Uncivil Society?: Contentious Politics in Post-Communist Europe

Uncivil Society?

Fuelled by the important role opposition movements played in the down-fall of communism, most observers initially expressed high hopes for a strong and vibrant civil society in post-communist Eastern Europe. More than a decade after the momentous events of 1989, however, most scholars emphasise civil society’s weakness rather than its strength. This volume makes a significant contribution to the debate about the development of post-communist civil society by focusing on its alleged ‘dark side’, i.e. on the groups that are excluded from ‘civil society’ on both conceptual and normative grounds. The chapters, written by specialists in the field, explore in rich empirical detail the complexities involved when such groups—like the skinheads in Hungary, the farmers’ ‘self-defence’ movement in Poland or the war veterans in Croatia—challenge the state, engage in community activism or get involved in protest actions. It also offers a contrasting perspective by focusing on similar activities by the alleged ‘pro-democratic’ actors of civil society, such as ‘Impulse 99’ in the Czech Republic. The book maintains that both ‘uncivil’ movements and political protest, or contentious politics, should be included under the broad development of associational activity in the region. Uncivil Society? Contentious politics in post-communist Europe is a fascinating study, and will be of interest to scholars of Eastern European politics and history, as well as to scholars of civil society in general. Petr Kopecký is lecturer in the Department of Politics at Sheffield University and research fellow in the Department of Political Science at Leiden University. His previous publications include Parliaments in the Czech and Slovak Republics: Party Competition and Parliamentary Institutionalization (Ashgate: 2001). Cas Mudde is lecturer in the Faculty of Political and Social Sciences at the University of Antwerp-UFSIA, Belgium. He has written extensively on extremism and democracy, including The Ideology of the Extreme Right (Manchester University Press: 2000).

Routledge Studies in Extremism and Democracy Series Editors: Roger Eatwell, University of Bath, and Cas Mudde, University of Antwerp-UFSIA This new series encompasses academic studies within the broad fields of ‘extremism’ and ‘democracy’. These topics have traditionally been considered largely in isolation by academics. A key focus of the series, therefore, is the (inter-) relation between extremism and democracy. Works will seek to answer questions such as to what extent ‘extremist’ groups pose a major threat to democratic parties, or how democracy can respond to extremism without undermining its own democratic credentials. The books encompass two strands: Routledge Studies in Extremism and Democracy includes books with an introductory and broad focus which are aimed at students and teachers. These books will be available in hardback and paperback. Titles include: Understanding Terrorism in AmericaFrom the Klan to al QaedaChristopher Hewitt Routledge Research in Extremism and Democracy offers a forum for innovative new research intended for a more specialist readership. These books will be in hardback only. Titles include: 1 Uncivil Society?Contentious politics in post-communist EuropeEdited by Petr Kopecký and Cas Mudde 2 Political Parties and Terrorist GroupsLeonard Weinberg and Ami Pedahzur 3 Western Democracies and the New Extreme Right ChallengeEdited by Roger Eatwell and Cas Mudde

Uncivil Society? Contentious politics in postcommunist Europe

Edited by Petr Kopecký and Cas Mudde

London and New York

First published 2003 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2003 Petr Kopecký and Cas Mudde, editors; individual chapters, the contributors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Library A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN 0-203-98878-7 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-415-26585-1 (Print Edition)

Extrapolating from the courageous role of civic groups that fought communism in Eastern Europe, some civil society enthusiasts have propagated the misleading notion that civil society consists of noble causes and earnest, well-intentioned actors. Yet civil society everywhere is a bewildering array of the good, the bad, and the outright bizarre. Thomas Carothers, ‘Civil society’, Foreign Policy 117, Winter 1999–2000:20. More generally, social initiatives depend crucially on a context set jointly by state, market and civil society; and the logic of organization in such initiatives often intermingles legal coercion, authoritative decision making and implementation, political manipulation, economic ends, and the voluntary pursuit of group and individual goals. But if this is the case, then it will be very difficult to specify in the abstract just which characteristics of civil society per se (…) contribute to healthy democracy and which do not, because the specific roster of beneficial characteristics would vary cross nationally and over time along with the socioeconomic and political context. Bob Edwards and Michael W.Foley, ‘Civil society and social capital beyond Putnam’, American Behavioral Scientist 42, (1): September 1998:128.

Contents

List of tables

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Notes on contributors

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Series editors’ preface

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Editors’ preface

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1

Civil society, uncivil society and contentious politics in postcommunist Europe PETR KOPECKÝ

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The other civil society in Serbia: non-governmental nationalism —the case of the Serbian resistance movement FLORIAN BIEBER

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3

The uncivility of a civil society: skinhead youth in Hungary LÁSZLÓ K RTI

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4

The Slovak National Movement: a case of successful contention DARINA MALOVÁ

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Contentious politics in Croatia: the war veterans’ movement SHARON FISHER

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6

State, society and protest under post-communism: Ukrainian miners and their defeat VLAD MYKHNENKO

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7

Samoobrona: the Polish self-defence movement ANIA KROK-PASZKOWSKA

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Civil society in the Czech Republic: ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ VLADIMÍRA DVO ÁKOVÁ

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Civil society in post-communist Europe: lessons from the ‘dark side’ CAS MUDDE

152

1

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Bibliography

166

Index

181

Tables

3.1 Crime by juveniles and children, 1980–97 5.1 State financial assistance to veterans’ groups, 1995–9 6.1 Ukrainian parliamentary elections of April 1998, percentage of party votes 6.2 Ukrainian presidential elections of October/November 1999, second round, percentage of votes

41 79 102 103

Contributors

Florian Bieber is senior non-resident research fellow at the European Centre for Minority Issues in Belgrade, and taught at Central European University (Budapest) and the University of Sarajevo. He holds a PhD in Political Science from the University of Vienna. His publications include articles in Current History, Nationalities Papers, Third World Quarterly, as well as a coedited book with Dzemal Sokolovi , Reconstructing Multiethnic Societies: The Case of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Ashgate, 2001). Vladimíra Dvo áková is associate professor of political science in the University of Economics, Prague. She is a member of the Executive Committee of the International Political Science Association and editor-inchief of Politologická revue. Her work focuses mainly on the problems of comparative politics and transitions to democracy. Her main publications include (with Ji í Kunc) O prechodech k demokracii (SLON, 1994) and, edited, Ten Years After, Success or Failure? (Czech and Slovak Political Science Associations, 1999). Sharon Fisher works at PlanEcon, Inc. in Washington, DC, producing economic and political analysis on Central and Eastern Europe. She wrote her PhD thesis on the rise and fall of national movements in Croatia and Slovakia at the School of Slavonic and East European Studies of University College London. She has published extensively on the region, including the edited volume (together with Martin Butora et al.): The 1998 Parliamentary Elections and Democratic Rebirth in Slovakia (Bratislava: Institute for Public Affairs, 1999). Petr Kopecký is lecturer in the Department of Politics, Sheffield University. Currently he is a research fellow in the Department of Political Science, Leiden University in the Netherlands. He has published numerous journal articles and contributed book chapters on various aspects of regime change in Eastern Europe. His recent publications include Parliaments in the Czech and Slovak Republics: Party Competition and Parliamentary Institutionalization (Ashgate, 2001). Currently he is involved in a research project on patterns of institutional arrangements and democratic performance in new democracies.

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Ania Krok-Paszkowska is currently a visiting fellow at the Robert Schuman Centre for Advanced Studies at the European University Institute in Florence. Her recent publications include a chapter on divided government in Poland in Robert Elgie (ed.), Divided Government in Comparative Perspective (Oxford University Press, 2001) and a report of the Reflection Group, chaired by JeanLuc Dehaene, on the Political dimension of enlargement (Robert Schuman Centre, EUI and the Group of Policy Advisers, European Commission, 2001). László K rti is professor of political science and social anthropology in the University of Miskolc, Hungary. He is the author of two publications on EastCentral European culture, politics and nationalism: The Remote Borderland: Transylvania in the Hungarian Imagination (SUNY Press, 2001), and, coedited, Beyond Borders: Remaking Cultural Identities in the New East and Central Europe (Westview, 1996). He is also currently secretary of the European Association of Social Anthropologists (EASA). Darina Malová is associate professor in the Department of Political Science, Comenius University, Slovakia. She has published numerous articles on Slovakia in East European Constitutional Review, Journal of Legislative Studies, and West European Politics. She also contributed to several edited volumes dealing with post-communist politics, including Democratic Consolidation in Eastern Europe: Institutional Engineering (Oxford University Press, 2001); Cabinets in Eastern Europe (Palgrave, 2001); Behind Closed Doors: Parliamentary Party Groups in European Democracies (Routledge, 2000). Cas Mudde is lecturer in the Faculty of Political and Social Sciences of the University of Antwerp—UFSIA, Belgium. He is the founder of the ECPR Standing Group on Extremism and Democracy. Among his publications are The Ideology of the Extreme Right (Manchester University Press, 2000) and, co-edited with Joop van Holsteyn, Extreemrechts in Nederland (Sdu, 1998) and Democratie in verval? (Boom, 2002). He is currently working on a coedited book, entitled Western Democracies and the New Extreme Right Challenge (Routledge, 2003). Vlad Mykhnenko is a PhD student in the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences, University of Cambridge, UK. Educated at the Institute of International Relations, Taras Shevchenko Kiev University, Ukraine, and the Central European University, Budapest, Hungary, he is currently completing his doctoral thesis on the political economy of post-communist transition in Poland and Ukraine.

Series editors’ preface

For much of the ‘short twentieth century’, history was characterised by the clash of great ideologies, internal violence and major wars. Although most catastrophic events took place outside the Western world, Europe and the USA were not immune from the turmoil. Two world wars and a series of lesser conflicts led to countless horrors and losses. Moreover, for long periods Western democracy— especially in its European form—seemed in danger of eclipse by a series of radical forces, most notably communist and fascist. Yet by the turn of the 1990s, liberal democracy appeared destined to become the universal governmental norm. Dictatorial Soviet communism had collapsed, to be replaced in most successor states by multi-party electoral politics. Chinese communism remained autocratic, but in the economic sphere it was moving rapidly towards greater freedoms and marketisation. The main manifestations of fascism had gone down to catastrophic defeat in war. Neo-fascist parties were damned by omnipresent images of brutality and genocide, and exerted little appeal outside a fringe of ageing nostalgics and alienated youths. In the Western world, political violence had disappeared, or was of minimal importance in terms of system stability. Where it lingered on as a regularly murderous phenomenon, for instance in Northern Ireland or Spain, it seemed a hangover from the past—a final flicker of the embers of old nationalist passions. It was easy to conclude that such tribal atavism was doomed in an increasinglyinterconnected ‘capitalist’ world, characterised by growing forms of multi-level governance that were transcending the antagonism and parochialism of old borders. However, as we move into the new millennium there are growing signs that extremism even in the West is far from dead—that we celebrated prematurely the universal victory of democracy. Perhaps the turn of the twenty-first century was an interregnum, rather than a turning point. In Western Europe there has been the rise of ‘extreme right’ and ‘populist’ parties such as Jean-Marie Le Pen’s Front National, which pose a radical challenge to existing elites—even to the liberal political system. In the USA, the 1995 Oklahoma mass-bombing has not been followed by another major extreme right attack, but there is simmering resentment towards the allegedly over-powerful state among well-armed militias and other groups. More generally across the West, new forms of green politics,

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often linked by a growing hostility to globalisation-Americanisation, are taking on more violent forms (the issue of animal rights is also growing in importance in this context). In the former Soviet space, there are clear signs of the revival of ‘communist’ parties (which often masquerade as ‘socialists’ or ‘social democrats’), whose allegiance to democracy is (in varying degrees) debatable. In Latin America, there remain notable extremist movements on the left, though these tend not to be communist. This trend may well grow both in response to globalisationAmericanisation and to the (partly-linked) crises of many of these countries, such as Argentina. This in turn increases the threat to democracy from the extreme right, ranging in form from paramilitary groups to agro-military conspiracies. The rise of Islamic fundamentalism has been an even more notable feature of recent years. This is not simply a facet of Middle Eastern politics. It has had an impact within some former Soviet republics, where the old nomenklatura have used the Islamic threat to maintain autocratic rule. In countries such as Indonesia and India, Muslims and other ethnic groups have literally cut each other to pieces. It is also important to note that growing Islamic fundamentalism has had an impact within some Western countries. The terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and elsewhere in the USA on 11 September 2001 are perhaps the most graphic illustration of this impact. But in democracies generally, the rise of religious and other forms of extremism pose vital questions about the limits of freedom, multiculturalism, and tolerance. This is especially the case in ones which have experienced notable Islamic immigration and/or which face the greatest threat of further terrorist attack. Democracy may have become a near-universal shibboleth, but its exact connotations are being increasingly challenged and debated. As long as the ‘evil empire’ of communism existed, Western democracy could in an important sense define itself by the ‘other’—by what it was not. It did not have overt dictatorial rule, censorship, the gulags, and so on. But with the collapse of its great eternal foe, the spotlight has turned inward (although Islam is in some ways replacing communism as the ‘other’). Is (liberal-Western) democracy truly democratic? Can it defend itself against terrorism and new threats without undermining the very nature of democracy? These general opening comments provide the rationale for the Routledge Series on Extremism and Democracy. In particular, there are three issues which we seek to probe in this series: • conceptions of democracy and extremism • forms of the new extremism in both the West and the wider world • how democracies are responding to the new extremism. Petr Kopecký and Cas Mudde’s edited book, the second to appear in this series, raises important issue especially to the first and second of these issues.

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At the turn of the 1990s, many commentators saw in movements like Solidarity in Poland, or the more spontaneous protests which preceded the collapse of communism in countries such as East Germany and Czechoslovakia, the seeds of a healthy civil society that would grow to underpin stable democracy. But these hopes faded during the 1990s, during which civil society organisations, such as unions and ecological ones, withered rather than took root. Western attempts to promote democratic and friendly civil society organisations largely failed: indeed, in some cases Western support was a contributory cause of this failure. Today, it has become commonplace to lament the weakness of civil society in much of Central and Eastern Europe, and to see in this lacuna a serious problem for democratic stabilisation. This book challenges much of the literature on civil society. One problem stressed by both editors concerns the concept of civil society. Typically it refers to organisations that are not part of the household, economic society, or the state. However, organisations such as trade unions need to deal with companies in terms of wage bargaining, and with the state on issues such as workplace legislation. Indeed, the strength of civil society in part reflects the strength of these other sectors. Moreover, the celebration of civil society as the key to democratisation has hindered the formation of new parties. Political parties, for all their faults, have historically provided the basic institution which links the people with the state. Empirically, this book examines in rich detail movements such as ‘nongovernmental nationalism’ in Serbia, skinheads in Hungary, and worker and trade union activities in the Ukraine and Poland. Questions asked by the various contributors included: • What mobilisation strategies do movements use? • What role do they play within the constituency they are meant to serve? • What has been the effect on civil society in general of their activities? A distinctive focus of the book’s selection of case studies is the emphasis on the ‘dark side’ of politics—on ‘uncivil society’, namely movements which are commonly seen as non-, or even, anti-democratic. Typically, studies of civil society ignore groups like the Ku Klux Klan or Mafia, although such groups can provide more dense and personal networks than those provided by the more staple fare of civil society analysis, e.g. choral societies or trade unions. In post-communist states, radical nationalist groups are usually viewed as the most dangerous part of uncivil society. This means that movements which in the closing years of communism were seen as good, and which often played a major role in the transitions, change almost overnight from being seen as civil to uncivil. Clearly some radical nationalist groups do pose a threat to democracy, especially in terms of civil rights for minorities. However, it is important not to demonise all forms of nationalist civil society organisation. The Serbian case study in the pages which follow shows how an ultra-nationalist group turned into

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a moderate counter-weight to Miloševi over Kosovan policy. More typically nationalist groups can help the process of democratisation by provoking ‘civil’ movements to respond to their challenge. This work, therefore, provides an important theoretical and empirical corrective to much of the literature on civil society. In particular, it shows that the common generalisation that an active civil society is necessarily good for democracy is invalid. The crucial issue in this context is which groups are dominant. Roger Eatwell and Cas Mudde Bath and Antwerp

Editors’ preface

At the empirical level, this book is about the ‘dark side’ of post-communist politics, i.e. radical political forces and political protest. At the theoretical level, this book is a serious challenge to the bulk of recent literature on civil society in Eastern Europe, claiming that its normative underpinnings obscure important aspects of the phenomenon and thereby understate the importance of civil society in post-communist politics. The originality of the approach lies in its main focus, which is on those forces within civil society that are generally considered to be negative, i.e. non- or even anti-democratic. The various authors in the book contrast the ‘dark side’ of civil society with the ‘bright side’, i.e. liberal and prodemocratic, which often merely means pro-Western, organisations, proving that their respective functions and roles within the political system are fairly similar, despite their difference in goals. In addition, they show that the dominant claim of the weakness of civil society in Eastern Europe is, in part, a consequence of the narrow bias of most scholars, who disregard the ‘dark side’ of civil society. Finally, the book integrates in a highly original way the related subject of contentious politics to the discussion on civil society in post-communist Europe. Rather than exclusively focusing on the negative sides of political protest, i.e. a backlash against democratisation, it considers contentious politics as a form of political participation, showing the development of small yet significant forces of civil society within Eastern Europe. This is a collaborative project of young and ‘less young’, professional academics and non-professional academics, ‘Easterners’ and ‘Westerners’, and men and women. From the outset, diversity was important to us, also with regard to academic positions. As a consequence, some authors do explicitly defend the alternative approach to civil society, while others seem to support (implicitly) a more traditional vision. Rather than enforcing a strict conceptual and theoretical framework upon our collaborators, we encouraged them to take their own approach in their study of a specific (un)civil movement, guided by a common set of broad questions. We believe that this paid off in producing a challenging, highly diverse collection of studies of some fascinating yet under studied organisations of post-communist civil society.

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Some chapters were (in an earlier version) presented at our panel ‘Contentious politics in Eastern Europe’ at the fiftieth Annual PSA Convention in London, in April 2000. All papers but one were discussed at a most constructive and pleasant workshop, entitled ‘Uncivil society? Contentious politics in post-communist Europe’, which we organised in Prague in November 2000. We want to thank Vladimíra Dvo áková for her invaluable help with organising the Prague workshop, as well as the Department of Politics of Sheffield University and the University of Edinburgh Development Trust for providing financial assistance. Finally, thanks are due to Jean Grugel and Maarten Vink, who commented on the introduction, and Marc Morjé Howard, who commented on both the introduction and the conclusion. Their comments were of great help to us, and were provided under serious time constraints. We also thank our partners, Tineke Griffioen and Anna Šišková, for their patience and support. Last but not least, we thank our contributors, who, we are shamed to admit, were more punctual than us. As many people have told us both before and during the process, editing a book is at times more time- and energy-consuming than writing your own book, but we are nevertheless happy to have done it. If it leads to at least some rethinking of the research agenda of the study of civil society in post-communist Europe, we will have reached our aim. Petr Kopecký and Cas Mudde Leiden and Edinburgh, April 2002

1 Civil society, uncivil society and contentious politics in post-communist Europe Petr Kopecký

Introduction Ever since the fall of communism, both the media and the scholarly community have initially expressed high hopes for and later deep disappointment with civil society in post-communist Europe. There were some empirical reasons for these hopes, and to some extent for the disappointments as well. The decade-long struggle of Solidarity in Poland, the environmental protests of the Danube Circle in Hungary, or even the more short-lived demonstrations in East Germany and Czechoslovakia, all had shown the power of ‘civil society’ in opposing communist regimes across the region. True, civil society might not have been the key factor in the downfall of the communist regimes. The activity of the various opposition groups must be seen in the broader context of longterm structural socio-economic failures, as well as Gorbachev’s policies of glasnost and perestroika (e.g. Schopflin 1993; Waller 1993). Moreover, with the exception of Poland, opposition movements in Eastern Europe remained relatively small and weak until the last moments of communist rule. Civil society nevertheless did contribute to the demise of communism and certainly played an important role in the various transition scenarios that unfolded throughout the region at the end of 1989. However, when the groups of anti-Communist civil society demobilised shortly after the founding elections, and key individuals like Václav Havel or Lech Wał sa entered the state, most observers declared civil society in general to be in decline, if not dead (e.g. Green and Leff 1997; Lomax 1997; Nelson 1996; Smolar 1996). Relatively few authors focused on civil society organisations (CSOs) other than the original anti-regime opposition; even fewer actually questioned the proclaimed decline of civil society. Though many doom scenarios appeared, questioning the effects of neo-liberal policies in the region, only a few authors decided to study the (danger of) cycles of violent protest and vast societal crisis. Indeed, one of them expressed amazement over the general lack of political protest, particularly focusing on socio-economic protest, given the unparalleled transformation and crises post-communist societies were going through (Greskovits 1998).

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At the same time, a great number of commentators noted the undemocratic sides of (some) post-communist societies, most notably in the Balkans and the former Soviet Union. Many academic studies proclaimed the (often intrinsic) propensity to violent nationalism and populism of East Europeans (e.g. Bogdanor 1995; Pearson 1995). Though most authors provided little empirical evidence for these claims, the ones that did, described nationalist mobilisation in isolation from broader phenomena of political protest and collective action. Moreover, the term civil society remained usually reserved for those forces perceived as pro-democratic, which mobilised against those considered ‘nationalpopulists’ (e.g. Tismaneanu 1998). This book argues that the high expectations of, and disappointments with, civil society in post-communist Europe are misplaced. It will do so on two grounds. First, we challenge the limited conception of civil society on which much of the current thinking on associational life in post-communist Europe is based. Second, we reject the assumption that the vibrancy of associational life can be measured by the numerical strength and/or organisational density of CSOs alone. The structure of the book aids these two inter-related challenges in that the discussions in each individual chapter try to capture, in rich empirical detail, the complexities that are involved when various groups, particularly those that are often excluded from civil society on both normative and conceptual grounds, challenge the state, engage in community activism, or get involved in protest actions. This introductory chapter aims to set the studies contained in this volume in a theoretical and conceptual context. The first section analyses civil society in Eastern Europe, looking both at the dissidents’ conception of civil society and at some (arguably uncomfortable) indicators of the reality of associational life across the region. The second section integrates several streams of the literature, linking civil society with democratisation, ‘uncivil society’, and contentious politics. I review the general arguments about the role of civil society in the processes of democratisation by looking at various definitions of civil society, and at the roles CSOs perform during the process of political change. On the basis of this review I contend, first, that part of the pessimistic picture about post-communist civil society derives from (a) too high expectations associated with the dissidents’ conception of civil society, and (b) the selective use of definitions employed. Second, I argue for a theoretical and empirical focus that moves beyond the relatively narrow sphere of ‘pro-democratic’ organisations. Third, I question the overdrawn boundaries that exclude from civil society organisations overlapping with economic production (‘the market’) and the state. Fourth, using insights from the literature on new social movements, I submit that political protest, or contentious politics, should be included in the broader and positive development of associational activity.

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Civil society in Eastern Europe The fact that civil society became an articulated political theory of opposition against totalitarianism in Eastern European and, as such, was accorded international validation through the network of international human rights organisations, is arguably one of the key reasons for its current popularity in not only the post-communist world, but elsewhere as well. Civil society then was envisaged primarily as a strategy of opposition against the communist regime. However, it was also presented as a programme for a post-communist society, and possibly even a ‘post-democratic’ one (see Kopecký and Barnfield 1999). It was a conception that envisaged a more radical form of democratic political praxis; an alternative form of politics, which would extend beyond a set of standard liberal institutions. It was to be a form of politics that would nurture civic initiatives and autonomous movements in order to offset the bureaucratic and consumerist tendencies inherent in modern liberal and market societies (see Isaac 1996; Arato 1993). The crucial element of this conception of civil society was the critique of state power. The experience of suppression and underlying anti-totalitarian tendencies led many dissidents to the conclusion that East European states were to a large extent defined by their hostility towards organisations outside state control. The degree of state infringement was seen as having a negative effect on social dynamism. The state could rely only on coercive measures to motivate the citizenry into any kind of social project. The fact that large sections of the population had no sectional or emotional attachment to the state suggested to the dissidents the possibility that an alternative sphere within society could draw support simply by virtue of its existence. It therefore became possible to present civil society as an actor in competition with totalitarianism, and ultimately as its antithesis. Bronisław Geremek articulated this conception clearly, writing that ‘the idea of a civil society—even one that avoids overtly political activities in favour of education, the exchange of information and opinion, or the protection of the basic interests of the particular groups—has enormous anti-totalitarian potential’ (1992:4). The role the dissidents envisaged for civil society was broad. Initially, it was almost exclusively social. They argued that the various constituent organisations could develop support networks across society while at the same time defend society against injustices. But it was also thought that this would set in motion a process of gradual encroachment into the territory of the state and its eventual enclosure and hollowing out by the ‘parallel polis’ of civil society. Moreover, the autonomous associations which re-emerged in the 1970s were seen as the building blocks for a post-totalitarian society in that they would help to reconstruct authentic social ties that had been damaged by communist social engineering. Importantly, some dissidents even envisaged these associations as providing a social and organisational blueprint for a genuine democracy.1

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The definition of civil society as the antithesis of totalitarianism also contained a zero-sum logic that saw all associations or even individual actions, irrespective of their nature, size or political content, as conscious attacks on state power. As a result, the conception of civil society in most dissident writings was unclear and amorphous, conflating civil society with opposition per se. In part, this was possible because the critique of the communist state expressed through the idea of civil society was accompanied by a fierce critique of power in general. There was a downgrading of the importance of the political in the traditional sense, while emphasis was placed instead on moral categories and imperatives. Within this critique was a vision of a new form of politics which, fused with a new morality, was thought to be capable of recognising the needs of individual people. In place of any consideration of difference and sectional interest, universal and pre-political concepts, such as ‘living in truth’, ‘antipolitics’, or ‘anti-political politics’, were emphasised by the dissidents (e.g. Konrád 1994; Havel 1988, 1991). In short, the strategy of the dissidents was to unleash the potential of the autonomous groups, and place civil society at the centre of the democratisation processes. However, it should be pointed out that such an emphasis on civil society did not work in practice across all Eastern European countries. In fact, the concept of civil society as championed by the dissidents was very much an East Central European affair, in terms of both the popularity of the political conception and the actual involvement of societal groups in the events that led to the breakdown of the communist regimes. In other words, the civil society programme resonated little in the Balkan countries or in the republics of the former Soviet Union. Some authors even argue that the relative weakness of precommunist civil societies in many of these countries accounts for their slower pace of democratisation in comparison with other post-communist countries (e.g. Gill 1997). Moreover, the impact of civil society differed within East Central Europe as well, which influenced the way the communist regimes were dismantled (see Bernhard 1993), and possibly also the way civil society has evolved since the momentous days of 1989 (Arato 2000; Frentzel-Zagorska 1990). This notwithstanding, the dissidents’ conception of civil society has left a strong cultural legacy, particularly among a section of post-communist elites and certainly among the international observers. Several chapters in this book will show that this legacy occasionally appears to frame domestic political struggles in post-communist Eastern Europe. Moreover, with the popularisation of the concept within democratisation studies, the development of civil society also represents something of a marker against which the current political processes in Eastern Europe are judged. It is therefore necessary to point out, albeit briefly, that the dissidents’ conception of civil society was not without problems (for more details see Kopecký and Barnfield 1999). First, civil society was almost completely framed as an antithesis to the (totalitarian) state, as discussed above. Second, it was a monolithic conception,

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which stressed the unity of opposition of ‘us’ (‘the people’) against ‘them’ (‘the corrupt elite’). These stances were facilitated by the universalistic and prepolitical language in which the civil society project was expressed, which stressed the moral aspect of opposition and the unity of those on the side of ‘good’ against ‘evil’. Needless to say, such a conception supplied a way of denying the legitimacy of the public realm under the communist system. However, it also created false expectations that democracy implied the absence of difference, rather than living with it. Civil society was also problematically portrayed as a sphere of activity superior to the ‘political’ realm in both social and moral terms. As a consequence, it strengthened the hostility and suspicion towards those claiming legitimacy via attachment to institutions, particularly towards those engaging in newly formed political parties (see Mudde 2001). Moreover, the supposed superior position of civil society encouraged the rather Platonian presumption of leadership and of the moral right to lead post-communist society on the part of a (self-selected) elite, obviously made up of dissidents and civil society theorists. Viewed in this way, the alleged decline of civil society in post-communist Europe may not necessarily represent a problem for the prospect of democracy and associational life in the region. Rather, it is, first and foremost, the decline of a normative theory whose usefulness should be viewed in the context of a particular historical period. However, it is also necessary to point out that much of the literature that looks at the reality of associational life in post-communist Europe, and not just at the original dissident hopes and conceptions, conveys a rather pessimistic picture too. If we look at the number of officially listed non-governmental organisations (NGOs), associational life in Eastern Europe has undoubtedly flourished in comparison with the communist period (e.g. Pot ek 2000; Vari 1998; Malová 1997a). The rapid revival of associations is, of course, hardly surprising given the attempts of communist regimes across the region to suppress all forms of independent non-state activity and to concentrate all organisational life in a few state-controlled organisations. The period immediately after the breakdown of a non-democratic regime is usually accompanied by an upsurge of spontaneous movement activity and by the participation of citizens in them. Yet, compared to other regions in the world, including older (Western) democracies and the post-authoritarian states of Latin America and Southern Europe, membership in voluntary organisations in postcommunist Eastern Europe is distinctly lower (Howard 2002a; Curtis et al. 2001). Moreover, public trust in various civil and political institutions—another oft-used indicator of the vibrancy of civil society (see below)—is also remarkably low throughout the post-communist region (Sztompka 1998; Rose 1994). A similarly pessimistic picture emerges from the few studies that concentrate on the most popular or traditional CSOs. For example, studies of environmental movements portray with great enthusiasm their initial strength under the

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communist regimes, when activists mobilised against the disastrous industrial policies and building projects of the communist regimes. They were able to secure both popularity and, particularly towards the end of the 1980s, a sizeable following among the populations. A decade later, no green party has been able to sustain (on its own) electoral success or parliamentary representation in the postcommunist world (e.g. Manning 1998; Frankland 1995). Most importantly, environmental organisations and movements across the region are almost universally deemed to have lost their radicalism, participatory character and grassroots support, having instead turned into small professional pressure groups, largely dependent on financial resources from the West (see Baker and Jehlicka 1998). The trade unions, often considered among the most effective and powerful groups within the sphere of civil society, face their own unique problems in the post-communist world. Their function as ‘transmission belts’ of the official governmental policies put them into a privileged position under the communist regimes and, consequently, endowed them with significant material and human resources in the post-transition period. However, partly due to their association with the previous regime, and partly because of the political, social, and economic dynamics of post-communism, trade unions have been losing members, influence and the ability to mobilise throughout the region (see Crowley and Ost 2001; Kubicek 1999; Waller and Myant 1993). Although far less prominent under the communist regimes, women’s organisations and movements have experienced a fate similar to environmental movements and trade unions in the post-communist period; where existent, such groups tend to be small, lacking funding and support, and with little capacity for political activism or large-scale mobilisation (see LaFont 2001; Jaquette and Wolchik 1998; Waylen 1994). These findings are a good starting point for anyone interested in postcommunist civil society. But they also remain just that, a starting point, or, put differently, a broad contextual framework for the study of civil society in the region. For example, public attitudes tell us relatively little about activities of people involved in organisations of civil society. They also shed precious little light on the actual demands of collective organisations, or on the relationship between them and those that stand in opposition; whether that opposition comes from within civil society or from within the state. Organisational density (i.e. membership) does not provide much indication about the actual involvement of existing members in their organisations. Similarly to the study of political parties, we tend to equate organisational density with organisational intensity, as if more members necessarily mean more participation and vice versa. A focus on membership may also obscure other forms of participation and civic engagement, such as periodic mobilisation on single issues. Moreover, the few detailed studies of post-communist civil society have so far focused mainly on the traditional organisations and movements mentioned above. This obviously makes the overall picture of associational life

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not just incomplete, but possibly also skewed towards secondary associations that experience fairly unique problems in the post-communist period. The partial remedy to these problems undoubtedly lies in a detailed empirical study of the political behaviour of various CSOs, something this book attempts to provide in each of the chapters that follow this introduction. In addition to the knowledge of both public attitudes and the aggregate data on the number of CSOs and their organisational density, we simply need to know more about their activities, ideologies, demands, and interactions. However, no solid basis to the debates on civil society in the region can be deducted from just a better empirical knowledge of organisations. Views on the meaning, importance and normative value of the concept of civil society vary considerably among the scholars. The choice of a definition of civil society influences the selection of organisations and thus possibly also creates a bias in empirical findings and interpretations. In fact, as I have indicated above, much of the problems associated with civil society in the post-communist region may stem from its false identification with the enthusiasm and ideological outlook of the original dissident movements. It is therefore imperative to clarify the definition of civil society, something to which I turn now. What is civil society? Civil society is a fashionable concept in contemporary political science. It features prominently in the comparative studies of democratisation (e.g. Diamond 1999; Linz and Stepan 1996). It has also gained prominence in the studies on the quality and performance of democracy in the developed industrial world recently, with debates revolving most notably around Robert Putnam’s concept of social capital and the problems of civic renewal (e.g. Putnam 2000; Fullinwider 1999). And the imagination of students of both international political economy and international relations has been captured by the emergence of an active network of groups that transcend national boundaries, and that are considered to constitute an international or global civil society (e.g. Colás 2002; Anheier et al. 2001). Definitions of civil society Given the wide range of interests and theoretical traditions involved in the various fields of the discipline, it is not surprising to find many different understandings of civil society. At one end, civil society is used normatively, i.e. as a desirable project embodying certain aspirations about the organisation of modern society. At the other end, it is used as an empirical concept, aimed primarily at analytical description, which depicts organised groups operating somewhere between the state on the one hand, and the realm of the family and the individual on the other.

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This chapter is not the place to review explicitly the various prescriptive theories of civil society, like communitarianism, civic republicanism or libertarianism (see Barber 1999). Suffice to say that any conceptualisation of civil society necessarily combines both normative and empirical aspects, as will be apparent below. Indeed, even the empirical, supposedly more neutral accounts of civil society face the problem of which groups of citizens should be treated and studied under the banner of civil society and which should be subsumed under different analytical categories, like the economy, the state or even ‘uncivil society’. These conceptual problems are related to the several, often mutually overlapping, criteria used to distinguish between different spheres or subsystems of the polity. One of the criteria is a groups’ position vis-à-vis the state. Many CSOs (civil society organisations) seek to influence the state, both on the central and local levels. Moreover, the state is obviously a main provider of the rules that protect (or punish) civil societies. In that, some relationship between civil society and the state is inevitable, if not really desirable (see Li 1999). Connections between CSOs and the state also exist in numerous forms, whether by participation in policy formulation (e.g. environmental groups or trade unions), by helping with policy implementation (e.g. NGOs concerned with development aid), by lobbying activities (e.g. farmers’ organisations), or even by participation in party and electoral politics (e.g. anti-EU movements in Western Europe). However, in modern welfare societies, especially in ‘corporatist’ Europe, the fusion between the state and (certain) interest groups can easily render the distinction between the state and civil society meaningless, especially if one also considers the often substantial dependence of the so-called non-governmental organisations on state funding.2 The problem is supposedly avoided when the criterion of a group’s imperative is employed. According to this criterion, the political system (democracy) is carved out into distinct, but mutually reinforcing sub-systems, each functioning with a different imperative. Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan (1996), who distinguish between the ‘arenas’ of civil, political, and economic society, provide a good example of such a conceptualisation, which is nowadays widely used in democratisation studies. Self-organised groups, movements and associations (civil society) may have a relationship with the state, but they do not aim to occupy it. The contest over the control of public power and the state apparatus is the imperative of political society (e.g. political parties). This imperative, or goal orientation, is what distinguishes the state and political society from civil society. Moreover, both of these spheres are distinct from economic society; that is, from the rules, norms and institutions mediating between the state and the market/economy. Linz and Stepan do not explicitly refer to companies and firms, as one would expect, but their conception of economic society indirectly underlines that organisations aimed at production are also seen as distinct from both civil and political society.

