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Editor’s Note
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This issue is the product of a collaboration between Red Thread e-‐journal and SWEET 60s project. Red Thread has provided a theoretical platform for SWEET 60s, a long term experimental, curatorial, scientific and educational research project that investigates the hidden territories of the revolutionary period of the 1960s through contemporary artistic and theoretical perspectives, which has developed around itself a wide international network of interested and cooperating individuals and institutions. The curatorial and artistic focus of SWEET 60s lies on "post ideological societies" (in post-‐Soviet, post socialist, Eastern European, Middle Eastern, West and Central Asian as well as North African countries and in a second phase in China and Latin America), in making a comparative analysis and contextualizing the historical developments in the arts, culture and societies of the 60s and 70s and researching their subsequent effects on contemporary socio-‐political and cultural situations. The project mainly concentrates on the still underexposed global cultural shift in the 60s and its effects in countries that were omitted in the historical explorations of that particular revolutionary period; situations that were developing beyond the, so to say, "Prague Line." The general perception of the 60s period is still associated with Western culture and with the formal fragmented replications of Western processes in the "peripheries" and "outskirts." Despite the differences in their geopolitical and sociocultural contexts, the political, social and cultural processes ongoing in countries in West Asia, the Middle East, the Southern Caucasus and North Africa (including the Arab world) since the mid 60s were tightly interconnected with each other and they played a momentous role in shaping subsequent developments on both a regional and a global scale. The effects and the logic of the political, social and cultural paradigms and constructs that were established in that period can still be traced today when we also witness the culturalisation and aesthetization of this epoch of "rebellious euphoria." The project explores the differences and similarities of that turbulent period in the aforementioned countries through a comparative analysis of the important (from the contemporary artistic or critical points of view) symbols, expressions, and developments in the social, cultural, political and economical fields (like social/political movements, significant works and trends in architecture, literature, visual arts, cinema, pop culture, mass culture, subcultures, etc...). In the early 60s, a hopeful spirit of modernism had moved into the private ateliers in many art-‐scapes that were then conceived as peripheral or provincial. In the so called Soviet Block, the existential fears risen in the period of the Stalinist dictate of realism had already elicited initial counter-‐reactions after 1956, leading to a reenactment of extreme subjectivism. In the totalitarian and colonial art-‐scapes of the Arab world and North and Central Africa as well as West and Central Asia, new groups and positions that emerged joined an international artistic spirit of late modernist universalism and were able to feel accepted again in the international canon with their kinetic objects, light works, and their structural-‐geometric abstractions. In the second postwar decade, a generation of neo-‐constructivist artists on both sides of the Iron Curtain and the former colonies had formed a kind of international association. During these years, the loosening of the repressive climate created more freedom regarding artistic means of expression -‐ and also enabled a new approach to aesthetic work. In a way, neo-‐constructive modernism, the new abstraction, functioned not only as a sign of the end of an era, but also a kind of repression machine: the new modernism was also a substitute for the errors and oversights of fordism and socialism and their models of social modernization; it criticized mass culture and its everyday objects, placed artistic work in an abstract space of work on the form, and was the vanishing point of the real world of the Cold War. The era of the neo-‐avant-‐gardes left their traces around the globe. Yet it is still the neo-‐avant-‐gardes of the centers that have been canonized.
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In contrast to the currently accepted master narratives and historical canons, the project considers the processes of the 60s not as an eruption of a volcano generating echoes in the rest of the world, but as a general socio-‐cultural, political, economical condition which evolved in a global context and determined the development of parallel modernities interrelated with the development of diverse sociopolitical and cultural radical processes in every part of the world.
The Soviet 60s: Just Before the End of the Project Keti Chukhrov
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We dissolve in the human quantities, in your spaces the Politechnical… А. Voznesensky
I
The Soviet 60s represent a very contradictory thesaurus of narratives. On the one hand, this was a period of the famous Thaw and of political expectations about the Soviet utopia’s breakthrough. On the other hand, the 60s prove to be a decade of harsh disillusions ending up with the Prague Spring of 1968 and entailing the recession of democratic revival and cultural development. The contradictions are evident: the flight of Gagarin to outer space (1961) and the erection of the Berlin wall (1961); emergence of international venues and festivals and the notorious censorship of the “Manege” exhibition by the government (1962); severe prosecution of “Western,” “formalist” modes of expression in art and everyday life; censorship of artists, filmmakers and musicians for their “anti-‐Soviet” activity (e.g., the case of Daniel and Sinyavsky in 19651) and the resurgence of avant-‐garde narratives and strategies in film, poetry, visual arts, and music. It is generally considered that despite the Thaw (1957-‐1964), the art and culture of Soviet Russia in the 60s remained detached from the world procedures of modernization, as well as from the neo-‐avant-‐garde currents in art, not to say anything about the political resistance in Europe and the US. This is probably true if one takes into account the degree of the subversive intensity of art and politics in the Western 60s. There could have been no such thing under the governance of the Soviet party bureaucracy. On the other hand, it should be noted that the Soviet literature, art and culture reaching the West since the end of the 50s were mainly dissident and anti-‐governmental, but their criticality towards the Soviet regime didn’t presuppose their being avant-‐garde or politically subversive. On the contrary, despite being resistant to the party authority, such literature and art often happened to be conservative or even reactionary and traditionalist. In other words, the West didn’t have the chance to know the modernizing tendencies ostensible often rather in the non-‐underground, or even the so-‐called “official” Soviet milieus (architecture, science, film, music, theatre, art, social engineering); this is the reason why these layers of culture remained internationally unaccepted for being “Soviet.” The year 1962 – when the exhibition ‘Manege’2 including works by various generations of Soviet artists underwent a severe censorship of Khrushchev – marked the split of culture into the official and non-‐official (or non-‐conformist) realms. As it is known, the main cause for the party criticism was the “abuse” of modernist, abstract and formalist methods in art. This ban on formalism and abstraction remained intact despite the gradual discarding of the socialist realist canon and lasted until Perestroika. On the other hand, except for the ban on abstraction, there had been no other specific prohibitions in visual culture. Hence, all abstract art of the 60s appeared to be non-‐conformist and was often taken for the “great” unacknowledged art, as was the case with many exhibitions at the Norton Dodge Collection (Rutgers University Zimmerli Art Museum) consisting predominantly of Soviet underground art. Ilya Kabakov, in his “Notes on the Non-‐official Life in Moscow of the 60s and 70s,”3 calls the art of the 60s extremely personalist – a tendency that, despite it eluded Soviet propagandist art, could not have been considered progressive in terms of international tendencies. Kabakov makes it clear that the split in the artistic intelligentsia of the 60s was beyond a division between party conformism and anti-‐Soviet non-‐conformism; i.e., part of the “non-‐official” artistic intelligentsia tended towards rethinking the Russian avant-‐garde’s aesthetic methodologies. For example Lev Nusberg and his group “Dvijenie” [Movement] emerging in the 60s were relying on the
1 Soviet writers Andrei Syniavsky and Juli Daniel were condemned to 7 years of imprisonment for publishing their works abroad under the pseudonyms Abram Terz and Nikolai Arzhak. 2 See Juri Gerchuk, Haemorrhage in MOSKH, M., Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2008. 3 Ilya Kabakov, 60s, 70s… Notes on the Unofficial Life in Moscow, M., Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie, 2008 (in Russian).
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constructivist ideas of Naum Gabo. Although quite detached from the official art-‐nomenclature, Nusberg, nevertheless, called himself a Leninist utopian and characterized his work as the aesthetic organization of the environment. Researching the potentialities of kinetism, Nusberg took interest in investigating the anthropomorphic background of mechanic movements and the mechanic traits of human behavior. The interest in avant-‐garde futurology and synthetic artistic practices, and in the inter-‐relation of the mechanical and the natural was ostensible in works by Viacheslav Koleichuk – another member of the “Dvijenie” group (who later founded his own creative project “Mir”) as well as in works by Fransisko Infante. Infante invented in the 60s photographic projects combining geometric objects and natural landscapes, and he called them artifacts. But, unlike Nusberg and Koleichuk, his motivation was completely devoid of any utopian background or projections of constructivist design. Interestingly, the above-‐mentioned practices (often abstract in form) were not censured – unlike the more conservative painting of non-‐conformists like Julo Sooster, Eduard Shteinberg, Oscar Rabin and Vladimir Nemukhin – probably because they intersected to a considerable extent with the format of architectural design, scientific experimentation and cybernetics. The abstractionist artists appearing by the late 50s and later – Yuri Zlotnikov, Oleg Prokofiev, or Boris Turetsky – were probably not persecuted because of the same reasons. Many abstract paintings by Zlotnikov were meta-‐artistic and interdisciplinary researches on the psychophysiology of signal systems, study of mechanisms and the procedures of perception, and were often based on his knowledge of mathematics and cybernetics. In this case abstraction served as research on the objective languages of communication and the study of the material features of the environment. Despite all that experimentation, it is still a question whether the above-‐mentioned groups were the avant-‐garde movements of the 60s in their own right, and not just replications of the forms and ideas of the 20s (e.g., Kabakov characterizes these groups as the delayed utopianism). As for the dissident non-‐conformist groups of the 60s, such as for instance the Lianosov group (Eduard Shteinberg, Oscar Rabin, Evgeni Kropivnitskiy, his son Lev Kropivnitski, Vladimir Nemukhin, Lidia Masterkova, Genrich Sapgir, Igor Holin and others), they indulged in an escapist aesthetics which they called anti-‐aesthetics, and appeared as the complete reverse of the socialist and communist recreation project of the 60s. The Lianosov group members were the first to launch the tradition of the utmost hermetic commonality as the means of artistic communication and production.4 They deliberately rejected reflection on any issues related to social life or political debate, reduced artistic issues to personal metaphysics and viewed reality as a whirlpool of dispersed epiphanic phenomena – the stance that was called “concretism” and influenced to a certain extent Moscow conceptualism. Juri Zlotnikov called such a stance “a metaphysical salon of the underground.” Although there is a big difference between the two tendencies of the “unofficial” art – the dissident and the neo-‐avant-‐garde undergrounds – what they had in common was a certain indifference towards reality, which for the soviet intelligentsia in its frequent elitist attitudes represented nothing but a simulacrum of the ideological discourse. Hence such a preoccupation either with esoteric and metaphysical matters or scientific abstractions... It was only later in the 70s that conceptualist art-‐experiences (in works by Eric Bulatov, Ilya Kabakov, Andrei Monastyrsky, Dmitry Prigov) produced an analytical review of and a critical reflection on Soviet ideology. Unlike the Western art space of the 60s – in which the notion of contemporary art had already become the embodiment of contemporaneity – the 60s in Soviet visual arts cannot be considered as the realm of a wide-‐range reflection on modernity. Contemporary art practices – taken as the continuity of the subversive and radical art-‐strategies – emerged in the visual art space only with the first attempts of the Moscow conceptualists to subversively question the languages of cultural production and “socialist” propaganda. Such a semiological analysis of the reality enabled an escape from the quasi-‐modernist symbolism of the
4 On the non-‐conformist Soviet art of 50s -‐ 80s see Karl Eimermacher, “From Uniformity Towards Diversity,” M., Lotman Institute of Russian and Soviet Culture, 2004.
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60s and a deconstruction of the rigid rhetorical carcas of the worn-‐out images of utopia. At the same time, (as was the case with Kabakov) the conceptualists produced the inner heterotopias, the “other” spaces – the worlds which were too absurd and poetic to be digested either by the state apparati, or the pathetic aspirations of the fine arts, still so relevant for the art generation of the 60s.
II Meanwhile, the question is why, when it comes to tracing avant-‐garde strategies, it is only contemporary art that is mainly regarded as its subject and center. In its genesis, avant-‐garde cannot solely be reduced to renovation of artistic or even cultural means, but aims to reconsider life and politics in general. Therefore what was politically important for the avant-‐garde could as well be sought in life-‐styles and self-‐organized collectivities. If we consider avant-‐garde as a certain innovative artistic methodology (i.e., if we view it from the point of view of contemporary art history) Moscow conceptualism of the 70s is more avant-‐garde than the previous 60s. But, reconsidering avant-‐garde in terms of the spirit of life production and open spaces for social intersection, in terms of the emergence of free creative time as common good, make the 60s demonstrate a stronger and broader effort for bringing an avant-‐garde spirit into political and artistic activities even in comparison with the conceptualism of the 70s. Therefore, it may be productive to rethink the Soviet 60s as a potentiality which is not reduced to the linearism of art history. To witness the atmosphere of change and the promotion of the ideas of socialist modernization, we have to take the aspects of the Soviet 60s not connected directly to contemporary art. Despite ideological domination, these features were evident: the rise of lower social layers, the changes in urban spaces and the modes of inhabiting them (e.g., in the 60s peasants were granted passports and the freedom to migrate to cities and receive higher education), urbanization of rural areas, and the emergence of neo-‐Marxist themes in philosophy, literature and cinema that almost disappeared in Stalinist cultural politics. Interestingly, in the post-‐Stalinist Soviet 60s, mass propaganda often overlapped with the democratic processes. The paradox of such an overlapping was the following: in many cases the official ideology with its social program proved to be more democratic than the “anti-‐totalitarian” strife of many underground artistic circles, of the dissident intelligentsia which manifested its detachment from people of “non-‐prestigious” professions, workers and farmers, thus demonstrating an elitist attitude towards the proletarian social layers. This means that despite the mainstream party ideology, the “new,” “fresh” currents even within the so-‐called “official” culture interpreted the hitherto forgotten avant-‐garde project as the expansion of the October Revolution and its legacy rather than a formalist methodology. This was the case with the films of Marlen Hutsiev and his melancholy for the communist utopia in “July Rain” (1966), or “The Gates of Ilych”, (1964); with Genadi Shpalikov and his screenplay on Mayakovsky, who was also the scriptwriter for Khutsiev’s above-‐mentioned films; with Larisa Shepitko and her film “Wings” (1966), where she manages to combine a poetic attitude towards machines and technical achievements with the commemoration of World War 2 heroism and criticism of the emerging interest in consumer society. Devoid of control, for a very short period of time in Soviet history the social space of the 60s acquired features that were probably even demanded and fought for by the revolutionary generation of the Western 60s: the acceptance of all social layers into universities, criticism of the hierarchy in cultural spheres, attacks on the bourgeoisie appropriating the common good values of art, science, and public sphere. In other words, the party’s hostility to certain aesthetic features, considered abstract or formalist, could have been combined with the living spaces of social equality and non-‐segregation. On the other hand, wasn’t Greenbergian and Adornian
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modernist purism (adored by the Soviet artistic elitist intelligentsia), as well as consumer culture’s spectacular attractivity (adored by the Soviet “stilyagas” 5 and forbidden in Soviet universities) criticized by the generation launching Situationist or feminist practices in the West of the 60s? The paradox of Soviet socialism, which is definitely a mutant socialism, is the following: it arose from an immature capitalist system and all those freedoms that had to be attained within the developed bourgeois society – individual rights, civil society, high standards of living and consuming – were missing in it. But strangely, lacking the technical and economic maturity indispensible for socialism, Soviet socialism developed certain features amounting to communism’s mature humanist aspirations – manifested in open education, high estimation of science and culture and free creative time as one of the main common goods. The society that in the Stalinist period retained the non-‐class parameters due to the economic and political control, devoid of the authoritarian interference since the late 50s combined until, maybe, the late 60s both: the non-‐class dimension and the relative freedom from the harsh proletarian labor of the previous two decades. The non-‐class society in this case was not a forced condition but a real disposition in the society – not yet having the gentrified layers and still being based on the proletarian negligence to life standards, commodities, fashion and quality consumer values. Returning back to the above-‐mentioned films by Marlen Khutsiev and Larisa Shepitko, they are just a few cases reverberating the main social and cultural conflict emerging in the Soviet 60s and dividing the society by the beginning of the 70s. The conflict was: how to preserve fidelity to the radical social change that the October Revolution accomplished, and at the same time not identify Stalinism with the socialist project; how to refer to the project of proletarian heroism and its historic legacy, its positioning of the communism’s avant-‐garde in the conditions of the transition to late industrial or post-‐industrial society; how to make culture an open space for the majority with still a considerable amount of peasantry on the one hand and the emerging depoliticized learned and cultural elites on the other; and how to remain democratic within the closed borders and the Cold War regime. Marlen Khutsiev, in both of his classical films from the mid 60s – “July Rain” and “The Gates of Ilych” – reproduces the non-‐ideological spaces of everyday life, contingent crowds and the flaneurship of a new post-‐Stalin generation. At the same time, he observes how the dimension of everyday serenity gradually becomes a stance of complacency – which is ethically and politically loose and undemanding in terms of the further promotion of the communist project. This was, to a considerable extent, a double bind, a dilemma of the Soviet 60s: whether the socialist ideals can endeavor in simple everyday life without struggle or heroic sacrifice. The 1st of May labor and solidarity demonstration becomes, in “The Gates of Ilyich,” a site where personal melancholy and private life are transcended, a site where the individual story and the collectivities overlap, or rather the individual event can only emerge from the collectivity: love, friendship and social aspirations for the future take place at one and the same space. Such multiplicity of people is different both from Antonio Negri’s and Paolo Virno’s multitudes. For Virno, the commons and multitudes do not have to constitute any gathering, or a space of common joy. The main thing is the relation between individuals motivated by concrete productionist goals. This is only natural for the post-‐Fordist capitalist society where the multitudes have to subvert the spaces of capitalist production. In this case “the common” is understood as the general intellect shared by means of immaterial labor. Such common general intellect, when it is not general for all or shared equally, should be subtracted in the act of exodus by multitudes. In this case “the common” is understood as a civil potentiality and is not necessarily experienced as such. The collectivity of the “Gates of Ilych” is different. It is not based
5 A subculture that emerged in the USSR at the end of 50s and followed a Western way of life, demonstrating a deliberate anti-‐political attitude towards life and a negative attitude towards Soviet ethics. Stilyagas talked quasi-‐English slang, indulged in entertainment (music, dance) and wore grotesque outfits in contrast with the Soviet way of life, its minimalism and uniformity in style.
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on concrete relational proceedings and is not even productive. The day to celebrate the labor solidarity is a day-‐off – a free non-‐working time. “The common,” “the general” here is an experience that exceeds the concrete utilitarian trajectories and goals of exchange and amounts to sensing together the space of non-‐exploitation and equality in the already achieved non-‐capitalist society (no matter whether it was a really achieved stance or not). Free egalitarian labor is in sensing together the excess of that very time that is free from labor. Such free time has a progressive purport only in the presence of others or as a time spent for the general good. As soon as it is experienced in private solitude or for personal utilitarian aims, it generates melancholy and doubt about it being lost for nothing. This is why the social narrative of the 60s brings forth the clash between two protagonists: one is a collectivist, a heroic participant of World War 2, or maybe even remembers the revolutionary past, usually not so well educated but politically precise; the other is a young individualist, already fascinated by entertainment, well informed and educated, slightly bohemian and fed up with the fidelity to the ethical super-‐ego and communism as its satellite. Both Shepitko and Khutsiev solve this dilemma through introducing into the narrative a character combining a revolutionary romanticism and a participatory attitude towards life and labor. Like the former pilot and the World War 2 heroine who becomes a school director in Shepitko’s “Wings”; or like the young student and worker who, in “The Gates of Ilych,” scandalously leaves his girlfriend’s bohemian party, just because the guests mock the lifestyles of peasantry and workers. In the narratives of the 70s, such a character is still highly anticipated, but is already seen by the majority as an idiot or as an exception to the rule.
*** In his article “On the General”6 written at the end of 60s, the Soviet philosopher Evald Ilienkov develops a Marxist interpretation of this notion. He claims that the General is neither a metaphysical idea suspended over reality or imposed on it, nor a category of the positivist logic that considers the general as an abstract invariant. It is something that being common to all is at the same time present in each of all. In other words, the General is only unraveled via objective reality, the material phenomena and their occurrences. But only those occurrences attain the General whose specific feature, whose eventuality is in becoming the General. This parable of dialectics tends to show that what is common to all (or even the universal) is neither distribution or expansion, nor speculative abstraction. It is, first of all, experienced and sensed, and evolves from the material world, and not vice versa. Moreover, it has to be confirmed by living through it. Therefore, whatever seems to be an ideal is generated by life and doesn’t contradict it as in case of Christianity. While the Soviet 60s still preserve such a continuity between universalist aspirations and lifestyle (“continuity between the thoughts and deeds” as the protagonist of the “Gates of Ilych” puts it), the early 70s already reveal the irretrievable rupture. Referring to the General occurs to be just reduced to language, detached from life and deeds – the rupture that gradually brings the end of the Soviet socialism project.
6 Evald Ilienkov, “On the General,” Philosophy and Culture, Moscow, Izdatelstvo Politicheskoi Literaturi, 1991, p. 320-‐339 (in Russian).
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1
I ran after it, cursing my questions and my mind, and happily let myself go in the frothing water. The flesh being bathed was not my body, it was writing inscribed with an ink pen on a piece of wood; the indigo water was erasing the writing on the surface of the wood; whatever was left behind was what was really mine and as I lifted my head out of the water I saw the old writing was disappearing line by line.
...
As I was thinking that, all of a sudden I had the notion my love had ceased to exist. Because I was erased as a thing and remained as a common noun, a generic name: A human being, a man... if you like, we can add: Younger and luckier. Yes, wasn’t it rare luck to be alone with a girl like this in a far-‐off village house? But if you put someone else in my place, someone more or less my age, nothing would change. Then the girl would be loving him, sleeping with him. The fairy tale was ceasing to exist and erasing “I” along with itself. Once “I” was erased, of course, “love” would have no place to be either.
M.C.A., Raziye It’s the face of the sky, is our brain’s skin, Birds and clouds wander inside.
M.C.A., Teknenin Ölümü [Death of the Skiff]
Empty sky. Wherever I tie my horse.
M.C.A., Güneşte [In the Sun]
In Anday’s poetry there is something which prevents the reader from identifying with it, something that pushes him back, leaves him outside. We can’t easily make it ours, can’t draw it into the continuity of our experience. It does not become part of our inner time even when recorded in memory, it doesn’t open us to ourselves; among the familiar voices which make up the self, it remains the voice of another, the voice of otherness. We cannot experience this poetry as a journey of self-‐discovery whose each moment is at one with us.
But other poetry is. It has been said that poetry is a moment of “self-‐knowledge” for the reader as well. Poets who reflect on how the work they do is bound up with human life and everyday speech have talked of that instant illumination poetry creates in those who read it, that feeling of recognition and recall. A feeling of finding again something very old: The saying of a truth we never think of but seem always to have known, an obscure, fugitive experience won for speech and self, a momentary equation set up between the familiar and the alien: recall.
The poet of Tanıdık Dünya [Familiar World], however, speaks to us not from the realm of recall but the lacuna of forgetting. He proclaims not the continuity of experience but its discontinuity. He takes up residence in the emptiness between us and the things we think we know. A placeless, atopic poetry whose only place to be is in indeterminate images of nature belying all feeling of ownership: Showing how easily words and images we suppose to be anchored in shared experience or the continuity of an unshakable sense of self can, in the light of thought, unravel and fade away: That impatient, distillate, unenchantable light was breaking up the entire map of my imagination (“Öğle Uykusundan Uyanırken” (Waking from a Mid-‐day Nap)).
One feature of lyric poetry which has not changed much since Romanticism is the continuous subject or self. The continuity seems to break down in Mallarmé and Rimbaud (“I is another”),
1 This text was translated from the original published in Defter no. 14 July-‐November, 1990. We would like to thank Orhan Koçak and Metis Publishing for giving us the permission to publish it again.
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but is reconstructed in the Surrealists: The subject or consciousness expands to absorb object and unconscious, it changes shape, but is always the same self. There have been some extreme experiments in modernist lyric as well, problematizing not only the self but its contents – the experience that is its function: I am thinking of Paul Celan. Anday too is an extreme experiment: He offers a new lyric at the point where experience has become impossible. Perhaps the last lyric poetry.
Whatever else, we are confronted with a difficulty, a blockage: A difficulty which prevents the subject from identifying with his own experience, and the reader from identifying with the subject in poetry. I have tried to come to terms with it before. But I went about things in the wrong way, trying to go around the obstacle, make the alien familiar, read difficulty as something easy. My attempt was unfinished. I will not continue with it here; this is a fresh start. It aims to put forth Anday’s specificity in a comparison with the Second New.
***
There are certain cultural phenomena not sufficiently understood because they have not met up with the concepts proper to them. This is true of certain historical periods also: Because they have no bounding concepts, it is not even clear whether they constitute a specific period or not. They remain blurred, indistinct, invisible pieces of living.
Concepts are thought’s instruments of terror; they violate the sweet obscurity of being: They cut, trim, compress and condense, seeking to give it a clarity it does not really possess. But in order to speak of what is beyond boundaries, we must have boundaries to begin with; we need concepts in order to know what cannot be conceptualized.
Much has been said about post-‐1950 Turkish modernism. But the foundational concept capturing what was new about it has rarely been uttered. (The writings of İsmet Özel are an important exception in this regard. I will quote passages from those pioneering texts below in this essay.) Concepts are where thoughts and words conjoin, where thought touches language and clots, solidifies. This conjunction was not generally realized in the debates over Second New poetry and the modernist short story in Turkey: Those who employed the concept itself (its philosophical content) did not look for a term appropriate to it; and those who employed the term felt no need to conceptualize it. The missing term is experience [yaşantı]. We can understand the newness of “the new literature” only with the help of this concept.2
The pre-‐history of a concept
Yaşantı and deneyim – these two words, often used interchangeably to mean “experience,” are terms which signaled a concept quite new to Turkish culture. Until recently, up until the 1950s, Turks did not have experience; they had life as flux [hayat] or a predestined term [ömür]. And they had knowledge of life gained from observation [tecrübe]. The important date is 1959. The word yaşantı did not appear in the third edition of the old Turkish Language Committee’s Turkish Dictionary published in that year. Deneyim was defined as “An experiment performed for a specific purpose in conformity with specific methods and rules.” The same dictionary defined the older tecrübe, which has in recent years begun to give way to deneyim in personnel want ads, as. “1. Trial, test. 2. Observation of convention [görgü]. 3. physics. Experiment.” There is also the verb “to live” [yaşamak], which has an apparently richer field of meaning:
1. To be alive: Is your grandfather living? 2. To exist: Fish live in water. 3. To reside, stay: To live in a village, to live in a city. 4. To subsist on: It isn’t easy to live on this income. 5. To abide in a certain condition: To live as a bachelor. To live alone. To live in a crowd. 6. metaphorical. To continue: His memory will live on. 7. metaphorical. To have a pleasant
2 İsmet Özel also made experience [yaşantı or deneyim] a central concept in his writings on modern poetry. In a piece first published in Yazko Edebiyat in 1982, he wrote: “Modern poetry was born not as a literary genre but as an experience.” Reprinted in İsmet Özel, Şiir Okuma Kılavuzu [Guide to Reading Poetry] (Istanbul 1989), p. 88. I would like to point out here that to employ certain explanatory concepts while avoiding taking responsibility for them, and especially with an anti-‐intellectual stance, as Özel did in that piece, is frivolous at least.
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time: They live on the islands, on the Bosphorus. 8. To be in good spirits: If this works out, we’ll live it up.
No, in this dictionary we cannot find the basic elements of the meaning the word yaşantı began to acquire in this country during the 1960s. Firstly, the aspect of experience which comes from the past and opens out from the present onto the future, into the new, into the unknown; its affinity for encounters with nihility.
Secondly, the subjective dimension of experience: The individual subject’s encounters with objects, the data of life, and his interpretation, transformation, and distortion of these as he carries them over into his private recording system, writing them into his memory, his self. Thirdly, although experience comes from the past and opens out to the future, it is predisposed to value, even exalt, the now: The here and now gathers past and future into itself, condensing them into a single instant. When these elements are thought of in combination, there emerges another dimension of experience the dictionary does not clarify: The apparent continuity of subjective experience the tendency of the subject to maintain the same self throughout all its encounters; its ability to penetrate everything and draw all into itself. Thus, in philosophical terms, we can think of experience as a subject-‐object unity.3
But we are still in 1959. In the official dictionary, the realm of experience is under occupation by life as flux [hayat], as an allotted term [ömür], as observation of convention [görgü], and by scientific experiment [bilimsel deney].
Life as hayat is an exceedingly general concept, it is everything, it is what goes on despite everything. Although it signifies a kind of continuity, it is one of a kind different from the subjective continuity of experience: It does not include the new, the not yet, the unknown. The unknown of experience always brings with it an emptiness, a possibility of annihilation or inability to escape nihility; that is why experience hurls passionately toward the object, in want, and embraces the data of life, because of the feeling of loss which always accompanies it, the fear of a return to nothingness. Hayat does not have that fear because hayat is always there: When “I” cease to be, it will still be there. It is not a risk, it is a support. It is not spiritual, nor can it be considered physical: It is organic. More precisely, it is the metaphor of an organism. And it is not individual, it is general, public. Nazım Hikmet most represents it in our literary modern. All of Nazım’s middle-‐period poems are dominated by the hayat metaphor. (Were the young poets who discovered Nazım after 1960 aware that as they made an absolute of hayat and put it forward as an alternative to experience, turning it into a hypothesis, they actually reduced it again to an experience, or experiment, a contention which must continually be proven? Hayat is not the rival of experience but its last resort. Their absolutism deprived the hayat concept in Nazım of its self-‐confidence. What was left to it? A continual struggle to be sure of itself: One experience among many possible others.)
