to

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form independent ethnic political and cultural associations and organizations-ethnically based political parties are here presented as the essential pre-condition of democracy. ln other words, de­ mocracy is presented as possible only within an ethnos clearly de­ limited from 'the others'. The authors made no attempt to explain how this national democracy (or democratic nationalism) was to be achieved, nor how it would function. Although inherently chauvinistic in a country that was not only multi-ethnic, but in which different ethnic groups lived side by side, this axiom was soon accepted in Serbia as the basis for further political action. As usual, Dobrica éosié was the first to jump on the bandwagon, us­ ing his pathetic, pompous nationalist vocabulary to develop the idea: "After genocide and... the Constitution of 1 97 4, it is difficult to understand why Serbs today do not strive rationally and persis­ tently for a state free of the national question, inter-ethnic hatred, and Serbophobia."39 But the 'Father of the Nation' was also a democrat: "Politics which today does not represent the entirety of the Serbian people is not a democratic politics... The Serbian peo­ ple, after the too costly experiences of the two world wars will not miss the opportunity to create a new state in which it will institute a free and democratic society and a human community without ,, hatred and exploitation. 4 o ln 1 990 the Serbian Writers' Association published a new document, with the characteristic title 'The Formation of the State'. Having upheld the first results in the "struggle for the liberation of the Serbian people", the writers assert that official Serbian policy is not firm enough, and conclude that "the Serbian people... wishes to and must regain and establish its own state, which will have realis­ tic natural, historical, and ethnic borders, and will be more than able to protect itself." 4 1 Although the writers took up the position of democratic opposition to the regime, their critique of the politi­ cal rulers of Serbia from the viewpoint of democracy was largely formai: the democratic claims of the document were only a poor legitimizing mask for the demand for an ethnically pure state within new, 'natural' borders. The document served only to pro­ mote the basic rules established to govern the interaction between the intellectuals and the regime: the intellectuals would always­ relative to the radicality of their political demands-proceed one step in front of the regime, leaving room for the ruling elite to play its double role in political conflicts at the federal levei, presenting itself simultaneously as the defender of (i) the socialist Yugoslavia and (ii) of all Serbs, wherever they may be. When 'The Formation of the State' was published, the Serbian regime was still insisting

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upon the institution of a modern federation based on the principle 'one man-one vote' and political autonomy for Serbs, especially in Croatia and Bosnia. ln political terms, this twofold demand en­ tailed, in the first instance, strong centralization at the level of Yugoslavia as a whole: given that the Serbs constituted the largest ethnic group in Yugoslavia, the application of 'one man-one vote' would automatically have resulted in their domination. On the other hand, strong decentralization was demanded for Croatia and Bosnia, in the form of political autonomy for areas with majority Serb populations. These demands, expressed in a manner that left no room for compromise, were understood by the other federal units as a barely hidden attempt to establish Serbian domination. On the eve of the war, in spring 1991, the Serbian National Council was förmed, which declared a need finally to realize the idea of "united Serbian states". The initiative immediately received the support of both the leading scientific and cultural institutions and the Serbian Orthodox Church. According to its advocates, this project had to be undertaken immediately, otherwise everything would remain the same, "as if anything else could be more realistic than the... only just and logical [solution] : unification of the Ser­ bian people".4 2 The message was clear enough: 'Life together with "the others" is an unbearable obstacle to normalcy; once we are freed from those who are alien to us, we will be able to show the world who we are, how unique and highly civilized we are. Finally, once we create an undisturbed Serbian national state, we will show everyone how our particular national interests are in perfect ac­ cord with universal principles of democracy' (see Milosavljevié 1995, xxvi). Message Three, or Summa Ideologiae: 'You Have the Natural Right to Do Whatever Is Necessary to Achieve Your Goals'

The nationalist conception of the Serbian nation as a 'natural community' was only seemingly based upon contradictory myths of, on the one hand, the glory and uniqueness of the 'heavenly people' and, on the other, ever-lasting martyrdom, the conse­ quence of the hatred directed against 'us' which resulted in nu­ merous anti-Serbian conspiracies and their uncountable victims. The rational political purpose of this approach was to bring about a situation in which 'natural' belonging to the ethnic group would become the primary focus of individual identity, in terms of which no socially and politically relevant existence would be possible beyond the Nation. Furthermore, the political obligations of each

1 42

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individual would be determined by the mission laid down by the creators of the nation (Flego 1 993, 1 1 6). ln practice, national be­ longing called for the unconditional obedience of all subjects. ln the final instance, in a multi-ethnic community the "pseudo­ mystical nonsense" of resentment nationalism and the political objectives derived from it can be achieved only through the exces­ sive use of violence, channeled towards both those who do not belong to the 'natural community', and those 'from our own ranks' who refuse to accept the objectivity of their birth into a commu­ nity based on tribal exclusivity. The logic of a national identity cen­ tered around hurt pride and dignity contains in its very heart an assumed right to retaliation: 4 3 in this type of national conscious­ ness, war becomes a necessary means of re-establishing the es­ sence of national being. ln fact, only peace achieved through war is seen as measuring up to the sacred national virtues. ln the Serbian nationalist vocabulary the primacy of war over peace is further justified by a comparison of glorious former liberation struggles with the poor condition of the Serbian people in peace. "We, vic­ tors in war, are defeated in peace." 44 The Serbian people are "surrounded by hatred, so that for us peace is more painful than war. Peace has destroyed what was created in the two wars." 4 5 What counts above all is unity on the basis of ethnic purity; hu­ man life has value only relatíve to this 'sacred imperative'. At this point, the ancient cult of 'holy death' becomes an important part of public discourse: loss of life in a future war is legitimized as just by loss of life in the unjust past, always with reference to a happy fu­ ture in an exclusively Serbian state, a future that awaits those who survive. 46 The obsessive glorification of death, deeply rooted in Serbian tradition, stepped out of the realms of myth with the first armed clashes in Croatia, justifying war as the highest mora! duty. lt is possible that at the beginning, the engineers of this ideology did not anticipate hundreds of thousands of violent deaths, but once the dynamics of their project clearly revealed the possibility of war and destruction, they did not stop. On the contrary, they willingly developed their project in the direction indicated by the 'logic of history'-that is, by the demands of the regime. ln this sense, the war in Bosnia simply marked the culmination of the 'authorization covenant' between the regime and nationalist intel­ lectuals.

Worm and Death: Serbian Nationalist Intellectuals

1 43

Notes 1 Needless to say, not all intellectuals in Serbia are united under the na­ tionalist banner. Indeed, the division between nationalists/chauvinists and liberals is extremely marked, to the extent that no points of com­ munication exist between the two groups. Being regarded-by the op­ posing intellectual camp, by the regime, by the media and, sadly, by most of the population-as traitors, foreign agents, and so on, liberal in­ tellectuals are engaged in the seemingly hopeless enterprise of devel­ oping and defending a civilized alternative to the now victorious bar­ barian option promoted by the corrupt nationalist intelligentsia. Even a cursory glance at the literature on which I have based my chapter clearly shows the high intellectual levei, mora! dignity, and civic cour­ age of the small liberal group of intellectuals in Serbia. This chapter is dedicated to the 'Other Serbia' they represent. 2 The elaboration which follows of the nature of communism and the manner in which post-communism is related to it, draws heavily on Pu­ hovski's work. 3 The somewhat paradoxical figure of the 'sovereign representative' is borrowed from Hobbes. As in the Hobbesian body politic, the sover­ eignty of the Communist Party is absolute, although its representative­ ness is dubious, to say the least. See Hobbes, Leviathan, especially chapters XVI and XVII. 4 The term 'society' is not used here in a methodologically rigorous fash­ ion: no independent social sphere was possible under the totalitarian conditions imposed by the all-powerful party-state. S Puhovski's use of the category of power as productive relation and the main communicative channel in the process of the realization of the imposed idea clearly draws on Michel Foucault's notion of power, though in a different theoretical context (see Foucault 1 979). 6 There is no room here to elaborate on the reasons for this change of direction. I have attempted to provide an explanation elsewhere, how­ ever: see Dimitrijevié (1 992). 7 Article 1 of the Constitution reads: "Yugoslavia is a federal state having the form of a state community of voluntarily united nations and their Socialist Republics... based on the power of, and self-management by the working class and all working people; it is at the same time a social­ ist self-managing democratic community of working people and citi­ zens and of nations and nationalities having equal rights." 8 Needless to say, the term 'individual liberties', in the context of social­ ism, is not analytically precise; what is at issue here is rather the wider range of privileges granted by the regime to its subjects. 9 ln an attempt to explain why the Yugoslav intellectuals never managed to form an "alternative palis", Z. Golubovié underlines the manipulative capacities of the corporatism hidden behind 'socialist self-manage-

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ment'; she argues that this approach to the totalitarian atomization of individuals was much more efficient than that of the KGB (Golubovié 1991, x). 10 This label was coined by the Party in order to justify its repressive measures. 11 The unofficial but generally recognized spiritus movens of both or­ ganizations has until today remained the ex-communist apparatchik, writer Dobrica éosié, labeled by followers "the Father of the Nation". He was later (1992) to become the first President of the rump Yugosla­ via (Serbia and Montenegro). 12 I am not criticizing intellectuals for dealing with questions of national identity as such; the problem lies, as I will try to explain, in their ap­ proach to the issue. 13 A year earlier, Dobrica éosié, speaking about the "burdens of the past and challenges of the future" and arguing that the "central concern of intellectuals is the common good" of the nation, demanded that the Academy involve itself in "general societal and national problems" (Godisnjak SANU za 1984; quoted in Milosavljevié 1995, 2). 14 The text of the Memorandum was recently published as Memorandum SANU. Odgovori na kritike [Memorandum SANU. Answers to the crit­ ics] , ed. K. Mihajlovié and V. Krestié (Belgrade, 1995). 15 The most meticulous examination of the Memorandum may be found in Milosavljevié (1995), an analytical approach I will attempt to emu­ late. 16 Although ninety per cent of the population of Kosovo are ethnic Alba­ nians, the region has a special place in the Serbian collective historical memory and national mythology: it is regarded as the heart of the early medieval Serbian state and the birthplace of its Orthodox culture. Be­ sides, in June 1389 Kosovo was the scene of a great battle between the Serbs and the Turks in which the Serbs were, so the story goes, de­ feated. Over the centuries Kosovo has remained a central focus for the creation of national mythology: cults of heroism, martyrdom, holy death, just revenge, and myths of national betrayal, open and secret enemies surrounding 'Serbdom', and history as a long chain of con­ spiracies against Serbia are all elements of the collective mythical dis­ course originating directly from the Kosovo battle-myth. One more cult that might call for socio-psychological investigation is the cult of defeat. During the Middle Ages a rich folklore of epic legends glorifying the Kosovo defeat was created. This complex Kosovo-based mythology was revived and turned into a political weapon in the final stages of the de­ struction of Yugoslavia. For a detailed account of the meaning and im­ portance of the Kosovo myth for the creation and preservation of par­ ticular aspects of Serbian national identity, see Zirojevié (1995, 9-24). 17 ln a July 1988 speech Milosevié stated: "All depends upon what the masses prefer. At this moment, they prefer a united Yugoslavia, the so­ cialist system, brotherhood and unity, the equality of Serbia with the other republics, opposition to the counter-revolution in Kosovo, and a

Words and Death: Serbian Nationalist Intellectuals

1 45

life in justice and dignity for all citizens of Yugoslavia' (Milosevié 1989, 260). 18 ln the period 1987-88 Milosevié carefully juggled with the image of "the defender of Tito's way", presenting his political position as the only guarantee of the continuity of Yugoslav socialism. The political ob­ jective of this ideological gamesmanship was not only the manipulation of the masses for the sake of legitimizing his power, but securing the support of the most powerful organization in the Yugoslav federation, the Army. Confused by the ongoing political crisis and the decomposi­ tion of the ideology of which it was supposed to be the guardian, the Army was only too ready to accept the offer coded in Milosevié's de­ fense of Titoism: Milosevié's emphasis upon "protecting Yugoslavia" was a clear signal that the armed forces would have a considerable role to play. 19 ln fall 1987 and winter 1988 the regime and SANU exchanged concilia­ tory messages. A high official in the Party even publicly expressed his regret for the 1986 anti-Memorandum campaign, promising that the Party "will no more allow unfounded accusations against SANU". This apparatchik also defined the Party's future relationship with the na­ tionalist intelligentsia: "lf the Party wants to gather the most creative in­ tellectual forces, it ought to distance itself from quasi-fighters against nationalism" Politika (5 February 1988). 20 See also V. P. Gagnon, 'Serbia's Road to War,' in Nationalism, Ethnic Conflict and Democracy, ed. L. Diamond and L. Plattner (Baltimore and London, 1993), 118: "This coalition used the rhetoric of ethnicity and nationalism to provoke violent conflict along ethnic lines... Serbian conservatives moved to destroy Tito's Yugoslavia and to build on its ashes a 'Greater Serbia' in which they could continue to use an image of threatened Serbdom to slow or halt the shift towards pluralism ... Con­ flict along ethnic lines was thus actively created and provoked by cer­ tain political actors in order to forestall native trends toward democra­ tization." 21 Politika was both the oldest (first published in 1904) and by far the most influential and highly respected daily in Serbia and Yugoslavia. For decades it had been regarded as the acme of journalistic profes­ sionalism and dignity: as the most reliable source of both information and serious comment, Politika had managed to retain some degree of independence. Always loyal to the regime, and never at war with the Serbian nationalist intelligentsia, however, Politika also achieved some­ thing that resembles political alchemy: it was considered to be the most liberal public voice in socialist Yugoslavia. 22 ln quantitative terms, in the period 1987-91 Politika published 76 texts about SANU and 306 texts written by SANU members, almost all of them devoted to the exposition of the 'Serbian national question'. Only texts written exclusively for the column 'Reflections and Reac­ tions' are counted, not interviews, statements on daily political issues, reports from conferences and round-tables that quoted the opinions of

1 46

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SANU members, and so on (see Milosavljevié, op. cit., p. xxix). It must be understood, however, that, although they are the most influential Serbian intellectuals, the members of the Academy are, in numerical terms, only a small minority. ln other words, the number of intellectual contributions devoted to the 'Serbian question' was much higher over­ all. For a reliable qualitative analysis of the 'Reflections and Reactions' column, see S. Slapsak (1994), 11-31. Slapsak explores the language, 'genres', main themes, repressive repetition of stereotypes, use of metaphors, 'scientific' interpretations of history, and presentation of 'cultural models' in the published texts. 23 "The brain of SANU serves the Serbian people ... A member of the Acad­ emy must not be against his own people. He always has to share the destiny and suffering of his people" (A. Isakovié, writer and Vice­ President of SANU, Politika, 26 May 1990.) 24 Only later did it turn out that most of these expressions of 'vox populi' ('Reflections and Reactions,' August 1988-March 1991) had been made up, having been composed exclusively for this purpose by híred intel­ lectuals performing the role of nationalist 'ghost writers', or by mem­ bers of Politika's editorial staff. 25 Quoted in Perovié (1995, iii). 26 As the respected writer A. lsakovié once put it: "We are inheritors of the ancient Greek philosophy of antiquity and of the culture of the Periclean period" Politika (2 March 1991). 27 Quoted in N. Popov (1994). Although this speech was delivered (Second Congress of Serbian lntellectuals, Belgrade, 1 994) after the pe­ riod I am attempting to analyze, it summarizes perfectly the irrational nationalist perception of 'Serbdom'. 28 Arendt (1973, 227): "Tribalism... can easily be recognized by the tre­ mendous arrogance, inherent in its self-concentration, which dares to measure a people, its past and present, by the yardstick of exalted inner qualities and inevitably rejects its visible existence, traditions, institu­ tions, and culture... Tribal nationalism always insists that its own people is surrounded by 'a world of enemies', 'one against all', that a funda­ mental difference exists between this people and all others." 29 R. Lukié (Professor of Law, Member of SANU), Politika (28 June 1989). 30 According to the Serbian Minister of Education, "We cannot raise chil­ dren in a cosmopolitan spirit, but in a spirit of patriotism and love for the Fatherland. A great ideology must be drummed into those little heads." Quoted in David (1994, 1-2). 31 M. Pavié (writer, Member of SANU), Politika (13 September 1988). 32 D. éosié, Knjizevne novine 1 (15 July 1989). 33 Quoted in Perovié (1995, v). 34 D. Kanazir (President of SANU), Politika (26 April 1989). 35 J. Raskovié (member of both SANU and JAZU, the Croatian Academy of Arts and Sciences, and the first president of the SOS, the Serbian ethnic party in Croatia), Politika (31 August 1990). 36 D. éosié, Knjizevne novine (1 December 1988).

Wortb' and Death: Serbtan Nationalist lntellectuals

1 47

37 The subject of this document (published in Knjizevne novine, 1 April 1988) was the proposed partial revision of the Serbian Constitution, aimed at considerably reducing the regional autonomy of Kosovo and Vojvodina, under the watchword "the re-establishment of Serbian statehood". 38 Quoted in Gojkovié (1995, x). 39 Knjizevne novine (15 July 1989). 40 Politika (26-27 July 1991). 41 Knjizevne novine 801-802 (1-15 July 1990). 42 M. Beékovié (poet and member of SANU), PolíUka (5 November 1991). 43 "The Serbs in Croatia are the remnants of a slaughtered people." This dictum, coined by M. Beékovié, and repeated countless times in differ­ ent contexts is perhaps the most brutal expression of Serbian resent­ ment nationalism. lt refers to the genocide carried out by the Croatian puppet-state against the Serbian population during the Second World War. ln the late 1980s and early 1990s this formulation was widely used to emphasize the right of Serbs to re-establish justice through retalia­ tion. See M. Beékovié, Knjizevne novine (15 September 1989). 44 D. éosié, Knjizevne novine (1 November 1987). 45 D. éosié, Politika (26 July 1991). 46 "A collective conviction has been created that there is no survival with­ out struggle, that we cannot be born again without death. This is the in­ tellectual core of the Kosovo-based Serbian choice." R. Samardzié (historian and member of SAND), Politika (28 June 1990). Dragoslav Bokan, film critic and self-proclaimed leader of the 'New Serbian Right', cries: "Long live Death, for Death is renaissance," Nase ideje Oune 1993): 3.

References Arendt, H. 1973. The Origins oJ Totalitarlanism. New York. David, F. 1994. 'The Creating of Stereotypes,' Republika, Special English Edition: Against Censorship and Abuse of the Media 10: 1-2. Dimitrijevié, N. 1992. 'Yugoslavia: nationalismo y sos consequencias.' Cuadernos del ESTE 5. E>urié, M. 1994. 'Slovo ljubve 1994' [Word of Iove 1994] ; quoted in Popov (1994), 17. Flego, G. 1993. 'Fear and Politics,' in Puhovski (1993), 118. Foucault, M. 1979. Discipline and Punish. The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan New York: Vintage/Random House. Gagnon, V. P. 1993. 'Serbia's Road to War.' ln Nationalism, Ethnic ConJUct and Democracy, ed. L. Diamond and L. Plattner. Baltimore and London. Godisnjak SAND za 1984 [SAND 1984 Annual] (Belgrade, 1985); quoted in Milosavljevié (1995). Godisnjak SAND za 1985 [SAND 1985 Annual] . 1986. Belgrade.

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Gojkovié, D. 1995. 'Trauma bez katarze' [Trauma without catharsis] . Re­ publika 118: 10. Golubovié, Z. 1991. 'Cari lakog politickog éara' [The appeal of cheap po­ litical advantage] . Borba [daily newspaper] 5-6 (10): x. Lukovié, P. 1993. 'Media and War: Yugoslavia, the Mirror of Hatred.' ln Yugoslavia. Collapse, War, Crimes, ed. S. Biserko, 73. Belgrade. Marx, K. (1850) 1975. Klasne Borbe u Francuskoj [The Class Struggles in France] . ln Dela [Collected Works] , Vol. 10. Belgrade. Mihajlovié, K., and V. Krestié, eds. 1995. Memorandum SANU. Odgovori na kritike [Memorandum SANU. Answers to the critics] . Belgrade. Milosavljevié, 0. 1995. 'Upotreba autoriteta nauke' [The use of the author­ ity of science] . Republika 119-120. Milosevié, S. 1989. Godine raspleta [Decisive years]. Belgrade. Mostov, J. 1995. 'The Use and Abuse of History in Eastern Europe: A Chal­ lenge for the 90s.' The East European Constitutional Review 4. Perovié, L. 1995. 'Beg od modernizacije' [Escape írom modernization] . Republika 112: 3. Pesié, V. 1994. 'Signali - nekada i sada' [Signals - then and now] . Repub­ lika 91. --. 1995. 'Nacionalni sukobi. Raspad Jugoslavije i rat za nacionalne drfave' [National conflicts. The break-up of Yugoslavia and the war for nation-states] . Republika 129: vi. Popov, N. 1994. ']edinstvo i smrt' [Unity and death] . Republika 91: 15. Puhovski, Z. 1983. 'Granica drustvene promjene-promjena drustvene granice' [Limits of social change - change of social limits] . Marksisticka misao 1: 66. --. 1993. 'The Wizard of Oz Unveiled.' ln Politics and Economics of Transition, ed. Z. Puhovski et al. Zagreb. --. 1994. 'The Moral Basis of Political Restructuring.' ln Political Re­ structuring in Europe. Ethical Perspectives, ed. C. Brown. London. Slapsak, S. 1992. 'Serbian Alternatives: Are There Any?' East European Reporter 5. --. 1994. 'Mehanizam stvaranja stereotipa' [Mechanism of Creation of Stereotypes) .' ln Ogledi o bezbrinosti [Essays on carelessness] , ed. S. Slapsak (Belgrade, 1994). Vojnié, D., and Z. Puhovski. 1993. 'The Economic and Political Dimensions of Transition,' in Z. Puhovski (1993). Zirojevié, 0. 1995. 'Kosovo u istorijskom paméenju. Mit, legende, cinjenice [Kosovo in historical memory. Myth, legends, facts] . Republika 111.

PART TWO POLITICS OF IDENTITY: POLITICAL INTELLECTUALS IN THE NEW DEMOCRACY

Between Tradition and Politics: Intellectuals after Communism MARIAN KEMPNY

Introduction The notion that the importance of the intelligentsia is at present declining-even that it is 'retiring from the stage'-in the European new democracies, dominates sociological analyses of the transition to democracy in Poland. The purpose of this chapter is to evaluate this diagnosis of the declining social role of the intelligentsia, deemed to be the result of the all-encompassing and ongoing socio­ political changes, and to consider whether in fact the opposite may be true. My point of departure is the recent controversy over George [György] Konrád's and Iván Szelényi's book The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power ( 1 979) which claims that in post­ industrial or information/knowledge-based societies intellectuals­ or 'knowledge monopolists'-may perform a role analogous to that played by owners under capitalism or the bureaucracy in totalitar­ ian societies (see also Konrád and Szelényi 1 991). As was recently pointed out in relation to Hungarian intellectuals, while major the­ ses concerning the emergence of an intellectual ruling class (Kon­ rád and Szelényi 1 979; Gouldner 1 979) seemed to have been borne out by the political breakthrough of 1 989, in the end "the ideas represented by Fehér and Heller have proved to be more founded[:] 'the time has come for mass democracy rather than the class power of intellectuals' " ( Bozóki 1 996, 1 1 7). ln this chapter I will describe these controversies concerning the role of the contemporary East Central European intelligentsia qua intellectuals as a driving force in the construction of a new social, cultural, and political order in the aftermath of the collapse of Communist rule. The focus of my examination will be whether or not the supposed decline of the cultural hegemony of the intel­ ligentsia is reflected in the self-consciousness of contemporary

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intellectuals and their erratic and ambiguous collective identity. The term 'cultural hegemony' is understood here in a broad sense, encompassing both the characteristic mission of this group as the guardian of tradition and its dominant position as a kind of master of the political game. The basic feature of the intelligentsia qua predecessor of modern Polish intellectuals was the manner in which it attempted to straddle the divide between political parti­ sanship and guardianship of cultural values ( both national and universal).

The Polish Intelligentsia: Guardians ofEternal Values or Spokesmen of Society? The present situation of the Polish intelligentsia may best be ad­ dressed in terms of the historical emergence of a rather large social stratum which had a strong sense of mission, expressed in terms of a historic role and a call to leadership. Although the majority of members of the intelligentsia were engaged in more or less mun­ dane occupations-schoolteachers, university lecturers or re­ searchers, journalists, writers, or artists-the social circles and po­ litical caucuses in which they came together served as the main forums of public life. As already mentioned, as a social group they somehow straddled culture and politics as 'cultural brokers' of political ideas. While considerations of space rule out any lengthy discussion of the cul­ tural values of the Polish intelligentsia-as the repository of such universalist notions as the value of knowledge and responsibility for humanity-their sense of responsibility for the process of na­ tion-building set them squarely in the political sphere. The Polish intelligentsia has clung tenaciously to its exalted role as guardian of eternal and universal values, and as spokesman for Polish society, in keeping with its self-image of bearer of a solemn historic mission and its special accountability to the whole nation. As Bryan S. Turner ( 1 994, 1 55) put it, "a radical intelligentsia is typically the product of the cultural crisis which results from major structural transformations of a national society.... Under such crisis conditions, an intellectual stratum may became a self-conscious, committed and coherent intelligentsia." ln the Polish case the major threats to the continuity of national culture which called forth a national intelligentsia were, first, the

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1 53

demise of the Polish state consequent upon the partitions, and later, during the period of communist rule, the loss of national sovereignty combined with gradual economic decline. This model characterized the partisan intelligentsia until very recently. A par­ ticularly important consequence of the totalitarian state's policies was the politicization of all intellectual and cultural activities un­ dertaken by the intelligentsia: as Jerzy Szacki remarks ( 1 990, 244), "with total state management of culture everything takes on politi­ cal meaning." This resulted in the formation of a radical vanguard of critics of the regime who sought to transform it, both in defense of universal human values and in the capacity of charismatic designers of civil society. The 'Solidarity' movement, however, revealed the precari­ ous nature of such a double role for the intelligentsia, and the po­ litical breakthrough of 1 989 marked the decline of the intelligent­ sia as intermediary between universal or cultural values and the political realm. Nevertheless, many representatives of the intelligentsia still per­ ceive it primarily as a social class which has played a decisive role in the defense of national identity and which is helping to shape post-communist society by means of its involvement in the general discourse on culture, morality, and politics.