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The goal orientation criterion is nevertheless problematic as well, principally because most organisations operate with multiple and shifting goals. Trade unions are a good example, as they act both in the realm of the market (collective bargaining within firms) and in the public sphere (minimum wage negotiations, lobbying in parliament). Trade unions are also often close to the state, especially in countries with instituted systems of tripartite negotiations. As a result, some authors do not consider trade unions to be part of civil society, but of economic society (e.g. Dekker 1994). Moreover, conceptualisations as that of Linz and Stepan have been criticised for seeing civil society primarily as an aid to the state rather than, as in more radical perspectives, as the means to transform the state (Grugel 2002). This may well be a slightly harsh criticism, especially if one does not identify the transformation of the state with anti-capitalist revolution. However, Jean Grugel’s critical point helps to highlight the fact that the key function ascribed to civil society within most democratisation studies is the engagement of self-organised and autonomous groups with the state (limiting state power), rather than, say, the building of community ties and networks of participation. The alternative functions of civil society come to the fore when one uses another criterion to define civil society: the range and scope of interests. For some, CSOs must be actively engaged in the public sphere; that is, they must be active in collective deliberations that are somehow politically relevant. As Victor Perez Diaz (1993) argues, civil society comprises voluntary associations and a public sphere within which people can debate, act and engage with each other in order to deal with the state. For others, what is and what is not politically relevant, or what does and what does not belong to the public or the private sphere, is intangible. In that understanding, virtually any organisation, formal or informal, is part of civil society. Both Greenpeace and trade unions qualify, but so do the seemingly politically irrelevant groups, orientated towards private goals, like local bird watching clubs, baby sitting co-operatives, or football supporters’ associations. It is the existence of an organisation that matters, not what the organisation demands or does per se. This is the basis of Putnam’s argument about social capital, which has helped to raise the debate about civil society in a context other than democratising countries. Voluntary organisations generate interpersonal trust and norms of reciprocity that underpin the functioning of political institutions. The denser the web of such social networks between people, the stronger the efficacy of institutions, and the better the democracy (Putnam 1993). It should be pointed out that social capital is not necessarily the same as civil society. The former refers to norms and values, and is thus a broader concept than that of civil society, which is a an institutional and behavioural phenomenon, referring to organised activities in the public realm (see also Howard 2002b). However, one of the reasons why the two concepts are often used interchangeably is that it is precisely civil society (i.e. a network of voluntary associations) that is supposed to be the key source of social capital. Social

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capital may, of course, also be generated within the (extended) family and within private individual networks (see Fukuyama 1995), both of which are normally excluded from definitions of civil society. In fact, social capital, defined as norms of reciprocity and trust, can theoretically also be produced by the state, for example through transparent and deliberative law formulation, effective law enforcement, or effective functioning of political institutions, such as legislatures. This obviously represents a problem for Putnam’s general argument, because he reduces the sources of social capital to voluntary associations (see Cohen 1999). In terms of the definitions of civil society, however, Putnam’s work carries important implications, because his relatively broad definition of civil society opens the question about the substantive values and aims represented by voluntary associations. Civil society and uncivil society Indeed, the question of how to treat organisations that appear to be anti-liberal and anti-democratic is another bone of contention within the civil society literature. Organisations like the Ku Klux Klan, Mafia, or ethnonationalist movements are often either ignored or subsumed under the illdefined concept of ‘uncivil society’. Not surprisingly, the term ‘uncivil society’ appears fairly regularly in the public debate without much specification. For example, it features as the title on articles on such diverse subjects as racist skinheads in Slovenia (Pozun 2000), aggression and (political and non-political) violence in Israel (Steinberg 1997), the ‘unique civic lethargy’ of the ‘average’ Ukrainian (Polokhalo 2000), and a section of the political elite in the Philippines (Tiu Laurel 2001). UN Secretary General Kofi Annan (1998) has used the term to refer to ‘the terrorists, criminals, drug dealers, traffickers in people and others who undo the good works of civil society’. And recently, some anti-globalisation activists have adopted the term even as a Geuzennaam, i.e. a negative or derogatory name appropriated and reclaimed as a positive label of empowerment (e.g. Choudry 2002; Bullard 2000). Most of the academic literature does not make any explicit reference to ‘uncivil’ organisations either. Putnam himself remains somewhat ambivalent on this question even though, as sources of social capital, he generally prefers horizontally over vertically organised, and egalitarian over authoritarian, associations. As with many other writers, the notion of uncivil society is thus implied in the definition of what civil society is. Larry Diamond (1994:6) provides a good example: A third distinguishing mark is that civil society encompasses pluralism and diversity. To the extent that an organization—such as a religious fundamentalist, ethnic chauvinist, revolutionary, or millenarian movement —seeks to monopolize a functional or political space in society, claiming that it represents the only legitimate path, it contradicts the pluralistic and

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market-oriented nature of civil society. Related to this is a fourth distinction, partialness, signifying that no group in civil society seeks to represent the whole of a person’s or a community’s interests. Some academic studies attempt to provide an explicit definition of uncivil society. But there is still quite some confusion, most notably related to the criteria on which to distinguish between civil and uncivil organisations. Most authors seem to distinguish between ‘civil’ and ‘uncivil’ mainly on the basis of the use of violence (e.g. Payne 2000; Keane 1998). Others base the distinction mainly on the ideals of the organisations involved (e.g. Pedahzur and Weinberg 2001). Uncivil society is then defined by the myriad of organisations with nondemocratic or (right-wing) extremist ideas. Finally, a few authors distinguish on the basis of the internal organisation of the groups, with democratically organised groups being part of ‘civil’ society (e.g. Gelb n.d.). There are also authors that use multiple criteria. For example, Laurence Whitehead (1997) defines ‘uncivil society’ by (1) the lack of commitment to act within the constrains of legal or pre-established rules, and (2) the lack of a spirit of civility, i.e. certain (negative) traits of interpersonal behaviour. The first criterion is not dissimilar to the criterion of use of violence. The second relates more to the ideals of organisations. In that, civil society is taken to consist of a set of voluntary organisations that work for the public good and that foster such virtues as ‘civic mindedness’, ‘civic responsibility’ and ‘trust’. In a similar vein, Edward Shills (1992) argues that civil society requires public spirited people with good manners and a strong sense of obligation towards society as a whole. Consequently, only certain organisations and associations qualify as part of civil society, namely those that support and embrace liberal democratic values and institutions. There are several problems with such restrictive definitions of civil society in general, and with the distinction between civil and uncivil society in particular. First, it is difficult to imagine many social movements, groups or associations that do not claim to represent the only legitimate, or at least the best solution, regardless of whether they are or are not based on a broader ideology. Jeffrey Alexander has argued that ‘(t)he discourse of repression is inherent in the discourse of liberty. This is the irony at the heart of the discourse of civil society’ (1998:107). Groups carrying political demands may not necessarily overthrow the political system or organise violent activities to make their claim stick. But some sense of ‘rightfulness’ and ‘exclusivity’ is inherent to virtually all political demands, and certainly to all ideologies, including of course liberalism. This is particularly strong in the writings of leading former dissidents, like György Konrád and Václav Havel, whose moral(istic) ‘antipolitics’ had strong populist elements (see Mudde 2001). Related is the second point, namely that most liberal democracies are also based on exclusion, and that the often heralded values such as tolerance and civility are highly ambiguous both in a theoretical and an empirical sense. This

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point is nicely captured by John Keane (1998), who understands uncivil society as literally a violent society. However, he also shows that what many in the past, especially in colonial states, considered as ‘civil behaviour’ was not much more than a hypocritical notion that (instrumentally) conflated so-called ‘good manners’ with respect for human rights and the others’ point of view. Indeed, while politeness and other values of civility may be desirable in an ideal world of democracy, it seems to me that the crucial attribute of a liberal democratic polity is the right of all groups, including the adversaries of the system, to participate in it. Third, there is no guarantee that organisations with liberal democratic goals will also espouse liberal democratic values in their internal organisational life. Should such organisations retain the right to be included in civil society, especially if we agree, as most proponents of civil society do, that voluntary associations and groups are important in terms of the norms they induce on their members? Conversely, should it make any difference to our definition of civil society if an internally democratically organised association has political aims that are illiberal or anti-democratic? Generally accepted organisations of civil society, like the Catholic Church, are actually based on asymmetrical relations of hierarchy and a strong preponderance towards leadership, thus in some sense contradicting the meta-values they embrace (e.g. Ahrne 1998). Robert Michels’ (1911 [1962]) famous notion of the ‘iron law of oligarchy’ was not extrapolated from a study of some repugnant right-wing organisation, but from observations within the German Social Democratic Party (SPD). This does not imply that any local, grass-roots association is necessarily superior to large national groups. Rather, it is to emphasise that ‘moral valence of membership is neither simple nor predictable’ (Rosenblum 1999:265), and that all associations, including seemingly illiberal and authoritarian groups, may actually develop competencies among their internal publics that are important for democracy.3 Fourth, the argument that groups can be considered part of a civil society only if they obey the legal or pre-established rules can of course be valid only in a democratic context. In non-democratic regimes, civil society is almost per definition marked by disobedience, as was the case with even the non-violent movement against British rule in India led by Mahatma Gandhi. Non-conformity with the established rules of the communist regime was also part of the theoretical conception and the practical realisation of the ‘parallel polis’ championed by East Central European dissidents (Arato 2000). In addition, it should be noted that some democracies make it difficult to challenge existing rules of the game without a scent of disobedience. For example, the German state has far-reaching powers to act against ‘extremist’ groups, i.e. those that are against the ‘fundamental principles of the free democratic order’ (as defined explicitly in the German constitution), including the Berufsverbot (professional ban) and the banning of ‘extremist’ organisations by the Ministry of Interior (see Jaschke 1991; also Van Donselaar 1995).

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Civil society and contentious politics This brings me to the final point; exclusionary, narrow conceptions of civil society screen off potentially vital ingredients of associational life and democratic politics, i.e. various forms of protest or, as it is frequently termed, contentious politics. One reason why the bulk of the civil society literature does not adequately deal with contentious politics is that protest actions sometimes turn out to be violent (i.e. ‘uncivil’), either against property, or against groups of adversaries, most notably state authorities. For example, John Booth and Patricia Richard argue that ‘Civil society III or Uncivil society is a violent and confrontational but not necessarily anti-tyrannical form of associational activism’ (1998:781). To be sure, recent developments in the literature go some way against this trend. The transnational activists’ networks that have congregated around recent meetings of the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund, and displayed repertoires of contention that ranged from the peaceful organisation of discussion forums and petitions to outright violent riots and rampaging on property, are increasingly treated under the heading of ‘global/international civil society’ (e.g. Desai and Said 2001; Rupert 2000; Starr 2000). If so, then there is of course no reason to subsume contention, both peaceful and violent, that occurs on the national or sub-national levels under a heading other than civil society. Indeed, the work of Grzegorz Ekiert and Jan Kubik (1998) see political protest in Eastern Europe as an integral part of civil society development. Incidentally, they found that protest actions in Poland, Hungary and Slovakia were decidedly non-violent, though this was less so in the case of East Germany. However, another reason why contentious politics is not adequately treated by the civil society literature is the fact that contention is, per definition, episodic (cf. Imig and Tarrow 2001a, b). The civil society literature tends to focus, somewhat conservatively, on permanent, long-established organisations. This is most clearly exemplified by the standard indicator for measuring civil society’s strength, organisational density. But this focus may well miss the point. Even if more fluid and nebulous, protest activities are also organised and planned, demanding, as it were, a great deal of co-ordination and activist involvement (Tilly 1986). In addition, research on new social movements shows that contemporary forms of collective action rely to a greater extent on media as a method of mobilising public support and challenging the state, than on the more conventional channels of participation (cf. Dalton and Kuechler 1990). The internet too, has entered into the repertoire of collective mobilisation. It has possibly also emerged as an alternative centre for political activities and for informal socialisation. These emerging forms of associational life are scarcely studied by the literature on civil society, both in Eastern Europe and elsewhere. However, they have been subjects of study in the fields of contentious politics and new social movements, and it is exactly these two areas of academic study

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that can provide useful insights into the functioning and character of contemporary civil societies. Towards an empirical understanding of civil society What can we make of the concept of civil society given these definitional problems and conceptual puzzles? If it is almost impossible to agree on what actually constitutes civil society, can it still be used as a meaningful empirical concept, for example to measure progress of democratisation? Or should civil society be confined to normative theory only? Some authors are profoundly sceptical about the use of civil society as an empirical concept, arguing that it is ‘too vague, difficult to define, and empirically elusive, to contribute to analysis or description’ (Allen 1997:336; see also Doorenspleet 2001). I share this scepticism, but remain slightly more positive in that I believe that it is both needed and possible to construct a neutral definition of civil society, which does not prejudge the nature of state-society relations (see also Carothers 1999; Foley and Edwards 1996, 1998; Bratton 1989). Indeed, I principally understand civil society as a heterogeneous, highly fluid sphere of associations and organisations (see also Cas Mudde’s concluding chapter). This means, first of all, that the sharp theoretical boundaries that are drawn, most notably, between civil society, political society (the state) and economic society are in empirical reality difficult to sustain. Organisations that operate between the state, the family (individual, household) and the economic production (market, firms)—that is, civil society—will often significantly overlap with one or more of these sub-systems. Second, this also means that uncivil movements, and therefore uncivil society, are a part of civil society (see also Payne 2000; Edwards and Foley 1998). Perhaps most importantly, the broad understanding of civil society also prompts us to ask certain questions, and avoid others. In general, I concur with Bob Edwards and Michael Foley, who have argued that worse than the difficulties of identifying the essential characteristics that separate ideal types is the tendency in such theorizing to busy itself in definitional disputes about what fits which type to what extent. Such ‘boundary maintenance’ efforts generally come at the expense of empirical inquiry into how social phenomena actually work. (1998:127) Therefore, I believe that rather than a priori searching for who is, and who is not part of civil society, we should be focusing on the overall picture of associational life in any given country. We should look at both the character and dynamic of CSOs and the nature of relationships within civil society. Moreover, instead of preoccupying ourselves with the overall weakness or strength of civil society, we should be studying the overall character of the political community within which

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civil society arises. Political context, be that nature of the state, prevailing organisational traditions, or the strength and reach of political parties, affect the functioning of civil society and are therefore absolutely crucial for our understanding of it. Outline of the book Before introducing the various chapters that make up this book, it should be emphasised again that we did not impose a strict theoretical or conceptual framework upon our contributors. Indeed, while some support our critical view on the empirical usefulness of the concept of civil society, or of the distinction between ‘civil’ and ‘uncivil’ movements, others seem to accept the dominant interpretations within the civil society literature. We have rather asked them to focus explicitly on several questions that all probe into the political dynamics both between and within the selected movements, as well as into the nature of links between these movements and the broader political context in which they operate: Which mobilisation strategies does ‘your’ movement utilise? What role do these movements play within the constituency they are supposed to serve? What is the nature of interactions between the movement and the state, political parties, and other CSOs? What has been the movement’s effect on civil society in general? Florian Bieber focuses on ‘non-governmental nationalism’ in Serbia, in particular the Serbian Resistance Movement (SPOT). This organisation by and for Kosovo Serbs clearly brings to the fore the problematic distinction between ‘civil’ and ‘uncivil’ movements. While SPOT set out as an ultranationalist group pressuring the Miloševi regime into more anti-Albanian and pro-Serb policies in Kosovo, it slowly evolved into a relatively moderate movement, opposing Miloševi and becoming the prime representative of the Kosovo Serbs for national and international organisations in postwar Kosovo. László K rti sheds light on one of the most violent sub-cultures in Central Europe, that of the skinheads. Focusing on Hungary, he puts the growth of the skinhead movement in a broader perspective, i.e. that of the decline of state activities for the youth. With the demise of the communist regime, many youths have fallen into a vacuum, which groups like the skinheads have been eager to fill. Moreover, the militarisation of youth culture under the communist regime left the legacy on which the skinheads skilfully draw. In this Hungary is definitely not unique, as the developments in the former German Democratic Republic have so viciously shown. Darina Malová focuses on the Slovak National Movement (SNM), a short-term for a broad catch-all movement of various nationalist groups. She first describes the overall situation of civil society in Slovakia and points to the prevailing organisational style of civil society, characterised by local and small-scale operations focused on traditional issues. On the basis of an extensive, original data set, she then shows that the SNM dominated Slovak civil society and

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contentious politics in the first years of post-communism. Moreover, she concludes that its successful contention led to its own demise, as its leaders joined/captured the state and demobilised. Incidentally, this later gave way to a second wave of contention, by a ‘civil’ movement, which was also successful in reaching its main aim (i.e. the fall of the ‘nationalist’ third Me iar government), though never reaching a similar level of mass participation as SNM did in the early 1990s. Sharon Fischer’s analysis of the War Veterans’ Movement in Croatia shows some clear similarities with the previous chapter. War veterans enjoyed special privileges under the Tudjman regime, when their organisations were very close to the state. Under the new government, however, these privileges have become increasingly threatened, which has led the War Veterans’ Movement to a new strategy of confrontation, including various forms of contentious politics. Their lack of success is, according to Fisher, not so much due to the new government’s hostility to the war veterans’ goals, but rather to the close ties of the movement with specific political parties, which are currently in opposition. Moving to the post-Soviet space, Vlad Mykhnenko provides a vivid account of possibly the most dramatic period of contention in post-communist Europe, that of the coal miners of the Ukrainian Donbas region. He shows that the conditions initially favoured the miners, and the movement grew into ‘a symbol of the emerging civil society’ in the Soviet Union. In the first stages of its mobilisation, the miners’ movements were an important factor within the process of democratisation in Ukraine. However, as a consequence of a series of bad strategic choices (most notably in forming political alliances) and of the shift in the mood in the whole country, the movement finally faltered. Ania Krok-Paszkowska looks at the Polish trade union annex political party, Samoobrona. She highlights the tensions between the different roles of the organisation, i.e. of a radical trade union movement and of a political party. She further explores the ways in which its leader, Andrzej Lepper, has captured the organisation and uses it to enhance his own political career. Her study also shows the importance of the legacy that the Solidarity movement has left behind in Poland. This legacy of confrontational activity not only better explains Samoobrona’s hybrid structure, but also the lenient way in which the Polish state has dealt with the movement’s ferocious contentious politics. Vladimíra Dvo áková’s study of ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’— two ‘civil’ groups in the Czech Republic—represents something of a countercase in the context of this book, as these organisations would undoubtedly be included in all definitions of civil society, even the normative ones. She presents an overview of associational life in the country and analyses the discourse on civil society that has dominated Czech politics since 1989. She then moves on to analyse the ideological outlook and political make-up of the two groups, showing that their actions were more ‘partisan’ and far less ‘democratic’ than they claimed. Moreover, the effects of their actions might remain harmful for Czech civil society for some time to come.

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In the concluding chapter Cas Mudde draws upon the ‘lessons from the dark side’ to address various issues addressed in this introduction relating to (the study of) civil society in post-communist Europe, including the uncertain boundaries of civil society, the complex relations of (un)civil society, and the important role of contentious politics within civil society. In addition, he discusses the different legacies of the past for post-communist civil society, as well as the cyclical nature of civil society mobilisation. Notes 1 Havel was the most prominent advocate of such views, writing, ‘are not these informed, non-bureaucratic, dynamic and open communities that comprise the “parallel polis” a kind of rudimentary prefiguration or symbolic model of those more meaningful “post-democratic” political structures that might become the foundation of a better society?’ (1991:213). 2 Note that the problem with the group’s association with the state may not only be definitional, but normative/theoretical as well. As John Dryzek (1996) forcefully argued, inclusionary policies of the state may deprive civil society of its vitality, and thus undermine the conditions for (further) democratisation (see also Bermeo 1997). 3 It should also be noted that, as Leigh Payne (2000:xix) has shown, ‘(un)civil movements also employ the same mobilizational strategies used by social movements within civil society: like social movements they claim to identify and empower a new political constituency, conscious of its identity while struggling to overcome its marginal status in the political system’.

2 The other civil society in Serbia Non-governmental nationalism— the case of the Serbian resistance movement Florian Bieber

Introduction In recent years, the marginal non-nationalist opposition to the regime of Slobodan Miloševi ’s wars in Croatia, Bosnia and Kosovo, has been dubbed the ‘other Serbia’—an alternative subgroup within society. The term was first used in 1992 by members of the Belgrade Circle, an association of independent intellectuals and it originally designated the alternative to the government and the nationalist opposition (Savi 1997:41–2). Since then ‘other Serbia’ (Une autre Serbie 1994) has become largely synonymous with civil society and the sector of non-governmental organisations (NGOs) in Serbia. Nevertheless, the seemingly clear distinction between the sphere of undesirable political parties and ‘positive’ NGOs begs a re-examination of this ‘other Serbia’, and the state of civil society in Serbia more generally. This chapter first discusses some of the challenges of the concept of civil society, especially with regard to former Yugoslavia in general, and to Serbia in particular. Subsequently, it traces the origins of civil society in the 1980s and demonstrates the continuous presence of nationalism in this sector as well. Furthermore, the chapter discusses parts of the non-governmental sector in Serbia that are normally omitted from the traditional conception of the ‘other Serbia’. Civil society in society The concept of civil society, especially since receiving popular coinage in the past two decades, has come to designate descriptive and normative dimensions that need to be distinguished in order to evaluate whether such a ‘society’ exists in the case under consideration here, and to comprehend its dynamics in relationship to society and the political sphere at large. Jean Cohen and Andrew Arato have defined civil society as: a sphere of social interaction between the economy and the state, composed above all of the intimate sphere (…), the sphere of associations

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(…), social movements, and forms of public communication. [It] is created through forms of self-constitution and self-mobilization. It is institutionalized and generalized through laws, especially subjective rights, that stabilize social differentiation. (1992:ix) While Cohen and Arato emphasise the elements of voluntarism and interaction, Ernest Gellner (1994:3–4) accentuates the element of pluralism in his definition: ‘the idea of institutional and ideological pluralism, which prevents the establishment of monopoly of power and truth, and counter-balances those central institution which, though necessary, might otherwise acquire such a monopoly’. His definition also places greater emphasis on the political role of civil society, while Cohen and Arato’s formulation could be interpreted more broadly to include a larger range of social organisations and movements. These descriptive definitions of civil society are usually supplemented by a normative conception, as elucidated by Gellner (1994:211): ‘[T]he notion of civil society highlights not only the mechanisms but also the charms of the kind of society to which we aspire’.1 In his conception, Stjepan Gredelj (1997) extends this normative dimension of civil society to encompass opposition to militarism, safeguarding tolerance and differences, secularisation, and equality for all citizens irrespective of their background. Within Cohen and Arato’s, as well as Gellner’s, definitions, it is clear that civil society—as a form of societal organisation that is based on pluralism of power and diversity of opinion in a setting of voluntaristic organisation—is closely interrelated with democracy. One significant difference can be identified, however. While democracy has to function within the whole political system, a civil society can exist in a system that may not be considered a civil society on the whole. Gellner (1994) distinguishes between a ‘civil society’ and a society containing civil society. With a thorough empirical analysis being absent, it will be assumed that when considering civil society in Serbia, indeed in most countries in Southeastern Europe, one focuses on a segment of society which could be designated as civil society. Civil society, as a subgroup within a society, can be understood in a number of ways. In a narrow sense, it would only encompass organisations that seek to create a civil society. By definition, such organisations can be described as, voluntaristic and self-mobilised, but in some cases one may also include those that are supported from outside. A broader definition would place emphasis not on the aim of the organisations in question, but rather on their role. Consequently, all organisations that are self-organised associations and movements, independent from direct interference of political parties and government, could be considered as participants in civil society. The narrow interpretation is problematic because it is precisely the pluralism of opinion and ideologies that civil society embodies by definition. Thus, actors falling within this definition should be described as agents of civil society, rather than being civil society within society. While

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agents that promote civil society may be part of civil society in a society, they do not have to be. In this chapter, the focus will lie on civil society actors that are not agents of civil society, i.e. which implicitly or explicitly do not seek to promote civil society as an ideology. This analysis is relevant, because transferring the concept of civil society to societies in Eastern Europe (such as in Serbia) necessitates examining the changed context and meaning of civil society. Steven Sampson illustrates this point with regard to Albania: In Eastern Europe, where states are weak and finance nearly non-existent, where social problems are acute and confidence in social organizations is low, where kin, network and ethnic groups resolve problems which associations resolve in the west, the entire context of civil society differs. (1996:125) This chapter further highlights some of the complexities in the relationship between the actors and agents of civil society and the society at large, as well as the relationship between nationalism and civil society. The Srpski Pokret Otopora (Serbian Resistance Movement, SPOT) in Kosovo will serve as a case study; not to be confused with the political party, Serbian Renewal Movement (SPO), led by Vuk Draškovi . Civil society in socialist and post-socialist Yugoslavia The origins of civil society in Central and Eastern Europe, both conceptually, and in its actualisation as a largely-autonomous sub-section of society, lie with political dissidents. In Yugoslavia, as elsewhere in communist countries, most independent organisations and movements of citizens were banned after World War II. Only organisations that did not address political and social issues were allowed to operate, making them largely irrelevant for the issues of civil society discussed here, mostly being professional organisations and cultural, folkloristic and sports groups (Paunovi 1997). The establishment of alternative, formal or informal, independent forums for the discussion of social and political issues de facto defined dissidence under communist rule. Serbia, and Yugoslavia in general, played a particular role within the communist world. While conventional wisdom highlights the relative high degree of economic development and individual freedoms in Yugoslavia compared with other communist states, dissidents faced disproportionately greater difficulties. While some openness gave the appearance of freedom and provided for an outlet for some popular discontent, harsh punishment for those who were politically active against the regime supports Gojko Bori ’s (1974) assessment that the level of intellectual freedom in Yugoslavia was comparable to the Soviet Union.

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In addition, the decentralisation of the country also affected the activities of civil society. Republican and provincial authorities’ different approaches to opposition, coupled with a relatively low degree of mobility between the republics, prevented the emergence of a broad ‘Yugoslav’ opposition. The dissident movements were largely limited to the different republics and cooperated only on specific issues. Yugoslav authorities also went to great lengths to prevent the creation of pan-Yugoslav opposition networks, including banning a 1980 initiative to create an independent Yugoslav journal Javnost (Public) (Anti 1981). After the death of Tito, his successors feared a joint effort of Yugoslav dissidents to undermine the state. They fragmented the Yugoslav opposition, enclosing the dissidents in their ‘national ghettos’. Dissident Vladimir Mijanovi described this process already in 1987: ‘And everything nowadays in Yugoslavia that has a prefix national, nationalities, has mostly been brought into being by the Yugoslav government and authorities’ (Freedom House 1987:38). The majority of the early NGOs that shaped civil society focused on human rights issues. In November 1984, a number of Serbian intellectuals founded the Committee for the Freedom of Thought and Expression, which predominantly issued letters and petitions to the authorities, and attempted to gather international support for the release of the people for whom they fought (Odbor 1986). Soon thereafter, numerous committees for the defence of different rights emerged in Serbia, primarily from the same circles of Belgrade intellectuals, mostly from the Serbian Writers’ Union and the Academy of Arts and Sciences. The role played by the Academy and the Union highlight some significant differences in the relationship between dissent in Yugoslavia and elsewhere in Eastern Europe. While opposition to the regime could only function through informal networks outside established institutions in Yugoslavia, the statecontrolled organisations like the Academy and the Writer’s Union both served as forums where criticism of the party-monopoly could take place. The critics by no means dominated these organisations, and in addition, due to their close dependence on the state, the organisations alternated between providing a voice to the opposition and behaving like state institutions (Gojkovi 1999; Miloševi 1999). The issues these groups addressed ranged from artistic freedom to ecological protection. In the foreground, however, were questions that could (potentially) affect the intellectuals heading these organisations themselves. For example, they focused on the so-called ‘verbal offences’ punishable with harsh sentences (including prison).2 While in the beginning the committees’ criticism focused on the specific policies or punish ments of the regime, it later shifted to demands that questioned the legitimacy of the Communist Party (free elections, abolition of the party monopoly, etc.). In November 1987, the founding of the Yugoslav Helsinki Group symbolised an important step in the development of a civil society. It received accreditation from the International Helsinki Federation and included members from most of the Yugoslav republics. In the founding

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memorandum, the group stated clearly that its membership excluded individuals ‘who preach the use of violence, or are in favor of national, racial, religious or ideological intolerance’ (CADDY Bulletin 1987/44). Nevertheless, a significant portion of the signatories later became leading figures in the dismemberment of the country and in the propagation of hate speech and extreme nationalism.3 Similarly, a number of the participants in the other human rights organisations that emerged in Belgrade soon began to turn to extreme nationalism. Such a shift de facto meant the abandonment of the human rights issue, as the national rights articulated denied basic human rights to members of other national groups. The shift gathered momentum in the second half of the 1980s, transcending the personal choice for nationalism of a number of human rights activists. This marked the beginnings of the ‘other’ civil society. The case of the Committee for the Freedom of Thought and Expression demonstrates the increasing confusion among Serbian intellectuals between the choices of human rights and democratisation on the one hand, and national interests on the other. While it was clear that democratisation would have to be followed by a revaluation of the national question, the Committee pursued the national agenda concurrently, or even before human rights concerns. The system supported this kind of orientation; as the dissident Mihajlo Mihailov pointed out, the system suppressed all nations, or at least led them to the perception of suppression (Freedom House 1987). Yet each nation interpreted the system differently, overestimating their own sufferings: ‘[p]ractically all nations which have lived in the real existing socialism assert that they have been the special victims of the system, and that it was just the traditionally hostile nation that really benefited from the communist period’ (Puhovski 1993:90). For Serbia, Kosovo and the plight of Serbs in the autonomous province emerged as the symbol of discrimination against Serbia in the Yugoslav system. The Committee took up the case of Serb emigration from Kosovo and authored letters in their support. Even the Committee for the Protection of Man and Environment within the Serbian Writers’ Union took up Kosovo, especially the Martinovi case (Mertus 1999; CADDY Bulletin 1986/37). Both popular concern for Serbs in Kosovo, and the authority’s policy raised the importance of the issue. The fact that the authorities of the Republic of Serbia permitted these expressions of protest might indicate that they shared the concern for the developments in Kosovo. Furthermore, despite the protesters’ harsh criticism of the authorities, the issue of Kosovo could divert the attention from other pressing issues within Serbia proper and Yugoslavia at large, such as democratisation and human rights (Partos 1986). The fact is that at the time Yugoslavia had the second highest ratio of political prisoners, immediately after the Soviet Union. The demand for a stronger support for Kosovo Serbs however, was potentially in conflict with demands for the release of political prisoners, as the vast majority of those incarcerated were Albanians who (allegedly) supported republican status or independence for Kosovo. The Committee for the Freedom of Thought and Expression, which

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could be seen as representative for a large number of human rights groups in Serbia, demanded in its letters the release of political prisoners from most republics, but virtually ignored the political prisoners in Kosovo (Odbor 1996). The emergence of nationalist interest groups can be traced not only to intellectual circles in Belgrade, but also to disaffected Serbs from Kosovo. As the emigration of Serbs from the province became widely known after the suppressed demonstrations of Albanians in 1981, Kosovo Serbs began calling on the government and parliament of Serbia to improve their position and to reduce the autonomy of Kosovo. Between May and September 1982, 177 petitions voicing grievances with their treatment by Albanians or the Kosovo authorities were sent to the Serbian Assembly by Serbs and Montenegrins from Kosovo (Radio Belgrade 27 April 1983). These were the forerunners of the numerous petitions by Serbs from the province and Serbian intellectuals that would follow in 1986. A petition signed by 2000 Kosovo Serbs at the end of 1985 marked a turning point, in that it also carried the signature of 212 Serbian intellectuals expressing their support, and in that it accused the authorities in the province of tolerating the ‘genocide’ (Križan 1992:127–8; Ramet 1986). The support of the intellectuals quickly bore fruit. By early February 1986, a similar petition managed to attract 30,000 signatures, thus signalling mass support for harsher measures in Kosovo among Serbs in Serbia (AFP 24 February 1986). This authentic dissatisfaction4 was quickly instrumentalised by Slobodan Miloševi in 1987. It is important to emphasise that the protests were not a creation of his League of Communists. Rather, the potential threat of these protests and of grass-root mobilisation was skilfully channelled in favour of the new political leadership. In retrospect, Mom ilo Trajkovi , one of the leaders of Kosovo Serbs, assessed their role with regard to Miloševi : It was not us from Kosovo and Metohija who brought Miloševi to power. It was done by all of Serbia, and our movement from those days only fortified his position. When he first arrived to Kosovo he was the president of the party’s Central Committee. We did not elect him to this office. Somebody else could have taken it, but it did not happen. (Vreme 25 January 1997) During the early years of Miloševi ’s rule, virtually all national grass-roots organisations, from the intellectuals in Belgrade to the Kosovo Serb groups, supported him. They ceased being critical of the regime and effectively lent it their support. Dobrica osi , a writer and leading figure in the Committee for the Freedom of Thought and Expression, emerged as president of the newlyconstituted Federal Republic of Yugoslavia in June 1992, while a number of the Kosovo Serb leaders became key figures in the new Serbian Socialist Party (SPS). While the first elections in 1990 had opened the political space to some degree of differentiation with the emergence of an opposition to the regime, the

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beginning of the wars prevented the re-emergence of nationalist grass-root organisations. Only the rift between the leaderships in Serbia and the Republika Srpska (Serb Republic) in Bosnia led to new activity. Two large congresses of Serbian intellectuals, held in Sarajevo and Belgrade in 1992 and 1994 respectively, illustrate this point. The first congress, taking place only a few days before the beginning of the war in Bosnia, primarily offered support to the Serbian Democratic Party (SDS) of Radovan Karadži , and abstained from taking a clear political line towards the regime in Serbia (Markotich 1994). The second congress in Belgrade was organised by intellectuals who had become closely affiliated with SPS, such as Mihailo Markovi , and thus avoided any criticism of the regime. More than that, any challenge to the extreme nationalist policy of SDS in Bosnia was considered treason. Accordingly, Draškovi was unable to complete his speech due to attacks from the audience (Markotich 1994). The attempts to control and stratify the nationalist discourse in Serbia in favour of the regime failed by late 1994, however. A number of streams, hardly united among themselves, came to the foreground again, after the regime changed its policy to advocate an end of the war in Bosnia with territorial concessions. The Serbian resistance movement The end of the Bosnian war with the Dayton agreement, and more importantly, Miloševi ’s perceived betrayal of the Croatian Serbs, effectively reduced the nationalist support for the regime. The departure of nationalists from government ranks (or their expulsion) and the end of the informal co-operation of nationalist intellectuals with the regime, lead to the re-emergence of nationalist grass-roots organisations. Here we shall briefly outline the Serbian Resistance Movement. SPOT, founded in 1994, can be defined as being somewhere between a political party and a lobby group for Serbs from Kosovo. It competed (unsuccessfully) in the 1996 elections, but otherwise mostly sought to enlist the support of other parties for the interests of Kosovo Serbs. The movement was founded largely by Kosovo Serbs like Mom ilo Trajkovi , Kosta Bulatovi , Dušan Risti and Miroslav Šelovi , who led the protests in the 1980s and subsequently joined the Socialist Party.5 Its main leader, Trajkovi , had been an SPS deputy and deputy prime minister of Kosovo, but left the party in 1992 over its refusal to abolish the parallel government of Kosovo Albanians. He later founded the unsuccessful Social Democratic Party (Thomas 1999). The Serbian Resistance Movement firmly opposed the policies of the government, asserting that they failed to lead to a long-term stabilisation of Kosovo (Risti 1996). SPOT articulated its programme in a letter to the Serbian Public in August 1994. In it, the organisation asserted that the Serbian government had the means to disband the parallel state structures of the Albanian community and failed to do so for its own political advantage. Effectively, the

THE SERBIAN RESISTANCE MOVEMENT 25

movement accused the regime of treachery and began to initiate proposals for alternative policies. As a national pressure group, it raised nine demands: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Serbia should have a clear policy with regard to Kosovo; it should stop the ‘Albanisation’ and eventual loss of Kosovo; Kosovo should not be abandoned; the Albanian shadow state should be destroyed; the Serbs in Kosovo should be included in the decision making; Serbs should be protected from ‘Albanian separatism’ and ‘expulsion’; Serbs should be settled in Kosovo; a new law on citizenship should ‘resolve’ the question of Albanian immigrants, and 9 the federal and republic parliaments should take up the issue (Samardži 1994).