Ömür: Live as an allotted term is Yahya Kemal’s territory.4 And that of alla turca song. A concept older than hayat, more classic because more bounded and local. Ömür is granted to the subject;
3 The unity of being idea is doubtless nothing new; more precisely, it is the oldest idea. It plays a central role in all the great religions, and particularly in Sufism and Western mysticisms. But the unity of being (vahdet-‐i vücût) is for these traditional systems ontologically prior and fundamental; partition is either illusory or ex post facto. Modern thought regards the unity of man and nature, of thinking and the thing thought, not as a point of departure but a result. Unity is at the end of the road called “experience,” the end of a road that can always be wiped away; in modern thought unity is in fact not the end of the line but a stop along the way making one sense that the road traveled is important. Erfahrung, the German word for “experience,” is derived from the root fahre, meaning “road,” and it has the association of travel as well. In The Phenomenology of Spirit, Hegel used the term to mean the subject’s encounter with the object, the subject’s destruction of the object’s autonomous being and internalization of it, the acquisition of the object for itself. In Hegel experience is connected with the subject’s insufficiency, emptiness, its being without an object; the subject is a desire: An emptiness waiting to be filled. Experience as a becoming, flux or continuity ensuring the subject-‐object encounter comes to the fore in the early twentieth century in the “philosophy of life” (lebensphilosophie, vitalisme) in Bergson, in Dilthey, and most of all in Luckacs’s teacher Simmel. In History and Class Consciousness Lukacs tried to interpret the historical process as a subject-‐object dialectic. Here we should point out the tension between the two elements of this concept of experience (flux and continuity on the one hand, and the “fullness” of a single instant outside of flux on the other). 4 So much so that the meticulous poet sometimes could not stop himself from using the word twice in consecutive verses:
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the subject bears it trusting in (or rebelling against) God. It excludes the illusion of never-‐ending life. But within its allotted term, it seeks to enjoy life to the full, valuing what life has to offer. It is not impossible for ömür to open out to experience. The likelihood that it will increases to the degree that ömür distances itself from mindless hedonism, exits from the realm of “pleasantries” and moves closer to stoicism, to endurance in trial, to tragedy—one of the oldest formal expressions of experience. The term “comfort-‐loving,” used of old to shame people when they behaved selfishly, demonstrates the tension within ömür culture in this regard. And Yahya Kemal showed, in his writings and some of his poetry where he spoke of “the pleasures of pain,” that an education in solitude can open up a realm of experience even at a crowded dinner party.5 For ömür to make room for experience depends upon its coming face-‐to-‐face with emptiness. This can arise from the fear of death which nails a person to the present moment, and can appear in the form of the sudden expansion and joy in living which comes of escaping a heavy burden. If Cahit Sıtkı and Ziya Osman Saba exemplified the first, Orhan Veli and the Strange movement were spokesmen for the second. In both cases ömür, the life of the individual, has acquired the tendency to move away from its own natural, traditional, cultural fabric and toward independence.
Görgü, which the dictionary gave as one definition of tecrübe, is the most alien to “experience” of these concepts. Whether we take görgü as the etiquette of social intercourse or the accumulation of experimentation which is passed down, it is always already complete and indicates a totality of knowledge given to the subject from outside. Görgü is not felt when it is there, it is only noticed when it is lacking or in excess. Because it is not a matter of experience or experiment: a person who tries to turn görgü into an experience, to experiment with it or add new rules to it, only shows that he lacks it. But violation of good manners, the callowness which all of a sudden tears the membrane of traditional or public manners which veil experience, bringing raw experiment out into the open, is one of the sources of experience.6 The embarrassment of a glass knocked over, a social blunder committed, can be a moment when the reversal of thought upon itself—the famous Hegelian “selfconsciousness”—is born. The transition to experience begins with selfconsciousness. Someone else’s görgü becomes the content of experience for a person who admires or disdains him. Tanpınar’s admiration of Yahya Kemal, for example, is experience because Tanpınar knew that he would never be able to write like his teacher, never be able to be like him: The distance in between is an emptiness arousing and nourishing selfconsciousness.
It may seem strange, but of its family of concepts the closest to “experience” is scientific experiment, rejected or kept at a distance by all the philosophical and art movements which undertook to speak for it (Romanticism, Symbolism after Baudelaire, Impressionism, Expressionism, Anarchism, Existentialism). In experience too, there is a timidity, an indecisiveness reminiscent of the trial-‐and-‐error, groping-‐in-‐the-‐dark practice which lies at the root of scientific experiment. Like experience, scientific experiment enters into the realm of the unknown, acquires territory there, secures more information, and transforms nihility into being. Both have one foot in emptiness, and both are nourished by a division between subject and object (life) – experiment with its cold neutrality situating the issue beyond the scientist’s subjectivity, emotion and will; experience with its constant fear of losing the object and returning to the emptiness from which it came. But the resemblance ends there. In scientific experiment the thesis to be tested is known from the start, it is a statement formulated outside the bounds
Enjoy my heart’s throne long as my allotted term of life lasts! Merely to love a neighborhood is worth one’s allotted term. 5 “We are a nation that has seen much and felt much; our old poetry has the limitless pleasures of joy, love, longing and sadness. Only the pleasures of pain are lacking; Turkish taste is yet a stranger to that great delight. ... The pleasure of pain; it can be said that this leaf in the book of poetry is such that all else is empty talk and amusement! ... Each kind of feeling gives rise to a kind of poetry, but if there is a delight more powerful than poetry, a delight nearly like religion, it is the pleasure of pain. Yahya Kemal, Edebiyata Dair [Regarding Literature] (Istanbul 1989), pp. 156-‐158. 6 In Turgut Uyar’s poetry the callow and the awkward conjoin with error, alienation, incongruity and madness to become a fecund source of experience: You are callow, don’t you know they’ll call you mad one day.
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of experiment; experience does not know its own correct result beforehand, it constructs that within its experiment. The subject-‐object division will abide as long science does, it is the condition of scientific advancement. But experience is itself the transcending for a moment of that division, a seeming transcendence within the dimensions of a moment which can slide into the illusion of infinity.
None of the terms in the dictionary capture it. Until the late fifties, experience had no place in Turkish culture – neither the word nor the concept.
It is not that this lack wasn’t felt by culture itself. While Yahya Kemal spoke of the new writers’ “expansive self” and their desire to be “original” (in the 1930s), he also complained that the “imaginativeness” of the old literature was lacking.7 And Abdülhak Şinasi had it in his novel Fahim Bey that the Ottoman approached every subject with a “pleasantry”-‐style frivolousness and superficiality. As one might expect, it was Tanpınar who put the problem in a more general frame of discussion; in 1936 he took up the following question:
Almost all of the problems occupying our newspapers and our lives have come into the Turkish novel... The Turkish novel is concerned with life as we live it every day. Nevertheless, it is hardly possible not to find that novel often artificial, not to rail against its lifelessness, or even to establish a relationship between it and reality... Our lives are straitened, complex. Very well, but in the end those lives do exist, and we live, love, hate, suffer, die. Is that not enough for a novelist? Where a human being suffers, there is everything to be said... Yet despite that, it does not happen; why?
The answer to the question is that “Turkish has not yet recognized the thing called tecrübe, which begins with the enquiring search proper to the individual.”8 In one of his last writings, “The Essential Differences Observed between East and West,” an article published in Cumhuriyet in 1960, Tanpınar put forth a similar thought:
In the famous elegy he wrote mourning the sovereign’s death, a poet who admired Crazy Peter [Peter the Great] praised him, saying, “You brought to us the thing called personal tecrübe”... The difference between East and West is this, this personally living what one does, the modality of thereby taking up residence, fully and completely, in reality.
One can see that in this last article Tanpınar was no longer referring to a lack of “the individual’s enquiring search” or “personal tecrübe” in Turkish literature as a contemporary problem but merely contrasting “Eastern” and “Western” ideas. By the time we arrive at the autumn of 1960 something has changed. Let us return to the documents: We will see that in the new edition of the Turkish Language Committee Dictionary, the noun yaşantı has been accepted and a ninth entry added to the eight formerly devoted to the verb “to live”: “To be as if living a certain condition, to identify with, to sense, to feel a certain condition.”
Subjectivity’s share has become explicit. The internalization (identification with, sensing) of the lived event is mentioned. Something has changed, and this change has opened the way for the eight known definitions of “to live” to begin interact and give birth to a ninth.9
7 See Yahya Kemal, Mektuplar ve Makaleler [Letters and Articles] (Istanbul 1977), p. 33, and Edebiyata Dair [Regarding Literature], p. 306. 8 A. H. Tanpınar, Edebiyat Üzerine Makaleler [Articles on Literature] (Istanbul 1969). 9 In the terms of the old dictionary: By that time a significant number of people were no longer staying in villages but residing in cities. The number of unmarried, divorced, and other people left alone in the crowd had increased. Some of them had work and they lived; for others, living on that income became even more difficult. While some lived on the Islands and the Bosphorus, others watched them, yet this state of affairs did not decrease their appetite for living but on the contrary, increased it. (Orhan Veli: Living is not easy, brother / Neither is dying / It’s no easy thing to leave this world.) More importantly, in spite of all the busts, statues, and monuments that were made [of Ataturk], His memory was weakening as time went on, and a decline in the production of poetry about Him was observed. Yes, it is also true that the “individual initiative” developing from 1950 on opened the way for a “personal interest.” On the other hand, the overthrow of Demokrat Party power on 27 May 1960 did not put the brakes on that individual initiative (on the contrary, on the contrary), but did, by thrusting Demokrat high society into the background, strike quite a heavy blow against the flabby, hedonistic interpretation of one’s allotted term of life [ömür]. As for etiquette (görgü), faced with Menderes’s expropriation of real estate and the rising prices of building lots, it turned over its dwelling to the contractor in exchange
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The modernism of the Second New
İsmet Özel has said that Turkish poetry made its last modern advance in 1954-‐1959. The literature of experience – literature as experience – which in poetry was given the name “Second New” but made its first entrance in prose, was born in those years: It was not a new movement, it was the new literature itself.10
One could say that I exaggerate: It can be asserted that prose acquired experience in the 1930s with Sait Faik, that the new arrived in poetry with Nazım Hikmet or Fazıl Hüsnü, and modernism with the Strange movement. It’s all true. Strange created a kind of degree zero with its destructive work, opening the field where literature could meet up with raw experiment. It was Fazıl Hüsnü Dağlarca who brought to Turkish that shiver which has been the infallible mark of the new since Edgar Allen Poe. True. In prose, one could mention Sabahattin Ali, even Reşat Nuri (Miskinler Tekkesi [Paupers Cloister]], and in poetry Dıranas, Asaf Halet, and Necip Fazıl as well. The Second New difference is here: It took experience as “the sole authority”; it risked being led somewhere it did not know beforehand.11
This posture may explain certain things the Second New poets (and modernist short story writers) shared. Their language was not transparent. But that does not mean simply that the referent of poetry is distanced, that what it is saying cannot be made out (that was there before). What was new was that the language gained an almost physical opacity, it was leavened, it acquired a new consistency. This opacity was new, it was not a consistency come of what tradition stockpiles (not of görgü, not of rhetorical conceits); this poetry arose on the empty lot created by Strange and by the Republic itself, which had erased its own past; it had no before, it would create its own roots, its own pre-‐history. The new opacity had to do with how the poetry opened out to experience. The Second New was led into experience as one is led into sin, violating boundaries, with glee and shame.12
for a flat, withdrew into dark, ill-‐kept rooms, and began to wait for the 1980s, when it would emerge again into daylight under the auspices of the tourism and culture industry. Hayat went on, as it usually does. If we add to this the fact that the city had been liberated from its garrison role but not yet transformed into a megalopolis, and that communications had increased but the world not yet captured and drowned by its own mirror image (TV), we will better understand how practicable a ground for experience [yaşantı] Turkey was in the 1950s and 60s. 10 I have said that 1959 was an important date. We see that it was then, during the years 1958-‐1960, that modernist narrative and Second New Poetry emerged in book form: Yusuf Atılgan, Aylak Adam [The Idler] (1959); Onat Kutlar, İshak (1959); Tahsin Yücel, Düşlerin Ölümü [The Death of Dreams] (1958) and Mutfak Çıkmazı [No Exit Kitchen] (1960); Vüs’at O. Bener, Yaşamasız [Unliving] (1957); Adnan Özyalçıner, Panayır [Street Fair] (1960); Leyla Erbil, Hallaç [Hallaj] (1961), Turgut Uyar, Dünyanın En Güzel Arabistanı [The Most Beautiful Arabia in the World] (1959); Ülkü Tamer, Soğuk Otların Altında [Under the Cold Weeds] (1959); Cemal Süreya, Üvercinka (1958); Ece Ayhan, Kınar Hanımın Denizleri [Kınar Hanım’s Oceans] (1959); Edip Cansever, Umutsuzlar Parkı [The Park of the Despairing] (1958), Petrol (1959), Nerde Antigone [Where, Antigone](1961); İlhan Berk, Galile Denizi [The Sea of Galilee] (1958) and Çivi Yazısı [What the Nail Wrote] (1959). One may speak of an “explosion.” 11 The phrase “acceptance of experience as the sole authority” is Georges Bataille’s. While coming to terms with Christianity, traditional mysticisms and Hegel in Inner Experience, Bataille put forward a concept of experience which formed a fracturing point in the continuity of Western thought and art. “He who already knows cannot go beyond a known horizon. ...this experience born of non-‐knowledge... is not beyond expression—one doesn’t betray it if one speaks of it—but it steals from the mind the answers it still had to the questions of knowledge. Experience reveals nothing and cannot found belief nor set out from it. ... The principle of inner experience cannot arise from a dogma (a moral attitude), or from science (knowledge can neither be its goal nor its origin), nor can it take its principle from enriching spiritual states (such a thing would be an experimental, aesthetic attitude); inner experience has no goal but itself. Opening myself to inner experience, I have placed in it all value and authority. Henceforth I can have no other value, no other authority. ... I call experience a voyage to the end of the possible of man. Inner Experience (New York 1988), pp. 3-‐4, 7. 12 The “boundary violation” and feeling of “opacity” which it creates can be seen in Cemal Süreya, Ece Ayhan, but most of all in Turgut Uyar’s Dünyanın En Güzel Arabistanı [The Most Beautiful Arabia in the world] and Tütünler Islak [The Tobacco is Wet]; the following passage is from the second book:
“This was a dark thing!.. This was a dark thing!.. This was a dark thing!.. How good it was!.. That something touched my sensitivity for dark forms and wet pheasants.
They’d cast a wet rope, around my neck, wet, I’d be disgusted. How good it was! A solitude-‐less wet rope, its water made me wet. This emptiness time and again woman, time and again man. Where a wet cat hiding under soiled, wet beds was slowly, gradually, growing fuzz. This was a dark thing. How good it was! That a wet woman made my flesh happy. This was a dark thing. Lived!
This was a dark thing!.. How good it was!.. Objects blur my sleep. Old, sack, sack, old and thick through and through, wet... ...
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We can compare post-‐1950 poetry with Strange in this regard. In the Second New, most of all in Turgut Uyar and Cemal Süreya, shame acquires an indicative value, it becomes a motif.13 Whereas in Strange, in an Orhan Veli or a Celal Sılay, there is no shame, there is anger and ridicule. While the Strange poets were “intentionally outrageous” (Cemal Süreya), they bypassed shame for irony, which is to say they proceeded to the realm of mind. Anger and irony are dispositions of mind, they break down the unity of experience, they separate subject from object. (We do not generally get angry at ourselves, and we generally ridicule others; a certain distance is preserved.) But shame, in the existential meaning of the term, is an experience; a sticky feeling14 in which body and soul, or subject and object, merge, and there are almost always physical consequences. (We feel shame at our own behavior, we are ashamed of our emotions, we blush.) Anger and ridicule are venting behaviors: They allow us to immediately externalize and impose upon others the impulses or emotions we cannot hold within ourselves. They disown privacy, inner experience. But shame is a fullness, an internal experiment: The blushing subject feels, all of a sudden, filled by a disgrace which belongs only to him, rising from within himself. The opacity of Second New poetry has to do with that fullness that internalized behavior.
In the old literature the poet felt rage, awe, he even had thoughts; then he had dreams and fantasies too, he was amazed and felt sudden joy; on the way to the new he came to know what it was to feel improvised and arbitrary, he found things odd (Anday’s Strange period). But none of this led him to break away from public diction, it didn’t make him grow wild, it didn’t land him at any distance from a relatively transparent language of culture and communication. Because he didn’t own his behavior as an internal experiment, as a subjective experience: Between the things he lived and himself there were signs and codes belonging to the public (to society, religion, state, culture); it was those codes which gave meaning to his behavior, not he himself; and the horizon of meaning of words was drawn by them too. For that reason meaning was outside, not within; it was not something he created, it was given beforehand; it was not immanent, it was transcendent: In order to exist, it was in need of the approval of an authority transcending the subject and prior to him.15 And that approval was always there, because the insides of words were always being filled by the appropriate approval authority. And since everyone lived in a shared world of meaning, the language of the old poetry was transparent (its conceits were immediately translatable); it was closed to any indecision born of division, any vagary or opacity come of a difficulty in assigning meaning to a thing: The meaning given from
Objects blur my sleep. O.b.j.e.c.t.s!... My hands in deep waters was a dark thing. How good it was!.. What
bothered me was like... broken scales and grains from wet warehouses. What we lay down did not have the taste of death. Any frills, childless frills maybe, shame our everything in the morning.”
("Islaktı Tütünlerde Sülünler” [Pheasants were Wet in the Tobacco]) 13 Cemal Süreya's book, Beni Öp Sonra Doğur Beni [Kiss Me Then Give Birth to Me], appears to be entirely devoted to a “happy shame.” These lines are from the book: Because just yesterday your shame pulled at you from all sides You wanted a safe harbor for my poetry
("Bir Kentin Dışardan Görünüşü" [View of a City from Outside]) Now it’s shame that’s forming grains in blonde children’s sheaves … My mother died when she was small kiss me, then give birth to me.
("Beni Öp Sonra Doğur Beni" [Kiss Me Then Give Birth to Me])
14 A dairy by Muzaffer Buyrukçu was published in an old issue of the journal Papirüs I cannot find now. There Buyrukçu wrote that Bilge Karasu praised one of his stories thus: "There is something sticky in your story, something that sticks to a person. That is what makes it effective." That “stickiness” is an affect not to be found in the old literature, under the rule of bodiless mind and readymade form as it was, and one not valued by the old aesthetic. It is meaningful that it was used as a measure of value by one of the founders of the modernist short story. 15 Although Edip Cansever objected to the characterization of the Second New as a distinct movement, he spoke for his generation in the answers he gave in a 1960 interview for the journal Yeditepe: “Or it was we who first recognized our own value, arriving at a consciousness of it.” Gül Dönüyor Avucumda [The Rose is Turning in my Palm] (Istanbul 1987), p. 48.
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outside and comprising all withered the aloneness of words, their materiality, their physical, sensory quality, from the start. Sound, here, could not be anything more than an ornament of meaning. For the Second New, the clouding of language which came with the separation of the individual from the whole was experience itself: As the subject slid into naked experience without beginning, the ties that bound it together unraveled also; as it groped for the world and its own interiority by means of a language whose meaning was not immediately clear, it blurred its speech and perceived the moment of contact with naked experience as one of synesthesia. It took on its own subjectivity, its interior fullness, sometimes as a miracle and sometimes as a curse.16
The Strangers and those before them spoke a familiar language in a familiar environment. For them, the goal of poetry was quite clear: To create something “beautiful”; to defend a political or social proposition; to establish intimacy with a transcendent being, to become its manifestation or symbol; to sing the refrain of universal, literary themes such as love, loneliness or death... All were aims given to poetry from outside; all were conventions. One could perhaps say that the Strangers’ goal was relatively “immanent,” in that it came from within poetry itself: to ridicule the old poetry, to destroy it. But this was a very clear and obvious goal; the boundedness, the determined nature of the thing Strange sought to destroy led to a bounded, too obvious poetry. The Second New first took up residence in the realm of not-‐knowing, it took its energy from there. It knew the meanings of the words it used, knew that they had meanings, of course; but it did not know where those words and meanings might lead or how far they could be taken.17 It sought to find that out in poetry, by means of poetry itself. And that way of going about things would transform the structure and fabric of poetry as well.
After 1950, a listening voice was heard in poetry: The poet seemed to be listening to the words he used. (Not just in İlhan Berk – İlhan Berk who turned words over and over with the innocence of a child, trying to understand them – but in all the poets of the Second New.) An emptiness, a silence, a kind of electrical field has formed around words, created by that attention, that listening. Every poet listens to words, that is his profession. The Second New poets listened to the voice of words as if it were the voice of their own being. Their existence was like a new continent: They were feeling it out for the first time, researching into it. They did not expect poetry to acquire a meaning right away, to slip comfortably into a pattern of thought. As they
16 When viewed from this vantage point, some lines of Second New poetry gain a “programmatic” value:
It’s an unsayable sword I bear girded at my waist, melancholy.
(Ece Ayhan, "Sword" [Kılıç])
We were like concealed plants completing long summer nights’ stillness with the swaying of broad leaves. ... It was then I realized sweet things put in my nature, by God, had been there all along, and would go on being there for a long time to come.
(Turgut Uyar, "Akçaburgazlı Yekta'nın Mahkeme Kararını Aldığında Söylediği Mezmurdur" [The Psalm Akçaburgazlı Yekta Made Up When He Received the Court’s Decision])
I’ve tried it a lot, when the carnation’s stem touches water It’s like someone is shot inside me And there’s a resurrection carved in jade The doorbell rings every morning I open it: I’m june Maybe it’s the tendency to live, live without duration.
(Edip Cansaver, "Bir Yitişten Sonra" [After a Loss])
17 Turgur Uyar: "The minstrel doesn’t know how he will write, it’s afterwards that he sees how he has written. ... And usually he, like any reader, is faced by a poem he believes in, but can only grasp some sides of." Sonsuz ve Öbürü [The Infinite and its Other] (Istanbul 1986), p. 145. This is from his poem "İki Dalga Katı Arasında Yapacağını Şaşıran Akçaburgazlı Yektanın Söylediği Mezmurdur" [The Psalm Akçaburgazlı Yekta Made Up Not Knowing What to Do Between Two Tiers of a Wave]:
That scorching bleak trouble, howling fusions of scattered secret impressions you try but can’t exhaust that push you places you don’t know...
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felt words out they tried to understand where the voice was coming from, which experience it came from and what kind of experience it could open up, what corpse it might resurrect. And they did it in the poetry, not before writing it: Experience was not something that happened outside of poetry, that was completed there, prettied up and then transferred into poetry. Poetry, as the searching out of a meaning that did not exist before, was experience itself.18 It was a living thing: It sought and was sought for, it listened, waited. It was experience: An emptiness being filled, wanting to be filled.
The autonomizing of the image, which Cemal Süreya put forward while comparing the order of imagery in Nazım Hikmet and the Second New, is based in this also. The now of experience acquired an importance independent of past and future, it exploded as a condensed image gathering past and future into itself: Tearing for an instant the linear logic of narrative, of storytelling.19
But it can’t be said that this broke down the unity, the continuity, of subjective experience. In the Second New metaphor ceased for the first time to be a conceit with an obvious aim and bounded function (likening the beloved to a sultan, concrete being to abstract, transcendent being, etc.) and became a real economy of transformation: Desire, physical or psychic pain, shame and exuberance, mourning and joy, the senses of sight, hearing and touch, were ceaselessly transformed one into the other within the frame of one poem or from poem to poem. (Cemal Süreyya: They say Muhammed told us to give gifts / Think of how sexual a gift can be / If you want to see the unity of the five senses / Bring your dagger over here and press it slowly into me.20
18 İsmet Özel wrote in his important book Şiir Okuma Kılavuzu’nda [Guide to Reading Poetry]: "the importance of poetry is that it constitutes an experience... in this sense poetry is concreteness itself." Idem, p. 54. 19 Again İsmet Özel: "The fruit of reading poetry is gathered only in between the unknown old and the not-‐yet-‐known new. Only with the extraordinary vividness of ‘the now,’ the freshness and excitement of the tasted moment of life in all its concreteness, is the reading of poetry on the right track. ... The richness of the now that is poetry exists with one arm stretched back (to the depths of the lived) and the other forward (for clues to the unknown). ... When imagination reaches us we feel both the heat of a moment we have lived and the coolness of an encounter with something different.” The first section of Edip Cansever's poem "Ha Yanıp Söndü, Ha Yanıp Sönmedi Bir Ateş Böceği" [A Firefly Flashed or Didn’t Flash] brings out the tense unity between the ideas “moment” and “way, process”: I hit the south then With an ancient sea floor engineer From out of a now in nihility Into a now running through my veins I flowed as courtyards and balconies exploded from erupting tumuli I. On my face that ancient sign of the fleuer-‐de-‐lis, ancient My and his and whose afternoon I hit the south That covers itself up with words not talked of.
20 And maybe we should have thought of these lines here, also Cemal Süreya’s:
… Minibus-‐bruised blue streets Where wheat is exchanged for money Money is exchanged for bread Bread is exchanged for tobacco Tobacco is exchanged for pain And pain is finally exchanged for nothing. On those streets. Watches show rain. Today, this little tuesday Istanbul’s everything is lacking; other than its hills, Only Galata Galata Is feeding to the sea little by little In the form of a harmonica That inexhaustible passion for rusting It nourishes in the basements of the night
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This is what I’ve wanted to explain all through this section: The thing which ensured the unity of experience in the Second New, ensured the union of subject and object, which kept the moments of experience from breaking apart completely and the poetry from collapsing into a kind of “schizo-‐language,” was the continuity of the I. The subject maintained itself throughout all metamorphoses, filling, emptying, filling. This is better expressed by the final lines of one of Edip Cansever’s poems recording his experiments in loss of consciousness, exuberance and loss of self: When evening gave me back my eyes The city got lost, the sea’s stillness too, While a phoenix cheated its ashes again While a crevice in a rock got itself used to emptiness I said I was the sea, and the dreamer of the sea And first thing in the morning, on top of my depth I’ll find myself like a smile.
("Ölü Sirenler" [Dead Sirens])
***
The moment of experience not only separates the Second New from the old poetry but from what is being written today. It had an influence on the past as well: Poetry was reconsidered; under the name of opacity, of “imagism,” it acquired a kind of necessity; it turned into an experiment one must go through, a test. But the Second New did not remain in the same moment of fullness; it went on to a more solitary, more thinned-‐out poetry. Had it seen that experience was impossible, even that it had always been an illusion, a chimera, from the start? I don’t know. It may be said that the place where this poetry carried off its real tour de force, its death-‐defying somersault, was where it saw the fundamental emptiness of experience and managed not to fall into it: The place where the tightrope walker who survives believes in life no longer, where the insignificant difference between dying and staying alive is equated with poetry, born as poetry.
The Second New not only influenced its predecessors by the transformations it wrought, but was influenced by them as well. One could say that it first understood – really “heard” – its predecessors while writing its own poetry. But Melih Cevdet Anday was not among those the Second New adopted in that way. The indifference was mutual. But we are speaking of good poetry, and are thus in the world of necessity, the world of the laws of form: Here even the most virginal of coincidences must act as a representative of necessity; if not, it becomes unimportant. Is there a connection like that between the Second New and its predecessors? Might there be a relationship between the thing that would thin out experience in the Second New, that would sift its poetry, and the thing which put a stop to experience in Anday from the start but after 1960 made it possible for him to try out a different kind of opacity, a different kind of necessity? What is this “thing” or “things”?
After a hiatus of exactly six years (1956-‐1962) Anday began work on a new density in the empty space he himself had opened up earlier. But now we should speak not of an empty space but of “space-‐lessness”: I, the individual subject, “love’s place to be,” had begun to be erased. With Strange, really with the Second New, the kind of personal subject who could lay hands on poetry was fading away. But what took its place was not the historical, collective subject of the old poetry (Yahya Kemal). The seat of the empirical, concrete, personal subject bound by time and place was being taken by the merely linguistic, abstract subject, the subject as a mere point: The subject of Rationalism, the abstract possibility of experience which Descartes arrived at by negating all experiential content, the "I" of "I think, therefore I am." There are two Andays: The Anday before 1956 and the Anday after 1962, separated by a region of erasure, of nihilization. I
(“İşte Tam Bu Saatlerde" [It’s Right Around this Time])
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have looked at the Second New from within the first Anday and seen the birth of experience. Now I will view the second Anday from within the Second New: I learn that life, a kind of life, can be found in the place where experience fades away, where experience is lost. Variations on a non-‐existent theme I have argued that Anday’s poetry negated the concept of experience proposed here. But we are speaking not of a poetry yet to be acquainted with experience but rather of one that has already given up on it, or rejected it from the start. If experience is a moment of filling, of a fullness we feel with every beat of our pulse, then Anday’s poetry falls in the moments of silence between those beats. The emptiness which the Second New was always approaching on a limit slope is for Anday a point of departure, departure and arrival. Cansever’s poem working the phoenix motif was punctuated by a statement of convergence, restoration and unity: “I’ll find myself like a smile.” Anday’s poem “Death of the Skiff” also works a fire motif: A “dreambound firefly” falls into the bilge from “the bad-‐tempered darkness of the night,” sets the boat on fire and burns it down. But there is no rising from the ashes here; the poem ends: Severed head anchor, my ropes, my oars Are now a dazed heap on the sand. Smoking hands and feet, smoking wet wood, Brought by the sea from far away I’m an alien, meaningless thing.