The Dominant Intelligentsia, or, Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power For reasons of space I am forced to set aside a basic conceptual issue, namely the sociological meaning of the terms 'intelligentsia' and 'intellectuals'. For example, Western usages which equate 'the intelligentsia' with 'intellectuals' or 'professionals' do not seem to reflect its Polish and Central European significance. The most ob­ vious difficulty here is that the phenomenon of the intelligentsia as a specific pattern of social class identity has remained largely out­ side Western experience, with the result that any analogy with superficially similar Western phenomena is bound to be inade­ quate. The main criteria of intelligentsia status in the West are edu­ cation and a non-manual occupation, but these ignore some crucial elements of intelligentsia status as it is understood by its East Cen­ tral European bearers, including sociologists. 1 I must also skirt around the complicated issue of the social categories which this

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class encompasses and the relationships between these categories. Instead, 1 shall focus on some problematic aspects of Konrád's and Szelényi's hypothesis of an equivalence between the role played by intellectuals in East Central Europe and that of 'professionals' in post-industrial society. ln their famous and highly controversial book 1he Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power (1979, written in 1974) Konrád and Szelé­ nyi assume a correspondence between the increasing power of the knowledge class in post-industrial society and the decline of bureau­ cratic domination in communist societies. They predicted a rap­ prochement between the communist ruling elites (the cadre elites) and the rest of the intelligentsia. The contention that the intelligent­ sia as a whole may eventually share power with the bureaucracy was unconvincing to most intellectuals in Central Europe, but especially in Poland where at that time the intelligentsia was rather on the road to dissent than to class power. By the mid 1 980s, Szelényi realized that "the intelligentsia [ha]d not merge[d] with the bureaucracy'', and, in a seminal article, he claimed that "the bureaucracy [had] proved to be more stubborn and less willing to share power and to compromise than we [had] anticipated" (Szelényi 1986-87, 116). Nevertheless, after 1989, Konrád and Szelényi (1991) again tried to defend their position by attempting to prove that the profound changes experienced by East Central Europe at the turn of the 1990s were the result of the process they had foreseen, namely the coming to power of the critical intelligentsia, largely due to its discursive victory over the cadre elite. 2 As Konrád and Szelényi ( 1 99 1 ) argue, its ability to monopolize discourse enables the intelligentsia to dominate democratic poli­ tics and to remain above the ordinary players in the political game, acting as their referee. The authors also predicted that the new post-communist elite would be recruited from among the intellec­ tuals because they "speak the culture of critical discourse most fluently." ln a word, the constitution of the intellectual elite as the new ruling class is under way in post-communist societies. ln the Polish case, as already mentioned, the exceptional role of the intelligentsia is the result of particular historical circumstances; the ongoing transformation of this society in favor of other models more suited to' the logic of the market economy and a liberal­ democratic political system (see Mokrzycki 1995) will put this role in jeopardy. This speaks against the view of the relations between the political class and the intellectuals portrayed by Konrád and Szelényi (see Kurczewska 1 992a) who claim that these two groups have simply parted company. To my mind, these contradictory

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1 55

views of the relations between 'professionals' and 'intellectuals' conceal an underlying inclination to conceptualize 'the intellec­ tual' as either specific or general.

Master or Slave? The Vocation of Contemporary Polish Intellectuals Does the sense of vocation, inherited even by the mostly Western­ oriented intellectuals of contemporary Poland and other post­ communist democracies, still determine the intelligentsia's self­ image and its view of the manner in which it should serve society? ln order to answer this question we must take a closer look at the dispute concerning the theses of Konrád and Szelényi. For some analysts, the traditional role of the East Central Euro­ pean intelligentsia is coming to an end; what we are now witness­ ing is the establishment of a division between 'specialists' ( experts or professionals) and 'men of ideas' ( intellectuals), "those who 'think otherwise' ... the disturbers of intellectual peace" ( Coser 1 965). According to Kurczewska ( 1 992a), relations between spe­ cialists and men of ideas are strongly ambivalent; and the question arises as to how these relations should be seen in the perspective of the convergence which is currently taking place between 'East­ ern' and 'Western' intellectuals. Another important contemporary issue is the fall of the 'uni­ versal' and the concomitant rise of the so-called 'concrete' intellec­ tual who occupies a specific position in the domain of knowledge production.3 For historical reasons, this has not been eagerly ac­ cepted by Central European intellectuals. To my mind, the critical difference here consists in the consolidation or discarding of the relationship between intellectuals and culture, politics, and the state in terms of a kind of moral commitment. As one example of the defense of the intelligentsia's universalist calling consider the support for the model of the intellectual as "someone who meddles in other people's business" ( Sartre) given by the eminent Polish historian and sociologist Jerzy Jedlicki ( 1 994). Jedlicki has reacted angrily to the suggestion, frequently made in Poland today, that the intelligentsia is either dying out or at least 'retiring from the stage', and rejects the notion that 'ambiguous' intellectuals are being dislodged by 'concrete profes­ sionals' . 4 He emphasizes the role of the intellectuals as initiators

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and brokers of public debates in which the basic values of demo­ cratic society are at stake. It seems clear that, like Western cultural pessimists such as Hofstadter (1 964), Bloom (1 987), and Jacoby ( 1 987), Jedlicki underestimates the social necessity of specializa­ tion, and neglects the role of professionalism as an inescapable foundation for the credible performance of intellectuals in the public world (Pels 1 995, 84). On the other hand, the same social function is attributed to the intellectuals by commentators who otherwise seem to take an op­ posite view: those who, like Konrád and Szelényi (1 979) or Gould­ ner (1 979), associate the changing role of intellectuals (the intelli­ gentsia) in East Central Europe with the Weberian idea of ''Herrschaft kraft Wissens" [power by virtue of knowledge] . Spe­ cialized knowledge, according to 'knowledge class theories', is being produced by a powerful new stratum embracing a wide range of knowledge-creating, knowledge-bearing, and knowledge­ disseminating occupations. Konrád's and Szelényi's view that the intelligentsia would retain its dominant position in the political game (one may even doubt whether it ever had such a position) would seem to have been refuted by clear evidence from the overwhelming majority of post­ communist countries. The intelligentsia seems to have been al­ lowed to participate at best only on an equal footing and more often has clearly lost out.

New Roles and Shabby Identities Perhaps the dominant issue now being debated among Polish intel­ lectuals concerns the notion that the intelligentsia somehow stands apart from the rest of society.5 One important consequence of this view was the conception of the intelligentsia as an inde­ pendent, external force which resides in the realm of cultural val­ ues and so outside the political system which is entirely controlled by the state. Under communist rule, members of the intelligentsia were considered to be not bound by loyalty to anything other than their peculiar mixture of national and universal values. This is why the intermingling of free-floating intellectuals and the party bu­ reaucracy did not constitute an assumption of power on the part of the former, but on the contrary initiated the decline of the intelli­ gentsia's social role, converting part of it into a class of specialists

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1 57

dependent on the communist authorities. Seen in this way, the rise of the 'Solidarity' movement in Poland and the subsequent imposi­ tion of martial law halted this trend and revived the intelligentsia's self-image as a unified ethos-oriented group contesting the power system. Nevertheless, it appears that the political earthquake of 1 989 and the subsequent involvement of the intelligentsia in construct­ ing the new political, economic, and social order have failed to install the intelligentsia in the national power structure; on the contrary, the regime change has accelerated its fragmentation, loss of collective identity, and political decline, as well as the exhaus­ tion of its cultural potential. This diagnosis clashes with Konrád's and Szelényi's theory, especially in respect of their claim that post­ communist societies have entered a new epoch in which the intel­ lectuals, rather than the bureaucratic elite, will exercise class power. Not that this does anything to contradict the assumption that this is precisely the view the Polish intellectuals currently have of themselves, particularly in the domain of politics, where there is still room both for the 'dvil magi' dealing with ideas-whether concerned with democracy or nationalism (Burszta 1 994)-and for experts able to implement the wide range of projects gathered beneath the banner of democracy. One might even venture the hypothesis that contemporary intellectuals can best be described precisely in terms of their confusion of roles in a period of rapid social change. The traditional identification of intellectuals with critical dis­ course is in conflict with the kind of professional competence re­ quired for efficient control of transitional processes and con­ nected with their involvement in the institutional world of politics. lt should be stressed, however, that the contradictory nature of the intellectuals' social roles tends to be overlooked. As Joanna Kur­ czewska ( 1 992b, 1 99-200) puts it: "[the intellectuals] are all con­ vinced that the elites, and especially the intellectuals, sensitive to social problems and 'suspended between politics and culture,' are predestined to play such public roles as the role of the avant-garde, social arbiter and social servant." At issue here is the difference between (i) the tasks facing in­ tellectuals in the course of democratic consolidation (which require concrete professional knowledge), and (ii) the traditional image of the intellectual as a 'generalist' whose proper milieu is universal and eternal virtues and values. ln other words, what is required to meet the demands imposed by democracy on individuals qua citizens is

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the redefinition of the traditional sense of mission underlying the collective identity of the intelligentsia. 6 The question then arises as to whether Polish intellectuals are ready to accept the role of 'professionals' in a Western-oriented political and economic system. Particularly important in this con­ nection are (i) the question of the separateness and continuity of the normative functions of contemporary intellectuals; (ii) the nature of the intellectuals' involvement in politics; and (iii) the commitment of representatives of the Polish intellectual milieu to the tasks of formulating and inculcating normative models of democratic society. Empirical evidence indicates that the separateness of this group is still explained by its members in terms of its social function, which is regarded as a kind of special mission which sets it apart from 'the masses'; that is, the intellectuals are responsible for the political quality of systemic transformation, as well as for the fate of social groups which have been particularly hard hit by the hard­ ships of transformation. The 'elitism' of the intellectuals is clearly illustrated by the interviews which form the research background of the present chapter: I think that the answer is really simple-they [the intellectuals] [both] put themselves at the top and are placed there by the other groups. [E.M. ]

As I see it, the distance between society and a traditionally pattern­ producing element which has been the intelligentsia has recently [significantly] widened. [W.K.] Those people [intellectuals] still consider themselves to be the con­ science of the nation angry with... society and its political class. U .B.]

Nevertheless, this conviction concerning the intellectuals' spiri­ tual leadership of society is questioned from time to time on the grounds that it entails a rejection of 'professionalism': To my mind, no doubt there is a myth that in public opinion the in­ tellectuals [are acknowledged] as a collective or individual author­ ity... Nobody can believe that there is a circle of sages who [will] ... take control over politics [and] construct a new society. [K.K. ]

Needless to say, mere recognition of this state of affairs does not constitute an unambiguous evaluation. Indeed, the comments of our respondents seem to point in the opposite direction:

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This elite [the intellectuals] is much more marginalized than its members seem ... to [believe] ... As I see it, this marginalization of the intellectuals is a disaster [for] Poland, especially ... with its low politi­ cal culture and ... low level of education [which constitute] a national calamity, but it is a fact. [E.M.]

At the same time, spiritual leadership of the kind offered by the intellectuals is deemed unnecessary in a democratic society. To cite one example: ". . . the role and mood of the intellectuals has... deteriorated, and their social position has weakened" [A.S.] One might ask whether this marginalization of the intellectuals has something to do with the mechanisms of political modernization described by Konrád and Szelényi. To put it another way, What is the role of intellectuals in the domain of politics?

Do We Need Intellectuals to Make Democracy Work? One may assume that the wide range of attitudes displayed by the group of intellectuals being studied reflects the diverse theoretical frameworks put forward to explain the situation of the Central European intelligentsia after the fall of communism. There are two fundamental interpretations of the relationship between politics ( politicians) and intellectuals. First, the role of the independent intellectual is considered to be the antithesis of that of the politi­ cian, reflecting a widespread conviction that the traditional model of the intellectual as the charismatic guardian of cherished univer­ sal values and master of truth and justice is in danger of vanishing: in these terms the intellectuals are the only force able to defend these values and ideals since they stand above particular political ideologies. lt is worth citing a number of quotations that demonstrate the nature of this standpoint: The social role of [the] 'intellectual' is diametrically different from [that] of [the] politician ... To describe this stance, I would say that... the ideal assumes [a] critical role, [a degree of distance] , [the expo­ sure of] diverse entanglements or dangers, and from time to time even [ the] unmasking of demagoguery and the rules [ which govern the domain of politics] . [M.G.]

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It seems to me that it would be better [if the] intellectuals self­ consciously restrained themselves. Their task is to ponder, to com­ plain, etc.... The effects are remote in time but in general good. ln [the] political class, however, the situation is different. U.B.] [The intellectual] shouldn't accept any political class. I believe that his function is to pick holes in everything, to point out errors[ : ] in brief [it] consists [of] a continuous, in-depth critical analysis. [S.M.]

Nevertheless, this opposition between the role of the politician and that of the intellectual is by no means accepted without reser­ vation: the historical context in particular is often considered to be important in this connection. As one of our respondents puts it: To my mind, links between the intellectual elite and politics [have] traditionally... been... natural [as a result of the former's] superior po­ sition on the social scene... The political scene was a part of it, there­ fore these links were natural. Though what has happened in Poland [since] the demise of communism is a split [between] these... spheres. Moreover, this [split] is getting [wider and wider]. [E.M.]

On this basis, however, the alleged rift between the intellectual and political elites may be explained away by attributing to both categories the same mode of thought. ln the words of one respon­ dent: "There is no gap, but some divergence can-or even should-be recog­ nized by the intellectual... Undoubtedly, the attitude that 'what's been said has been said [ and so done] ' is not only typical of the intellectuals. The same conduct is characteristic of the majority of the state admini­ stration. It [seems to be] simply our national weakness" U.B.]

Certainly, in these terms the Polish past constitutes a serious ob­ stacle to progress, slowing down the conversion of the former 'intellectual elite' into a class of professionals capable of taking the reins of power from the party bureaucracy. What does this imply for the prospects of building democracy and civil society in Cen­ tral Europe as a whole? lt must be emphasized that the visions of a democratic society and its organization are closely related to the intellectuals' concep­ tions of what their new social roles should be. This is why for some respondents a return to the 'missionary' role of the intelligentsia would amount to a breakdown of the process of democratization. According to one: "We [would resume] the traditional role of 'go­ vernors of the soul'" [E.M.] ; or, more radically: "Until the intelli-

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gentsia imbued with a... mission... disappears completely, ... Poland [doesn't stand a chance] " [K.K.] Those who endorse a more optimistic scenario believe that the traditional mission will be redefined in accordance with the needs of democracy, among which perhaps the most important is the need to provide society with the ability to make free choices from the widest possible range of alternatives, and encompassing all domains of pub­ lic life, not only the political. lt seems that among the intellectuals 'democracy' is not understood primarily as a functional model of society and state, but rather as the freedom to probe different solu­ tions of the basic issues that face individuals and social groups. Needless to say, such a revision of the intellectuals' vocation en­ tails the elaboration of new roles to bridge the gap between the intellectual elite and the rest of society and to promote the expan­ sion of civil society: This is not a role on the political scene, or the role of those who keep the flag of values flying, but [a] role in a domain of positive, mundane, grass-roots work in particular fields which step by step reinforces activities spontaneously initiated from below [E.M.] 7 At the same time, some believe that this indicates a need for a more independent critical intellectual whose task would be to provide society as a whole with the mechanisms needed to make democratic choice and opinion-making possible. 8 Seen from this viewpoint, traditional ideological divisions along the right-left continuum begin to break down as far as an understanding of the intelligentsia's 'social vocation' is concerned.9 The ideological clashes between the dissidents, who rebelled against the communist state, and those who supported the com­ munist status quo have gradually given way to new points of con­ tention: attempts to introduce a widely shared professional ethos based on democratic values have largely rendered obsolete argu­ ments rooted in history (the unanimously accepted 'mass media code of ethics' may serve as an example).

Conclusion The apparent transformation of the intellectuals' self-image is re­ lated to the distinction already introduced between the 'universal' and the 'concrete' intellectual. The importance of this distinction is underlined by Konrád's . and Szelényi's views on the role of the

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'knowledge class' in Eastern-or rather Central-European societies. The key category here is the so-called B ' ildungsbürger': far the part of the intelligentsia which in its basic features resembles the B ' ildungsbürgertum' ( that is, the educated middle class which dominated the Habsburg Empire in the nineteenth century), the task of the intellectual in the post-communist period is seen not in terms of a romantic-chiliastic vision of the heroic leader of the masses but rather as an attempt to redesign society without giving way to revolutionary euphoria. Nevertheless, as mentioned above ( see p. 1 52), many of its rep­ resentatives still tend to perceive 'the intelligentsia' as a social class which has played a decisive role in the defense of national identity and continues to shape the farmation of post-communist demo­ cratic society on the basis of its central role in the general dis­ course on culture, morality, and politics. This brings us back to the quarrel concerning the future of the intellectuals, which will belong either to the specialist, who claims no great mission and owes his privileged position solely to his in­ tellectual capital ( intellectual know-how), or to Mannheim's 'free­ floating intelligentsia' ( "freischwebende Intelligenz"). While Kon­ rád and Szelényi see the farmer intelligentsia as Foucauldian spe­ cific intellectuals whose power base is located inside the state, others feel the need to differentiate 'specialists' and 'generalists'. Opinions also vary concerning the intellectuals' acceptance of a more modest self-image. No examination of whether the decline of the farmer intelligentsia's cultural hegemony is reflected in the self-consciousness of intellectuals and their erratic and ambiguous collective identity can provide a final answer. As I see it, in con­ temporary Poland the collective identity of the heirs of the farmer intelligentsia's ethos remains unstable and ambiguous. At the same time, it reflects the need far a division of the farmer intellectual milieu in the direction of a multiplicity of professional groupings perfarming the whole range of roles which make up the so-called knowledge class. Finally, if we accept Konrád's and Szelényi's ( 1 99 1 ) view that the exceptional role played by the intelligentsia in East Central Europe is now the unique feature of social change in this part of the world, one should expect that the role of the historical 'East European intellectual' will undergo a further transmutation and become more like the one which probably awaits the intellectual in con­ temporary Western society, which is being shaped by the prolif­ eration of increasingly reflexive and knowledgeable citizens. Only time will tel1.

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Notes 1 According to Edmund Mokrzycki (1995, 343), the combination of civi­ lizing leadership and political mission provides the Polish intelligentsia with exceptional strength "even at a European levet". 2 As Konrád and Szelényi explain, through the establishment of the cul­ ture of critical discourse (in Gouldner's sense of the term-Gouldner 1979) the intellectuals superimposed their own discourse over that of the bureaucracy: "The most fundamental reason for the sudden collapse of communist bureaucratic authority is probably that the cadre lost its tongue. The cadre elite now has to confront the critical intelligentsia on the latter's terms" (1991, 352). This discursive victory is only one of three dimensions in the formation of the intellectual class from the in­ telligentsia which the authors have taken into account. 3 I am making use here of a well-known distinction of Michel Foucault (1981). 4 To take an example, a rising liberal economist and publicist takes the view that "the intelligentsia-a specific Russian-Polish product of the pauperiza­ tion of the gentry and overdevelopment of the education system against a background of economic underdevelopment-after more than one hun­ dred years is now being consigned to history. There is no place for it in capitalism." M. Zielinski, Pozegnanie z inteligencjll [Farewell to the intelli­ gentsia] , Res Publica Nova 9 (1993): 49; see also more scholarly contribu­ tions by Joanna Kurczewska (1992a) and Edmund Mokrzycki (1995). 5 What follows relies mainly on the findings of the Polish part of the in­ ternational research project New Social Actors in the Post-Totalitarian Societies co-ordinated by CADIS (EHESS/CNRS), Paris. 6 ln January 1992, the Office of the President of the Republic of Poland asked 1 00 representatives of various branches of Polish science and cul­ ture (persons free of institutional political loyalties) to answer three questions concerning the most pressing dangers and most difficult is­ sues facing Polish democracy, and to suggest ways to solve these prob­ lems. The survey showed that the main concern of Polish intellectuals is not the goals of social transformation (as epitomized by a particular civic philosophy of political pluralism, the free market, social justice, and self-government) but the manner of their implementation (see Kurczewska 1992b; Kozek and Frieske 1992). 7 As the answers to the President's questionnaire (see note 6) clearly indicate, the development of an abyss between the 'political class' and the rest of society is generally perceived to be the main threat to the fu­ ture of Polish democracy; this is why the ability of the intellectuals to 'keep the conversation going' is often emphasized: "[a]t the present stage of the development of the social structure the intelligentsia re­ mains the only group capable of transmitting patterns, norms, and in­ formation signals between the political class and the rest of society" (Latoszek 1992, 266).

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8 Particularly worthy of attention in this connection is the fact that the contribution of intellectuals to democratic consolidation is linked to their professional activities rather than to what Sartre called 'meddling in other people's business'. For example, the mass media is often reluc­ tant to accept that the intelligentsia might have a mission, despite the fact that they often define their own role in terms of 'duty'. As one of the respondents put it: "As a journalist I am afraid of such a creative role.... I believe that society will go smoothly in the right direction when [properly supplied with] mechanisms of decision-making and public choice... a11 the difficult[ies] boil down to shaping... such conditions [of democratic choice] . This is the only mission 1... adhere to... " [S.M.] 9 There is no room for a discussion of the fascinating question of whether under post-communist conditions there is evidence that the political ideologies of the past-such as socialism or conservatism-have become exhausted in so-called 'post-modern' societies (Giddens 1994).

References Bloom, Allan. 1987. The Closing of the American Mind. New York: Basic Books. Bozóki, András. 1996. 'Democrats against Democracy: The Charter Move­ ment in Hungary.' ln Knowledge and Power: The Changing Role of European Intellectuals, ed. P. K. Lawrence and M. Döbler, 88- 1 20. Al­ dershot: Avebury. Burszta, W. J. 1994. 'Return of the Magi.' Polish Sociological Review 3: 2 1 0- 1 7. Coser, Lewis A. 1965. Men of Ideas: A Sociologist's View. New York: Free Press. Foucault, Michel. 198 1 'Truth and Power.' ln French Sociology, ed. C. Le­ mert. New York: Columbia University Press. Giddens, Anthony. 1994. Beyond Left and Right: The Future of Radical Politics. Cambridge: Polity Press. Gouldner, Alvin. 1 979. The Future of Intellectuals and the Rise of the New Class. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hofstadter, Richard. 1 964. Anti-Intellectualism in American Life. London: Jonathan Cape. Jacoby, Russell. 1987. The Last Intellectuals: American Culture ín the Age ofAcademe. New York: Basic Books. Jedlicki, Jerzy. 1 994. 'What Is the Use of Intellectuals?' Polish Sociological Review 2: 1 0 1 - 1 0. Konrád, George, and Iván Szelényi. 1979. The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power. New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich. --. 1 99 1 . 'Intellectuals and Domination in Post-communist Societies.' ln Social Theory in a Changtng Society, ed. P. Bourdieu and J. S. Coleman,

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337-61. Boulder, Co.: Westview Press; New York: Russell Sage Founda­ tion. Kozek, W., and K. W. Frieske. 1992. 'Thirty Months Later. The Condition of the State and Society in the Eyes of Polish lntellectuals.' Polish Sociologi­ cal Bulletin 3 (4). Kurczewska, Joanna. 1992a. 'The Polish lntelligentsia: Retiring from the Stage.' Polish Sociological Bulletin 2. --. 1992b. Foreword to 'The President Asks the Questions: The Sociolo­ gists Give Their Advice' Polish Sociological Bulletin 3 (4). Latoszek, M. 1992. 'The Transitional Period Still Needs a Strategy.' Polish Sociological Bulletin 3 (4). Mokrzycki, Edmund. 1995. 'Is the lntelligentsia Still Needed in Poland?' Polish Sociological Review 4. Pels, D. 1995. 'Knowledge Politics and Anti-politics: Toward a Critical Ap­ praisal of Bourdieu's Concept of lntellectual Autonomy.' Theory and So­ ciety 24: 79-104. Szacki, Jerzy. 1990. 'Intellectuals Between Politics and Culture.' ln The Political Responsibility of Intellectuals, ed. I. MacLean, A. Montefiore, and P. Winch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Szelényi, Iván. 1986-87. 'The Prospects and Limits of the East European New Class Project: An Auto-Critical Reflection on The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power. ' Politics and Society 15 (2): 103-44. 'The President Asks the Questions: The Sociologists Give Their Advice.' Polish Sociological Bulletin 3 (4). Turner, Bryan S. 1994. Orientalism, Postmodernism and Globalism. Lon­ don: Routledge.