At first SPOT attempted to create a new consensus on Kosovo, including the government and opposition, the church and intellectuals. The government refused to engage in this process, and the organisation turned to the opposition parties. It managed to enlist the support of the Serbian Radical Party (SRS), the Democratic Party of Serbia (DSS), and the Democratic Party (DS), as well as the nationalist leaders of the Serbian Krajina (in Croatia) and of the Republika Srspka. In 1997 Trajkovi described DSS and DS as the closest allies: ‘It is our intention to appreciate the methods of work of the Democratic Party and to follow the programme of the Democratic Party of Serbia’. However, he continued to state that his group had no different attitudes on the national issue than SRS, while ‘90 per cent of the SPS members share the opinions of the members of SPOT’ (Intervju 32 January 1997). By emphasising the ‘nationaldemocratic’ nature of the movement, it became apparent that it sought to mobilise the nationalist elements of the opposition and intellectual circles (Derens 1997; Tanjug 17 March 1995). In preparation for a ‘pan-Serb’ meeting in Kosovo, the movement sought to enlist some intellectuals to author a new memorandum on the national issue in Kosovo. The usage of the term ‘memorandum’ was meant to invoke the wellknown (unofficial) memorandum of the Serbian Academy of Science and Arts which outlined Serb grievances over Kosovo in 1986 (Helfant Budding 1998). Three academics—Miodrag Jovi i , Radoš Ljuši , and Kosta avoški—were charged with authoring the new memorandum (Naša Borba 18–19 March 1995). In 1995 SPOT called a Serb gathering at the Monastery of Gra anica in Kosovo to define Serbian policy on Kosovo in opposition to the government and to pass the new memorandum. Among the participants were representatives of the Serbian Orthodox Church and members of a number of parties, including SRS and its leader, Vojislav Šešelj. The largest opposition party, the Serbian Renewal Movement led by Vuk Draškovi boycotted the meeting, as it saw the gathering organised by the ‘war lobby’ with the aim of seeking confrontation with the

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Albanian community.6 During the meeting Miloševi ’s policy was severely attacked for not countering the Albanian shadow-state and different ‘solutions’ for the Kosovo problem were articulated, including a large-scale expulsion of Albanians. The meeting also served to create a Serbian National Council for Kosovo and Metohija, which sought to further broaden the basis of the movement to include a wide spectrum of national intellectuals and political figures. The Council was also given the task to formulate a national programme (Rilindjia 23 May 1995; Samardži 1995). The period following the end of the war in Bosnia marked a retreat of several opposition parties from a more extreme nationalist line. With the creation of the opposition coalition Zajedno (Together),7 supported by SPOT (Vreme 25 January 1997), and the international support it secured in the wake of the electoral fraud in November 1996, the ‘national question’ failed to attract the same following as earlier. After the disintegration of Zajedno in 1997 and the increase of violence in Kosovo, the international attempts to bring about a unified opposition also included SPOT. US envoy Christopher Hill met its leaders repeatedly and Trajkovi and Bishop Artemije were in contact with Western embassies and visited the United States and Western Europe on various occasions (BETA 3 December 1998). In his open letter against NATO airstrikes Bishop Artemije (1998) acknowledges with regard to his meetings with Western leaders that ‘[w] ith satisfaction and gratitude we can truthfully say that we were exceptionally well received and heard everywhere we went, and 90per cent of the time we were supported in our position’. In an interview with Vreme (25 January 1997) Trajkovi accepts the demand for an Albanian-language university, albeit not government funded. In the same interview, he furthermore acknowledges the attempts of the SPS to stir up conflict in Kosovo and asserts (overly optimistic) that ‘I do not think they [SPS] could succeed in creating additional chaos in Kosovo. Neither Albanians nor Serbs want war. We have the example of Bosnia, where, after the killing of so many people, one still had to negotiate. So why would we kill one another?’ Trajkovi also clearly identified the roots of the escalation that would ensue in the following year: Life with police is not life. But I have to say that the only thing which functions as the state in Kosovo is the police. It is by no means a solution and it is in a difficult situation in the region today. It cannot prevent terrorism, because terrorism is a product of the policy. (…) There will be terrorism as long as this regime, which has no support of the people, does not go. (Vreme 25 January 1997) This transformation from extreme nationalist demands to a moderate line is visible in a ‘Proposal for the Democratic Solution’ of the Kosovo crisis by SPOT and the Serbian Orthodox Church, submitted (among others) to the US Congress

THE SERBIAN RESISTANCE MOVEMENT 27

in 1998. It marks a clear departure from the demands directed mostly against Kosovo Albanians to an attempt to achieve a solution with them. The demands included demands for democratisation and human rights guarantees, as well as the denouncement of the use of force not only by the ‘terrorists’, but also by the police. A more tolerant approach expressed itself also in the rejection of ethnic homogenisation, the proclaimed readiness to grant Albanians educational rights according to international standards and the demand for an Ombudsperson for National and Human Rights. These positions stand in contrast to demands to ‘regulate the status of those who illegally immigrated from Albania’ (Bishop Artemije 1998). Of the first demands of the organisation only two can be found among the suggestions of 1998, while all the most nationalist demands have been dropped. During the peace talks over Kosovo at Rambouillet, in early 1999, the Serbian Resistance Movement, led by Trajkovi , and the Serbian Orthodox Church, represented by Bishop Artemije, presented themselves as an alternative Serbian delegation. Artemije asserted that the Serbian government Represent[s] only two parties: Miloševi ’s Socialists and his wife’s neocommunists. If we had confidence in them, we would not be here. The only possible solution is for Serbia to become democratic. And that cannot happen while Miloševi is in charge. We want a solution that will prevent a Serbian exodus from the province. (Vreme 25 January 1999; RFE/RL Newsline 11 February 1999) Despite the conference organisers’ refusal to allow their participation, the group managed to achieve considerable public attention and meet with leading Western politicians, including US Secretary of State, Madeline Albright, and French President, Jacques Chirac (B92 Daily News 9 February 1999; Father Sava 1999). While the period since the end of the war in Kosovo shall not be described here, it must be mentioned that Trajkovi and Artemije have become the prime interlocutors for the Serbian minority in Kosovo and participants in the provisional institutions, set up by the United Nations Mission in Kosovo (UNMIK). As such it participated, despite some resistance, in the political life of Kosovo under international administration (Danas 4 June 2000; Batakovi 1999). The movement joined the Democratic Opposition of Serbia (DOS) in the federal elections in September 2000. Trajkovi was elected as member of the Yugoslav parliament and subsequently named government co-ordinator for Kosovo. The group, however, joined the boycott of the Kosovo Serbian community of the local elections in Kosovo in October 2000. The ambiguous status of the movement between a party and a pressure group notwithstanding, its leadership emerged as an important political force among Kosovo Serbs. Its following, however, has remained hard to measure. In the early phase it used the tool of petitions to garner support and put pressure on the

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authorities. These petitions resembled similar ones that were circulated by Kosovo Serbs and supportive intellectuals in Belgrade in the mid-1980s. In 1995 SPOT managed to gather 43,000 signatures demanding a political solution to the untenable situation in Kosovo (Vreme 25 May 1995). These numbers indicated a high potential following and reach of the organisation, considering the overall number of 195,301 Serbs and 20,045 Montenegrins living in the province according to the 1991 census (Statisti ki Godišnjak Jugoslavije 1992:62–3). Considering that a significant number of those Serbs and Montenegrins were working for the security forces and the administration, the number of signatories is even more impressive. However, the organisation did not succeed to transform this support into a success in the 1996 federal elections. Running as Group of CitizensSerbian Resistance Movement, it received only 6944 votes. In the district of Priština, where it received all its votes, it came in third place after the governing coalition and the opposition coalition Zajedno with 11.4 per cent of the votes (Medija Centar 2000:37, 44). Trajkovi noted, however, that the elections were rigged in Kosovo as many Albanians supposedly voted for SPS, SRS, and his movement: ‘The Serbian Resistance Movement received votes in Albanian places, at least according to official reports. Is it not strange that we, who support Serbian national politics, get votes in purely Albanian places?’ (Intervju 31 January 1997). The lack of success in elections notwithstanding, the movement’s leaders emerged as the most respected political figures among Kosovo Serbs. In a poll by Vreme in January 1997, the most trusted person was Bishop Artemije (58 per cent high confidence), closely affiliated with SPOT. He was followed by Trajkovi (37 per cent), and Miroslav Solevi (31 per cent), two leading figures of the movement. Only then came Vojislav Živkovi (26 per cent) of SPS, which traditionally captured all of the seats reserved for Kosovo (Vreme 2 August 1997). Due to the election boycott of the Albanian population, the relatively small number of Serbs in Kosovo could determine a high number of deputies in the Serbian parliament, usually to the advantage of SPS. In the same year Trajkovi himself estimated the number of supporters among the Kosovo Serb community for his movement to be at nearly 60,000. This would mean that nearly half of the Serb community of Kosovo would identify with SPOT (Intervju 31 January 1997). The organisation, however, has achieved its political weight not so much due to widespread popular support. Rather, as the only political pressure group of Kosovo Serbs before the war in 1999 it has been able to formulate an alternative to the policies of the regime. In addition, neither the opposition parties in Belgrade, nor the international community had close or ‘natural’ links with Kosovo Serbs, thus making SPOT a welcome partner for both. This applies to the international community even more after the war in Kosovo, although a number of other political actors emerged among Kosovo Serbs after June 1999.

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With its increased popularity and international contacts, the movement emphasised increasingly the need to co-exist with the Albanian population and abandoned its previously more radical position (Kummer et. al 1999). Despite the shift the organisation managed to maintain its support. This seems to indicate that its political stance to a large degree followed popular sentiment, at least among its supporters. The change of policy of SPOT also followed the partial moderation of Serbian opposition parties after the end of the wars in Croatia and Bosnia. This moderation among the Serbian opposition reverted back to a more nationalist line during the Kosovo conflict (Ili 2000). The case of the Serbian Resistance Movement highlights some of the challenges in understanding actors of civil society in a country such as Serbia. The movement has had close affiliations with, and at times behaved like, a political party, but it has also been closely associated with the Serbian Orthodox Church. It underwent a transformation in the course of the second half of the 1990s from a radical nationalist position to a more moderate stance, recognising the need to accommodate the Albanian population. Being rooted in a local community, it faced similar problems as more conventional actors of civil society. The persistence of an authoritarian government prevented it from acting as a lobby group would in a democracy. While in democratic systems both the government and the opposition would be as likely to respond to popular pressure, in the case of Serbia, the refusal of the Miloševi regime to acknowledge these grievances left the movement with little choice but to join the political opposition. Furthermore, a climate of political uncertainty and the ‘ethnification’ of society have both set the stage for a turn to the nationalist agenda among many actors of civil society. While SPOT maintained its exclusive orienta-tion towards the interests of the Serbian community, it moved from a movement, which despite being organised as an actor of civil society, rejected many core values associated with civil society, to a group that adopted some of these values. While its continued ethnically-based role renders a full-fledged transformation into an agent of civil society difficult, it did acquire some such attributes, such as the recognition of the broader, multinational context in which it acted, as well as explicit demands for democratisation and the respect for human rights. Nationalism and civil society An analysis of nationalist actors in civil society would not be complete without taking into account the emergence of traditional national movements. Here one can follow Miroslav Hroch’s three phases in the development of a national movement. Although his original study refers to the national revival of the nineteenth century, he sees the applicability of the categories to the contemporary revival (Hroch 1996). In the first phase, scholars devote their attention to the nation and study it. They can be members of the nation or outsiders. In the second phase, ‘patriotic agitation’ takes place, where the aim is

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to create national consciousness among the members of the nation. Finally, in the third phase, a previously elitist grouping broadens into a mass movement (Brunn et. al 1992). As Hroch points out, the secular intelligentsia played an important role in the second phase: ‘Among the activists (…) the high percentage of members of the learned professions is apparent everywhere’ (1992:262). While Hroch mostly refers to the creation of national movements, his assertions can be applied to the re-creation of national movements in the late communist period. Indeed, the three phases of national movements can be identified in many cases, not the least in Serbia during the 1980s and 1990s. National agitation (second phase) describes activities historically carried out by more or less firmly organised movements—literary societies, sports clubs and overt political groupings—all of which can be considered the predecessors of modern civil society. Such self-organised associations often combined the promotion of a national movement with other aims, either to disguise the national conceptions of a non-dominant nation, or to vitalise a particular aspect of the nation. This historical continuity between actors of national movements and actors of civil society has to be supplemented by a comparison of the actors in both movements. Intellectuals in the broad sense, excluding the state-employed intelligentsia, are not only the prime figures in national movements, as mentioned above, but they also play a comparable role in organisations and movement associated with civil society. In contemporary societies where national issues stand in the forefront, as in Serbia, the distinction between movements that promote a national agenda and actors of civil society cannot be made on the basis of their organisational structure or their activists. Differences are further obscured by the fact that some organisations, such as the Committee for the Freedom of Thought and Expression in Serbia, behaved as both: on the one hand, as an actor for the defence of basic human rights, and on the other, as a promoter for national rights. Similar trends can be observed with other organisations, for example, those defending minority rights, if they are composed of members of the minorities themselves; as, for example, the organisation of the Greek minority in Albania, Omonia. Finally, SPOT itself is a case in point for an organisation that came into being as a nationalist movement and took on some attributes of an actor in civil society. Looking beyond the connections of civil society and national movements through their activists, one needs to emphasise the inherent modernity of both concepts. As Nicos Mouzelis points out, ‘Nationality or nationalism providing the cohesion of civil society does make sense because modernization (…) entails a bringing-in process that leads to the destruction of localism and the switch of loyalties from the local community to the nation-state’ (1995:237). During the past decade Serbia has undergone a process of ‘ethnification’. The ethnic identity has become increasingly important, despite the continuing existence of a formal civic state in the form of the third Yugoslavia. The incomplete emergence of a civil society, and the actors defending the conceptions of civil society, are

THE SERBIAN RESISTANCE MOVEMENT 31

intrinsically linked to this process in Serbia. As Christopher Bryant noted in regard to civil society in ethnic nations (as opposed to civic nations): Ethnic nations (…) relate citizenship and full participation in society to ethnicity and descent. They can and do develop civil societies but these are exclusive; residents of other ethnic origins, even of long standing, are denied citizenship. There is a suspicion of difference and a rejection of pluralism. (1995:145) Civil society cannot be excluded in ethnic nations per se, but it faces a number of challenges that are absent in states where the nation defines itself in civic terms. Bryant’s assessment that civil society can emerge within an ethnic nation should be contrasted with John Hall’s conception, according to which ‘[c]ivil society is (…) a complex balance of consensus and conflict, the valuation of as much difference as is compatible with the bare minimum of consensus necessary for settled existence’ (1995:6). If in ethnic nations civil society emerges in similarly exclusive terms, it cannot accommodate citizens or non-citizens of a different ethnic background. In addition, such a civil society will hardly value diversity and seek cooperation. Accordingly, Bryant’s analysis can only hold true in ethnic nation states without significant minorities. But an ethnically exclusive civil society in an ethnic nation-state with minorities begs the questions of whether such a society should be described as civil society at all. In the case of Kosovo, the high degree of ethnic polarisation further reduced the space for actors of civil society, especially those who might have sought to cut across the ethnic divide. Instead, significant actors did not only limit themselves to one ethnic group, but made this limitation an explicit part of their program, such as SPOT. With regard to Poland, Elzbieta Skotnicka-Illasiewicz and Wlodzimierz Wesolowski (1995) have distinguished parties favouring civil society from those opting for spiritual communities, i.e. defending the interests of a particular group. Is such a distinction valid or possible in a society where ethnic difference is a salient characteristic? As outlined above, it is not viable in organisational and structural terms. In order to grasp better the internal difficulties of civil society, it may be worth distinguishing between organisations on the basis of their position vis-à-vis the fundamental premises of civil society. This may prove to be a more adequate distinction than civil society vs spiritual communities; the majority of actors in civil society follow particularistic interests, thus nationalism should not be excluded solely on the basis of being particularistic. When evaluating different actors in civil society on the basis of their position towards its fundamental assumptions, four broad categories can be identified: The first category promotes the fundamental values of civil society. Even if they focus on a single aspect, such as women’s rights, they can nevertheless be considered the agents of civil society discussed earlier.

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The second category promotes its own interests, with little direct relevance to civil society. This group comprises most occupational organisations, as well as citizens forming organisations for their hobbies, such as collecting stamps or an interest in dogs. At first, such groups seem to offer little direct advantage for the creation of civil society and its underlying ideological visions. And while these groups are unlikely to engage on behalf of civil or human rights issues, they have an interest in protecting the freedom of self-organised citizens for the sake of their own organisation. This is not only important for the emergence and protection of civil society, but also for the creation of an organisational structure that will fight for its existence, if endangered by the state. The third category contains a number of groups that do not accept certain key values of civil society, such as diversity and tolerance, yet nevertheless act according to, and accept, its other basic premises, such as the right to selforganisation and freedom of speech. Such groups, as outlined above, might pursue a nationalist agenda or advocate other non-universal rights. They do not seek to abolish civil society and they do accept the expression of other interests in this sphere, even if these might run counter to their own. Finally, the fourth category discussed above consists of organisations that actively oppose the fundamental concept of civil society, although they organise themselves structurally as actors in civil society. Similar to the second category, these groups have an interest in preserving the freedom they enjoy as actors in civil society. On the other hand, they strive to fundamentally alter or abolish civil society, perceiving their own position outside that sphere. They generally legitimise their activities not within the framework of civil society, but as a result of other, ‘natural’ rights. It might be a mistake to exclude across the board groups three and four from the category of civil society. The Serbian Resistance Movement, as well as some of the trends in the development of Serbian civil society throughout the 1980s and 1990s, would support a more inclusive conception of civil society. SPOT in its early phase could be included in the fourth category, openly denying others the rights to organise themselves in the framework of civil society. In fact, the movement explicitly called on the state to abolish the parallel structures of the Albanian community, which could be defined as civil society institutions (Clark 2000). In the subsequent development of the organisation it moved to a more accepting position on certain key values of civil society, such as the right of other nations to express themselves and an at least formal acceptance of ethnic diversity. As a result, the group could be placed in the third category and at times even in the first category, when it supported democratic change in Serbia and opposed the policies of the Miloševi regime. On the other hand, the movement of some human rights organisations in the 1980s, from the defence of human rights to the defence of national rights, highlights the possibility for a movement in the other direction. It is also not easy at times to clearly attribute only one category to an actor of civil society, even if one is to exclude the development of that organisation over time. Many actors of

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civil society are Janus-headed. They reflect the ambiguities often encountered in the society in which they exist. That is, they, defend civil society and all its values towards the government, while they deny basic values of civil society with regard to their position on ethnic minorities. Other organisations across former Yugoslavia similarly highlight this phenomenon, such as veteran’s organisations in Croatia (see Chapter 5), or refugee organisations in Bosnia. Looking beyond Eastern Europe, one should note that Islamist organisations in the Middle East have frequently supported civil society, and are important actors therein. Moderate Islamist thinkers and leaders have sought to support civil society as a buffer between the (often-tyrannical) state and society at large. More radical thinkers (i.e. Sayyid Qutb) have articulated hostility to such ideas, as they counter the monistic interpretation of Islam (see Moussalli 1993). Certain radical Islamist movements have often behaved as civil society actors. This has been the case of Hizbullah in Lebanon, which has established a network of social organisations (schools, hospitals) at a time when the state itself was incapable of offering such services (see Hamzeh 1993). Similarly, nationalist movements cannot be excluded per se from what constitutes civil society. In the United States, civil society organisations range from the National Rifle Association (NRA) to Greenpeace. Although most proponents of civil society (including this author) might have a normative preference for one group rather than another, such a judgement should not be a criterion for the evaluation of civil society. Civil society is defined by a framework of relationships and it reflects the population, which encompasses such disparate groups as multinational firms, concerned consumers, and rabbit enthusiasts. It is this wide range of opinion which civil society will reflect, and has to reflect, to gain popular support. Slavoj Žišek has characterised civil society the following way: ‘Civil society is not this nice, social movement, but a network of moral majority, conservatives and nationalist pressure groups, against abortion, [for] religious education in schools’ (Lovink 1996). It ‘makes democracy possible only to the extent that it manages to limit particularlism and develop the rule of the game for their democratic confrontation’ (Gredelj 1997: 405). In Serbia, the past decade has given rise to a significant number of actors that actively promote civil society, either from within civil society or outside it. In addition, a large number of organisations and associations have emerged that behave like actors of civil society without aiming to uphold, or even opposing, the ideals of civil society. The peaceful revolution in October 2000, which ended the thirteen-year rule of Miloševi , turned out only to be possible through an alliance of most opposition parties with a broad coalition of actors of civil society. A too narrow conception of civil society, focused exclusively on actors promoting a civil society might lead scholarly and political neglect of strong societal forces that are not only to be reckoned with, but which can also play both a detrimental and a beneficial role at crucial junctions in the process of democratisation. Nationalist civil society played a pivotal role in helping

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Slobodan Miloševi consolidate his power in the late 1980s. At the same time its co-operation with other groupings of civil society in the year following the Kosovo war helped bring about a powerful social dynamic which finally helped topple him. Notes 1 Gellner acknowledges the iconographic character of the term civil society by pointing out that with the collapse of Communism ‘a new ideal or countervision, or at least a slogan-contrast, was required, and appropriately enough, it was found in civil society’ (1994:3, emphasis added). 2 Public criticism of the regime or its underlying values, such as the personality cult surrounding Tito and the ideological formula for national unity, Bratstvo i Jedinstvo (Brotherhood and Unity), constituted ‘verbal offenses’. 3 Franjo Tudjman’s record as political candidate and later, as President of Croatia, is well known, Vladimir Šeks played a pivotal role as close aid to Tudjman; Dobislav Paraga founded the extreme right-wing Croatian Party of Right (HSP) and the paramilitary formation HOS. In Serbia, the law professor Kosta avoški became a close associate of the Serbian Democratic Party (SDS) in Bosnia, writing a defence of Radovan Karadži . 4 I shall not discuss the justifications of the protests. There can be little doubt that Serbs were in a weak position in Kosovo after 1974. However, there has been much exaggeration on the side of the media, politicians and protesters over the degree of mistreatment. 5 Risti was the highest-ranking Serb victim of the purges of the League of Communists in Kosovo following the demonstrations in 1981 (Zanga 1981). 6 The term ‘war lobby’ was used by both the regime and the opponents of the Bosnian war within the opposition to describe SRS, as well as DS and DSS, which supported the Bosnian Serb leadership of Radovan Karadži (Vreme 1 May 1995). 7 The coalition included the pacifist Civic Alliance, the nationalist SPO of Draškovi , which had opposed the war in Bosnia, and DS led by Zoran Djindji , which supported the Bosnian Serb defiance of the international community and Miloševi in 1994/5. On the level of federal elections, DSS also joined Zajedno.

3 The uncivility of a civil society Skinhead youth in Hungary László K rti1

Introduction In this chapter, my aim is to show the nature of societal developments by focusing on some problematical and less civil aspects: youth extremism and violence. First, I will briefly describe some of the most dramatic aspects of the societal changes that have occurred in Hungary since the collapse of the communist state in 1989–90. I will argue that the emergence of civil society, in specific the non-state and non-governmental structures, was necessary for the creation of a democratic, multiparliamentary republic. Second, I will highlight some of the unwanted side-effects of that fundamental transformation. Unemployment, crime, and marginalisation are among them. These adversely influenced major parts of the Hungarian population. I will argue that young people, now abandoned by the parties and the new state, have suffered in particular. Many have decided to turn to alternative subcultures or, which is even more troublesome, have joined nationalist and extremist groups. I will conclude by arguing that the main reason for extremist youth behaviour has to do with the vacuum that they now find themselves in. Moreover, I submit that this vacuum also reflects a problem the Hungarian state faces today: liberal policies and little intervention in society assist the development of civil society, but, at the same time, also allow less civil elements to flourish. Civil society and civil organisations The term civil society and its various meanings have caused some confusion in Hungary since its arrival in the 1980s. It is translated into Hungarian, following the nineteenth-century usage of Hegel and Marx, as polgári társadalom (literally the German bürgerliche Gesellschaft) and, alternately, as civil társadalom (literally from the English civil society). All regimes since 1990 have urged citizens to form social bonds and show solidarity in order to build democracy by supporting governmental policies. However, high-level political discourse is one thing, and social processes and political development on the local level are something else.

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The solidifying of the bases of civil society has undoubtedly been one of the most positive signs of the transformation in Hungary and elsewhere in East Central Europe since the early 1990s. However, as recent events indicate, civility —i.e. tolerance, modesty and respect for difference and diversity—is yet to be firmly established. In late 2000, around All Souls’ Day, widespread vandalism took place in Hungary. All concerned the desecration of religious and political monuments: Roman Catholic crosses were cut down in one case, while in other instances a monument to Mihály Károlyi, leader of the Council of the Republic in 1919, and the gravestone of János Kádár, Hungary’s post-Stalinist communist ruler, were defaced. Equally horrendous was the knocking down of tombstones by youths in the Kozma Street Jewish cemetery in Budapest. Such attacks on religious, political and historical monuments were simply unheard of before 1989. Similarly, attacks on foreigners and ‘gypsies’ (Roma) have been widespread since 1990. Their appearance since that historic date is telling of the social fragmentation and division that accompanied the transformation. Many in Hungary have argued that the sheer number of new associations and non-profit organisations is an indication of the healthy growth of civil society since 1990 (Kuti 1992). While before, foundations were only governmental—or, to a lesser extent, founded by Hungarian émigrés able to buy their way through the political ideologues and bureaucratic maze—by 1996 the number of foundations, associations and other legally registered non-profit groups rose to an astronomical 46,000 (Szabó 1998: 109).2 Particularly important in this respect were the 1990 law on religions and the 1991 law on the restitution of church property. As a consequence of this legislation, by the end of the 1990s, 276 religions and religious communes were registered by the Hungarian courts—a much higher number when we include those registered as cultural associations or foundations—ranging from Buddhists, Muslims, Christian fundamentalists, neoShamanists, UFO-believers, to Krishna followers. In Budapest alone there are 5203 civil organisations active, mostly in the educational and cultural spheres (Takács 1995:569–71). Aside from the cultural and educational sphere, more telling is the number of political associations. Although there are only four major parties that determine parliamentary politics in Hungary, between 1989 and 1998 altogether 235 political parties were registered by the Hungarian Supreme Court. By the end of 2000, however, of the 144 registered political parties only onethird were actively engaged in community building and local politics (Népszabadság, 29 November 2000). Some ten political parties have been registered annually by the Hungarian Supreme Court. While most of these parties only existed on paper, some have been reorganised and operate as social organisations (társadalmi szervezet). However, as Petr Kopecký and Edward Barnfield aptly observed, ‘civil society cannot simply be measured in terms of the number of associational organizations in existence and there are reasons to treat the high level of associational organizations with some scepticism’ (1999:84). What they suggest is particularly pertinent to Hungary, a country where, all signs of democratic developments

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aside, there are sad testimonies to the contradictory nature of fledgling capitalism of the Hungarian kind. With GDP dropping about 20 per cent from 1989 to 1992, and the budget deficit increasing from 3.3 per cent in 1989 to 7 per cent in 1992, industrial enterprises and most of the agricultural state farms were eliminated. This produced widespread unemployment and an increasing inequality. These are the most serious social problems of the turn of the millennium. With the elimination of 1.2 million jobs in 1990–4, Hungary had more than 700,000 unemployed, or 14 per cent of the workforce, a number never before seen in Hungary’s post-World War II history (Nagy and Sik 1996; Nagy 1994). However, because of the upward turn in production and trade, and the creation of jobs since the mid-1990s, registered unemployment decreased to 329, 000 or to 8.3 per cent of the workforce by mid-1998 (Népszabadság 28 August 2000). Without doubt, unemployment has contributed, to a large extent, to the rearrangement of social relations and the creation of an unemployed class. But poverty resulting from the loss of jobs has only been one facet of the introduction of capitalism throughout the former Soviet bloc. In Hungary, as in neighbouring states, a related aspect has been the increase in income differentials: both blue and low-level white-collar employees’ salaries decreased dramatically in the first years of the 1990s. With small strata of managerial and entrepreneurial groups receiving the benefits of venture capitalism, Hungarian society has been undergoing massive and apparent polarisation. The emergence of new millionaires, together with unemployment, income differentiation, the continuing inflation and devaluation of the Hungarian currency, has contributed considerably to the division of the Hungarian population and regions into ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’. Just who are these have-nots? Like elsewhere in the world young people, women, and the elderly are especially adversely affected by the new conditions on the job market, as education and retraining programmes cannot cope with the swift and special demands of the labour market. These social groups, thereby, must rely on meagre social services of state or local governments. In this regard, while the communist state proudly boasted its figures of zero unemployment and poverty, its democratic counterpart of the 1990s could not do the same. Already in 1992, 49 per cent of those under twenty and 23 per cent of those over eighty lived below the poverty line. In addition, 60 per cent of those living below the poverty line were housewives who had no pensions or salaries (Molnár 1996:141). Unemployment and poverty also reveal increasingly a geographical division. Hungary’s eastern and northern areas, for instance, have been especially hard hit as critical heavy industrial plants closed down or underwent reorganisation or privatisation resulting in the dismissal of the majority of blue-collar workers. These aspects of the 1990s have prompted the sociologist Júlia Szalai to declare that the impoverishment of large masses of citizens may be ‘one of the most fundamental political dangers threatening a democracy that has barely institutionalised’ (1996:78).

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Poverty and unemployment are, to be sure, two of the main contributing factors to the social malaise, dissatisfaction of certain social groups, and the rising rate of crime that characterised the 1990s and the beginning of the third millennium. While between 1970–88, the number of reported crimes reveals a moderate growth from 122,289 to 185,407, in 1988–98 this figure has risen to an eye-opening 514,403 (Korinek 1997:295; Magyar Statisztikai Zsebkönyv 1988: 93). With such an increase in reported criminal activities the nature of crime has also changed drastically. A noticeable feature is the steady rate of growth in crime committed by young people: while in 1991 6200 young people received sentences, in 1995 8717, with a slight decrease to 7447 sentences in 1997. Two types of crime are characteristic of young people: rape and vandalism. The latter type is particularly high among skinheads, a group composed largely of disillusioned and uneducated young poeple in their early to mid-twenties. Just how this development came about will be discussed with particular attention to the collapse of state communist youth institutions and the vacuum created by them. Young people under state socialism For a little more than thirty years, between 1957–88, Hungarian youth was led by the communist party’s organ, the Communist Youth League (KISZ). This organisation monitored activities of all young people even though it wanted to be the organisation of the politically conscious vanguard youth. After the 1956 revolution the communist leadership was eager to recover the lost young people, who had participated in the revolutionary street fights. By the end of 1957, altogether 170,000 young men and women were enlisted in KISZ nationwide; in five years, this number had increased to 708,000 (Eperjesi 1981:94). It seems beyond doubt that the new institutionalisation of age—those between 14 and 30 —under the aegis of KISZ provided Hungary’s ruling apparatus with an exclusive and even decisive edge in forming a new hegemonic hierarchical system. This type of political socialisation was so successful that by 1986 913,000 people between the ages of 14 and 30 were claimed by the leadership as members of the youth organisation, representing slightly more than 38 per cent of the eligible age group—of which 48.1 per cent were women and nearly 10 per cent were also members of the Hungarian Socialist Workers Party (MSZMP). The purported role of KISZ as the vanguard of the youth, similar to that of its Soviet counterpart, Komsomol, together with its con-stitutional mandate to complete the political, ideological, cultural and emotional education of the young people were, it would appear, compromised and even undermined by its failure to represent a majority of the Hungarian young people (e.g. Riordan 1989; Fisher 1959). Károly Német, a former Prime Minister and Politburo member, summarised the purpose of KISZ in the following message:

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It is important to note that when our Party called into existence the KISZ, in 1957, its aim was to create a unified youth organisation in order to fulfil one task, perhaps with different means where applicable, to represent the ideology of the Party and to enlist the masses of youth to our cause. The way we formulated it at that time was that only politically committed and conscious young people should be admitted into the KISZ. This axiom holds true as well today. (Német 1985:23) These words and concepts may well be familiar to anyone growing up under a state socialist educational system, for since the late 1950s, there had been little change in the wording and meaning of these official texts. Primary in this ideology were the ‘creation of socialist men and women’, ‘socialist morale and consciousness’, ‘patriotism and internationalism’, and the overtly politicised nature of youth. For the state the ‘youth-for-the future’ ideology legitimised the existence of a single youth organisation under the leadership of MSZMP. KISZ should not, however, be seen in isolation from either MSZMP, the adult world, or the world of children monitored, as it was, by the Pioneers’ Association. MSZMP did not directly deal with the Pioneers’ Association; select KISZ members were entrusted with that job. A small percentage of KISZ youth was also involved in the Youth Defence Guard (Ifjú Gárda), a paramilitary organisation similar to the MSZMP’s own Workers’ Guard (Munkásorség). These units were the real backbone of the system. They were the highly trusted and carefully selected men trained to fight and, if needed, to bear arms in defending the communist state. All the rhetoric of the international peace movement notwithstanding, communist ideology—especially following the 1956 uprising in Hungary—paid great attention to the militarisation of society in general, and of the young people in particular. Communist ideology was replete with slogans about ‘fighting’, ‘winning’, and ‘achieving’. All work, art and education were supposed to have socially redeeming value for the communist state. For this reason, not only work and education but recreational activities and entertainment were also politicised disproportionally. For instance, KISZ operated youth clubs all over the country— in the schools, workplaces, factories and research institutions—and young people were supposed to visit these to learn, socialise and enjoy themselves. Similarly, most sports clubs and sporting events were directed from above. This constant politicisation of labour and cultural life was supposed to both cater to the needs of young people and to control them. More than 50 per cent of Hungarian youth, who were not card-carrying members in KISZ, were also connected to its various activities. Young people who did not comply with the prescribed ways were marginalised. However, the forced directives to create a politically mature and conscious age group, who would be the ideal reserve army for the MSZMP as well, did not succeed as most members became more and more indifferent to the organisation’s political language and goals.