Restoration, the rescue and assembling of parts, is impossible here: Distance, difference and division will always triumph over understanding and wholeness. The tininess of the thing that starts the fire (a firefly!) tells us that the fire is always already started and finished: Because a dream (“dreambound firefly”), a nihility, can only set fire to another dream, another nihility. We can draw another comparison, with Cansever again (the Second New poet closest to Anday in motifs and images). In “Ha Yanıp Söndü Ha Yanıp Sonmedi Bir Ateş Böceği” [A Firefly Flashed or Didn’t Flash], one of the important poems in his Kirli Ağustos [Dirty August], there are the lines: What is left of those ascensions? What remains? / O brick-‐red spell, the South’s hot unit / Did someone die? Too late, then / Or maybe too early. This is the first couplet of Anday’s “Tekeleyen Gece” [Stuttering Night], from his last book: It’s a hurry-‐up world this, everything early And everything late, the sun will be eclipsed while we sleep.
If we put aside the difference between the softer, longing voice in Cansever and the unstuttering, sparkling but austere voice purified of all excess in “Stuttering Night,” we can say that both poems work the same motif, the not being there, not getting there in time motif. Both poems convey the theme with a dichotomy, the early/late dichotomy. But in Cansever the dominant term of the dichotomy, the term that has the last word, is “early,” and that gives his poem a more hopeful dimension, one more open to experience: The man who arrives late has missed the chance for experience; but he who arrives early may wait, he may hope. In Anday “being late” has the last word: In this hurry-‐up world everything is always already finished, we cannot be in time for any experience; between our experience (sleep) and the content that would fill that experience (solar eclipse) there is a distance, an incompatibility, that cannot be got round: We are not there, and it is not here.
***
What takes form in Anday’s poetry is an aesthetic of nihility: The aesthetic of distance, separation, otherness, of not being here, not saying. This was one reason why it did not find a broad field of influence, I think. In the 1970s and later, things were written that were like everyone else’s poetry; none of it was like Anday’s. It is significant that before 1980, when a critic such as Mehmet Doğan tried to draw a connection between a radical world view and modernist poetry, the poets he put forward included Oktay Rifat, Edip Cansever, even Behçet Necatigil, but not Anday (see Mehmet Doğan, Şiirin Yalnızlığı [The Loneliness of Poetry]). It was a time in
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Turkey when everything—life, art, political practice, even economic development—was thought of according to a model of experience: Condensation of the past in the present, opening to the future, conquest of the new, sometimes sorrow, always hope. I would like to give an example. In 1972-‐1973 Tomris Uyar published an important series of pieces on the short story in Yeni Dergi; she dwelled upon epiphany (as instant illumination, the filling of a single moment by a reality greater than itself), one of the fundamental concepts of the aesthetic of experience, relating it to the transformation or maturation of character.21
[We] agree that the story is an art which creates a flash in one stroke, preparing perceptions to occur years later in the reader, in short, changing the reader. ... The contemporary story is an art genre which develops a human reality around a moment of illumination. ... In its first meaning illumination is a “flash,” a “coming face to face with reality”; a sudden perception of a reality, a realization, on the part of the writer, the reader, the character in the story. ... In every story [there is] an illumination, an insight, an awakening.
In the same piece Tomris Uyar related the concept of illumination to the concepts of time and experience: “The contemporary story writer (who has a clock that can run backwards and forwards)... can make the reader sense passing time in ‘a smooth-‐rumped mare’s shaky-‐legged foal,’ or in a wall torn down and the hotel built in its place. Furthermore, an image taken from what is tested, from what is lived, an image grasped by having been seen, can much more easily remain in mind than a crafted statement.” These thoughts are also valid for post-‐1950 poetry.
Anday is seen as poet of the clock that does not run, poet of “the wind that blows nowhere”: His work has developed around the theme of experience-‐lessness, the theme of not being. Experience-‐lessness leaves ideas of subjective development, process, progress and maturation outside. It apprehends time as repetition, understands it as the swinging of a pendulum.
Anday has been seen as a cold poet. And perhaps the critics sensed the cold, insensate region of his poetry, refusing to be named, to converge with a name. They were loath to take a place there. It wasn’t a place anyway: It was a lacuna. There was an interview done with Anday which should be touched upon here: In this 1982 Çağdaş Eleştiri interview, informal and interesting in every respect, Adnan Benk put forward a view very close to the thesis I have argued here and he spoke of the “immutability” or immobility “sector” in Melih Cevdet’s poetry. (There is a terminological disparity: Adnan Benk used the term “living” for what I have expressed here by the term experience [yaşantı or deneyim], and seemed to use yaşantı to mean experience [tecrübe] already lived and left behind.)
In the world you sketch there is a boundary of immutability we cannot cross, cannot transcend. An accumulation of experiences, things lived, actions... inertia... True, the realm of living which lies between the boundary of mobility and that of immutability has as many ups and downs as can be. ... Yet despite that variedness its possibilities are limited. ... Whatever we do, we cannot get free of that square, those four seasons, that accumulation of experiences. ... There is “to me,” “of me,” “ours,” but that “I” which is the focal point of emotional poetry is never there. ... Your point of departure is always outside. You start out not close up, not from yourself, but from far off. ... Transforming into lived things the mornings, the rain and etc. things being lived that you draw to yourself from outside, from nature. There is no life anymore in the place where you go. Or the place you lead us.
I too will touch on these things, these appearances of experience-‐lessness, phases of the subject’s erasure, immutability and inevitable repetition, events like the otherizing of voice, abstractedness and forgetting, the joy that is not ours, the cancellation of first sensation and last line of verse. But there is something else: the site of experience is the city-‐dweller, and the experience-‐lessness in Anday’s poetry emerges first with banishment of the city from poetry.
21 See Yeni Dergi, January 1972 and February 1973.
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That, in Anday’s work, along with his understanding of “time,” will be ground for another discussion.
Translated from Turkish by Victoria Holbrook
The Contradictory 60s: Empire and Cultural Resistance Hrach Bayadyan
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1 The South Caucasus, formerly Transcaucasia, is a Russian-‐Soviet legacy in the sense that, the region began to take shape as a geographical unit simultaneously with the Russian empire’s southern expansionist drive; in the context of continuous and complex relations with Iran and especially Turkey, as well as with the West, albeit sometimes indirectly. During the entire 19th century, Russia’s relations with Turkey, often on the battlefield, were vital for the former. This was a time when the Russians sought to redefine their identity using Western concepts, to present themselves as a modernizing nation in the Western sense, as a country that was a part of Europe. In this case, a Westernizing Russia saw that “Orient” in Turkey, from which it wanted to distance itself. Thus, within Russia’s self-‐definition, Turkey was presented as Russia’s, and in general, the civilized world’s oriental “Other.”2 Russia looked at the Empire’s eastern and southern peoples with a Western perspective. Here, the Caucasus was viewed as an intermediate zone, a passageway between West and East, as a civilizing East through Russian mediation. Accordingly, the notion of Russia’s “civilizing mission” was established; a notion fully appropriate from the point of view of justifying the Empire’s expansionism and colonialism. This was the way a large segment of the Russian intelligentsia thought. They believed that Russia was bringing enlightenment and civilization to the Caucasus3. It must be added that there were people in the Caucasus who viewed the Russian presence in this way as well. This was also the case with the Armenian intellectual elite, including such pivotal figures of contemporary Eastern Armenian literature as Khachatur Abovyan and Hovhannes Tumanyan. During the first half of the 19th century, many saw the only possibility of liberating eastern Armenians from Persia, defending against Turkish threats, and coming into contact with the Western process of modernization, with the Russian empire. This means that from the very start, the idea of Eastern Armenia’s modernization was born and took shape within the parameters granted by the Russian civilizing mission; first as a Russian-‐Armenian and later, Soviet-‐Armenian project. Of course, the desire to become Westernized, already existing in the Caucasus, increased the possibility for the so-‐called “Russian orientation” to take hold, especially if the alternatives were Iran and Turkey. At the very least, Russian rule would be accepted by Armenians as their salvation, salvation via a certain kind of self-‐colonization. However, on the other hand, Russia itself was viewed in Europe as half-‐eastern, half-‐Western, as a transitional expanse between the West and East. Even though the status obtained by nations within the Soviet Union (S.U.) could be regarded as some sort of partial decolonization, nevertheless, Russian orientalism, modified and reshaped, continued to function, albeit in more subtle ways, in the S.U. as well. After the collapse of the Soviet empire, the South Caucasus (Transcaucasia) as an “invented” region (“invented” during the process of Russia’s civilizing mission and later, during implementation of the Soviet modernizing project) gradually lost its distinctiveness. However, it seems that the first noticeable shifts began prior to this, in the 60s, and the transformations that occurred in those years are imparted with new meanings when viewed from the prism of current realities.
1 This article was written on the basis of a series of lectures I gave on the subject of “Russian-‐Soviet orientalism” during seminars sponsored by the “Art and cultural studies laboratory” (November, 2008). These lectures were subsequently published in a series of articles entitled “The question of cultural decolonization” (in Armenian) that appeared in “Hetq” (http://old.hetq.am/arm/culture/8665) 2 See, Iver B. Neumann, Uses of the Other: “The East” in European Identity Formation, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998. 3 See, Susan Layton, Russian Literature and Empire: Conquest of the Caucasus from Pushkin to Tolstoy, Cambridge: Cambridg University Press, 1994.
The Contradictory 60s: Empire and Cultural Resistance Hrach Bayadyan
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The 60s: years of contradiction The terms “Thaw” and “the 60s generation” are the most well known expressions defining the cultural awakening that took place in the Soviet Union in the late 50s and continuing in the 60s. Despite the sharp ups and downs of Soviet cultural policy over the years, the comparative freedoms and renewed restrictions and repressions that followed one another, it was also a unique time for the Soviet national republics in terms of the development of national cultures and the formation of national consciousness. It was a process paradoxically accompanied by unprecedented efforts aimed at the Russification of nations and the shaping of a united Soviet people. Just as in the Russian empire, so too in the SU, the assumption held sway that Russian culture and the Russian language were superior to the cultures and languages of other nations. During the Stalinist era, the superiority of the Russian people took form within the “big brother – little brothers” context. This ensured the basis for the systematic and continuous Russification being carried out in the S.U. Some of the prerequisites for the expected fusion of Soviet nations and nationalities were a high level of education, where Russian was the lingua franca for all peoples, equal opportunities for economic development for all nationalities and regions, geographic and social mobility for the populace, etc. The other important defining characteristic of the Soviet empire was that there didn’t exist an insurmountable line of demarcation that in Western empires separated the colonizer from the colonized. Along with the implemented restrictions regarding ethnic identity, in contrast to classical colonial systems, real opportunities for participation and advancement were afforded to the Soviet peoples. In the implementation of similar policies, an important role was reserved for the native elites. The factor must be taken into account that the widespread collectivization carried out by the Soviet regime, and the industrialization and urbanization parallel with it, allowed for the severing of the Soviet peoples, all rural-‐based, from their traditions. At the same time, traditional local elites either broke down or were destroyed. Subsequently, the Soviet system prepared new native elites of professionals and intellectuals ready for collaboration in return for certain rewards and advancement possibilities. Being linked with official institutions and having the administrative-‐political apparatus at their disposal, they were more inclined to frame their demands and reach their goals (including national ones) within the Soviet system rather than aspire to separate themselves from it. Simultaneously, contacts within various professional circles (writers, scientists, etc) that violated ethnic borders were being supported, seeking to create supra-‐ethnic forms of cooperation. These communities both embodied and symbolized the concept of a unified Soviet people.4 Analysts claim that the nationalism manifested by certain Soviet titular nations in the 60s was not a rebirth of pre-‐Soviet nationalism but rather a new type of nationalism, although unpredicted, formed during the process of the Soviet modernizing project. The national tradition being reconstructed under Soviet rule and the cultural identity being formed, were unavoidably taking shape as a national-‐Soviet hybrid. A few issues will be discussed related to the period covered in this article taken from two texts written in the 60s – the Russian writer Andrei Bitov’s “Lessons of Armenia” and Armenian writer Hrant Matevosyan’s “Hangover” – read in tandem. Dialogue: two texts Matevosyan and Bitov came to the fore during the Khrushchev “Thaw” years. They became acquainted during the mid-‐60s when they participated in the two-‐year Advanced Course for Scriptwriters in Moscow. These works were written in the years that followed. “Hangover” was
4 See, Philip G. Roeder, “Soviet Federalism and Ethnic Mobilization” in Denber, Rachel. The Soviet Nationality Reader: The Disintegration in Context, Oxford: Westview Press (1992), pp. 147-‐178.
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completed in 1969 and is based on the author’s impressions of that course. “Lessons of Armenia” was written from 1967-‐1969 and is a result of Bitov’s ten-‐day journalistic mission to Armenia (he was sent to write an essay about Armenia for a Russian journal). The book was first published in the monthly magazine Druzhba Narodov in 1969 and was later translated into a number of languages and became one of Bitov’s most noted works. Lessons of Armenia is not just a mere travelogue, as Andrei Bely’s impressions of Armenia, or a “semi-‐novella,” as Mandelstam describes his Journey to Armenia, but rather a real piece of artistic prose.
What follows, in a nutshell, is the subject matter of Hangover. People from all national republics, basically writers, were to attend the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters organized at the Moscow Cinema House. The work portrays one day in the life of the attendees at the course; the conversations of Mnatsakanyan, the narrator, with various individuals, recollections of his native Armenia, especially village life, etc. Each of the participants was expected to write a screenplay to be eventually turned into a film. Mnatsakanyan writes a screenplay dealing with problems in the Armenian villages – industrialization, crumbling rural communities, etc. Vaksberg, the course director, proposes that changes be made to the screenplay, but Mnatsakanyan refuses. Their conversation practically rises to the level of an argument. In all likelihood, they’ll expel him from the class.
The two texts are the result of the stimuli received by the authors from their experience attending the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters. Both, albeit in different ways, talk about this significant period of the Soviet empire. At the same time, both deal with Soviet Armenia. In Lessons of Armenia the “friend,” often evoked by the narrator, is none other than Matevosyan. Bitov lived in his house during those days. In Hangover, Bitov’s name is mentioned. Matevosyan and Bitov were members of the intellectual community shaped during that course. In addition, one can find numerous other commonalities between these two texts, implicit and explicit connections that can certainly be called dialogue. The journey In a conversation, Bitov noted that during his life he thrice had the good fortune to turn up in a favorable environment, and that one of these was the “imperial environment of the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters.” Why imperial? It would appear that the course, with the participation of those selected from each of the national republics, reflected the federative structure of the country. On the other hand, the creation of elite communities transcending the inter-‐ethnic borders was one of the aims of Soviet rule. Simultaneously, certain imperial pretensions were ascribed to the course as well – to succeed in the cultural and ideological struggle against the West, in which a decisive role was reserved for the cinema. In passing, all this is covered in Hangover. Yes, the environment of the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters, where Andrei Bitov closely dealt with the Armenian theme for the first time, was imperial, but also imperial were the journeys of Russian (Soviet) writers to the Caucasus and the production of related texts starting from the 1820s. By the first half of the 19th century, in the writings of Pushkin, Lermontov and others, certain themes were taking shape; stereotypical forms and metaphors that represented Caucasia as an expanding peripheral territory of the Russian Empire, thus assisting in the colonization of the Caucasian peoples and the establishment of Russian cultural domination. Ever since Edward Said’s Orientalism, it is well known that cultural representations play a central role in the colonization process of countries, and particularly, that literary texts are tied to imperial and colonizing practices in various ways. Thus, writers also contribute to the crafting of that general point of view that accepts an empire as something taken for granted, while literary texts construct and distribute, and, in essence, legitimize modes of representing the conquered lands and people from positions of domination.
Andrei Bitov and Hrant Matevosyan (photograph kindly provided by the Hrant Matevosyan Foundation
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Bitov’s Lessons of Armenia must be seen as an addition to the late period of the “literary Caucasus,” particularly when it is included in the list of texts created as a result of the journeys to Armenia by Russian and Soviet writers. The first of these is Pushkin’s “Journey to Arzrum” travelogue (1835), written on the basis of dairy notes during an 1829 journey to the Caucasus. Studying the issue of the relationships between 19th century Russian literature and the conquest of the Caucasus, Susan Layton singles out two poles – “little orientalizers” in full complicity with imperialism and old Tolstoy holding a diametrically opposite position (Hadji Murat). In the middle ground were a young Pushkin (A Captive of the Caucasus), Bestujev-‐Marlinsky and Lermontov, who, in certain ways assisted, and in certain ways were opposed, to imperialism.5 It is understandable that a Soviet writer of the 60s had to closely align with the middle position. If Soviet ideology up till the 30s was equated with the crude forces of empire building of Pushkin and the Decembrists, and Pushkin’s Caucasian poems were regarded as examples of “colonial literature,” then, in years to come, the great poets were separated from tsarist authority. Furthermore, in the guise of “progressive Russia,” they came out in opposition to official “conservative” Russia.” Nevertheless, as I will attempt to show, in comparison with the middle orientalist position, Bitov’s approach was much more complex and sensitive. Also evident is the difference of Lessons of Armenia from similar texts written by Andrei Bely and Osip Mandelstam in the late 20s and early 30s in the Soviet Union. A century had passed since the travels of Pushkin. True, by 1828, after their victory over the Persian forces and their conquest of Yerevan, the Russians took a large number of manuscripts back to Petersburg with them, but the systematic study of cultures of the peoples in the Russian empire begins with the mid 19th century. Excavations at the medieval Armenian capital of Ani began at the end of the century and Valery Briusov’s “Poetry of Armenia” collection was published in 1916. During this period, conceptions of nation and national culture, of relations between different cultures, had also dramatically changed. Briusov, in his preface to Poetry of Armenia, regards Armenia as a mediator between the West and East, a place where those two cultures are reconciled and deems Armenian medieval poetry as an “exceptionally rich literature that comprises Armenia’s valuable contribution to the treasure trove of humanity.” In his opinion, “In the pantheon of international poetry, the creations of Armenian genius must take their rightful place” alongside the literary works of the peoples of Japan, India, ancient Greece, Rome and Europe.6 Bely and Mandelstam were also going to the Orient, but at the same time, for them Armenia was a “cradle of history” (Bely), which due to its geographical position and its historic and cultural links with the ancient world, allowed one to get close to the world “cradle of culture” (Mandelstam). Thus, Khrushchev’s ‘Thaw” and subsequent years can be called the second period of “travels to Armenia,” of which Lessons of Armenia is the most famous of texts. It would seem that Bitov steps onto the shaky soil of the rich tradition of writings on Russian oriental journeys, fully aware of the dangers of such an act. It seems that Bitov’s A Captive of the Caucasus collection, comprised of Lessons of Armenia and Georgian Album, can be viewed, in a certain sense, as a self-‐reflection of “literary Caucasus,” a reexamination of traditional approaches, or at least questioning them, something that shouldn’t appear surprising for that time period when they were written. Here, not only are canonized texts referred to (i.e. Pushkin’s Journey to Arzrum, Mandelstam’s Armenia series of poems) and traditional themes (A Captive of the Caucasus), but also established approaches and evaluations are reviewed. Furthermore, in the first pages of Georgian Album he openly discusses the existing imperial roots of the Caucasian theme of Russian writers (Pushkin, Lermontov, and Tolstoy). On the one hand, there is “This traditional
5 Susan Layton, ibid, pp. 5-‐10. 6 Валерий Брюсов (ред.), Поэзия Армениис древнейших времен до наших дней, под редакцией, со вступительным очерком и примечаниями В. Я. Брюсова, Издание Московского Армянского Комотета, 1916 (Ереван: Советакан грох, 1987), p. 9.
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Russian capacity to be penetrated by an alien way of life (Pushkin, Lermontov, Tolstoy...),”7 but, on the other, it is also clear that there is surely an element of conquest and appropriation there. Attempting to find a similar context for Hangover, we can recollect different types of travels and dislocations that were occurring in the S.U. from the periphery to Moscow and generally across the entire empire; for example, with the aim to study in Moscow or to perform various seasonal work in some far-‐flung corner of Russia… Those participating in the conquest of virgin lands, student work battalions sent to Russia during the summer holidays, young people off to serve in the Soviet Army…They all wound up in multi-‐national communities where the Russian language and Soviet culture dominated, where the feeling of “all-‐union” belonging was cultivated. Inter-‐ethnic contacts, the continuous experience of joint living, and later on, continued friendly relations, written and oral histories, etc., assisted in the formation of the Soviet people as an “imagined community.” Like many others, the author of Hangover went to Moscow to study. But his experience gave birth to a text that was exceptional in its attempt to reverse the gaze of the observer from the Center to the periphery, to represent the gaze of someone from the periphery towards the Center. On the part of the participants of the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters, the advance of a group transcending ethnic boundaries, that was a part of a much wider community of “same generation writers (artists)” was portrayed: “They are my friends – in their presence for me a warm climate of safety is being knitted: it is pleasant to feel their existence from Yerevan to Moldavia, Tbilisi, Leningrad.”8 But, just as Matevosyan has already clarified later on in post-‐Soviet years, their group paradoxically embodied both the collective Soviet belonging of those coming from different republics and the quite evident anti-‐Soviet, anti-‐imperial solidarity that, in particular, could have been expressed with the recognition of the difference of the ethnic identity and culture of each participant. The map In one of the diary entries of Walter Benjamin, written during the last days of 1926 during his two-‐month stay in the Soviet capital of Moscow, he reflects on the prominent role that the map began to play for Soviet ideology. Seeing a pile of maps being sold in the street, and noticing that the map had entered not only the daily life but also the culture of Soviet man, from theatrical performances to the propaganda film “One-‐sixth of the world,” he concluded that the map, just like Lenin’s portrait, was becoming a new Russian center of visual worship. Truly, the vast landmass of the Soviet Union, highlighted in red on the world map, along with its assumed momentum of continual expansion, was one of the visual symbols of the empire. However, ever since the 60s, when, in the on-‐target expression of a scholar, “Soviet nations were also allowed to have a history,” maps, as influential means of the visualization of history, could also become powerful tools in the construction of national identity, as well as spurring nationalism. If we follow the assertion of Benedict Anderson, one can then assume that the Soviet national republics appearing on the map, with their borders and capitals, could already have shaped the imagination of the population. As regards to “historical maps,” then, “Through chronologically arranged sequences of such maps, a sort of political-‐biographical narrative of the realm came into being, sometimes with vast historical depth.”9 Forty years later, yet another traveler, Andrei Bitov, this time in Soviet Armenia, also meditates upon maps. He describes the attractive power that an atlas of historical maps of Armenia has on his friend and friend’s brother, the way the atlas sucks them in and they are submerged in map reading. Bitov then adds: “Here, green and round, Armenia extends to three seas. Here, to two.
7 Andrei Bitov, A Captive of the Caucasus: Journeys in Armenia and Georgia, translated from the Russian by Susan Brownsberger, London: Harvill, 1993, p. 155. 8 Hrant Matevosyan, Tsarere. Yerevan: Sovetakan Grogh, 1978, p. 128. 9 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso, 1991, p. 175.
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Here, to one. And here – not even to one. So swiftly does Armenia diminish from the first map to the last, always remaining a generally round state, that if you riffle quickly through the atlas, it’s a movie: it captures the fall of a huge round stone from the altitude of millennia. The stone disappears into the depths, diminishing to a point,”10 or, if you flipped through the pages in the opposite direction, it expanded. The part that talks about the atlas can give rise to different interpretations. From the past to the present, during the entire course of history Armenia continues to get smaller, reaching the edge of disappearing altogether; a fact which makes it more appealing to look through the atlas from the opposite direction, until one reaches the map, “Armenia: from sea to sea.” These were the years of the reawakening of nationalism. However, one can also ponder that it was only due to the Russian-‐Soviet Empire that Armenia was saved from total disappearance. From this point of view, the past was defined solely as a period of loss; the present, secure and safe, while the “radiant future” to come could only be socialist. In any case, it seems that Anderson’s observation above is helpful in clarifying what Bitov describes. During these years, one could find maps of historic Armenia in the homes and work places of many. And this wrested opportunity to remember and commemorate the past, first and foremost, dealt with the 1915 Genocide. Permission to mark the Genocide's 50th anniversary and to construct a memorial on the occasion wasn’t easily obtained: “Their latest war is the war for their own history.”11 Thus, it is not by accident that the subject of the genocide appears in the pages of “Lessons of Armenia” and in Hangover. It was from Bitov’s works, which had previously been published in one of the largest circulation literary journals in the S.U., that wide segments of society, for the first time, read about that event. Not only was it unprecedented that the genocide issue was brought to public light, or there was a chance to write about it, but also the fact that the meaning and importance of pre-‐Soviet national history was recognized. This was something that underscored the uniqueness of national destiny, its difference, as opposed to the unity and commonality of socialist nations being cultivated. Of course, this does not mean that pressures and restrictions had disappeared. In Hangover, during the conversation between the Armenian participant of the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters and the course leader, the genocide is discussed as a possible screenplay theme. Its rejection comes in the form of an advice: not to “go digging up old graves” or not to “yield to local nationalism.” The permission to make a film about the genocide was much harder to obtain than the permission to write about it. In the next section of the article, the issue of representation is discussed and, in that context, it must be at least noted that the authors mentioned were obliged to deal with ideological pressures, in particular, censorship. Matevosyan’s and Bitov’s writing were crudely censored and sometimes altogether banned. There were two faces to Soviet censorship. There were restrictions and banned themes, but, at the same time, there were declarations that had to be stated, to be constantly repeated. On the other hand, the restrictions and prohibitions were diverse. As I have shown, primarily on the basis of Hangover, the more influential means of cultural expression in the S.U. (cinema), that created possible contemporary forms or “styles” of imagination, were mostly being used to mold the Soviet people into an “imagined community.” All the while, their availability for the ethnic cultures was clearly restricted. Put another way, even during the period of nationalist awakening, fairly strict restrictions were operating in the S.U. regarding the cultural representation of ethnic identities.12
10 Andrei Bitov, ibid, p. 43. 11 İbid, p. 44. 12 See, Hrach Bayadyan, “Soviet Armenian Identity and Cultural Representation” in Tsypylma Darieva, Wolfgang Kachuba (eds.), Representations on the Margins of Europe: Politics and Identities in the Baltic and South Caucasian States, Frankfurt/New York: Campus Verlag, 2007, pp. 205-‐219.
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Difficulties of representation In totally characteristic fashion, one of the prominent themes in Lessons of Armenia is the issue of representation, with all its different aspects. The first of these is the optical difficulty; the visual incapacity of the narrator-‐subject. In “Geography Lesson,” he notes, “And I pursue that image as a method. With the naked eye I see nothing – one has to be born here, and live here, in order to see. Through the binoculars I see large objects, for example, a watermelon – and nothing but the watermelon. The watermelon blocks out the world. Or I see my friend – and nothing but my friend.... Every time, something blocks out the world. I reverse the binoculars – the watermelon zooms away from me, like a nucleus, and disappears over the horizon. In the unimaginable depth and haze I see a small round country with one round city, one round lake, and one round mountain, a country inhabited by my friend alone.”13 The same issue is presented, in another fashion, in a chapter relating to Lake Sevan: “Such authenticity and uniqueness does this country show you, again and again, that by now its authenticity seems redundant ... It suddenly occurs to me that the birth of a brilliant painter would be a paradox in this country. Nature here is so exact that it will suffer no transformation by the artistic vision. To remain captive to this absolute exactness of line and color is probably beyond an artist’s power; no copy is possible.”14 Later, he specifies: “Now I catch myself: when I said “line and color,” I was not being accurate. I was following tradition, rather than my own awareness. I was paying tribute to Sarian, rather than to nature.”15 This reminds one of Bitov’s sensitive attitude regarding local reality. He rejects the typical view of the Soviet center towards the periphery, that would have seen a reality caught up in the surge of socialist transformation -‐ new buildings, factories, mass enthusiasm, etc. This view would have proclaimed the blissful life of a people, once colonized for hundreds of years, and of a country reborn from ruins of the past. This is a people that could rediscover its cultural tradition only due to the progress and enlightenment brought by socialism. This rhetoric was often accompanied by stereotypical elements of orientalism; old culture and exotica, stored values of the past, etc. Elleke Boehmer, while discussing ways of describing a colonized foreign country and ways of maintaining control through description, and the problems these engender, suggests: “Rhetorical strategies to manage colonial unreadability can be organized into broad groups. First, there was the practice of symbolic reproduction already discussed, where the intention to characterize a place expressed itself in defiance of the empirical evidence or conventional laws of association. As did the Australian explorers, colonizers created a viable space by repeating names and rhetorical structures from the home country regardless of their accuracy... what could not be translated was simply not a part of the represented scene. Second, a development of the first, there was the strategy of displacement, a device whereby the intransigence or discomfort the colonizer experienced was projected on to the native.... Here the unreadable subject is transformed into the sign of its own unreadability.... The native or colonized land is evoked as the quintessence of mystery, as inarticulateness itself.”16 On the surface, the quotes from Lessons of Armenia remind one of the second strategy, but it seems that Bitov has other motivations and objectives. First, Armenia was explicitly different from a colonized nation in the Western sense. Second, a continual tradition of representing the Caucasus, especially Armenia, took form in Russian literature. In addition, there was the established conviction that Russian writers possessed an unsurpassable capacity when it came to representing others. Dostoevsky made the claim that only Russians were truly universal, and could truly put themselves into the shoes of others, as it were. In his opinion, Russians are the
13 Andrei Bitov, ibid, p. 45. 14 Ibid, p. 53-‐54. 15 Ibid, p. 54. 16 Elleke Boehmer, Colonial&Postcolonial Literature: Migrant Metaphors, 2nd edition, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, p. 90.