The Inegalitarian Nature of Hungary's Intellectual Political Culture BILL LOMAX

Introduction After the Hungarian elections of April 1 990 that put an end to over four decades of communist rule, several commentators suggested that the class rule of the intellectuals predicted two decades previ­ ously by George [György] Konrád and Iván Szelényi in their study The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power had finally been real­ ized ( Konrád and Szelényi 1 979). Three-quarters of the new MPs had university degrees, and the overwhelming majority were teachers, academic researchers, and university professors; histori­ ans, philosophers, social scientists, and economists; and lawyers, doctors, and other professionals ( Kiss 1 992, 591-602). ln the fall of 1 990, Szelényi concluded that "cultural capital has become the decisive component of social space [and of] the com­ position of the new political elite... ln our country today, and in the entire East European region, political power is in the hands of the intelligentsia. Presidents, prime ministers, ministers, mayors, members of parliament, the leading figures of both government and opposition are almost without exception intellectuals, fre­ quently from the humanistic intelligentsia" ( Szelényi 1 990). lt was, however, a critic of Szelényi who explained why the hu­ manistic intelligentsia in Central Europe should have come to oc­ cupy such an important position. The Slovenian sociologist lvan Bernik argued that they were able to play so significant a role both in the opposition to the old regime and in its transformation be­ cause: "ln the centre of their self-perception was the notion that they voice the interests of society at large, instead of representing a particular political interest" ( Bernik 1 994, 21 2). Their importance was to be relatively short-lived, however. The defeat of the one-party-state transformed the very nature of politics and the relations between politicians and society. No longer could

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the intellectuals claim to be the representatives of the entire soci­ ety against a monolithic power centre. As society's interests began to splinter, all-encompassing organizations were no longer viable, and even the intellectual groups themselves began to differentiate and disintegrate. The humanistic intelligentsia, the former dissi­ dents in particular, met with failure in success. By 1 994, changes were evident within the political parties, the former dissident intellectuals being replaced by managers and or­ ganizers. Robert Michels' "iron law of oligarchy" could clearly be observed at work in this displacement of the intellectuals by the 'organization men' and professional politicians. ln view of these developments, Szelényi revised his earlier analy­ sis, arguing that the humanistic intelligentsia had learned to live together and compromise with the managerial elite in order to maintain its own political power. Following the 1 994 elections, moreover, the managerial elite had itself come to political power in alliance with the technocrats. But just as the intelligentsia had previously had to compromise with the managers, so now the new dominant class of managers and technocrats needed the humanis­ tic intelligentsia to help legitimize its rule. The intellectuals thus continued to be seen as part of the "new dominant class... in the making." This new class is primarily consti­ tuted by "ownership of cultural capital", and Szelényi presented his key proposition as follows: "Post-communism can be described as a social space in which cultural capital is the major source of power and privilege, and the 'new class' is at its apex as the new dominant class" (Szelényi et al. 1 997). Szelényi's analysis is limited to the spheres of political and eco­ nomic decision-making, however, and the possession of cultural capital affects economic and social privileges and individuals' life chances at all levels of society. ln Hungary, it is not just the intellec­ tual elite that benefits from the possession of cultural capital: the educated classes as a whole enjoy privileges and advantages that provide life chances for themselves and their children which are better than those enjoyed by the majority of the population, and render them not just a privileged but a dominant social group in relation to the rest of society.

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The ldeology ofthe Intelligentsia as Ruling Class ln 1 97 4, when Konrád and Szelényi wrote The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power (it was not published until 1 979), they were reflecting a tradition in political thought favoring class rule by the possessors of intelligence, wisdom, and knowledge that goes back as far as the Ancient Greeks and has been a key trait in political philosophy ever since. Plato believed that the world should be ruled by pure intelli­ gence, by wisdom and knowledge as opposed to mere interest and opinion. He rejected any notion of democracy or universal citizen­ ship, of popular participation in political decision-making, because only the trained elite had the knowledge and skills required for that task. His ideal society was divided between an active ruling group united by their common wisdom and knowledge and a pas­ sive majority whose thoughts and behavior would be shaped and molded by the wisdom and knowledge of their rulers. The claim that society should be governed by an outstanding minority of superior individuals was often accompanied by con­ tempt for the less educated, less intellectual of society's members. ln the nineteenth century the conservative Edmund Burke spoke of the common people as a "swinish multitude", while the liberal John Stuart Mill referred to them as "the uncultivated herd" (Mill [n.d. ] , 1 75). lt was the liberal philosophers who provided the most sophisti­ cated critiques of democracy and popular sovereignty. Alexis de Tocqueville in Democracy ín America argued that it could lead to a new "tyranny of the majority", and John Stuart Mill expressed the fear that it would result in the dominance of a "collective medioc­ rity." ln the twentieth century it was a Spanish liberal, Ortega y Gasset, who warned of the dangers of "the rise of the masses." Although this ideology of class rule by the intelligentsia has been present throughout human history, its influence has been particu­ larly marked in eras when society has been emerging from periods of authoritarian, sometimes feudal forms of rule towards more rational and democratic forms of social organization. Two such eras that merit comparison are Victorian Britain­ when the power of the landed aristocracy was being undermined by the rise of industrial capitalism, democracy, and the extension of the suffrage-and Central Europe after 1 989, when the former power of the 'red aristocracy' of the communist party and the no-

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menklamra was being replaced by that of private capital and rep­

resentative democracy. Both eras are witness to the rising influ­ ence of the intelligentsia, the educated classes, serving to under­ mine the old privileges and hierarchies, while at the same time struggling to resist any real and effective enfranchisement and empowerment of the common people.

The lntellectuals ín Victorian England Half-a-century after the French Revolution, Britain was still emerg­ ing from feudalism, and the former powers and privileges of the aristocracy were being replaced by those of the new business class based on private ownership and enterprise. This process was ac­ companied by the gradual rise of the lower classes and their claim to be recognized as people entitled to equal claims and rights, in­ cluding the right to better working and living conditions. ln the opinion of G. D. H. Cole, the more successful people in the early Victorian era were characterized by "an attitude of self­ righteous assurance", based on the belief that their success was due to "certain persona! qualities which they possessed much above other people." At the same time, "the superior classes were afraid... of the great illiterate mass below... the dangerously uneducated and uncivilized mass of common people", and they sought to ensure that the rights and opportunities that they enjoyed were discouraged and denied to the majority (G. D. H. Cole 1 962, 1 92-93.). The most outstanding intellectual of the early Victorian era was the liberal philosopher John Stuart Mill who described the age in which he lived as "an age of transition" in which "[m]ankind have outgrown old institutions and old doctrines, and have not yet ac­ quired new ones" (Mill [ 1 83 1 ) 1 965, 30). Mill was educated in the utilitarian philosophy of Jeremy Ben­ tham and of his father James Mill, but from early adulthood he questioned both his father's claim that good government de­ pended on the creation of an identity of interest between govern­ ment and community, and Bentham's belief that each man is the best judge of his own interests. Mill came to believe that the meth­ ods of politics should be based on those of science, and that the uneducated should recognize the authority of the educated. Mill's sympathies towards democracy were constantly tempered by his conviction that some people and some classes were more fit

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to rule than others. He valued above all else the "moral authority" of "intellectual superiority", and believed that the most cultivated individuals were "persons qualified to govern men's minds", in­ deed that "their power over the minds of their fellow citizens" should naturally be "paramount and irresistible." He aimed for a society in which "the most virtuous and best instructed of the na­ tion" would acquire "ascendancy over the opinions and feelings of the rest" ( ibid., 68, 75). This led his critics to argue that Mill was advocating an "aristocracy of intellect" . 1 Even Mill's famed essay On Liberty was never the testament to democratic liberties that many have assumed it to be. Recalling Tocqueville's concern for the "tyranny of the majority", Mill feared a similar "collective mediocrity" of the masses, and argued: "No government by a democracy or a numerous aristocracy, either in its political acts, or in the opinions, qualities and tone of mind which it fosters, ever did or could rise above mediocrity except in so far as the sovereign Many have let themselves be guided by the counsels and influence of a more highly gifted and instructed one orfew" ( Mill [1 859] 1 929, 1 24). Here Mill was clearly seeking to protect the man of genius and su­ perior intellect from the advance of democracy, and his sympathy was clearly not with the common man. As one of his critics puts it: "On Liberty was not a defense of the common man's right to live as he liked; it was more nearly an attack on him" (Letwin 1 965, 301). ln his Autobiography, Mill acknowledged that by the middle of the century he and his wife Harriet Taylor had become "much less democrats" than before, largely because "we dreaded the igno­ rance and especially the selfishness and brutality of the mass" (Mill [ 1 873 ] n.d., 1 7 4). At the same time, Mill developed a sympathetic interest in the ideas of socialism, but of a very elitist and philan­ thropic kind. He considered the working classes to be an "uncultivated herd" of inveterate liars, "of too low a standard of political intelligence", characterized by ignorance, selfishness and brutality (ibid., 1 74-75 and 21 1 ). Socialism's improvement of the bodily and mental condition of the workers would have to be di­ rected from above by "the elite of mankind" ( Mill 1 976, 351). Amongst Mill's intellectual heirs were the Fabian Socialists who, unlike him, were collectivists rather than individualists, but who believed equally in the rule of intellect and wisdom to create a new order of society. While they sought the amelioration of social con­ ditions, they had little time for the working classes. They were "drawing room socialists", who believed in the "civilizing mission" of the middle classes.

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The British Fabian Society was förmed at the beginning of Janu­ ary 1 884 by a small group of educated, middle-class intellectuals who, as their historians Norman and Jeanne MacKenzie relate; "were young, earnest political novices who had no contacts with working class life" ( MacKenzie and MacKenzie 1 977, 28). While their socialism was inspired by outrage against the vast mass of human misery, suffering, and squalor produced by the competitive capitalist system, they had no faith in the abilities of the workers themselves. ln their approach to the common people they behaved rather like missionaries, many of them becoming involved in charitable and social work at Toynbee Hall in the East End of London. One of the early Fabians was the playwright George Bemard Shaw who believed that only those who had "superior brains" were capable of creating a new society, and that the workers were a parasitic class, while the workless and unemployed were "as great a nuisance to socialists as to themselves". 2 By the turn of the century Shaw had become attracted to the ideas of Friedrich Nietzsche and declared socialism's mission as being to create a new breed of "supermen" with the missionary zeal to regenerate society. Sidney and Beatrice Webb were equally prominent amongst the early Fabians. They too were concerned with the alleviation of poverty, but they rejected any belief that what they termed "the average, sensual man" could be the agency to bring about a new society. As their historians put it, "the Webbs concluded that supe­ rior societies could only be built by superior people", and Beatrice Webb agreed with Shaw that the most important question was "this breeding of the right sort of man" ( ibid., 250 and 291 ). For Beatrice Webb politics was a science, the business of ex­ perts, and beyond the wit of the ordinary man or woman. She saw government as "an outside force to be directed by the ablest minds", arguing that "we need the expert here as elsewhere. "3 This led her to reject not only the democratic belief that "the only guide to political action is the will of the people", but also "the meta­ physical doctrine that each responsible individual has an equal right to a say in the government of his country." 4 The Webbs' views on democracy and socialism were clearly ex­ pressed in their study Industrial Democracy in which they argued for a strict subordination of the workers to a "specially selected and specially trained class of professional experts." These views were part of a more general collectivist belief that, as Sidney Webb put it, "the perfect and fitting development of each individual" consisted in fulfilling "in the best possible way... his humble function in the great

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social machine." 5 The Webbs unambiguously rejected individualism in favor of "the higher standard of the collective man", and "the higher freedom of corporate life." 6 Their socialism was that of an elite offering to deliver salvation and improvement to the poor through what they claimed would be a more efficient organization of society. The Webbs also supported the British Empire, and op­ posed Irish Home Rule and other movements for colonial freedom, on the grounds that large units were more advanced and more effi­ cient than small ones, and because of their distrust of the native peoples' capacities for self-government. Sidney Webb had even writ­ ten of the need to "breed" an improved "Imperial race". The most revealing illustration of the elitist nature of the Webbs' socialism, however, was provided by the support they gave in their later years to Soviet Communism, as being, in their words, "A New Civilization" (Webb and Webb 1 941). The collectivist ethic of the Soviet state was seen by them as realizing "the subordination of the life of the individual to the service of the community." 7 They justi­ fied the Soviet dictatorship under Stalin in terms of a psychology of what they termed the "average, sensual man", of whom they wrote: "ln all countries his mind is bludgeoned to compel hím to admit a whole series of ideas. Where systems differ is in who wields the bludgeon and with what purpose" ( ibid., 1 032). From this standpoint, the criterion of good government is no longer a matter of the liberty of the citizens but of the intelligence and knowledge of the rulers. From Plato through Mill to the Webbs the ideology of rule by the intellectual classes rings out loud and clear. lts claims for support are presented in terms of justice, free­ dom, and democracy, of realizing the greatest possible happiness, but it serves to legitimize elitist rule and class privilege, and the preservation of a fundamentally undemocratic and inegalitarian social order.

The Intellectuals ín Post-Communist Hungary Hungarian intellectual political culture in the 1 980s and 1 990s was remarkably similar to that of Victorian England, the period that John Stuart Mill had described as "an age of change", "an age of transition" ( Mill [ 1 83 1 ] 1 965). The Hungarian intellectuals were rarely as explicitly elitist as Mill and the Webbs, but their sense of their own superiority came over in their attitudes and behavior.

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Hungarian dissident intellectuals of the 1 980s would have been just as at home in the salons and cafes of London in the Victorian era as in those of Budapest at the end of the twentieth century. ln both cases bohemian life-styles, free-thinking, and irreverence for authority were combined with self-assured feelings of intellectual superiority, chauvinist attitudes towards women, and patronizing attitudes towards the poor and the less educated. Like Mill and the Webbs, the Hungarian intellectual dissidents be­ lieved in the "civilizing mission" of the educated classes, and it was to these classes that they addressed themselves, expressing only occa­ sional concern for the problems of workers and peasants. This ap­ proach affected their analysis of their own history, particularly the 1 956 revolution which not a few of them had earlier regarded as a counter-revolution. When they did come to praise the revolution, it was primarily the intellectuals and reform communists with whom they sided, rather than the workers and street fighters. There were few amongst the opposition who challenged the elit­ ist ideology of its dominant trends, and though there was a 'radical­ plebeian' wing it remained small, isolated, and marginalized ( Csiz­ madia 1 995, 449-53). ln time, the mainstream of the opposition did come to recognize the significance of the workers' councils in 1 956, and even to regret that they had not taken a greater interest in them earlier. Mter 1 989, however, conflicts over the interpretation of 1956 arose once again, polarizing between the intellectuals who identified primarily with the martyred reform communists and their program, and farmer leaders of the workers and street fighters who favored a more distinctly plebeian and often right-wing radicalism. The 'negotiated revolution' of 1 989, far from being a "people's revolution" as some commentators suggested, was achieved through agreements made between elites over and above the heads of the people. Although György Konrád had predicted in the summer of 1 987 that "[t] he withdrawal of Soviet troops and the abolition of the one-party system could lead to a flourishing of forms of self­ management in East-Central Europe", nothing of that nature took place ( ibid., 372). The changes were initiated and completed by in­ tellectual elites, and the position of the intelligentsia as a class was not endangered but strengthened as a result. Hungarian intellectuals remained just as cut off from the work­ ing class and isolated from the wider society as their Victorian Eng­ lish forebears had been more than a century before. Many of them came from intelligentsia or nomenklatura families, or even from families whose members had held high positions in the old Stalin­ ist regime, or even earlier ones.

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When they sought to address the problems of ordinary people, the dissidents did so in the manner of social workers, recalling the Fabian 'missionaries' in London's East End. This was the case with SZETA, the Foundation to Support the Poor-the existence of which was officially denied under the communist regime-set up in 1 978 to campaign against poverty and to raise funds to assist the poor. Money was raised from amongst the intelligentsia along the lines of traditional charities-by charity concerts, poetry readings, and art auctions-and used to repair houses and make other im­ provements in particularly poor parts of the countryside. ln their charitable mission to help the poor, the social attitudes of many Hungarian intellectuals had much in common with those of the middle classes of Victorian England, with whom they shared common assessments of their own superiority and the inferiority of the masses. Such trends were particularly noticeable in the so­ cial sciences where elitist theories came to be preferred over the egalitarian doctrines that had been officially favored under the communist regime. ln a study of popular attitudes based on opin­ ion poll surveys carried out in 1 989 two sociologists, György Csepeli and Antal Örkény, argued that political and ideological beliefs are structurally conditioned and socially determined, often even "coded at birth"; that the lower classes are "confused masses ... whose political consciousness has been arrested", and who hold "inconsistent attitudes and logically inadmissible attitude con­ structs." They viewed the common people as inadequately social­ ized and lacking in the cultural capital needed to participate in a democratic society. Only intellectuals, they argued, were capable of acquiring consistent and admissible belief systems (Csepeli and Örkény 1 992). Applying their theories to the transition from communism to capitalism and democracy, Csepeli and Örkény argued that: "The protagonists in the change of system were politically active people with a social origin in the intelligentsia over several generations." Whereas: "The masses of ordinary people... lack the cultural, politi­ cal and economic capital to undertake the perilous change of sys­ tem in their own lives that the political and economic change of system requires of them" (ibid., 1 02) ln almost identical terms to those used by John Stuart Mill over a century before, these two Hungarian sociologists expressed the view that ordinary people lack the intelligence and culture to bring about the necessary improvements in their own lives. Their view of the "confused masses" with an arrested political consciousness and inconsistent and inadmissible attitudes is at one with the

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Webbs' notion of the "average, sensual man" whose mind has to be "bludgeoned" for his own good. While such intellectuals may not view themselves as a privileged social group, they certainly look down on the less educated and less fortunate sections of society as constituting an inferior caste. With such a belief in the superiority of their own abilities and in the incompetence and limited intelligence of the masses, it is not surprising that the Hungarian intellectuals, particularly since 1 989, have come to see themselves as the natural leaders and organizers of the 'civil sphere' of society. For them 'civil society' does not mean popular initiatives or social self-organization from below, but their own intervention from above in directing the life of society. Civil interventions of this kind have often involved launching public forums in which the wise and the well-known-and often the wealthy-would offer their solutions to society's problems. One called "Re-inventing Hungary" was formed in May 1 995 as "a civil organization independent of parties initially composed of around 200 prominent intellectuals with the aim of helping in the devel­ opment of the country's strategy for the future, and in improving its image abroad." 8 Another is the annual picnic held in June at the Lake Balaton villa of a well-known humorist to which around 200 guests are invited from amongst the leading representatives of politics, business, the arts, and the media. Far more grotesque is the 'Media Ship': each September some of the most successful members of Hungarian society, including prominent politicians, businessmen, artists, writers, academics, and journalists are taken on a cruise along the Danube, with extensive media coverage, flaunting their wealth and success before a country stricken by unemployment and poverty. The new political parties formed since 1 989 have also been the playground of the intellectuals, and have developed neither sub­ stantial memberships nor social constituencies: 9 they have re­ mained content to float above the people, and have failed to put down roots in society. The same is true of the new or independent trade unions, that were expected to take over from the old official unions of the one-party-state. The new unions were invariably formed by professional intellectuals and academics, and were not joined by a significant number of skilled or manual workers, who saw little difference between the new unions and the old, and pre­ ferred to remain with 'the devil they knew'. Finally, the Democratic Charter, formed in 1 991 to combat growing tendencies towards censorship and authoritarianism, also took the lead in 1 992 in combating the ultra-rightist and racist

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views being propagated by István Csurka, vice-president of the country's ruling party, the Hungarian Democratic Forum. The Charter, however, had neither formal membership nor regular elections, and the claim of its spokespersons to speak in the name of the 'civil sphere' was a travesty of democracy. Since the 1 994 elections, the Charter has vanished from the political scene and its leaders have not seen fit to instigate any discussion of the new government's monetarist and austerity programs, involving health care, education, and welfare cuts on top of a fall in real wages that has hit hardest the poorest, weakest, and most defenseless sections ofHungarian society. ln all these instances the intervention of intellectuals has served only the interests of the intellectuals themselves. It has not encour­ aged participation by the people or any movements of social self­ organization from below. The intellectuals have monopolized the organization of civil associations, thereby colonizing the civil sphere of society and, in the process, excluding and disenfranchis­ ing the vast majority of society's members. They have legitimized all this in the name of civil society, and have come remarkably close to realizing the aim of their Victorian forebears-Mill and the Webbs-of establishing an "aristocracy of intellect", the rule of the educated classes, the class rule of the intelligentsia.

Intellectual Hegemony and Social Inequality The hegemony of the intellectuals and the domination of the edu­ cated strata over their fellow citizens has resulted in a highly ine­ galitarian society embodying a radical inequality of life chances between members of the different social classes. A major factor in this situation has been the role of education-while it does not necessarily assure greater earning power, it opens up greater op­ portunities for social advancement, opportunities that are mo­ nopolized by those sections of society that are already education­ ally advantaged. Families, not individuals, are the operative units of social class, through which social advantages are passed on from one genera­ tion to the next. Even the child of a relatively poorly paid school­ teacher will benefit from his family background and stand a far greater chance of educational success and upward social mobility than the child of a better paid industrial or agricultural worker.

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Paul Neuburg, in a study of the post-war generation in Eastern Europe, found that "the most important division today does not coincide at all with the pattern of income levels, but is the one between manual workers on the one hand and the intelligentsia on the other" ( Neuburg 1 972, 1 48). While this new intelligentsia was recruited from the children of workers and peasants, it neverthe­ less became an elite with petit-bourgeois attitudes, "meritocratic to begin with, but likely to prove, even if for the best of reasons, self­ perpetuating" ( ibid., 1 62). Far from spreading egalitarian values and heightening respect for manual work, the social changes engineered by the communist state actually reinforced the divisions between manual and non­ manual labor. Neuburg cites a Polish student, who told him: "The idea is that you rise in society by rising into the classes which never have to work with their hands at all" ( ibid., 1 49). ln Neub­ urg's view: "What has essentially happened since 1 948 is that while the former ruling and middle classes have disappeared or been absorbed by their successors, many of their attitudes have been spread far and wide among the masses that have risen from the ranks of the people into those of recognised society" ( ibid., 1 54). With the wider distribution of the material privileges that the upper and middle classes alone had previously enjoyed, went the consciousness, behavior patterns, and social attitudes that had characterized those classes. The newly dominant educated classes naturally sought to mo­ nopolize their privileges and to restrict any further upward social mobility from the lower classes. The children of professional and white-collar employees start off with advantages which they then hand on to their children. At the same time, working class parents are less able to ensure higher education for their children, and are more likely to send them to apprentice schools or technical col­ leges where they can learn a trade and proceed to early employ­ ment. As a result, movement into the white-collar and professional intelligentsia from the manual working strata has been progres­ sively slowing down since the late 1 960s. Members of the educated classes, even those on low incomes, may be regarded as possessing and disposing of a 'cultural capital' that gives their children significantly better life chances than those from less educated family backgrounds. They constitute a distinct social group that is privileged in respect of the rest of society by its possession of such capital and, after Bourdieu and Szelényi, can be appropriately referred to as a "dominant class" ( Bourdieu and Passeron 1 977) on the grounds that it is "composed of those most

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endowed with social resources, with those types of capital which are most highly valued in the society under consideration" ( Szelé­ nyi et al. 1997). Though it is neither a political ruling class nor an economic exploiting class, this group is a privileged class in the socio-cultural sense that is able to pass on its privileges from gen­ eration to generation. These considerations led Iván Szelényi to characterize the social relations of post-communist society as ones in which: "Cultural capital is the most important asset, complemented by the posses­ sion of economic capital and de-institutionalized social capital" (ibid., 17 - 18). Moreover, it is the socialist past rather than a projected capitalist future that has brought about this dominance of cultural capital and the educated classes. The situation would not be so bad had the opportunities enjoyed by the first generations of young people after 1948 remained open to those who followed them. But the accumulation of cultural capital has closed off the roads to upward social mobility, reinforcing and reproducing cultural divisions and social inequalities. The result is that in Hungary today social ine­ qualities are constantly increasing and barriers to advancement becoming ever more rigid. Since 1989, the number ofHungarians in work has fallen by one­ third, and almost one-quarter of the population have no prospect of improving their situation solely by their own efforts. By 1995 real wages had fallen by around 30 per cent, and about one-third of the population were living below the official subsistence mini­ mum. As a result, one of Hungary's leading educational sociologists concludes, only the top ten per cent of families can afford to put their children through higher education: half the children of elite families go to university, some forty per cent of the children of professional intellectuals, and twenty-five per cent of children from families of the lower professions. At least one-fifth of the population earn scarcely enough money to survive, and their chil­ dren have absolutely no prospect of entering higher education ( Gazsó 1995, 19). Contrary to the ideals of many early socialists, the expansion of education and the rise of the intellectuals has not resulted in a more equal and just society: on the contrary, it has exacerbated and reinforced social inequalities and appears to be leading to an ever more rigidly unequal society, a society that is highly immobile, unjust, and inegalitarian.

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Intellectual Capital versus Social Equality If the socialist revolution failed to emancipate the working classes, merely replacing their subjugation to the power of private capital with a subjugation to the power of state capital, the anti-socialist revolutions of 1 989 have equally failed to abolish the inequalities that e:xisted under 'actually existing socialism': if anything, they have served to increase them. At the end of the twentieth century, the world-wide failure of ideologies aimed at producing greater equality suggests a fundamental flaw in their approach. Advocates of equality have pitted themselves against economic capital and political power. They have too often overlooked the inequalities arising from the possession of knowledge and intellectual capital. One of the füst social thinkers to suggest a different approach was the Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin who predicted that socialism might lead not to a free and equal society but to "the rule of the great masses of people by a small privileged minority." Even if that minority consisted of workers-or rather "ex-workers"-they would, "once they become rulers or representatives of the people, cease to be workers and begin to look down on the toiling people", justifying "the ruling of the majority by the minority in the name of the alleged stupidity of the füst and alleged superior intelligence of the second" (Bakunin n.d., 7, 10). After Bakunin, the Polish socialist Jan Wadav Machajski, writing in the early years of the twentieth century, appears to have been one of the first thinkers to recognize that accumulated knowledge could come to constitute a form of capital that would serve the reproduction of cultural elites across generations, becoming a ma­ jor factor of inherited privilege, exploitation, and inequality. ln this way, he argued: "One of the greatest goods of humanity-know­ ledge-could become the hereditary monopoly of a privileged mi­ nority." ln this process, he warned: "Not only is the proletariat de­ prived of its secular heritage, but it is equally denied its ability to make normal use of its natural organ: the brain" ( Machajski [19045] 1 979, 20-2 1 ). Almost a century later, Bakunin's and Machajski's predictions appear to be coming true and nowhere more so than in the former communist world. ln Hungary and many other countries in East Central Europe today, the educated classes, the intellectuals, the possessors of 'cultural capital' enjoy social privileges that provide better life chances for themselves and their children than those enjoyed by the majority of the population. The intellectuals see

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their privileged position as a natural and justified one, arising from their superior intelligence and intellectual skills. The majority of society's members, however, are denied from birth any effective right to realize their innate abilities and potentials, or to share in the wealth and prospects of society at large. The result is that the intellectuals and the educated classes are not just a privileged class but a dominant social order in an increasingly hierarchical, socially rigid, and inegalitarian society. ln forecasting a future of class rule by the intelligentsia, Bakunin and Machajski foresaw that the inequalities of such a society would be masked or justified by the ideologies of socialism, including Marxism. What they did not foresee was that at the end of the twentieth century the ideology of democracy would be used to legitimate the dominance of the educated classes in Europe's post­ communist societies. Communism achieved only formai equalities, capitalism is tearing even those apart, while democracy is serving to legitimize the consolidation of the class rule of the intelligentsia. The ideology of liberal democracy justifies continuing inequalities on the grounds that opportunities for advancement are available and so those who do not take advantage of them have no cause for complaint. ln practice, however, the system serves only to deepen and strengthen existing inequalities. As the millennium looms, beliefs in egalitarianism are weaker than at any time during this century. But if the prospect of an equal society is more distant than ever, that does not lessen the need to identify existing inequalities and to protest against the injustice of them. If intellectuals themselves are to play any role in developing such a critique, they will need to become more aware and more self-critical, to recognize their role in a system of inequality and injustice, to learn to adopt a degree of humility, to respect the knowledge and wisdom of those less educated, and to champion the cause of those less privileged than themselves.