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Neo-Nazi and skinhead subculture What happened to young people when state socialism was loosing its grip on them? In retrospect it is easy to identify several areas where the collapse of the communist state created major havoc for young people. For example, the lack of interest of young people in politics and party membership in the 1990s may, indeed, be the result of this forceful political socialisation under state socialism. As I have been able to ascertain among young workers (K rti 1998b), young people became so disillusioned with party politics and ideological political language that membership in political organisations was simply a joke to them. Another interesting aspect of youth policies at the moment is that state ideologues and party leaders themselves are lost. Because of the memories of the official youth policies under state socialism, most state planners are weary of single directives and of a unified youth policy. It is also the case that postcommunist Hungarian governments have simply been unable to create a genuine youth programme without either providing a platform for governmental ideology or becoming a sociological mouthpiece of welfare reforms. During the last decade of state socialist rule, young people who were disillusioned with KISZ and the communist party, were more and more enthralled by elements of international youth culture and the consumerist drives of the time. Extremist youth subculture was part of the underground punk rock scene of the 1980s in Hungary as elsewhere in the communist bloc (K rti 1998a, b; 1994; Mursic 1995; Ramet 1994). The organised racist and neo-Nazi skinhead movement of the 1990s, however, is something totally different. The most important development of the early 1990s has been the emergence of extremist youth gangs and skinhead organisations that make systematic use of a neo-Nazi ideology based on both the historic inter-war antecedents and contemporary international offshoots. With regard to the participation of young people in these, we can immediately ask the question. Is the lack of alternative legal, social, political, and economic frameworks within which they might participate and demonstrate their youthful attitudes and values really a problem? I believe that the answer is a resounding yes. As the October 1995 student demon-strations in Hungary indicate, only the educated are able to form coalitions and mount successful nationwide actions. It is evident that since 1990, most young people who were socialised by the communist states have not been organised in any collective and systematic fashion. It is also apparent that the post-1989 political parties largely forgot about them, even though most of the parliamentary parties possess some sort of youth factions. The post-communist Hungarian governments have also been groping in the dark, trying to find a way to reorganise youth clubs, youth parties, and youth movements that (1) do not have the taint of the former communist organisations; (2) provide a valid framework for young people; and (3) serve the genuine interests of this generation. One such special governmental programmeme has

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been the Hungarian Youth Conference, initiated at the beginning of 2000, to unite Hungarian young people in neighbouring countries. Other events, such as the various youth festivals— the Pepsi Island in Budapest being one of the best known—are less political and have the feeling of a belated Woodstock celebration cloaked in popular world music concert series. Because of the lack of adequate governmental attention, young people are an easy target for nationalist organisations and propaganda. Since there are no legally binding limitations, except the law that forbids open hatred against another nation or minorities, extremist organisations find it easy to manipulate young people into loosely structured and highly visible groups of their own. The political and cultural ideologies of the Komsomol-like youth party could not be said to be in excellent shape either at the time of the collapse of state institutions in 1990 or in the vacuum that was left in its place. On the contrary, before 1990 centralised state and party institutions functioned in a way that facilitated the creation of disgruntled and frustrated young citizens. Many, thus, rapidly abandoned the communist organisation and immediately shifted their membership into new institutions that had as their aim to be ‘western’, ‘anticommunist’, and ‘national’. In the period of transition (1989–91) independent youth groups emerged with a vengeance. Bright prospects were described and the leaders of the newly formed political parties made many promises, but none of these could materialise at the time. Moreover, as former state enterprises were shut down and tight budgets forced governments to cut services, young people were the first to feel the consequences. Economic marginalisation, homelessness and poverty may be contributing factors that explain why some young people are increasingly involved with violent crimes as well. Since 1985, the number of crimes committed by people under the age of twenty has increased considerably, and almost doubled since 1980. What gives even more cause for concern is the violent nature of youth crimes, a situation that can be easily discerned from the simple data below (Kerezsi 1997:9). What is noticeable from Table 3.1, however, is that in 1997 the number Table 3.1 Crime by juveniles and children, 1980–97 Date

No. of crimes by juveniles

1980 6535 1985 9449 1990 12,848 1995 14,321 1997 13,544 Source: Ministry of Internal Affairs (1997).

No. of crimes by children 2680 3745 3744 4169 3689

of crimes committed by those under twenty years of age actually showed a slight decrease. To a certain degree this has to do with the fact that, following in the

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wake of increased youth violence and its concomitant public outcry, the legal system, the courts and the police developed concentrated efforts to combat racist and skinhead violence (Csendes 1997). What characterises Hungary’s young people who have increasingly been involved with racist activities? From observing activities of the racist right, it is obvious that what the communist youth organisations of the 1970s and early 1980s were, the skinhead subcultures of the mid-to-late 1990s are not. The former were supposed to be mass based, internationalist, centralised, peaceful democratic, sports loving, gender balanced, and uniformed. The Hungarian skinhead subculture is extremely localised, anti-democratic, sexist, nationalist, violent, and exclusionist. The two characteristics that seem to connect them is subservience to an ideology and adherence to a uniform. Like their predecessors of the 1960s and 1970s, young people of the 1990s gladly turned to the international youth fashions of the day. In this, skinheads in Hungary and Eastern Europe in general are not that different from skinheads in the West. In particular, Hungarian skinheads view Germany, Great Britain and the United States as sources of support. It seems that since the beginning of the 1990s, with the free implementation of communication technologies, worldwide neo-Nazi and skinhead fashions have been accepted all over the former communist bloc. Skinheads in the East all use Nazi and nationalist ideology and symbols as bases for their historical legitimisation. They don the swastika or their national variants (the árpádsáv in Hungary, the arrowed double-cross in Slovakia, the skull and the double-headed eagle in Russia), black shirts, jackboots (Doc Martens), and bombardier jacket, and, as a rule, shave their heads. Thus, in many ways, the extreme xenophobic and racist messages of the nationalists are immediately obvious to the outsider. There are three general target groups of skinhead attacks in Hungary: the Roma, the Jews, and foreigners in general. Among the foreigners attacked are Arabs, Chinese, and even a few Romanians (many often ‘mistaken’ for Roma because of their ‘darker complexion’). The racist, neo-Nazi discourse, however, is flexible only to a certain extent but rather straightforward in its violent outbursts. In many writings and speeches, the Roma and Jewish populations are often referred to as ‘foreigners’ or elements ‘alien’ to the national culture. Gays and ‘liberals’, many of whom are simply equated with Jewish intellectuals, are also described as aliens. It is useful to recall one such a tirade from a racist and extremist publication. In order to achieve their own rule, liberals are pushing the Roma ahead of them like a Trojan horse; once they become the rulers they will simply discard them, as a useless mass; the Roma, however, do not see this manipulation (…) A foreign culture could be beautiful on its own natural terrain but not when it exports its cheap dirt. (…) A real culture should not exist as a parasite on another culture (…) When St Stephen advised his son,

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Prince Imre in the eleventh century, to accept foreigners, he did not advise him to accept dirt spread by the crazed UFO believers and homosexuals. (Pannon Front 11 November 1997) This expresses adequately the general ideology of neo-Nazi organisations; moreover, it also indicates how it manipulates Hungarian medieval history to justify some of its claims. While skinheads of the 1980s were just imitating Western rock bands, from the early 1990s onward they proudly refer to themselves in their own literature as ‘national youth’ (nemzeti ifjak), many of whom follow the semi-official organised Nationalist Youth Association. The appearance of the neo-Nazi movement is credited to two figures, István Györkös and Albert Szabó, who founded the Hungarist Movement in April 1993. The movement takes its legitimacy from its 1944 Arrow Cross antecedent and its executed leader, Ferenc Szálasi. Its credo is almost a straightforward repetition of Szálasi’s own motto, who wanted to create a racially pure Hungaria in the inter-war period, a semantic derivation of Latin origin and a reference to the new Nazi Hungary: Our goal is Hungaria, our road Hungarian National Socialism, our deed is our honour, and our means is order. One will: order. One power: the movement. One ruler: the nation. Our vocation is order: our fight is our movement. Our victory is Hungarism. (Magyartudat 3 (5), 1997, 4) The use of Hungarism and the Hungarist Movement is a testimony that, at present, organised neo-Nazis view themselves as heirs to the 1944 Nazi paramilitary organisation that was responsible for the brutal attacks on the Jewish population of Hungary at the end of World War II. István Györkös is a well-known xenophobic nationalistic figure who was charged, but eventually acquitted, for wanting to establish the Hungarian National Front (MNA), an extreme right-wing organisation, in 1992. The other self-proclaimed leader of neo-Nazi skinheads is Albert Szabó, a forty-year-old émigré who returned to Hungary in 1992 from a seven-yearlong Australian exile. In October 1993, Szabó attempted to create the World’s People’s Ruling Party (VNP), which was immediately banned by the authorities. Later Szabó, who shaved his head to express his unity with his youthful followers, re-registered his political party, with slightly different goals, with the courts in Budapest. This time he was successful: he named it the Hungarian People’s Welfare Association (MNSZ). On 18 January 1994, several meetings took place, all well attended by skinhead youth, during which open references were made to the ‘just’ cause of the Hungarian Arrow Cross movement of 1944. Even its anthem was revived and sung, though with a slight change to prevent repression by the state authorities. The MNSZ publication, Út és Cél (Goal and the way), was printed in a

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makeshift fashion, but that did not stop party organisers from distributing it all over Hungary. For the Hungarian extreme right, 15 October is an official holiday, marking Szálasi’s rise to power in 1944. On this day, as well as on the birthday of their Führer, demonstrations are always planned at key sites such as Budapest’s Dohány Street (a one-time Jewish ghetto, where a beautiful restored synagogue stands today), and at the graves of the 1956 revolutionaries. MNSZ appeared in public the first time as a real show of force in 1995. That year, however, the police did not allow the demonstration to take place in front of the Jewish synagogue, because it was aimed solely at ‘lessening the Jews’ self-image of being the chosen nation’ (according to its organisers). Maybe this prompted MNSZ to counter with a double march: On 22 and 23 October 1995, Szabó organised several skinhead youth marches in Budapest to counter the state celebrations of the 1956 revolution. A few hundred skinheads came from various cities and nearby towns, but most were from the outskirts of Budapest. After gathering and singing at certain key locations, they marched on Hungarian Radio demanding a public announcement of their programme. When this was denied, they sang ‘Awaken Hungarians’ (a World War II Nazi song) and disbanded with the ‘Heil Hitler’ salute. Several marchers carried the new Nazi flag of red and white stripes with red sunrays in the middle, others its West European variation, red and white with a black cogwheel in the middle. What is clear from these parties’ programmes is that the extreme right in Hungary identifies itself with the Hungarian version of the Nazi ideology and the Übermensch philosophy. This identification is coupled with chauvinistic and racist assertions that Christians and Hungarians are ‘better’ and ‘more cultured’ than Roma and Jews. In the ideology of neo-Nazi groups a fine distinction is drawn between themselves and those ‘unwanted elements’ whom they do not consider to be ‘worthy’ of living in Hungary and the Hungarians who continually suffer because of the influx of strangers and ‘unwanted elements’ who live off the national wealth. They aim at ‘educating the Hungarian youth by teaching them the proper Hungarian history and Hungarian consciousness’ (Népszabadság 5 March 1996). Already at the end of 1994, both Szabó and Györkös were charged with racism and inciting anti-foreign and xenophobic feelings, but eventually, by the decision of the Supreme Court, the trials were postponed for the lack of evidence. When the Hungarist Movement and the MNSZ increased their activities, the Hungarian authorities could not simply look the other way, and in the fall of 1995, the Supreme Court, backed by new laws banning the use of Nazi symbols, moved against them. Györkös, Szabó, György Ekrem Kemál, and several others involved in Nazi propaganda were charged with racist, anti-humanitarian activities by ‘inciting against the public’ (Népszabadság 6 October 1995). However, the new Hungarian criminal law continues to have many loopholes, mainly the clause legitimising freedom of speech and the expression of ideas, a notion also proclaimed in the Hungarian constitution. On 4 March 1996 the

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Budapest Supreme Court acquitted Györkös, Szabó, and their organisations. Because Hungarian criminal law does not include the notion of ‘hate crimes’, the court’s decision was based on the finding that the charge of ‘inciting against the public’ was not supported by the facts. Both the state prosecutor’s office and civil society organisations (including the Hungarian Roma’ Anti-Fascist Organisation, the Hungarian Zionists, and the Raoul Wallenberg Association) were outraged, insisting that displaying Nazi symbols and publishing antiSemitic journals prove the charge of ‘incitement’ beyond a shadow of a doubt. Perhaps prompted by the lenient attitude of the court, Szabó organised the most boisterous street marches in March 1996; he verbally attacked all foreigners in Hungary and announced that by the fall of 1996 his group would take over the country. When he appeared, Szabó greeted his audience, mostly skinhead youth, with Szebb jövõt (Better future) and a ‘Heil Hitler’ salute. Szabó’s movement has become more and more sophisticated since the mid-1990s. They have managed to raise some money, both from foreign and local sources, to publish their new racist journal Magyartudat (Hungarian consciousness). It is the official publication of MNSZ with Albert Szabó as its ideological Führer and publisher-editor. The newspaper not only published a letter from Saddam Hussein, and reprinted a picture of General Pinochet; it also published an article by John Peacock, leader of the British National Party (BNP), extolling the virtues of British nationalism. Szabó visited the BNP headquarters and was successful in creating an alliance between the Hungarian and the British parties in July 1997. MNSZ has connections to other extremist parties in the West as well, particularly in Denmark, Germany and France. Moreover, a Hungarian ‘New order’ (Új Rend) operates in Milwaukee, Wisconsin (USA). Similar to another neo-Nazi organisation in Australia, Új Rend provides assistance to its counterpart in Hungary. MNSZ has also managed to organise its own skinhead youth faction, the Nationalist Youth Association (NIS), whose leaders openly declare ‘social nationalism’ and ‘Hungarism’ as the ideological basis of their movement. They celebrate their nationalist identity by wearing small swastikas as well as listening to the music of the extremist rock band, Nemzeti Front (National Front), which sells its own CDs all over Hungary (another popular band is called ‘Healthy skinheads’). Some of the leaders of this skinhead organisation are not unemployed, as the mainstream media often claims, but actually work in their own (illegal) security company, called ‘Civil Guard Co’ (Népszabadság 7 November 1997). Three youths of MNSZ were charged with racially motivated aggression against two Africans in 1999 in Budapest, a crime that resulted in several years of jail sentences for all perpetrators in early 2001 (Népszabadság 17 March 2001). The other neo-Nazi youth leader, György Ekrem Kemál, was not only a key figure in starting the Hungarist Movement, but was also involved in organising his own neo-Nazi faction illegally. Since late 1994, Ekrem Kemál—whose Turkish father was executed by the communist regime for his involvement in the

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1956 revolution—was known to the authorities through the boisterous street marches with his skinhead followers under the banner of his organisation, the Association of Those Persecuted by Communism (KÜSZ). As this was not a legally registered party, the courts, strangely enough, could not disband it. Only once could they charge Ekrem Kemál with public indecency, when he threw eggs at a presiding judge administering a verdict on those involved in the order to fire on the demonstrators in 1956 in the city of Salgótarján. Ekrem Kemál paid the fine by counting out ten thousand forints in single forints coin (Heti Világgazdaság 12 July 1997). However, when in March 1997 a criminal committed suicide, after a bungled robbery attempt, police were able to track the criminal to Ekrem Kemál’s residence. Although weapons were not found, it became clear that the robber was a member of KÜSZ and a close ally of Ekrem Kemál. At this point it is still speculation whether there were specific neo-Nazi connections and what was the source of origin of the weapons. It has become known to the police that some illegal weapons sales took place between Hungarians and Slovaks on the Hungarian-Slovak border (Népszabadság 27 January 1996). It was also revealed that, although the weapon charges against the neo-Nazi leader were not solid, he could still face charges of trying to overthrow the government by forceful means (Criminal Law, 1989, 139/A). Nevertheless, members of KÜSZ and its leader are still actively involved in neo-Nazi skinhead activities, as the January 1998 cemetery demonstration (remembrance commemorating the birthday of Hungary’s 1944 Arrow Cross leader) and the regularly held 13 February rallies (to honour the final outbreak from Budapest by the Nazi troops in 1944) amply indicate (Népszabadság Online 14 February 2001; Török 1998:10–11). Facing mounting public and international pressure as well as serious legal consequences in 2000 this neo-Nazi remembrance was avoided. In 2001, however, the demonstration was successful with numerous participants from neighbouring countries and the West. The societal pressures were not, however, without any success. One of the neo-Nazi leaders, Szabó, left Hungary and abandoned his immediate ideas in transforming the country’ political landscape. At the moment, only Ekrem Kemál remains, who stands virtually alone in Hungary as the self-proclaimed ultra-right and neo-Nazi leader. He recently created a legal political party to enter the legitimate political arena, aptly named Hungarian National Freedom Party (MNS)—no doubt copied from Jörg Haider’s Austrian Freedom Party (FPÖ). For his agitation and open declarations of antistate activities, Ekrem Kemál only received suspended sentences so far. Interestingly, the presiding judge claimed that Hungary is a strong constitutional democracy that could take care of such organisers without putting them in jails, but simply by warning and preventive measures (Népszabadság 25 May 2001). It remains to be seen what these warnings and measures bring in the future. Youths have also been involved in racist and neo-Nazi propaganda outside the membership in these formal organisations. Many of these other activities are within the legal organisations of security firms, where military uniforms and

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weapons are used, as well as within martial arts clubs. Most of these instances have been extremely small-scale and isolated local events. Some, however, were successfully connected to legitimate political parties and their front runners; the Hungarian Justice and Life Party (MIÉP) in particular welcomes the so-called ‘national youth’. Thus, it is safe to argue that when a democratic state has a sound legal and crime prevention system, marches and street brawls never manage to blossom beyond their immediate confines. However, the situation can change as soon as these actions are publicised in the national or international media. Perhaps the best known cases of the 1990s, no doubt sensationalised by the media, were the bombing of the Parliament building and the booing of the President during his commemorative parliamentary speech in 1993. Although originally a certain group of ‘national youth’ and ‘skinheads’ was implicated, no one was finally charged. Hungarian television made several detailed analyses of the videotapes showing skinheads hanging out in front of the parliament building, and then being taken away by police. It is clear, however, that they were not involved directly in organising the boisterous anti-presidential event. What can be credited with such ‘successful’ occurrences is the general rightward mood swing at the time. However, it is not only in Budapest where racist and neo-Nazi groups stage media campaigns and publish offensive materials. Throughout the countryside extremist activities tend to be more widespread and in certain instances more violent. In November 1994, in the northern city of Eger, the local court took action against a seventeen-year-old man and a sixteen-year-old woman, charging them with crimes against the community and with inciting a riot (Népszabadság 9 October 1995). The two perpetrators were high school students publishing a racist and anti-Roma pamphlet, Agriai Virradat (The Eger awakening).3 The court was quite slow at first and three issues had been made available to skinhead clubs, including the infamous local tavern, ‘Cadaver Castle’ (Tetemvár), before the authorities were able to crack down on this underground group. The pamphlets had the clear purpose of uniting various skinhead factions all over Hungary. In the inaugural issue, a skinhead group from the southern city of Makó proudly boasted its large and continually increasing membership. In another issue, Nazi propaganda of the 1930s and 1940s was reprinted. The last issue included an especially vicious attack on the Roma of the city of Eger, and the Roma population in Hungary in general. Hungarian racists have long been claiming that Hungary is for the Hungarians only. Roma are considered to be not only dirty or lazy, but they are also seen as unwanted elements in Hungary. What has often been uttered in racist discourse is the phrase cigánymentes övezet (gypsy-free zone). This expression has a curious history in the Hungarian skinhead subculture. At the beginning of the 1980s, Hungary witnessed the emergence of a vital youth subculture (K rti 1994, 1991). In this period, anti-communist youth supported the development of a musical subculture aided by the radical, often xenophobic and racist, underground punk

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rock scene. Within this scene, it was inevitable that some of the groups—most notably the short-lived but extremely influential Mos-oi, T-34, CPG, and ETA— created an image for themselves that was both radical and anti-state, and, at the same time, overtly nationalist, sexist, anti-foreign and anti-Roma. One of Mosoi’s (which in Hungarian actually means ‘Smile’) most racist and xenophobic songs was ‘The immigrants’ share’, in which not only the ‘garbage immigrants’ were targeted, but more specifically the Roma of Hungary: The flame-thrower is the only weapon I need to win, All Gypsy adults and children we’ll exterminate, But we can kill all of them at once in unison, When it’s done we can advertise: Gypsy-free zone. In the mid-1990s the reappearance, or rather the continuation, of ‘gypsy-free zone’ graffiti in Hungary was somewhat surprising. Yet this phrase has become a fashionable racist slogan for skinhead neo-Nazi groups as well as for racists for fifteen years now. Although Roma were (and continue to be) an obsession of extremist youth and their 1980s music, their attitudes and songs did not include open, anti-Semitic sentiments (Kenedi 1986). The latter theme only emerged with vehemence in the early 1990s. The appearance of the underground punk subculture, with the partici-pation of extremist musical groups, was essential to the development and success of the antistate democratic youth movement in Hungary. They, in turn, facilitated the creation of an anti-communist and anti-authoritarian popular mentality. It was clear, however, that even at that time the state and the court, as well as the democratic and liberal opposition, accepted with resignation such racist, xenophobic, and anti-humanitarian messages. These groups, influential as they then were, disappeared quickly as many of their practitioners were fined, jailed, and faced court action. What remains, however, is the message ‘gypsy-free zone’, which has continued to be a slogan of racist skinheads and nationalist youth active in the beginning of the third millennium. Conclusion Hungarian civil society is developing a unique path of its own; post-communist politics entails an unprecedented clash of state and society. Theoretically, civil society is desirable for many, even though, as Norberto Bobbio argues, there is both historical and contemporary evidence that as the state continuously colonises society, society too engulfs the state (1989: 42). But what is less voiced among protagonists, yet is constantly hailed by antagonists, are the side effects that may be called less civil. In fact, for both society and the state there is the need to develop, what Stephen Carter (1998) and Anthony Giddens (1999) both call, ‘civility’. This should be seen as one of the keys to cementing a truly democratic political culture.

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What is interesting in the current state of civil society in Hungary is that uncivil aspects also strive together with more civil and positive elements. Extremism in Hungary has been left outside mainstream and parliamentary politics. In fact, Hungarian parliamentary political life seems rather stable grounded in firm political convictions about multi-party, constitutional democracy. Unlike in dissected Yugoslavia, Romania, and Slovakia, Hungarian democracy does not favour extreme politics in its parliament. Neither the extreme right, nor its left counterpart has a place in the government. And aside from the vocal presence of a minor nationalist party (MIÉP), it seems that at the moment, civility is on the side of the state. This, however, cannot be said about society. Forms of extremist actions, views and values find outlet on the streets, media and everyday parlance among those who feel unwanted and left out, or who simply wish to be left out. Therefore it is clear that Hungarian political culture has a giant vacuum in which young people are left, and that makes the skinhead movement an attractive alternative. Unemployment, poverty, youth crimes and anti-minority attitudes are clearly just a few aspects of the unwanted consequences of the transition from state socialism to a democratic polity. The political vacuum created by the collapsed state institutions and the communist party, and its youth faction, the Communist Youth League, left young people with no immediate institutional support to fall back to when they were in need. Even though there is a detectable conservative and right-wing attitude prevalent today in both political discourse and the popular media (Pfeiffer 2000; J. Simon 2000), the new political parties left a large part of the young people outside their orbit. As a natural consequence a considerable percentage of young people are finding their new communities within alternative religious, semi-political and extremist milieus. But there is an even more intriguing implication of this for post-communist Hungarian politics. It is obvious that the post-1990 Hungarian state appears to be very liberal, in that it is reluctant to intervene in society. There are no serious prosecutions and repressions, but, at the same time, there are also no major policies towards young people either. This situation may just be an ideal precondition, according to many theorists, for a lively civil society to emerge. However, the precise opposite also takes place: The lack of intervention, perhaps a too liberal state, means that civil society not only does not flourish, but even shows signs of uncivility. One could argue that a certain degree of state intervention may be a good thing for the development of civil society, at least in the post-communist context. What about more internal and more complicated answers to the question of uncivil aspects within the sphere of democratic developments? For one, and this has been proved by several studies on youth violence and aggression, young people as an age group in formation tend to swing to extremes at certain key moments in social, economic, and political crises. In this, Western youth are no exception. ‘Paki bashing’ in Great Britain, or violent German youth shouting ‘Türken Raus’ and ‘Heil Hitler’ are well known cases publicised in the 1990s.

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Football hooliganism and vandalism, or mayhem at rock concerts can also not be solely tied to any particular country or national tradition. British, German, Italian, or American fans have all been known to participate in such violent and aggressive acts. The Fidesz-MPP-led government, in power since 1998, once calling itself a party for those under thirty-five years of age, has desperately attempted to control both youth violence and the indifferent political attitude rampant among young people. It spent considerable funds to mount an advertising campaign entitled ‘Be a fan, don’t fight’. In the beginning of 2000, the government created the Hungarian Youth Conference, a policy in line with the centre-right government’s national ideology of unity and togetherness of the Hungarian nation. It would be rather flippant to claim that just how influential these policies will be in the near future will be a litmus test of Hungarian civil society. Yet independent surveys confirm that there is a general lack of interest in high politics among those aged between eighteen and twenty-nine. According to surveys conducted by the National Youth Research Institute, only about 12 per cent of eighteenyear-olds are interested in politics and party programmes (Népszabadság 17 March 2001). What is important is that in many ways they have been learning from other youth movements elsewhere in the world, mostly because of the availability of information and international media. In fact, extremist groups now benefit from the high-tech international cyberspace and Internet world that project a reinvigorated sense of legitimacy. Many of these groups now often are truly transnational and neo-Nazis marching in Budapest, Eger or other cities in Hungary, are increasingly tied to an international extremist network. Their rankand-file members may include Czechs, Germans, British, Danish and Canadians. Just like the radical greens or left ecology groups, who can now count on an increasing number of international followers (see Davos, Prague, Genoa and other violent clashes), uncivil extreme racist or rightist movements are not tied solely to a particular native soil or tradition. What is specific though, is the way in which their actions and movements are rationalised and nationalised by utilising language, traditions, past mythologies and political events. Hungarian neo-Nazis celebrate Hungarian fascists from the World War II era, a historical celebration paralleled in Romania, Slovakia, or even Serbia. With regard to youth extremism it must be continuously emphasised that anti-Semitism or anti-Roma movements are not exclusive to Hungary. They have been reported elsewhere in Europe as a whole. What is new is their extent, frequency and timing. Their emergence from the mid-1980s is especially noticeable in this part of the world, the former Eastern bloc, a region attempting to conform to ideas deemed European, Western, democratic and civil—at times too hard and seemingly too eagerly. In this an interesting development is taking place at the moment, as both democratic values and quite undemocratic ones are challenging each other. Thus, one major general conclusion is evident: democracy and civil society may reveal a few incongruities in some social settings. In other words, civil

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society may exist, although in rather difficult circumstances, when undemocratic conditions and the lack of the rule of law persist. The reverse may be equally true, as the situation of youth and extremist movements in Hungary indicates. Democratic state power and governance is no assurance for the flourishing of (exclusively) progressive and liberal civil society. As David Held has convincingly argued, democracy is a doublesided phenomenon ‘concerned, on the one hand, with the re-form of state power and, on the other hand, with the restructuring of civil society’ (1987: 283). This is a fitting description of democracy in Hungary at the beginning of the third millennium. Notes 1 Research on youth, extremism and political movements since the mid-1990s has been supported by the Research Support Scheme (Prague), the Harry Frank Guggenheim Foundation (New York), and the Hungarian Higher Education Research Grant (FKFP). I am extremely thankful to these foundations for their assistance. Obviously, no opinions expressed here are representing these organisations. 2 It is worth noting that just before World War I, the number of civil associations reached an unprecedented 21, 311; between the two world wars the number was 16, 747 (Mazsu and Setényi 1995:158). 3 The Hungarian name of the journal uses the town’s old Latinised name, Agria, a clear reference to the city’s troubled history in the sixteenth century when it was successfully fighting against the Turkish armies. In the youths’ minds, that heroic past (the locals’ victory against foreign intruders) serves as a model for getting rid of the unwanted ‘elements’ (i.e. the Roma).

4 The Slovak National Movement A case of successful contention Darina Malová

Introduction Immediately after the collapse of the communist regime, a broad, catch-all national movement emerged in Slovakia, dominating other sectors of civil society in terms of mobilisation power, collective protest, and salient presence in the public sphere. I will refer to this as the Slovak National Movement (SNM). Its roots can be derived from two subsequent projects of the Slovak political elites: the first includes attempts to build the Slovak nation under the Habsburg Empire, while the second involves efforts to protect and strengthen its position within the Czechoslovak republic. Only the sudden fall of communism, and the consequent implementation of fundamental human rights and liberties, paved the way to the more large-scale national mobilisation and to the free organisation of protest in the name of ‘Slovak national interest’. The Slovak national issue and Slovak nationalism have been examined from several different points of view. Most of the recent scholarship in this field focuses on the examination of nationalist parties and movements and the nationstate building process, including the (alleged) restrictive policies against the Hungarian minority (e.g. Fisher 2000a; Szomolányi 1997; Kusý 1995). Nationalism is often used to explain the troubled consolidation of democracy in Slovakia, particularly compared to other East Central European countries (e.g. Szomolányi 1999; Ágh 1998). Slovakia was frequently perceived as a country with a late modernisation process, strong nationalism and a weak civil society (e.g. Carpenter 1997; Musil 1995). Only later, after the 1998 parliamentary elections, has the perception of the country changed. Studies of nationalism, national movements and different organisations promoting national identity are by and large excluded from investigations of civil society, which apparently stems from the normative conceptualisation used. This chapter argues that organisations and associations linked with the national issue, and the mass mobilisations in the early 1990s, represent a genuine part of civil society in Slovakia. This argument results from a systematic study of protest politics in 1990–4 that identified a separate and specific set of groups, linked by a common national agenda, collective action and protest activities.

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Despite the fact that actors of the Slovak National Movement frequently exchanged their places and roles, travelling between the state, political and civil society, they originally came from the re-emerging civil society arena and temporarily shaped its actors’ scope, action and interests. In this chapter I, first, discuss the historical development and present position of civil society in Slovakia, with a special focus on its composition, dynamics and tradition of collective action. Second, I examine the reemergence of civil society after the collapse of communist rule. Third, the formation of SNM after the fall of the communist regime, concentrating on its main actors, is presented. Here, SNM is analysed in the context of collective protest in the 1990–4 period, demonstrating that this sector of civil society belonged to the most contentious. Fourth, the decline of SNM will be investigated, when political parties and the government monopolised the national issue, previously generated by different voluntary and independent organisations. Finally, I present the main conclusions, generalising the role of SNM in the context of civil society and democratisation in Slovakia. Civil society in Slovakia before 1989 During the first decade of post-communist development in Slovakia civil society was the most vivid public domain. It was growing in terms of the number of associations and organisations, reinforcing its power by establishing peak bodies, institutionalising its links with the government and political parties, and gaining access to the decision-making process. The development, strength, vitality and institutionalisation of civil society, which determines patterns of social and political actors’ collective action, depends on the historical circumstances of each country. Slovakia enjoyed a long tradition of voluntary association, which had already begun to develop in the eighteenth century (Mannová 1992, 1990). According to historical studies, thousands of associations flourished mainly in cities and towns and contributed to the democratisation and modernisation of society. Among these associations, based on diverse issues and interests, small, but influential groups and organisations of intellectuals tried to promote the formation and acceptance of the Slovak nation. In the 1830s, a recognisable Slovak national movement had emerged, based on different educational and cultural associations, leading to the codification of a literary Slovak language. Slovak newspapers were published, new political organisations developed, and various meetings were held that produced proclamations and declarations concerning the position of the Slovak people in the Habsburg Empire. The Slovak national cultural institution, Matica Slovenská (MS), was founded in 1863 and became the central pillar of the Slovak national movement. Soon, however, under ‘Magyarisation’ policies, MS and other educational and cultural institutions were abolished. At this point, Slovak intellectuals established ties with Czech cultural and political leaders trying to gain support for the development of a national culture.