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only people capable of authentically representing others.17 And Bitov knew about this, as it appears from the above quoted passage on the “traditional Russian capacity to be penetrated by an alien way of life.” But, at the same time, what agitated him was the sensation that he was “a foreigner, an outlander, an uninvited guest.”18 The notion of the Caucasus as the Russians’ own “East,” a concept that came to the fore in the 19th century, noticeably weakened in the 60s. For Bitov, Armenia was not the Orient, as it had been for Bely and Mandelstam. Nevertheless, in one of the first pages of the novella, Bitov quotes the following, said by his friend. “Please, just don’t write that Armenia is a sunny, hospitable land.”19 Here, “sunny and hospitable land” is a familiar stereotype of Soviet orientalism. To all appearances, for Bitov, the “naked eye” was an eye unfamiliar with local cultural conventions and codes: “one has to be born here, and live here, in order to see.” However, it seems that Bitov also rejects the literary tradition of representing the Caucasus (and Armenia) and, in particular, the entire repository of travelogues, whose mission was to describe the conquered lands and make them recognizable. Bely and Mandelstam resolve this problem each in his own way. In his journey notes to Armenia, Bely writes, “I’ve been viewing Armenia for two days now, but I saw it for the first time in the canvases of Sarian.”20 In other words, in order to see Armenia one must first visit a picture gallery. A foreign country becomes familiar and visible only through the intervention of visual codes of Western painting. As for Mandelstam, in the chapter “The Frenchmen” included in the book Journey to Armenia, he describes the experience of viewing the works of French artists in the museum that becomes a training for the eye via paintings. Afterwards, the real world appears to him as a painting. Viktor Shklovsky critiques Mandelstam for that very “formalism,” when art becomes a medium to perceive reality. He observes, “When humans perceive natural phenomena through art, they are deprived of the opportunity of truly comprehending the object.”21 In general, the critiques of Mandelstam on this issue complement each other: “What interests Mandelstam is not knowing the country or its people, but rather, the capricious amalgam of words,” “Lamark, Goethe and Cézanne are mobilized in order mask the absence of the real Armenia,” “That is a journey via grammatical forms, libraries, words and citations.”22 The author of the last observation is also Shklovsky. Naturally, the undamaged process of seeing and describing, the apparent accessibility of otherness, is conditioned not only upon the possibility to dissolve Armenia in the world cultural context (when Armenia becomes an almost transparent mediator between the poet (Mandelstam) and his cultural origins), but also with the Russian political and cultural domination in Armenia. As it appears from the above cited passage Bitov is also cognizant of the trap of using Sarian’s painting and in general fine arts as a medium. He continues to ponder “And where had I acquired, what had generated within me, the image of a certain celestial land, a land of real ideals? ... Simply, a land where everything was what it was ... Where all the stones, herbs, and creatures had their own corresponding purposes and essences, where primordial meanings would be restored to all concepts... The land was nearby, and I alone was not in it... Under what circumstances had I left this land? ... I found the word authentic and settled on it ... This is a land of concepts.”23 Bitov discovers the country’s utopian image, cleansed of all historical traces, where, instead of the “cradle of civilization,” what arises before us is pure Nature. The unattainable “other” discovered in the alleged homogenous body of the Soviet people, is finally recognized as the
17 See, Katya Hokanson, “Literary Imperialism, Narodnost' and Pushkin's Invention of the Caucasus,” Russian Review, Vol. 53, No. 3 (Jul., 1994), pp. 336-‐352. 18 Andrei Bitov, ibid, p. 57. 19 Ibid, p. 22. 20 Андрей Белый, Армения, Ереван: Наири, 1997, p. 35. 21 Павел Нерлер, Комментарии, в Осип Мандельштам, Сочинения, том 2, Москва: Художественная литература, 1990, p. 431 22See, ibid, pp. 420-‐421. 23 Andrei Bitov, ibid, p. 63.
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“authentic.” The characterization “a land of concepts” reminds one of Andrei Bely’s enunciation regarding Martiros Sarian: “He paints the East in general, his paintings are proto-‐typical, raised to the level of schematic-‐pictures.”24 In other words, the Orient is always and everywhere the same and its unchanging essence can be located via certain concepts and schematics. In the cited and other passages, fragments of an orientalist discourse are obvious reminders of the East as a place of pilgrimage, of oriental man’s “platonic being,” of the inability of the Orient to represent itself, of the Orient’s “consistency” and “homogeneity,” etc. Meanwhile, we find a completely different Armenia in Hangover. The screenplay written by the novella’s protagonist, the Armenian writer Mnatsakanyan, which was rejected by the director of the course, is about the disintegration of the Armenian village community, the population influx to the cities and the emptying of villages, the alienation of the villager from work and the land, the fall of morality. Generally, these are the basic literary themes of Matevosyan. According to him, during the long history of colonialism, the village community was the prime mode for the survival of the Armenian people and its ethnic resistance, and its dissolution could have severe consequences. In Hangover, the co-‐optation of Armenia by the Soviet tourist industry that accompanied the disastrous consequences of the new wave of industrialization and urbanization of the 60s is discussed. The expression, “Armenia is an open-‐air museum,” was quite widespread during the Soviet era, and the theme of tourism directly deals with the approach shaped in the S.U. – to equate national culture with the past, with ancient monuments and museums, while at the same time, to equate the process of the modernization of nations with socialism. On the other hand, there is no description of Moscow’s urban environment in Hangover, except for the scene visible from the window of the dormitory overlooking Dobroliubov Street, together with the colossal Ostankino TV antenna looming in the distance. Instead, the “imperial environment of the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters” is described in detail. To look, turn ones gaze towards the Center, in this case means to question, primarily through the use of irony, the forms of (self)representation of the Center and forms permitted or assigned by the Center, the dominant modes of cultural expression, that, to all appearances, was a prohibited action. Furthermore, the criticism of the ideological rhetoric was accompanied by the offering of ones own narrative, the short story being written by Mnatsakanyan in Moscow. The novella begins with a segment of this story and the claim, repeated several times throughout, that “The story is falling into place”25 The novella is full of citations and re-‐compositions culled from the most diverse types of texts, linguistic and visual. Antonioni’s film and Salinger’s short story are retold and discussed, the short story themes and versions of the screenplay are discussed, and typical examples of the rhetoric of the “cold war” of the period are reproduced… In the taxi on the way to the Cinema House to watch Antonioni’s “The Night,” the participants of the course are flipping the pages of the daily papers. Cited, or more likely retold, are two large excerpts, two examples of Soviet media discourse, one of which is an ironic reference to the “bourgeois press” and “bourgeois values” (very typical of the Soviet press). It begins, “Even with its so-‐called omnipresence, the ‘free’ press has not been able, till now, to poke its nose onto the sail boat of Aristotle Onassis and Jacqueline Kennedy and pry any details regarding the ‘marriage of the century’.”26 (In all cases, since we are talking about the Moscow papers, they are translated from Russian into Armenian and here I do not have the luxury of discussing the language issue, a central theme in Lessons of Armenia and Hangover.) The Advanced Course for Scriptwriters was envisaged to assist the revival of the Soviet film industry by, on the one hand, creating domestic commercial films, for example, “Soviet Westerns,” and, on the other hand, assisting in the instruction of the “generation coming of age” in a spirit of military-‐patriotism. “The war hasn’t ended,” reminds Vaksberg, “…When was it that Russia started to live through the culture of others? We have purchased seventy-‐five movies
24 Андрей Белый, ibid, p. 35. 25 See, Hrach Bayadyan, ibid. 26 Hrant Matevosyan, Tsarere. Yerevan: Sovetakan Grogh, 1978, p. 11.
The Contradictory 60s: Empire and Cultural Resistance Hrach Bayadyan
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from the Americans and we have sold them fourteen. What is this? They are winning the game by a margin of sixty-‐one units.”27 Note that the S.U. is being equated with Russia. Especially when the issue being discussed is the clash between the S.U. and the U.S.A., the other Soviet peoples are forgotten, and this was also typical of the West, which took Russian ethno-‐centrism for granted. Taking this decisive role which the cinema and photography played for Soviet propaganda into account, I wish to pay specific attention to the critical commentary on samples of visual representation carried out through ironic reproduction. In a more general sense, the changes occurring in visual representation and comprehension were of interest to Matevosyan as expressions of the overall cultural shifts.28 Here’s one example. The narrator is in the restaurant of Cinema House: “In that old man, already wrinkled with age, I suddenly recognized the youth in the war newsreels, the boy that was leading his company into battle, his chest thrust forward in defiance, decorated with medals, his gun held high above his head, two-‐thirds of his face turned to the photographer and one-‐third toward the enemy ahead.”29 The essential elements of the propaganda picture’s rhetorical arsenal are reproduced in the one sentence, the pathetic and infectious gesture of self-‐sacrifice reaching imprudence, and the award granted by the fatherland encouraging and justifying it. Conclusions
A new stage of consolidation of the Soviet people began in the 60s that was paradoxically accompanied by the “ethnicization” of the Soviet nationalities. This state of modernization was marked by the birth of nationalism in republics, whose bearers were the hybrid (Soviet-‐national) intellectual upper classes formed during the Soviet years. One of the descriptive expressions of this period was the creation of all-‐union communities that transgressed ethnic boundaries. This non-‐formal supra-‐ethnic solidarity nurtured in the intellectual communities could have both been expressed as loyalty towards the Soviet authorities and/or as resistance towards the empire. Such resistance could have signified the questioning of the dominant types of cultural expression and established norms and values, in various forms, including the recognition of national cultures (and identities) as being different and independent. In this sense, the “imperialness” of the Advanced Course for Scriptwriters could also have signified the formation of a conscious anti-‐imperial position.
As I have tried to show, the two works selected for discussion written by Russian and Armenian writers of the “same generation” in the second half of the 60s, bear witness, in different ways, to this important development that was taking place in the S.U. during the years following Khruschev’s Thaw. The critical gaze of the Armenian writer towards the center, which, in the manner of its performance is an unparallel action, at least in terms of Soviet Armenian literature, also registered the divide between the Center and the periphery. This was coupled with the discovery made by Andrei Bitov of the irreducible cultural difference and ethnic otherness of Armenia. This is perhaps implicitly conditioned by the recognition by Bitov of the ability, in the persona of “his friend” Hrant Matevosyan, of Armenia’s cultural self-‐representation.
Translated from Armenian by Hrant Gadarigian
27 Ibid, pp. 38-‐39. 28See, Грач Баядян, Воображая прошлое, Художественный журнал, 65/66, 2007, ст. 85-‐96 (http://xz.gif.ru/numbers/65-‐66/grach-‐bayadyan/). 29 Hrant Matevosyan, ibid, p. 183.
Andrei Bitov and Hrant Matevosyan (photograph kindly provided by the Hrant Matevosyan Foundation
1968: Global or Local? Emin Alper
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We can speak of three major historical moments when revolutionary movements became global by transcending national borders in unexpected ways: 1848, 1968, and 1989. If one of its distinguishing aspects that renders 1968 different from the other two important dates is its inability to stage successful revolutions, the other one is its being a global and worldwide phenomenon of an incomparable degree in contrast to 1848 which is limited to Europe, and 1989 which is limited to East Europe. Such that, there is almost no place in the world which has not lived a “68”1 except a section of Sub-‐Saharan Africa, the south of the Arabian Peninsula, and several East European countries.2 It is not possible to assert that completely satisfying answers have been given by historians to the question what are the basic dynamics that make 68 so global. How countries with thoroughly different political and economic conditions could, around the same years, witness radical student movements and an accompanying radical ethos is still a critical discussion and research topic. Since we are faced with a global phenomenon, the first explanation that comes to mind can be driven through the detection of global dynamics. Viewed from this perspective, the dynamics that need to be detected at first hand are as follows: 1) The almost universal explosion in the number of students in the 1960’s. 2) Significant events like the Cuban Revolution, Vietnam, and the Prague Spring that shaped world politics with their impacts. 3) The proliferation of media organs such as press, radio, and television. Yet the main question is whether these three dynamics suffice to explain such radical and global movements or not. In fact, every explanation concerning 68, especially to the extent that it does not build up a narrative that puts the stress on its own national dynamics but tries to make do with the “global” explanation in question, finds itself to be deficient, weak, and far from persuasiveness. Since such is the case, is it more rational to speak of the contingent juxtaposition of movements produced by different localities and local experiences? Of course it is possible to ask the same question not only in terms of the determinant dynamics but also at the empirical and descriptive level. Was there a single 68? Or did every country live its own 68? What was common to the 68 of the West and the 68 of the Third World? Let us begin with searching answers to these questions. How many 68s are there? Undoubtedly there are many qualities of 68 that make it both common and particular to every single country. In Arif Dirlik’s words, the 68 student movements were using a common vocabulary but working according to the logic of a different grammar.3 Then, can we argue that there were different demands and concerns underlying numerous common slogans and symbols like Che and Vietnam? To begin with, we can broach the subject with the most pervasive conviction, by mentioning the difference between the 68 of the West and that of the Third World. In this respect, a brief overview of the history of student movements can be helpful. According to Edward Shils, what rendered the 60s distinctive was not the emergence of student movements in those years. Both in Europe and in the Third Worl, student movements had entered the stage of
1 It should be noted that when we say “68” we are not talking about a single year. We should emphasize that even though 1968 is indisputably the year when the protests have been the most intense, the “68” of some countries happened in different years (for instance, the 1973 Polytechnic uprising in Greece), and therefore we use “68” more as a symbolic year. In this sense, 68 may be considered a long year that covers 1965-‐73. For a similar discussion see, Kostis Kornetis, “Everything Links? Temporality, Territoriality and cultural Transfer in the ’68 Protest Movements,” Historein, n. 9, 2009, p. 34-‐45. 2 Michael Kidron and Roland Segal The State of the World Atlas (London, 1981), cited in Carole Fink, Detlef Junker, and Philipp Gassert “Introduction” 1968 The World Transformed (Washington D.C.: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 14-‐5. 3 Arif Dirlik “The Third World in 1968”, The World Transformed, ibid. pp. 295-‐320.
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history long ago.4 For example, in the1930s there was a noteworthy left student movement in England.5 As for the Third World, student movements were very powerful since the beginning of the century. Such that, in some countries they reached their peak not in 1968, but well in advance. Argentine in 1918, Egypt in 1937, and India in the independence war years witnessed the most massive and radical student agencies.6 Still, there was something that distinguished the 60s. First of all, contrary to the dispersed and relatively weak movements of the previous years, a movement of unprecedented extensiveness and simultaneity emerged in the USA and Western Europe. And in the Third World, even though the student movements in many countries had reached their climax in different years as mentioned above, in the 60s there was a significant intensification. According to Shils, what rendered the 60s different was a qualitative change rather than a quantitative one. Previous movements had mostly functioned within a traditional left framework, as extensions of the political lines of the “big” parties. The political activity of the youth movements which had internalized the traditional revolutionary political lines were generally under the command or in the shadow of the communist parties (or the leftist-‐nationalist parties in the Third World). 68 was strikingly different in this sense. To begin with, the youth was now absolutely refusing the tutelage of any “big” or “paternal” party, and on top of that, they were also declaredly disavowing the conception of politics represented by these parties. The Communist Parties evoked as much disgust with their bureaucratic structures as the traditional bourgeoisie parties. New politics was much more anarchistic, decentralized, and spontaneous. The youth wanted to start the revolution here and now in their daily lives; they replaced all forms bureaucratic transformation imaginations with spontaneity and the emancipatory force of revolt. According to Wallerstein, Hopkins, and Arrighi, in this sense 68 was exactly the death notice of traditional radical-‐populist politics. In view of these writers, both the radical parties in the West and the left-‐nationalist movements in the Third World had gradually fell far from keeping their promises; they had not been able to bring about any significant transformation in the countries they had come to power. Therefore, 68 was a reaction against “paternal” politics and the bankruptcy of old school revolutionism.7 It had become obvious that the revolution was not going to take place with the appropriation of the power apparatus. Hence, the revolution had to be initiated in ourselves, our everyday lives, and somewhere outside the power of the state. This distinction which sets forth the qualitative difference of the 60s is rather illuminating. However, this is so only in the case of Western Europe. As for the Third World, it contains some misleading elements. No doubt a shared generation experience and the rejection of the tutelage of “paternal” parties were in effect also in the Third World; however, this rejection never reached the level of disowning the conception of politics of these parties. In other words, the radical student movements of the Third World were a continuation of the traditional radical politics and social movements. These movements were angry at the reformist or left-‐nationalist parties for not doing anything after seizing power; but this anger did not bring about the radical questioning of the conception of politics held by these parties. On the contrary, what had to be done was to repeat what had previously tried to be done in a more radical and genuine way. And there was nothing surprising in this. For the radical leaders who acted within a socio-‐political context in which poverty was still a major problem, industrialization was the most important
4 Edward Shils “Dreams of Plentitude, Nightmares of Scarcity” in Students in Revolt, (eds.) Seymour Martin Lipset and Philip G. Altbach (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1969), 1-‐35. 5 Brian Simon “The Student Movement in England and Wales during the 1930s,” The State and Educational Change (collected essays by) Brian Simon (London: Lawrance & Wishart, 1994), 103-‐126. 6 For Argentina see Richard J. Walter, Student Politics in Argentina: The University Reform and Its Affects 1918-‐1964, (Basic Books, 1968). For Egypt, Ahmad Abdalla, The Student Movement and National Politics in Egypt 1923-‐1973 (London: Al Saqi Books, 1985). For India, Philip G. Altbach “Student Politics and Higher Education in India,” in Students in Revolt, ibid. 235-‐257. 7 Giovanni Arrighi, Terence Hopkins, Immanuel Wallerstein, Sistem Karşıtı Hareketler [Antisystemic Movements], (Istanbul: Metis, 2004), pp. 96-‐100.
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common goal and populist politics had not completely exhausted itself, the state was still a vital leverage and there was much to achieve by taking control of the state. While in the West 68 marked the beginning of anti-‐modernist movements, in the Third World modernization was definitely an unfinished project and the state continued to be the motor of modernization. Surely it is extremely suspect to draw this differentiation in a rigid way. Definitely there were many student groups in the West who maintained their traditional political lines just as outside the West there were student circles who experienced the cultural revolution dimension of the 68. We will try to touch on these points below. Therefore, despite all its vulgarity and the unfair generalizations it implies and, even more crucially, despite the border examples where the two categories intersect (such as Italy where counter-‐cultural movements were weak compared with the classical revolutionary movements) a differentiation can be made between the 68 of the developed countries and that of the Third World8; albeit without forgetting the common features and qualities that render 68 indisputably global beyond this differentiation. Anti-‐imperialism was the most prominent of these features. Even though anti-‐imperialism was a much more dominant emphasis in the Third World, one of the elemental agendas of the developed countries was anti-‐imperialism and the most important symbol that held the 68 of the world together was definitely Vietnam. The slogan that united almost all of the student movements that constituted the 68 movement was “One, two, three, four! We don’t want your fucking war!” Both the Red Army Faction in Germany and the guerilla groups in Latin America, and the People’s Liberation Army of Turkey had chosen the American military bases as their prior targets and they had reckoned the weakening of American imperialism as a pre-‐condition of the liberation of the world’s peoples. Another global characteristic of 68 was that almost everywhere in the world it was lived as a generation experience involving a dimension of generation conflict. Above, we had mentioned the break from the “paternal” parties and political movements. Even in the Third World where the foundational lines of this “paternal” politics were not questioned, the youth organizations quickly became autonomous and declared their independence. One of the most striking examples of this was Turkey’s student movement’s initial rupture from the gerontocratic structure of the Turkish Labor Party and, ensuing that, its refusal of the leadership of another “father,” Mihri Belli. The ideological and political leaders of the youth were figures who had not passed the age of twenty five. A third commonality was voluntarism in high dose which left its mark on the movement and the belief in both the effectiveness and the remedial power of violence.9 Political violence was both an effective tool of revolution in the hands of a voluntarist avant-‐garde group and it was emancipatory and healing in itself. While the instrumental aspect of violence was more in the fore in the Third World, in the West, the experiencing of violence as a practice of existence and revolt by closed groups which had detached themselves from the pacifist counter-‐culture movements was more frequently observed. However, all these different perceptions of violence held by these movements intersected at a Fanonist sublimation of violence. Causes We can make the categorizations we have made above at the empirical level at the plane of causality as well. In other words, we can distinguish between global dynamics and dynamics specific to their own categories that guided the movements. First of all, we should proceed from a common finding. The precondition of youth movements is the existence of an influential youth or student identity or culture in the national context in question. Meyer and Rubinson, as well as others, had detected a significant correlation between the rates of the recognition of the
8 Arif Dirlik, ibid. 9 Kostis Kornetis, ibid, p. 39.
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studentship status at the cultural, juridical or official levels and the intensity of student movements in all the sample countries they had examined.10 Therefore, both in the West and in the Third World we can take the existence of a strong youth/student culture as the pre-‐condition of student politics. However, it seems that this condition has been shaped in different ways and under different historical conditions in the cases of these two categories. The emergence of “youth” as a pervasive category in the developed countries coincides with the rise of the consumerist society after World War 2. In these countries youth was originally a category discovered and put into circulation by the market. The post-‐war welfare state and the wealth produced by the golden age of capitalism had made it possible for the households to subsist on the income of a single member (that is, the father), and as a result the urgency to join the workforce on the part of the youth had been removed. Above all, the “youth” period of not only the middle classes but also the working class was prolonged to at least age 18, before when they did not work. Moreover, these youngsters had the opportunity to cultivate a consumption pattern suitable to their tastes with the allowance they got from their fathers.11 Thus the market discovered a new consumer group, “the youth,” a category that was highly distinct and innovative with its tastes and habits. Throughout the 50s, the youth had turned into a sociological category with the accessories they used (leather jacket), the vehicles they drove (motorcycle), the music they listened to (rock ‘n roll) and the way they spent their leisure time. And the youth culture of the 60s was the product of the radicalization of the apolitical yet rebellious culture of ten years ago by an intellectual-‐political youth (that is, the university youth). As for the developing world, the youth identity had been produced in a completely different way. In these countries where the processes of the construction of the nation and the national identity still set the agenda, the state itself played a major role in the production of “the university youth” identity. The youth was the source from which to nurture the future ruling elites, the guarantee of the country. So they had to be educated but even during their education they had to be placed at a privileged position and treated as the future elites, rulers, and bearers of national culture. Moreover, they were needed not only in the future but also in the present day. In time of a possible war they were the ones to be recruited first with their dynamism, physical capacities, and patriotism. Therefore, in these countries, the youth became the privileged subject of a nationalist-‐militarist (and at times revolutionary) discourse. The youth was brave, pure and uncorrupt, idealist and ready to fight in the name of these ideals… Just as Mustafa Kemal had defined it in his “Address to Youth” and even in the much more controversial “Bursa Oration.”12 In parallel to this, in developing countries the youth usually not only had a strong identity but also powerful representation mechanisms and semi-‐corporatist organizations. Surely, the politicization and radicalization of this powerful student identity had required certain conditions. These conditions were mainly the political conflicts which, to a large extent, concurringly cut through the Third World in the post-‐war period and were the products of the Cold War atmosphere. From Latin America to Asia, reformist, industry-‐oriented political platforms dependent on educated middle classes had exerted dominance over the political lives of these countries in the post-‐war era. These political movements defined themselves as against rich land oligarchies; they designed partial nationalizations, notably land reform, and radical actions for the development of a national industry. The natural rivals of these groups which tried to rest on a worker-‐peasant-‐middle class alliance were land owners and peasants dependent on them through patronage, a considerable part of the bourgeoisie, and after the 60s the military.13 The radicalization of these conflicts under Cold War conditions led to the politicization of
10 Meyer, John W. and Richard Rubinson “Structural Determinants of Student Political Activity: A Comparative Interpretation,” Sociology of Education, 45 (1) (Winter, 1972): 23-‐46. 11 For a good summary of this explanation see Tony Judt, Postwar: A History of Europe since 1945 (New York: The Penguin Press, 2005), p. 346-‐48. 12 Leyla Neyzi “Object or Subject? The Paradox of ‘Youth’ in Turkey,” International Journal of Middle East Studies, 33, no. 3, (August 2001), 411-‐432. 13 Especially in Latin America, until the end of the 1950s, the armies had supported the reformist middle class parties and had even carried them to power in some countries, but later on when these movements were radicalized and had begun to move further to the left the armies had taken sides with the oligarchic powers and the bourgeoisie.
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students. At times through the conscious mobilization of the reformist parties in question, and at times through a more spontaneous process the university youth entered the political scene as the natural ally of these middle class parties. These young “intellectuals” who used their powerful and prestigious positions in society participated in the social conflicts due to their national responsibilities and took sides with the modernizing powers as required by their education and missions; however, in time, they quickly became independent of these “paternal” political movements. Well then, how come these two different dynamics in the West and in the Third World merged in the 60s? Why did these two socio-‐political dynamics, whose intersection seemed to be in no way a necessity, cause a global explosion in the sixties? We can reply by recalling the three fundamental dynamics we had mentioned in the beginning: Almost a universal explosion in the number of student in the 60s; significant events like the Cuban Revolution, Vietnam, and the Prague Spring that determined international politics with their impacts; the quick dissemination of action forms and symbols by means of the press, radio, and television. It was truly difficult to find a country that did not double its number of university students throughout the 60s.14 The welfare state administrations in the developed world, and the efforts towards import-‐substitution industrialization policy in the developing world had caused a boost in the demand for technocrats, engineers, and social workers; which had in return resulted in a growth in the number of students. While the increase in the number of students even further augmented the social visibility of the youth in the West, in the developing world, the increase in the number of students who had begun to become politicized many years ago automatically translated as a growth in a mass that was ready to become politicized. In the meantime, the national liberation movements which left their mark on the 50s and 60s were inspiring and encouraging especially the Third World youth about conducting an anti-‐imperialist struggle. As for the Cuban Revolution, by demonstrating the effective outcome of a revolutionary struggle initiated by an avant-‐garde force first in Latin America, then in the whole world, it turned guerilla war into a widespread strategy on a global scale. And, needless to say, Vietnam was expeditiously agitating both the USA youth who was under the risk of being conscripted and the Third World youth ripe with anti-‐imperialist sentiments. The dispersed student radicalizations at different time intervals converged, intensified, and sharpened as if coordinated by an invisible hand in the second half of the 60s with the emergence of common global causes in international politics. When the protest repertoires, imaginative inventions, and slogans of different national movements were spread quickly by the media organs these movements attained a common vocabulary as well. Even though besides this common repertory there were specific words used by youth movements in each country and sometimes the same words signified different things, a language by means of which the whole world youth could more or less communicate had quickly spread.15 Therefore, it was unavoidable for the characters of the youth movements of two separate worlds stemming from diverse socio-‐political dynamics to be different even though they converged around common symbols and causes. While the Western youth movements bore a life-‐style-‐oriented and counter-‐cultural tone, those in the Third World were more political and nation-‐centered. For this reason, the 68 of the West moved side by side with a cultural revolution and generated new social movements which placed new conflicts at the center of politics, whereas the 68 of the Third World generally left its trace on the political sphere rather than the cultural one.
14 John W. Meyer, Francisco O. Raminez, Richard Rubinson, John Boli-‐Bennett, “The World Educational Revolution, 1950-‐1970,” Sociology of Education, vol. 50, no. 4 (October 1977), 242-‐258. 15 There is a highly advanced literature on the spread of the protests and protest forms by surpassing the national borders. As an example see Dough McAdam and Dieter Rucht “Cross-‐national Diffusion of Movement Ideas,” Annals of the American Academy of the Political and Social Science, 528, 1993, p. 56-‐74.