Notes 1 The expression was that of Mill's fellow Philosophic Radical Arthur Roebuck; cited in Hamburger (1965, 1 07). 2 George Bemard Shaw, Pali Mali Gazette, 1 1 February 1 886 (cited in MacKenzie and MacKenzie 1 977, 79). 3 Beatrice Webb, 26 September 1 883, cited in Letwin (1965, 359). 4 Beatrice Webb, 6 November 1 884 (ibid.).

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5 Sidney Webb, 'The Historical Basis of Socialism,' in Fabian Essays (London, 1948, 54), cited in Letwin (1965, 366). 6 Cited in Letwin (1965, 374, 376). 7 Beatrice Webb, 1 March 1932, cited in Letwin (1965, 375). 8 Népszabadság, 6 May 1995. The founder of this movement was the sociologist Elemér Hankiss. On the ideas of the movement, see Sükösd (1995). 9 On the role of intellectuals in the new political parties, see Bozóki (1994, 149-75).

References Bakunin, Mikhail. n.d. A Críticísm of State Socíalism. London: Cienfuegos Press. Bernik, lvan. 1994. 'The Forgotten Legacy of Marginal Intellectuals.' ln Transítíon to Capítalism? The Communíst Legacy ín Eastern Europe, ed. János M. Kovács. London: Transaction. Bozóki, András. 1994. 'Intellectuals and Democratization in Hungary.' ln Socíal Change and Politícal Transformatíon, ed. Chris Rootes and How­ ard Davis. London: UCL Press. Bourdieu, Pierre, and Claude Passeron. 1977. Reproduction ín Education, Socíety and Culture. London. Cole, G. D. H. 1 962. 'Ideals and Beliefs of the Victorians.' ln G. D. H. Cole, Essays ín Socíal Theory. London: Oldbourne. Csepeli, György, and Antal Örkény. 1992. ldeology and Politícal Belíefs ín Hungary. London: Pinter. Originally published in 1990 in Hungarian as Az Alkony (Budapest: ELTE Szociológiai és Szociálpolitikai Intézet, 1990). Csizmadia, Ervin. 1995. A magyar demokratikus ellenzék (1968- 1988): Monográfia [The Hungarian Democratic Opposition, 1968-88: A mono­ graph] . Budapest: T-Twins. Gazsó, Ferenc. 1995. 'A tandíj csak a jéghegy csúcsa' [Tuition fees are just the tip of the iceberg] . Magyar Hírlap (28 October). Hamburger, Joseph. 1965. Intellectuals ín Polítícs:John Stuart Míll and the Phílosophíc Radícals. New Haven: Yale University Press. Kiss, József, ed. 1992. Az 1990-ben megválasztott Országgyűlés Almanach­ ja [Almanac of the Parliament elected in 1990] . Budapest: Jelenkutató Alapítvány. Konrád, George [György], and Iván Szelényi. 1979. The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power. New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich. Letwin, Shirley Robin. 1965. The Pursuít of Certainty. Cambridge: Cam­ bridge University Press. Machajski, Jan Wadav. [1904-5] 1979. Le Socíalísme des Intellectuels. Paris: Seuil.

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MacKenzie, Norman, and Jeanne MacKenzie. 1977. The First Fabians. Lon­ don: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Mill, John Stuart. [ 1873 ] n.d. Autobiography (New York: Dolphin). --. [1859) 1929. On Liberty. ln John Stuart Mill, Utilitarlanism, On Lib­ erty and Representative Government. London: Dent. --. [1831) 1965. 'The Spirit of the Age.' ln Mill's Essays on Literature and Society, ed. J. B. Schneewind. New York: Collier Books. --. 1976. 'The Difficulties of Socialism.' ln John Stuart Mill on Politics and Society, ed. Geraint L. Williams. London: Fontana/Collins. Neuburg, Paul. The Hero 's Children: The Postwar Generation in Eastern Europe. London: Constable. Sükösd, Miklós. 1995. 'Találjuk ki (újra) Magyarországot!' [Let's invent Hun­ gary (again)!]. Népszabadság (25 March). Szelényi, Iván. 1990. 'Merre tartunk a posztkommunizmusból' [Where are we heading after post-communism?] . Magyar Hírlap (17 November). Szelényi, Iván, Gil Eyal, and Eleanor Townsley. 1997. 'The Theory of Post­ Communist Managerialism.' New Lejt Review 222: 60-92. Webb, Sidney and Beatrice Webb. 1941. Soviet Communtsm: A New Ctvi­ lization. London: Longmans, Green and Co.

The Politics of Conviction: The Rise and Fall of Czech Intellectual-Politicians AVIEZER TUCKER

Introduction Václav Havel's ascent to the presidency of Czechoslovakia in De­ cember 1 989, following the Velvet Revolution, is a fairy tale. After two decades of struggle for human rights, the dissident- intel­ lectual became a philosopher- king, moved from Ruzyne Prison to Hradcany Castle, and surrounded himself in his Camelot with a round-table of dissident- knights acting as ministers and officials. Still, Being-a-president is very different from Being-a-dissident­ philosopher. Philosophy has to face politics as reality tests theory; the political struggle must transcend personal authenticity to achieve social reform. Havel faced the classic challenge of the phi­ losopher who holds political power: How does one conduct moral politics? Karl Jaspers developed Max Weber's distinction between an eth­ ics of moral conviction and an ethics of social responsibility. The practitioner of an ethics of moral conviction is not a consequen­ tialist ( one who judges the morality of actions according to their consequences), nor does he take responsibility for the conse­ quences of his actions. The practitioner of an ethics of social re­ sponsibility, on the other hand, does take responsibility for the foreseeable consequences of his actions, and demands that others do the same. ln Jaspers's view, an ethics of social responsibility is far superior to an ethics of moral conviction because: "When the practitioner of the ethics of moral conviction wants to act, he found­ ers because he must disavow altogether the justification of the means by the end. Since political action is bound to the specific means of force, he must be consistent and reject all action that makes use of this morally dangerous means" Qaspers 1 986, 4 1 8). Yet, as an intellectual, Havel has a natural tendency towards the ethics of conviction: " ... the intellectual, the involved generalist, in

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contrast to the specialized and neutral expert, always opts for the ethics of conviction over the ethics of responsibility. lt is [because he chooses] this ethics of conviction that for many people he sym­ bolizes 'courage' and 'generosity' compared to the presumed cyni­ cism of the ethics of responsibility... " ( Ferry and Renaut 1 990, 1 0). As a dissident, Havel did not have many opportunities-or the need-to practice the ethics of social responsibility: with no politi­ cal power, Havel could not use political means for his mora! ends; he was responsible only to himself, and the consequences of his actions hardly touched the lives of most of his fellow citizens. As a dissident he attempted to preserve his authenticity, his life in truth. As a president with political power, however, there was suddenly a need to differentiate means from ends, and to practice the ethics of social responsibility. ln 1 991 Havel claimed that: "There may be some who won't be­ Heve me, but in my second term as president in a land full of prob­ lems that presidents in stable countries never even dream of, I can safely say that I have not been compelled to recant anything of what I wrote earlier, or change my mind about anything. lt may seem incredible, but it is so: Not only have I not had to change my mind, but my opinions have been confirmed" (Havel 1 992, 1 0). His false consciousness notwithstanding, Havel did have to moderate, adapt, and change the ideas he had formulated in his dissident years. During the first few months after the Velvet Revo­ lution, a euphoric ( and justifiably so) President Havel repeated the philosophical principles of his dissident years with greater vigor. He intended to use his political power to bring about authenticity, life in truth, and even an 'existential revolution'. A few days after being elected president in December 1 989, Havel addressed his nation in a New Year's speech. For Havel's teacher, and the foun­ der of Charter 77, Jan Patocka ( 1 907-77), and for Havel himself the foundation of a just state is life in truth, the creation of condi­ tions that allow a free search for the truth. Accordingly, Havel per­ ceived the communist state correctly, in The Power of the Power­ less, as based on an ideological lie, a charade designed to bridge the yawning gap between the aims of the system and the aims of life. Therefore, the first thing that President Havel attempted to restore to political life in Czechoslovakia was a dimension of truth: Tell the people the truth about their political system: For the past 40 years on this day you have heard my predecessors ut­ ter variations on the same theme, about how our country is prosper­ ing, how many more billion tons of steel we have produced, how

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happy we all are, how much we trust our government and what beautiful prospects lie ahead. I do not think you put me into this of­ fice so that I, too, should lie to you. Our country is not prospering. The great creative and spiritual po­ tential of our nation is not being used to its fullest. Whole sectors of industry are producing things in which no one is interested, while things we need are in short supply. The state, which calls itself a state of the working people, is humiliat­ ing and exploiting the workers. Our outdated economy is squander­ ing energy... A country which could once be proud of the standard of education of its people spends so little on education that today it ranks 72nd in the world. We have laid waste to our soil and the rivers and the forests our forefathers bequeathed us, and we have the worst environment in all of Europe today... (Havel 1 990, 42) 1

Telling the truth to the people is certainly a refreshing change in politics, whether east of the old Iron Curtain or west of it. Yet it can only serve as a beginning: authenticity for Havel does not end with the deconstruction of ideology and the restoration of a di­ mension of truth to political leaders. Life in truth also has a posi­ tive element, the restoration of morality: The worst thing is that we are living in a decayed mora! environ­ ment. We have become morally ill, because we have become accus­ tomed to saying one thing and thinking another. We have learned not to believe in anything, not to care about one another and only to look after ourselves. Notions such as love, friendship, compassion, humility and forgiveness have lost their depth and dimension, and for many of us they represent merely some kind of psychological idiosyncrasy, or appear as some kind of stray relic from times past, something rather comical in the era of computers and space rock­ ets ... (ibid.)

Havel repeated here his interpretation of "life in truth" as human authenticity from 'Politics and Conscience': Life in truth is a return to responsibility and the giving of meaning to terms such as justice, honor, treason, friendship, infidelity, and courage, which are the hidden source of all the rules, customs, commandments, prohibi­ tions, and norms that hold within us. These absolute values are for Havel the hasis for his absolute-free of human subjectivity-ethics (Havel 1 986, ff1 37). Havel described himself in his first period as president-29 De­ cember 1 989 to 5 June 1 990-metaphysically, as being "pulled for­ ward by Being", as Heidegger put it, and also, this time drawing on Hegel, as becoming "an instrument of the time... There was no

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choice. History-if you may put it this way-forged ahead and through me guiding my activities" (Havel 1 992, xvi-xvii). How­ ever, when the euphoria was over it was necessary to attempt to implement philosophical principles politically and so run the risk of discovering their shortcomings. ln the next section I examine some of the political issues that President Havel has had to deal with, issues directly connected with his dissident philosophy: non­ political politics; lustration ( the exclusion of ex-communists from the higher echelons of government, the civil service, and national­ ized industry); European unity versus nationalism; and economic and environmental policy.

Non-Political Politics Havel saw the main problem with Western-style multi-party par­ liamentary democracy as the destruction of persona} responsibility through the alienation brought about by political parties. To Havel the dissident, all political parties resembled the Communist Party, and so he wanted post-existential revolution political structures to be "open, dynamic and small", so that their members would not be able to deny their persona} responsibility as the members of the Communist Party did. The new political structures ought to be "not [ like] organizations or institutions, but like a community" whose right to exist is based on its relevance to the solution of a particular problem. Havel wanted social and political organizations to appear and disappear spontaneously, according to the needs of the mo­ ment. The value underlying such organizations should be "mutual confidence", not the mistrust of the "collective irresponsibility" characterizing the "classic impotence" of traditional democratic organizations (Havel 1 986b, 1 1 7- 1 9). Lacking direct experience of Western-style parliamentary democracy, Havel did not recognize that although political parties are less than ideal they do not give absolute protection to their leaders from personal responsibility in the same way as the Communist Party protected its functionaries, especially in the presence of a free press and other checks and balances. Havel suggested a concrete positive alternative to politi­ cal parties, preferring unaffiliated individuals as candidates to pre­ serve the responsibility of public officials from creeping totalitari­ anism. Parties should not participate directly in politics because they are bound to become bureaucratic, corrupt, and undemo-

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cratic; in their stead Havel preferred independent clubs or associa­ tions of free individuals gathered for a specific cause like the asso­ ciations of dissidents (Havel 1 990b, 1 6- 1 7). Havel did not change his views when he became president. Cohen, following an early 1 990 visít to Czechoslovakia, reported that Havel objected to po­ litical parties: "Favoring what he calls 'non-political politics', the President wants citizens to vote directly for individual candidates." These views were echoed by Jana Petrová, a Civic Forum member of the Federal Assembly: "When the West found out we overthrew the communists, they thought we'd embrace the American system. But we want neither Communism, nor American capitalism, but a third way. Social justice, a market economy and the nonpolitical parties of Havel. When the West finally understands, it will be sur­ prised and perhaps inspired by us" ( Cohen 1 990, 333). Non-political politics abstracts one aspect of politics without po­ litical parties-a relatíve increase of responsibility-from the others. Since the association of citizens in political parties seems to be a universal phenomenon in modern democratic societies, the only way to stop the participation of their candidates in elections is by government coercion. Another problem would arise if the forma­ tion of a government with a definite reform-oriented policy was required: in the absence of political parties, a government coalition would have to negotiate individually with each member of parlia­ ment, who may at any moment secede from a governing coalition. Such a situation would lead to political instability, difficulties in changing the status quo, and a lack of predictability in political decisions. Without political parties, minorities would not be able to use their organizational advantages to protect their rights, and candidates who were not already members of economic or social elites would find it more difficult to get elected, leading to elitist government. Under certain circumstances, politics without politi­ cians may result in the demagogic populism of charismatic politi­ cal pied-pipers. lt was predictable that politics without politicians would not work, even before it actually failed after the first democratic elec­ tions in June 1 990 in which Civic Forum ran united in an election designed to give popular legitimacy to the Velvet Revolution. 2 Havel's persona! insistence on not being a member of a party re­ sulted in increasing political weakness. Without a political party to represent him in parliament, an executive president cannot influ­ ence either the decisions of the legislative body or government policy. When executive presidents-such as the president of France-wish to pass legislation, they have a presumption of sup-

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port from their party in the legislature, and at least some represen­ tatives to push the legislation through. Havel's legislative sugges­ tions can be and have been rejected out of hand. Havel wanted a presidential regime without accepting the means of presidential democracy. Soon after the revolution, Czechoslovaks celebrated their new freedom of political association. By April 1 990 there were no less than 46 political parties in Czechoslovakia, including the 'The Erotic Initiative' and 'The Friends of Beer'. Twenty-three of these parties managed to obtain the 1 0,000 signatures necessary to run far parliament. Havel and his supporters had to choose between discarding their vision of an existential revolution in politics through non-political politics and abolishing the basic human right of free political association. Unable to enjoy both worlds, Havel and his supporters had to agree with Petr Pithart, Civic Forum's chief political theorist and prime minister until 1 992, who sup­ ported the institution of normal political parties. Accordingly, the first election program of Civic Forum called far a Czechoslovakia that would be similar to other European coun­ tries, explicitly supporting a constitutionally based multi-party parliamentary democracy, modeled on those of Western Europe: "The democratic political system is considered by us as an essential condition far the legislation of the results of the November Revo­ lution... ln this respect we want to realize the idea of a legal state in which political power is subordinate to laws; we want to realize the ideas of a parliamentary multi-party democracy with a balance of the executive, legislative and judicial powers... " (Civic Forum 1 990) Sasa Vondra, President Havel's adviser on fareign affairs and a farmer Charter 77 spokesman, perceptively analyzed the political situation in Czechoslovakia in an interview he gave in the first part of 1 990: As long as the main political issue was the struggle against totalitarianism, Civic Forum, a loose organization of dissidents of various political convictions, had an important role to play in ne­ gotiating with the Communists over the peaceful transfer of power. But after the victory of Civic Forum, its farmer source of strength-its representation of widely differing views-"has now become a relative disadvantage" (Vondra 1 990). On 23 February 1 99 1 , Civic Forum dissolved into several politi­ cal parties. The two main competing parties were the Civic Move­ ment (OH) led by then fareign minister, Jifi Dienstbier and Czech prime minister Petr Pithart, and the Civic Democratic Party (ODS), led by then finance minister Václav Klaus.

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The Civic Movement, by insisting on calling itself a movement rather than a party, upheld Havel's objection to political parties, but only in ideological terms, since a group of members of parlia­ ment identified themselves with the Civic Movement and submit­ ted a party list for the 6 June 1 992 elections. The Civic Movement began its program with a reference to the old Civic Forum: "The Civic Movement wishes to pursue the basic aims of Civic Forum... . " The Civic Democratic Party, by contrast, began its program with a claim that it "aims to transform Czechoslovakia into a modern European state based on civil society." ln addition to these dominant parties, more than 1 00 parties and 1 8 parliamentary political clubs had been förmed by the June 1 992 elections, though only 35 of the parties presented lists of candi­ dates for election to the federal parliament. As the elections ap­ proached, intra-parliamentary clubs and extra-parliamentary par­ ties tended to unite to form political parties in the Western sense (Olson 1 994, 35-47). As a result of their difficulties in adapting the old dissident politics of conviction to the changing political cir­ cumstances, not to mention their administrative incompetence and indecisive economic policy and policy towards Slovak separa­ tism, and, last but not least, without Havel's popular leadership, the Civic Movement, the political party closest to Havel's standpoint ( its membership included many of Havel's old dissident-friends), suffered total defeat in the 6 June 1 992 elections.3 The Civic Democratic Alliance (ODA) has a higher percentage of ex-dissidents than the other parties and its policy is more right­ wing than the OH; it is a member of Klaus' coalition. The ODA is probably the closest political force to Havel today, but it does not receive instructions from hím, nor can he direct its legislative ini­ tiatives. Without loyal political allies, Havel had no influence over the drafting of the 1 993 Constitution of the Czech Republic, the legal enactment that determines his limited presidential responsi­ bilities. 4 Fearing interference from Havel, the Civic Democratic Party legislated that the president of the Czech Republic should be elected by the parliament rather than directly, as Havel wished. The president's authority depends on the parliament and its big­ gest party, the ODS. The ODS finds Havel useful as a figurehead for the purpose of increasing domestic stability and foreign prestige, but he has little political power to influence decisions. ln the event, Havel's philosophy has served as an obstacle to its own re­ alization through political means. ln the Czech Republic one can be in politics or out of politics, but never above politics. By at­ tempting the latter, Havel simply ruled himself out of play. This is

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the most decisive mistake the president has made, severely limiting his ability to affect political developments. Following the self-destruction of "politics without politicians" Havel set out to revise the meaning of "non-political politics". ln a speech delivered at the opening session of the Helsinki Citizens' Assembly in Prague on 1 9 October 1 990, almost a year after taking power, Havel admitted that he had found dismantling the old to­ talitarian system a much easier task than building a new system according to the ideas he had developed as a dissident. Since we entered the world of high politics, we have realized that in this world one has to take account of various interests, of various ambitions, of the balance of power represented by different group­ ings; one also has to take into account the various illusions which persist in one's society or which tend to arise anew. Thus a person in high politics is forced to behave diplomatically, to manoeuvre... [ Still] this ... cannot change the essence of our efforts and ideals, even though the forms and the ways in which these ideas are being im­ plemented may have been modified. I believe it is possible to remain true to our original ideas ... the only idea on which our new policies are based is the idea of human rights and freedom ... lt is possible to pursue what we perhaps imprecisely called 'non-political politics', i.e. a policy which is based on the dictates of conscience. (Havel 1 990c)

ln Summer Meditations, "anti-political politics", like the "exis­ tential revolution", are redefined further and as a consequence lose their radical character. Havel rewrote his persona! history by claim­ ing that: The political parties occasionally accuse me of being against political parties. That of course is nonsense ... One of the most sophisticated kinds of association-and at the same an integral part of modern de­ mocracy and an expression of its plurality of opinion-is association in political parties. It would be difficult to imagine a democratic so­ ciety working without them. So-obviously-1 am not against political parties; if I were, I would be against democracy itself. I am simply against the dictatorship of par­ tisanship ... (Havel 1992, 53)

Yet, in Disturbing the Peace, Havel had claimed that: lt would make more sense if, again, people rather than political par­ ties were elected (that is, if people could be elected without party af­ filiation). Politicians would solicit the support of the electors as indi-

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viduals in their own right, not merely a s appendages t o the megama­ chinery of parties or as party favorites... Parties should not take direct part in elections, nor should they be allowed to give anyone, a priori, the crutches of power. ln other words, they should not participate directly in power, since when they do they inevitably become bu­ reaucratic, corrupt, and undemocratic. (Havel 1990b, 16-17)

lnstead of his earlier aversion to political parties, Havel wanted in 1991 to limit their partisan loyalty at the expense of the interests of the public by adopting a new electoral system. Havel preferred a majority electoral system ( similar to the American one) to the cur­ rent proportional representation system. ln a majority system peo­ ple vote for a specific person rather than for a party list where, beyond the first few names, most of the candidates are unknowns. To prevent the elimination of small parties from parliament, Havel suggested a version of the German electoral system, according to which two-thirds of the parliament would be elected according to a majority system, and one-third would be elected proportionally (Havel 1 992, 53- 59). Havel's 'reinterpretation' of his "anti-political politics" is more reasonable and realistic than the original one. Still, by 1 99 1 it was too late. Havel was not able to push his policy through the parliament. Since then, he has been trying to influence and to be involved in government decisions. But without political power, Prime Minister Klaus can simply ignore Havel and advise him "to deal with things he [Havel] understands, like history and morality, rather than politics and economics."