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After the foundation of the first Czechoslovak Republic, in 1918, the number of registered groups and organisations reached 16,000 in Slovakia alone (Mannová 1992, 1990). Though numerous, these separate, locally organised groups did not have a great and relevant influence on national political processes and the central state institutions. Large trade unions were formed only in the first half of the twentieth century, as a result of both industrialisation and modernisation, as well as organisational efforts of social democratic and communist parties. By and large such organisations were yet perceived as ‘imports’ from the Czech Lands and other neighbouring countries. They did not receive genuine support from the Slovak society until the end of World War II. The establishment of a common state with the Czechs also stimulated a reemergence of Slovak national organisations and educational institutions, which in turn promoted the growth of political parties and movements calling for a more independent position of the Slovak nation within the Czechoslovak state. The development and diversity of small, Slovak organisations, particularly charitable and self-help groups, stemmed from the prevailing rural culture of Slovak society; from its informal rules, based on mutual trust, solidarity, cooperation and self-help oriented behaviour. Generally, they were a product of, and limited to, broad family group and neighbourhood ties. Consequently, small, associative activities were traditionally the prevalent mode of collective action. Organised protest politics and activities, for example mass demonstrations and strikes, were more a consequence of mobilisation organised by Czech or internationally sponsored political parties and unions than an authentic product of Slovak culture. Genuine Slovak protest activities were usually either very local, aiming at the protection of traditional values (such as the right to have religious services in the Slovak language), or took the form of non-organised, spontaneous, violent actions, attacking and damaging property. The unbalanced mixture of traditional society, embedded in family and neighbour relations, with a modern industrial society based on class and professional alliances, twice contributed to the breakdown of democracy in Slovakia. It first occurred during 1939–45, when a ‘clero-fascist’ regime was established in the ‘independent’ Slovak state; the second time, in 1998, civil society was destroyed by the Communist regime (Mannová 1992). Under the wartime Slovak state, the regime dismissed almost all independent associations. After the war, associations re-established themselves with astonishing speed—leading to the founding of more than 10,000 organisations associating more than half a million citizens. However, the communist regime, established in 1948, replaced these spontaneous, independent organisations from below with party-controlled ‘social organisations’. Its main pillars included the labour union, women’s organisation and the youth league, as well as numerous special-interest groups. Social organisations, together with the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (KS ) and the four minor parties that were permitted formal existence, were organised in the National Front. The communist take-over thus

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interrupted the renewal of a pluralist civil society, replacing it with renewed state corporatism. The few challenges to the communist regime in Slovakia were connected with values such as ownership of land, religion, nation and ethnicity. The 1968 attempt to reform the communist regime from above was in Slovakia connected with national demands as well, and resulted in the establishment of a formal, communist-style federation. Even during the last decade of communist rule, organised protests linked traditional issues, like demands for religious freedoms, or national and ethnic issues, with the modern defence of political liberties. Moreover, the development of anti-Communist protest action in the late 1980s also suggests the traditional and conciliatory character of Slovak society. It took twenty years after the 1968 events to organise the first mass protest, known as the ‘Candles demonstration’, which took place in Bratislava on 25 March 1988. At this demonstration, organised by a group of Catholic dissidents, several thousand people gathered to demand freedom of expression. The regime tried to discourage people from participating in this protest by reverting their attention to ‘special’ TV programs and by violent repression of the protesters. Although this rally consequently spawned a series of protests by dissidents groups, they took place almost exclusively in Prague—the capital of Czechoslovakia—rather than in Slovakia. The state socialist regime finally collapsed after the brutal police attack against a legal student demonstration on 17 November 1989 in Prague, which commemorated the closure of Czech universities by the Nazi regime. Just a day before the events in Prague, a non-organised, insecure and under-confident march of informal groupings of young people took place in Bratislava. However, the momentous events of 17 November were followed by ten weeks of spontaneous demonstrations, including the general strike of 27 November, gathering some 100,000 people every week in Bratislava alone. Students travelled in the ‘Velvet Revolution train’ across Slovakia to give testimony about the police and regime brutality. After the nomination of the new government, and the abolition of the monopoly of KS , this rapid mobilisation ended on 10 December in Bratislava, with an excursion on foot of approximately 150,000 people to Austria, to ‘have a look at the Devin from the other side of Danube’ (Mikloško 1996:24). Overview of civil society in Slovakia after 1989 Since the founding elections of 1990, civil society has undergone important changes in terms of its institutionalisation. However, its character, scope and composition have been largely influenced by the legacies of the proceeding regime, which maintained a critical degree of inertia over political reform. The political elite’s skill and capacity to negotiate inter-elite pacts, to solve conflicts, and to find compromises, especially during the process of drafting the new Czecho-Slovak constitution, failed on both the Slovak and Czech sides. It also

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negatively influenced co-operation between elite and social groups in the simultaneous rebuilding of civil society and the redefinition of the state and its powers. Hence, the already unfolding process of ‘crafting democracy’, based on the fundamental choice of the rules of the game, their institutionalisation, and including the simultaneous separation of the boundaries between the realms of the state, political and civil society was complicated. It is complicated by national conflicts and demands as well as by nationalistic pleas and beliefs, which structured and mobilised collective action in the country. The initial formation of civil society in post-communist Slovakia went through several rapid phases of development. The first period started in November 1989. Here, the focus of power was located in spontaneously mobilised, contentious and active civil society, which opposed the (communist) state. This stage was characterised by unclear distinctions between political parties, movements and interest groups. However, already in early 1990, the second phase began, in which some organisations started to develop relationships with new political parties and movements; for example, by supporting them in the first elections. Later, various interest groups also demanded the right to participate directly in decision-making, even in the drafting of the constitution. Within one year after the breakdown of the communist regime, different structures and mechanisms for the representation of organised interest were formed ‘from above’ as a result of these pressures. The established mechanisms of representation subsequently granted privileged access to the state to some groups, like the trade unions via the tripartite mechanism of bargaining. The growth of corporatism, characterised by bargaining and lobbying strategies on the central state level, also opened the way for the mobilisation of other groups, some of which deployed more contentious strategies. Thus, civil society in Slovakia displays three distinct sectors, according to their goal orientation: first, traditional voluntary, mostly ‘leisure-time’ oriented (e.g. sports clubs, gardening associations) and charitable associations; second, corporatist organisations, dominated by labour unions and professional chambers; and third, national and ethnic organisations and movements. The latter sector comprises highly visible groups using contentious strategies of mobilisation. However, while the two former segments have been rather stable in terms of number and persistence of organisations, the third sector has been declining since the establishment of the independent Slovak state in January 1993. The speed of the initial transformation led to an explosion in the number of civil society organisations that at first actually outpaced the ability of the postcommunist government to provide a legal framework to regulate and protect them. While before 17 November 1989 there were 306 officially permitted associations and organisations in the whole of Czechoslovakia, by the end of December 1990 there were 3502 citizens’ associations registered in Slovakia alone, and by April 2000 this number had increased to 17,844 (Ministry of the Interior 2000). In August 2000 the most numerous were sports organisations and training clubs (52 per cent), followed by gardening organisations (20 per cent),

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hunting and fishing associations (5 per cent), and professional, youth, cultural, and charitable organisations and foundations (less than 3 per cent). Only a few organisations appealed to Slovak national identity. Among them, MS dominates; it has many regional and local branches, and therefore has been able to mobilise its supporters in different regions. Other organisations, based on different ‘ethnicities’, such as Hungarian, Ukrainian, Roma, Rusyn, etc., numbered more than 100 in 2000. Three distinct categories of civil organisations can be identified also according to their origin. The first category consists of pre-communist period organisations, which claimed legal continuity with its predecessors. The second group is constituted by the communist era organisations, while the third type are new (i.e. ‘true’ post-communist) organisations without any historical continuity. The origin of voluntary organisations determined their position and influence in society. While the first type of organisation could make legal claims on the return of property, and the second was subjected to the withdrawal of some property, the new organisations were in general disadvantaged. Cultural and charitable organisations in particular depended rather vastly on state subsidies, and less on leaders’ skills to raise private funding and contributions.1 Some organisations, for example youth associations and trade unions, have their own funds. These resources were formed during the transformation of the former communist ‘transmission belts’, and principally include estate property and profits from its renting. Political parties play an important role in the funding of various organisations as well, especially when they are in government. Since the mobilisation in 1989, there have been two broad, mass waves of mobilisation of civil society actors in Slovakia to date. These mobilisations led to the formation of two very different movements. The first, the Slovak National Movement, was connected with the Slovak national issue and the establishment of an independent Slovakia. The second occurred in the 1998 election campaign, when civil society actors organised and co-ordinated a broad range of activities, aiming at a ‘pro-vote’ mobilisation (Bútora et al. 1999). While the latter were popularised as true agents and proponents of civil values and norms, the former was rarely analysed outside of the division of the former Czechoslovak federation and the rise of Slovak nationalism. Moreover, the members of SNM were often depicted as negative elements, which did not belong in a ‘civilised’ and modern society. The Slovak National Movement—an integral part of civil society? The very conditions of post-communism—in which the boundaries between the state, political, and civil society were unclear and unsettled— provided an unique opportunity structure for newly created actors, which could easily change their positions and even identities. Actors of SNM ‘travelled’ across all three public domains; they blurred the boundaries between them by imposing one general

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(national) identity on them, interpreting it as dominant over any other particular identity and/or interest, and thus trying to restrict the newly emerging political and ideological diversity. The ‘life’ of SNM can be divided into three different periods. The first period started in November 1989 and lasted until the establishment of the independent Slovak state in 1993. This period was linked with a highly mobilised, contentious, and active civil society. SNM actors were the main proponents of nationalist feelings and orientations, frequently opposing government policies, particularly those providing liberal conditions for ethnic minorities. Instead, they asked for policies supporting Slovak national identity, ranging from the language law to the formation of an independent Slovakia. During this period, the level of mobilisation reached its peak in terms of number of protests and participants. Its actions attracted a lot of attention from the mass media, and were partially coordinated by nationalist dailies and weeklies broadly published in the country during that time. The second period started just before the 1994 elections, when SNM actors reappeared in political campaigns of the Slovak National Party (SNS) and the Movement for a Democratic Slovakia (HZDS). Leading personalities linked with SNM entered, or more precisely conquered the state after the 1994 electoral victory of these two parties, which formed a coalition government together with the left-wing populist Workers’ Association of Slovakia (ZRS). SNM organisations gradually disintegrated, as the movement demobilised itself, and its leaders became protagonists of state policies. They slowly disappeared from the civil society domain. By doing so, they lost the skills needed for the organisation of effective collective and protest action, which became apparent during the 1998 election campaign. The third stage began after the 1998 elections, when the broad coalition of democratic and pro-Western parties formed the new government. HZDS and SNS lost the elections and have since played the role of anti-system opposition, however, without the ability to mobilise civil society actors and to revive the previous power and influence of SNM. This process has been linked with the gradual institutionalisation of representative democracy that has fortified the boundaries between the state, political and civil society. Institutions and mechanisms of representative democracy have step-by-step gained more support among political parties, civil society actors, and citizens, which make any new large-scale mobilisation of civil society aimed at broad, meta-political goals unlikely. SNM’s composition and organisation SNM integrated different actors, which often moved places between the state, political, and civil society and frequently used to change strategies of collective action. Some of them belonged to parliamentary and non-parliamentary parties; some functioned as ‘civil’ associations or were organisations supported by the

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state. All of them built their mobilising and contentious potential on a preexisting national identity. This sector of civil society was the most active and militant before the split of Czechoslo vakia, which can be explained by the interplay of several mutually reinforcing factors. First and foremost, it was the identification power of national identity that formed the only clearly articulated and recognised cleavage in post-communist Slovakia. Second, this issue derived its power from Slovak history, literature, art, and popular myths that were used by the educational system under the communist rule. Third, the new political elite failed to mediate nationalist demands and conflicts. Fourth, politically ambitious persons had constantly reinforced the national issue, as this topic was one of the most accessible resources of popular support. The key role in the mobilisation of political protest on the basis of Slovak identity played the institution with the greatest financial and organisational potential, and the longest tradition, Matica Slovenská. Historical efforts of the Slovak intellectual elite to enlighten the Slovak people, to promote its national identity, and to establish a Slovak language, culture and education can be traced back to the middle of the nineteenth century. Such actions aimed at overcoming the religious division between Catholics and Protestants, which used to be the main divide in Slovak society at that time and led to the establishment of MS. During the communist regime Matica was officially permitted to exist, although it was partly persecuted (because of its nationalist agenda during the prewar and war period), and partly tolerated (because the protection of Slovak national identity was one of the main official reasons for the establishment of a common state with the Czech nation). Therefore, MS, actually being a semi-state organisation, entered public life after the demise of state socialism as a ‘persecuted victim’ of the former regime. Any protest action organised by MS was supported by several other organisations, which differed in terms of formal organisational status and the level of radicalism related to demands and protest strategy. The most radical groups were the newly established organisations, including the Slovak Salvation Front, Movement for Slovakia’s Liberation, Slovak National Unity, Slovak National Democratic Movement, Independent Party of Slovaks, and Slovak National Congress. Since the collapse of the communist regime these organisations openly called for the independence of Slovakia and functioned as vehicles for the mobilisation of nationrelated protest. Some of them were formally registered as political parties, but acted as movements. There were other actors closely connected with SNM as well. These were more traditional, already established associations, such as Slovakia’s Independent Association of Economists (NEZES), Štúr’s Society, Slovak Librarians’ Club, Association of Slovak Soldiers, National Petition Committee of Citizens in Slovakia, Roots, and Synthesis 1990. In terms of protest strategy these associations were usually less radical than the new groups within SNM. Their leaders focused initially on demands related to recognition of Slovak national interests or identity within the common Czechoslovak state. However, their

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demands gradually grew to, for example, asking the Slovak government to pass a declaration of sovereignty within the federal state. Because the government rejected this demand in 1991, the organisations sponsored and organised demonstrations under the common name ‘For a sovereign Slovakia’. Leaders and members of these organisations were often personally connected with the main organiser of almost all nationally oriented protests, MS. Moreover, during the 1990–2 period, political parties often acted as interest groups or voluntary associations. As indicated above, this was typical of the blurred boundaries between the state, political and civil society of that time. Some political actors, including parliamentary parties, were regularly using forms and strategies of collective action typical for civil organisations. The generally high level of participation stemmed from ‘joint venture’ projects, most notably of nationalist parties and nationallyoriented organisations. Moreover, during the first year after the reestablishment of parliamentary democracy in Slovakia, political parties and movements were not yet experienced in parliamentary politics. The institutions of representative democracy were not yet accepted and institutionalised either. Therefore, leaders of political parties and citizens often contested the rules and outcomes of representative democracy. For example, at that time members of parliament quite frequently used to ‘discuss’ political issues, such as the language law, with protesters in front of the Slovak National Council (the parliament), instead of being involved in the parliamentary debate on this legislation inside. Thus, the whole polity inclined to a return to the famous 1989 days of mass mobilisation. Political leaders attempted to solve parliamentary or party conflicts by appealing to the masses. This rather populist character of Slovak politics, linked with the high level of mobilisation, was a constant and typical feature of political culture in the early post-communist period. The nationalist press played a prominent role in the functioning and coordinating of SNM. At the beginning of the 1990s several nationalist dailies and weeklies were published in Slovakia, which successfully promoted nationalist orientations among the population. SNS published a weekly, Slovenský národ (Slovak nation), with a circulation of 20,000 in 1993. Two other weeklies were Slovenské národné noviny (Slovak national newspaper), with a circulation of 7000, and the anti-Semitic Zmena (Change), with a 80,000 circulation and 15 per cent readership. The only daily with a nationalistic character, Nový Slovák (New Slovak), had a circulation of 20,000 that year. In these newspapers the Slovak state of the 1940s was uncritically evaluated and its President, Josef Tiso, was glorified as a martyr. The ideas of the ‘nation’ and of independent statehood were considered to have a supreme value. The city of Bratislava, Slovakia’s capital, was the central place of the SNM demonstrations. The movement used its network and facilities to bring protesters to the city. Immediate information and regular reports on protest events by the mass media located in the capital reinforced the ‘visibility’ of contentious politics throughout the country. Especially the media focus on nationalist rallies

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promoted it also outside the capital, and thus attracted more participants to the subsequent protest events. Moreover, SNM used the most expressive means to illustrate its national demands, such as songs, signs and other symbols representing Slovak national identity. This always secured the attention of the mass media, and photos of protesters usually dominated the front pages of main dailies and weeklies. SNM’s contentious politics2 Actors of SNM were bound to use protest as a primary form of public participation, not having close allies in the government during 1990–2. Although some moderate national demands were articulated also by the national government in Bratislava during this time, its representatives inclined to bargain with the federal and Czech national authorities. Political changes in 1991, including the split of Public Against Violence (VPM) and the dismissal of Prime Minister Me iar, were perceived by the public as the rejection of national demands by the ruling political elite. Consequently, these political changes reinforced the contentious potential of the national movement, and many political and social actors and organisations joined SNM, further strengthening the pressure on the moderate policies of the Slovak government and parliament towards the federal government and the ethnic minorities, namely the Hungarians. The development of SNM was structured along politically constructed interests, which were connected with national identity. Such interests appeared in public when the Slovak parliament debated issues such as a new official name for the federal state, a bill on the official language in Slovakia, a bill on the use of minority languages, a declaration of independence of Slovakia, calls for early elections after the removal of the prime minister, etc. SNM actors deployed a strategy of gradual increase of claims to challenge and push the government to implement or revert back some policies. The main post-communist division between ‘them’ (the communists) and ‘us’ (the people) was a mobilising force for only a short period, i.e. from the Velvet Revolution in November 1989 until the first elections in June 1990. In this period, VPM organised a general strike against KS , demanding the ‘return of assets’ stolen from the people by the communist party during forty years of communist rule. The leading slogans of these protests were ‘We are not like them!’ and ‘Down with the old Mafia!’ However, this division of society was soon abandoned and a kind of solidarity between the political leaders of the national(ist) parties (HZDS and SNS) and the old regime’s supporters was established. In the 1991–2 period, SNM leaders interpreted the main division in a different way, redefining ‘us’ as the ‘ethnic’ Slovaks against ‘them’, i.e. Czechs, ‘federal’ Slovaks, and ‘ethnic’ Hungarians living in Slovakia. The first culmination of protest happened in October 1990, when the Slovak parliament debated and approved the Language Act. Almost at the same time,

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Prime Minister Me iar threatened to resign from his post if the Minister of the Interior (nominated by the Christian Democratic Movement, KDH) would not submit his resignation. As a consequence of these two events the Slovak polity became highly mobilised. MS began a rapid mobilisation campaign in the autumn of 1990, when it submitted its own draft Language Law, opposing the governmental proposal, which allowed other languages to be used for official purposes in localities with at least a 20 per cent minority population. Matica demanded a law that would make Slovak the only officially recognised language in the country. All other nationalist parties, organisations and movements (and many others) supported the draft and joined the protest. During this period the network of MS local organisations proved crucial for the campaign, as every day their coaches used to bring hundreds of protesters from the countryside, especially Slovaks from the south of Slovakia, where the majority of the Hungarian speaking population live, and ‘ethnic’ Slovaks are sometimes in the minority. Although the government and parliament rejected the popular pressures and passed their own draft, the protest campaign continued with hunger strikes in front of the Slovak parliament. Ever since, the language issue has remained very sensitive and has turned into a mobilising force each time related legislation is debated. The second pinnacle of protest occurred in March 1991, when Prime Minister Me iar was removed from office by decision of the chairmanship of the Slovak National Council. The possibility of removing the prime minister by a chairmanship vote, and not by a vote in a plenary session of the parliament, was stipulated by the ‘old’, but still valid communist constitution. Many people criticised this decision as not democratic, because in other parliamentary democracies prime ministers can be removed only by a vote of parliament. However, at that time the pro-federal forces organised in VPM did not have a secure majority in parliament, and therefore decided to use the rules stipulated by the old constitution, which limited the influence of the parliamentary majority. The decision of the chairmanship provoked high levels of participation in the collective protest. This time many different actors joined the protest. Even the usually silent trade unions joined this protest campaign and announced a onehour warning strike against the prime minister’s removal. For more than a month the press reported on rallies, demonstrations, protest statements, and letters against this decision. Although the nationalist organisations did not play a prominent role in this protest, they effectively used the opportunity to further their nationalist demands. Contentious actions organised by SNM in connection with the Language Law and the removal of Prime Minister Me iar attracted the largest participation in protest. In 1990 and 1991, when Slovakia’s polity was more protest prone, 14 and 13.4 per cent respectively of the protest events attracted more than 10,000 people to demonstrate their discontent with politics by different means—rallies, demonstrations, and petitions. This is very significant, because since then not one single protest in Slovakia drew more than 10,000 participants. A comparison of

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the size of the protest in four ECE countries revealed that, despite Slovakia having fewer protesters than the other countries, on a ‘per capita’ basis its population proved to be quite contentious, with only Poland exceeding Slovakia’s level of protests during the early stage of post-communist development (Ekiert and Kubik 1998). The exceptional ability of SNM to employ contentious actions becomes even more pronounced when we look at the structure of protest demands. Contentious politics in Slovakia in 1990–4 clearly focused on the nationstate issue, although public opinion polls indicated that economic grievances and worries about the decreasing standard of living were the main concern of Slovak citizens during that period (see Stena 1992). Protesters most frequently focused on demands related to different national or ethnic identities. They were either concerned with the issue of the common state, including both pro- and anti- positions on separation of Slovakia, or they expressed demands related to the situation of ethnic minorities or Slovaks living in the southern part of Slovakia. Political demands (if we also include the common state and ethnic minority issues) were dominant, when classified according to the number of protest events, representing 31.5 per cent of the whole sample of 335. Economic grievances and requirements formed a smaller proportion, 25.1 per cent. Additional examination of the protest events revealed that contentious actions related to political and national claims prevailed in terms of protest magnitude, i.e. only those protests that raised national demands attracted the highest participation. Moreover, the occurrence of national and political claims tended to increase during 1990–2. While economic claims increased only from 23 to 25.8 per cent, and were raised only in single protest events, the national issue dominated in protest campaigns and series growing from 7.6 to 21 per cent in 1991 and dropping to 10.3 per cent in 1992. During 1991 the number of protest events increased, as did their magnitude, though protest activities intensified in 1992. However, in 1990–2 many protest event demands were intertwined and protesters often combined economic and political demands, what may partly explain the dominant position of the national issue in protest politics. Protesters might have perceived the economic decline exclusively as a result of the federal government, hoping that independence would bring better government, i.e. more responsive to their economic and social grievances. Interestingly, during 1993, i.e. after the establishment of independence, unemployment reached 12 per cent, and economic demands dominated the protest events, representing 40 per cent of all existing demands. Several different patterns, combining political and ‘other’ demands dominated protest politics in Slovakia. These demands had gradually radicalised: first, protesters asked for recognition of identity, then they demanded the right to participate in politics. Such shifts in demands can be found in all relevant movements active in protest politics. However, SNM had boosted its demands by calling for the exclusive recognition of the Slovak language and for its protection in southern Slovakia. Later, such claims turned into political demands, asking for

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specific legislation to regulate the use of the Slovak language. In time, this demand grew within the movement and culminated in the call for Slovak independence. The analysis of protest targets, i.e. authorities that have the opportunities and powers (real or perceived) to deal with demands, shows the high level of politicised of the whole post-communist community in Slovakia. The most popular targets of protest were central state institutions, most notably governments and ministries, both federal and national. Interestingly, Václav Havel, then federal President, was addressed only a few times. Even before the dissolution of Czecho-Slovakia organisers and participants of protests preferred to appeal to the national government more often that to the federal one. This might have originated from the political and national demands, but also from the protesters’ closer identification with the national authorities. In a few cases protesters also targeted local government bodies. The overall picture of the protest repertoire was very stable, mostly non-violent and predominantly non-disruptive.3 The analysis reveals the exceptional position of SNM, which, as the most protest prone sector of civil society, limited its actions mostly to rallies and street demonstrations. Consequently, this sector of protest politics became the most visible and reported on in the press. In one case, a protest organised against the liberal version of the Language Act, small groups of protesters also organised a hunger strike in front of the parliament building. At other occasions related to this issue, protesters attacked and damaged the gate of the parliament building. Another infamous protest event was related to the anniversary of the foundation of the Czechoslovak state, when in Bratislava two opposing rallies were organised. One group demonstrated for an independent Slovakia, while the other supported the common state. Participants of the national protest attacked Václav Havel, who participated in the commemoration of the common state and (inconsiderately) decided to attend this rally. Such actions always attracted close attention of the mass media, even though they did not gain mass support. In three cases nationalist demonstrations ended by burning the Czechoslovak flag, while three other rallies culminated in spontaneous violence, including an attack on the Slovak parliament and small-scale street fights with opponents. Such events led to even more media attention and re-enforced the mobilising power of SNM compared to the very peaceful and non-violent picture of Slovak contentious politics in general. During the 1990–2 period there was a slight increase in the occurrence and extent of the protest. The increase in the number of protest events seems to match the unfolding process of economic and political transformation. The 1992 increase in the extent of the protest can be explained as the effect of highly contentious politics connected with political debates and discussions on the restructuring of the former Czech and Slovak federation.4 Most of the 1992 protests were distinctive in their demands, asking for different economic and social policies and for special decisions. However, the possibility that the heated political debate over the common state had produced an effect of social

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‘contagion’ should not be excluded. During the whole year the mass media regularly reported on some protest events organised as part of campaigns either in favour or against the federation. It can therefore be argued that under this influence protest behaviour became somewhat more diffused and common in society. However, it should be pointed out that the large-scale protest behaviour disappeared simultaneously with the decline of protest activities over the issue of the common state. Perhaps it was also a result of the disillusionment with their own weakness that Slovak supporters of the CzechoSlovak federation experienced, as the federation was dissolved by an agreement between the political elite. After the establishment of the Slovak Republic, on 1 January 1993, a substantial decrease in protest events was noted. The total number of protest events dropped from 116 to 47 in general, from 86 to 35 in single protest events, and from 15 to 6 in both protest series and campaigns categories. When SNM achieved its main goal, i.e. Slovak independence, many of its organisations disappeared from the protest politics sector and the number of jointly organised protests decreased rapidly. In 1990 22 per cent of protests had been organ-ised by two or more organisations, while in 1991 the proportion had increased to 31 per cent. However, in 1992 only 9 protest events (8 per cent) were organised in cooperation, in 1993 only 7 (14 per cent), and in 1994 only one (2.5 per cent). This supports our general depiction of Slovakia’s contentious politics in 1990– 4: it was mainly a function of SNM mobilisation, culminating in 1991–2, but did not produce a stable institutionalisation of protest politics. The latter was due to the interplay of several factors; first and foremost, the country lacked a protest tradition; second, political and social actors used protest as an instrument for political struggle to mobilise voters’ support; third, only SNM employed disruptive contentious politics that added extra power to its demands; and, fourth, the main protest target (i.e. the Czech and Slovak federation) ceased to exist. SNM in independent Slovakia The rapid decline of protest actions after the establishment of independent Slovakia, in 1993, indicates that the Slovak National Movement dismantled itself when it lost its primary mobilising goal. This decline also suggests that the main ‘enemy’ of the protesters, the representatives and supporters of the federal state, disappeared as well. New collective identities and demands towards the new nation-state could not been formed so easily, as there were no other powerful and influential protest organisers left. As a consequence, mobilisation of protest prone groups never reached the same level as in 1990–2, even when organisers tried to employ national appeals. The decline in national mobilisation after the establishment of the Slovak state is a quite ‘natural’ effect of the shift of nationalist issues from civil society to the political arena, and later to the state domain. Key representatives of SNM joined the state administration or became MPs, and consequently disappeared from civil

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society. Moreover, during the third government of Vladimír Me iar (1994–8), educational and cultural policies became increasingly nationally oriented, as representatives of SNS and the most nationalist factions of HZDS controlled the Ministries of Education and Culture. Many of the minor nationalist groupings were still registered, but their activities were declining. Mostly, they focused on the commemoration of important figures of the fascist Slovak state (1940–4) and its foundation. However, such rallies did not attract mass participation. The nationalist press also almost disappeared, with only SNS still publishing its weekly, but with a much smaller readership than at the beginning of the 1990s. Matica Slovenská, previously the main protest co-ordinator, became part and parcel of the state after the 1994 elections. The governmental program, approved by the parliament in 1995, already indicated that MS would enjoy a dominant position in cultural and educational policies. The government gave it a lot of property, and its representatives gained privileged access to public television and radio broadcasting. MS leaders manifested their orientation by organising an exhibition in Alttoting,5 thereby openly supporting the fascist legacies of the former Slovak state. Later, MS even enlarged its influence in culture and education. Its representatives prepared the draft Language Law, in co-operation with the Ministry of Culture, while, in 1995, they drafted a new bill regulating MS’s own status in society. This bill aimed at bringing various academic institutions— including the Institutes of History, Sociology, and Linguistics of the Slovak Academy of Sciences—under the organisation and supervision of Matica. This attempt led to huge dissatisfaction and protest among all affected actors, broad circles of intellectuals, and the political opposition. In the end, Me iar’s government had to put an end to this attempt to control academic research and production in the social sciences. In reaction, Matica’s leadership decided to set up parallel social science institutes. Yet, despite some forced concessions, MS enjoyed a dominant role in educational and cultural policies and hefty state subsidies until the 1998 elections. Since the change of government in 1998, Matica’s position has been weakened. The new Minister of Culture decided to change its legal, financial and institutional position, thereby responding to demands from many leading intellectuals, who argued that in the context of democratisation the status of MS should be limited to a position similar to other civic associations. According to them, there is no need to ‘promote’ Slovak identity within the existing pluralist society. They also demanded the removal of the Slovak National Library and the National Culture Monument from the patronage and organisation of MS. A financial audit showed that leaders of MS had misused state finances, which led the ministry to subsidise only selected activities in 1999. Hence, its leaders lost their ‘free hand’ over the distribution of the state finances.6 They organised several rallies to oppose the decision, but these did not mobilise sufficient popular support. In May 2000, the Slovak parliament passed a new law on libraries, which joined the two organisations into one independent Slovak National

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Library. Thus, the privileged position of MS was gradually reduced, although some other legal changes are needed to bring its status fully in line with other cultural organisations operating within civil society. The development of other organisations, which originally composed the Slovak National Movement, resembles that of MS. Many leaders of the nationalist organisations got positions in the third Me iar government, and thus conducted nationalist policies as part of the governmental agenda. Some also tried to promote and co-ordinate demonstrations in support of the government and its policies. However, these actions never reached the previous level of mass mobilisation. For example, in 1995 the parliament reopened the debate over the language policy with the aim to codify liter-ary Slovak as the state language, instead of the official language, as the Language Law of 1990 defined it. The new law abolished provisions related to the use of minority languages. Nationalist organisations tried to mobilise support for the governmental language policy, but did not succeed. Only some 200 people turned up in front of the parliament building. Therefore, nationalist and pro-governmental organisations had to limit their collective action to less contentious forms, such as petitions and open letters campaigns. For example, the Organisation of Slovak Intelligentsia published a declaration demanding the removal of President Michal Ková from his post. This and other similar organisations and interest groups were supported by state funds. During the 1994–8 period the competing, non-nationalist sector of civil society employed less contentious forms of collective action compared to those of the nationally oriented organisations. The mobilisation of numerous civil associations started in 1996 when the government threatened their independence. Until that time, relevant societal actors, like foundations, trade and industrial chambers or even universities, enjoyed reasonable autonomy and successfully governed their respective fields with the support of society. Legal changes imposed by the government took place from ‘above’ and caught collective actors of civil society unprepared. Despite numerous campaigns against the government’s decisions, changes of the rules regulating the functioning of independent organisations were passed by the parliament (Bútora and Demeš 1998; Malová 1997b). However, the non-nationalist organisations employed different strategies and repertoires of protest, focusing mostly on non-disruptive actions, such as open letters, petitions, declarations in the mass media, etc. They rarely engaged in the organisation of rallies, marches, occupation of buildings, or hunger strikes. This wave of contentious politics in Slovakia also became ‘highly’ politicised, including political parties among the main protagonists, and culminated before the 1998 elections. The mobilisation of civil society actors such as NGOs, trade unions, universities, churches, artists’ groups, representatives of municipalities, youth and different professional associations definitely contributed to the change of the nationalist and rather autocratic government (see Butora et al. 1999).

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Conclusion The analysis of the Slovak National Movement within the broader context of civil society revival suggests several conclusions. First, it has indicated that, after 1989, Slovak nationalism as a political ideology had its roots and mass support in a broad movement, which contained several different currents. These were loosely connected in terms of organisation and tightly linked with the national issue that served as a common agenda for collective action. SNM’s actors functioned and performed their actions in various social realms, including a broad range of voluntary and independent associations, professional organisations, parliamentary and non-parliamentary parties, and state-sponsored cultural organisations. Consequently, the boundaries between state, civil and political society had effectively become blurred. This influenced Slovakia’s path of transition to democracy, which was dominated by the evident similarities between political parties and interest groups in terms of organisation, identities, goals, and behaviour. This overlap intensified the penetration of political demands into civil society, and vice versa, by unsettled political and social actors. Second, the Slovak protest culture in general, but also that of the nationalist segment of civil society in particular, has a predominantly non-violent character. The fact that the state did not undertake any action to exercise control over or to repress SNM’s actors indirectly indicates the penetrative character of this movement in Slovakia, which was supported or at least tolerated by the ruling political elite and state administration. In general, however, the non-violent character of protest in Slovakia clearly contradicts the widespread perception of Slovak nationalism as an extreme and radical political phenomenon, particularly when it is compared to other countries in the region. Moreover, the level of contentious politics has been decreasing in Slovakia, despite the increasingly harsh economic and social conditions. Third, the two waves of civil society mobilisation analysed in this chapter suggest that during democratic transition civil society becomes mobilised in protest mainly for political goals. In other words, it suggests that actors of civil society engage in contentious politics on a mass scale only when they are triggered by especially resonant issues and political events. Otherwise the dynamics of civil society in Slovakia has continued to reproduce its traditional pattern, consisting of small-scale, associative activities, which follow institutional rules, and do not regularly form a stable social movement or use organised protest actions. Finally, this examination of SNM suggests that its actors indisputably belong to the arena of civil society, though they are rarely treated as such. Even if they did not necessarily represent ‘civil’ values, they used and accepted existing legal rules in organising their activities. They also were (and again are) independent from state, family and business units; they represented and intermediated their identity and interests. In addition, SNM not only showed the ability to organise

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effective collective action, but also helped to legitimate it as a way of communication between the citizens and the newly established state. Only when the national issue was completely captured by political parties and the state, SNM came to an end. Notes 1 Many ministries, such as the Ministries of Culture, Education, Labour and Social Affairs have special funds and decide subsidies for selected organisations. 2 The data on collective protest in Slovakia are part of the research project ‘Strategies of collective protest in democratizing societies: a comparative analysis of Hungary, Poland, Slovakia and the former East Germany, 1989–1993’, organized by Grzegorz Ekiert and Jan Kubik and sponsored by the programme for the Study of Germany and Europe at the Center for European Studies, Harvard University, the National Council for Soviet and East European Research, and the American Council of Learned Societies. 3 Slovakia and Hungary had very low levels of violent forms of protest, only 2 per cent, while Poland and East Germany had 5 and 13 per cent respectively (Ekiert and Kubik 1998:557). 4 However, in our database these events were recorded (according to our definitions) as series of protest or protest campaigns and they represent only 12.9 per cent of protest events in both respective categories in 1992. 5 A place of pilgrimage in Germany connected with the internment of Jozef Tiso, the President of the Slovak State. 6 After the 1998 elections the MS leadership remained the same, no ‘political’ replacements took place. This indicates that MS has a rather autonomous position visà-vis the government.