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Cultural revolution? In Europe and the USA a cultural revolution took place in the 60s and 70s.16 A fast transition into a more tolerant society in which moral criteria was changing, taboos were being shaken one by one, sexuality was lived more freely, warmth replaced formality in relations, easiness, sincerity and freeness replaced a puritan self-‐control morality, and the authoritarian remnants of the former society were erased was in process. The question whether this cultural revolution created 68 or 68 gave birth to this cultural transformation is debated. Even if according to many writers the beginning of this cultural transformation could be traced back to the 1955s, and even earlier, and even if it was rightly claimed that 68 had risen on the grounds of this cultural revolution17, undoubtedly, the social dynamic engendered by 68 had further radicalized this cultural transformation and carried it even further. Actually, this transformation was the natural consequence of the conscious provocations of the students of 68. The radical student groups of the time were aiming to disclose the authoritarian faces of the official and respectable institutions and their representatives, and to bring down their democrat masks, which they used as a Cold War rhetoric, by deliberately trying their patience and provoking them. And to a large extent they had succeeded in cleaning the European public life from bumptious formality, authoritarianism, and religious morality – mainly remnants of aristocracy. We had said that 68 was rather political outside the West. In these countries cultural struggle yielded more complicated results. For example, the 68 of Ethiopia had effloresced as a reaction to the parade of the models in a fashion show that took place in the university, and all throughout the movement the mini skirt and all kinds of sexual freedom ideas, which were the symbols of Western imperialism, were condemned.18 The cultural revolution motifs which were the symbols of emancipation in the West could be taken in the Third World as the attempts on the part of the degenerate Western world to invade the local culture. But not everywhere was like this. For instance in Turkey, at least until 1969, rock, the rebel music of the West, the mini skirt, the symbol of casualness and disobedience in the way of dressing, long hair, and accessories in general had gradually gained wide currency among the left leaning youth. The situation in Mexico was more or less the same. New trends were being adopted by the youth; to consume these symbols while at the same time being anti-‐imperialist and leftist was not considered to be a contradiction even though a significant section of the youth was doing so with completely apolitical intentions.19 Principally, marking especially the years between 1965 and 1968 in Turkey was a cultural revival besides the universalization of the symbols in question. The launching of the literary magazine Yeni Dergi, the establishment of Cinematheque, the emergence of the Anatolian Pop movement, and the quickly increasing number of translations were creating an unprecedented air of cultural abundance for the young generations. Many witnesses conveyed that in this period the precondition of being a leftist was reading literature. In the summer of 1968 this cultural climate met with the rebellion of the university students and that was a unique summer of liberation. However, this atmosphere was short-‐lived. The urgency, currency, and gravity of political struggle put the cultural pursuits and transformations on the back burner. The preoccupation with reaching out to the people and meeting with the people as the requirement of a radical politics tended towards rediscovering the authentic, and reuniting with the folk culture instead of discovering the culturally new. Just like in Mexico, before long rock was forgotten because of folk
16 Eric Hobsbawm, Aşırılıklar Çağı [The Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century], 1914-‐1991, (İstanbul: Sarmal Publications, 1996), p. 372-‐399. 17 Arthur Marwick The Sixties: The Cultural Revolution in Britain, France, Italy, and the United States, c. 1958-‐c. 1974 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). 18 Arif Dirlik, ibid. 19 For the Mexico example see Eric Zolov Refried Elvis: The Rise of the Mexican Counterculture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 199).
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music. Mini skirts were thrown aside, long-‐haired students were taken out of demonstrations, and symbols militarized. Hence 68 did not become the turning point of a new cultural and artistic transformation in Turkey. 68 was the sign of neither a new modernism nor the beginning of an avant-‐garde wave. Artistic pursuits inclined towards new realisms, or the rediscovery and recovery of the true folk culture with new tools, or the balancing of avant-‐garde forms with a more left and populist content. Neither were the results of the kind to be made light of nor did the new experiments fall short of the new quests of the Western modernism. However, there was not a turning point, a radical rupture in view. Conclusion, or what remains behind As we have mentioned above the imprints of the Western 68 on daily life and culture have been much more permanent and deep. As for the 68 of the Third World, it mainly witnessed the suppression of the social movements it had encouraged and pioneered by military coups and authoritarian regimes. In these lands, the political traces of the 68 were delicately and mercilessly erased by the reactionary regimes. It was not only left political movements and culture that suffered from this. The crushing of the youth had paved the way for the recovery of the gerontocratic regimes. Indisputably Turkey was one of the places where this could be observed most clearly. The September 12 coup one by one took away from the youth all its prestige and areas of freedom. The education system was re-‐disciplined with an archaic authoritarianism and a new period had begun in which the “anarchic” memories from the past were reminisced as nightmares, and the authority of the teacher, the school master, and the disciplinary board who became sources of fear and terror were unshakably constructed. The youth-‐politics relationship was decisively disrupted. Anyway, the new liberal order had already eroded the identity of students as intellectuals responsible for the future of the country and transformed them into competitive investors who were compelled to increase their human capital in order to survive in the work-‐force market. From now on, the youth was far from being a political category or subject. As for the political heritage of the 68 in Turkey, it is highly controversial. Both the radical Marxist politics of the day and nationalist Kemalism, and even some of the liberal intellectuals (even though the majority of them cannot desist from furiously attacking 68) claim their roots to be in 68. It is very hard to argue that any one of them is wrong. The 68 of Turkey was indisputably Marxist and revolutionary; but at the same time it was defining this revolutionism with a discourse that was interpenetrated with an anti-‐imperialist, nationalist Kemalism. And the majority of today’s liberal intellectuals were brought up in the school of 68. Apparently, when asking the question how many 68s are there, one needs to take into consideration not only the different 68s lived by different countries but also the different ways how 68 is remembered today.
Translated from Turkish by Ayşe Boren
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin Olga Bryukhovetska
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The Great Ukrainian A few years ago a syndicated TV project The Great Ukrainians was aired at one of the national channels. The idea of the project was very simple: the whole nation, which was represented by a TV-‐audience, elected its most important historical figures. The project failed in Ukraine; it did not, as it was predicated by its promoters, generate any serious political discussion. It was a rather boring version of the political talk-‐shows, which after the Orange revolution used to be very dramatic. The only episode that somehow broke the smooth surface was a brief confrontation between the leader of the parliamentary Communist party, the corrupted Soviet “Left” that quickly joined the coalition of the big capital parties, and a leading researcher in the program, a liberal historian. The former claimed that Lenin should be included among the great Ukrainians, because he was at the roots of Ukraine’s independence. The latter repudiated, explaining that Lenin was internationalist, and therefore his ultimate goal was the world revolution and not the independence of Ukraine. This brief appearance of Lenin, which surprised some and annoyed others (and probably, was unnoticed by others), is interesting in two respects. Firstly, it made perceptible the absence of Lenin from popular imagination. The collapse of the Soviet Union was followed by a total “de-‐Leninization,” which lasted till today. One of the few exceptions to this tendency is Slavoy Zizek’s 13 Essays on Lenin, which he published on the 85th anniversary of the October Revolution1. However, reading this essay makes you wonder, as in Zizek’s favourite anecdote, “Where is Lenin?”. The other reason, why this brief TV dialog is interesting is that it ironically reverses the important discussion on Lenin’s nationality politics that emerged during the 60s in Ukraine. This discussion was most eloquently set forth in the text Internationalism or Russification?(1965) by literary critic Ivan Dzyuba2. While Dzyuba presented Lenin as a national liberator, the Soviet officials repudiated this in a similar way as the liberal historian in the TV program. In addition, they accused Dzyuba of “nationalism.” Generally, communism as ideology is seen as the total opposite of nationalism. One often accounts the statement that the most vivid effect of the “collapse of communism” has been the rise of nationalism, as if simply the label “scientific communism” was replaced with “scientific nationalism,” as it had been suggested by one representative of the Soviet state apparatus in the early 90s. But something important is excluded from this opposition between communism and nationalism: that under imperialism the national question acquires a class dimension. And this is one of the main ideas that defined Lenin’s politics toward nationalities. Lenin not only supported the right of nations to self-‐determination but also gave it Marxist grounds. Although his approach to the national question was not without contradictions, Lenin sympathised with the struggles of the oppressed nations against imperialism. In his debate with Luxembourg he defended national-‐liberation movements, defined them as progressive and saw the possibility (and the necessity) to link them with the class struggles of the proletariat, instead of opposing the two. Purloined letter While supporting the oppressed nations’ right to secession in his The Socialist Revolution and the Right of Nations to Self-‐Determination (1916), Lenin believed that once granted this right, the oppressed nation would not exercise it because of the benefits of being part of a bigger centralized system of a progressive democratic character. Lenin’s this “give-‐and-‐take away”
1 Slavoj Zizek. Die Revolution stehet bevor. Dreizehn Versuche uber Lenin. Frankfurt Am Main: Suhrkamp Velag, 2002. 2 Ivan Dzyuba. Internatsionalism chy Rusyfikatsia?. Kiev, 2005.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin
Olga Bryukhovetska
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politics was immediately criticised by Ukrainian communist Leon Yurkevych, whose texts recently became accessible.3 However in his last years Lenin revised his nationality politics. He did it in his letter which is now known under the title “The Question of Nationalities or ‘Autonomisation.’” The letter was dictated by Lenin during the last two days of December 1922. This was the only medium of communication he had access to. Lenin attributed considerable importance to these notes, which he wanted to elaborate into an article. He was never able to do it. The letter was presented at the XII Congress of the Communist party on 16 April 1923, and then disappeared. It was “found” only after Stalin’s death and published in 1956.4 This letter is central to Dzyuba’s argumentation in Internationalism or Russification?. It is an extended elaboration of the main ideas in Lenin’s notes from the historical distance of almost half a century. In a way, this is the article that was never written by Lenin. Why does the national question bother dying Lenin? Firstly, he was very upset with the so called “Georgian affair,” the conflict with the Communist Party of Georgia in autumn 1922 on the issue of the creation of a Transcaucasian federation. Instead of regulating this conflict, Central Committee’s representatives Ordzhonikidze and Stalin (Russified Georgians, as Lenin points in brackets) suppressed it. Secondly, Lenin felt that something was going on that he did not have much influence on. The letter starts with the phrase: “I seem to be very guilty against Russian workers for not actively and abruptly intruding in the notorious question of autonomisation, which is officially called, it seems, the question of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”5 It seems that Lenin’s position varies from the first to the second day he wrote the letter. At the beginning of the letter Lenin condemns “the venture of autonomisation” for being conceptually wrong and not being proper in the current situation. At the conclusion of the letter he gives practical recommendations that begin with the affirmation of the union of socialist republics (if by this Lenin means the same union). A union is “needed for the struggle of the world proletariat against the world bourgeoisie,” explains Lenin, but in the fourth and the last exhortation, which is much longer and twisted, he emphasises the necessity to fight the abuses of the “truly Russian character,” going as far as the possibility of restoring the full independence of republics aside from the military and diplomatic union. The necessity to unify against Western imperialism, warns Lenin, should not justify imperialistic relations with “oppressed nations.” He finishes the letter with a prediction, which explains why the national question had such weight at that moment: “Tomorrow in the world history will be precisely this day, when the nations oppressed by imperialism will fully awaken and the decisive, long, and difficult struggle for their liberation will start.”6 Generally there are two opposite understandings of internationalism. According to one, it means the abolition of all national differences, and return to an innocent state before the “confusion of tongues.” Lenin called this “national nihilism.” The other understanding of internationalism, which was developed by Lenin, saw it as the fullest development of all nations. In order to achieve this Lenin suggests a mechanism of compensation that would later be known as “positive discrimination”:
I have already written in my works about the national question that the abstract formulation of the question of nationalism is totally false. One should differentiate
3 Lev (Yurkevych) Rybalka. Russian Social Democrats and the National Question. 1917. http://thecommune.wordpress.com/2009/08/31/two-‐rare-‐texts-‐on-‐the-‐national-‐question/ 4 This letter together with some others was published in Communicst, 1956, Issue 9, and was included in the additional volumes of Complete Works. V.I. Lenin, “The Question of Nationalities or ‘Autonomisation,’” in the Collected Works, Volume 36, Moscow 1971, pp. 605-‐11. I am citing from the Ukrainian translation: V.I. Lenin, “The Question of Nationalities or ‘Autonomisation,’” in the Collected Works, Volume 45, Kiev 1974, pp. 339-‐45. The English translation was published at http://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1922/dec/testamnt/autonomy.htm 5 V.I. Lenin. “The Question of Nationalities or ‘Autonomisation,’” p. 339. (My translation.) 6 Ibid. p. 345.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin
Olga Bryukhovetska
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between the nationalism of the oppressing nation and the nationalism of the oppressed nation, the nationalism of the big nation and the nationalism of the small nation. Concerning the second nationalism, almost always in historical practice we, representatives of the big nation turn to be deeply guilty of numerous acts of violence, moreover we continue committing numerous offences and acts of violence which remain imperceptible for us… That is why internationalism from the side of the oppressing nation … should consist not only in adhering to the formal equality of nations but in such an inequality that compensates at the expense of the oppressing nation, the big nation, that inequality which actually exists in life. Those who did not understand this missed the point of the true proletarian attitude toward the national question and retained the petit-‐bourgeoisie point of view and that is why they cannot but regress all the time to the bourgeois point of view. 7
While Lenin did not have to justify his understanding of internationalism, Dzyuba presents an ethical argumentation for it, which can be summarized in four positions: firstly, the universal is accessible only through the particular, in this case through the national; secondly, if communism appropriates all the best produced by humanity, it cannot reject national languages and traditions; thirdly, the abolition of any nation deprives it of the possibility to contribute to cultural development and condemns it to cultural dependency. Moreover, the abolition of all nations hits only small, oppressed nations. Big, or oppressor nations usually reserve for themselves positions above the national, that of universal humanity. Dzyuba cites Marx’s letter to Engels from 20 June 1866, in which he described how the representatives of the Young France believed that those, who complicated the social questions with “the prejudices of the old world” such as national questions, were by definition reactionaries. Marx commented that Lafargue and others who abolished the nation were proclaiming this in French and by abolition of nations they understood the assimilation of all nations by the French “model.”8 This is what Dzyuba calls “assimilation of small, oppressed nations by the big, oppressor nation.” As a literary critic Dzyuba pays most but not exclusive attention to the cultural field, which he reads politically. One of the main examples to the perversion of proletarian internationalism he diagnosed in the current nationality politics of the Soviet Union was the revision of history in terms of the rehabilitation of the Russian Empire, “the owner of the great length of the stolen land” as Engels called it. Dzyuba opposes negative accessions of Russian imperialism by classics of Marxism-‐Leninism and Russian liberal democrats (Gertsen, Chernyshevsky) to the Soviet worship of the “heroic doings of the Russian people.” Dzyuba points out the ideological trick that Stalinism played on the Marxist understanding of history: replacing the Tsar as an agent of action with Russian people helps to ascribe progressive character to all imperialistic “steals,” presenting them as a voluntary unification with the Russian people. The grandiose celebration of the 300th anniversary of the “unification” of the Ukrainian people with their Russian elder brother, the Perejaslavska Rada of 1654, was fresh in memory at the time when Dzyuba was writing his work.9 Non-‐historic peoples? One of the symptoms of the radical reversal of Lenin’s nationality politics under Stalin was the actualisation of the Hegelian notion of “non-‐historic peoples.” This notion was not new for Marxism. In 1848-‐9 Engels used it for Slavs, who joined the counter-‐revolution in the Habsburg Empire. Angrily Engels proclaimed that they should be swiped away by history. In 1949, Roman Rozdolsky, one of the communist leaders from Western Ukraine who had just immigrated to USA, wrote a detailed criticism of Engel’s position regarding this question. He showed that Engels
7 Ibid. pp. 341-‐2. 8 Cited from Ivan Dzyuba. Internationalism or Russification?. Kiev, 2005, p. 75. 9 About the construction of this ‘unification’ see Serhy Yekelchyk. Stalin’s Empire of Memory: Russian-‐Ukrainian Relations in the Soviet Historical Imagination. Toronto: Toronto UP, 2004.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin
Olga Bryukhovetska
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missed the articulation of nation and class in the case of Austrian Slavs, who were peasants and who were never offered a liberation by a revolutionary bourgeoisie.10 As David Brandenberger observes, by the mid 30s the Stalinist regime ascribed the ability of state-‐building only to the Russian people, while the non-‐Russian peoples of the Soviet Union only had pasts.11 Officially this did not mean the immediate physical annihilation of these non-‐historic peoples, on the contrary, before being “progressively” swiped away by history they were to experience a blossoming to the full, so they would not be upset when they disappeared without a trace. In contrast to Lenin’s nationality politics that was known as indigenization (korenizatsia, Ukrainisation) and was directed at the active compensation of national inequality, Stalin developed the formula “national in form, socialistic in content,” the perfect embodiment of which were the so called “kolkhoz-‐musicales.” In Traktorysty (1939) by Ivan Pyriev, happy Ukrainian collective farmers regularly interrupted their joyous building of socialism to dance and sing Ukrainian folk numbers. The function of these “staged” ethnographic differences was to create a hierarchy of peoples crowned by “the first among equal,” as Stalin called the Russian people. The “liberal” character of this hierarchy consisted in the possibility to nationally “upgrade.” In Soviet passports the definition of ethnicity was obligatory, but one could freely choose it. Surprisingly, many representatives of non-‐historic peoples eagerly reverted to the “progressive” nation by assuming Russian identity, language and loyalty. This new identity was not another ethnographic nation, not an essentialist and romantic image of the Russian people; it was the Soviet nation, deprived of any national pathology. However, as David Brandenberger points out, by the late forties and early fifties the “routine conflation of ‘Russian’ and ‘Soviet’ meant that in many cases, patriotic pro-‐Soviet sentiments almost had to be expressed in Russo-‐centric terms.”12 One of the powerful de-‐Stalinization currents of the Thaw developed in opposition to this universalizing project, to search an authentic national identity. This movement was distinctly conservative, traditionalistic and ethnographic, and at the same time it was youthful, lively and passionate. Interestingly, it covered not only non-‐Russian Republics, but also Russia itself. In Ukraine this drive for an authentic national culture was expressed in art, especially in cinema, in what was called “Kyiv School of poetic cinema.” The recognized cornerstone of the school was the film The Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (1964) by Sergei Parajanov. An Armenian born in Georgia, Parajanov, after studying film in Moscow chose to live and work in Ukraine, and after a number of mediocre films at Kyiv Film Studios he suddenly made one of the biggest aesthetic breakthroughs that become the second most famous Ukrainian film after The Earth by Dovzhenko, whom Parajanov considered to be his teacher. The Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors had been shot at the Ukrainian part of the Carpathian mountains seized by Stalin in 1939. The film portrays the material culture of a small ethnic group – Hutsuls – who, as an official reviewer of the film noted, “preserved their cultural originality despite the … century-‐long oppression by Austrian colonists.”13 Together with artist Georgiy Yakutovych, and actor Ivan Mykolaichyk, who loved and knew very well Hutsuls’ culture, and with the help of the “unchained” camera of cameraman Yury Illenko, Parajanov made this film about a non-‐historic people so full of life, that the Soviet reality paled. It was not an ethnographic “zoo,” a mummified “national difference” produced to sustain imperialistic hierarchy, but a full-‐fledged “wild” culture. The past was dangerously unfrozen.
10 Roman Rosdolsky, Engels and the ‘Nonhistoric’ Peoples: the National Question in the Revolution of 1848, Critique, Glasgow, 1987. See also the review of the book in Revolutionary History, Vol.3 No.2, Autumn 1990. http://www.marxists.org/history/etol/revhist/backiss/vol3/no2/rosdolsk.html 11 David L Brandenberger, National Bolshevism: Stalinist Mass Culture and the Formation of Modern National Identity, 1931 – 1956. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 2002, p. 93. 12 Ibid. p. 238. 13 Mikhail Bleiman. “Archaists or Innovators?” in Iscusstvo Kino, no 7, 1970, p. 56.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin
Olga Bryukhovetska
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It is difficult to overestimate the effect of this bright, lively film, an aesthetic bomb, which smashed the canon of Soviet narrative films, the Hollywood-‐Mosfilm style, as Godard once called it. Initially The Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors was very successful both inside the Soviet Union (Moscow liked it) and outside it (the film was awarded at the film festival at Mar-‐del-‐Plata in Argentina, and in France it was successfully running in cinemas under the title Les Chevaux de Feu). However, very soon the film and its director provoked the suspicion of the authorities. Numerous memoirs about Parajanov, who was the epicentre of unofficial cultural in Kyiv during the 60s, prove that he not only felt a deep disdain toward Soviet power, but also used every opportunity to show it. For example, the producer of The Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, who was also the “political supervisor” of the crew, remembered that during the preparation of the setting for the scene in “korchma” (a local pub), Parajanov was not satisfied with Franz Joseph I’s portrait that was placed on the wall as a sign of loyalty to imperial power. He said, “Let’s hang some corn around him, he was a corn-‐lover like ours,” referring to Khrushchev’s somewhat ridiculous fascination with American corn.14 The film was finished when Khrushchev was dismissed. In the summer of 1965 the first wave of political arrests rolled over Ukraine. A small group of young Ukrainian intellectuals, Ivan Dzyuba among them, decided to publicly protest against it. They chose to do it at the Ukrainian premiere of The Shadows of forgotten Ancestors. In the “explanation note” to the higher authorities, the administrator of the cinema which hosted screening on 4 September 1965 wrote that after the planned presentation of the film crew, a young man came out on the stage, gave flowers to one of the women from the crew, took the microphone and started proclaiming “nationalistic and anti-‐Soviet words, which sounded like the following: Comrades! The reaction of 1937 has come. There are arrests of Ukrainian intelligentsia all over Ukraine; writers, poets, artists were arrested. Groups of people were arrested in Kyiv and Lviv. The mothers of Ukraine are in sorrow for theirs sons. Shame to authorities! Those, who support us, rise up to express their protest.”15 Only few people got up, other started shouting at the “hooligans,” a few left the hall and the majority were silent. Parajanov did not know about this in advance, and was joking that Dzyuba “spoiled” his premiere. It was after this failed public protest witnessing the increasing political repressions Dzyuba wrote his Internationalism or Russification?. This book-‐length exegesis on communist nationality politics was accomplished in four months. On 8 December 1965 Dzyuba sent it together with an open letter to the First Secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine. The text become a “hit” of Ukrainian unofficial self-‐publishing “samvydav” and was smuggled beyond the Iron Curtain. It was translated into English, Italian, and French. Although Dzyuba and Parajanov had a deep friendship and mutual respect, Parajanov, according to Dzyuba’s wife, did not approve of the activity of “Ukrainian nationalists” as he called them. He was jokingly saying: “We already had one Lenin, it’s enough.”16 Parajanov was not interested in politics, but he was obsessed with art, which sometimes can become a political question. For example, Parajanov refused to translate The Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors into Russian. He was in love with music, especially opera, and it was critical to preserve the sound of the authentic dialect of Hutsuls. Translation into Russian was obligatory for every film produced at the republican film studios (if the film was not already in Russian). Parajanov’s disobedience could look like a political protest, but it was done for purely aesthetical reasons. In 1973 Parajanov was arrested in Kyiv and was accused of homosexuality, then a crime, and sentenced to five years in labour camps. It is commonly accepted now that the real motive for this repression was political, just displaced into the “dirty” sexual field to humiliate Parajanov and alienate his friends. However, Parajanov liked to openly declare his homosexuality to his friends, while a lot of them were sure that he was just pretending, because he was pretending all the
14 Volodymir Lugovsky. Unknown Maestro. Kyiv, 1998, pp. 97-‐99. 15 Poetic Cinema: Forbidden School, ed. by Larysa Bryukhovetska. Kyiv, 2001, p. 269. 16 Martha Dzuyba. “Sergiy Parajanov” in Kino-‐Teatr, 4 (78), 2008, p. 18.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin
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time. Although Ukraine was the first country to abolish criminalization of homosexuality after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Parajanov, who got official recognition and become a cult figure of the “nationalist” discourse, is not rehabilitated yet. As soon as the process of rehabilitation was initiated by his widow, his son was arrested and sentenced to three years for drug-‐dealing. This revealed the true face of the repressive state apparatus of a “democratic and independent” Ukraine that is supposedly ruled by new “nationalists.” Both Dzyuba and Parajanov suffered political repressions, firstly in a concealed form through not being allowed to work in the cultural field. Dzyuba was denied a PhD candidate status in the Institute of Literature and Parajanov was not granted an approval for his next film-‐script, Kyiv Frescos. Dzyuba helped Parajanov to write a letter to the authorities, explaining how important it is for an artist to be able to create.17 In 1970 the central film journal Iskusstvo Kino published an extensive review by Moscow based professor of film, an authoritative voice, Mikhail Bleiman, in which he denounced the “School” as an ideological mistake.18 Dzyuba wrote an answer, in which he argued against the persecution of an aesthetic school as if it was an anti-‐Soviet conspiracy.19 Dzyuba was able to publish this article only in 1989, because he was himself arrested and accused of anti-‐Soviet propaganda. Unlike Parajanov, Dzyuba was released, but the only job he was able to get was as a proofreader in a factory newspaper. It seems that after history itself repudiated the term non-‐historic peoples it should lose any appeal today. This is not the case. In his textbook on Marxism, with the ironic subtitle “Not Recommended For Learning,” which was published in Moscow in 2006, contemporary Russian Marxist Boris Kagarlitsky dedicates the last chapter to the national question. Here he uses the term non-‐historic peoples, believing that it is very relevant in the current situation. He says, “The struggle for the official language looks ridiculous in 21st century.” Five pages latter he is even more severe: “This striving to become “valuable” nations in the new epoch, when the other questions are in the foreground, become reactionary.”20 The examples to such “ridiculous” and “reactionary” non-‐historic peoples that he gives in passim are Ireland and Ukraine. Kagarlitsky explains that now “the appearance of new states leads to creation of new borders, the split of formerly unified workers or, to talk in contemporary language, destruction of the formed economic relations.”21 He does not, however, explain what precisely changed from the time, when Marx said to British workers, that an oppressor nation can never become free, therefore the liberation of the Irish people is a priority for the British working class. To prove the irrelevance of national endeavours for the current situation, Kagarlitsky asserts that the “proletariat is striving to set the unity of action, to overcome borders, national and tribal barriers.”22 Aside from being as new as the Communist Manifesto this statement totally ignores that today it is not the proletariat, who sets “the unity of action.” It is capital in its global imperialistic stage that “overcomes borders, national and tribal barriers.” The interpretation of the national question by Kagarlytsky, which is not uncommon among post-‐Soviet New Left, reveals a typical double thinking, a symptom of the imperialist unconscious. Not surprisingly Kagarlytsky rejects any possibility to see the Soviet Union as an imperial system. While the phenomenon of Stalinist Orientalism gains recognition among historians of the Soviet Union23, in Kagarlytsky’s opinion all the peoples of the Soviet Union were in an equal situation, they “equally suffered from the ‘defects’ of the Soviet system.” This also implies that the concept of “non-‐historic peoples” is empirically proved.