Ethics and Lustration ln line with Heidegger's discussion of alienation and "everyday­ ness" in Being and Time, Havel claimed that no one can be singled out as guilty for the crimes of Communism, while everybody is obliged to search his own soul and confront those aspects of his personality that led him to co-operate with a system that victimized him and forced him to "live in a lie", to deny his true and authentic moral identity. When I talk about a decayed moral environment... 1 mean all of us, because all of us have become accustomed to the totalitarian system, accepted it as an inalterable fact and thereby kept it running. ln other words, all of us are responsible, each to a different degree, for

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keeping the totalitarian machine running. None of us is merely a vic­ tim of it, because all of us helped to create it together. Why do I mention this? It would be very unwise to see the sad legacy of the past 40 years as something alien, handed down to us by some distant relatives. On the contrary, we must accept this legacy as something which we have brought upon ourselves. If we can accept this, then we will understand that it is up to all of us to do something about it. We cannot lay all the blame on those who ruled us before, not only because this would not be true but also because it would detract from the responsibility each of us now faces-the responsibil­ ity to act on our own initiative, freely, sensibly and quickly ... (Havel 1992)

The future Civic Forum theoretician and prime minister of the Czech Federation Petr Pithart while still a dissident agreed with Havel's analysis of the broad power basis of the totalitarian regime in Czechoslovakia, the alienating-alienated existence of most or­ dinary citizens, and the loss of responsibility: "the Czechoslovak situation is particularly complex because it is the result of a status quo maintained by the power wielders as well as ordinary citizens. Ordinary citizens are victims of the status quo, yet they are forced to uphold it by their actions. lt is now beside the point that ini­ tially, many people did not willingly support the status quo" ( Pithart 1 990). Pithart, like Havel, bemoaned the loss of responsi­ bility: "Today's nationwide decline may very well be described as a consequence of people's loss of their sense of duty towards them­ selves, their fellow human beings, their community, their nation, their customers and partners, and ( if you will) towards God" ( ibid.) The important practical implication of this analysis is that those who co-operated with the communist authorities in Czechoslova­ kia should not be held responsible for their actions-should not be prosecuted-since nobody in Czechoslovakia is responsible for the. totalitarian system, while everybody contributed to a greater or lesser degree to its creation and perpetuation. Yet, people who sold their souls do not regain them, change their behavior, and dissolve their powerful networks just because the regime happens to change. Left to their own devices, the net­ works of former collaborators would continue their business as usual, stealing public property, persecuting more talented and more deserving people, and privileging their members at the ex­ pense of the honest segment of the population. ln the case of the 'Quislings' who ran Czechoslovakia for the Soviets publicly, it is easy to determine their guilt. But most informers co-operated clan­ destinely, and since they will not admit their relationship with the

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communist security services, the only evidence for their co­ operation is the secret files left by the former regime; and these files may be unreliable, since they may record false information. For Havel, the people who co-operated with the communist authorities were alienated and alienating at the same time, and hence cannot be held responsible for their pre-Velvet Revolution actions. Still, in early 1 99 1 the Czechoslovak federal parliament adopted a resolution to appoint a committee to investigate the files of the communist secret service (StB) in order to discover whether any members of parliament or persons employed in the higher echelons of the executive branches of the government had col­ laborated with the totalitarian authorities. The committee operated without the due process of investigation, rules of evidence, impar­ tial judicial procedures, or possibility of appeal familiar in the West. Liberal critics of the law pointed out that the accused could neither confront their accusers nor know what the secret evidence against them was. Supporters of the law pointed that it did not create a new category of criminal offense, but merely required that people holding high political office be beyond suspicion of having co-operated with the Communists, in the absence of a reliable ju­ dicial system that is not based on judges who themselves collabo­ rated with the Communists. ln any case, even if he lost office as a result of an investigation under the new law, a person could re­ apply within five years, and meanwhile could not be subject to further penalty. Supporters of the law regard it as a useful means of bolstering public confidence in the new political and legal systems. ln this process of 'lustration' ten members of parliament were named as being mentioned in the files as informers. The former members of Charter 77 who held fast to Havel's ideas, such as Petr Pithart (Czech prime minister), and Petr Uhl (then MP and director of Czechoslovakia's press agency) objected to lustration publicly. The Civic Movement (OH), the splinter group of Civic Forum­ whose agenda, as already mentioned, was the closest to Havel's­ held that: "Czechoslovak society cannot be made whole if the guilt of the representatives of the Communist regime is not punished. Those who have committed crimes must be put on trial, if there are no legal obstacles. Those who bear political responsibility must accept moral judgment. However, the cleansing of Czechoslovak society must have a firm legal framework. No purges must take place. The Civic Movement disagrees with the principle of collec­ tive guilt" (Civic Movement 1 990). Havel himself, as expected, objected to lustration. ln an inter­ view he gave to the Czech magazine Mladj Svet, the president

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stated that the new existential fear of the future, of finding one's name in the files of the secret police, might well serve as the theme of a play: Just imagine someone who was importuned all his life by the secret police, and has learned how to take evasive action, to prevaricate and equivocate. At last, he thinks he has just about escaped their clutches, that he has successfully deceived them. After the revolution, this per­ son feels an enormous sense of relief; now he can breathe easily be­ cause they, the secret police, can no longer bother him ... And now, suddenly, there is a new fear: he hears how, one after another, peo­ ple who were marked as secret collaborators swore that they had never been collaborators, that someone had put them on a list with­ out their knowledge, that on the hasis of a single meeting in a cafe they were entered on a list of 'candidates' for secret collaboration or something worse, just so some cop would get to chalk up the credit. (Havel 1 99 1 a, 6-8) As president of the Czech Republic, one of Havel's functions is to sign all laws into effect. Despite his objections to the law of lus­ tration, he did not attempt to block its passage. ln a lecture he gave at New York University, Havel attempted to explain his decision: had he not signed the bill, it would have gone into effect anyway and he would have thrown his country into a destabilizing political crisis. "It would have been a typically dissident-like, morally clean yet immensely risky act of civil disobedience." Havel concluded by expressing doubts about his decision, asserting that "history" would be the judge of the consequences of his action. It is interesting to note the shift from the Kantian ethics of con­ viction of Havel the dissident towards the consequentialist ethics of responsibility of Havel the president. As a dissident, Havel did not have to take into consideration the circumstances or the con­ sequences of his actions because he did not have the power to change either. President Havel acquired some power and, accord­ ingly, changed his philosophy, hoping that the consequences of signing the unjust bill would be better than those of not signing it.5 Havel seems unaware of his ethical shift. ln Summer Meditations he repeated some of his earlier views about his metaphysical con­ cept of the presidency: Genuine politics are guided by a higher responsibility to "'the memory of Being'-an integral aspect of the secret order of the cosmos, of nature, and of life, which believers call God and to whose judgment everything is subject." This re­ sponsibility should lead Havel himself to be virtuous, "decent, just, tolerant, and understanding ... " and to hold fast to his convictions,

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even if they are considered tactically mistaken. Havel claims to resist the justification of means by ends. ln practice, he has striven to be the 'conscience' of his nation and has repeatedly exhorted it to behave morally. ln the realm of political decisions, Havel prom­ ised to listen to the dictates of his conscience and to create, to the best of his ability, "a moral state" (Havel 1 992, 6- 1 0). His theoreti­ cal promises aside, in the clear choice between political expedi­ ency and the morality of the selling of arms, Havel, while still in power, chose the former. When Havel became president, he tried to put a complete stop to arms sales to pariah states; since most of the weapons factories of Czechoslovakia were located in Slovakia, however, Havel soon acquiesced to arms sales for hard currency. The official excuse-that the central government was unable to prevent these arms shipments-was a poor one. Havel preferred the decreased danger of Slovakian secession from the federation, and the profits from arms sales, to the human rights of the citizens of totalitarian regimes such as Burma, Syria, and Iran. To be sure, countries such as Great Britain, France, Israel, Italy, Sweden, Swit­ zerland, and the USA have sold weapons to these and other coun­ tries under less constraining domestic circumstances, but the lead­ ers of these countries do not claim to be acting morally.

Havel and Nationalism Jan Patocka's vision was of a spiritually and politically unified Europe, living in a search for truth through universal and absolute human rights (Patocka 1 981).6 Havel the president has sought to realize this ideal by keeping the Czecho-Slovak federation together, and through participation in European unification, the Helsinki process, and in NATO. Havel's universal and European concerns and frame of mind conflicted with the burgeoning nationalism in Slovakia. Neverthe­ less, he attempted to find a philosophical position that would allow him to combine his universalism with nationalism. Havel regarded 'home', after Patocka, 7 as an existential experience that can be compared to a set of concentric circles on various levels, from the domestic home, the family, to the nation ( Czech or Slovakian), civic society ( Czechoslovakian), civilization ( European), and the world ( the community of humanity). Havel stressed the impor­ tance of, and equality amongst, all these concentric circles, espe-

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cially the civic and universal ones, which correspond to civic and human rights. Havel's conception of 'home' as something consist­ ing of a number of independent dimensions would allow Slovaks to hold onto their national identity while maintaining a non­ national federal state based on civic society, respect for civic and human rights, and a general European identity (Havel 1 992, 3033). Havel has a deeper understanding of nationalism than many ana­ lysts who attempt to reduce or rationalize it in terms of economic interests: for example, it was imputed to the Slovaks that they wished to end the Czechoslovak Federation in order to improve their economic fortunes, or to increase their arms sales unchecked by the Prague authorities. On the other side, it was argued that in fact the Czech lands had been subsidizing Slovakia, and that in the present saturated international weapons market, Slovakia would not be able to restore its arms exports to their pre-1 989 level. Havel understood that a kind of Marxist rationalized reduction of nationalism to economics is insufficient: nationalism is largely an attempt to resolve a modern identity crisis. Accordingly, he at­ tempted to allow into his scheme of concentric circles both a na­ tionalistic and a civic identity, which would not necessarily be either identical or mutually exclusive. Unfortunately, the nationalist approach to the problem of per­ sona! identity excludes all others. The Swiss model, mooted many times as a possible model for Czechoslovakia, was created 500 years before German intellectuals, such as Fichte and the Schlegels, invented modern nationalism at the beginning of the nineteenth century in response to the invading French. Since then, national­ ism has ruled all other identities out of order. Nothing Havel or any other political force could have done would have changed this deep identity crisis, or its politically separatist outcome. The par­ ticular animus felt by Slovaks towards Havel may be the result of Havel's direct confrontation with exclusionist nationalism, on its own level. The identity crisis that breeds nationalism does not al­ low any doubts or competition with the one and only, all encom­ passing, answer. The mere suggestion that there may be a more complex identity structure, that there may be more than one and only one answer, merely revives the original painful crisis that must be avoided at all costs. Havel's sophisticated universalist schemes may appear to pose precisely such a threat. But it is use­ less to blame Havel or the post- 1 989 administration for the division of Czechoslovakia. Nothing any politician could have done would have prevented it.

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Patocka's vision was of a spiritually and politically unified Europe-or Western civilization-caring for the soul. 'Europe' for Havel-as for Husserl and Patocka-is a spiritual-philosophical ideal, not a geographical or economic entity. President Havel has attempted to realize this ideal through the integration of Czecho­ slovakia-later the Czech Republic-in the process of European unification, the Helsinki process, and in NATO. Havel has inter­ preted recent developments in European history, such as the unifi­ cation of Germany, the Paris Charter, and the end of bi-polarization in Europe as approximations of the ideal of European unity: "All these steps are in the right direction. All these actions are bringing us closer to the idea! of a Europe not divided into blocks, a Europe living as a peace-loving community of democratic states and inde­ pendent nations, a united Europe as a continent of safety" (Havel 1 991 b). Havel's problem is that while he attempts to provide a philo­ sophical foundation for a potential European unity, the politicians who have the power to fulfill this vision are guided by more selfish economic and political considerations. The countries of Western Europe and the members of NATO are not as enthusiastic about a European unity that would include the Czech Republic as Presi­ dent Havel is. When French president Mitterrand visited Prague he floated the idea of creating a European confederation. But when the interests of subsidized French farmers conflict with those of more competitive Central European agriculture, the French gov­ ernment imposes protectionist measures and blocks the integra­ tion of Central European countries in the EU. ln the face of Russian objections, the USA offered (for a while at least) the 'Partnership for Peace', instead of full membership in NATO. Since the Czechs have little to offer Western Europe at the bargaining table, Havel can only try to persuade and to warn, as he did ominously in his speech at NATO headquarters: We realize that, for a number of different reasons, our country can­ not be a regular member of NATO for the time being. At the same time, however, we believe that an alliance of countries united by the ideals of freedom and democracy should not be forever closed to neighboring countries that are pursuing the same goals. History has ... taught us that certain values are indivisible and that they are jeopard­ ized directly everywhere when they are jeopardized in any one place... To the West, whose civilization is based on universal values, the fate of the East cannot be a matter of indifference for reasons of princi­ ple, and for practical reasons ... [too.] Instability, poverty, misfortune

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and disorder in the countries that have rid themselves of despotic rule could threaten the West just as the arms arsenals of the farmer despotic governments did. What the people in the East have valid reasons to fear, the West should fear as well ...

It seems that, yet again, the Czechs feel more European than the Europeans feel solidarity with the Czechs.

Economics and Environmentalism During 1 990, Havel's government acted indecisively in the economic arena. On the one hand, it wanted to free the market and achieve a rational economic order; on the other hand, social concerns pre­ vented the government from introducing the necessary painful re­ forms that would have caused unemployment, price increases, and perhaps social unrest and political reaction. ln his speech on 21 August 1 990, commemorating the 22nd anniversary of the Soviet invasion, Havel recognized "a strange atmosphere" in the country, "a climate of restlessness, nervousness, and discontent." He ascribed that feeling of malaise to the fact that, despite the political reforms, the restoration of human rights and free elections, the functionaries of the old regime still held positions of power, especially in state enterprises: "Huge colossi still exist, making it impossible for indi­ vidual firms and businesses to adopt a more rational economic ap­ proach. The old bureaucracy survives at all levels, up to central of­ fices of government. It can be found in the government offices of both our republics as well as in the federal ministries" (Havel 1 991 d). Havel decried the fact that after 40 years of totalitarianism, instead of thousands of small private businesses, the Czechoslovak private sector was dominated by mafias and speculators. Havel blamed all inefficiencies in the economy on the bureaucrats. His solution was a privatization that would release the creative and en­ trepreneurial energies of the people, and a legal reform that would make it possible to replace members of the old, inefficient appara­ tus. Havel's views on this topic were in line with those of his then finance minister, Václav Klaus. Still, Havel did not discuss the possi­ bility that under conditions of free competition in a free and privat­ ized market, big bureaucratic private corporations may control some sections of the market. He merely reiterated his objection to bureau­ cratic structures and his support for small privatized enterprises.

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ln the economic section of his 1 991 New Year's Day address, Havel again echoed the policies of Klaus, promising the immediate commencement of the small-scale privatization of state industry that would be completed in the same year. "Large, inflexible and bureaucratic organizations in the sphere of services, trade and smaller production, should be broken up and replaced by an ex­ tensive network of private and fully independent business" (Havel 1 991 c). The process of privatization should take place over several years at the levei of large-scale organizations until all the means of production, including property and land, are privately owned. Though Havel tended to echo the policies of Klaus in his public pronouncements about economic policy, his pre- 1 989 writings and statements about economics in Summer Me ditations display less than enthusiastic endorsement of the free market. Havel sup­ ported a mixed economy: privatization of state industry together with extensive state intervention to create a large welfare state. Havel counters accusations that he is a "crypto-socialist" by admit­ ting that his heart is "left of center", while at the same time claim­ ing that the old left/right distinctions have lost their meaning. Havel wants a conscience-directed free market: in his view, abso­ lute laissez faire is just as utopian as the old communist ideology. The free market can work only if it is directed by a morality that gives it meaning. ln the chapter presenting his vision of what Czechoslovakia would be like in ten to fifteen years Havel expressed the wish that it would be something like Switzerland or Holland, free of the en­ vironmental burden left by the communists. Havel hoped for the restoration of the family farm, as in Denmark, in place of the huge, environmentally destructive collectives. He did not address the problem of how a Czech family farm could survive in a free market environment any better than a family farm in, say, Iowa. One of the most interesting phenomena in the post-communist bloc is that the demise of communism has created more Swiss, Swedish, Danish, and Dutch patriots in East Central Europe than in Switzerland, Sweden, Denmark, and the Netherlands combined. Yet neither Havel nor any of the other 'Swiss' or 'Swedish' 'patriots' have any idea how they might make their countries into rich welfare states. Havel has been unable to come up with a viable economic alterna­ tive to the policies of Klaus. Havel left virtually all economic and environmental decisions to the then finance minister, and later prime minister. Klaus's Civic Democratic Party argued that: "lt is impossible to improve the en­ vironment over the short term. The prerequisites for major eco-

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logical improvements are thoroughgoing economic and social re­ form and international co-operation in this sphere. By privatizing the land we will turn its owners into the natural defenders of the environment. It is not exclusively the role of the authorities to bring about a healthy environment in this country. Everybody must contribute. This presupposes a change in civic attitudes, habits and people's system of values." By contrast, the Civic Movement held that: "We will not post­ pone the tackling of ecological problems until after the economic reform is complete. The experience of other civilized nations teaches us that work for the protection of the environment can be an important catalyst for economic and technological growth." It may be assumed that here too Havel's heart was with the Civic Movement. But by refusing to join a political party, Havel forfeited his opportunity to influence government policy.

Conclusion Some Western political analysts awaited Havel's failure with great anticipation. There has been some jealousy among analysts who have claimed that Havel must fail because he wants to put morality before politics. Perhaps because most Western politicians, for a long time now, have lacked Havel's philosophical education and intellect, not to mention (pace my earlier criticisms) his overall integrity, they wished him to fail in order to prove that it is impos­ sible to mix morality with politics, or to have philosophers or intel­ lectuals that are effective politicians. 8 I have shown that Havel attempted to become pragmatic, to compromise about means and to preserve ends, though he did so in a very confused and inexperienced fashion. Eventually, Havel lost all power because he did not know how to be pragmatic. Nev­ ertheless, this analysis should not be misinterpreted as a claim that philosophers necessarily make bad politicians or that philosophy and morality cannot direct pragmatic politics. The first president of Czechoslovakia, T. G. Masaryk, demonstrated exactly how moral philosophy can be translated into effective politics. Politics with­ out morality is a racing car without a driver accelerating rapidly to nowhere. Politics must be morally driven and good moral philoso­ phers are the best directors of politics. The dissidents' and Havel's morality of human rights has been the right morality, but his Hei-

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deggerianism provided the wrong ontological-philosophical framework. His misunderstanding of modernity led him to a poli­ tics of existential revolution and non-political politics. The existen­ tial revolution misdirected Havel's efforts. Non-political politics prevented Havel from using political means for his moral aims, and led eventually to his political impotence. Perhaps the re-separation of the communities of philosophers and politicians is a sign of democratic or Western normality. When the state allows philosophers to philosophize unharassed, and so­ ciety is allowed to grow and develop from below, philosophers need to intervene only against the excesses of power and the im­ morality of conformity. President Masaryk, the first philosopher-president of Czecho­ slovakia, inscribed on his emblem the battle cry of the Hussite war­ riors: "Truth Shall Prevail!" Philosophy shall triumph over politics. Sometimes it does; but then what? It has to become political to prevail further, and there it may fail. Still, though political means change, the call of conscience for justice and moral politics is per­ manent. Even when liberal democracy and professional politicians prevail, there will always be a need for intellectuals and dissidents, like Havel, to give expression to conscience.

Notes 1 See also Havel (1986b) and Aviezer Tucker (1990; 1992a; 1992b). 2 "Since the creation of political parties is a universal phenomenon in free societies, it is reasonable to assume that such parties will spring up in Czechoslovakia as well. ln such a situation Havel and his supporters will have to choose between discarding their vision of an existential revolu­ tion in politics or abolish the right of free association" (Tucker 1990, 76). 3 ln the 1992 elections in the Czech Republic the ODS received one-third of the vote, the former communists 14 per cent, the ODA 6 per cent, and the OH disappeared altogether (Brokl 1992). 4 On the pre-1992 election debates about the responsibilities and power of the president (which Havel lost), see Reschová (1994). 5 lt is hard to accept Havel's consequentialist calculation. Dubcek, the former reform-communist leader of the Prague Spring, then speaker of the federal parliament, refused to sign the bili of lustration, and no ma­ jor constitutional crisis has ensued. Yet, Havel's miscalculation is not as important as the conscious shift in his ethical position.

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6 See review by Tucker (1992c). 7 See Tucker (1994). 8 Jim Hoagland suggested that Václav Havel has gone through a transfor­ mation: the ethical dissident has become a pragmatic president. Havel, claimed Hoagland, has learned to compromise, to adapt his policy to the difficult conditions he has found as president. Havel's fear of massive unemployment and its worsening influence on the nationalities prob­ lem in the Czech and Slovak Federal Republic caused him to acquiesce, if not to tacitly support the gun-running activities of the Czechoslovak weapons industry to countries like Burma, Syria, and Iran, which ac­ counted for 8 per cent of Czechoslovakia's gross national product. Hoa­ gland concluded that "Power can be a liberating experience. George Bush has used his presidency to plunge into foreign affairs on a grand scale and is having a heck of a time. Havel's experience is the reverse. As a leader of a small country with little influence abroad and gigantic problems at home, he is again a political prisoner" (Hoagland 1991). Hoagland was wrong about Bush; he may have been wrong about Havel. Hoagland confused compromising about means (pragmatism) with compromising about ends (immorality).

References Ágh, Attila, ed. 1994. The Emergence of East Central European Parlia­ ments: The First Steps. Budapest: Hungarian Centre for Democracy Stud­ ies. Brokl, Lubomír. 1992. 'The Results and Consequences of the 1992 Elec­ tions.' Czechoslovak Sociological Review 28 (August): 119-23. Civic Forum. 1990. 'Accepting Responsibility for Our Own Future: The Election Programme of Civic Forum.' East European Reporter 4 (2). Civic Movement. 1990. 'Radical but not Ruthless: Programme of the Civic Movement (abridged).' East European Reporter 4 (4). Cohen, Stephen B. 1990. 'Czeching Murdoch.' The Nation (12 March). Ferry, Luc, and Alain Renaut. 1990. Heidegger and Modernity, trans. Frank­ lin Philip. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Havel, Václav. 1986a. 'Politics and Conscience,' trans. E. Kohak and R. Scruton. ln Václav Havel, or, Living in Truth, ed. Jan Vladislav. London: Erasmus Foundation. --. 1986b. 'The Power of the Powerless,' trans. P. Wilson. ln Vladislav (1986). --. 1990a. 'The Great Moral Stake of the Moment.' Newsweek (15 Janu­ ary). --. 1990b. Disturbing the Peace. A Conversation with Karel Hvizdala, trans. Paul Wilson. New York: Knopf.

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--. 1990c. 'Address by Václav Havel to the HCA's Opening Session.' East European Reporter 4 (4). --. 1991a. 'Uncertain Strength: An lnterview with Václav Havel.' By Dana Emingerová and Lubos Beniak. Trans. Paul Wilson. The New York Re­ view ofBooks. --. 1991b. 'President Václav Havel: Speech at NATO Headquarters, 21 March 1991.' East European Reporter 4 ( 4). --. 1991c. 'Growing Pains: President Havel's New Year's Day Address.' East European Reporter 4 ( 4). --. 1991d. 'President Havel's Speech on the Anniversary of the 1968 lnvasion.' East European Reporter 4 (3). --. 1992. Summer Meditations, trans. Paul Wilson. New York: Knopf. Hoagland, Jim. 1991. 'The Transformation of Václav Havel.' The Washing­ ton Post (18 June). Jaspers, Karl. 1986. Die Atombombe und die Zukunft des Menschen. ln Basic Philosophical Writings, ed. Ehrlich. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press. Olson, David M. 1994. 'The New Parliaments of the New Democracies: The Experience of the Federal Assembly of the Czech and Slovak Federal Re­ public.' ln Ágh (1994). Patocka, Jan. 1976. Le monde naturel comme probleme philosophique, trans. Jaromír Danek and Henri Decleve. Le Haye: Martinus Nijhoff. --. 1981. Essats hérétiques sur la phtlosophie de l'histoire, trans. Erika Abrams. Lagrasse: Editions Verdier. Pithart, Petr. 1990. 'Social and Economic Developments in Czechoslovakia in the 1980s - Part 2.' East European Reporter 4 (2). Reschová, Jana. 1994. 'Parliaments and Constitutional Change: The Czechoslovak Experience.' ln Ágh (1994). Tucker, Aviezer. 1990. 'Václav Havel's Heideggerianism.' Telos 85: 63-78. --. 1 992a. 'Sacrifice: From lsaac to Patocka.' Telos 9 1 (Spring): 1 1 7-24. --. 1992b. 'Patocka vs. Heidegger: The Humanistic Difference.' Telos 92 (Summer): 85-98. --. 1992c. Review of Jan Patocka's Essais hérétiques sur la philosophte de l'histoire. History and Theory 31: 355-63. --. 1994. 'ln Search of Home.' Journal ofApplied Philosophy 11: 177-83. Vladislav, Jan, ed. 1986. Václav Havel, or, Living in Truth. London: Eras­ mus Foundation. Vondra, Sasa. 1990. 'View from the Castle: lnterview with Sasa Vondra.' By Jan Kavan. East European Reporter 4 (2).

Green Intellectuals in ·s 1ovakia EDWARD SNAJDR

Introduction During the early December days of the Velvet Revolution, as Václav Havel addressed hundreds of thousands of people gathered in Pra­ gue's Wenceslas Square, Slovaks crowded in Bratislava's SNP Square, shaking their keys in support of the words of Jan Budaj and Milan Kn.azko. This Slovak scene mirrored the revolutionary mo­ ments in Prague, but with one important difference: unlike Budaj and Kn.azko, Havel continued to play a fairly consistent political role in the transition to democracy that followed. 1 Kiíazko was an actor and so, like Havel, a representative of the cultural sphere; Budaj was an environmentalist who had earned his reputation as a dissident and editor of BraUslava/nahlas [Bratislava/Out loud!] , an illegally distributed pamphlet describing the city's ecological maladies. Both men went on to form, along with other prominent figures in Slovakia's intellectual community, the broad civic movement Public Against Violence (VPN). ln a prescient, but un­ published article written only two months before the revolution, Slovak sociologists had characterized the diverse array of public figures-such as Budaj and Kiíazko who later stood before the masses-as "positive deviants" ( Bútora, Krivy, and Szomolányiová 1 989). By this term they meant a paradoxical actor who challenged society with non-conformity and originality, who might be stigma­ tized, yet through this stigmatization played a positive, liberating role, serving as a model for an alternative life path under state so­ cialism. They included in this category "... writers... volunteer envi­ ronmentalists, inventors, but also linguists, [people] in films, jour­ nalists" ( ibid., 1 5). Such "deviants" gathered in groups during the late 1 980s that Martin Bútora and his colleagues labeled "islands of positive deviance". They identified these groups as potentially im­ portant components of a nascent civil society. During the Velvet

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Revolution, the sociologists' prediction came partly true as the very "deviants" they had described led the gathered crowds in the top­ pling of the regime. The events leading to the collapse of communism throughout East Central Europe have been well documented ( for example, Banac 1 992; East and Pontin 1 997; Garton Ash 1 990; Prins 1 990; and Stokes 1 993). Regardless of the particular differences, intellec­ tuals figured prominently as spokesmen and political symbols in each revolution. ln post-communist Slovakia, the fate of many per­ sonalities has varied significantly during the democratization proc­ ess, raising questions about the future political role of intellectuals in this new European state. The transition itself does not appear to be progressing very quickly. Characterized by Szomolányi ( 1 995) as "non-standard" compared to other Visegrád countries, the post­ socialist Slovak political landscape has been dominated by Vladimir Meciar's populist Movement for a Democratic Slovakia (HZDS). The country has witnessed five governments ( three of them Meciar's), and gained the honor of being the newest independent European state-an autonomy largely engineered by Meciar him­ self-all within five years of the fali of communism. 2 Meciar's tac­ tics have been criticized as verging on authoritarian, yet he has survived politically and enjoys substantial popularity among the voting public. Bútorová and Bútora describe the social mood of Meciar's Slovakia as fraught with "increasing apathy, on the one hand, and the absence of a consensus of values and political views, on the other" ( 1 995, 1 08). Given this diversity, the consistent po­ litical prominence of Meciar is perhaps not unexpected, but it does beg the question: What has happened to the "positive deviants" who played such a vital political role in the revolution? I will begin my examination of the political role of intellectuals in Slovakia's "non-standard" transition to democracy with the ex­ perience of one "island of positive deviance" on which many intel­ lectuals gathered under state socialism: Slovak environmentalists (ochranárl in Slovak) and their Bratislava organization within SZOPK.3 Starting with the appearance of Bratislava/nahlas and the popularization of the ochranárl, I examine what enabled some of them to take their place among the key political players in Slo­ vakia's Velvet Revolution. Next, I present the process of differen­ tiation that unfolded among the ochranárl in their attempt to par­ ticipate in politics, as well as the manner in which some of these intellectuals pursued diverse strategies and assumed various identi­ ties during the transition. Finally, I examine the various roles played by the ochranárl as a dual process of reinvention and reac-

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tion both among themselves and within the context of Slovakia's political transformation. Before I begin this examination, however, a few remarks about 'intellectuals' as a concept and a category are required.