5 Contentious politics in Croatia The war veterans’ movement Sharon Fisher

Introduction Since the overwhelming defeat of the Croatian Democratic Union (HDZ) in the parliamentary and presidential elections of early 2000, many observers have expressed new hope for Croatia’s democratisation. Ruling the country without coalition partners for nearly ten years, HDZ supported a number of controversial ideas and policies and hindered the development of civil society. The death of former President Franjo Tudjman in December 1999 and the creation of an HDZ splinter party in March 2000 have contributed to a sharp drop in public support for HDZ. As the centre-left ruling coalition has struggled with political and economic reforms since the elections, it has had the advantage of being confronted with a relatively weak and fragmented political opposition. Despite being in such an enviable position, the government has sometimes been obstructed in its work by the activities of an untraditional element of civil society: the veterans’ organisations that arose from Croatia’s 1991–5 war for independence. The veterans’ movement that emerged from the ‘Homeland War’ offers an interesting example of the changing role of civil society organisations in interaction with different state leaderships. Because of the strong ties between HDZ and the war veterans’ movement, it remains questionable whether the latter could be considered an element of civil society at all during the 1990s. As defined by Jeffrey Alexander (1998:96–7), civil society is ‘a sphere or subsystem of society that is analytically and, to various degrees, empirically separated from the spheres of political, economic, and religious life’. Meanwhile, according to John Dryzek (1996: 481), civil society ‘consists of voluntary political association oriented by a relationship to the state, but not seeking any share in state power; that is, association is self-limiting’. Although Dryzek does include groups that are hostile to democratic values as part of civil society, the Croatian veterans’ movement might be excluded from both definitions of civil society based on its close connection with HDZ and powerful influence over state policy. Because many war veterans are members of HDZ, under the previous regime most of the prominent veterans’ groups were hardly distinguishable from the ruling party

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itself. Also, the groups were supported through special benefits and financial backing. Alexander writes that to capture the deeper consciousness of civil society, one must go beyond the protest activities of organisations, looking also at the distinctive symbolic codes that are critically important in constituting the very sense of society for those who are within and without it. (…) Just as there is no developed religion that does not divide the world into the saved and the damned, there is no civil discourse that does not conceptualize the world into those who deserve inclusion and those who do not. (Alexander 1998:97–8) In Tudjman era Croatia, HDZ and its allies in the media presented the veterans as heroes and the Homeland War as a sacred event that was beyond criticism. The party refused to acknowledge the possibility that some Croatian defenders had been involved in war crimes or other illegal activities. Because the ruling party, the nation, and the state were all equated as one in public discourse during the 1990s, the veterans’ groups gradually merged with HDZ and thus with the state itself as their defining interest was assimilated into a new state imperative (Dryzek 1996). At the same time, more democratically-oriented civic associations were rejected by HDZ as ‘anti-Croatian’. Since HDZ’s fall from power in early 2000, the role of the veterans’ organisations has shifted dramatically. Instead of trying to form alliances with the current ruling parties, the groups have tried to mobilise the population in favour of radical activities that are apparently aimed at bringing down the current pro-Western government and reinstating HDZ. Mile Dedakovi Jastreb, a Croatian veteran leader and HDZ member, said that although all veterans’ associations are non-partisan and non-governmental in their statutes, there are objectively ‘very few’ of such organisations (Ve ernji list, 30 October 1999). Another leader, Miro Laco of the Union of Associations of Croatian Volunteers of the Homeland War (ZUHDDR), went as far as to admit that many of the associations see themselves as a part of HDZ and were unable to reconcile themselves with the change of government (Globus 12 May 2000). The veterans’ approach towards the current cabinet appears in some senses justified since it is highly unlikely that they could reach the degree of influence they enjoyed under HDZ leadership. Moreover, the basic ideology of the Croatian state is slowly being restructured. In an effort to end Croatia’s previous international isolation and join organisations such as NATO (i.e. its Partnership for Peace Program), the new cabinet has been forced to enhance co-operation with the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) in The Hague, to provide support for the return to Croatia of Serbian refugees who were expelled in 1995, and to treat Bosnia-Herzegovina as an independent state. While some of Croatia’s new political representatives have been reluctant to call the past ten years of HDZ rule into question, efforts to re-evaluate and demystify the

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Tudjman era—including Croatia’s role in the war—have been launched by segments of the media as well as by President Stipe Mesi , a former Tudjman ally who testified in The Hague after breaking with HDZ in 1994 and was subsequently proclaimed a national traitor. The new approach has created problems for the far right in Croatia, particularly since it has been accompanied by moves to take away some of the privileges offered to veterans under HDZ leadership. Although veterans represent a relatively small segment of Croatian society, since the elections, veterans’ organisations have been given prominent space in the media, which appear anxious to boost sales in times of economic difficulty and in a political atmosphere that is less exciting than under the Tudjman regime. The current power of the veterans’ groups in partnership with HDZ was demonstrated in the parliament in October 2000, when the Declaration on the Homeland War was approved with the aim of ‘ending the radical politicisation’ of the war. The declaration stated that the war was ‘just and legitimate, defensive and liberating and not aggressive or conquering’ and that its goal was to defend Croatian territory within its internationally recognised borders ‘against Greater Serbian aggression’ (Press Cut, 20 October 2000). Although the ruling parties controlled 95 of the 151 seats in the parliament at that time, the declaration was approved almost unanimously. This chapter provides a closer examination of the role of Croatian veterans’ organisations during the past decade. The central argument is that although Croatian veterans groups have a divided nature that makes it difficult to characterise them as a single movement, many of the prominent organisations can be seen more as political than as a part of civil society, and political activities have overshadowed their more humanitarian aims such as providing moral support and welfare benefits for soldiers and their families. During the HDZ regime, the veterans attained a privileged position mainly because their views were similar to or the same as those of HDZ. The politically-oriented groups captured the veterans’ movement and co-opted it to the state, tainting the other organisations and bringing the veterans disrepute within certain segments of the population and among other parts of civil society. Under the current leadership, the veterans’ increasingly radical approach appears to be pushing them further to the edge of society. Although the veterans’ relations to the state have shifted, their politicisation has continued as the veterans have demonstrated their inability to work in a constructive manner with the ruling parties, instead appearing aimed at bringing down the government and replacing it with one that would be more to their liking. As a framework for analysis, the first part of the chapter presents an overview of the development of Croatian civil society during the 1990s, looking at selected protest movements by trade unions and NGOs in an attempt to chart the growth of civil society under HDZ. The second section focuses on veterans’ groups in the 1990s, investigating specific examples of such organisations and their activities. The third part of the chapter deals with the changing role of the

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veterans’ organisations under the new political leadership that emerged after the parliamentary and presidential elections in January and February 2000. The growth of Croatian civil society In relation to other nations of Central and Eastern Europe, the Croats were in many ways in an advantageous position during the communist period because of the openness of the Yugoslav regime and the ability of citizens to travel and work abroad. However, in terms of the development of civil society, Croatia provided a contrast to certain other countries in the region, particularly Poland (see Nagle and Mahr 1999). Although Croatia had its 1971 Croatian Spring protest movement, that was generally considered more nationalist than liberal and was based on concerns such as the transfer of Croatia’s economic wealth to poorer republics within Yugoslavia and the recognition of Croatian and Serbian as separate languages (see Jelavich 1983). The movement initially had the support of Tito, but he crushed it in December 1971 out of concern that it was getting out of hand, comparing it to the situation in Croatia’s Nazi-allied fascist state during World War II. During the rest of the 1970s and most of the 1980s, Croatian society was rather stifled and opposition was weak, with subsequent manifestations of nationalism or calls for liberalisation perceived in Belgrade as a step back towards the World War II state. Although there was some activity, particularly in the area of women’s and environmental organisations, it was not until the late 1980s that a lively opposition movement had emerged, which was also reflected in the liberal weekly magazines Start and Danas. After 1990, when Croatia’s first multi-party elections brought the fall of communism and the formation of a HDZ government, the focus on the national question took precedence over issues of democratisation and economic liberalisation, just as it had during the 1971 Croatian Spring movement. Rather than becoming involved in creating new civic associations, many activists from the Croatian Spring actively participated in the formation of political parties, particularly the Croatian Social-Liberal Party (HSLS), HDZ, and the Croatian Peasants’ Party (HSS). During the war years of 1991–2, politicians and the media contributed to creating a society that was dominated by nationalism and the need to protect Croatia’s fragile statehood, while those who thought differently from the ruling HDZ were frequently subjected to intense criticism. According to one analyst, the fulfilment at long last of the Croatians’ ‘one-thousand-year-old dream’ of gaining independent statehood caused a kind of ‘fascination with the state,’ which was accepted as a kind of mystical entity to which the citizens had to sacrifice themselves (Miri 1996). One writer commented that surprisingly few people were willing to defend the ‘enemies of the people’, a term generally used to describe those individuals who publicly expressed dissatisfaction with government policies (Ugreši 1994). As the Croatian nation united against the

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‘enemy’, even the activities of the previously strong environmental NGOs dwindled. Nonetheless, a whole new set of NGOs sprouted up, with activities relating to the war and its effects. One of the most important centres of activism was the Anti-War Campaign (ARK), which was founded in 1991 and eventually grew into a network of NGOs aimed at building peace, strengthening human rights, and protecting the rights of women. In 1993 the Croatian Helsinki Committee for Human Rights (HHO) was established, helping to make the question of human rights an important public issue in the country. The HHO was among the most vocal critics of the ruling HDZ, and Ivan Zvonimir i ak, who served as the organisation’s chairman from the time of its establishment until October 1998, became one of the most controversial personalities in Croatia. Written complaints and press conferences were common forms of operation for many NGOs, but some groups focused on other means of protest to stimulate public debate. Although NGO-sponsored events often failed to attract large crowds, the Citizens’ Committee for Human Rights was known for its annual demonstrations aimed at returning Zagreb’s Square of the Great Croats to its previous name, the Square of the Victims of Fascism. Women’s groups also sponsored significant forms of protest, including a 1995 petition for legal and safe abortion that attracted 20,000 signatures as well as a demonstration in front of the parliament in March 1995, during which activists questioned deputies on women’s issues. During the second half of the 1990s, trade union protests became increasingly frequent, beginning with a one-day strike at Croatian Post and Telecommunications in February 1996. Subsequently, demonstrations were launched by metal workers, pensioners, teachers and research workers, and railway employees, mainly relating to their weak economic and social positions. As the economic situation deteriorated in the late 1990s, the strength of the trade union movement grew, particularly as the riches of those with HDZ connections became increasingly apparent. In January 1998, thousands of signatures were gathered for a petition to protest against the government’s introduction of VAT at a flat rate of 22 per cent. The next month, tens of thousands of trade unionists rallied against growing poverty and unemployment, but they were prevented from entering Zagreb’s main square by as many as 1000 police officers who were armed with riot gear. The demonstration was aimed against Tudjman and his family’s growing wealth, and the protesters were angry that many factories had been sold to HDZ allies for symbolic prices (BBC News 21 February 1998; Die Tageszeitung 24 February 1998; Marinkovi 1998). In 1999, as Croatia’s payments crisis worsened and many employees were forced to work without wages, social unrest further increased. In February, 2000 workers from the Diona chain of shops went to the streets of Zagreb in protest. The chain was owned by HDZ tycoon Miroslav Kutle, who had led his empire to the edge of financial ruin. Some 500 demonstrators managed to break through a police blockade in the Upper Town and reached the government offices, leading one journalist to

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comment that ‘after years of oppression and humiliation, Croatian workers have finally chosen a more radical form of resistance to Tudjman’s regime’ (Ziki 1999). The largest anti-government demonstration of the 1990s was organised neither by NGOs nor by trade unions, and it was also the only major protest that focused on questions of democracy rather than on economic and social problems.1 In November 1996, approximately 100,000 people gathered in Zagreb to protest against the government’s shutting down of the independent Radio 101. What was especially remarkable was that people came on their own volition, rather than being organised in factories and schools (Feral Tribune 25 November 1996). As in the case of many other rulers throughout the region, HDZ contributed to the slow growth of a democratic civil society since it was reluctant to relinquish influence to groups that were beyond its control. In July 1997, the parliament approved a law on associations, giving the state the authority to control the work of NGOs, impose hefty fines, and to ban a group if there was suspicion that it was acting illegally. The law required that associations re-register, and although an estimated 20,000 civic associations were registered in Croatia in the mid-1990s (Djilas 1999), by 1999 that number was down to 17,000 (HDZ 1999). Uncharacteristically, in October 1998 the government established an Office for Associations that provided funds for some organisations to which government support would previously have been unimaginable. Throughout the 1990s the NGO sector in Croatia was perceived in a somewhat negative light, partly because of its reliance on Western funding but also because of its focus on such controversial issues as minorities, reconciliation, and women’s rights. Although HDZ and its allies in the media contributed to that perception, the NGO community was partly to blame for its own image problems and lack of unity, which was the result of personality conflicts, personal ambitions, as well as deeper ideological debates. Despite such internal divisions, in the months before the elections Croatia’s NGO sector managed to come together to encourage the economically frustrated population to participate in the elections. While the group GONG was formed in early 1997 to deal with domestic election monitoring, Glas 99 was established in spring 1999 as an alliance of NGOs aimed at running a get-out-the-vote campaign, with special sections on youth, women, pensioners, and environmental groups. Glas 99 also included a veterans group in its campaign.2 Both Glas 99 and GONG began their pre-election campaigns well before those of the political parties, and even after the official campaign period for parties began those of the NGO groups— carried out through billboards, brochures, flyers, television and radio ads, and rock concerts—were often more visible and persuasive than the campaigns of the parties themselves. In a November 1999 poll, 25 per cent of respondents said they were ‘very interested’ in the NGOs’ thoughts about the elections and 35 per cent said they were ‘some-what interested’ (IRI 1999). Croatia’s trade unions were also active in the pre-election period, and several agreements were signed between unions and opposition parties. The most

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significant of those was the ‘Contract for a just Croatia,’ signed in November 1999 by the Coalition of Two—of the post-communist Social Democratic Party (SDP) and HSLS—and the Confederation of Independent Trade Unions of Croatia (SSSH), which was the trade unions’ largest and most powerful umbrella organisation. In exchange for support from SSSH, the coalition promised to implement economic and social policies in line with the union’s demands (Daily Bulletin 18 November 1999). The SSSH also signed an agreement with the opposition Coalition of Four— HSS together with three small liberal parties: the Istrian Democratic Alliance (IDS), the Croatian People’s Party (HNS), and the Liberal Party (LS)—which together with the Coalition of Two formed the postelection government. The success of the NGO sector’s get-out-the-vote campaign for the parliamentary elections was demonstrated by the voter turnout, which at 75 per cent was high, especially considering the fact that the elections were held just after New Year’s Day. Moreover, despite HDZ’s continued efforts to warn the population about the possible dangers of an opposition victory, they overwhelmingly supported the opposition parties, giving the six parties that constitute the Coalition of Two and Coalition of Four more than three-fifths of the parliamentary seats. It may have appeared natural that the pro-democracy NGOs would cooperate with the post-Tudjman leadership in a way similar to the veterans under HDZ. However, co-operation between the NGOs and the opposition political parties was weak even before the elections, and since the new government came to power many NGOs have continued to act outside the state as they pressure the cabinet to take a stronger stance in re-evaluating the past. Croatian veterans under the HDZ regime Under Tudjman rule, the entire spectrum of societal values existed within Croatia’s NGO sector, and a whole stream of NGOs was formed that represented an ‘alternative’ to the traditional, Western view of civil society organisations. One borderline case was the Humanitarian Foundation for the Children of Croatia, of which Tudjman’s wife, Ankica, served as director. That foundation had fancy headquarters and special privileges, and was able to place collection boxes in public areas and to put its flyers in the seat pockets on Croatia Airlines flights. Another NGO that did not try to hide its ties with the ruling party was the Foundation of the Croatian State Vow, whose director, Ivi Pašali , was one of President Tudjman’s closest advisers. The foundation offered student scholarships and published a regular journal entitled Državnost (Statehood) that in some articles attempted to build up a personality cult around Tudjman ( adež 1998). HDZ was also instrumental in setting up an alternative trade union association following the 1990 elections (Djilas 1999). In October 1998 the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and the Croatian government co-sponsored a three-day NGO fair in Zagreb, intended as a gathering of organisations focused on humanitarian

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questions and the protection of human rights. However, a number of untraditional NGOs also set up stands at the fair, sometimes creating an awkward contrast. Although placing feminist groups’ stands near those of pro-life organisations such as the Croatian Movement for Life and Family might be seen by some as an opportunity for healthy societal debate, real tension was caused by the fact that the fair was attended by organisations supporting the rights of ethnic Serbs in Croatia as well as those defending veterans from the Homeland War. Because of the participation of his organisation, the Association of Croatian Volunteers of the Homeland War (UHDDR), the fair was even visited by the far-right politician and former soldier, Tomislav Mer ep. Chairman of the extra-parliamentary Croatian Popular Party (HPS) and a suspected war criminal, Mer ep attended the fair surrounded by bodyguards.3 Throughout the 1990s, war veterans and the army in general had a privileged position in society. In its discourse, HDZ representatives presented the veterans as national heroes, and the ruling party tried to halt discussion of war crimes committed by Croatian soldiers in the apparent belief that questioning the sanctity of Croatia’s war for independence and the dignity of its defenders would threaten its own political monopoly. Thus, the generals who had fought in the Homeland War were presented as the ‘pillars of society’ and the ‘arbiters of good and evil’ (Raseta 2000a). Poetry written by general Ivan Tolj even made it into Croatian literature textbooks, while works by a number of internationally respected but less ‘Croatian’ writers were omitted (Mali 1998). Following the Homeland War, the Croatian state commissioned a series of new monuments to war heroes (Sabali 1998). During the 1990s, Croatia was presented by HDZ as the victim of war, especially since one-third of the state’s territory remained in the hands of rebel Serbs until 1995 and the last portions were not returned to full Croatian control until January 1998. In reality, however, Croat soldiers were allegedly responsible for a number of war crimes and criminal activities. That was probably most apparent in the case of the Croatian-Muslim war in Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1993–4, during which Croatian army representatives were allegedly responsible for the expulsion and murder of Bosnian Muslims as well as for the destruction of the historic Mostar bridge. The Croatian army was also accused of committing numerous crimes, including extensive pillaging, during the 1995 police and military operations that reunited Croatian territory and freed the Krajina region of Serbian control, while at the same time triggering the exodus of some 200,000 Croatian Serbs and killing a number of Serbian civilians. Even in the Croatian war with the Serbs in 1991–2, there were several instances of brutality that were never resolved during the Tudjman era, and the perpetrators remained free.4 Efforts to address Croatian war crimes frequently led to controversy and denial. In late 1998 the national cultural organisation Matica hrvatska refused to publish a book of diary entries from 1991–3 entitled The Homeland is a Difficult Question because of a picture on its cover of a Bosnian Muslim captive at the Croatian

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camp Dretelj in Herzegovina, and Matica stopped all professional co-operation with the book’s author, Branko Matan (Globus 9 October 1998). In defending their position and the dignity of the war, many veterans’ groups were opposed to Croatia’s co-operation with the ICTY, and the Tudjman regime itself had a complicated relationship with the court. Although both Tudjman and the Croatian parliament formally agreed to cooperate, the regime was often reluctant to do so in practice, causing problems between Croatia and the international community. Many veterans apparently appreciated that position, and in February 1999, the Association of Croatian Military Invalids of the Homeland War (HVIDRA) chairman, Marinko Liovi , equated The Hague court with a ‘Jewish-Masonic conspiracy’ (Feral Tribune 15 February 1999). Although in its discourse HDZ promoted the role of war veterans throughout the 1990s, it was not until after the 1995 operations, which freed the Krajina region from Serbian control and reunited Croatian territory, that the position of veterans was noticeably strengthened. That was likely in part because the 1995 events allowed HDZ to shift its focus from war to other issues, leading a number of groups to put forward new demands for greater democratisation and higher social benefits. In July 1995, the Association of Croatian Veterans of the Homeland War (UHVDR) put forward a resolution demanding certain rights for participants in the 1991–5 war. With more than 200,000 members and with representation throughout the Croatian state, UHVDR was one of the country’s strongest veterans’ associations, and a member of the World Veterans’ Federation (Ve ernji list 30 October 1999). The resolution stated that according to existing legislation, with the exception of war invalids, veterans had only three rights: larger and longer unemployment benefits, priority in employment, and the right to passive employment status. Among the demands made by the veterans were the following: the creation of a Veterans’ Ministry, a clear definition of war veteran status, the right to additional forms of health protection, the offer of adequate employment within one year, tax breaks for private firms that hire veterans, tax deductions, favourable conditions for loans, the creation of a veteran investment fund, and discounts in purchasing shares of state-owned firms and apartments. The veterans’ success in reaching their goals was achieved to a large extent due to the perceived heroism of the soldiers in liberating Croatian territory from Serbian control in 1995. Support for the veterans fits nicely into HDZ discourse depicting the nation’s brave struggle for independence, and unlike many other NGOs, the veterans’ groups were relatively successful in obtaining state funding and in pushing forward their demands because of the similarity of their views with the ideology of the Tudjmanera Croatian state. The veterans’ success in lobbying the government was likely also related to their size and importance as potential voters and to their cross membership in HDZ. As the groups’ influence strengthened, it became more difficult to remove any benefits or reject new demands without threatening HDZ’s leading position. The granting of special privileges to veterans was also a reflection of a battle

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within HDZ itself. Gojko Sušak, who served as defence minister until his death in 1998, was the leader of the party’s radical wing, and he was the second most powerful man in Croatia after Tudjman. One journalist speculated that Šušak was likely behind a protest of some 4000 disabled veterans in front of the Croatian parliament in September 1996. The veterans were concerned mainly about their social status, and while the demonstration was apparently aimed against the government, the protesters praised the Defence Ministry, where most of them were reportedly employed. Šušak was the first to offer public backing for the disabled veterans’ protest, and afterward Tudjman also supported their demands. That started a chain reaction, and other ministers reportedly rushed to pay compliments to the veterans and to express support for their demands (Lovri 1996). According to one study, fifteen veterans’ groups were recognised by the government and provided with funding from the state budget (see Table 5.1). The total amount does not include funds that some organisations received based on special decisions of the government or individual ministries. In 1999 alone, the fifteen organisations received a combined total of nearly 40 million kunas ($5.6 million) from the state budget (approximately 1 per cent of total budget spending), up from less than 29 million in 1995 (Vuriši 2000; Ve ernji list 30 October 1999). While the above funds went for the work of veterans’ organisations, state financing for veterans was also apparent in many other areas, particularly pensions. In March 1999, the average worker’s pension was approximately 1107 kunas, but that of a member of the Croatian army was 3517 kunas, and that of a war veteran was 5154 kunas. Thus, the pensions of Table 5.1 State financial assistance to veterans’ groups, 1995–9 Name of war veterans’ association

Total sum, 1995–9 (in kunas)

Union of Associations of Croatian Military Invalids of the Homeland War Association of Croatian Homeland War Veterans Association of Croatian Volunteers of the Homeland War Union of Widows’ Associations Alliance of Associations of Captured and Missing Croatian Defenders Union of Associations of Families of Deceased Croatian Defenders Association of Croatian Volunteer Defenders of the Homeland War Croatian Home Guard Union of Associations of Croatian Civilian Sufferers of the Homeland War

49,754,759 33,128,778 31,074,332 30,246,551 15,131,050 11,450,000 9,000,000 1,901,500 750,000

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Name of war veterans’ association

Total sum, 1995–9 (in kunas)

First Croatian Police Association of Volunteer Doctors 90/91 Alliance of Associations of the Croatian Defence Forces Croatian Society of Captives of Serbian Concentration Camps Union of Associations of Croatian HOS Volunteers Union of Associations of Croatian Volunteers of the Homeland War Total Source: Globus, 12 May 2000.

580,000 572,605 460,000 415,000 321,000 320,000 185,105,575

veterans were 4.6 times higher than those of workers. Veterans and their family members were also given certain privileges, including the rights to buy cars without paying customs duty and taxes, health insurance, invalid pensions, allowances for children, unemployment insurance, scholarships, among numerous other benefits (Djilas 2000). War-related associations had diverse goals and were established at various times; while some were founded as early as 1991, others did not begin operation until 1998. Associations were established to deal with every imaginable category of war victims, including veterans, volunteers, and war invalids, as well as civilian victims such as widows of soldiers, parents of killed defenders, families of imprisoned and missing soldiers, and survivors of Serb-run concentration camps. The goals and activities of veterans’ groups included suggesting and promoting legislative initiatives to improve the situation of war veterans, particularly in the social and legal arenas: providing members with legal and social protection, retraining, and health care; promoting members’ physical fitness; participating in Croatia’s economic rebirth; strengthening the status of the ‘defenders of the Homeland war’; and organising and providing psychosocial assistance to veterans, their family members and other war victims. One of the oldest of such groups was the Croatian Knights, which was established in 1991 with the aim of fighting for a free and independent Croatia and for the justice and dignity of its members in the ancient tradition of European knighthood. Mer ep’s group, UHDDR, included in its list of activities supporting the government’s fight against crime, war profiteers, and deserters. Activities of the civilian groups included providing information about the fate of the missing and exiled; holding press conferences, demonstrations, and petitions to call attention to missing people; pressuring the government, international organisations, and Belgrade; carrying out DNA analysis; helping families of the deceased; protecting the dignity of war defenders who were killed; improving the social status of family members of veterans; organising computer courses; involving children in sports; and providing transport for invalids. Some of the groups were unions of associations, intended to co-ordinate the activities of their

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various member organisations. One group, called the Association for Research of War and Post-war Victims of the Homeland War ‘Justice’ was established in 1998 to conduct research on war and postwar victims and to promote the rights of the families of the killed, victimised, and missing. A similar organisation was the Documentation-Reference Centre, which was established in connection with UHVDR and Croatian Knights with the aims of collecting, printing, and disseminating documents relating to the war and of providing education.5 According to one journalist, by spring 2000 Croatia had as many as 21,000 veterans’ and invalids’ associations—including local, regional and district branches—and many of them were living from the state budget (Raseta 2000b). In 1999, the fourteen major associations related to the Homeland War reportedly had a combined total of one million members since membership in one organisation did not exclude membership in another (Ve ernji list 30 October 1999). In the 1990s, the number of actual veterans was contentious, especially since it kept growing throughout the decade, as people saw the advantages being given to former defenders. According to one source, data from volunteer organisations showed that 150,000–200,000 defenders took part in the Homeland War, of whom 28,000 were volunteers (Vuriši 2000). UHDDR Chairman Mer ep claimed that there were 300,000 volunteers (Ve ernji list 30 October 1999). In September 1998, Defence Ministry data showed that 386,301 Croats had veteran status based on participation in the Homeland War for at least four months. One year later, that number had risen further to approximately 400,000. When adding those people who had spent a shorter amount of time in the war, the number of Homeland War veterans grew to 500,000 (Ve ernji list 30 October 1999). According to an UHDDR flyer, the organisation had 400,000 members in Croatia and abroad in the late 1990s; UHVDR claimed a membership of 200,000 in 1999. Getting veteran status required a signature from a commander, and nonsoldiers often obtained them through personal contacts. While the total number of proclaimed war veterans was much larger than the number of those who actually took part in the war, the number of veterans claiming disability status also grew in the late 1990s, reaching 32,000, many of whom were said to have false documents. In fact, the number of disabled veterans was just 14,000 before the 1995 military operations (Vuriši 2000). Nonetheless, all commissions that were supposed to carry out the revision of the disability status of the Homeland War veterans were dissolved by the top state leadership, and several efforts to change the pension system for veterans were halted for political reasons in the belief that any effort to dispel the myth of the war would have harmed HDZ’s position (Raseta 2000a). Although the government did not launch any general plan to distribute property cheaply to ordinary citizens, it did offer special programs for war victims. In 1993 war invalids and the families of dead war veterans were offered up to 20, 000 German marks worth of free shares ( u kovi 1996: 59–60). Moreover, a new privatisation law approved in March 1996 provided for a new voucher plan that was reserved for some 300,000 victims of the Homeland War (including

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displaced persons, war invalids, and the families of those who were killed, held captive, or went missing) as well as political prisoners from the communist regime ( u kovi 1996). Veterans’ groups and other organisations representing war victims certainly had many real problems to address (Gruden et al. 1999a, b); however, the groups sometimes became involved in questionable practices that shed doubt on their leaders’ commitment to democratic ideals. For example, HVIDRA joined in the efforts to evict people from apartments that once belonged to the Yugoslav Peoples’ Army, carrying out an eviction from a military apartment in Zagreb in October 1994 despite the absence of a legally-binding court ruling (Mazowiecki 1994). In 1998 a scandal emerged when it was revealed that Mer ep’s UHDDR had purchased a large villa near Dubrovnik from the Croatian Privatisation Fund for just eight per cent of the agreed price (Peratovi 1998). Some veterans groups were supportive of the rehabilitation of representatives from Croatia’s World War II Ustasha state, and they sometimes appeared to be co-operating with HDZ in such matters. In November 1996, thirteen veteran officers who had served in the Ustasha army during World War II were given ranks in the modern Croatian army. Although the ranks were officially presented by the Croatian Homeguard, the group’s leader said that his organisation only handed over the ranks and medals, while they were awarded by Tudjman himself (Reuters 4 November 1996). One sociologist wrote that in the 1990s ‘thousands of monuments erected after the Second World War and dedicated to the national liberation war led by the Communist partisans were destroyed by the Croatian “patriots”’ (Katunari 1997). Meanwhile, the Tudjman regime ignored the destruction of anti-fascist monuments and traditions as well as the renaming of streets after personalities like Ustasha Culture Minister Mile Budak and the inclusion of Budak’s works in literature textbooks (Lovri 2000a; Mali 1998). In an act of ‘national reconciliation’, bodies of World War II fascist soldiers were buried alongside those of the commu-nist partisans in a Split cemetery in October 1996 (Hina 27 October 1996), and Tudjman talked about creating a monument at the Jasenovac concentration camp to all the victims of World War II. Veterans in the post-Tudjman era Clashes between the veterans and the new Croatian leadership have broken out on a number of occasions, as the heritage of HDZ is slowly being re-evaluated. The government appears reluctant to move quickly to change the system of benefits established by the previous regime and has often presented a contradictory approach to the past. At the same time, however, on many occasions the Croatian population has rejected the radical behaviour of the veterans’ groups, as signalled by opinion polls and meagre attendance at certain rallies. As the public has delved into the issue of whether Croatian troops, rather than just ethnic Serbs, may have been involved in atrocities and should be tried for them, Croatian war

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veterans have aimed to prevent a broader debate over the sanctity of their fight for independence from former Yugoslavia. Veterans fear that the Croatian government is using the ICTY as a weapon against the right wing and that the cabinet is intentionally minimising the army’s contribution to Croatia’s war for independence. Meanwhile, critics have argued that the veterans’ groups are simply a front for HDZ, which is trying in any way possible to return to power by forming alliances with veterans and with Croatian immigrants from BosniaHerzegovina who are worried that they might have to hand over their houses to Serbian returnees (Hedl 2000; Krickovic 2000). Since the 2000 elections, veterans have been concerned that the system of benefits for war veterans will be called into question by the new Veterans’ Minister Ivica Pan i , himself a veteran and displaced person from Vukovar. With the high number of veterans claiming disability status placing a heavy burden on the state budget, the government decided to establish a state commission to investigate whether veterans were using false documents. While Pan i said in May 2000 that approximately one-third of Croatian army generals were false invalids (Globus 12 May 2000), the commission’s report released the following month revealed that eighteen high officials, including as many as ten army generals, were false invalids who could be subjected to discharge and criminal prosecution. HDZ representative Vladimir Šeks called the naming of fake disabled veterans a government attempt to destroy the reputation of generals and the dignity of the Homeland War (Raseta 2000a). In June 2000 HDZ called a no-confidence vote in Pan i , arguing that he had endangered veterans’ human rights and insulted all Croatian defenders. Prime minister Ivica Ra an, however, said that the search for false disabled veterans would continue (Daily Bulletin 19 June 2000). Moreover, under pressure from the IMF to cut the budget deficit, the ruling coalition went a step further in March 2001, when the parliament eliminated the veterans’ right to import duty-free cars. Croatia was stunned in August 2000 when Milan Levar, a volunteer witness before the ICTY on alleged crimes by Croats against the Serbian civilian population in 1991 in and around Gospi , died following an explosion in his back yard. During the war, Levar had served as a volunteer defender in Gospi , and he was one of the few who was willing to testify about the war crimes committed by Croats. In his testimonies, Levar accused HDZ of knowing about the crimes and covering them up. President Mesi argued that Levar’s murder was a reaction to the government’s silence on the occasion of several other actions by the Croatia’s extremeright, including the urinating on an anti-fascist monument in May and the unveiling of a monument to an Ustasha leader in June (Drezga 2000; Lovri 2000b). In response to the Levar murder, the government finally decided to take action in September 2000. As part of a campaign to apprehend war crime suspects, some twenty people were arrested on charges ranging from war crimes to international arms smuggling and drug trafficking, including some army and police officials who had until recently remained active. Ivan Andabak, who was

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accused of having responsibility for numerous crimes committed in BosniaHerzegovina, was arrested on suspicion of having smuggled cocaine. Thus, Croatia became the first country in the territory of former Yugoslavia to launch a real campaign to apprehend its own war criminals. The police crackdown on suspected war criminals provoked an outcry among various groups of war veterans and disabled veterans. They accused the authorities of ‘criminalising’ the struggle for the homeland and warned that they would ‘be toppled’ by all legal means available (Reuters 30 September 2000). Veterans’ groups have organised a number of protests, and the most successful have generally been those involving decisions by the ICTY. The first major demonstration following the government’s accession to power was held in March 2000, when 5000–10,000 veterans protested in front of the US embassy against the ICTY’s sentencing of general Tihomir Blaški to forty-five years in prison for war crimes committed during the Croatian-Muslim conflict in central Bosnia in 1992–4. The court’s decision set a precedent by recognising the war between Croats and Muslims in Bosnia-Herzegovina as an international conflict, thereby implicating Croatia as an aggressor in a foreign state. Many Croats believed that although Blaški may have been guilty of some crimes, he was not the main perpetrator of the massacres in Bosnia and that his sentence was draconian. During the rally, protestors emphasised that the judgement of Blaški was a condemnation of the Croatian people, and they criticised Croatia’s cooperation with the ICTY. Some Croats alleged that Blaški , who had gone to The Hague voluntarily during Tudjman’s rule, was being used by the previous regime as a scapegoat so that the real perpetrators could remain free. Shortly after the verdict was announced, the new government said it had discovered secret documents that brought into question the Blaški verdict and the severity of the sentence and which could lead to the imprisonment of the real perpetrators (Daily Bulletin 6 March 2000; Hedl 2000). Nonetheless, with Croatian Television still in the hands of HDZ loyalists, the anti-government propaganda expressed during the protest was provided with more airtime than the discovery of the secret documents, indicating that the right-wing groups were ‘less interested in slamming Blaški ’s conviction than in discrediting the new regime’ (Hedl 2000). Although some asked why the veterans had not protested when HDZ agreed to co-operation with the ICTY in the first place, ZUHDDR leader, Miro Laco, said that HDZ had controlled the work of the associations and that the media had presented the agreement as a step that would allow Croats to go to The Hague on a voluntary basis, after which they would quickly return after being proclaimed innocent (Globus 12 May 2000). By far the biggest demonstration took place in February 2001, when approximately 100,000 people gathered in Split to protest at the investigation of Croatian general Mirko Norac for war crimes in connection with a 1991 massacre of Serbian civilians. Many of those protesters were reportedly bussed in from Herzegovina. A subsequent demonstration in Zagreb failed to attract large numbers.