17 “A letter by S. Paradjanov to the secretary of Central Committee of CPU F.D.Ovcharenko” in Parajanov: Flight, Tragedy, Eternity, ed by R. Korogodsky, S. Shcherbatiok. Kyiv, 1994, pp. 182-‐85. 18 Mikhail Bleiman. “Archaists or Innovators?” in Iscusstvo Kino, no 7, 1970, pp. 55-‐76. 19 Ivan Dzyuba. “Opening or Closing of the School?” in Poetic Cinema: Forbidden School, ed.by Larysa Bryukhovetska. Kyiv, 2001, pp. 209-‐28. 20 Boris Kagarlitsky. Marxism, Not Recommended For Learning. Moscow, 2006, pp. 391, 396. 21 Ibid. p. 396. 22 Ibid. 23 David L Brandenberger, National Bolshevism, p. 400.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin
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“The right to post-‐colonial discourse” About ten years ago another discussion revealed a different take on Russian imperialism. In 2001 Russian curator Ekaterina Degot published in Art Margins a short and provocative text under the title “How to Qualify for Postcolonial Discourse?” complaining that “Russia” is “othered” by the West, but simultaneously deprived of the “right” to talk in the name of the other.24 The same text was also published under a slightly different title, which formulates the question better: “How to obtain the right to Post-‐Colonial discourse?”25 Degot is probably right in what she is saying in this article, but she is wrong in what she is not saying. And this was said by her opponent, Margaret Dikovitskaya, who claimed that Russia can “qualify” for postcolonial discourse only as the subject, the colonizer, and not as an object, the colonized. It seemed that Dikovitskaya was not at all critical of this status, but she was simply trying to say that it was a wrong strategy, or, as she formulated it “Russian humanities will not get anything from joining the club of postcolonial studies folks.”26 Instead of demanding the right to being the “other,” she suggested Russia presents itself as “another,” one among “us.” It is difficult to decide whose position is more imperialistic. On the one hand, Degot represented the self-‐victimisation discourse, which is an outcome of the mourning for the loss of the universal position. But suffering traumatic nationalisation (othering), she ignores one important detail, that the lost universality was constructed at the expense of its own nationalised others. On the other hand, Dikovitskaya presented a neoliberal neo-‐colonialist position, according to which Russia has a right to join the cultural G8 as “another” (as is well known, the conflict between the oppressors is always less insurmountable than the conflict between the oppressor and the oppressed). Since the collapse of the Soviet Union it is common among historians to approach it as an empire. As Mark Bessinger ironically noted, “A polity that was once universally recognized as a state came to be universally condemned as an empire.”27 Based on a comparative study of empires Frederic Cooper concluded that their nationality politics are defined by the tension between two opposite tendencies – that of incorporation and that of differentiation. And the articulation between the two varies:
24 Ekaterina Dyogot. “How to Qualify for Postcolonial Discourse?” Art Margins, 01 November 2001. http://www.artmargins.com/index.php/2-‐articles/325-‐how-‐to-‐qualify-‐for-‐postcolonial-‐discourse. 25 Ekaterina Degot. “How to Obtain the Right to Post-‐Colonial Discourse?” Art Magazine. http://xz.gif.ru/numbers/moscow-‐art-‐magazine/how-‐to-‐obtain-‐the-‐right/view_print/ 26 Margaret Dikovitskaya. “A Response to Ekaterina Dyogot's Article: Does Russia Qualify for Postcolonial Discourse?” Art Margins, 30 January 2002. http://www.artmargins.com/index.php/2-‐articles/324-‐a-‐response-‐to-‐ekaterina-‐dyogots-‐article-‐does-‐russia-‐qualify-‐for-‐postcolonial-‐discourse 27 Mark Beissinger, Nationalist Mobilization and the Collapse of the Soviet State. N.Y.: Cambridge UP, 2002, p. 35. See also Nationalism and Empire: The Habsburg Monarchy and the Soviet Union. Ed. By Richard Rudolph and David Good. N.Y.: St.Martin’s, 1992. Nationalism and the Breakup of an Empire: Russia and Its Periphery, ed.by Miron Rezun. Westport, Conn.: Preager, 1992. After the Soviet Union: From Empire to Nations, ed. by Timothy J. Colton and Robert Legvold, N.Y.: Norton, 1992. The Post-‐Soviet Nations: Perspectives on the Demise of the USSR, ed. by Alexandr J. Motyl. N.Y.: Columbia UP, 1992. Thinking Theoretically About Soviet Nationalities: History and Comparison in the Study of the USSR, ed. by Alexandr Motyl, N.Y.: Columbia University Press, 1992. Hélène Carrère d'Encausse, The End of Soviet Empire: The Triumph of Nations, trans. Franklin Philip. N.Y.: Basic Books, 1993. Roland Grigor Suny, Revenge of the Past: Nationalism, Revolution and the Collapse of the Soviet Union. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford UP, 1993. In a Collapsing Empire: Underdevelopment, Ethnic Conflicts, and Nationalism in the Soviet Union. Ed by Marco Buttino, Milan: Fellirinelli, 1993. Robert J. Kaiser, The Geography of Nationalism in Russia and USSR. Prienston, 1994. The End of Empire? The Transformation of the USSR in Comparative Perspective, ed. by. Karen Dawisha and Bruce Parrot, Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1997. After Empire: Multiethnic Societies and Nation Building: the Soviet Union and Russian, Ottoman, and Habsburg Empires. Ed. by. Karen Barkey and Mark von Hagen. Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1997. Alexandr J. Motyl, Revolutions, Nations, Empires: Conceptual Limits and Theoretical Possibilities. N.Y.: Columbia UP, 1999. Terry Martin, The Affirmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in Soviet Union, 1923 – 1939. Ithaca, 2001. Alexandr J. Motyl, Imperial Ends: The Decay, Collapse, and Revival of Empires. N.Y.: Columbia UP, 2001. A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-‐Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin. ed.by Ronald Grigor Suny, and Terry Martin. Oxford University Press, 2001. Serhy Yekelchyk, Stalin’s Empire of Memory: Russian-‐Ukrainian Relations in the Soviet Historical Imagination.
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About (Ukrainian) Nationalism, But Were Afraid to Ask Lenin
Olga Bryukhovetska
Issue #2
8
Where to find a balance between the poles of incorporation (the empire’s claim that its subjects belonged within the empire) and differentiation (the empire’s claim that different subjects should be governed differently) was a matter of dispute and shifting strategies. … The most extreme example of the pendulum swinging toward dichotomous differentiation rather than a tension of incorporation and differentiation was Nazi Germany, and there the division between German and non-‐German was as much within national territory as in zones of conquest. And the Thousand-‐Year Reich proved short-‐lived, in the face of the resources of the British and Soviet imperial systems, and of the empire-‐in-‐spite-‐of-‐itself, the United States. 28
If the Soviet Union could be qualified as an empire, which seems to be a consensus among the historians, it is rather a strange one. It also manifested a third tendency, which contradicted both. Originating in Lenin’s internationalist politics, it never fully disappeared, even if it was just a discursive screen that covered the actual national inequality. The Soviet Union was presenting itself not as an ethnic state or empire, but as a new type of state, based on internationalist principles. However, its “internationalism” was not without contradictions. It proclaimed the creation of the new nation, the Soviet people. Like any nation-‐building project it was based on one language (Russian), one administrative centre (Moscow) and ascribed to itself certain exclusive features (its own superiority toward other peoples). Human recourses for this nation-‐building were provided by other peoples (“assimilation of the small, oppressed nation by the big, oppressor nation”). Terry Martin proposed a special concept for this strange case: “Affirmative Action Empire.”29 National republics resembled “independent states that lost their independence.” The right to secession was guaranteed by the Soviet Constitution, but no peoples “wanted” to exercise it. As post-‐colonialist criticism had persuasively showed, imperialism always utilizes certain unconscious optics, which work for its own invisibility by disseminating the myth of the universality of the colonizer and positioning itself above the nationality and ideology of nationalism. It can naturalise itself or even present itself as a liberation. The former was the case with Soviet imperialism, which was seen as a “distant horizon,” a utopia, communism.30 One might wonder whether the national question is still relevant today, as it was in Lenin’s or Dzyuba’s times. Is not the national question hopelessly obsolete (or even reactionary!), as Kagarlytsky argues, now, almost twenty years after the Soviet Union gave birth to fifteen independent states that belong to capitalism? Is it not better to qualify any questioning of nationality politics in respect to the Soviet Union as nationalist and dismiss it on these grounds? As Lenin liked to emphasise, turning a blind eye to one’s own mistakes is much worse than making them. If the New Left wants to demise global neo-‐imperialism, it has to propose a viable alternative to it, which is impossible without a rigorous criticism of the historical experience of the Soviet Union.
28 Frederick Cooper. Colonialism in Question: Theory, Knowledge, History. University of California Press, 2005, p. 154. 29 Terry Martin, The Affirmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in Soviet Union, 1923 – 1939. Ithaca, 2001. See also Terry Martin. “An Affirmative Action Empire: The Soviet Union as the Highest Form of Imperialism” in A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-‐Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin. Ed. by Ronald Grigor Suny and Terry Martin. Oxford University Press, 2001, pp. 67-‐90. 30 Is it possible that capitalism comes after communism? ‘Communism’ signifies here not a social formation but a name of the ruling party, which are not identical. Whatever was lost under the signifier ‘Communism’ it was an overwhelming for the Left, which is still under the spell of ‘progressive nostalgia’. This is another paradox. Nostalgia, fixation on the loss, is always regressive. It is conservative by definition. When projected on the society nostalgia perceives the loss as an accident. Its optics precludes it from seeing determination that springs from the internal contradictions. It is this contradictory character of the past that nostalgia fails to acknowledge. The crucial question is not how to accept the loss, but how to overcome the very formulation of the past in terms of loss.
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Black Sun of Renewal Toni Maraini
Issue #2
1
1 The magazine Souffles made an important contribution to modern Moroccan culture in the 60s. The impact of its literary, artistic, and cultural production were of the greatest importance. Since its inception, it attracted some of the best young poets, artists, and intellectuals. It was not only a literary magazine but also included notes and comments on the sociocultural situation, cinema, theater, and art, as well as critical texts, manifestos, and historical essays. By demasking neocolonial ideology, it stirred up the stagnant literary and intellectual situation in the country. Souffles was a literary and cultural quarterly review published in Rabat, Morocco. Its first issue was published in February 1966, the last in December 1971. In all, there were twenty-‐two issues. The cover, designed by painter Mohamed Melehi, was austere yet elegant: under a geometric square glowed a round circle, a black sun. The composition remained unchanged for the first fourteen issues. Only the cover and the circle’s color changed. On the back, the word “Souffles” was written in Arabic: anfâs (“breeze,” “breath”). Up to the double issue 10 –11, the magazine was only in French; it then became bilingual (French and Arabic). After the fifteenth issue, the layout, cover, and size changed. Those who have written on the history of Souffles divide it into two periods: during the first period from 1966 to 1969, its collaborators were poets, writers, artists, and intellectuals passionately working towards a new Moroccan, and Maghrebi culture. The second period, from 1969 to 1971–72 was marked by a radical ideological Marxist-‐Leninist turn.2 “Literature was no longer sufficient,” declared Abdellatif Laâbi, the founder and editor of Souffles. The literary section became less relevant than the political section, dedicated to Third World struggles for independence from colonial imperialism and to national politics. Because of its new approach, Souffles was banned in 1972 and Laâbi was arrested for his political opinions. While in prison he was awarded several international poetry prizes. After a long solidarity campaign, he regained his freedom in 1980. When Morocco gained independence in 1956, much needed to be done to free its culture from the burden of colonial (French and Spanish) ideology. Colonialism had imposed a patronizing, Eurocentric culture and controlled every aspect of life, outlawing political parties, associations, gatherings, and group activities. Moroccan authors and media were often censored, and even the use of Arabic language was carefully monitored. The colonial protectorate had industrialized and modernized the country mainly to control and exploit people, land, and resources for its own profit. Although fascinated by their “exotic” aspects, it had ignored the universal values of the local culture, its historical heritage, the dignity of its identity. By curbing freedom of expression, it had inhibited the development of a national modernist avant-‐garde. Moroccan culture was mainly regarded as picturesque. Modern thought and intellectual life were not supposed to suit the Moroccans and were considered a dangerous challenge to colonialism itself. But Morocco and the Maghreb had a very rich history as well as a wealth of artistic, poetic, and intellectual traditions, and modernist ideas had spread in many circles and domains even before the arrival of the colons. The echoes of the Near East’s Nahda (renewal) had stirred the Maghreb since the beginning of the twentieth century. Although much of the intellectual elite’s energies had been absorbed by the struggle for freedom and although people’s desire for progress and development had been curbed by discriminatory policies, modernist movements were on the make. In spite of censorship and control, urban elites had their intellectuals, writers, reviews, and publications.3 Some authors like Ahmed Sefrioui and Driss Chraïbi, and philosopher Mohamed Aziz Lahbabi had published in French. Yet, after the independence, a petty provincial and Eurocentric culture was still dominating the scene. The salons organized for Western artists admitted only Moroccan “naive” painters as a
1 This text was published in springerin 12, no. 4 (Fall 2006). We would like to thank Toni Maraini and springerin for giving us the permission to publish it again. 2 Marc Gontard, “La littérature marocaine de langue française,” and Bernard Jakobiak, “Souffles de 1966 à 1969,” in Europe (June–July 1979), p. 107f. and pp. 117–23. 3 Abderrahmane Tenkoul, “Les revues culturelles,” in Regards sur la culture Marocaine, no. 1 (1988), pp.8–13.
Souffles (Rabat), 6/1967 cover
Souffles – Action et Recherche Culturelle (Rabat), 4/1968, issue relating to the new association ARC
Black Sun of Renewal
Toni Maraini
Issue #2
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touch of “indigenous color.” Local European poets used to gather in clubs littéraires around the foreign cultural missions, “where they wrote verses on the ambassadors’ gardens.”4 They ignored the best of Western production and the daring experiments of modernism, as well as the high tradition of classical Arabic poetry, not to mention Afro-‐Berber and popular arts and literature. They were not interested in the productions of a Moroccan cultural avant-‐garde. It is important to keep all this in mind, as the Western world has not always acknowledged what colonialism really was. It might be interesting, for that matter, to read the courageous writings of the Moroccan historian Germain Ayache,5 who in the 50s denounced the abuses of colonialism, the distress and misery of the Moroccan population, and the control over its cultural roots. To understand the impact of Souffles, one has to go back to a situation still shaped by the dramatic consequences of all this. On the other hand, after half a century of colonial propaganda and isolation, the Moroccan bourgeoisie had either lost touch with its roots or found refuge in a nostalgic, if not dogmatic, vision of the past. A modernist national culture had yet to be loudly proclaimed, its theoretical basis openly debated, its creative and visionary nature concretely expressed in terms that would correspond to the new realities of an independent Morocco. Owing to a remarkable set of circumstances, this became possible around 1964, when, in Casablanca and in Rabat, two small groups of young artists and poets joined forces to launch a movement that stimulated profound changes and is today considered the milestone of a new era. Formulating their ideas clearly, they produced vibrant, original works of art and literature and, most importantly, started organizing their own independent events. The same year, 1964, intellectuals had founded the important independent magazine in Arabic, Aqlâm, yet its content was mainly philosophical and theoretical rather then poetical and avant-‐garde. Up till then, culture had either been in the hands of foreign missions or of the state bureaucracy and conservative elites. With the exception of the writer Driss Chraïbi, the older intellectuals looked at the new groups with uneasy surprise or disdain. Who were they? A handful of creative young people with daring ideas suddenly broke into the scene and galvanized the attention of the public. The so-‐called Casablanca Group of artists (Mohamed Melehi, Farid Belkahia, Mohamed Chebaa) engaged in innovative activities and works (paintings, exhibitions, manifestos, debates, publications).6 At the same time, in 1964 two young talented poets, Mohamed Khaïr-‐ Eddine and Mostafa Nissaboury, published the manifesto Poésie Toute and the review Eaux Vives (only two issues) in Casablanca. “For Khaïr-‐Eddine, breaking with the existent literatures, both in French and in Arabic, was the main historical duty of the new generation.”7 When they met another young poet, Abdellatif Laâbi, the birth of Souffles was already almost a foregone conclusion. And when the Casablanca Group joined them, the movement came into being.8 They shared goals, hopes, and visions. They considered themselves a generation committed to building a free, just, inventive national culture. They were truly avant-‐garde. “We work with all our awareness for a future world ... and this review intends to be a tool for the new literary and poetic generation,” declared Laâbi in the first issue of Souffles. When they stood up and said “Enough!” to provincial salons and clubs littéraires, they expressed deep expectations of change. Their artistic and poetical revolt spread like a hot wind in summer.
4 Gontard, “La littérature marocaine,” p. 107. 5 Germain Ayache, Les écrits d’avant l’Indépendance (Casablanca, 1990). 6 I was myself a member of this group, and have been writing about their experiences since 1964; see, for example: Toni Maraini, Écrits sur l’art, 1964–1989 (Rabat, 1990). 7 Lahsen Mouzouni, Le roman marocain de langue française (Paris, 1987), p. 71. 8 In order to answer the question, “Who are we after the impact of colonialism?” they had to look back at the roots that had been most depreciated both by colonialism and by the national bourgeoisie, that is, oral traditions, Afro-‐Berber and popular Arabic poetry, arts, and culture. The first to focus on this heritage in Morocco were the abstract artists of the Casablanca Group, who claimed that popular traditional arts were modern ante litteram in spirit and aesthetics. Colonial ethnography had considered them minor arts, but for the Casablanca Group, as for Paul Klee and Walter Gropius, a rural carpet was a painting, and the artisan an artist. The poets of Souffles could not but agree. In the meantime they were all determined to fully participate in the twentieth century, experimenting with new languages and ideas and sharing universal values with all the poets and artists of the world.
Souffles (Rabat), 1/1966, cover design Mohamed Melehi
Souffles (Rabat), 1/1966, back cover with the Arabic inscription "anfâs" [breeze, breath]
Black Sun of Renewal
Toni Maraini
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Those artists and intellectuals who had up to then worked in solitude were encouraged to join. Thus, when, in 1966, Abdellatif Laâbi concretely started the project of Souffles in Rabat, he could count on the support of some talented and committed poets, painters, and intellectuals. The project was heralded and carried on by means of fervid and visionary discussions in cafés and studios. The Casablanca Group designed the cover and illustrations. Getting on one of the old buses that once crossed the country, the painter Melehi took the magazine to Tangier, where it was printed at a lower price than in Rabat. Such was the birth of Souffles. The first issue was thin, but it responded “to an imperative demand” (Laâbi). Soon it reached 100 pages. Khaïr-‐Eddine had by then migrated to France and his name does not figure in the comité d’action, but his presence was assured by his poems. Haunted and solitary, Khaïr-‐Eddine (whose mother tongue was Berber) had fueled new Moroccan poetry (and literature) with the concepts of the “linguistic guerrillas.”9 To finish with the garden verses and the classical elegies, someone had to dare to break the rules of literary French. He did so and opened the way to language experimentation. Widely debated by Maghrebi writers in French, through Souffles the topic reached the young generation of Moroccan writers both in French and in Arabic. At the core of the debate was the question, in which language would the new independent Moroccan writers write?10 The answer given by Laâbi in the first issue of Souffles is still valuable today: “The language of a poet,” he wrote, “is above all ‘his own language,’ the one that he creates.” By encouraging translations and collaborations, Souffles had the great merit not to divide literary production into Francophone and Arabophone, as creation and culture in both languages were considered (and are) a complementary historical reality rooted in a common ground. Souffles would not have come into existence without Laâbi’s steadfast work. His poetical gift and passion were matched by his rigorous intellect. He was aware of his mission. Souffles opened with a severe “j’accuse ...” regarding the cultural situation in Morocco and focused on the question of national identity and culture, but did not forget to write that “Our writer friends, Maghrebi, Africans, Europeans, and of other nationalities are fraternally invited to participate in our modest enterprise.” He was farsighted. And he soon received letters from Europe and the Maghreb. The Tunisian writer Albert Memmi wrote “I was waiting for this publication, I was hoping it would exist”; Driss Chraïbi affirmed “your magazine is fantastic!”; and the Algerian writer Mouloud Mammeri welcomed the “young” review. Such encouragement from three great writers of the older generation was important. As the mouthpiece of a new generation, the review took a stand in the defense of those Maghrebi writers – like Chraïbi or Kateb Yacine (Algeria) –whose work had expressed the revolt against both local feudalism and foreign occupation. What the authors who were published by Souffles meant to young readers was of great importance. Paralyzed by the language problem (literary French? classical Arabic? Berber oral tradition?), they had long repressed their anguishes, rages, emotions, and hopes. Now each of them could create their language, use vernacular terms, experiment, “scream.” Nissaboury has called it “poésie chacaliste”: the screaming of the jackal. Soon, however, la poésie chacaliste would be a juvenile joke and each poet—Laâbi was the first—would reach poetical maturity. In the third issue we find mention of a comité d’action. It included Ahmed Bouanani, Nissaboury, Abdallah Stouky, the Algerian poet Malek Alloula and the French poets Bernard Jakobiak and André Laude. Bouanani, a fine intellectual and a wonderful storyteller, was the author of beautiful poems later collected in the anthology Les Persiennes. His articles on popular poetry were remarkable at a time when that subject had been studied only by ethno logists. The names in the committee were to change somewhat over the years. One of the first to give support to Laâbi, Nissaboury, the amazing author of the book La mille et deuxième nuit, remained a member until 1969. So did the painters of the Casablanca Group. In the course of time, among the various collaborators we find distinguished authors like Mostafa Lacheraf (Algeria); Azeddine Madani and Mohamed Aziza (Tunisia); Abdallah Laroui and Abdelkhébir
9 The term guérilla linguistique was introduced by Mohamed Khaïr-‐Eddine in his autobiographical novel Moi l’aigre (1970). 10 After gaining independence from French colonialism Arabic was declared the official language in 1956.
Mohamed Melehi, Abdellatif Laâbi, Mostafa Nissaboury, Rabat, 1966, Foto Noury
Portrait Abdellatif Laâbi, on the back cover of the anthology La poésie palestinienne de combat, Éditions Atlantes (Casablanca), 1970
Black Sun of Renewal
Toni Maraini
Issue #2
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Khatibi (Morocco). Except for a long poem by Etel Adnan (Lebanon) and few other critical contributions (by Jeanne-‐Paule Fabre and myself ), women were barely present in Souffles. However, when women poets and writers came on the scene with their own books, magazines, and actions, they looked back at Souffles as an experience that had prepared the ground for new ideas. Every issue of Souffles opened with a note by Laâbi. The “urgent matters” were innumerable. Significantly, religion was not an issue: fundamentalism had not yet troubled the old and wise Maghrebi Islam, which was open to changes and secularity. In 1967, besides poetry readings, Laâbi and his poet friends, with the support of Melehi, created the Collection Atlantes, which published booklets by Jakobiak, Laâbi, Nissaboury, Alloula, and Laâbi’s book L’oeil et la nuit. In 1968 Souffles participated in the birth of the national cultural association arc (Action et Recherche Culturelle), created – as Laâbi wrote – by “some artists, university researchers, scientific and technical professionals, students....” It was an important and ambitious project that also involved political parties. Souffles took part with enthusiasm in the first cultural activities that were boldly extended to the rest of the Maghreb. The collaboration of Abraham Serfaty, a notable Moroccan intellectual, became more relevant than the one with Tahar Ben Jelloun. Convicted with Laâbi in 1972 and later imprisoned, Serfaty was set free in 1991. With the fifteenth issue, dedicated to Palestine (“Pour la Révolution Palestini enne”), Souffles changed its layout, cover, and format. Laâbi’s review had become “the organ of the revolutionary Moroccan movement.”11 This was a radical change. A decision, recalls Jakobiak, of “idealistic generosity,” “one that pushes you [however] to all kinds of ruptures and divides the world into two halves: the good and the bad. ... Once the euphoria faded there were those who converted to dialectic materialism and those who did not.” Painters and poets of the first period of Souffles did not follow the new course (or were not accepted in the new comité d’action). In a climate of painful debates, the creative group split from the political group. It was the normal outcome for a cultural movement. The same had happened to other groups in the history of modern avant-‐gardism. Those who believe in free independent creation resist the diktat and jargon of political parties. On the other hand, ideology needs intellectuals and poets to renew its views on the world. Souffles had generously offered its contribution. It then issued consistent documents on the main revolutionary struggles of the time (Angola, South Africa, Mozambique, etc.) as well as on the political situation in Morocco. In a troubled time of “betrayed independence” (Laâbi) Souffles’ new course was important for the nation’s political awareness. Yet when art and poetry had spoken aloud, they had also set in motion a change that was revolutionary and good for the nation’s awareness. If the Souffles of the first period and its collaboration with the Casablanca Group had never been, Morocco and the Maghreb would have felt its absence. That is why, when the younger Moroccan generation writes today about Souffles, it looks back with admiration at its artists and poets, who had the courage to create and invent, as well as at its intellectuals, who had the courage to defy injustice.12
11 Gontard, “La littérature marocaine,” p. 107. 12 Vgl. “Revue: Souffles Coupés” [Editoryal], in: Tel Quel, Nr. 148, 2004, p. 23.
Abdellatif Laâbi, L’oeil et la nuit, Édition Atlantes (Casablanca), 1969, cover design Mohamed Melehi
Mostafa Nissaboury, Plus haute mémoire, ed. by Collection Atlantes (Rabat), April 1968, Cover design Mohamed Melehi
The Sweet 60s: Between the Liberation of Peoples and the Liberty of Individuals, or the Difficult Representation of the Self Daho Djerbal
Issue #2
1
1 In the 60s of a twentieth century moving toward its close, the majority of colonial peoples gained their independence and their countries became sovereign. The 50s and 60s were unquestionably a turning point in the history of international relations. But can one say that the attainment of independence by states was accompanied by an emancipation of colonial peoples and the restoration of liberty for individuals? In time, it became apparent that the colonial era carried within itself many processes, some of them often contradictory, yet all of them converging towards the discovery or rediscovery of “one’s self without the Other.” The Other, the Stranger, the White Man had made his appearance in the universe of the colored men. Throughout the centuries, he had shaken the sky and the earth, destroyed, ravaged, remodeled, subjugated, “pacified” and “civilized.” He became the almighty master of the world. The declarations of independence did not make a clean sweep of this violent and oppressive past in a single day. A potent residue, sometimes elusive, sometimes highly visible, remained behind. And this is what I would like to talk about, while attempting to understand what the diverse forms of (artistic and more generally aesthetic) expression and representation of that finally regained liberty contained, in terms of traumatisms, ambiguity and misunderstandings. A TRAUMATIC HERITAGE To dispossess, to dismember To be able to live on a land that was not his, the colonist tried to make the autochthons2 disappear, to rid the land of the uncomfortable presence of those who prevented him from full actualization as an almighty overlord. If actual physical elimination is not possible, then the colonizer will remove the native symbolically, by turning him into another “species.”3 Then it became possible for the colonist to lay claim, without the slightest of qualms, by physical violence, or by the violence of the law, to the land of the indigenous peoples, to dispossess them from their ancestral rights. In the distinct body of legal texts created specifically for the overseas empire, colonial peoples were considered as subjects of France. That meant the absence of all rights and liberties guaranteed by the French constitution to man and citizen. The colonized individual possessed only dismissible powers; he was subjected to permanent restrictions in terms of everything that concerned his existence. This included even his identity, which was denied him, since he was deprived of the right to claim his nationality; he was systematically assigned the status of indigenous person [indigène], a term associated with epithets or attributes such as Muslim. His land and his name became the attributes of an Other.
1 Translated from the French by Barış Yıldırım, with editorial assistance by Professor Emeritus David L. Schalk. 2 Professor Djerbal employs the French noun “autotochtone” here and elsewhere. It is rarely used in everyday English, mostly only in the technical language of anthropology. I will italicize it. I suggest “native” might work in this context, and believe it captures his meaning. In everyday American usage, “native” standing alone has a negative connotation, as in “going native,” whereas coupled with “American” it curiously has developed a positive connotation, referring to the original inhabitants of the North American continent. (Editor’s note.) 3 Frantz Fanon, Les damnés de la Terre (In English, The Wretched of the Earth. New translation, Grove Atlantic Press, 2004).
The Sweet 60s: Between the Liberation of Peoples and the Liberty of Individuals, or the Difficult Representation of the Self
Daho Djerbal
Issue #2
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From proper noun to common noun. A syntactic displacement According to psychologists and psychoanalysts who have worked on colonial trauma4 and its consequences, colonial violence and the diverse forms of its heritage are defined by “the disappropriation, the deprivation of one’s own (language, history and culture).”5 The assignment of the autochthon to the status of an indigenous person will bring with it “a designation which sticks to the skin.” There will also appear a series of syntactic variations as regards the predicate of the colonized: the native [natif], the aborigine [aborigine], the natural [naturel] etc. Whatever designation is chosen, it is used in the figurative sense. What then follows is a “process of hollowing out of one’s self.” In line with Fanon’s thinking, colonization, a phenomenon of domination and submission, consists of manufacturing subjects denied familiarity with themselves, in a way witness to their own failure, which takes them out of themselves, in both literal and metaphorical senses.6 In L’an V de la révolution algérienne7 Fanon would write, “French colonialism has installed itself in the very center of the Algerian individual and has undertaken a sustained work of sweeping, of expulsion of one’s self, of a mutilation carried out rationally.“8 Docile body, captive language This dismembered body, inhabited by the Other, which moves in a space and time which do not belong to it anymore, but which nevertheless has its own beliefs, reveres its own gods, must be addressed and incited to speak in a different, a more civilized language. According to Hamid Mokaddem who works on contemporary New Caledonia and cites Norbert Elias9 and Michel Foucault10,
“Through ‘civilization,’ in the sense of the civilizing process of symbolic violence, many autochthonous clans of the North had been displaced and relocated in Catholic missionary establishments. […] Religion civilized and polished the bodies, the habitus, and abolished pagan social practices, which were considered to be savage. We will see that the education carried out by the missionaries served the purpose of manufacturing docile bodies.”11
This notion of “polished bodies” and “docile bodies” seemed interesting to me as regards the anthropological critique of the colonial. If language and speech should ever be granted to the colonized, the Catholic missionary school is to be in charge of that. The language the colonized people acquire in the strictly disciplined environment of the confessional school will be simple, passive, loyal to “superiors,” unquestioning of authority.
4 See the work of Alice Cherki, especially Frantz Fanon, Portrait, Editions du Seuil, 2000; and the series of writings by Karima Lazali published in the Éditions Érès series. 5 Karima Lazali, L’émergence du sujet face à l’Histoire. Quelques réflexions sur la situation de l’Algérie à partir de la pensée de Fanon, in La célibataire N° 20, summer 2010 "Les mémoires" ; and in Ché Vuoi? N° 34, October 2010. 6 Id. 7 Published in English translation as Year Five of the Algerian Revolution, re-‐published under the title Sociology of a Revolution, and once again published, and still available from Grove/Atlantic Press in paperback, under the title A Dying Colonialism. (Editor’s note.) 8 F. Fanon, L’an V de la révolution algérienne, p. 57. 9 N. Elias, La civilisation des mœurs, Paris, Agora Pocket, 1969-‐2002 ; Elias, Norbert and John L. Scotson, Logiques de l’exclusion, Paris, Agora, Pocket, 1997. 10 M. Foucault, Surveiller et punir. Naissance de la prison, Paris 1975, NRF, Gallimard. 11 H. Mokaddem, Anthropologie de la Nouvelle Calédonie contemporaine, PhD thesis submitted to EHESS, Janvier 2010, p. 158.