Intellectuals: ln Lieu of a Definition The definition of 'intellectuals' and the 'intelligentsia' has been an inconsistent project. ln writing about intellectuals, scholars have employed such varying criteria to identify those individuals that they consider as such or as members of the 'intelligentsia' that Verdery argues "any invocation of either can hardly be motivated by a quest for precision" ( 1 99 1 , 1 5). Szikra ( 1 995), for example, uses a wide variety of social and economic indicators in her com­ prehensive treatment of post-socialist Hungarian intellectuals, sub­ sequently including a substantial stratum of society under this term. Körösényi, conversely, following Lipset ( 1 960), limits his definition of 'intellectuals' to "those who are involved chiefly in the creation, elaboration and dissemination of ideas and symbols, i.e. literary, humanities, and social scientific intellectuals" (1 994, 41 5). Even Verdery, following Bauman ( 1 987), attempts a definition of her own, treating intellectuals as "sometimes occupants of a site that is privileged in forming and transmitting discourses, in consti­ tuting thereby the means through which society is 'thought' by its members, and in forming human subjectivities" (Verdery 1 99 1 , 1 7). Torpey, in his impressive work on intellectuals, warns that Verdery's conception, as well as all others, poses the dilemma that "a role-specific definition of intellectuals is difficult to avoid alto­ gether" (Torpey 1 995, 3). This acknowledgment presents an ím­ portant problem if one seeks to evaluate the political role of intel­ lectuals in East Central Europe's transition to democracy: an a pri­ ori role is implied by the mere identification of an individual as an intellectual and one is confronted with the danger of assuming the existence of either a consistent or a collective role. Verdery's definition, by its very imprecision, actually provides room for a solution, one that I will pursue further. She contends that the "space of legitimation" which intellectuals sometimes oc­ cupy "may be a locus for forming alternative consciousnesses or images of social reality" (Verdery 1 991, 1 7). She then focuses on a particular locus of discourse formation and production, that of

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'national ideology', and by this means maps out the intellectual activity produced thereby, locating those individuals involved in this process. ln this way, she escapes the role dilemma that most definitions pose and fulfills her search for precision by limiting her inquiry to a specific space of intellectual production. Following Verdery-and, like her, approaching the issue from the perspective of cultural anthropology-1 will begin with one locus of intellectual discourse production in Slovakia, the environment. I will show how discourse production concerning the environment can illu­ minate the difficulties of identifying particular individuals as intel­ lectuals and illustrate the roles environmental intellectuals played in Slovakia's transition to democracy. Starting from an empirical case rather than problematic theoretical categories, I use the expe­ rience of the Slovak ochranári as a text, tracing through their story the manner in which they occupied various political roles both individually and collectively. Slovakia's transition may be character­ ized, for our purposes, in terms of the emergence of the intellec­ tual in a privileged political role, and the subsequent displacement of this privilege and the search for new roles. Keeping in mind Verdery's definition I cannot consider all Slo­ vak ochranári as engaged in the intellectual production of an envi­ ronmental discourse. Many ochranárl limited themselves to tradi­ tional conservation and preservation projects, carried out in pri­ vate and quite unconnected to the larger society. A significant number of them, however, through their actions as ochranári concerned with environmental issues, generated important sym­ bols and ideas that they placed in the public realm and used to challenge the official discourse of the state: my use of the term 'ochranári' will refer to these individuals. Some intellectuals who were not ochranári also found a space in which to play a political role in the company of Slovak environmentalists, and thus indi­ rectly contributed to the production of an environmental dis­ course. Using the case of the ochranárl and their sympathizers, I will show how the central ideas and symbols of their intellectual pro­ duction initially enabled them to play politically prominent roles and how these roles became marginal after the collapse of state socialism. The experience of the ochranári suggests a dual process at work in respect of the fate of Slovak intellectuals during and after the revolution: ( i) individuals who played an oppositional political role by announcing a need for change, and ( ii) the subse­ quent change which required a redefinition of this political role. More generally, the green case demonstrates the dilemma facing

Green Intellectuals in Slovakia

21 1

those involved in post-communist intellectual production: with the passing of the communist regime, intellectuals are now no longer defined by what their production opposes but by what it supports. Many ochranári, as I will show, are still in the process of articulat­ ing what it is they want to produce, as well as whom they are speaking for. ln this dilemma, those who were "positive deviants" now face the task of becoming 'normal' in the transition to democ­ racy. ln the absence of regime stigmatization, they seek a "positive" role in the new system. The three stages of the green case given below highlight these dualities and this process. 4

Stage One: Bratislava/nahlas and Collective Co-operation ln November 1 987, Basic Organizations No. 6 and No. 1 3 of the Slovak Union of Nature and Landscape Protectors ( SZOPK) ille­ gally published what was referred to as the appendix to the min­ utes of their March meeting of that year, the report entitled Brati­ slava/nahlas. The title, conceived byJan Budaj, a prominent figure in SZOPK No. 6 and the managing editor of the pamphlet, was a direct play on the Russian word 'glasnost" or 'openness', used to describe Gorbachev's policy of social reform in the Soviet Union. Bratislava/nahlas outlined specific problems concerning the en­ vironment and ecological conditions in and around the Slovak capital. Twenty-three authors listed themselves openly as a collec­ tive and as members of SZOPK, the only officially recognized non­ governmental environmental organization in socialist Slovakia. Forty-two other individuals were identified in the contents as ex­ perts and scientists who had contributed to the sixteen chapters of the report. The goal of Bratislava/nahlas was really quite modest. The re­ port did not directly implicate the regime as the cause of the dis­ mal state of the city's environment. While it opened with a strong condemnation of the poor ecological and social conditions of Bra­ tislava, its stated goal was a call for public debate. The closing lines of the introduction read as follows: "We expect that the public discussion ( which this document would like to introduce) will not only articulate the interests of the citizens of Bratislava, but will mobilize their forces and renew the relationship of the citizens with respect to their city" ( Budaj 1 987, 1)

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With this statement the ochranári broke the official silence about the state of the environment in and around Bratislava. Through the report they served as representatives of the larger public, but sought at the same time to include them in the opening up of an environmental discourse. Such a position immediately identified the ochranári as individuals calling for action, and speaking for members of a society that had no voice. Rather than acknowledging the regime's imposed silence Bratislava/nahlas articulated a number of ecological problems with the implication that the regime had been negligent. The regime's neglect was con­ sistently reinforced as each chapter of the report described the poor condition of Bratislava's air, water, foliage, public monu­ ments, and so on. Through this vivid account of almost every as­ pect of the capital city's polluted environment, the ochranári's creation became a forceful argument pointing to an irresponsible­ and thus morally bankrupt-regime. Although only a few thousand copies of the report were printed, the regime was unable to collect and destroy all of them. Bratislava/nahlas was a daring political act of intellectual pro­ duction, backed by expert credentials, that openly described a previously unacknowledged reality. The dilapidated condition of the environment provided the ochranári with an indirect, yet ef­ fective path towards confrontation with Party officials. The eco­ logical disaster of the Slovak capital city served as a powerful tool­ strategically used to symbolize the regime's overall neglect-that was impossible to contest. Juraj Flamik, one of the co-authors, later recalled that "it was not possible to say anything about the no­ menklatura but difficult to prevent us from a discussion of forests, water, and the health of the people" (Paulíniová 1 990, 46). Shortly after Bratislava/nahlas appeared, Pravda, the official Slovak Com­ munist Party newspaper, published an article entitled 'Nothing New under the Sun,' which accused the ochranári of being ene­ mies of socialism. The author of this article used a pseudonym, further weakening the official counterargument, since the public knew that the ochranári had courageously identified themselves in the report. But the very fact that an official response had been made meant that the ochranári had successfully provoked the State to engage in an unprecedented public dialogue about the environment. Through their official periodical Ochránca prirody the members of the Slovak Union of Nature and Landscape Protec­ tors (SZOPK) No. 6 and No. 1 3 continued and expanded this now open discussion about the regime's responsibility for ecological maladies not only in Bratislava, but throughout the country.

Green Intellectuals ín Slovakia

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By publishing Bratislava/nahlas, the ochranári played an oppo­ sitional political role with respect to the regime as an "island of positive deviance". The authors of Bratislava/nahlas were actually a diverse collection of intellectuals who had legitimate credentials and expertise. Among the names associated with the report were Fedor Gál ( sociologist), Vladimir Ondrus ( economist), and Ladislav Snopko ( archaeologist), all of whom helped to found Public Against Violence in late 1 989. After the publication of the report, other intellectuals, as well as many university students, joined SZOPK, which increased its membership three-fold in 1 988. Atten­ dance at SZOPK monthly meetings after Bratislava/nahlas num­ bered in the hundreds. SZOPK No. 6 became a forum for free dis­ cussion and therefore a locus for the cultivation of "positive devi­ ance". Membership of the organization marked individuals as po­ litical representatives of the larger society through their concern for the environment. The ochranári were perceived by the public as proponents of their well-being. "Drzím vám palcef' [My fingers are crossed!] was whispered on the street or in cafes to those ochranári who had become well known ( Sporer 1 995, interview). Whether it was their original intention or not, the ochranári be­ came symbols of political opposition through their articulation of state neglect, and popularized the environment as an issue in its own right, as well as a metaphor for the regime's moral bank­ ruptcy. It was in this fashion that Jan Budaj, the ochranár, took a prominent place among more familiar personalities representing political opposition to the regime for Slovaks during the Velvet Revolution, including Alexander Dubcek from 1968 and Jan Car­ nogursky, the Catholic dissident.

Stage Two: Party or Movement? Under the regime all environmental activities outside the govern­ ment bureaucracy were voluntary, but citizens could pursue con­ servation and preservation projects only within the officially per­ mitted organizational structure of SZOPK. 5 The collapse of the regime opened up the possibility of creating both new, independ­ ent organizations and new political parties. Some of the members of SZOPK No. 6 and No. 1 3 were already planning to found a party even as the Velvet Revolution was unfolding, but they did not offi­ cially create the Green Party ( SZ) until December 1 989, when it

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was clear that free electíons would take place (Paulíníová 1 990, 23). The stirrings of party aspiratíons presented the ochranári with the problem of redefining their functíon and roles in the process of democratization. Sremer ( 1 995, intervíew) explains that, after intense ínternal debate, thís ínitial problem of the future 'public face' of the ochranári was solved with the agreement that both SZOPK and the SZ would exist as independent but co­ operatíng organizations, one 'non-governmental', the other servíng as the 'political wing' of the ochranári. Individuals who had been involved in proposing environmental legislation within SZOPK could now work within the official structure of the SZ to realize environmental goals and programs. Before the factions arrived at this compromise several key SZOPK members-such as Budaj, Peter Tatár, and Fedor Gál­ abandoned their leadership roles in the organízation to pursue political careers in the VPN. According to Tatár, it was necessary to "first work to build a proper and functioning democracy before ecological problems [could] truly be solved" (Tatár 1 995, inter­ view). One founding member, Peter Kresánek, ran successfully for mayor of Bratislava in 1 990. The decisíons of these formerly active ochranári are revealing in respect of their political priorities and theír perceived roles as íntellectuals. The environment provided a political space ín which these intellectuals could oppose the re­ gime ín accordance wíth theír reform agenda; as the politícal space wídened they saw an opportuníty to go further ín creating a civil socíety. As a result, SZOPK lost several key members who had been active and visible under the communist regime to politics beyond the confines of environmental issues. After the regíme's collapse, the environment, which had been popularízed by the hígh profile of the ochranári, rapidly lost its power as a politícal issue, even losing support among members of the SZ. At the beginning of 1 990, ecology was the most important public concern ín Slovakia, but by October of the same year it had slipped to sixth place in public opínion surveys listing fifteen dif­ ferent íssues (Bútora, Bútorová, and Rosová 1 99 1 , 443). Despite the waning popularity of the environment, the SZ gained six seats in the new Slovak parliament in the first free elections held in June. The SZ attempted to re-establish the importance of the issue through the formai political system, now occupied with constitu­ tional and privatization questions. The legislative record of the party in the new parliament was decidedly non-ecological, how­ ever: for example, five out the six SZ deputies supported the state's controversíal Gabcíkovo dam project (see Waller 1 992; Fisher

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1 993). Such compromises made in the course of coalition-building resulted in the abandonment of the party by those ochrandrl who had initially created it, as well the loss of the support of the non­ governmental wing of SZOPK. Within the fledgling SZ before the 1 992 elections, the party de­ bated the key elements of its platform beyond ecology. The most divisive and ultimately the most damaging debate centered around the question of Slovakia's post-socialist identity. The possibility of autonomy emerged from the collapse of state socialism, fueling na­ tionalism and confronting all political leaders with the need to ar­ ticulate a position, if they had not already done so. The SZ could not rise above this issue and two major standpoints materialized within the party, one espousing the continuation of a Czecho-Slovak federa­ tion giving priority to environmental issues as the party's focus, the other proposing a Slovak national orientation prioritizing the issue of 'identity' over the environment. The factions could not reach a compromise and the SZ split at the beginning of 1992. Alongside the SZ, which now became a federative party of an 'intellectual' charac­ ter, favoring the primacy of a fundamental environmental ideology, arose the Slovak Green Party (SZS), a national party of 'politicos' who espoused a paradigm of real politics for the sake of both party sur­ vival and reform through compromise.6 The ochrandrl who had embarked on the parliamentary path to the solution of environmental problems found themselves instead steeped in a debate that involved larger social and political ques­ tions and in which the environment was more or less abandoned. Their role had shifted from that of 'green intellectuals' committed to what they felt were fundamentally ecological priorities within the context of competing social concerns, to that of 'green politi­ cians' adjusting to the political success of Meciar's populism and questions of national identity within the context of constitutional debates. Mter a failed campaign in 1 992, the SZ disbanded com­ pletely (Trubiniová 1 995, interview; Prónay 1 995, interview). ln 1 994, and in the context of a new, independent state, a weak SZS split again, this time mainly over the issue of which coalition's economic position it should support. The breakaway faction be­ came the Slovak Green Alternative (SZA) and aligned itself with Meciar's HZDS; the SZS entered into a strange coalition with the Party of the Democratic Left (SDL), the reform communists. These surviving green parties were viewed by many ochrandrl in SZOPK as political vehicles for individuals seeking power rather than genuine ecologically-oriented parties. By 1 994, ecology had ceased to be an important political issue.

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Stage Three: Constructing Civil Society The Rise ofNGOs The remaining ochranári sought various solutions to attempt to articulate their role in the transition as supporters of the environ­ ment. Many created independent, highly specialized non-govern­ mental organizations ( NGOs) focused on concrete issues. But these new groups either culled their memberships partly from the pre­ existing SZOPK, so weakening its base, or used SZOPK resources and offices for their own purposes. For example, in ilie summer of 1 993, Greenpeace, under the direction of a former member of the SZ, opened up an office in Bratislava at the headquarters of the town council of SZOPK. Greenpeace attracted the membership of univer­ sity and high school students, all of whom became highly active in the late summer of 1 994. Throughout the following year, their spec­ tacular demonstrations and actions against the Slovak government's plans to complete the construction of the Mochovce nuclear power plant were highly visible and unrelenting. However, Greenpeace Slovakia was limited to this issue by Greenpeace lnternational, its sole source of financial support. Numerous independent environ­ mental organizations were created by other ex-SZ members and, like Greenpeace Slovakia, focused on specific issues, among them ozone layer depletion (Deti Zeme), animal rights (Sloboda Zvierat), sus­ tainable water projects ( the Slovak River Network), and alternative energy sources beyond nuclear energy (Za Matku Zem). Despite the trend towards increasing numbers of new NGOs carv­ ing out independent territories and separate issues of social change, some ochranári attempted to unite these various groups with the establishment of the Third Sector, a loose network of Slovak NGOs headed by an elected forum. The Third Sector sought to combine NGOs in a collective lobbying effort and to liaise with the govern­ ment. However, the organization was criticized by Meciar's govern­ ment as being a foreign-funded political organization threatening the interests of the new Slovak state (Hofbauer 1 995). As a result, legislation was proposed to monitor sources of funding. But the very number and diversity of NGOs comprising the Third Sector-540 in Bratislava alone ( Stupava Conference 1 995), including not only envi­ ronmental organizations but social service and cultural groups­ hampered its ability to stand up to Meciar's government. Despite a strong protest campaign by some Third Sector representatives in 1 996, especially among environmental NGOs, the legislation was passed.

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Intellectuals: Politicians or Activists? András Bozóki distinguishes two main types of actor in East Cen­ tral Europe's transition to democracy: "makers of politics"-the old and new political elites-and the pressure groups or movements of civil society. The latter manifest their "political will in a less articu­ lated form, not only or not primarily through parties" (Bozóki 1 992, 1 68). ln the case outlined so far, however, both the green political parties and the non-governmental organizations (com­ ponents of civil society ) have failed to become effective political elites and have not articulated a consistent position. The unstable SZ split, and the Third Sector is currently weak and divided. ln the process of party formation and reformation, as well as through the redefinition of SZOPK and its offshoots, the boundary between them blurred. The ochranári themselves have clearly flitted be­ tween new parties and new and old NGOs and thus are partly re­ sponsible for destabilizing the political wills of both. Such move­ ment is largely the result of individual quests for a stable and effec­ tive political role, in which process numerous reinventions of po­ litical identities and intellectual projects have occurred. A few pro­ files of individual ochranári will demonstrate this process of intel­ lectual and political reinvention. Mikulás Huba, an academic geographer by profession and a cen­ tral figure in the 'revolutionary' SZOPK No. 6, ran for parliament on the SZ list as an independent candidate in 1 990. Disillusioned after serving one term, he left formal politics to create a non­ governmental organization, the Society for Sustainable Living (STUZ). This new NGO mirrored the old SZOPK in its spirit of state critique but approached ecological dilemmas more systematically, pursuing long-term research to assess the extent and scope of en­ vironmental mismanagement. Through STUZ, Huba introduced the Western concept of 'sustainability' into the vernacular of Slovak environmentalism and forged stronger working relationships with international organizations. Armed with the new paradigm of 'sustainability', Huba reinvented the ochranár's role as intellectual by circumventing the local political system, confronting Slovak society as an active contributor to the global ecological crisis. Jan Budaj, the most prominent ochranár in 1 989, was a dissi­ dent under state socialism, working as a stoker when not engaged in environmental and social activism. As a major figure in the VPN, and later as a supporter of Meciar's nascent HZDS, Budaj sought a direct political role in the new system. However, the policy of lus-

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tration-whereby individuals who had in some way co-operated with the secret police under the communist regime were pre­ vented from serving in the government-compromised Budaj's reputation and took him out of politics for five years. He had ap­ parently received a passport in the early 1 980s with secret police approval. Instead of returning to SZOPK, he worked for the inde­ pendent weekly Slobo dnj piatok as a political writer. ln 1 995 he re-entered political life, this time as deputy chairman of an opposi­ tion party, the Democratic Union ( DU). His activities as an ochranár effectively ended with the publication of Bratislava/ nahlas, but he continued to benefit from his former ochranár status during his re-emergence as a politician. Mária Filková was the secretary of the town council of SZOPK in 1 987, and among the twenty-three co-authors of Bratislava/ nahlas. While she did not actively pursue a political career she helped to create the VPN, rather than joining the newly forming SZ. She worked as a volunteer for the civic movement throughout 1 990. When the VPN split the following year, she supported Meciar's new faction, the HZDS. She returned to her activities as an ochranárka, however, and within the structure of SZOPK contin­ ued to develop, along with her husband, a new foundation, Nadá­ cia Horsky Park. This new NGO focused on the preservation and improvement of a park nestling in a wooded valley of Bratislava's Staré Mesto. The foundation was a successful conservation project modeled on Slovak environmentalist traditions. ln the transition arena of Meciar's populism, the privileges that these individuals had previously enjoyed gave way to a struggle for either political survival or a refocusing of identity. Huba chose to conserve environmentalism by reinventing it as an intellectual­ and so potentially political-discourse. Budaj chose to continue to pay a role as a politician. Filková did not actively participate in the new politics but reoriented her role in SZOPK during the transi­ tion, directly contributing to a fledgling 'civil society' by recreating her NGO as well as indirectly supporting new political parties. Their search for roles carried these ochranárl across the bounda­ ries of developing political and civic organizations as they them­ selves redefined their intellectual projects. The political experimentation of the ochranári also resulted in the creation of an entirely new and untested role. Juraj Zamkovsky joined SZOPK just before the Velvet Revolution, while he was a student in Bratislava. As an ochranár in SZOPK he found "a free­ dom of discussion that was for [him] absent in all other realms of public life" ( Zamkovsky 1 995, interview). Like Budaj, be chose to

Green Intellectuals in Slovakta

21 9

work with the VPN rather than help to form the SZ. After the VPN split he ran with the more fundamentalist greens in their unsuc­ cessful 1 992 election campaign. Zamkovsky then created his own non-governmental organization, the Center for Public Advocacy, an organization seeking to reinforce and encourage grassroots movements, particularly concerning the displacement of residents due to the construction of government hydro-electric projects. Zamkovsky was among the first of the ochranári to discard this label and adopt the more international title environmentalista, which he used to identify himself in a letter to the editor of SME, a Bratislava daily (ibid.). Zamkovsky argued that NGOs should not be merely vehicles for intellectual production but rather spaces in which intellectuals can work as activists to tackle specific prob­ lems. ln a paper presented at a conference held by Huba's STUZ, Zamkovsky proposed the cultivation of "intellectual-activists" within a broad movement for social change (Zamkovsky 1 994, 4). Like Huba, Zamkovsky sought ties to international environmental organizations and movements, but in order to learn from their tactics and experience rather than simply for a co-operative ex­ change of information. For Zamkovsky, the ochranár was a label tied to traditional conservation, sustained primarily because it had been the only type of 'environmentalism' allowed under state so­ cialism. His new NGO focused on the specific task of informing citizens of their legal rights and activating them as protesters against ecologically unfriendly policies. Zamkovsky's activities as an ochranár include participation in both civic and environmental politics, as well as the creation of a new political actor, the activist. As an activist, Zamkovsky does not attempt to serve society as a whole, like the classic 'intellectual', nor to engage in intellectual debates on the new system. The new activist role emerging in the transition is one that seeks the earliest possible solution to specific problems. These profiles show that, even within the space of a particular type of intellectual discourse production, a collective vision failed to emerge among the ochranári. Throughout the transition, some ochranári worked for democratization at the expense of the envi­ ronment; others focused politically on the 'nation' as against 'na­ ture', showing concern for the environment but within the context of an independent state. Still others hoped for a true 'green transi­ tion' of Slovak society. 7 Furthermore, no consistent and stable po­ litical role has developed for the ochranári within the context of democratization. Given the freedom to openly pursue the envi­ ronment as an intellectual as well as a political issue, the ochranári

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have experimented with a range of roles throughout the transition, some more politically successful than others. As politicians most ochranári have either failed to maintain their privileged positions of power or discarded the issue that provided them with this privi­ lege for the sake of political survival. The activist, unlike the intel­ lectual under the old regime and the politician under the new one, invents his own privilege regardless of the existing political sys­ tem. But with the new activists a plethora of competing environ­ mental ideologies and programs have emerged that tend to isolate previously united elements, even within nascent NGOs. For exam­ ple, Greenpeace Slovakia lost several key activists in late 1 994 who were dissatisfied with its limited campaigns. They förmed an inde­ pendent and more radical organization, Za Matku Zem, early the following year. Whether environmental activists can serve as a new "island of positive deviance", this time against the populism of Meciar's government, remains to be seen.

ln Lieu of a Conclusion The case of the ochranári, engaged in a process of redefinition, actually raises more questions than it answers concerning the po­ litical role of Slovak intellectuals, not as a collective category but as individuals moving within and through the very difficult transition to democracy. Can activists solve local and specific problems in a society preoccupied with broader questions of ethnic identity and economic restructuring? Will any effort to unite individual activ­ ists, as in the case of the Third Sector, be viewed as a moral critique of Meciar's government and therefore a political threat to be neu­ tralized? Has Slovakia's populist post-communist political arena closed the ochranári's privileged space for the production of new ideas and new symbols of environmental discourse? Petr Pithart characterizes the experience of Central European intellectuals after the revolution as one of double disappointment: the first disappointment is the slow pace of reform; the second "involves a mirror; it is disappointment at the inadequacy of one's own sense of reality" (Pithart 1 993, 75 1). lntellectuals, according to Pithart, did not expect the transition to be so slow and were disappointed by their original expectations of rapid democratiza­ tion. However, I would argue that expectations do not depend only on whether one's reading of reality is accurate or false, but

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also upon one's vision of a perceived or imagined future. Many ochranári attempted political roles based on a future which in­ cluded them as central figures in the transition. But as central fig­ ures they did not act as a collective political force with a common, articulate vision. lnstead their experience during the transition unfolded in a three-stage, divisive process. The ochranári moved from dissident marginality to revolutionary personalities, then finally from inexperienced participants in a new political system to newly marginalized and scattered inhabitants of an 'actually exist­ ing civil society'. Some ochranári, finding themselves in positions of public recognition during the Velvet Revolution, entertained the possibility of affecting quick social and political changes in accor­ dance with their ecological paradigms. Others pursued politics on the basis of their privileged status as public personalities, discard­ ing a commitment to the environment. Neme of them had previous experience in either, and their experiments weakened the new political green party, the old NGO structure, and set nascent or­ ganizations apart from one another: the 'public face' of the ochranári during the transition was transformed into a hydra. Pithart further notes that intellectuals did not expect democracy to be such an 'unintellectual' process. The activities of governing and maintaining power are exercises in real politics-coalition­ building, political favors, and playing the political game ( Bailey 1 969). ln Slovakia, technocrats have joined in this process, many becoming highly successful politicians ( Bútorová and Bútora 1 995, 1 09), and as a result have replaced the former privileged spaces of intellectual production with new ones: national identity, ethnic differences, and economic security within the context of market reform. Verdery's definition of the intellectual can perhaps high­ light the perceived loss of direction and the political marginaliza­ tion of the ochranári. Bratislava/nahlas was one of the means through which socialist society was 'thought' and criticized by its members, pushing one particular type of intellectual into a posi­ tion of political privilege. ln the post-communist transition, how­ ever, Meciar's populism has redefined privilege and, therefore, deviance. Those intellectuals working in particular spaces are faced with the challenge of resituating their discourse and creating new forms of activism. ln the absence of a participatory political arena the ochranári served, like many Central European intellec­ tuals, as anti-politicians, representing, from their "island of positive deviance", the citizens of Bratislava in the face of a neglectful re­ gime that was failing to serve them. However, Körösényi ( 1 994, 419) keenly observes that democracy, unlike other political ide-

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ologies, can only represent democracy. ln Slovakia's creeping 'non­ standard' transition to democracy, the ochranári face the difficult task of representing not others, but themselves. Their inexperi­ ence in this project has perhaps been the source of much greater disappointment than their apparent inability to perceive reality. But in this task Slovakia's 'green' intellectuals have only begun to formulate their potential political roles. The appearance of the activist, attempting to work in terms of the real world and encour­ age citizens to represent themselves, is perhaps one positive step in the face of many disappointments.