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Another major demonstration took place in Split in May 2000, when some 5000 veterans gathered to protest the government’s ‘criminalisation’ of the Homeland War and the co-operation with the ICTY. The demonstrators accused the government of causing chaos and dividing the Croatian people and warned that they would strongly oppose attempts to ‘place soldiers on the crucifix of shame’. The veterans also warned that the government was rehabilitating Serbs and enabling the return of criminals to Croatia. In a declaration sent to the government, the protesters requested a general amnesty for all Croatian soldiers, asked that the Constitutional Court re-evaluate the Declaration on Co-operation with the ICTY, and demanded the punishment of Serbian and Montenegrin criminals who had committed genocide in Croatia. They also asked Ra an for a public apology for insulting soldiers and referring to them as extremist, rightwing and fascist. Soldiers rejected accusations that the protest was directed at toppling the new government, arguing that in the next elections Croats would decide whether they would re-elect those that are attempting to ‘resurrect Tito, Yugoslavia and communism and kill the Croatian spirit’ (Daily Bulletin 11 May 2000; Dobrila 2000). In April 2001, veterans handed over a petition with over 400,000 signatures calling for a referendum to pass legislation guaranteeing Homeland War veterans the same privileges as the liberating armies from World War II. Also in May 2000, HVIDRA chairman Liovi publicly threatened that his veterans would launch a series of protest activities, not only in city squares, but also through the possible sabotage of the upcoming tourist season by blocking roads, border crossings, ports, and airports. Liovi even claimed that he would send letters to foreign embassies dissuading their citizens from visiting Croatia. Other veterans’ groups and branches of HVIDRA condemned Liovi ’s statements, and some members accused Liovi of embezzling funds from the organisation. The only politician to publicly support Liovi was Anto ëapi , chairman of the farright Croatian Party of Rights (HSP), while HDZ representatives expressed ‘understanding’ for the veterans’ position. A poll published by the Jutarnji list daily showed that nearly 90 per cent of Croats disapproved of Liovi ’s rhetoric. The summer 2000 tourist season was expected to be the most successful one since the start of the Yugoslav conflicts in the early 1990s, and the population and government were counting on the income to help turn the economy around (Krickovic 2000; Raseta 2000b). In April 2000 the Central Headquarters for the Protection of the Dignity of the Homeland War was established in response to the growing frequency of attacks against the generals who had participated in the 1995 military operations. The group has since organised a number of protest demonstrations, but they have not always been successful. For example, during the EU-Balkans summit held in Zagreb in November 2000, the association tried to mobilise Croatian citizens against the presence of Yugoslav President Vojislav Kostunica; however, only about 500 protesters showed up. In April 2001 the group organised a blockade near Split to protest at the behaviour of the international community and the

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Croatian government towards Croats in Bosnia-Herzegovina; however, a poor turnout meant that the demonstration was cut short. Also in April 2001, a demonstration held in Knin to protest the cabinet’s decision to allow for the excavation of a mass grave of Serbian civilians attracted just 200–300 veterans. The politicisation of the veterans’ movement has became even more apparent since the establishment of the Movement for Croatian Identity and Prosperity (HIP), which is led by the late President Tudjman’s son, Miroslav, who had served as head of the secret services under his father’s rule. HIP has co-operated closely with Croatian generals and with veterans’ associations such as HVIDRA. For example, in mid-May, leaders of HIP and HVIDRA signed a declaration calling for the respect and protection of national values. In the May 2001 local elections, HIP won seven per cent of the vote, even though it had yet to be established as a political party. It was not until July 2001 that HIP was registered as a party: retaining the same acronym, the party’s name became Croatian True Revival. Aside from Miroslav Tudjman, other prominent members include several retired generals as well as the football star Zvonimir Boban. In an attempt to exploit the weakness of the centre-left ruling coalition, HIP is positioning itself on the right wing, with one of the main thrusts of party’s pro gramme being its antipathy toward the ICTY (Hedl 2001). In late September 2000, twelve army generals sent an open letter to the public demanding an end to the assault on the army and the ‘criminalisation’ of the Homeland War, calling on state officials and institutions and the media ‘to resist engaging in negative and historically unfounded representation of the Homeland War’. Mesi accused HDZ of being behind the letter sent by the generals, and he dismissed seven of them on 29 September 2000, arguing that army representatives should not be involved in writing political pamphlets. Some of the generals who signed the letter were mentioned in the media as possible war crimes suspects or witnesses, and most of them had risen to high positions during the war (Reuters 30 September 2000). The parliament’s approval of the Declaration on the Homeland War appeared to signify that although the Croatian public has not always responded positively to the veterans’ demands, the current leadership is reluctant to go further in promoting a new approach to the past, possibly because of a feeling of intimidation. The preamble states that by winning the war, Croats ‘confirmed their determination and willingness to establish and preserve the Republic of Croatia as an independent, autonomous, sovereign and democratic state,’ adding that ‘the fundamental values of the Homeland War were unambiguously accepted by the entire Croatian people’. The declaration also stated that Croatia would provide for the security of ‘all Croatian defenders, the families of those who were killed, and those who suffered in the Homeland War’, and it called on courts to apply the principles of individual accountability and guilt when dealing with cases of war crimes. It closed by calling on state officials ‘to protect the fundamental values and dignity of the Homeland War’. In this way, the ‘moral dignity’ of the Croatian people and ‘the honor, reputation, and dignity’ of all the defenders and

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citizens who participated in the war would be protected (Press Cut 20 October 2000). Croatian veterans’ associations expressed satisfaction with the declaration, adding that it contributed to decreasing tensions among Croats. They thanked everyone who had offered their support, particularly the bishops, generals, and the national football team. The veterans were also pleased that the declaration did not mention the ICTY and did not label Croatia as an aggressor in BosniaHerzegovina (Vjesnik 17 October 2000). Conclusion This chapter has demonstrated the changing role of veterans’ groups in Croatia from 1991–2001, as well as their divided nature between their political and humanitarian aims. Under the previous HDZ regime, most of the prominent veterans’ groups were hardly distinguishable from the ruling party, using their connections to gain special privileges and funding. Since HDZ’s fall from power in early 2000, the role of the veterans’ organisations has shifted dramatically. Instead of trying to form alliances with the current ruling parties, the groups have tried to mobilise the population in favour of radical activities that are apparently aimed at bringing down the current pro-Western government and reinstating HDZ. While under HDZ the veterans attained a privileged position mainly because their views were similar to or the same as those of HDZ, under the current leadership the veterans’ increasingly radical approach appears to be pushing them to the edge of society. Throughout both regimes, the veterans movement has appeared more political than a part of civil society. Although the veterans had a chance to evolve in a different way after HDZ lost power, their apparent alliance with Miroslav Tudjman’s HIP signals that the politicisation of the veterans’ movement will continue. Notes 1 This corresponds with the findings of Ekiert and Kubik (1998:56) that ‘the demands pressed by protesting groups were predominantly concrete expressions of everyday economic concerns’. 2 Personal interview with Glas 99 leader Tin Gazivoda, 10 December 1999. 3 During much of the fair the veterans groups did not interact with the other organisations, instead setting up their stands in a separate aisle and playing patriotic music at loud volume. On the last day of the event, however, a fight nearly broke out when a woman from Vukovar approached the table of the Serbian Democratic Forum and claimed that she recognised one of the organisation’s male activists from a camp where she was held during the war. A group of men from one of the soldiers’ associations came over and surrounded the table, leading a number of human rights NGOs to pack up and leave the fair (see Borkovi 1998). 4 In September 1991 Croatian militia killed 120 Serbs, including professors and judges, in the southern Croatian town of Gospi . In November 1991, nineteen

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Serbs were tortured and killed by a squadron under Mer ep’s control and buried in a mass grave in Pakra ka Poljana (Pakrac field). One of the best-known crimes was the murder of the ethnic Serbian Zec family—including the twelve-year-old daughter—in Zagreb in December 1991. Although five people from Mer ep’s group confessed to the Zec murder as well as to crimes in Pakrac, they were later released for procedural reasons since they had made the confession in the absence of their defence counsel (Lekovi 2000; Silber and Little 1996; Mazowiecki 1994). 5 This and other information presented here is based on materials provided by the organisations that took part in the October 1998 NGO fair. Participating veterans’ groups also included the UHVDR, the Union of Veterans’ Associations of the Croatian Defence Forces, the Association of National Protection, and the Centre for Croatian War Defenders. Civilian groups included the Karlovac-based Association of Civil Victims of the Homeland War, the Phoenix of Croatia: Association of Families of Imprisoned and Missing Croatian Defenders, the Union of Associations of Civilian Sufferers of the Homeland war of Croatia, and the Union of Widows’ Associations of the Croatian Homeland War Defence Force Members of the Republic of Croatia.

6 State, society and protest under postcommunism Ukrainian miners and their defeat Vlad Mykhnenko

Introduction Why did Central and Eastern Europeans protest less about the brutal social conditions of systemic change than the people of Latin America had a decade earlier? How did it happen that less disruptive forms of protest emerged as dominant social responses to economic grievances? These questions are addressed in a recently published work on patience in post-communist societies (Greskovits 1998). Leaving the volume’s answer aside, one might ask, alternatively, what happened when Eastern Europeans did protest? How have their opponents reacted to disruptive rather than ‘stabilising’ forms of protest? Are we really witnessing the birth of civil society where ‘it is not clear who is boss’ (Gellner 1996) or is the old boss still in place? This chapter focuses on one of the most militant examples of post-communist contentious politics—the movement of the Donbas coal miners in Ukraine.1 This social movement was born in 1989, when over 500,000 Soviet coal miners went on strike. The miners’ action soon became a symbol of the emerging civil society, that is, a group or mass of people who can check and counterbalance the state (Gellner 1996). In the ‘hot summer’ of 1989, the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (KPSS) capitulated to the triumphant miners. The Soviet state collapsed soon afterwards. Yet a decade after their victory, a spirit of depression has hovered over the Donbas miners. Notwithstanding the justice of their cause and their countless waves of disruptive protest, the Donbas miners have failed to achieve their goal. The miners’ movement did challenge the state. However, the outcome of this challenge has lagged far behind the expectations generated after the miners’ symbolic victory in 1989. The aim of this chapter is, therefore, to understand why this was the case and how the labour movement has influenced Ukraine’s political transformation. The first part examines basic properties of the miners’ movement, before turning to the evolution of its contentious politics. Subsequently, possible explanations for the apparent failure of organised labour are considered. In the conclusion, the impact of the miners’ contentious politics on the process of democratisation in Ukraine is discussed. It is argued that the

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dynamics of contentious politics rather than the alleged patience or apathy of Eastern Europeans provide a better insight into the apparent failure of organised labour to sustain its role under post-communism. The Donbas miners’ movement Basic properties Social movements are defined by Sidney Tarrow as ‘collective challenges, based on common purposes and social solidarities, in sustained interaction with elites, opponents, and authorities’ (1998:4). Such a sustained interaction leads to shifts within movements and to changes in their basic characteristics. Therefore, before moving towards the interaction generated by the Donbas miners, one should briefly examine the historical and socio-economic context of their movement at its initial stage, that is, before the movement was actually born in the sequences of contention. Following the concept of Donna Della Porta and Mario Diani (1999: 14–16), four characteristic aspects of the miners’ movement need our special attention: (a) informal interaction networks, (b) shared beliefs and solidarity, (c) collective action focusing on conflicts, and (d) use of protest. Historical environment and informal networks The initial development of the Donbas was similar to that of the Ruhr area in Germany or Upper Silesia in Poland. The industrialisation of the region began after the discovery of hard coal. As early as 1917, the Donbas was producing 87 per cent of the Russian Empire’s coal output, 76 per cent of pig iron, 57 per cent of steel, and more than 90 per cent of coke (Afonin 1990:45). After the Bolshevik revolution and Stalin’s industrialisation, the Donbas remained the largest producing area of coal, iron and steel in Ukraine and one of the world’s major metallurgical and heavyindustrial complexes (Mykhnenko 1999). For centuries, the area of the Donbas was an empty field. The Industrial Revolution and Stalin’s Great Terror opened the region to massive migration. People were attracted to the Donbas by the region’s vast employment opportunities as much as by its image of a ‘safe haven for fugitives’ (Kuromiya 1998). The Donbas eventually became a highly urbanised and densely populated ‘melting pot’ of various ethno-linguistic groups. The Donbas population of about 7.5 million people is mainly a mixture of ethnic Ukrainians (51 per cent) and ethnic Russians (44 per cent) (Derzhkomstat Ukrainy 2000:344; Goskomstat SSSR 1991:80–2). However, due to the prolonged powerlessness of the Ukrainian cultural tradition, over four-fifths of the Donbas population are Russian speakers (Smith and Wilson 1997:847). Therefore, the area has been widely regarded as the eastern pole in a cultural identity cleavage claimed to

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divide the country along the ‘Western Ukraine-Eastern Ukraine’ ethno-linguistic, religious, economic and historical axis (Shulman 1999; Wilson 1995). Another particular feature of the Donbas is its social class structure. In general, the region has been a base for over 23 per cent of Ukraine’s industrial labour force. During the 1989 Soviet census, 70 per cent of the Donbas inhabitants were classified as working-class (workers); a quarter of the population were identified as white-collar personnel (public servants); and only 5 per cent were classified as peasants (collective farmers) (Goskomstat SSSR 1993:16). By the late 1980s, coal mining accounted for 21 per cent of the region’s industrial output. About 35 per cent of the Donbas industrial labour force were employed by 254 coal mines and mining-related firms (Zastavnyi 1990:262). Working in extremely dangerous conditions, the Donbas miners developed close informal networks of reliance and socialisation. Common cultural traditions facilitated the extension of miners’ informal interaction networks beyond their work place. In general, the informal ties observed among the Donbas miners are similar to those that used to exist among coal miners and their communities in other parts of the world (see Warwick and Littlejohn 1992). Shared beliefs and solidarity It has been already emphasised elsewhere that the main belief shared by the Donbas miners was based on the materialist understanding of their work (Crowley 1997; Siegelbaum 1997). In particular, the miners believed in the Marxist labour theory of value, where the quantity of labour used in the manufacture of a product determines its real, fundamental and immutable value. With the beginning of democratisation in the USSR, the miners’ belief was increasingly related to a feeling of social injustice: The problem, according to many miners, was that people were not getting paid according to their labour: those that worked hard, and produced something of material value, were being cheated out of its worth, while those that distributed this wealth, were enriching themselves without real work. The miners soon drew a connection between their sense of exploitation and the state’s ability, through the self-appointed communist party, to distribute wealth as it saw fit. Indeed, the class-based anger directed at managers within the enterprise was soon aimed towards a system the miners believed to be exploiting them. (Crowley 1995:59) ‘Every worker feeds five to seven managers,’ one miner remarked in 1989. ‘We are like Negros under slavery! There is no respect for us. No one listens to our demands!’ (Kostiukovskii 1990:63–4). Such perceptions of social injustice and exploitation were prevalent among the miners and were fostered by horrifically unsafe working conditions. In 1988, 80

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per cent of the Ukrainian coal mines were over forty years old (Reshetilova et al. 1997:103). Given the persistent underinvestment into the industry, the number of industrial accidents has been growing (Rusnachenko 1993:66). In the late 1980s, there were four deaths and six serious injuries for every one million tons of coal mined in the region (Sarzhan 1998:163). In the 1990s, one miner was killed at work every day. The Donbas coal mining has become the lowest paid and most deadly mining profession in the world (CNN World News 20 August 2001). A deep feeling of social injustice and exploitation, the hazardous working conditions, combined with a much-celebrated heroic image of miners, resulted in a strong sense of occupational solidarity. Conflictual issues Despite celebrating the miners as ‘quintessential proletarians’, state socialism was unable to adequately compensate them for the hard labour and human losses. In terms of monetary gratification, the miners were among the best-paid professions in the postwar USSR (Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990). Underground workers were also provided with fairly high pensions as early as the age of fifty. Nevertheless, few miners have been able to reach pension age. In the early 1990s, the average life expectancy for the main coal mining occupations was about thirty-eight years (Siegelbaum and Walkowitz 1995:121–2). Being paid officially for a six-hour working day, miners worked, in fact, for ten to eleven and sometimes even sixteen hours a day (Rusnachenko 1993:67). A large number of coal workers were not provided with appropriate housing accommodation and lived in poor sanitary conditions. The predominance of ‘smoke-stack’ industries in a highly urbanised area led to large-scale environmental devastation. Moreover, with the beginning of perestroika, food and goods shortages became widespread and queues appeared to be endless. The lack of consumer goods, according to one 1989 survey, headed the list of miners’ grievances (Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990:14–16). A labour conflict was emerging: Working deep below the surface, where temperatures and concentrations of methane gas were high, and frequently compelled to use ‘grandpa’s methods’ (that is, jack hammers and shovels) to extract coal, Donbas workers had the distinct sense that ‘Moscow’ did not care how much hard labour they expended or how many lives were sacrificed in the process. (Siegelbaum 1997:5–6) Use of protest Della Porta and Diani have suggested that protest reflects a view of politics as a power struggle, in which involvement in civil society is not limited to elections (1999:176). The participation in elections did not provide citizens under state

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socialism with a possibility to influence political decision-making in the country. Protest, thus, was the only resource for politically impoverished miners. Working-class discontent in the Donbas became apparent at the early stage of Mikhail Gorbachev’s perestroika, democratisation and glasnost. In 1987–8, there were several local collective actions, ‘refusals to work’, and hunger strikes at some Donbas enterprises (Burnosov 1995). By the spring of 1989, the miners’ contentious action included about twelve brief local strikes and hundreds of telegrams, letters and petitions demanding enterprise independence and higher wages (Rusnachenko 1993:68). During a visit to Donetsk in June 1989, Gorbachev himself was warned about miners’ discontent (Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990:8). The main purpose of the emerging contention was miners’ endeavour to obtain a ‘normal’ or ‘civilised life’. According to some observers, what the miners called a ‘normal life’ was Western or American(ised) mass media, video or billboard images of affluence ranging ‘from Disneyland to Pittsburgh’ (Walkowitz 1995). To be sure, there never was a coherent picture of what may constitute a ‘normal life’. Some naiveté with regard to the ‘civilised West’ existed among various social groups in Ukraine and other post-communist countries. Nevertheless, the hazardous situation in the Donbas coal industry simplified what can be regarded as reasonable living and working conditions: People live to be just thirty-eight years old (…) [But] people’s dreams are different. My kids dream of being able to live in an apartment, in normal conditions (…) We want our kids to live like human beings. We don’t want luxuries or excesses, just to have some certainty about tomorrow. We want people to lead normal lives, to have acceptable, decent working conditions. This is all we are striving for. We don’t want anything else. (interview with Donetsk City strike committee, May 1991, in Siegelbaum and Walkowitz 1995:122) The opportunity to work and earn money was considered to be among the main elements of such ‘normal life’ (see the interviews with miners in Siegelbaum and Walkowitz 1995). Cycles of contention By the late 1980s, the Donbas miners acquired all the basic components needed for collective contentious action. Miners perceived state socialism —‘the system’—as their collective challenge. They recognised the existence of exploitation as their shared belief and striving for a ‘normal life’ as their common purpose. Oppressive working conditions, high levels of occupational density as well as existing Soviet rituals of celebrating ‘the heroes of labour’ forged the miners’ solidarity.

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Mobilisation: 1989±91 The first wave of contention materialised in the summer strike of 1989. The strike started at a single mine in the Kuzbass2 town of Mezhdurechensk. From Siberia, industrial action expanded to all other coalfields in the Soviet Union. In the Donbas, the strike was initiated on 15 July 1989, also by a single mine. Soon, 173 out of 226 Donbas collieries went on strike. The overall number of strike participants in Ukraine exceeded 500,000 workers (Rusnachenko 1995). Demands of the miners were articulated by openly elected mine and city strike committees. According to most of the accounts, the strike was triggered by frustrated expectations, arbitrariness of authorities, lawlessness and anxiety that perestroika was passing the miners by with no improvement in living standards (Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990; Kostiukovskii 1990; Gavrilov and Lavrov 1989). A sociological survey conducted among the striking Donbas miners reported that ‘people were tired of waiting for promises to be fulfilled, that they had felt freed from “serfdom” by glastnost, that fear had vanished, thinking awakened, and that the media had encouraged a popular rejection of the bureaucracy’ (in Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990: 13–14). The emphasis of the miners was put on economic demands. Some strike committees succeeded in purging the mine management as well as KPSS and municipal officials. Nevertheless, the miners produced mainly economic, welfare-related demands and not anti-communist slogans. The most radical among them was for full economic and legal autonomy of mining enterprises. The miners also demanded improvements in pay, holidays, pension, work, housing, and various welfare conditions. To make their demands publicly justified, the miners rebuffed ‘outsiders’, the emissaries of intelligentsia opposition groups from Kiev and western Ukraine, who had tried to turn the strike into a political struggle for Ukrainian independence. Most observers have stressed that the party line was against the strike (Rusnachenko 1993; Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990). Local authorities and some mine managers tried to stop the spread of the strike around the region by threatening and provoking the workers. Although the majority of the region’s population fully supported the miners’ action, public opinion constructed by central mass media considered the miners as being already ‘over-privileged’ and selfish. The miners’ demands were satisfied only after Gorbachev supported them in several public statements (Burnosov 1995). The miners also received the widely publicised support from Boris Yeltsin and members of the USSR Supreme Soviet elected from the Donbas (Gavrilov and Lavrov 1989). To the strike observers, the 1989 events produced an emerging sense of civic empowerment: ‘In every sphere, the conviction grew that the worker should have a direct and clear input into the political system, and that the old system that had proved so corrupt and hypocritical must be radically changed’ (Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990:19).

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The civic competence of the miners grew further with the gradual decline of central authorities and the de-legitimisation of Gorbachev’s reforms. The Donbas miners did not dissolve their strike committees, which were transformed into standing institutions. Some commentators predicted, however, that ‘unless miners forge links with workers in other industries and further develop their newfound sense of civic competence, they will be outmanoeuvred by the forces of rationalisation, and their victory will have been short-lived’ (Friedgut and Siegelbaum 1990:32). To initiate co-operation with the Ukrainian intelligentsia, shortly after the 1989 strike, a delegation of Donbas miners attended the inaugural congress of the Ukrainian Popular Movement, Rukh. The delegation openly declared their struggle to be not purely economic but also political. The lack of understanding between workers and national intelligentsia was said to be caused by the ‘divide and rule’ policy of the KPSS-controlled media. ‘We drank before, they pushed bottles in front of us. Enough!’ said one of the miners. ‘We need to learn. Organise us lectures. Only not “schools of young Communists”—we need legal, economic and political knowledge’ (in Kuzio and Wilson 1994:105–6). No ‘lectures’ have followed. Nevertheless, the miners’ movement was drifting to an open disapproval of the communist regime. The First and the Second AllUnion Congresses of Miners, held in Donetsk in June and October 1990 respectively, became political rather than trade-unionist events. Resolutions adopted by the First Congress accused KPSS and the central government of blocking transition to market and democracy (Burnosov 1995). The miners called for the resignation of the Soviet government and organised several strikes and rallies to support their political demands. In July 1990, about 256 mining, steel and transport enterprises held a one-day political strike supporting the resolutions of the congress (Rusnachenko 1995). Donbas miners began to withdraw from KPSS en masse. During the Second Congress, activists of the movement declared a need for establishing an independent trade union (Burnosov 1995). The Second Congress laid down the basis for the establishment of the Independent Miners’ Union as an organisation aimed at defending the economic and social rights of miners. In turn, standing strike committees took upon themselves all the ‘dirty’ political work (see Siegelbaum and Walkowitz 1995). In March-April 1991, the standing strike committees began to fulfil their function by holding the second all-Union miners’ strike. This time the miners called openly for the resignation of Gorbachev and the central government, the dismantling of the Soviet parliament, and for granting constitutional status to the Ukrainian Declaration of Sovereignty (Rusnachenko 1995). The Donbas miners were not wary of provoking repression since the weakness of the Soviet state had long become apparent. The participation in the strike by individual mines was not as representative as in 1989 though (Burnosov 1995). Moreover, the strike demands were not supported by other groups of workers, who could not join the Donbas miners for the prevalence of enterprise paternalism (Crowley 1995). All

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post-Soviet workers heavily depended on their enterprises for the distribution of social goods, benefits and privileges. However, it was other industries with their large multifunctional plants and not coal pits that possessed a greater social infrastructure. Social grievances appeared to be more widespread among the coal miners than anybody else. And it was the miners who did not have much to lose in their contention with authorities. Thus, the radicalism of the miners’ movement was unable to attract a broad working-class support. This notwithstanding, the mass media had no restrictions on publicising the 1991 strike and the authorities in Kiev and the Donbas supported the political demands of the miners. The strike leaders also co-operated with Ukrainian proindependence and anti-Communist groups. Although the 1991 strike did not assume a proportion capable of bringing down the Soviet state, it became, nevertheless, ‘both a reflection of and a further impetus to the decline of the Soviet “centre”’ (Siegelbaum 1997: 11). After the failed coup d’état of August 1991 in Moscow, the Soviet Union collapsed. In the referendum held on 1 December 1991, a Russified Donbas voted overwhelmingly for the independence of Ukraine. With the turnout approaching 80 per cent, 84 per cent of Donbas voters supported independence (Kuzio and Wilson 1994:198). On the same day, Leonid Kravchuk, a KPSS functionary turned nationalist, was elected president of Ukraine. The first phase of the miners’ movement was over. Adjustment: 1992±4 With Ukraine independence, all demands of the Donbas miners seemed to be finally realised. Yet post-communist transformations and Ukraine’s nationbuilding process soon generated new challenges for the miners’ movement. The goals of the miners and other vocal Ukrainian opposition groups in opposing the Soviet state and ‘Moscow bureaucracy’ were almost identical. This similarity, however, was based on different beliefs. Ukrainian national intellectuals perceived independence as their greatest objective per se. As Taras Kuzio and Andrew Wilson (1994) emphasise, the intelligentsia approached ‘practical’ demands of the workers as something to be solved by itself through tackling the political issue. Members of Rukh, the largest opposition force, concentrated on cultural and political issues. At the First Congress of Rukh, promoting ‘democratisation and the expansion of glasnost’ was supported by 75 per cent of the delegates; 73 per cent advocated ‘the development of Ukrainian language and culture,’ but only 46 per cent prioritised ‘the solving of pressing economic problems’ (Kuzio and Wilson 1994:111). Contrary to the intelligentsia, the workers supported Ukraine’s independence because they believed it would improve their material conditions. The Donbas miners thought Ukraine’s independence would assure enterprise autonomy and the accountability of the state (Crowley 1995).

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The miners’ victory appeared to be short-lived. Independence did not bring economic improvement. Despite pressing economic needs, the main effort of the state authorities was placed not on economic transformation, but on the institutionalisation of the new Ukrainian nation (von Hirschhausen 1998). New Ukrainian authorities appeared to be embedded in economic nationalism and habits of central planning. Central ministries continued to prescribe quantitative economic plans and the state retained its tight control over the economy (VRU 1994). Ukraine’s government ‘tried to preserve an industrial structure which could not be preserved’ (von Hirschhausen 1998:452). By the end of 1993, gross domestic product fell by more than 40 per cent (Havrylyshyn et al. 1998). In 1993, real wages were only 57.6 per cent of the 1991 level. Consumer prices skyrocketed by 13,046 per cent (Lavigne 1999:290–1). As late as 1994, Ukraine, in fact, made no progress in reforming its economy (EBRD 1994). The vague economic policy of successive Ukrainian governments pushed the country into ‘one of the deepest post-Soviet recessions experienced by any of the transition economies not affected by war’ (EIU 1998:16). By 1993, the most common feeling among Donbas workers was a sense of approaching ‘civil war’, ‘revolution’, or ‘social explosion’ (interviews with miners in Siegelbaum and Walkowitz 1995:186, 209). At this moment, regional elites3 entered the political stage to champion ‘the region’s interests’ (Smith and Wilson 1997:849–50). In the first few years after the restoration of Ukraine’s independence, Donetsk held establishing congresses and conferences of six political organisations: the Socialist Party (SPU), the Communist Party (KPU), the Labour Party (PP), the Liberal Party (LP), the Party of Slavonic Unity (PSE), and the Civic Congress of Ukraine (HKU) (Bolbat et al. 1994). Besides the communists, headed by Petro Symonenko—the Donetsk oblast KPSS committee secretary in the 1980s—other parties failed to gain a broad country-wide support. However, as some observers noticed, all the parties succeeded in developing a similar political agenda for the Donbas, advocating regional autonomy, self-government, legal status for Russian as the official language in the Donbas and as a second state language in Ukraine, and closer ties and re-integration within the CIS (Nemyr’ya 1995; Wilson 1993). As the Donbas was significantly contributing to the national budget, radicals accused Kiev of ‘expropriating all the Donbas money’ and pumping it into nationalist and ‘culturally alien’ west Ukrainian provinces (Nemyr’ya 1995:457). The regionalist political agenda set by newly established parties and informal groupings gained support from local mass media. Donbas miners joined the campaign. In February 1992, Ukrainian miners established the Independent Miners’ Union of Ukraine (NPH). First, NPH, alongside the once official Trade Union of Coal Mining Industry Employees (PPVP), began to pursue trade-unionist demands bargaining with Kiev for subsidies, pensions and wages. Given the unresponsiveness of the Ukrainian government preoccupied with ethnonationalising policies, the Donbas miners began to support the idea of developing the region’s own economic policy. After

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several waves of picketing the Ukrainian parliament, the offices of the central government, and the regional administration, the miners resorted to the most successful mechanism of their movement. On 7 June 1993, the first mine in Donetsk stopped working. The next day, another seventy-five mines joined the strike. The industrial action was coordinated by the Donetsk strike committee, which put forth two radical political demands: (1) Regional independence for the Donbas, and (2) a country-wide referendum on (no) confidence in Ukraine’s president and the parliament (Crowley 1995; Rusnachenko 1995). Up to 400 mining and major industrial enterprises in the Donbas took part in the strike (Rusnachenko 1995:218). The political demands of the miners enjoyed full support from coal mining trade unions, mine managers and other industrialists, Donbas-based political parties and movements, local officials, the mass media, and the majority of the region’s population: It was therefore not simply a strike of miners and other workers, nor a ‘directors’ strike’ with workers performing the role of foot soldiers, but a regional protest against the government in Kiev, its president, and policies that had brought the Donbass to its knees. (Crowley and Siegelbaum 1995:72) Reacting militantly, President Kravchuk declared the state of emergency in the country and took over the cabinet. To prevent civil unrest, Ukraine’s parliament finally agreed to hold a referendum on Kravchuk’s presidency and on new parliamentary elections. The government’s emergency commission agreed to consider ‘economic independence’ for the Donbas and satisfy demands for wage increases and indexations (Burnosov 1995; Crowley and Siegelbaum 1995). The June 1993 strike was the most successful contentious collective action of Donbas miners. Their movement succeeded in sustaining interaction with antagonists, elites and society. It also managed to become the most powerful mobilising structure and framing process for public protest in the country. However, the subsumption of the movement ‘within a larger regional framework altered its character and placed it at the disposal of other economic and political forces’ (Crowley and Siegelbaum 1995:72). The scale of popular discontent turned the miners’ strike into not so much an economic struggle ‘as a struggle between the Donbas region and the rest of the country’ (Siegelbaum 1997:18). Though the 1993 strike was initiated by the miners, it had been eventually headed by the regional elites—local administration officials, clientelistic groupings, and industrial lobbies. Hiroaki Kuromiya (1998) has argued that the miners’ demand for a free economic zone was, in fact, a rejection of the old, centrally planned economy preserved by the central government in Kiev. Nonetheless, promarket features of the 1993 strike were engulfed in the broader regionalist protest. Consequently, during the March-April 1994 parliamentary elections, opposition forces headed

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by hard-liners from the Communist Party of Ukraine (KPU) won the majority of seats in the region. In the aftermath of the strike, Donbas voters assured the victory of Leonid Kuchma, a pragmatic eastern Ukrainian industrialist, over Kravchuk in the June-July 1994 presidential elections. The miners’ movement entered the last phase of its development. Fragmentation: 1995Ðpresent Actively contending the governing authorities, the Donbas miners perceived democratisation and marketisation as means of achieving their main aim. ‘Moscow bureaucrats’ and ‘Kiev nationalists’ were consequently seen as the main obstacle to a civilised way of living. With the election of Kuchma, the miners’ last rival had fallen. However, as Lewis Siegelbaum (1997) has put it, the ‘fruits of miners’ victory’ were to become their new and ultimate challenge. In October 1994, the administration of President Kuchma launched a programme of market-oriented reforms. Within three years, the government achieved macro-economic and monetary stabilisation. The inflation rate fell from a skyrocketing 10,000 per cent annually in 1993 to 15 per cent in 1997. If between 1991 and 1996, Ukraine’s national currency lost 18,000 times its value against the US dollar, during the next four years the national currency was devaluated 3.3 times ‘only’. Substantial progress was also made on price and trade liberalisation and small-scale privatisation. The majority of state-owned enterprises was formally privatised or commercialised. By mid-1999, the non-state sector share of GDP reached 55 per cent (EBRD 1999:24). Nevertheless, Ukraine’s GDP continued to fall until a 6 per cent recovery in 2000. Household incomes contracted by 3.7 times since 1991 (Uriadovyi Kur’er 14 April 2001). To be sure, the official statistics do not report on Ukraine’s vast and fast-growing black economy. Nonetheless, such data provide a picture of miners’ deprivation, since they have been earning their living in the official public sector. The mismanagement of Ukraine’s economy has badly hit the energy sector. International Energy Agency and World Bank reports have described Ukraine’s coal industry as being in ‘a deep crisis’ and in ‘a painful decline’ (IEA 1996; WB 1996). The lack of any significant structural reforms was blamed for the collapse of the industry. Indeed, it suffered a 50 per cent slump in coal output between 1990 and 1995. This notwithstanding, labour rationalisation efforts were minimal. According to independent reports, Ukraine’s coal industry employed 650,000 miners in 1995, which produced 65.6 million tons of coal in 276 mines and 64 coal washing plants. Taking into account people employed in supporting functions, mining-related industries, managerial and technical staff, and social services (such as kindergartens, hospitals, canteens and sanatoriums), the total number of Ukraine’s coal industry employees was around 1,000,000 (Lovei 1998). One-third of Ukrainian mines produced coal at a price above the average import price (IEA 1996:157–8). Following a famous observation, ‘the spectre of