The Sweet 60s: Between the Liberation of Peoples and the Liberty of Individuals, or the Difficult Representation of the Self
Daho Djerbal
Issue #2
3
“[...] One could say that all types of schooling entail socialization outside of the family circle. Nevertheless, the rupture from the tribal environment, maternal language, cultural structures of behavior is bound to be traumatizing. Such schooling is not perceived as a regime of education, but rather as a civilizing process, in the sense of symbolic colonial violence. [...] Raphaël Mapou talks about the sentiment of dereliction, he felt, or endured, beginning with his entry into confessional schools. [...] Did the political will of the civilizers lie in the direction of breaking or of modifying the parental relations of the indigenous school children? In the long term anyhow, this process of civilization partially succeeded in having an effect on the structures of behavior. [...] All testimonies and biographical accounts mention nothing but emotions and the rigorous alignment and control of bodies, their veritable dressage12. Manual labor in fields for social survival, complete isolation, as well as rules for living, which trans-‐form social beings into recluses. “13
And to conclude, H. Mokaddem arrives at the heart of the matter of the representation of the self. He states:
“[...] Despite everything, the experience of rupture is very much an experience of the absence of the reflection of the Kanak image, in the sense of the Freudo-‐Lacanian term imago, which forms and structures the recognition of the self. The education system does not reflect in the mirror an image with which the Kanak can identify themselves, and consequently become motivated to attain success in school.”14
Once independence is achieved, the colonized is confronted with a double question: Who am I outside of the Other that inhabits me? How can I get rid of the Other, which continues to inhabit me? How can I fill myself up on my own? How can I create my own metaphor and establish my own values? THE HIGH STAKES OF NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE The test of anxiety. The risk of mimicry and repetition In the context of the newly independent nations, located primarily but by no means totally on the African continent, in the context of a new global situation which others will call the “postcolonial,” how can the supposedly liberated citizen of a supposedly liberated nation break out of this cleavage between two worlds, that of the colonized and that of the colonizer? How can the technically liberated and newly colonized individual break out of the position of the position of submission to which he had been assigned, for such a long period of time, during the entire age of colonization? Fanon argues that it would be an illusion to think that liberation would be sufficient for freeing oneself from the subservience created by colonial domination. In fact, it would be utopian to believe that political liberation would be enough in itself for a true change of status, from that of a “silenced” subject to that of a “free” citizen, engaged in an open process of communal living. As regards this question, Fanon’s thought is fundamental and more than ever up-‐to-‐date. He basically says, “Colonized peoples, who have been skinned, must get rid
12 M. Mokaddem uses this word, which has the same meaning in English -‐ most commonly the breaking and training of horses, sometimes other animals. I have never seen it applied to the breaking of the spirit of a human being, but it fits perfectly here. (Editor’s note.) 13 Id., pp. 158, 163, 161, 163. 14 Id., p. 162.
The Sweet 60s: Between the Liberation of Peoples and the Liberty of Individuals, or the Difficult Representation of the Self
Daho Djerbal
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of the mental attitude which has characterized them until now.”15 But this process is not patently obvious, as Karima Lazali observes with her usual acuity:
“The liberation of a people, just like that of an individual, could constitute an extra-‐ordinary chance; however it could also push them into despair. […] It involves a kind of trial through the fire of anxiety, because the primary identity which had been assigned for so long by the Other falls apart, and through this founding action creates a great deal of anxiety, even a gaping hole in the “sentiment of self,” that is, identity. Once this anxiety is liberated it can lead to a new and creative future, but it also contains within itself the risk of a return to the status quo, through the extension of a situation of domination, which claims to be familiar and thus reassuring. In this case the dominant Other takes its place in the interior of the self and weaves the social bond by reorganizing the same pursuit of subservience.”16
Becoming again the subject of one’s own humanity The so-‐called modernization processes of colonial societies collided head-‐on with communitarian economies and social orders. They entailed an accelerated disintegration of the enlarged communities, which for a moment, had been blended in with the idea of the nation. The processes of individuation which immediately followed independence were not accompanied by the formation of a political society in which the community of citizens would replace the community of religious adherence or the community of kinship. The absolutely essential negotiation between the constituent elements of the new civil and political societies needed time to take hold, to bear fruit. These embryos of nations in formation, these small republics, in the sense that Germaine Tillion gave to the “tribes” of the Aurès17, also needed to recognize themselves in their differences and their diversity, in order to negotiate a new togetherness within the larger republic in formation. As Karima Lazali formulates the question, “liberation (individual and/or collective) is a fundamental precondition to construct for oneself another place and thus another organization of intra-‐ and inter-‐psychic relations; but it absolutely does not constitute a guarantee for the invention of an identity.”18 Much is at stake in colonies achieving independence, and especially in those that had experienced a significant European presence, in terms of human settlement. The massive departure of the Other, the Stranger, leaves behind a vacuum that needs to be rapidly filled. Maybe even too rapidly to be effective. Just as in Vietnam, the war of liberation in Algeria created a moment appropriate for a radical remedy, or if not, a temporary substitution for this process of defection-‐renunciation-‐desertion of the subject, who had felt the pain of the branding-‐iron of defeat and conquest and occupation. This Being, suffering from the destitution of his identity, stigmatized because of his skin pigmentation, emptied out of his very self, disfigured, mutilated and downgraded in his own eyes, revolts and takes up weapons to liberate itself from the (physical) presence of the Other. Consequently, he transforms himself into a “resister ,” into a member of the “people in arms .” He retrieves his own name and enters into dialogue and negotiation with the Other. His new image races across the screen in televised news programs, and makes the front pages of newspapers and magazines. He is not invisible, transparent, hollow, any more, and he gains consistency, weight, a new reality. He climbs the ladders of self-‐respect very rapidly. Then this
15 F. Fanon, Les damnés de la terre, p. 136. 16 K. Lazali, op.cit. 17 G. Tillion, Il était une fois l’ethnographie, Ed. du Seuil, Paris 2000. 18 K. Lazali, op. cit.
The Sweet 60s: Between the Liberation of Peoples and the Liberty of Individuals, or the Difficult Representation of the Self
Daho Djerbal
Issue #2
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new individual can, like the Vietnamese negotiators in Geneva in 1954, or the Algerian negotiators in Evian in 1962, go back down the steps of that ladder with his head held high, whether he is wearing a colonial helmet, rubber sandals, or an elegant suit with a tie; he can sit across the table from the representatives of the former colonial power, as the latter abandon their sovereignty. 19 Very rapidly, however, the historical context of the new period and the will to power of the masters of the world will abort these potentially liberating processes, and thrust the majority of ex-‐colonial countries into a sort of permanent search for liberty and equality. The mirror effect or the difficult re-‐presentation of the self As we have mentioned above, the transition to the status of free people and free man is not as simple as one might think. This is true not only in the political domain, but also in the realm of arts and culture. The condition of Algeria in the 60’s (Sweet 60s) is as painful as it is filled with contradictions. The country inherited a traumatized national memory, while also inheriting structures of education and aesthetic production, whose forms and conceptions had been conceived by the Other. François Pouillon’s remarks on the painting and the painters of the first generation following independence are very relevant in this context:
“Algeria […] had to put up with a current coming from the north, yet at the same time, it maneuvered against this current, opposed it formally, while asserting a self-‐referential existence. This existence was not devoid of vigor, but the force initially created was gradually depleted, while hiding the reality of the ongoing process. [during the colonial period…] Algeria, which did not have a proper pictorial tradition, which had refused with a particular determination this mode of artistic expression, was suddenly endowed with it: easel painting, an artistic expertise invented in the West, became [after independence] a legitimate activity – painters gained recognition as a social group, and painting as an autonomous activity. ”20
So, it was necessary to pass through an initial reaction of symbolic refusal, which however did not impact what was truly essential. François Pouillon observes about this process that, beyond the self-‐proclaimed voluntarism of Algerian artists we have the transformation of a situation of dependence “which appears, in certain periods, to be barely tolerable, by making it into an original manifestation of one’s genius, even the expression of one’s autonomy. ”21 In Algeria, during the entire colonial epoch, education at fine arts schools was conceived by the French for the French. Established in 1843, the Ecole des Beaux-‐Arts d’Alger [Algiers School of Fine Arts] started out as a simple drawing school, and then became a municipal school in 1848. It gained the status of Ecole Nationale des Beaux-‐Arts d’Alger [Algiers National Fine Arts School] in 1881. The lessons there were free of charge and open exclusively to Europeans. The Académie Druet of Algiers, a private academy, just like the Julian academy of Paris, was founded by the painter Antoine Druet in 1904. Georges Rochegrosse would become one of its most important professors. This academy collaborated closely with the Ecole des Beaux-‐Arts [School of Fine Arts] in Paris. The Société des Peintres Orientalistes Français [Society of French Orientalist Painters] was founded in1893, and held its Salon, starting from that year onwards, in the Palais de l'Industrie or
19 For the Algerian case, see Redha Malek, L’Algérie à Évian, Le Seuil, Paris, 1995. 20 François Pouillon, Les miroirs en abyme : Cent cinquante ans de peinture algérienne, NAQD N°17, Spring-‐summer 2003, p. 9-‐25 21 F. Pouillon, op.cit.
The Sweet 60s: Between the Liberation of Peoples and the Liberty of Individuals, or the Difficult Representation of the Self
Daho Djerbal
Issue #2
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Grand Palais in Paris, coordinated with an exposition of Muslim art organized by the director of Musée des Beaux-‐Arts [Museum of Fine Arts] in Algiers. Its founders include names such as Maurice Bompard, Eugène Girardet, Etienne Dinet and Paul Leroy. Jean-‐Léon Gérôme and Benjamin Constant were named Honorary Presidents. The Société des Peintres Orientalistes Français reached its climax in the 1910s, with nearly 1,000 works on display in 1913 for its annual exhibition, though not a single one painted by an autochthon. The Société Coloniale des Artistes Français [Colonial Society of French Artists] was founded in 1908. It rapidly emerged as a rival to the Société des Peintres Orientalistes Français. In 1946, its name was changed to Société des Beaux-‐Arts de la France d'Outre-‐Mer [Fine Arts Society of Overseas French Departments], because the adjective “colonial” was beginning to acquire a pejorative connotation in the period immediately following World War II. In 1960, with the beginning of decolonization processes, it changed its name yet again to the Société des Beaux-‐Arts d'Outre-‐Mer [Overseas Fine Arts Society]. With the attainment of Independence, the burden of this double heritage had to be borne throughout the early decades: first, that of the Subject seen, and portrayed by the Other, and second, that of the art of representation, from which the Subject had been almost totally excluded. During the 60s and right up until the 80s, says Nadira Laggoune,
“… the history of Algerian plastic arts was being constructed. All throughout this period, one saw the establishment of a painting style, particular languages, whose dominant expression was, starting in 1967, the “Aouchem” movement. This would give birth to multiple forms based on the sign (calligraphies, Berber signs, tattoos, etc.), on the letter, and on a particular sensation of pure color.“22
Is it by chance or is it an irony of history that the first attempts of self representation in a country finally liberated from foreign domination are carried out by a school which names itself Aouchem (Tattoos)? As we have noted above, the colonized, the colonial subject, who was branded, as if with a hot iron, with the fate reserved for the defeated, this Being, suffering from the destitution of his identity, suffering from the stigmatization of his skin color, from the very emptying out of his self, of his essence, disfigured, mutilated and devalued in his own eyes, this Being revolts and takes up weapons to liberate himself from the presence (physical) of the Other. In fact one of the first figurations of the self during the Sweet 60s, the period of peace regained and sovereignty restored, was covering over, literally dressing up this body with signs, rather than filling it up from the inside, giving it solidity and reality. Artists even went so far as to question precepts of art transmitted by colonial schools, again with a streak of voluntarism. And, paradoxically, as N. Laggoune says,
“At the same time, the investigations carried out by the precursors of this new painting (Khadda, Mesli, Martinez, and others...) were fully part of the international movement of the deconstruction of art. The disappearance of the subject, of the pattern, and of the feeling were very much the characteristics of modern art, which inspired them. A whole generation of artists thus formed themselves into the avant-‐garde of Algerian painting.”23
22 Nadira Laggoune-‐Aklouche, Le mutisme des peintres ou l’indulgence du silence, NAQD N°17, Spring-‐summer 2003, p. 27-‐38 23 Id.
The Sweet 60s: Between the Liberation of Peoples and the Liberty of Individuals, or the Difficult Representation of the Self
Daho Djerbal
Issue #2
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What a strange paradox that Algerian artists, in order to fill up the Subject which had been hollowed out, and to assert its existence to the world, chose to transcribe it into signs and finally into the abstract. Through our entry point of the examination of artistic trends, we gain access into the great upheavals surrounding the construction of independent states and nations. The postcolonial is full of this emptiness needing to be filled up, of this meaning calling out to be given. Plastic arts and performing arts go through a crisis of meaning. And it is neither the profusion of forms, nor their abstraction that will fill the “discursive” vacuum and relieve the anxieties created by the sudden loss of the Other.
August 2010 Daho Djerbal is the director of the journal NAQD
Translated from French by Barış Yıldırım
Interview with Nadire Mater Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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The social and political movements of the 60s led people to believe that they could challenge the existing social roles, offer alternatives to mainstream ideologies and institutions, and transform not only the places they live but the entire world. Was it by coincidence that the Tet Offensive, the Prague Spring, the May Events in France, the student protests in West Germany, the assassination of Martin Luther King and the takeover of Columbia University all occurred in the same year?1 And what was Turkey's position in this "contagious" global uprising? Based on interviews, Nadire Mater's book "Sokak Güzeldir: 68'de Ne Oldu?" [Street is Beautiful: What Happened in 68?] (Metis, 2009) attempts to give a realistic account of the year 1968 in Turkey, and deals not only with Turkey's 68, but also with that of the world. We have interviewed Nadire Mater, both a witness and a researcher of the period, and asked her about "the year that marked the 60s," Turkey in 1968, the political fault line that have emerged since 68, the nostalgic "aesthetization" of 68 and the "utopias that slowly fade away -‐ and yet remain alive." 68 has been widely discussed and written about. However, the curiosity it provokes is never satisfied. The question you also posed in your book, "what happened in 1968," is a never-‐ending source of curiosity. Why does this topic attract so much attention? Why is 68 continuously remembered and reminisced in our times? Why does it hold an exceptional place in our memories? Well, that is because it really is exceptional. Such a global uprising was never seen before in history and it continues to be the only one of its kind. In our world where neo-‐liberal/globalist policies prevail, where invasions and wars occur in the name of "democracy," the 68 rebellion becomes more and more important in terms of resisting, forming opposition movements, questioning life and transforming the world... The questions "why" and "how" also become our keys in learning and understanding what has and has not happened in 1968. 68 rebels, who are now around their sixties, are in politics (though they hold very few seats in the parliament), the media, the feminist movement, the environmental movement and the struggle for rights. They are among the key actors of the new social opposition movements. We should also note that not all the people who were young or were university students in the year 1968 were 68 rebels, and not all of the rebels retained their "rebellious" spirit. However, let us add that even if they are now engaged in very different fields and have quite different lifestyles, they, in some way or another, bear the traces of 68. There is no single answer to the question "what happened in 1968?" and it keeps being asked, arousing more and more curiosity. Since 68 cannot be summed up in one event, everybody has their own experience of it. I believe that there are as many 68s as there are 68 rebels. Both in Turkey and in the world... So, the special place it occupies in our memories is what keeps the 68 rebellion alive, while its power makes the rebellion retain that special place. Despite its unique place in our memories, why is there a lack of academic research on the subject? As a journalist, what do you think about that? A lack? In fact, there are quite a number of 68ers in the academic world. I personally know numerous scholars from various disciplines who reflect their "rebellious" spirit both in their lives and in their studies. I also know that often they are not given seats in administrative boards or decision-‐making organisms... As far as I know, academic studies on 68 have recently started to grow in number. The time is becoming ripe for the "event" to be addressed academically. Works on 68 are mostly in the form of memoirs. In addition to the books written by the 68 rebels themselves, we can also mention the books penned by journalists, most of whom were among the young rebels of 68. The works of journalists differ from the academic ones in that journalists recount their experiences, whereas academic studies place the "event" in its historical context, explore it through a theoretical framework and connect it to our current lives in that sense. I
1 George Katsiaficas, The Imagination of the New Left: A Global Analysis of 1968 (Cambridge; Massachusetts: South End Press, 1987), p.4.
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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know of some master's and doctoral dissertations on 68. In fact, as people outside the academic world, it is hard for us to keep up-‐to-‐date with all the research going on. For that reason, we would very much like to have broader access to academic works and see the studies reaching beyond "the academic walls." More comprehensive, analytical and comparative doctoral dissertations need to be written on 68. In fact, the available materials, which are mostly in the form of memoirs and narratives, will be helpful resources for academic research. Some questions have to be addressed to clarify the social, cultural and economic aspects: Who were those people? How did all that happen? What were the different motives that mobilized people? What were the results? Since there are ongoing questions and discussions regarding 68, academic studies will continuously develop. For instance, Eric Hobsbawm regards it as a "cultural revolution" especially for France. For Immanuel Wallerstein, "1968" stands out as one of the two world revolutions, the other being the revolution of 1848. The idea behind his remark is that, though unsuccessful, both revolutions did manage to transform society. That holds true for Turkey as well. The rebellion was not futile. The struggle did bring about some results. There were many changes in universities and some of the demands of the rebels were fulfilled. Well, if we consider the example of Turkey, could it be said that the impetus behind the ongoing questions and discussions is integrating Turkey's 60s into the 68 of the West, or rather, comparing that period in Turkey with the 68 in the West? Or, perhaps an effort to secure a distinction between Turkey and the West in terms of 68... (For instance, in your book, Ertuğrul Kürkçü says: "68 cannot be regarded as an after-‐effect of a European movement.") In the context of 68, "Western Influence" primarily means the influence of France, which was truly far-‐reaching. In Street is Beautiful, the 68er interviewees also repeatedly point out to this fact. It is evident that France has influenced not only Turkey but the whole world on different levels; however, assigning France as the sole cause of the 68 uprising in Turkey and in other parts of the world would deprive us of a clearer view of the big picture. I believe that it is important that we first take a look at the world scene in the year 1968. 1968 marks the end of the first half of the Cold War, which, as a period, lasted for forty or forty-‐five years. There was an intense rivalry between the two super-‐powers – the United States of America (USA) and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) – to dominate the world... It was a rivalry between capitalism and "socialism." Espionage, ideological propaganda, the armament process, the NATO and Warsaw military pacts and military bases... Although the opposing powers did not engage in close combats, they were in a proxy war through third parties. And the main issue was fighting against communism. So, "socialism" sought to maintain itself. In such an atmosphere, with its geographical position right next to the Soviet Union, Turkey was an important ally for the US. It has been claimed that the then-‐US intelligence service gathered one fourth of the information on the USSR through its bases in Turkey. It was also a time when dictatorships and military regimes became commonplace around the world, including Europe. Especially in Africa, many colonies had gained their independence, but there were still wars going on. And some countries were going through civil wars. Especially with the momentum gained after the Second World War, capitalism now had a strong position. The advent of communication was an important factor enabling people to have broader access to what was going on in the world. Looking back from now it may seem quite naive and strange; however, the news, though still not one click away, traveled around the world more quickly in the 60s thanks to television and radio, which was already a popular means of communication. Being informed about what other people are going through is highly important. What is going on, where? Young people inevitably ask this question and start looking for some answers. That was how the "contagious" character of the rebellion was nourished; the world youth influenced each other. The "World in 1968" section of the Street is Beautiful takes a look at the year 1968 in various countries and continents, covering a wide range of topics, from fashion to wars, assassinations to cinema. Just like today, the media of the time often reflected the "Western," or, to put it more correctly, the American perspective. In that sense, the Soviet side was somewhat walled off from the rest of the world. Nevertheless, some news broke out, as was the case when Soviet tanks entered Czechoslovakia. As for the global scene, the independence/liberation war called the "American War" by the Vietnamese people and the "Vietnam War" by the Western-‐oriented world was going on. This war was the embodiment of imperialism and highly influenced young people in Turkey. In the US, the Black
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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Power and civil rights movements had become quite effective. The feminist movement was about to take off. So, the political pot was boiling. However, we should also add that the term 68 does not signify a simple calendar year running from January 1st to December 31st. It sure had a background and an aftermath. Nowadays we talk more about the year 1968; that, however, was a part of a process. It is often said that 1968 was a year that marked the 60s. People influenced each other. Also in the Soviet Block, young people started to take some steps under such a repressive administration and within the protective system created by the Cold War. There were similarities among countries in terms of the reactions formed, but at the same time, each country had specific problems. So, somehow there were overlapping and interaction between these issues. In fact, there was a significant activity in the Turkish social and political scene, starting from 1965. In France, they say that 68 actually started in May, at the end of April. Well, it always makes me happy to point out to the fact that in Turkey the first protests of 68 were held in January by middle-‐high and high school students, who kind of gave a message to their elders. Given the atmosphere prior to 1968 and the growing momentum of the rebellion in Turkey, we cannot simple say "It all happened in France and had reverberations in Turkey." Throughout the world, invasions, boycotts, anti-‐war protests, the search for a better world, and the struggles against imperialism on the road to the revolution, all influenced each other, proliferated and snowballed into a strong global movement. If we get back to the question, all the aspects we have mentioned are significant factors that make us remember 68, and in Turkey we don't really need an exterior motivation. So, how could we ever forget it? The next question is one you have also posed in Street is Beautiful and I am sure you have come across it many times by now: What were the common and distinctive aspects of 68 in Turkey and in the West? There is a somewhat interesting example. When young people in France first revolted, their first demand was that university dorms were made unisex. In fact, back then, at the Gazi Education Institution in Ankara which was under the auspices of the Ministry of Education female and male dormitories were in the same building. This was also true for the Faculty of Political Sciences. In Street is Beautiful, Işık Alumur recounts that though there were separate stairs the girls and boys used the same elevator and they "could pass freely" from one dormitory to the other in the Faculty of Political Sciences, and adds: "At the faculty, we were already ahead of France." So, as Alumur says, the students did not need to make such a demand as they already had that right. The most important commonality between Turkey and the West was anti-‐imperialism. Anti-‐imperialism and the Vietnam War... Sure, those two issues were interrelated and they reinforced each other. For example, the "Vietnam War" was also a significant factor shaping the rebellion in England, which was considered to host a "Quiet 68" in terms of the struggle concerning the problems at universities. During those years, many activities and protests about Vietnam took place in England. However, in terms of similarities/differences, let us also say that, compared to the struggle of the European youth, in the US, the main tenet of the struggle regarding the Vietnam issue was to protest the war and conscription since young people in the US could be sent to Vietnam and lose their lives. And that actually happened; they went there and lost their lives. Well, even for those who managed to survive, life was not the same... However, for the youth in England that was not the case; there, it was more about protesting against the US and supporting the Vietnam People's Army and the Vietnamese people. And the situation was quite similar in Turkey. The "Vietnam" issue was certainly mentioned in every march, protest or gathering, as a solid manifestation of the struggle against imperialism and the US hegemony. As for the similarities between the countries, despite the different stages of the development of capitalism in these countries, during that period in all of them there were efforts to train university students for jobs in the industry and to adapt the academic programs in order to meet the needs of the industry. And in that framework, (as I have also observed in my hometown) young people who, until then could not even dream about going to college realized that higher education was now a real, solid possibility, and they, at once, found themselves in classrooms. Though differing in frequency and scope, this was what happened in many parts of the world, including Turkey. Young people from towns flooded the big cities to experience a striking change of environment. For instance, having grown up in rural areas and traditional costumes, young Japanese people, all of a sudden, found themselves in jeans, enjoying the opportunities of the
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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consumer society, and they soon started to blame themselves for easily being swallowed by the capitalist way of living. This feeling of guilt is considered to have contributed to the anti-‐capitalist reactions. Stuck in between their families in the towns or villages and the deceiving splendor and comfort of capitalism, the tension felt by young people from various parts of the world including Turkey seems to be one of the underlying factors that, in varying levels, provoked the rebellion. Longing for a world without exploitation... In Turkey, the anti-‐imperialist aspect of 68 was quite highlighted as there were 30,000 US citizens working at the military bases, and the Turkish-‐American relationship was regulated by 55 special agreements which were not open to the public. It was said that there were 21 US bases/facilities in Turkey including İncirlik. We should also remember the atmosphere created by the 6th Fleet which visited the harbors. There was a feeling of siege. I should add that in 1969 the number of US citizens in Turkey decreased to become around 7,000. Of course, the struggle against US imperialism and presence in the country was effective in bringing about this result. In the end, the 6th Fleet could no longer enter the harbors in Turkey. In the context of anti-‐imperialism and anti-‐Americanism, what do you think about the "accusation" of Turkey's 68 for being nationalist? Looking at those who call themselves nationalists today, we can see what happens if you are only against the US. So, there is a really thin line between being an anti-‐imperialist and being a nationalist. This thin line has affected Turkey's 68 by the zigzags it formed. In Turkey, before 1968, we had gone through the Military Coup of May 27 in 1960. Back then, I/we did not see the Coup of May 27 as we do today. In the Coup of May 27, a "bad" government had been overthrown by the army to bring "freedom" to Turkey. We were being introduced to socialism. Marxist classics were being translated to Turkish. Books were being written and published. As kids from rural areas with a thirst for knowledge, we were reading all the time... And there were discussions, meetings, oppositions, protests... In such an atmosphere, it took us years to see how horrible it was that two ministers and the prime minister were executed by the orders of the emergency court during the Coup of 1960. In those days, we all were, to some extent or another, under the influence of Kemalism. This, however, does not mean that we were necessarily nationalists in the current sense of the word. In discussions which have become more and more intense in the recent years 68ers and 68 have been labeled as nationalist from a unilateral perspective that leaves out the differences. I think that people seem to rush to conclusions without sufficiently examining 68, its past and consequences, which can be misleading. On the other hand, the "nationalist" tone is quite explicit in the texts from that period. We thought we were "internationalist" since "being nationalist" was a characteristic of the right-‐wing. We felt we were so "internationalist" that in 1968 there were no "Kurds," but rather people from the "east." We understood only very late what it really meant that the two co-‐presidents of the Invasion Committee of Students at İstanbul University were Kurd and Laz. It took us years to understand that those whose mother-‐tongues were Kurdish or Laz language were more active in bringing up demands of invasion since they were not successful in the oral exams at the law faculties. As for the difference between Turkey and Europe... For example, when Soviet tanks entered Czechoslovakia, although some people placed black wreaths before the Soviet Union Consulate in Istanbul to protest the invasion, in general we, the 68ers in Turkey, could not stand up against the tanks. We now know what internationalism truly means; you have to be against invasions wherever they might be. That is why the US invasion of Iraq is a concern for us. Some groups did discuss the invasion of Czechoslovakia, but it did not become a predominant theme. Let us also remember that the Soviet tanks had divided the Turkish Labor Party as well. Young people in Europe, however, did resist. We were rather a traditional "left;" and in France, for instance, they were discussing different things. There they had Marcuse, the anarchists, Trotskyists... Soviet-‐style traditional communist parties were being protested, and a new "left" was emerging. We were not really informed that inside the Soviet Block, for example in Poland and East Germany, there were protests against the tanks. Or, perhaps we could not see through the events. We thought that the opposition in the Soviet Block was rather an uprising against socialism. The 68ers in Turkey neither had enough information, nor were sufficiently equipped to see the big picture in detail.