Notes 1 Bútorová and Bútora note that Kiíazko was "the one leading participant ín the events of November 1989 to be found in high office..." He was dismissed from Meciar's government in March 1993 (Bútorová and Bútora 1995, 123). 2 See, for example, Kavan (1996) for an account of the roles of Klaus and Meciar ín the so-called 'velvet divorce.' 3 The official structure of SZOPK consisted of a national Central Commit­ tee (under the close supervision of the Communist Party), several re­ gional committees, two town committees (Bratislava, Kosice), and a number of basic organizations that functioned as independent groups. 4 The following account is based on fieldwork conducted among the ochranári ín Bratislava and throughout Slovakia ín 1994 and 1995. 5 One attempt made by a high school student ín Banská Bystrica to form his own group 'Ekotrend' was prevented by the secret police. He later joined Bratislava's SZOPK No. 6 (Mesik 1995, interview). 6 This mirrors the classic green party division in Western Europe, between the 'fundamentalists' and the 'realists'. See, for example, Kitschelt (1989). 7 Some Western observers also hoped that, given the original popularity of the ochranári ín 1989, the transition would offer the West new models for environmental solutions. See, for example, Hunter and Bowman (1991) and Marshall (1991).

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References Bailey, F. G. 1969. Stratagems and Spoils. New York: Schocken Books. Banac, lvo, ed. 1992. Eastern Europe in Revolution. lthaca: Cornell Uni­ versity Press. Bauman, Zygmunt. 1987. Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, Post­ modernity and Intellectuals. lthaca: Cornell University Press. Bozóki, András. 1992. 'The Hungarian Transition in a Comparative Per­ spective.' ln Post-Communist Transitíon: Emerging Pluralism in Hun­ gary, ed. A. Bozóki et al., 163-91. London: Pinter. Budaj, Jan, ed. 1987. Bratislava/nahlas. Bratislava: Slovak Union of Nature and Landscape Protectors Basic Organizations No. 6 and No. 13. Bútora, Martin, V. Krivy, and S. Szomolányiová. 1989. 'Positive Deviance: The Career of a Concept in the Late 1980s.' Unpublished manuscript. Bútora, Martin, Zora Bútorová, and T. Rosová. 1991. 'The Hard Birth of Democracy in Slovakia.' Thejournal of Communist Studies 7 (14): 43559. Bútorová, Zora, and Martin Bútora. 1995. 'Political Parties, Value Orienta­ tions and Slovakia's Road to lndependence.' ln Party Formation in East­ Central Europe, ed. G. Wightman, 107-33. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. East, Roger, and Jolyon Pontin. 1997. Revolution and Change in Central and Eastern Europe. London: Pinter. Fisher, Sharon. 1993. 'The Gabcikovo-Nagymaros Dam Controversy Con­ tinues.' RFE/RL Research Report 2 (37): 7-12. Garton Ash, Timothy. 1990. The Magíc Lantern. New York: Random House. Hofbauer, Roman. 1995. 'Kolkoze to máme r&znych nadácií a spolkov?' Slovenská Republika (28 September): 3. Hunter, David P., and Margaret B. Bowman. 1991. An Overvíew of the En­ vironmental Communíty in the Czech and Slovak Federal Republic. New York: Center far lnternational Environmental Law. Kavan, Zdenek. 1996. 'Democracy and Nationalism in Czechoslovakia.' ln Citizenship and Democratic Control in Contemporary Europe, ed. B. Einhorn, M. Kaldor, and Z. Kavan, 24-39. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Kitschelt, Herbert. 1989. The Logics of Party Formation: Ecological Parties in Belgium and West Germany. lthaca: Cornell University Press. Körösényi, András. 1994. 'lntellectuals and Democracy in Eastern Europe.' The Political Quarterly 65 (4): 415-24. Lipset, Seymour M. 1960. Political Man. New York: Anchor Books. Marshall, Patrick G. 1991. 'The Greening of Eastern Europe.' Congressional Quarterly Researcher ( I 5 November): 851-71. Paulíniová, Zora Kalka, ed. 1990. Ochranca Priroda 14 (1-4). Bratislava: Town Committee of SZOPK. Pithart, Petr. 1993. 'lntellectuals in Politics: Double Dissent in the Past, Double Disappointment Today.' Social Research 60 ( 4): 751-61.

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Prins, Gwyn, ed. 1990. Spring ín Winter: The 1989 Revolutions. Manches­ ter: Manchester University Press. Stokes, Gale. 1993. The Walls Came Tumbling Down. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stupava Conference III. 1995. 'Third Sector in Slovakia: Regional Layout.' Bratislava: Slovenská akademická informacná agentúra. Szikra, Katalin F. 1995. The Position and Condition of Intellectuals in Hungary. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó. Szomolányi, Soiía. 1995. 'Does Slovakia Deviate from the Central European Variant of Transition?' ln Slovakia 's Parliamentary Elections, 1994, ed. S. Szomolányi and G. Meseznikov. Bratislava: Interlingua. Torpey, John C. 1995. Intellectuals, Socialtsm, and Dissent: the East Ger­ man Opposition and Its Legacy. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Verdery, Katherine. 1991. National ldeology under Socialism. Berkeley: University of Califomia Press. Waller, Michael. 1992. 'Profile: The Dams on the Danube.' Environmental Politics 1 (1): 121-43. Zamkovsky, Juraj. 1994. 'Perspektívy intelektuálov v kontexte hnutia za premenu spolocnosti.' Paper presented at STUZ seminar 'Ponovembrové Slovensko', 22 November.

lnterviews Mesik, Juraj. Banska Bystrica. 27 June 1995. Prónay, Koloman. Bratislava. 5 September 1995. Sremer, Pavel. Liptovsky, Mikulás. 16 September 1995. Sporer, Peter. Bratislava. 15 April 1995. Tatár, Peter. Bratislava. 14 April 1995. Trubíniová, Í.Ubica. Bratislava. 7 July 1995 Zamkovsky, Juraj. Ponicka Huta. 10 July 1995.

PART THREE THE RHETORIC OF ACTION: THE POWER AND POVERTY OF CRITICAL INTELLECTUALS

Intellectuals and Democracy: The Political Thinking of lntellectuals* ANDRÁS KÖRÖSÉNYI

Introduction The term 'intellectuals' is used in a rather narrow sense in this chapter, 1 to signify a much smaller circle than those who have obtained university degrees. Following Lipset ( 1 960, 3 1 1 ), by 'intellectuals' I mean those principally involved-usually working in the humanities and the social sciences-in the creation, elabora­ tion, and dissemination of ideas and symbols. These are so-called 'value-oriented intellectuals', a category which excludes techno­ cratic and policy-oriented intellectuals, that is, professionals, bu­ reaucrats, and the technical intelligentsia. Religious clerics are also excluded under this definition. By way of a preliminary definition, one might describe intellectuals as the social group that creates ideology and culture, and forms public opinion. The question is, 'Does the intelligentsia-1 shall use the terms 'intellectuals' and 'intelligentsia' interchangeably-like democracy?' My thesis is that it does not, or at least that its relationship to de­ mocracy is ambivalent: intellectuals are attracted to democracy as a concept, but their ardor tends to cool when it becomes a working political system. This may strike some as a bold assertion, given the key role of intellectuals-in Hungary and other Central European countries-in the recent democratic transition, lining up alongside the opposition, just as they did with the reformers under the communist regime. lt seems paradoxical that the same intelligent­ sia that appeared to be an enthusiastic believer in democracy­ regardless of party affiliation or sympathies-is today frustrated, disappointed, and dissatisfied with the actual working of demo­ cratic political institutions. ln section two I try to explain this paradox. The third section focuses on the political behavior of intellectuals in contemporary Central Europe, and the impact on it of their political thought and attitudes, especially their notion of democracy. Finally, in section four I deal with the political thought

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and attitudes characteristic of three political-ideological orienta­ tions among Hungarian intellectuals at the beginning of the 1 990s.

Paradoxes of the Political Thinking ofIntellectuals The Myth of Democracy How can we explain the ambivalent attitude of intellectuals to de­ mocracy, and particularly the disappointment and frustration of Central European intellectuals in the post-communist period? Needless to say, this political dissatisfaction never goes as far as constituting a rejection of democracy itself: on the contrary, it has its origins in what one might call the 'mythologizing' of democracy. This stems from the use of some idealistic or utopian condition as the measure in comparison with which 'real existing democracy' cannot be considered as 'tn1e' democracy. Mysterious references and appeals to 'Western' or 'classic' democracy are often made in this connection, to the detriment of empirical evaluation of the issue. This is not coincidental: there is no 'real' democracy, only 'real-world' democracies which rarely compare favorably with the 'ideal'. This 'mythologizing' of democracy is one of its greatest dan­ gers, as we shall see (Sartori 1 987, Chapter 4). The elevation-in Hungary and elsewhere in Central Europe-of democracy to foggy, utopian heights is understandable and may be considered an al­ most inevitable reaction to long-lasting political dictatorship. The phenomenon is not limited to Central Europe, however, and de­ rives from the general role and function of intellectuals in modern society. The Substantive Understanding ofDemocracy Perhaps the next most important aspect of the intelligentsia's atti­ tude to democracy is what might be called its 'substantive' under­ standing of it, in terms of which democracy is not an ensemble of well-defined institutions and procedures, but rather a normative system with a well-defined 'content'. To put it another way, de­ mocracy is not just a type of governing system, but a specific set of institutions, the working of which must realize a definite political

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outcome ( social equality, national unity, and so forth). Democracy means an ideal-which is, strictly speaking, unattainable-towards which we can or must always aspire, but which we can never reach. The Role Perception ofIntellectuals The critical attitude of intellectuals is related to their self­ perception, which differs substantially from that of other occupa­ tional groups and that of the bourgeoisie in general. Intellectuals as a social group are not so much an occupational as a status type. They are not responsible for social needs and ( market) demands and, unlike professionals and other occupational groups, they do not have direct responsibility for practical affairs. Instead, they produce norms and values and set the moral standard for society as a whole. The role of the intellectuals and their perception of it explain their relationship to democracy and the market. Market and Democracy The intellectuals' attitude to democracy is very similar to their atti­ tude to the market. 2 One feature shared by the market and democ­ racy is that both are guided by demand manifested en masse, that is, by common tastes. Fundamental to the intelligentsia, however, is its questioning-and often repudiation-of the 'communal', the average, the ordinary. It repudiates mass culture and the conform­ ism of the market-kitsch in art-as well as cheap popularity-see­ king or 'populism', and they have an aversion to both capitalism and politicians because of the requirement that they satisfy mass tastes if they are to obtain in return what they want: profits and votes. For this reason democratic politicians are perforce 'soap-box orators' or-especially in contemporary Hungarian and other Cen­ tral European intellectual writings-'populists'.3 Power plays the same role in politics as money does in business, as the measure of success. Professing elevated ideas about life and people, and pro­ claiming itself the trustee of the common good and justice, the intelligentsia scorns naked self-interest, in the form of the entre­ preneur who is a slave to the profit motive, and the politician who wants to maximize the number of votes he receives and at any ex­ pense. For the intelligentsia, the true democratic politician would be an eminent individual seeking the common good.

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Politicians in democracies are motivated by the same elevated ideals and/or prosaic interests as politicians in other systems. The point is not that they are of a morally higher order, but rather that the citizens have an institutionalized opportunity to supervise and ultimately to replace them. The peculiarity of democracy is that it provides an institutional link between (gratification oO the human desire for power and government in accordance with the wants­ or at least the consent-of the majority. Gratification of the desire for power is impossible without the assent of the political com­ munity-the majority of its voters-and so without aligning oneself with the tastes and desires of the majority. Given its internal logic, democracy is more capable of satisfying the human desire for power than of realizing ideals related to the best form of society: but while the former links it to mass culture-its alignment with the desires of the majority-the latter requires that one attempt to step back from it. Democracy is less capable than autocratic gov­ ernment of realizing elevated political ideals, and it is no coinci­ dence that a large number of advocates of left-wing, utopian ideals became supporters or fellow-travelers of the most successful totali­ tarian system of the twentieth century, Marxism-Leninism (see Hollander 1 98 1 ). The Intelligentsia and Power The intelligentsia has always had an ambivalent relationship to both power (the state) and private property. Power is at once at­ tractive and repulsive to intellectuals: while they always place cul­ tural- spiritual and moral values above power, the realization of these values, their nurturing and transplanting into the real world, is intrinsically linked to the acquisition of power. This has always been so: one need only recall the patronage of ancient and medie­ val times, the peculiar relationship of poets, writers, chroniclers, and scholars to princes and rulers. Intellectuals and the traditional aristocratism of the possessors of power were intertwined. With the extension of the right to vote and the creation of po­ litical democracy-the champions (or at least ideologists) of which were the intellectuals-the 'secularization' of power was accom­ plished: power obtained democratic legitimation. Power won with the consent of the masses, however, is the result of mobilizing the masses: in a democracy, power is no longer a prerogative or func­ tion of social status. For this reason, power has lost its aristocratism and become 'popular'.

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23 1

ln a democracy, there is competition for power, motivated­ among other things-by self-interest and the desire for power. The possession of power always carries with it the ordering and re­ pression of others. Earlier in history, this was a matter of social status and the moral standing of the power holders depended on whether or not they abused their power, which could be seen as an endowment from nature or God. ln a political democracy, the opposite is the case: power has become an object of competition. Self-interest and the desire for power-and these things constitute the main motivation for becoming a politician-are pursued openly. The antipathy to power of the moralizing intelligentsia was förmed and strengthened when it came under the laws of naked desire for power and ( self-)interest.

Democracy and the Status ofIntellectuals The intelligentsia has enjoyed an honored role not only in pre­ modern societies ( that is, before capitalism and democracy), but in the authoritarian and totalitarian dictatorships of the twentieth century. ln modern dictatorships, the intelligentsia achieved its privileged place in the first instance as a producer of ideology and as the social stratum which sought to legitimize the system. The market economy and political democracy alike devalue the status of intellectuals. 1 have already spoken of one of the reasons for this: their promotion of cultural and political mass taste and conform­ ism. ln the market economy and mass democracy the intelligent­ sia's honored social role is brought to an end.

The Intelligentsia ín Hungary and Central Europe A New Political Class? The intelligentsia's ambivalent attitude to democracy and its con­ sequent contradictions have manifested themselves dramatically over the last half-decade or so amid the changes in Central Europe. ln the Western world, however, due to the evolution of the market economy, unitary mass culture, and political democracy intellectu­ als have had a long time to come to terms with the fact that their

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role is only an 'auxiliary' one, and that they are not among the most important groups in society, or at least in politics. By contrast, in many countries of Central Europe a dual course has been run. ln the first place, the intelligentsia's democratic dreams have been realized, and in the course of the post-communist political transi­ tion the intelligentsia attained political power, often becoming one of the most influential groups. However, the intelligentsia unex­ pectedly and fairly quickly found itself losing status and facing the prospect of political marginalization. ln parallel with this, but not independent of the manner in which the intellectuals' ideals were embodied in real institutions, their ambivalence to democracy suddenly intensified. The historical background of the political career of the East Cen­ tral European intelligentsia consists largely in the difficulties it expe­ rienced over the century-and-a-half it took to attain, first, national independence, and second, democratic transformation. ln the era of national and political oppression, the intellectuals often represented the 'nation' or 'society' in opposition to the authorities, from which arose the 'prophetic' role of writers and poets which continued throughout the period of communist rule. ln the communist systems of Central Europe, the intellectuals also förmed the opinion-forming stratum serving the system, then both the 'internal opposition' and the 'dissident' opposition which stood against it. ln Poland, Czecho­ slovakia, and Hungary, thanks to its honored role and status, the in­ telligentsia turned into one of the main bearers of the regime change, and it seemed that it would form the political elite of the new, democratic regime. lt was able to retain this role, however, only during the time of transition, until the first (or second) demo­ cratic elections. The intellectuals played a key role in the transition movement, in the organizations which emerged to oppose the communist system (Solidarity, Civic Forum, Public Against Violence, Hungarian Democratic Forum, Alliance of Free Democrats, and so forth) in which they occupied the leading positions. Where, at the first democratic parliamentary elections, the opposition to the old system was still united and entered the elections in bloc organiza­ tions, as in Poland and Czechoslovakia, the intellectuals were mem­ bers of the first post-communist government. With the rapid subsequent collapse of the anti-communist 'front'-type organizations and the development of party pluralism, the status of the political groups of one-time reform or opposition intellectuals changed from that of major player to merely 'one among many'; some disappeared entirely from the political scene. ln Poland, they came to power as a consequence of the 1 989 'semi-

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free' elections (the Mazowiecki government), but after they had suffered a disgraceful defeat in the 1 990 presidential election they were pushed into opposition. ln the Czech Republic, among the parties that came into existence after the collapse of the Civic Fo­ rum, the Civic Movement-which enjoyed the support of former dissident intellectuals-could not obtain enough mass support even to obtain a place in Parliament, and the majority of its famous intel­ lectual politicians were swept away at the polls. A less pronounced but similar trend could be observed in Hun­ gary, where the two biggest parties, the SZDSZ (Alliance of Free Democrats) and the MDF (Hungarian Democratic Forum) had come into existence in 1 987-88 as a product of intellectual poli­ ticking. ln the MDF, however, already in 1 989- 90 the founding intellectual- populist- national group had been forced into the background: the sense of frustration to which this gave rise be­ came sharper as a result of the election victory. 4 ln the case of the Free Democrats, the party-founding intelligentsia held on to the party leadership, only to lose the election. This was probably no coincidence. There was already a history of conflict between the former dissident intellectuals and those who joined the party later on, with no dissident background. 5 The dissident intellectuals suf­ fered a temporary defeat within the party when János Kis-a for­ mer dissident-the political leader of the SZDSZ and symbolic leader of the liberal intelligentsia, resigned in the fall of 1 991, and Péter Tölgyessy, a pragmatic jurist, was elected president of the party. ln response, the dissident intellectuals renewed their tight grip on the party leadership, and it has remained the party with the most intellectual character in Hungary, and perhaps in Central Europe as a whole. ln my view, the decline in the Free Democrats' popularity-they suffered a catastrophic reverse in the 1 998 gen­ eral election-is a direct result of this. 6 As a result of their general loss of status due to the development of the market economy and democracy, the intellectuals' prospects of forming a political class were shaken. The political class formed from the politicking intelligentsia was still influential, but no longer dominant (see Körösényi 1 993b). While the communist regime had acted in the name of the 'nation' or 'society', democracy represents only itself. After the channels for formulating political desires were opened, the intelli­ gentsia lost its special position: it lost its monopoly on the repre­ sentation of the nation and society, and, as a result of the elections, it had to face up to their real political desires. The self-perception of the intelligentsia was in conflict with the logic of democracy.

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The Confusion ofRoles: Politician or Intellectual? The general ambivalence of intellectuals in Hungary and in Central Europe as a whole towards political roles is understandable: part of the supra-political, moralizing intellectual elite suddenly ended up . holding public office and political positions, or at least in their vicinity. The allure of a political career was great, appearing to offer the rapid translation of ideas into reality, but the need to at­ tend to minor matters, daily routine for the professional politician, was repugnant. The freedom of the intellectual life and the magic of power represented a difficult choice. The political careers of intellectuals are instructive: some could not put up with the 'dirty' world of politics, and left it voluntarily or were pushed out, to re­ sume their careers as full-time intellectuals; some turned into pragmatic, professional politicians; while a third group wanted to have their cake and eat it too, pursuing a political career-or at least having political influence-while remaining intellectuals. Strategies to Preserve the lntellectuals' Traditional Role Among the intellectuals who took on a political role, not all felt that the framework opened up by the parliamentary democratic system was capable of serving as a satisfactory vehicle for provid­ ing them with cultural and political influence. They looked in two directions for a breakthrough in respect of the narrow limits of institutionalized political desires and parliamentary party politics. The first was the securing of influence over the media: after losing their monopoly on the political representation of society and na­ tion, they made every effort to retain their monopoly on commu­ nications and language. ( I will return to this point in more detail later.) The second direction began in party politics, but also en­ compassed the intellectuals who remained outside to organize extra-parliamentary movements to defend the nation, society, or even democracy. Remaining aloof from the need to pander to the desires of the masses and the parliamentarism that had developed in Hungary, the intelligentsia sought to win back its former role: going over the heads of political parties and politicians besmirched by power, they tried to address the people directly in the name of intellectual, spiritual, and moral ideals ( or the nation, democracy, and freedom). By virtue of their pluralist structure, the political desire-forming institutions of parliamentary democracy do not appeal to the intelligentsia: while a political party may represent

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only a part, the intellectual-on the basis of his mora! superiority­ wants to speak on behalf of the whole.7 The formation of the Democratic Charter movement in late 1 991 was a characteristic expression of the intellectuals' sense of their own superiority. The movement was initiated by leading intellectual politicians from the parliamentary parties, who sought to speak to the people not as party politicians, but as intellectuals, 'from above'. The 'spokesmen' of this movement made public, irrevocable mora! and political declarations in the name of a people which had never empowered them to do so.8 They felt a calling to make judgments on democ­ racy and constitutionality, the law and equality, both in Hungary and in Central Europe as a whole ( the lnternational Democratic Charter) like some sort of non�partisan supreme court. They were intellectuals who in one role took part in political struggles as party functionaries or political publicists,9 and in another, rising above interests and politics, made judgments about "those who remained on the ground", the actors in institutionalized political democracy. 1 0 The Intelligentsia and Political Discourse

I have already mentioned that, during the period just before the regime change, the press played a very important role, giving pub­ licity from the mid 1 980s to the reform communists, and from the end of the 1 980s to the opposition intelligentsia. A very important part of the success of the intelligentsia during the regime change was its ability to define and form the language of political dis­ course ( see Konrád and Szelényi 1 992; Pokol 1 993); its dominant role was a function of the public opinion-forming tools at its dis­ posal. Even as it lost ground in party politics, however, it main­ tained its dominant position in the press. This was the background of the 'media war' which took place between 1 991 and 1 994, set­ ting journalists and the public opinion-forming intellectual elite against the parliamentary forces of the government coalition on such fundamental issues as culture, value systems, and politics. ln this 'media war' the professional mass communications elite professed to be defending the autonomy and independence-that is, the cultural and political tastes-of the media. 1 1 By contrast, the democratically elected government coalition, which was squeezed out of most of the national media, claimed to be championing the principles of non-partisanship, balance, and objectivity. They de­ manded democratic political control of the me_dia.