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
5
Why don't we leave the West on one side and compare the 60s in Turkey with the neighboring countries? Is it the West's superiority in all areas including knowledge production that renders the 68 in the Middle East, the Balkans, the South Caucasus or North Africa invisible? Didn't these regions live through a 68? Or, being on the periphery of the world, did these regions stay on the periphery of 68 too? Or, is the concept of 68 itself an invention of the center? Are there any sources you could refer us to on this subject, that is to say, on the "excluded 68ers"? At the time in almost all parts of the world, from Asia to Africa, Japan, India, Ethiopia and Latin America, the youth had complaints about their schools, the political regimes of their countries, capitalism, imperialism, and the state of the world. The rebellions did not start all of a sudden on 1 January 1968. This becomes clear as we examine the events one by one, for instance if we look at the rebellions of 1967. Mark Kurlansky, the author of 1968: The Year That Rocked the World, visited the İstanbul Book Fair in 2008. Turkey's 68 was not mentioned in that book. When he was asked the reason during a workshop the author said that he could not find any sources. Of course that's not true. A simple research, let's say, through the archive of The New York Times would yield news articles about Turkey. It is all about the mindset. As history is being reconstructed, people seem to take note of what they prefer to see, and minds work in a "West" oriented way. We need to shake the minds awake. We constantly learn all that is going on in Germany, France and in the US; but the countries on the periphery get global attention only through coups d'état, natural disasters or earthquakes. The centers stand out, rendering the other parts invisible. For example, in Turkey the center is İstanbul (the Bebek-‐Taksim route!); it is in the news all the time. But the other parts of the country make themselves into the news in so far as something "unusual" happens. In the aftermath of the Erzincan earthquake, we heard of some villages, which, till then, passed unnoticed. So, it takes a natural disaster for us to learn something about these villages. That applies to the women's rights/gender issue as well. It is a male-‐dominant approach that excludes the local and gazes at the center from the center... Though it is hard, someway or another, this gaze has to be dismantled. That is what we learn from the feminist movement. The media has a significant role. We know that there is more to life/world than what is shown in the media; there are things the media doesn't show or renders invisible. To understand what the countries outside the "West" has gone through, we need access to original studies conducted in these countries. Everybody continues to write their own 68. What about the Middle East? In the Middle East the Palestine-‐Israel conflict was heating up after Israel took over the Gaza Strip, Western Bank and Jerusalem in the Six-‐Day War (Arab-‐Israeli War) in 1967. Revolutionary young people from Turkey went to Palestine, fought together with Palestinian guerillas, and were trained on guns. In Egypt, university students invaded the schools when they realized that the real intention behind the education reform of the government was to prevent social activism. The invasion was quelled by military aircrafts, and there were students killed and injured. In the Middle East young people from Palestine, Lebanon and Syria followed what was going on in the world and expressed their opposition and protest. They were influenced by the discussions going on around other parts of the world, especially in terms of their daily lives and the relationship between genders. We hear the word "generation" whenever one mentions the 60s or 68. Each narrative of 68 says something about the 68 generation. Generational conflict seems to be at the heart of this generation. They formed a reaction against the older generation. On the other hand, they also accuse the younger generation of being selfish/individualistic/apolitical. So, who are the 68ers? And why is a greater significance attached to their youth?
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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Instead of calling them a "generation" I prefer to use the term "68 rebels." In Turkey, some of the people that had participated in the student protests before the Military Coup of May 27 took part in the 68 uprising. As we have already mentioned, the college students were now not only from the center, but also from rural areas. We had gradually differentiated ourselves from our parents. Of course there would be conflicts; however, rather than the conflicts, we should perhaps talk about the deep feeling of trust in the 68 youth. I still cannot figure out how that bond of trust was developed. I was 17 when my family sent me to Ankara. Almost all my friends in the dormitory were from small cities and towns, and nobody from their hometowns had done this before. For example the dormitory doors were locked every night at 9 PM. We protested against that procedure, asking for the doors to be open until midnight at least on Fridays and Saturdays. The dormitory management sent letters to our families, which said: "Your daughters are asking for permission to go to bars and night-‐clubs on Friday and Saturday nights. What would you say to that?" My father replied, saying: "My daughter can judge what is best for her," and in his letter to me he wrote about this, so that I would know. So, in general the families had trust in their children. Then came the times when people were imprisoned and got married in prisons... Of course, the families were greatly disappointed and they got angry; however, they supported their children at all times. The term 68er is generally used to refer to those people who are now around their sixties and were university students some time before or after the year 1968. Of course we cannot reduce it to being a college student at the time. This is more the approach of those who seek to highlight the "nostalgic" aspect. I prefer to see it in terms of resisting/rebelling against life. It is the "revolutionary" spirit that matters. While the student youth rebelled in most parts of the world, worker/unemployed and peasant youth were also in revolt. And in Turkey, even in 1968 there were strikes and worker-‐peasant demonstrations. The June 15-‐16 Workers Riot did not occur out of the blue; the agency of 68 was the driving force behind the 1970 events. And in the later years, the youth movement evolved into a struggle involving workers and peasants. And workers and peasants were also present among the members of the Dev-‐Genç (Revolutionary Youth Federation), People's Liberation Army of Turkey (THKO), and People's Liberation Party-‐Front of Turkey (THKP-‐C). If we go back to the question, I believe that even the term "68 generation" creates hegemony. And it affects the youth today. This approach represses the younger generations. And this is exactly what leads to the "aesthetization" of 68. But I think we should regard 68 in terms of the possibilities it presents us. There is no point in idealizing 68 and labeling today's youth as apolitical. Who do we refer to when we say "youth" anyway? If it is the rebellion that matters, the biggest of rebellions has been going on in Turkey since 1984. We say that 40,000 people have died in a war that has been going on for the last 25 years. And almost all the people who lost their lives were young. We cannot judge how political/apolitical they were since they were there in the combat zones doing their obligatory military service whether voluntarily or not. Kurdish young people, however, do not go up to the mountains to have picnics; they are rebels. In prisons, there are over 10,000 people who have been sentenced for political reasons. They are, or they were, also young, and they are aging in the prisons. Despite the changes and amendments made, life in universities is still trapped between the Constitution of 12 September 1980 Coup, probably one of the world's most "successful" coups, the Higher Council of Education (YÖK), a major consequence of the coup, and the discipline regulations. Freedom of political organization is vital. Still, universities make their voices heard. The students who marched on the streets to protest the anniversary of the founding of YÖK on every November 6, or who said that "there should be Kurdish electives" at universities found themselves before discipline councils or in prisons. It is not easy. Let us not forget the struggle of the workers, the latest one being the Tekel Resistance. There they had many young people too. I think nobody would say that the youth of 68 was of greater worth; I believe they should not. Let's not make a comparison on this basis.
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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And what would you say about women's role as members of the 68 generation? Back then, around 18% of the university population were women. Today, there are more women than men at the universities and the number is increasing. Women also took part in the movement. However, it was kind of a "ghostly presence" when decision-‐making was concerned. I cannot even say that we had hit the "glass ceiling" (back then we did not know such terms) since there was not such an awareness. We discussed and criticized everything, but we could not criticize our own organizations. Women such as Şirin Yazıcıoğlu (Cemgil) were among the founding members of the Federation of Idea Clubs. TİP (Workers Party of Turkey) was somewhat ahead in that sense. Behice Boran was elected as the party leader and there were some women in the borough councils. In Dev-‐Genç, women were present only in the local units. Our boyfriends and lovers did not want us to participate in the protests that they found too dangerous; however, they would put guns in our bags. And at the beginning, the police did not take women seriously either. We were more like back-‐up power. Back then, we did not know how to discuss these issues. Women did not talk much during the meetings. For example, Mahir Çayan would be speaking during a forum. How would you stand up and say something to Mahir? But things were quite different in some schools. For example, at the Social Services Academy, where I was enrolled, there were 200 students, half of them being women. All of us participated in the discussions in the forums. Women who were later put on trial and sentenced to prison were not few in number... So, women also had their share. We now see that we actually had a "secondary" role in the revolutionary movement. However, we were quite ahead of other women that did not take part in the movement, or of the women in society in general. We were much freer. During vacations I would go back to my hometown, and, for instance, it wasn't an issue for me to go out on my own after it was dark. Because we were university students. But if it were a friend of mine who wasn't a university student there would be rumors about her. In the world, the second wave feminist movement emerged in 1968. There were many protests including the bra-‐burnings. 68 gave rise to a worldwide feminist movement. We followed Lenin's words "no revolution is possible without the participation of women." So, we took the road to revolution. As women, we did whatever we could do. Women's liberation also depended on the revolution. Back then, we were not aware of the feminist movement. When, after the 1980 coup, people started to talk about the "independent women's movement," some men and even some women made kind of sarcastic remarks by saying: "independent from what or who?" The feminist movement was belated in Turkey because of the military coups of 1971 and 1980. And when, after 1980, the feminist movement took off, the leaders were again the women from the 68 generation. From what you have just said and from the interviews in Street is Beautiful we understand that everyone who has gone through that period has a 68 of their own. For instance, Çetin Uygur calls 68 "a ‘school term' where people were engaged in politics 24 hours a day." Esra Koç says, "those were the years of resistance and hope; when we could opt for the beautiful." Hatice Yaşar says that they enjoyed "a mind-‐shaking atmosphere of freedom, where they could question everything." And you call 68 "a promise of freedom." Could you say more about that? School of politics, hope, resistance... This is all true. Transforming the world, revolution... We believed that we would become freer. The more we discussed, questioned, problematized, opposed and went out to the streets, the freer we would become. We all had a dream that we would, sooner or later, "bring on the revolution." Some people thought we were almost there. For some, we were on the way. And some of us believed that the time would certainly come, but we did not know when. I also had these kind of thoughts wandering in my mind. The notions of "a better world" and "transforming the world" can only be explained with liberation. That is what
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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I think today too. The street is where you can seek freedom; it is freedom per se... For instance, last night (March 8) women were out on the streets in Beyoğlu until 3 AM. They were there for freedom, in its most general and specific sense; and because of their continuous liberation. The conclusion I have drawn from all that I have read and heard is that in the 60s there was a general critical attitude flourishing in the conditions of the day, which, in turn, helped questioning the very conditions that gave rise to it. Through a criticism of the system, we can find the means to create utopias. By "utopia" I mean realistic, down-‐to-‐earth alternatives for a different life, not vague dreams. Perhaps we can also consider your definition "promise of freedom" in this context. It reminds me of a question posed by Frederic Jameson (Archaeologies of the Future: The desire called utopia and other science fictions, Verso, 2005): "Why do utopias flourish in one period and dry up in another?" What is behind the critical attitude of the 60s? Especially compared to our times... Well, isn't utopia a fictive journey beyond the realm of the real, engaging primarily with the "non-‐existent"? It is a bit problematic for alternative imaginations of existence to be "down-‐to-‐earth." Therefore, the famous slogan "Be realistic demand the impossible" is the best expression of 68. And it is also about the "promise of freedom." When you go to university, you set on a journey to "explore" life and the world. As you witness/observe/experience oppression, injustice and inequality you start questioning and looking for some answers. An "exploration," a "search," necessarily involves "a critical attitude;" and inevitably, opposition and rebellion is what follows. A great energy came out as the number of people questioning life increased. And about what Jameson says, let us not forget the army, which often intervened in the Turkish political scene: on March 12, September 12, February 28, April 27... All to destroy utopias... Well, that is right; utopias do dry up, but only to blossom again. Otherwise, there would be no point in living. Perhaps 68 itself should be criticized. For instance, some people argue that the concept of 68 was manufactured in the 80s, commodified, popularized and incorporated into the culture industry. And some claim that neoliberal capitalism has turned the counter-‐culture of the 60s into a "commercialized nostalgia"... What is your opinion? Of course. We have been critical and we should be. That is what the people are trying to do in Street is Beautiful. Still, the criticism should take into account the atmosphere of the period. Back in 1968, we of course did not know that year would become so "special" and turn into a "symbol." They try to make 68 a part of the culture industry. It makes sense why the ruling powers try their best to deprive 68 of its proper meaning; they have their reasons. And in return, we strive to recount what happened. So, it is unfair, to some extent, to say that the whole concept "was manufactured in the 80s." 1968 is a solid truth that does not need to be "manufactured." How about the use of the symbols or images of 68 within the system? We often see this happening in the advertising sector; enthusiasm, the street, rebellion... I remember a stocking commercial from years ago, I think that was the first time we were filled with anger. In the commercial there are women, because they are the target audience, and they march on the streets as if they were in a demonstration. Looking at the women who look down on them from the windows of the houses on the streets they walk by they cry out the "slogans": "Throw your old stockings away, buy new ones." Some of these commercials were made by 68ers. For instance in the Mavi Jeans commercials they say, "This is a revolution." The aim is to exhaust the meaning of the rebellion, to erase every trace of it. And, is it really different for politics? A couple of years ago, the then-‐Minister of Power Hilmi Güler from the Justice and Development Party had said: "As the 68 generation, we are used to ‘continuous revolution'. We are leading an on-‐going revolution" as he was talking about their achievements. So, it is that simple; with a couple of words he becomes a 68er, and the term "revolution" is deprived of its meaning. He does not think for a moment that it was during the
Interview with Nadire Mater
Ceren Ünlü
Issue #2
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rule of his party that there were attacks to the graves of the murdered revolutionaries and court cases were filed against memorial days. They try to turn Deniz Gezmiş into a "kind" "nationalist" boy, denying the fact that he had said, "Long live Marxism-‐Leninism! Long live the fraternity of the Turkish and Kurdish peoples! Long live the workers and peasants!" right before he was executed. As for Mahir Çayan, they try to position him on the opposite edge. Well, let that be! "History" is no longer conceived as that boring lesson taught in schools. Our curiosity is not limited to 68. The question "what actually happened from the Ottoman period to our times?" introduces us to a new "history." It is a long journey from curiosity to refusing denial, from struggles to facing the truth and to "apologizing." The rebellion lives on!
Translated from Turkish by Gülin Ekinci
Scientification as a Condition for Humanization Matko Meštrović
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1 Regardless of the fact that the developmental processes of contemporary world history are subject to the particular conditions and situations in particular regions – forming a barely reducible picture of contradictory movements that we cannot always qualify with complete clarity, according to the laws we find to be essential for the events in contemporary history, and which would form our determined position in the context of the fight for a possible better world using ideas – nevertheless, in the basic events in the contemporary world, in the main direction of its contemporary change, it is possible to discern two general processes that, although they manifest themselves differently and perhaps start from opposite starting points, nevertheless complement each other, and in the final analysis, at least in some respects, are identical. These two processes are: the process of industrialization, i.e. urbanization, and the process of socialization. Having in mind all the historical determinants of the initial manifestations of the two parallel developments that are dominant in the world today, and, regardless of all the nuances and variations, the only, that is unique, directions of possible developments – having in mind, therefore, the radical differences in their outcomes that essentially determine the ideology of capitalism and the ideology of socialism in their globality as clearly different – let us try for a moment to see the general and common features of a real and possible, unique development of a world in which these ideologies do not exclude each other, or where their words are not crucial, or where they are even the same. Let us try to determine the objectively valid basis of the whole experience of the world, which stays as the only foundation on which its future can be built, the only basis on which this future can be reliable – can become reliable. This experience finds its most objective, that is, its most neutral expression – speaking in the sense of its maximum usability, applicability and efficiency – in science, where it takes its most abstract and reduced forms, but at the same time, the only ones that are instrumentally translatable into a concrete practice. We would like to give the word “science” a more comprehensive meaning, so we do not take it only in the sense of natural sciences and humanities, but in the sense of the integrative nexus of all knowledge, including philosophical knowledge; contemporary science, of course, is not equal to this yet. Namely, all human experiences cannot be comprehended by science, because of their constant growth and overlapping, and because the experience of science for a human being is still more an experience about the human experience than human experience per se: that is, it is still not subjectivized, and human beings necessarily act subjectively; therefore their experience of science and its uses is characterized by the unvanquished dichotomy human-‐inhuman, which leads to the constant bifurcation of the potential powers of man and the actualized powers of his whole experience, including the scientific. In other words, this means that an enormous part of knowledge that was acquired in fact does not exist as a living agent of human doing, and an enormous energy of the human is being exempted from the domination of knowledge, never reaching it, not recognizing it, or recognizing it only in a reified form. But precisely because it is being more and more reified, as the modern age is oriented towards the reification of human experience and knowledge itself, this experience has the strongest instrument of its expansion and the most probable perspective of its complete actualization. We are in the midst of this process: torrents of humanity converge to this experience as a hope of their humanization, as the instrument of their civilizing, and they destroy the centuries long petrified division of people to the knowledgeable and not knowledgeable, to haves and have-‐nots. The process of socialization opens itself precisely in the sense of the socialization of all existing values; therefore it is primarily and before everything else characterized by the widest
1 This text was published in the collection of essays titled “From Single to General” (Mladost, Zagreb, 1967 / DAF, Zagreb, 2005). We would like to thank Matko Meštrović for giving us the permission to publish it again.
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Matko Meštrović
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opening of the enlightenment of all human individuals, for the most rapid acquisition of knowledge and the creation of the means for a more civilized life. But, what knowledge is, where it is situated, how it is divided, how humanity as a whole can actively participate in it today – this is the question that, figuratively speaking, incarnates in itself all the crucial and vital problems of the very destiny of the human world, which has no other way but to acquire a correct picture of the concept of its collective being, of the modalities of equaling its own existential condition with the purposefulness of this picture in the nearest possible future and in the greatest possible measure; in other words of the modalities of finally reaching the possibilities of knowledge in which and by which the human world will not be determined but determining. This is the way that will have to lead it to the field of absolute freedom, that is, free self-‐governing within the freely recognized borders of the objectively known, and the way that is going to make it objectively knowing. However, it is known that science itself has expressed a doubt, and it confirms it daily – a doubt that it has the power to lead the world. Moreover, it has loudly and clearly renounced this role, and under its own wing it finds enough reasons for giving up and retreating. Science itself was the first to reject the notion of the objective and made it nonexistent. But we will not err if we remember the cause of this, and see in it only the greatest confirmation of the fact that distanced the modern world from itself – the fact of distancing and alienating the human being from humanity, which affects the contemporary science precisely by totally nullifying the purposefulness of its doing. Science had to meet these kind of borders sooner or later, if it did not previously abolish the borders within man, the borders that were not only biological and mental, but primarily determined by the obstacles of the insufficiently developed ethical measure of his sociality; this sociality is the only thing capable to transform the position of man vis a vis man and vis a vis the world, and finally vis a vis the universe. If science turns its gaze in this sense and towards this goal, from which it is completely turned off today, then it will meet countless vital but solvable problems, before which it hangs back, not by its own choice but because of the tendencies and imperatives of the incompletely enlightened human striving. This feedback loop and the close interweaving of the human and the scientific levels of existence is the essential dialectics in which one should observe the actual dilemmas of the destiny of the world, which for the first time from its origin manifests itself in terms of the totality of everything that exists in it; within this destiny, the actual and the future history of humanity must not be seen in another way but as the integral history of the whole human world, which is the only thing that can lead to its real humanization. All this is supported by numerous facts whose real meaning only now starts to manifest itself and to be seen – and before all, the final entering of all nations into history, as well as the abolishing of the physical, that is, the spatial and temporal borders on the globe and beyond, including the possibility of leaving it and, finally, the very impossibility of the isolated existence of any ethnic and social group on it. But, more than everything else, the ever more evident and necessary parallelism and complementarity of the two processes that we mentioned: the ever faster industrialization and the ever more necessary socialization necessary for the true and all-‐encompassing urbanization of all parts of the globe. These processes are not even imaginable without science, and science is not imaginable without them; science becomes their instrument, an instrument that is more necessary as the need grows to complete them, and as the contradictions of the modern world become more total, universal, and general; science becomes the only way to overcome them. Today, science is needed not only in the production, but also in the exchange and distribution of goods; its criteria are being recognized in ever greater extent, and it is equally needed in those parts of the world where the abundance of production is contradicted by the lack of sociality, and in other parts, where the possibility of abundant sociality is limited only by the lack of production. Modern scientific socialism has already been acquiring this knowledge of the need to scientifically found all social movements and transformations, which has always been its powerful weapon. Even now, this allows the possibility to see the development of social forms
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Matko Meštrović
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and social-‐productive relations in a more synthetic way, to interpret them in terms that determine the very development of the modern civilization as the purpose of history, and gives a blueprint for its further way as the way of all-‐encompassing urbanization. This view would give science in general – as well as all aspects of its instrumentalization, as the means of human cognition and agency, and as the basis for constructing the world – a much greater role, its real role that awaits it; and, the differences between the existing social and economic systems would reveal themselves as being only relative. On the level of pure science, and especially of technology, these distinctions are almost completely erased, and they determinedly manifest themselves only on the plane of ideology, although even there they are not exclusive or complete; additionally, the differences exist on the plane of the criteria for social purposefulness, the usability and distribution options for material and spiritual goods, and they are especially pronounced, and often artificially enhanced, on the plane of pure ideological fight. However, the differences between the systems, their political interests and tactics, cannot erase the fact that the sides in contradiction always must, in the direction and interest of its own development and strengthening, use the same means: science, and scientific application of its results. If the main source of their power is in expanding and perfecting production, and not in passive exploitation, then this factor of the scientificality of production and of the economic system is of decisive importance, and therefore cannot and must not be ignored. But, the field of material production, of course, is not independent; it is only a part, perhaps a minor part, of the totality of the vital and existential activity that became so diverse and multiple in itself that it is difficult to define and determine where the very notions of productive and unproductive begin and end. Insights and experiences of purely theoretical nature can very soon find their application in some productive or other work practice, while the way from the invention to its application can be indirect to the extent that the former does not have to, or cannot, even be aware of the latter. There is no need to even mention how complicated are the ways, channels and systems through which social practice as a whole is being applied, implemented and run, and how complex and dysfunctional is the circulatory network here; and, from the standpoint of ideally conceived social purposefulness, it is totally inappropriate and superfluous. In this network there are too many dead channels, blocked straits, side-‐rooms, and countless apparently necessary obstacles and wrong turns; so, its very functioning is possible only with dire consequences for the health and normality of the social organism as a whole. The reason for this lies in the uneven, unbalanced and disordered structure of all the constitutive elements and particles of the social being itself, in its internal fissures and disharmony. The principle of the greatest possible organization – to the extent that it was discovered by science as the law of the essential existence of things and as the principle of order in the world, and which is recognized by science itself as the governing principle of its own activities and its own organization – is not implemented, nor is it possible to implement it in society itself as the vital scheme of its own structure. The essential task of the future, its goal, its way and its only possible solution is its complete scientification. This concept, conceived and realized in its real sense, would exclude all the negative labels and pejorative senses given to it by today’s world, which is burdened by scientific mechanism, formal technicism and pragmatism, and would abolish all the dryness and alienation that would, based on the superficial notions, the half-‐baked experiences and the unreasonable haste of science itself in its contemporary stage of insufficient socialization, be expected for the future. On the contrary, the final purpose of science, and therefore, of scientification, cannot be anti-‐human or anti-‐humanistic, if we take into account but only one fact: that every scientific insight is also, directly or indirectly, an insight about man. The whole problem is how to make this insight efficient, namely, how to abolish the distance between the real, that is, every human being, and its abstract, unrealized knowledge of itself as human – as an epitome of not just any biological species, but the species that is going to take the whole reality of the world in its hands. And, those hands, with everything that they will be able to do correctly, will be science, and this will be possible to achieve only through science. But, the process of totally encompassing society with science is still very far away. In the last century, significant steps have been taken only in the scientification of the means for production,
Scientification as a Condition for Humanization
Matko Meštrović
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in technology, but even there it was done insufficiently, regarding the potential and perspective possibilities. On the contrary, the process of the scientification of the social, thinking, governing, and intentional sectors and activities of life, has not even begun. The scientification of science itself has begun only recently, and only in its most distant and vanguard parts that, precisely because of the undeveloped scientification of fundamental activities belonging to human purposefulness itself, remain directed, stimulated and are used for unscientific, that is, non-‐human purposes. This way of thinking may not be acceptable at first sight. It is intentionally schematic, but not as much as it seems. It deliberately passes over all complex difficulties in reducing the dynamic and self-‐contradictory and elusive human matter to any reliable and secure norm and normalization, but it also wants to emphasize that today’s science is not about schemes, that science itself is dynamic, elastic, and able to face all phenomena, as multiple or multilayered as they may be, because today, science itself is such a phenomenon. This does not exclude a possibility of a science of sciences on a higher level, but this will be achieved only when the number and sum of phenomena not encompassed by science is diminished. And there is a vast ocean of them, and they constantly multiply, not only in science, but also beyond it, and the advances of science lead to new phenomena, in a chain reaction. Then how is it possible to even think that science could be sufficiently powerful to solve the destiny of humanity? How is it possible to trust science? But, nowadays even this is a matter of science. However, we have unjustifiably elevated science to a pedestal that it still does not possess in contemporary society, and will not possess until contemporary society elevates itself to the level that science has already taken. Even the fervor of the Enlightenment in the eighteenth century would not suffice to emphasize the importance of the elementary popularization of science, not its abstract, theoretical aspects, nor in some concentrated digests for instant-‐education, but before everything else, its materialized aspect of vital and productive means, and realized experiences of them. Clearly, its popularization and vulgarization should not stop here. Moreover, if we take into account what we discussed before – the underdevelopment of the scientification of extra-‐scientific sectors of thought, and of the activation of those regions of society (these are more or less all of them) in which their activity manifests itself as a determinant of complex motives of human behavior and actions – it is necessary to emphasize the way of the popularizing scientific knowledge whereby pure human spirituality will manifest and reflect itself through it. We will briefly mention the field of art, and immediately emphasize the need of its scientification also; because this is the field in which the complex of multiple delusions, collected and accumulated from all zones and levels of unscientified human and social existence and spiritual history, are still protected in their cocoon. To analyze it sharply and without compromise, one would need a lucid action of science, but, because of higher interests, science still does not reach it and leaves it to dabble in the slow backwaters of the developmental stream. Similarly, many other sectors of social existence and thought are neglected, under the pretext of other things of primary importance – but before all, because of other, non-‐humanized interests that comprise the huge ballast in total circulation within the vital and social medium and in its general movement. And, in this situation, causes are the same as consequences, and vice versa: insufficient scientification in a particular sector is caused by general insufficient scientification, and vice versa. But, this is not the exhaustive list of the causes of the unequal stages of development and structural incompatibility and inhomogeneous development of different social and existential sectors, levels and orientations. On the contrary, certain social interests – different in different systems, but identical by nature – favor or disfavor the scientification of certain fields, and the descientification of other fields, and not in line with general interests that a normal process of development of civilization would require, but on the contrary, it is as if they oppose these requirements, or do not recognize them. Most often, the real roots of this stay deeply buried in excesses or even in the blindness of certain ideologies, which are like this for a reason, and the
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reason is the need to amplify their antagonism, which excludes any scientification, because it would lead to the unwanted detente – although in the “non-‐ideological” fields it forces the same scientification, also with the purpose of strengthening the antagonism. In this way, the rift between the possible and real agreement on the historical and potential evolution of civilization “artificially” widens on the plane of its actualization worldwide, but this strategy is a consequence of countless, small internal shifts and dislocations that are, in concrete social practice, an expression of opposition of scientific and non-‐scientific thoughts. Here, we should raise the question how science depends on ideology, and question all the factors and forces that determine ideology. But, with regard to our subject, maybe the following problem is more important: Could science (and in what way) attain such a position in society, and such social power, so that it can lead society and control its functioning? However, this question is completely unrealistic, and it will stay this way until human society in its evolution creates this possibility, that is, until it creates the conditions in which social practice will necessarily turn into scientific practice. These conditions are, in the final analysis, a matter of general material and social development in which the process of creating, developing and forcing ideologies is the expression of the aspirations of certain social powers, which, in the mechanism of social relations can be progressive or reactionary, both absolutely and relatively. To strengthen its power, each will use science and interpret and apply its results for their own interests. These facts could lead us to lose all confidence in science, as well as our faith in the possibility of any criteria for the social correctness of its orientation, but one must not forget that, where science is developed in sufficient measure, it can, following its own logic, begin to erect barriers against the further non-‐social use of its abilities. On the other hand, under the influence of science and the same social laws and social principles that science reveals, social forces themselves are subject to changes and incremental transformations; therefore, when science attains a higher stage of complete development, it could really take on the role of the main regulator of society. But then, as a precondition for this, one could not talk of science as an instrument: science itself, in its final stage of evolution, in the fullness of its competence, would become the only and final subject, because the whole humanness of humanity would manifest itself in it, and not outside of it. This would be the stage of absolute scientification of man, and of absolute humanization of science. This is the conclusion of a foreseeable line of development of scientific civilization that seems most probable, even if it is completely hypothetical, and we have only outlined it here, without going into any of the arguments that it undoubtedly inheres. It imposes the necessity on us to understand, support and emphasize in our everyday practice this parallelism of the processes of scientification and humanization of man and society, the mutual dependence of these processes. It is understandable that, while doing this, we do not forget the concrete duality of these two processes in the contemporary world, as well as the immense inappropriateness of the historical conditions for this parallelism to be really established and harmonically developed. Furthermore, we emphasize all the ugliness of today’s world as the monstrous consequence of this separation of man from humanness – both where developed but incomplete scientification is not included enough, and directed to the purpose of humanization, as well as where the state of nonexistent scientification supports the state of the most painful humiliation of man. This is where we face the living and hard soil of historical necessities that we so often do not want to see, and the official conscience of the world does not want to face them. The question of liberating all human beings from material, moral and spiritual slavery is the question that this century would have to clearly articulate – at least – so that the means of science could make it solvable.
1963
Translated from Croatian by Goran Vujasinović
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Matko Meštrović
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Matko Meštrović was born in 1933 in the island of Korčula. He graduated from the Faculty of Arts and Sciences in Zagreb, with a major in History of Art. As a critic and writer, in 1956 he started to work in the editorial board for arts and culture in Radio Zagreb. He contributed to many journals and newspapers. He translated texts from Italian and French. He was a member of the Gorgona group. He participated in forming the international art movement “Nove tendencije,” which had its first exhibition in 1961 in Zagreb. He taught theory of design at the University of Architecture in Zagreb, he was the director of the Institute for Culture of Croatia (1987 – 1992) and before that the advisor of the general director of Radio Television Zagreb. Now he is a long-‐time scientific researcher at the Institute of Economics in Zagreb.