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The Political Thinking ofHungarian Intellectuals Perhaps the most important aspects of the Hungarian intelligent­ sia's attitude to democracy-as I mentioned in section 1 -are its mythologization of democracy and its understanding of it in sub­ stantive terms. 1 2 The democratic system is not, however, rule by the 'people', the 'nation', or the 'most illustrious'; nor is it a movement directed to­ wards the attainment of an ideal outcome: it is, rather, a system of government. Democratic government as such does not, however, mean the collapse of power, decentralization or 'de-statization', but rather the exercise of power, the management of the state: in other words, everything that the intellectual views with distrust. This distrust intensifies particularly when the government in power pursues policies that are not in line with the intelligentsia's ideas and value system, a situation which arises very frequently: in fact, we could say that it is a 'natural' concomitant of a system in which, at least ostensibly, the views of the majority reign. This is what happened after the 1 990 elections in Hungary, the parties enjoying the support of the dominant groups of the intelligentsia-among them the Free Democrats-going into opposition. Three Orientations ln what follows I would like to describe briefly the three most in­ fluential ideological groups of the Hungarian intelligentsia in the early 1 990s: left-liberal radicals, socialists, and national radicals. The most influential intellectual political current in Hungary at that time-left-liberal radicalism-accused the government coali­ tion, with its parliamentary majority, of centralizing central execu­ tive power, anti-democratism, and dictatorial endeavors ( Bauer and Kis 1 99 1 ). On this view, there would be 'real' democracy only when the radical concept of the state was realized, that is, when counter-balances and control institutions opposing central execu­ tive power-the legislature, the Constitutional Court, the President of the Republic, local government-gained the upper hand. These intellectuals considered only one form of democratic government to be the legitimate or 'true' one, while they cast doubt on the le­ gitimacy and democratic character of all others, including the po-

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litical and constitutional arrangements that had been agreed upon in Hungary (Kis 1 992). This negative attitude towards executive power is partly grounded on the oppositional stance as such, and partly stems from deeper New Left and anarchist roots, accompanied by con­ temporary American liberal individualism: anti-statism and the rejection of every authority higher than the individual. On this approach, freedom is incompatible with either authority or the state. lndividual freedom in the first instance means opposition to the state; that is why, for example, the taxi drivers' blockade in the fall of 1 990, which restricted fundamental civil freedoms, could be interpreted as a legitimate form of 'civil disobedience' in protest against the 'repressive' state or as a 'freedom fight'. Behind this radical liberalism may be discerned the world of 1 968-revolution and the spirit of direct action. 1 3 'Civil society' has been one of the most frequently heard buzz­ words of the last decade. 14 lt had already been used by the dissi­ dents and reform-communist opposition during the communist period and it remained fashionable after the political transition. ln the more theoretical articles, reference was made to the 'strategy' of civil society. As in one tradition of eighteenth-century Western political thinking, so in the Central Europe of the 1 970s and 1 980s the notion of civil society was a means of anti-authoritarian politi­ cal struggle and social self-definition vis-a-vis the state. However, while in the previous two centuries it had been a concept in politi­ cal philosophy, in contemporary Central Europe it became a slogan of everyday politics. The contemporary renewal of the notion was the product of the post-Marxist intellectual milieu. The notion of civil society was often accompanied by those of direct democracy and corporatism. Civil society was regarded by the Left, the West­ ern radicals and the Central European post-Marxists as the source of a new political orientation and strategy. During the disintegra­ tion of the communist regime, it was a part of democratic ideology. Since the political transition, however, it has become an ideology of radical social utopianism and of political mobilization in respect of the state and the institutions of representative democracy. ln Hungary, a wide range of left-wing orientations-from liberal radi­ calism to (ex-)Marxist socialists-used the slogan 'civil society', which for them amounted to a political strategy. 1 5 According to an analysis of the situation by the second group of Hungarian intellectuals-a pronouncedly socialist one, recruited from the previous reform-communist intelligentsia, and outstand­ ing in the 'newspaper politology' which came into being as a result

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of the change of system-the Hungarian parliamentary parties have "split from the masses": to all intents and purposes they are floating above society. Stratum- and class-based parties-and among them particularly a blue-collar, social-democratic mass party and corpo­ ratist policies-are missing. The weakening of civil society and neo­ corporatist structures since the change of system has become a favorite theme of the 'politology' tied to the Socialist Party and the former communist trade unions. By contrast, as far as the govern­ ment parties and the liberals are concerned, the trade unions-that until recently still filled the role of 'transmission belts'-and the MSZP [Hungarian Socialist Party] ( which entered parliament as the party of the functionary-nomenclature elite), are very much the representatives of the workers. Next to the daily political interests and the legitimization of the MSZP and MSZOSZ ( National Federa­ tion ofHungarian Trade Unions), a Marxist ideological background has been formed, which considers class-based policies, direct de­ mocracy, and worker participation to be superior to the represen­ tative system of government. Already during the period of demo­ cratic elections, the ideological group connected with the revan­ chism of the Socialist Party continually cast doubt upon the legiti­ macy of the entire parliamentary and representative system, and while at the beginning this ideology was directed mainly against the new parties, it has helped discredit the system as such. While it still has only a narrow basis in intellectual circles, na­ tional radicalism has become an important trend because of its mass influence. lts principal ideology is ultra-nationalism, which absolutizes the national ideal as the communal identity and source of integration-undoubtedly, the most important integration proc­ ess is the European one-and gives priority to this over every other value. As a result, constitutionality and democracy, as well as indi­ vidual freedom, are secondary to the nation-state, and democracy means nothing more than the creation and power holding of the old/new national middle class. Indeed, the 'formai' institutions of democracy would be worth nothing if the elites labeled 'the oppo­ sition' should come to power ( that is, in the economy, public af­ fairs, and the media). This point of view is mistaken, not only in that it does not differentiate between 'power' and 'influence', but also in that its notion of state power legitimized by the national ideal is not subject to limitation. As a consequence, national radi­ calism inevitably spawns right-wing radicalism.

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Conclusion The main peculiarity of the three Hungarian intellectual-ideo­ logical groups outlined above is that not one of them has been a participant in political ( executive) power: their views have not been realized in the arena of government politics. The national radicals could not transform their position within the majority government party into political ( decision-making) power until 1 994-in a similar fashion, the radical liberals and former ( reform­ communist) socialists could not capitalize upon their position in the media. All three groups held that the democratic transition remained incomplete, and that the political system that had so far come into being was not yet 'true' democracy. ln addition, they attacked the constitutional institutions and all or part of the politi­ cal elite that came to power at the 1 990 elections: they under­ mined or openly questioned their legitimacy, and considered themselves the 'true' trustees of democracy. I 6 Often they appeared to be in opposition not simply to the government, but to the sys­ tem itself: their transformation from a political opposition into an opposition in principle was the politicking peculiarity and tradi­ tion of the moralizing and ideological intelligentsia. The groups of Hungarian intellectuals of various political orien­ tations which took democracy as their goal during the period of the collapse of the communist system did not fully endorse the democratic system after the development of democratic institu­ tions and procedures: their attitude to the democracy 'of this world' was ambivalent. To this extent, intellectuals in East Central Europe are no different from their fellows elsewhere. What was different was the greater social 'and political influence wielded by the intellectuals as a result of the role they had played in bringing down the previous system and instigating the political transition. This influence has not served to stabilize the democratic system, however. 1 7 Often, the democratic myth becomes the greatest dan­ ger to democracy: as a consequence, the political thinking, atti­ tudes, and discourse of intellectuals are important issues, not only in the history of political ideas, but also in relation to our political prospects.

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Notes * An earlier version of this paper was published in The Political Quar­ terly, Vol. 65, No. 4 (1994): 4 15-24. 1 Gagnon ( 1987) differentiates four main approaches to the status and political role of intellectuals in modern society. (i) The neo-Marxists, who do not regard intellectuals as an autonomous class but as a group which expresses the class interests of other classes: one might mention in this connection A. Gramsci (1971), according to whom each class produces its own 'organic' intelligentsia, J. R. Brym (1 980), N. Chomsky ( 1978), and E. 0. Wright ( 1985). (ii) A group associated with the work of Karl Mannheim (1936), who assumed that intellectuals were "relatively classless", unanchored, or not too firmly rooted in the social order. (iii) The New Class theorists, such as Djilas ( 1966), Bazelon ( 1 967), Bruce-Briggs ( 1979), Gouldner (1 979), and Konrád and Szelé­ nyi ( 1 979), who assume that intellectuals constitute a class in their own right, since its members share a common relationship with the means of production. ln post-industrial societies the 'new class' dominates so­ ciety. ln capitalist societies, this 'new class' overshadows the bourgeoi­ sie, while in socialist regimes it surpasses both the working class and the political (vanguard) leadership. The 'new class' includes both value­ oriented intellectuals and the technical intelligentsia. Beyond Gould­ ner, and Konrád and Szelényi, the names of E. Etzioni-Halévy (1985), 1. Kristol ( 1 978), and J. K. Galbraith (1 969) should be mentioned here. (iv) The pluralist or functionalist approach, in which intellectuals are viewed not so much in terms of their class status as in those of their function in society and their relatíve alienation from its core values. lts major representatives are D. Bell ( 1976), M. Crozier, S. P. Huntington, and J. Watanuki ( 1975), P. Hollander 1988), S. M. Lipset ( 1960), J. Lukacs ( 1 984), J. Schumpeter ( 1987), E. Shils (1972), and J. Szacki (1 990). My own position is closest to this tradition. See G. A. Gagnon, 'The Role of Intellectuals in Liberal Democracies: Political Influence and Social Involvement,' in G. A. Gagnon, ed. (1 987, 3-18). 2 For my explanation of the intellectuals' aversion to the market I have drawn heavily on George Stigler ( 1963). 3 ln Hungary, the development of the notion of 'populism' is practically without precedent. 4 The radicalization of the Csurka faction (the populists of the Hungar­ ian Democratic Forum) in 1 992 was linked to this. 5 The "yokels" SZDSZ, as one leading Free Democrat intellectual politi­ cian called the 'other' segment of his party. 6 First the Socialists ( 1994), then the Federation of Young Democrats or FIDESZ ( 1998) were able to take advantage of the governing parties' loss of popularity.

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7 It is worth remembering the Hungarian Democratic Forum's internal debate about its transformation from a movement into a party in spring 1989. The writer-politicians conscious of their 'prophetic' role spoke against this transformation, arguing that, while the movement repre­ sented the entire nation, the party-by definition-could represent only part of it (see Csurka 1989, 3.) This same reasoning was used when the precursor to the Alliance of Free Democrats (SZDSZ), the Network of Free Initiatives, was being transformed into a party, in the name, not of the nation, but of (civil) society. 8 They could not even have done this, because the Democratic Charter had only 'spokesmen', but no membership. The question then arises, on whose behalf were the 'spokesmen' speaking? This did not seem to pre­ sent a problem to the 'spokesmen' themselves, who felt they were act­ ing in the name of morality and democracy. 9 Some of the spokesmen-such as György Konrád (SZDSZ), Iván Vitányi (MSZP), Zoltán Szabó (MSZP), and András Veér (Republican Party)­ were active politicians holding high party positions. 1 0 On one occasion, the Democratic Charter came out with a solid decla­ ration defending the constitution; on another it came forward with a governing program (the Social Charter); and later it offered advice on the direction to be followed in foreign policy. 1 1 This standpoint was adopted by the liberal and socialist opposition, which used the status quo thus förmed to its advantage. 1 2 The intellectual-politician Iván Vitányi, spokesman of the movement, defined democracy this way in a morning television program a few days before the Democratic Charter's general meeting on 7 February 1993. 13 The group around the transport workers' blockade devised the radical intelligentsia's ideology of civil disobedience. They placed justice in opposition to the law, the state, and sovereignty. Along with the 'amateur' politicking intelligentsia, part of the parliamentary political opposition cast the government's legitimacy into doubt, and sought to destabilize the situation. ln this way, at least indirectly, they under­ mined the legitimacy of democratic procedures. See Körösényi (1991). 1 4 A superb analysis of this is given by Béla Pokol (1993, 59-80). 15 See for instance Arato (199 1), Arato and Cohen (1992), Bozóki and Sükösd ( 1 993), Kumar (1992), and Molnár (1 996). 16 The open or hidden support for, or bringing into being of political organizations and movements that are the instruments not of parlia­ mentary politics, but of external political mobilization. For a more de­ tailed consideration of this issue, see Körösényi (1993a) 17 ln 199 1 -92, the real destabilizing attempts were not the product of pressure 'from below', or of a spontaneous mass movement, but re­ sulted from the polarizing political strategies of the three intellectual ideological currents and groups identified in this chapter (Körösényi 1 993a).

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Kis, János. 1992. 'Gondolatok a közeljövőről' [Thoughts on the near fu­ ture] . Magyar Hírlap (24 December). Konrád, George, and Iván Szelényi. 1979. The Intellectuals on the Road to Class Power. New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich. --. 1992. 'Értelmiség és dominancia a posztkommunista társadalmakban' [Intellectuals and domination in post-communist societies] . Politikatu­ dományi Szemle 1 (1): 9-28. Körösényi, András. 1991. 'Kormányozhatatlanság vagy legitimációs válság?' [Ungovernability or crisis of legitimacy?] . Magyar Nemzet (17 January). --. 1993a. 'Ellenségképek fogságában. A destabilizáció ideológiái' [Opposition images in captivity: the ideologues of destabilization] . Magyar Nemzet (8 January). --. 1993b. 'Kié a hatalom? A hatalom pluralitása Magyarországon, 19901992' [Whose power is it? The plurality of power in Hungary, 199092 ] . Politikatudományi Szemle 2 (4): 5-20. Kristol, Irving. 1978. Two Cheers for Capitalism. New York: Basic Books. Kumar, Krishan. 1992. 'Civil társadalom' [Civil society] . Mozgó Világ 18 (7): 4-16. Lipset, Seymour M. 1960. Political Man. New York: Anchor Books. Lukacs, John. 1984. Outgrowing Democracy: A History of the United States ín the Twentieth Century. New York: Doubleday. Maclean, 1., A. Montefiore, and P. Winch, eds. 1990. The Political Responsi­ bility of Intellectuals. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mannheim, Karl. 1936. Ideology and Utopia. New York: Harcourt, Brace. Molnár, Miklós. 1996. Civil társadalom és akiknek nem kell [Civil society and those who do not need it] . Budapest: Educatio. Pokol, Béla. 1993. Pénz és politika [Money and politics] . Budapest: Aula. Sartori, Giovanni. 1987. The Theory of Democracy Revisited. New Jersey: Chatham House Publishers. Schumpeter, Joseph. 1987. Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy. Lon­ don: Unwin. Shils, Edward. 1972. The Intellectuals and the Powers and Other Essays. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Stigler, George ]. 1963. 'The lntellectual and the Market Place.' ln The Intel­ lectual and the Market Place, 85-99. Glencoe: Free Press. Szacki, Jerzy. 1990. 'lntellectuals between politics and culture.' ln I. Ma­ clean, A. Montefiore, and P. Winch (1990, 229-46). Wright, Erik Olin. 1985. Classes. London: Versa.

Reaction as Progress: Economists as Intellectuals JÓZSEF BÖRÖCZ "lt is impossible to argue with you. You are not a liberal." 1 "As a matter of principle, I do not attempt to say Polish names. They are unpronounceable." 2

Introduction The purpose of this chapter is to investigate, largely ín abstracto, the epistemic stance of the group of knowledge producers commonly­ if imprecisely-known as the Hungarian reform economists. These thinkers won international acclaim during the state socialist period for the remarkably high scholarly standards they achieved in spite of the difficult circumstances in which they had to work. For the pur­ poses of this chapter, I will address economic writing as a terrain of political and social teleology against a background of profound so­ cial change, and view the economists as key agents in the process. This investigation constitutes the first step of a larger research proj­ ect into the sociology of economic knowledge, and my aims are cor­ respondingly modest: after more carefully defining my object of study-the Hungarian reform economists-with the help of the works of Carl Schmitt and Mannheim, I outline their epistemic position in terms of Mannheim's sociology of intellectuals and with a brief ref­ erence to A. 0. Hirschman's recent work.3 Let us consider, as a point of departure, the matter of the self­ reflection of economists. They clearly do not consider themselves to be intellectuals in the traditional sense: economics (modeled closely on physics) is viewed by its practitioners as the objective science of the market (modeled closely on nature). 4 For our pur­ poses, the most important consequence of this remarkable self­ proclaimed objectivity and detachment from all evaluative, cul­ tural, and political concerns, is that economic science has not con­ sidered it worthwhile to develop an explicit epistemological the­ ory. This lack of epistemological skepsis distinguishes economics quite sharply from all other branches of social science. The economic science that conformed to this image would be an immanent activity: knowledge production unaffected by, and only

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'in the final analysis' related to extrinsic concerns. Such a science would constitute a body of scholarship and a mode of social analysis whose main preoccupations, paradigmatic emphases, and law-like formulations would change either very slowly ( in accordance with the strictly cumulative model of norma! science) or in sudden, mo­ mentous outbursts ( rupture-like-Kuhnian-paradigm revolutions). Two sets of empirical observations provide a striking contrast to this envisaged approach.

Observation Set One When we asked a number of prominent Hungarian economists about the internal structure of their discipline, we expected vari­ ous versions of such handy disciplinary boundary descriptions as 'neo-classical versus institutionalist', 'theoretical versus empiricist', and so on. The purpose of our inquiry was to determine whether there were in addition any unique intra-disciplinary boundaries. To our surprise, all twenty-eight of the interviewed economists responded by claiming either that 'there is no structure' ( the first example of a social phenomenon without a structure that this author has ever encountered) or that it has a political structure of a sort. The notion that it might have 'no structure' can be under­ stood as the product of one of two positions: ( i) general resistance to the assumption that economics can be described in terms of clear-cut distinctions ( "mental sculpting"), or ( ii) more specific resistance to the application of rigid distinctions ( Zerubavel 1 995). To the extent that the more general resistance may apply, we might profitably draw on Carl Schmitt's notion that the essence of politics is the distinction between friend and enemy, "the specific political distinction to which political actions and motives can be reduced" ( Schmitt 1 976 [ 1 927] , 25-26). ln a thoroughly politi­ cized environment an approach from outside-in this case, with an innocent question regarding the internal structures of your disci­ pline-can be perceived as an intrusion or even an outright assault. "An enemy exists only when, at least potentially, one fighting col­ lectivity of people confronts a similar collectivity" ( ibid., 28). ln circumstances of political struggle, external questioning may give rise to a closing of ranks-in this case, the phalanx of economic scientists. "The political does not reside in the battle itself, which possesses its own technical, psychological, and military laws, but in

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the mode of behavior which is determined by this possibility, by clearly evaluating the concrete situation and thereby being able to distinguish correctly the real friend and the real enemy" (ibid., 37).5 ln other words, this reading of the reply 'economics has no structure' depicts a science that operates in a highly politicized, utterly combative mode, making knowledge-producing economists into specialists of intellectual warfare. This conclusion would, of course, lend strong support to our basic point concerning the in­ herently political nature of the Hungarian reform economists. 6 The second type of response-the reference to explicitly political divisions in the sense of conventional party politics-incorporates fairly mundane political struggles in the internal structures of eco­ nomic knowledge production. This would constitute a major reduc­ tion in the scope of economics, since it amounts to a claim that eco­ nomics is coextensive with political economy (the interface be­ tween economic science and the activities of politicians, concerned with the optimum behavior of the state, particularly with respect to the economy). Taking Schumpeter's classic work as an example, political economy is a borderline knowledge-producing activity combining economics, Staatswissenschaft, and political practice and directed towards rectifying the problem that "modern economic

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JÓZSEF BÖRÖCZ

theory... hangs too much in the air and does not take sufficient ac­ count of the fact that no sensible application to practical questions or even to the analysis of given situations of an economy can be made of its results without reference to the historico-political framework within which they are to hold" (Schumpeter 1 954, 22). The equation of economics with political economy, however, is little more than a crudely politicized synecdoche, which plainly leaves out all the other components of Schumpeter's economic science: eco­ nomic history, statistics, theory, and economic sociology, not to mention the other applied fields (ibid., 1 2-24). A particularly clear illustration of the second type of response is provided by the tool-kit contained in a figure sketched by one of the interviewed economists when asked about the internal struc­ ture of his field (reproduced as Figure 1 ). The two axes-market­ planning and national-international: defining dimensions of eco­ nomic policy-making-are used to identify the principal orienta­ tions ofHungary's main political parties (in the case of the MSZP or Hungarian Socialist Party accuracy requires that it be viewed as composed of two factions). The respondent has also taken the trouble to locate himself in the field ("Me").

Observation Set Two The economic writings on property relations produced in the last seven years clearly have a political dimension. The dramatis per­ sonae is always the same ('change dodgers' confronted by 'zealots'), while the debate moves along a continuum between equally stubborn apologias for state socialism and capitalism. Dur­ ing the eight years from early 1 986 (late state socialism) to late 1 993 (the crisis of the first post-state socialist Hungarian govern­ ment), the debate proceeded through the following stages: - an almost 'catatonic' apology for socialism (according to which the recognized problems are fabrications of the impe­ rialists, and so on); - a rhetorical defense of socialism in terms of its potential for 'improvement' (perhaps the problems are real but they are re­ lated to the actors rather than the structures, and so far­ reaching reform is not necessary);

Reaction as Progress: Economtsts as Jntellectuals

24 9

- a critique of state socialism (the problems are structural, so ef­ fective solutions require serious reforms, including such deep structural mechanisms as ownership); - proposals to transform socialist economies into mixed economies and/or pronouncements concerning the advent of a compound form labeled 'social market economy' or 'market socialism'; - calls for a bold transition to capitalisms of various sorts, the two most characteristic being (i) 'capitalism with a social con­ science' (modeled on the Northern and West-Central Euro­ pean welfare state systems of the 1 960s and 1 970s), and (ii) capitalism in its pristine form ('the real thing', modeled not on existing examples but on early- nineteenth century writings dealing with magically self-regulating capitalist markets, al­ though oblique references were sometimes made to 'well­ known' features of the US economy, though without any spe­ cific analysis); - an apology for capitalism no less catatonic than the one of­ fered in the name of socialism (the perceived problems are fabrications of the communists, and so on). Within this framework we may define our object more sharply. 'Reform economics' is a misnomer that applies only to a particular moment in the history of these debates-the point at which dis­ putes were characterized by the range of positions marked "catatonic apology", the "improvement of socialism", and the "critique of socialism" (the first three positions listed above). ln those circumstances, it was quite possible to isolate a group of knowledge producers who argued consistently for social change in the economic sphere without advocating the destruction of the basic structural properties of state socialism. This is a rough, though for my purposes adequate, characterization of the eco­ nomic debates in Hungary in the early 1 960s through the early 1 980s. 7 History, however, has moved briskly beyond this conceptualiza­ tion. The 'zealots' have raced quite recklessly to occupy new posi­ tions ranging from the mixed economy to a calculated apology for capitalism, while most of the 'change dodgers'-and certainly all those who have a voice in today's debates-have abandoned any explicit defense of state socialism, taking up more moderate posi­ tions. ln fact, as the very few committed practical Marxists can attest, the presentation of an outright apology for socialism in any form would today be considered an extraordinary act of intellec-

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tual zealotry. Because the former reform economists have covered the entire spectrum of positions opened up over the last eight years, it is more appropriate to think of the object of this analysis as 'reform-transformationist-Panglossian' economics. 8 What is most conspicuous about these debates is the extent to which their gradual shift is in harmony with the opening up of the political possibilities of the time (1986 through 1 993 ), and how little the texts which emerged from them resemble the products of an immanent science. There is no reference to any testing of theoretical propositions by comparing them with empirical observations (that is, there is no trace of a 'normal' scientific approach); np effort is wasted on outlining specific paradigms of economic science. lt is also impossible to find in them any great revelation or new discovery that rearranges the internal logic of the field to any significant ex­ tent. ln temporal terms, the shift in the debates concerning owner­ ship in Hungarian economics is much too fast for norma! science, but much too slow to constitute a paradigm revolution. This linking of the economic debates on ownership to the dy­ namics of politics establishes the basis on which I shall provide the outlines of an analysis of Central European economists, not as cool, uninvolved professionals (in accordance with their own self­ image ), but as social actors deeply involved in politics. The dynam­ ics of their economic science are predominantly not immanent but extrinsic: they have much more to do with the gradual transforma­ tion of the public sphere-in which, step by step, the scope of what was considered permissible political speech was widened-and the general party political debates of the time than with the intrinsic needs of a self-absorbed 'natural' science of economic life. The participants in these debates are thus engaged in political battles because, rather than despite the fact they are economists: they are political actors-articulators of society's desires concerning social change-precisely as economists. lt is now time to analyze them in terms of Mannheim's theory of intellectuals.

Imploding Mannheim 's Dichotomy Karl Mannheim's Ideology and Utopia goes right to the heart of our subject, quite apart from the fact that he came from Central Europe and the role of his work in defining a generic institutional niche for the sociology of knowledge. The main interest of Mann-

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heim's work lies in its specification of the role of knowledge and its socially located producers in the grand Marxian connection between social structure and social change without reproducing what has often been seen as the essentializing, determinist, and messianistic tendencies of part of the Marxian tradition. Mannheim drafted a dichotomous model for inserting intellectual knowledge in social change, summarized in his classic distinction between ideology and utopia. Mannheim's preliminary, non-evaluative notion of ideology in­ sists that "ruling groups can become in their thinking so interest­ bound to a situation that they are simply no longer able to see cer­ tain facts. There is implicit in the word 'ideology' the insight that in certain situations the collective unconscious of certain groups obscures the real condition of society both to itself and to others and thereby stabilizes it" ( Mannheim 1 936, 40). As his main interest concerns understanding the relation be­ tween social structure and social change through the production of knowledge by intellectuals, the social- ontological background that Mannheim's logic assumes is a 'situation', a given, discreet structural constellation of power and privilege. As a result, the issue of whether change has already been set in motion by means of some impetus originating outside the sphere of knowledge pro­ ducers, and the possible effects of such social change on the knowledge-producing activities of intellectuals-or even on society as a whole-is not addressed explicitly. The reference to 'stabili­ zing' the situation can, of course, be read as implying the presence of such pre-existing and exogenous dynamics, but this is not ana­ lyzed in sufficient detail. Social change, in fact, constitutes the other part of the dichoto­ mous structure of knowledge production: utopia. Mannheim de­ vised this notion in recognition of the fact that certain oppressed groups are intellectually so strongly interested in the destruction and transformation of a given condition of society that they unwittingly see only those elements in the situation which tend to negate it. Their thinking is incapable of correctly diagnosing an existing condition of society. They are not at all concerned with what really exists; rather in their thinking they already seek to change the situation that exists. Their thought is never a diagnosis of the situation; it can be used only as a direction for action. ln the uto­ pian mentality, the collective unconscious, guided by wishful repre­ sentation and the will to action, hides certain aspects of reality. It turns its back on everything that would shake its belief or paralyze its desire to change things. (Mannheim 1936, 40)

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To rephrase this for our purposes, the classic contrast between ideology and utopia is based on the distinction between the pres­ ence or absence of an orientation towards a will to social change with a particular direction. This assumes the pre-existence of a given, stable constellation of structural features ("a given condi­ tion") so that change can be presented analytically as a result of the workings of the utopian mentality. Consequently any notion of pre-existing or exogenous social change is obscured in the analyti­ cal scheme. The application of Mannheim's sociology of knowledge to con­ temporary Central Europe thus requires some modification. This involves recognition of the fact that the actors whom we are ob­ serving are-and, arguably, have been for several generations­ operating against a background of large-scale, often centrally engi­ neered, and always sweeping, social change. The architectonic rearrangements of the realities of these societies have had every­ thing to do with imperial dynamics, superpower negotiations, and the like, and so have been almost completely exogenous from the perspective of Central European thinkers. Momentous rearrange­ ments of social reality have become part and parcel of the histori­ cal heritage of this part of the world, encompassing not only Cen­ tral Europe's current transformation but much of its twentieth­ century pre-state socialist and socialist history (see, for example, Böröcz 1 99 1 a and 1 992).9 lt appears quite reasonable to expect that intellectual knowledge-producing activities would be pro­ foundly influenced by this condition. A second important feature of Mannheim's conceptual appara­ tus is the historical embeddedness of his analysis. Mannheim's work implicitly assumes the unitariness of the social universe: it is axiomatic for his scheme that a substantively different, and possi­ bly radically more attractive, alternative is not available for the producers of socially transcendent knowledge in the comparative present. As a consequence, not only ideas con