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the Iron Lady has hung over the “bloated” mining industry, the miners’ movement, and the miners themselves’ (Siegelbaum 1997:22). While trying to curb inflation and reduce budget deficit, Ukraine’s government decreased the amount of subsidies given to the coal industry. The first restructuring efforts resulted in mounting financial losses and payment arrears across all sectors of the economy. A new cycle of miners’ protest began in November 1995, when all NPHU branch leaders went on a hunger strike over unpaid wages and the deterioration in living conditions. Coal deliveries to customers were halted (Monitor 3 November 1995). In February 1996, miners in Russia and Ukraine started a simultaneous mass strike recalling the events of 1989. However, there was a critical difference between the previous and new phases of contention. Contrary to the events of 1989 and 1991, the miners now had ‘eschewed political demands to focus instead on their empty wallets’ (Monitor 2 February 1996). Over 600,000 Donbas miners took part in the protest refusing to load coal and demanding about $122 million in back wages. Gaining support from steel workers, the trade union leaders called for a general strike. However, after some government’s promises to pay the wages, the strike was suspended. Notwithstanding the resignation of prime minister Evhen Marchuk, industrial action was soon resumed. In July 1996, about 140,000 Donbas miners took part in blocking roads and railway tracks, and in picketing the regional governments. Given the paralysis of highway and rail traffic in the Donbas, Ukraine’s new prime minister, Pavlo Lazarenko, and other government officials concluded a strike settlement with both miners’ trade unions. The government assured a full repayment of the overdue wages. The Donetsk governor was dismissed by President Kuchma for having lost control of the situation in the region. Nevertheless, radical leaders of the Donetsk strike committee did not accept the settlement and continued the strike and the traffic blockage. This time, the governing authorities resorted to repression. The leaders of the committee were arrested and put on trial in a remote provincial town. The riot police forced the miners to clear roads and railway tracks. After the July 1996 protest, the fragmentation of the miners’ movement was furthered by the government’s restructuring programme. All collieries were divided into four categories, ranging from profitable mines to mines where production was stopped in anticipation of immediate closure (Lovei 1998). The non-payment crisis accompanied by a ‘Thatcherite solution’ had an immense impact on the miners’ movement: Many who were once active became disgusted with the failure of the movement to improve conditions for miners and their families or even arrest their deterioration. Some have taken advantage of skills honed in strike committees to go into business or another profession. Mutual recrimination and rivalry between the two unions, among different regions and within them, profitable and unprofitable mines, repeatedly fractured

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the movement causing further leakage. Tensions within the movement were exacerbated by the unequal distribution of subsidies which virtually invited miners to engage in locally organised protests to obtain their share. (Siegelbaum 1997:21) From then on, wildcat strikes, spontaneous hunger strikes and pickets became a daily occurrence in the Donbas. The repertoire of contention included the blocking of roads and railway lines, a bomb threat, marches of miners to regional capitals and Kiev, ‘indefinite’ refusals to work, and underground strikes. Clashes with police, collective suicide threats and several committed protest suicides were among the most extreme contentious actions that miners resorted to. The payment of wage and pension arrears became the most repeated demand. In May 1998, when the wage arrears approached $1 billion, NPHU called a strike supported, nevertheless, by 100,000 Donbas miners at fortyfive mines only. The participants demanded the payment of wage and pension arrears, restoration of the 1990 parity of wages, pensions and social benefits, and priority public financing for the coal industry. PPVP did not support the strike, labelling it ‘counterproductive’. Given the lack of coordination between the two trade unions, some miners resorted to spontaneous measures. Some 3000 miners from the western Donbas marched circa 100 kilometres on foot to the regional capital of Dnepropetrovsk and camped outside the county administration building to claim wage arrears. Some 1000 miners reached Kiev on foot. Notwithstanding the mass media publicity, the state and societal responses to the miners’ protest were becoming increasingly hostile: Popular support for miners weakened when, starting in mid-1998, representatives of other professions that were also suffering from unpaid wages (such as teachers and nurses) argued publicly against giving special treatment to miners. Recognising an opportunity, the government decided to revitalise the process of coal industry restructuring. A new coal minister was appointed in early June, and agreement was reached with the World Bank about a revised reform programme (…) bringing to fifty-two the number of mines closed or under closure. (Lovei 1998:6) Donbas miners were again accused of being only interested in ‘pulling the whole blanket on themselves’. The miners’ reaction this time was not anger but desperation. The suicide rate in the Donbas grew. On 14 December 1998, on the 155th day of picketing the county administration building in Luhansk, one of 200 miners, Oleksandr Mykhalevych, set himself on fire. On 22 January 1999, another miner, Oleksandr Konariov, burnt himself to death to protest against the humiliation of not being paid (Associated Press 20 February 1999). Common depressive feelings among the region’s population were reflected in the results of the 1998 parliamentary

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elections, when extreme left and populist parties scored the biggest victories in the region (see Table 6.1). The miners’ protest voting led to an additional $300 million allocated to the industry by the new parliament. Nevertheless, the elections did not appear to succeed in halting the pit closures. In line with official data the first twelve mines were closed in the region by the end of 1998. Around 372,000 employees left Ukraine’s coal industry that year. In 1999, another Table 6.1 Ukrainian parliamentary elections of April 1998, percentage of party votes Left*

Centre**

Right***

Donetsk oblast 54.3 10.7 0.0 Luhansk oblast 61.1 4.73 0.0 National average 37.3 19.2 9.4 Source: Ukraine’s Central Electoral Committee (1998). Note Table contains votes for parties that overcame the 4% threshold either in the Donbas or in Ukraine as a whole. *Left-wing parties: Communist Party, Socialist/Peasants’ Bloc, Progressive Socialist Party, and ‘Working Ukraine’ Bloc. **Centrist parties: Greens, United Social Democrats, Popular Democratic Party, Hromada, and Labour/Liberal Bloc. ***Right-wing parties: Popular Rukh.

twenty mines were shut. The government planned to close another fortynine mines in 2000. Thus, the fragmentation of the miners’ movement was followed by the start of their industry’s destruction. In February 1999, 171 mines stopped dispatching coal to customers. The miners, organised this time by both trade unions, demanded the payment of wage arrears and the increase of subsidies to the coal industry. NPHU threatened to put forth political demands, including the resignation of the government and the president and to organise massive riots unless the miners’ demands were met. Having decided to run for re-election in October 1999, President Kuchma was ready to intervene in the labour conflict. He ordered the cabinet to prioritise payment of the miners’ wage arrears. To mitigate social unrest and mainly to gain support from the ambitious Donbas elites, President Kuchma finally granted a status of ‘free economic zone’ to Donetsk oblast, the most populous of the two Donbas provinces. According to a law adopted by the parliament just before the October 1999 presidential elections, Donetsk oblast was designated for the establishment of two special economic zones with preferential tax and custom duty havens. Seventeen mining towns in the Donbas were given the status of ‘priority development territories’ (VRU 1999). During the 1999 presidential campaign, Kuchma visited the Donbas on several media publicised occasions. Using heavy-handed techniques against his opponents, Kuchma began to re-conquer the Donbas ‘Red belt’ previously occupied exclusively by KPU. He promised to provide Donbas clientelistic elites with even more ‘economic independence’. In return, he was given an

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overwhelming backing by regional officials, local business circles and mass media (Kyiv Post 20 May 1999). ‘Kuchma is for the Donbas. So, the Donbas is for Kuchma!’ was the message to get the best promotion in the region (Kyiv Post 28 October 1999). This message also appeared to be the most widespread. During the first round of the elections on 31 October 1999, Donbas voters gave their preferences to Petro Symonenko, the Donetsk-based KPU leader. Nevertheless, during the second round on 14 December 1999, Kuchma succeeded in defeating Symonenko in the Donbas and, thus, in the country as a whole (see Table 6.2). Table 6.2 Ukrainian presidential elections of October/November 1999, second round, percentage of votes Symonenko Donetsk oblast 41.2 Luhansk oblast 53.9 Donbas average 48.2 National average 37.8 Source: Ukraine’s Central Electoral Committee (1999).

Kuchma 52.9 40.7 51.8 56.3

Soon after the elections, the bulk of state-owned property was redistributed to Ukraine’s most powerful elites that fully supported the ‘old and new’ president (Halyts’ki kontrakty January 2000). According to several presidential decrees, the Donetsk and Dnepropetrovsk oblast governments were given management rights over all state-owned and state-controlled companies and enterprises in their respective provinces, including the two largest energy companies in Ukraine. The county officials were effectively empowered to authorise all economic activity in the two regions (Halyts’ki kontrakty February 2000). Moreover, the government and the regional elites initiated talks over the establishment of Donetsk and Dnepropetrovsk regional power ‘supercompanies’. The two ‘supercompanies’ would encompass all energy, coal-mining and coalwashing enterprises, as well as research and development and banking institutions that exist in the provinces. Donbas miners went on strike relentlessly at the beginning of 2000. The industrial action was either spontaneous or organised separately by the NPHU or the PPVP. Almost all steam mines (120 out of the 135 left) halted the delivery of coal to customers, demanding higher subsidies and wages, the payment of wage and pension arrears as well as the stopping of increasing coal imports from Poland and Russia. The Ukrainian government decisively refused ‘to cede to the populist demands’. According to a local newspaper, the trade-union leaders did not nourish any particular hopes in the success of their action (Gorod February 2000). The following year no strikes were reported at all.

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Explaining the failure Since 1989, Donbas miners have been engaged in a sustained contentious interaction with their powerful opponents, the state and governing authorities. Resorting to various forms of protest, the miners’ movement has tried to facilitate the creation of a ‘normal life’ for its participants. As the sections above have shown, the miners did not succeed in achieving their aim. The sad irony is that the miners’ movement failed even to arrest the deterioration in living and working conditions of its participants. The Donbas miners continue to live and perish under increasingly desperate circumstances. Writing in 1997, Siegelbaum noted that ‘the miners’ movement has been sufficiently powerful to prevent a ‘Thatcherite solution’, but not strong enough to compel their governments to adopt a more human one’ (p. 27). By now, the strength of the miners’ movement had been weakened even further. Why had the miners’ movement failed? Was there any chance of its success? Social movement theories emphasise the importance of three broad sets of factors that account for the emergence, development or decline of contentious politics. These three determinants are: (1) political opportunities —‘changes in the institutional structure or informal power relations of a given political system’; (2) mobilising structures—‘those collective vehicles, informal as well as formal, through which people mobilise and engage in collective action’; and (3) framing processes—‘conscious strategic efforts by groups of people to fashion shared understandings of the world and of themselves that legitimate and motivate collective action’ (McAdam et al. 1996:1–20). Tarrow has linked these three broad sets of factors by stressing the degree of turbulence generated by social movements: Changes in political opportunities and constraints create the most important incentives for initiating new phases of contention. These actions in turn create new opportunities both for the original insurgents and for latecomers, and eventually for opponents and power holders. The cycles of contention—and in rare cases, the revolutions— that ensue are based on the externalities that these actors gain and create. The outcomes of such waves of contention depend not on the justice of the cause or the persuasive power of any single movement, but on their breadth and the reactions of elites and other groups. (1998:7) It is argued that the failure of the Donbas miners’ movement was determined in the first cycle of its contention. During the mobilisation phase, the miners used the changes in political opportunities and constraints provided by glasnost and perestroika to engage into the collective contentious action against powerful Moscow ‘partocrats’. The shifting of alignments within the communist state hierarchy assured the absence of repression against the workers. The division of

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political elites between communist hard-liners, bureaucratic moderates, and nationalist radicals provided the miners with access to political output. However, it was the nationalist Ukrainian intelligentsia, and not the workers from other industries, which appeared to become the miners’ most influential allies in their fight for the autonomy and independence from the centre. The opponents of the Donbas miners and the Ukrainian intellectuals— ‘imperialists and exploiters in Moscow’—were identical. Nevertheless, the framing process of their joint collective action was different. The miners mobilised for welfare gains, believed to be achieved through democratisation and marketisation. On the other hand, the preservation of national culture and language, threatened by Russian and Soviet assimilatory policies, was the main concern of the Ukrainian humanitarian intelligentsia. As long as ‘Moscow’ continued to exist, the link between the workers and the intellectuals sustained itself. That link was weak however. Operating within different cultural frames, the miners and the intellectuals failed to establish a common mobilising structure to reinforce their pro-democracy and pro-market challenges. No joint opposition institution emerged. In addition to the intellectuals, there was another broader segment of the population to whom the miners’ striving for a normal life could have been more appealing. Why did not other workers in post-Soviet Ukraine join the Donbas miners? Stephen Crowley (1995) has indicated that the difference in economic deprivation and enterprise paternalism determined, on the one hand, the particular militancy of the miners and, on the other hand, the lack of trans-occupational solidarity among workers in general. The apparent lack of working-class solidarity is recognised as the main reason for the failure of labour to ‘become an organised political force capable of bringing about permanent social changes’ (Crowley and Siegelbaum 1995:66). Hence no Ukrainian ‘Solidarity’ was born. The political opportunities created by the common action of Donbas miners and Kiev intellectuals were eventually hijacked by the former nomenklatura and new business elites. During the second phase of the miners’ movement, the support previously provided by the national intelligentsia vanished. Coal managers, regional clientelistic groupings, business elites and broad segments of the local Russophone population were to become the miners’ new allies. The movement was gradually transformed into a powerful mobilising structure for regionalist protest. The 1993 strike became a significant political opportunity for late-coming local elites in their contentious interaction with the new ‘centre’. By opposing Kiev antagonists, the miners’ movement became a part of the national power struggle between regional and central clientelistic groupings. The start of market reforms and industrial restructuring fragmented and further weakened the miners’ movement. The Donbas elites gained access to privatisation and property re-distribution mechanisms and lost their interest in the miners’ mobilising structure. In the third cycle of contention, the miners’ movement was abandoned by its last ally, the broad strata of the Donbas population. The economic crisis increased the cost of collective contentious

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action enormously. The double dependence of workers on the enterprise and, in turn, of the enterprise on the state budget became the main demobilising factor in the workers’ fight for survival (Cook 1995). Growing unemployment and the degradation in living standards among various social groups of Ukrainian society had a delegitimising effect on the miners’ movement. The sense of injustice and emotionality eventually turned into a feeling of helplessness, frustration, and depression. Political opportunities previously enjoyed by the miners also declined. The access to political and economic output was closed by the emerging consensus between former antagonists. Under Kuchma, national power struggle games became an internal affair of Kiev, Dnepropetrovsk and Donetsk elites. The elites’ selective use of repression (as during the 1996 strikes), fragmentation (e.g. by providing the coal mines with different status) and incentives (e.g. by granting ‘regional economic independence’) had the effect of demobilising the miners. The case of the Donbas miners suggests that not all Eastern Europeans were able to sustain their patience under post-communism. Some did protest against the draconian economic conditions of post-communist transformation. Moreover, they resorted to violent and disruptive as well as conventional forms of public protest. The militancy of the miners’ movement was caused by traditional factors, i.e. economic inequality and deprivation. Their contentious action produced a social movement capable of influencing state policies and the government. Nevertheless, what happened afterwards was not the outcome the social movement had aimed for. It appears that it is not the mere existence or absence of public protest that matters. Even violent, disruptive and prolonged public protest can be a failure without a constructive response from elites and social groups. As Tarrow (1998) has suggested, policy elites respond not to the claims of any individual movement but to the degree of turbulence generated by it. In the case of Ukraine, first, the cultural framing process associated with the Donbas miners’ movement could not generate a country-wide turbulence or a constructive reaction from other societal groups. Second, the political constraints and economic crisis disabled any further turbulence and made it self-defeating. New political opportunities, framing processes and even mobilising structures created by the miners’ movement were seized not by the original insurgents themselves, but by others who sought more ‘modest’, less inclusive utility-maximising goals and were more effective at advancing them (cf. Tarrow 1998). The Donbas miners were effectively outmanoeuvred by rent-seeking latecomers from the regional elite as well as by power holders in the capital. Thus, the labour movement failed to bring about far reaching social changes or, at least, to defend its claims due to an absence of allies rather than to the alleged lack of protest.

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Conclusion Since its birth in July 1989, the Donbas miners’ movement has become a symbol of the emerging civil society. The miners were a group of citizens actively balancing and opposing the state and promoting their interests in society. However, what was the long-term impact of organised labour on the postcommunist political transformation of the country? Have the miners’ contentious politics strengthened or weakened Ukraine’s process of political democratisation? The first and foremost effect made by the miners’ movement on the process of democratisation was its open challenge to the Soviet self-portrait of a workers’ state. If the communist leadership felt less jeopardised by the nationalist movements in smaller republics, the miners presented a clear threat to the founding ideology of the Soviet state in its own back yard. Back in early 1989, Seweryn Bialer made a then widely accepted statement declaring the Soviet workers to be the conservative opposition’s greatest source of power, and the workers’ vocal dissatisfaction with perestroika to be the greatest danger to Gorbachev (as quoted in Connor 1991:16). The workers have indeed appeared to be the Soviet leadership’s greatest danger. They did, nonetheless, successfully shatter the image of a ready-made constituency for conservative communists: while the regime wished to undertake a transformation of the mode of legitimation by supplanting the old social contract, the miners’ strike initiated a process of delegitimation from which the regime never recovered. From this point on, the workers’ movement which emerged from the July strikes was the most organised proponent of the further democratisation of the Soviet system, and provided the foot soldiers for the liberal opposition, which would otherwise have remained an elite phenomenon. (R.Simon 2000:66) The miners’ movement has strengthened the process of democratisation by creating the first powerful and (at least initially) independent labour organisation with a broad political programme. The miners’ trade union congresses and following strikes have had a significant impact on shaping the political discourse in the country towards further liberalisation and the eventual collapse of the Soviet state socialism. It may appear that organised labour has also complicated Ukraine’s political transformation. On several occasions, it was hard-line communists, populists and rent-seeking elites who benefited from the miners’ contentious action. To a certain extent, during the 1993 events the miners have even threatened Ukraine’s survival as an independent state (Solchanyk 1994). Nevertheless, through their active application of ‘voice’ contrary to ‘exit’ protest strategy, the miners’ movement has stimulated the democratisation of Ukrainian society as a whole.

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The miners’ ‘voice’ has confronted unsound policies of the government and made the state more accountable. The miners’ vocal opposition to the disastrous economic policy of the Kravchuk administration has resulted in an essential political change. Moreover, the institutionalised and organised contentious action of the Donbas miners has prevented a possible emergence of the more violent ethno-regionalist protest witnessed in Trans-Dniesteria, Abkhazia, or elsewhere in the former USSR. Thus, the impact of the miners’ contentious action on Ukraine’s political transformation has been profound. Initially, on several occasions, the miners’ movement has approached a victory for civil society, ‘when the state was checked by an institution with an economic base’ (Gellner 1996: 211). Nevertheless, the role of the workers’ movement in the political life of the country has been constantly diminishing. The Donbas miners have begun their contention as a broad civil reformist opposition. They mobilised hoping for changes in the economic and political system to be obtained through democratisation and market-oriented reforms. The miners’ movement has ended, however, as a marginal labour group from a declining industry, trying to save jobs and income. Eventually, the workers’ weight in the political life of Ukraine has lost its significance. As Rick Simon has emphasised: The overall picture (…) of labour’s influence on the political transformation of Russia and Ukraine is unfortunately a gloomy one. Whereas workers’ action played a significant role in the downfall of the USSR, a combination of circumstances has ensured that labour has not enjoyed similar influence in the post-communist period. (2000:184; cf. Ashwin 1999) It has been argued that such a drastic trajectory could have been avoided, had the miners forged an organised political identity with a social democratic platform (Crowley 1997; Walkowitz 1995). However, no one appeared to be able to ally with the miners to imprint this political identity in a broader institution. The failure of the miners’ movement has suggested that during postcommunist transformation the elites, through the agency of the state, can preserve and increase their power over other public spheres. The role of the state and power holders in conducting economic transition or redistributing public property can be very significant. When it is the case, polity and economy continue to be an interconnected entity. To be stable, such a system relies on informal bargains and personal rewards within the elites, rather than on economic growth for all. The miners’ movement has failed because of a negative societal response. Other social groups did not join the movement due to their dependence on the state budget and on the bureaucrats responsible for the redistribution of public funds. Growing poverty and the lack of a vibrant private sector have deprived Ukrainian citizens of resources to support and take part in associational life. Thus, under the circumstances where there is no economy

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independent from the state and governing authorities, civil society and its institutions have no autonomous base for existence. Paraphrasing Gellner, one must conclude that it is still clear who is boss in some post-communist countries. And it is the behaviour of the boss that matters. Notes 1 In geographical terms, the entire Donets Coal Basin lies in Donetsk, Luhansk and Dnepropetrovsk oblasts (provinces) of southeastern Ukraine and in the neighbouring Rostov oblast of southwestern Russia. Politically, the Donbas usually covers the Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts. 2 Kuznets Coal Basin (nickname Kuzbass) is located in southwestern Siberia. 3 This chapter uses the term ‘elite’ as it was defined by Higley and Burton (1989: 18), i.e. ‘people holding key positions in powerful organisations, institutions and movements, who regularly and substantially affect decision-making and shape political outcomes’.

7 Samoobrona The Polish self-defence movement Ania Krok-Paszkowska

Introduction All the Central and Eastern European countries have had to adjust to a difficult economic transformation and major structural changes that have brought with them considerable social costs. More than a decade into the political and economic reforms, significant sectors of society feel threatened and alienated. They feel they are moving in the wrong direction and that the political elites have failed them. Moreover, they feel that it is the role of the state to protect and provide for them in the form of social safety nets, subsidies and greater public investment to prevent unemployment and enable them to regain their sense of self-esteem. The fall of communist regimes opened the way for political participation and mobilisation. Some of this has taken the form of contentious collective action against what people see as an uncaring state and self-serving and even corrupt elites. Poland, in particular, with its long tradition of radical protest, has seen relatively high levels of disruptive mobilisation (Ekiert and Kubik 1998). This chapter will examine how Samoobrona (Self-defence) has channelled discontent into large-scale disruptive collective action. The legacy of protest has helped to legitimise such forms of action in the eyes of large sections of civil society. Moreover, many political elites have had personal experience of (mostly) nonviolent, but disruptive protests in the form of strikes and sit-ins as well as street demonstrations under the communist regime. The most widespread protests took place under the banner of Solidarity. Samoobrona has also adopted the concept of a trade union acting simultaneously as a political movement. The relationship between Samoobrona trade union and party is symbiotic. Without its trade union organisation and structures and without the support of a clearly defined interest group, i.e. farmers, Samoobrona as a political movement would probably quickly have joined the hundreds of other short-lived parties, which had sprung up in the wake of democratisation. However, without its leader’s high personal profile and his ability to grab headlines as well as the atten-tion of the authorities, Samoobrona as a trade union would have been unable to mobilise such large numbers of protesters.

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The chapter will start by describing the origins and background of the movement, which arose out of grievances among farmers brought about by sudden economic dislocation. Radical protest is often linked to populism and the chapter goes on to consider the types of populism underpinning Samoobrona’s ideology and programme. It then shows how the trade union has been used as a vehicle for its leader’s political ambitions. Finally, the chapter assesses Samoobrona’s role in the context of economic and political transformation and to what extent its ability to mobilise contentious collective action challenges the legitimacy of the current regime. The origins and background of Samoobrona There are at least two Samoobronas, although in practice their structures are difficult, if not impossible, to differentiate. Its trade union organisation has been in existence since January 1992. The political party, Self-Defence Alliance (PS), was registered in June 1992. In addition, a Committee of Self-Defence of the Nation (KSN) was created in 1993. Together these structures make up the SelfDefence Social Movement (RSS). The leader of all three organisations, Andrzej Lepper, tends to refer to Samoobrona as a socio-political movement rather than either a party or a trade union: ‘We are neither a trade union nor a political party but a peasants’ social movement emerging on the basis of peasants’ discontent’ (in Gorlach and Mooney 1998:234). Samoobrona’s leader, Andrzej Lepper, was born in 1954 into a working-class family. He completed his agricultural college course and worked as a manager on a 1200 hectare state farm near Shipsk, in northern Poland, as well as in state cattle breeding and arable research stations. He joined the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR) in the late 1970s ‘for professional reasons’, but claims to have left the party in 1980, when he left his managerial position in the state farm and set up as an independent farmer (Kurski n.d.). Taking advantage of state credit facilities he increased his farm size and invested in agricultural machinery. In early 1990 he almost doubled his farm size by leasing 50 hectares from a state farm, taking out a large loan to finance his new venture. A few weeks later, Balcerowicz introduced his market reform plan, the so-called shock therapy, and Lepper was faced with huge increases in the interest on his loan. Unable to pay off his debts, Lepper joined other farmers in protests. By summer 1990 numerous local protests and road blocks were being organised. The first national manifestation of rural political protest was a hunger strike held in front of the Sejm (lower chamber of the Polish legislature) in October 1991. A protest committee was set up and Lepper was chosen as deputy leader. The farmers’ demand that their debts be written off was not met by the government. Nor was there a guarantee of minimal prices for commodities or protection against food imports. Thus Lepper’s ‘crusade’ began. A National Committee of Indebted Farmers was formed, followed by a Committee of

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Farmers’ Defence. In 1992 Lepper established Samoobrona. Lepper still owns a large (40–50 hectare) mixed livestock farm near Koszalin in northern Poland. On the movement’s website (http://www.samoobrona.pl),1 Samoobrona is designated as Agricultural Trade Union Self-Defence (ZZRS), although most of its material deals with political and ideological issues rather than trade union affairs. In Poland, many trade unions act as political movements rather than restricting themselves to the domain of labour relations alone. Solidarity is the classical example, but this format has been followed by unions such as Samoobrona. The choice for ‘movements’, ‘electoral actions’ or ‘citizens’ platforms’ and a lingering dislike of political parties is a legacy of Solidarity political culture and continuation of ‘anti-politics’ in public discourse (Ost 1991). However, the blurring of the line between employee organisations and political movements has led to difficulties in creating an autonomous social dialogue and balanced industrial relations (Wijffels and Bos 2000). Moreover, within the Solidarity movement the trade-off between trade union and political activity has often led to conflicts of interest: the trade union bargains with the state to promote its members’ interests, while its political wing forms part of a governing coalition acting in the interests of the nation as a whole. While Samoobrona has never been part of a government coalition, nor until recently has it even been represented in parliament, similar tensions exist between its trade union and political interests. Some activists have complained that Lepper is more interested in acquiring personal power and running for political office than in the problems of farmers. In January 2001 the various district (powiat) municipal (gmina) and rural (wiejskie) councils of the Samoobrona trade union in the Lublin region were disbanded and reorganised into a new farmers’ union, Ojczyzna (Fatherland), with the purpose of looking after farmers’ interests and co-operating with other peasant movements including the Polish Peasant Party (PSL). They see themselves as a pressure group and do not intend to put candidates up for parliamentary elections, but rather to support political parties representing agricultural interests. Here is a plea for activity to be limited to defending farmers’ interests and seeking to influence policy rather than aspiring to a share in state power and formulating policies directly. In contrast, Samoobrona, by virtue of its challenging of power holders and elite values, its attacks against the established order, and its appeals for direct, grass-roots action, does not restrict its activity to either. Whatever its organisation and functions, issues I will deal with later, what binds Samoobrona together is its populism. The populist legacy Writing about Polish parties, Krzysztof Jasiewicz (1995) has defined populism as a call to look after the people, protect the ordinary person from economic reforms brought in to enable elites (both old, i.e. post-communist, and new, i.e. post-Solidarity) to enrich themselves at the common person’s expense. More

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specifically, it also purports to protect any given group (Poles, peasants, workers, ‘us’) from those who would threaten them (foreigners, Germans, Jews, capitalists, political elites, ‘them’). This reflects a belief in the soundness of the common man and the desirability of letting the people, not the elites, decide. Margaret Canovan’s (1999:2) observation that ‘populists see themselves as true democrats, voicing popular grievances and opinions systematically ignored by governments, mainstream parties and the media’ well describes Samoobrona’s position. Although Samoobrona party programmes, conference speeches and statements by its leaders do feature a number of themes associated with rightwing extremism (cf. Mudde 2000), the movement fits more easily into a typology of seven types of populism, drawing upon ideas associated with peasant populism and farmers’ radicalism (see Canovan 1982). Peasant populism based on ideas of small family properties, co-operatives, traditional fears of capitalists, bureaucrats and socialists does survive in Poland, even though it is no longer a predominantly agricultural economy. However, many urban workers, first or second generation migrants from rural areas, have strong family links with the countryside and adhere to peasant values (Dziewanowski 1996). Nevertheless, Samoobrona does not define ‘the people’ exclusively in terms of one group. It focuses on farmers because many of the activists, and Lepper himself, are farmers, who form a distinct group with an identifiable interest. But Samoobrona’s ambitions are broader, and it widens its appeal by taking on many elements of economic populism as well (Mudde 2001). It relies on populist rhetoric and conspiracy theories to mobilise support. The strong emphasis on ideology, the explicitness of its stand, has helped it to build up its organisational structures, not least because of the potential benefits of office, state subsidies or building up cadres hoping to make a professional career of politics. Its strength—for the converted at least—flows from its uncompromising stance vis-à-vis the established order. Samoobrona's programme Drawing upon the widely used and rather fuzzy concept of a ‘third way’ or a ‘third road’, Samoobrona criticises neo-liberal policies which, it argues, have brought Poland to the brink of economic, social and moral collapse.2 What is wrong in Poland and the rest of the world is that liberal elites and financial political corporations are pitilessly exploiting ordinary people, and whole nations through ‘economic totalitarianism, financial terror, constraints on information and sham corrupted democracy’ (Samoobrona Narodu 23 September 1999). Samoobrona promotes social ethics, equality, the primacy of work above capital, and a state that is highly interventionist. It wants to reinstate state monopolies and hold on to strategic industries such as the railway network, telecommunications and the defence industry. It would introduce strict regulations for the financial and banking sectors with restrictions on foreign capital. Money would be produced according to needs, and prices of certain basic

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goods would be regulated with the government intervening to keep the prices of raw materials and energy low. Samoobrona also argues for materialism and consumerism to be replaced by a closer relationship with the natural environment, the preservation of small-scale family farms and a humane treatment of animals. There is frequent reference to ‘eco-development’ and a fuzzy concept: ‘Econology’ (Ekonologia), described in the programme as a new way of thinking drawing on theories of social systems, ecology, and social ethics and morality in politics and economics. More concretely, it is against agroindustrial development and intensive farming methods. Given its rural constituency, Samoobrona places great emphasis on the agricultural sector. Here again it proposes a large degree of state intervention with subsidies and cheap credit and all kinds of improvements to rural infrastructure. Family farms would be stimulated and only Polish citizens would be allowed to own land. This echoes the ideas of young peasant activists in the interwar years, who favoured the establishment of a society based on ‘agrarianism’, with small family farms, rural co-operatives, an end to the exploitation of the countryside and the nationalisation of key industries. These activists also saw peasants as the healthiest element of society, both biologically and morally. As such they would create a more just and balanced society than the one dominated by the urban bourgeoisie and the corrupt bureaucracy (see Dziewanowski 1996). Indeed, the idea is to have a society in which there is more social justice —‘We want a Poland, in which there will not be such drastic material differences: no so-called ‘ocean of destitution’ with tiny ‘islands’ of wealth and well-being’ (Samoobrona Narodu 23 September 1999). A more ‘just’ society would be possible if Poland were to rid itself of the obligations brought about by debt and its subservience to foreign banks, and if it were to cease to uncritically copy foreign socioeconomic models. There would be free education, full employment, no homeless people, index-linked state pensions, and selfsufficiency in food production. National law would be paramount, the armed forces would be strengthened, and national sovereignty would be maintained. There would be less power given to local government and the electoral system would be changed to decrease the scope for ‘party manipulation’. As a result, there would be an end to ‘cor-ruption, Mafia practices and degenerate liberalism’. Somewhat more sinister aspects of its programme are a penchant for authoritarian solutions and an open admission that it would seek to ‘control’ information. In promoting its programme, Samoobrona uses inflammatory rhetoric. It tells its supporters that their economic woes are not their fault. Its thesis is that Poland is being sold out by its own elites, who participated in the Round Table Agreements and who are pejoratively referred to as ‘Europeans’ as opposed to ‘real Poles’. In the 1993 parliamentary electoral campaign Lepper frequently referred to ‘facts’, such as George Soros’s plan to transform Poland into a bankrupt state whose assets would then be sold off to Western firms at several

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hundredths of their real worth. He claimed that this ‘plan’ was accepted in great secrecy by experts working for the last communist prime minister, Mieczyslaw Rakowski, and by representatives of Solidarity. Their agreement resulted in the Balcerowicz ‘shock therapy’ plan, which had actually been thought up by Jeffrey Sachs, Soros’s emissary. Traditional prejudices, especially anti-Semitism, are pandered to by naming the financiers as the Rothschilds, Goldsmiths, etc. The bottom line is that the establishment has betrayed Poland and its very existence is being threatened. Conspiracy theories, a recurrent theme in populist rhetoric, dominate Samoobrona’s thinking. There is an international conspiracy of multinational corporations that want to completely take over Polish manufacturing industry, as well as a national conspiracy against ‘real’ Poles by the current political elites, who refuse to counter the economic aggression of the West. There is profound distrust of the EU and a fear that it aims to put Poland (and other East European states) into a position of permanent dependency. Indeed, some party activists have resurrected the idea of pan-Slavism, with Slav nations defending themselves against the Western ‘civilisation of death’ (Kosik 2000). Some activists take the conspiracy theory so far as to suggest that there is an international conspiracy to destroy the Polish nation, both as a people and as a state.3 The rhetoric has not changed much in the last ten years. In Samoobrona’s election clips in the 1993 campaign Lepper was seen agreeing with a discussant that in present-day Poland ‘crooks share power with crooks’, obviously referring to post-Solidarity elites co-operating with post-communist elites (PietrzykZieniewicz and Zieniewicz 1995:115). Its electoral programme was phrased in extremely demagogical language, aimed at voters who felt ‘cheated, humiliated and wronged’, referring to lies, threats, blackmail and fraud on the part of governing elites, and claiming that the country was in ‘mortal danger’ (in Paszkiewicz 1996:92–9). Samoobrona continues to try to mobilise support by convincing people that things have never been worse for them and that they are unlikely to get better as long as the government continues to pursue free market policies and reforms. In a declaration on 10 November 1999, published on the party website, Lepper accused successive governments of ‘economic genocide’ by driving people to commit suicide, and insisted that those responsible for this state of affairs should not be allowed to go unpunished. The organisation exploits fears of loss of sovereignty, erosion of traditional norms and values, and Western economic domination. For Samoobrona the worse things are, the greater its potential following. Form and organisation According to its leader, the trade union has about 500,000 members (Samoobrona Narodu July 2000); in comparison, the Solidarity trade union had a membership of 1.5 million in 1996. Samoobrona also has hundreds of thousands

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of sympathisers in the country. The claims are difficult to verify. There is no register of members and membership fees are voluntary with members donating what they can afford (Janicki 1999; Lepper 1999; Pytłakowski 1999). However, it is clear that the union does have local offices throughout Poland, mainly at provincial (voivodship) level, but also in many cases at the level of districts (powiaty).4 The headquarters of Samoobrona are in Warsaw and the union’s presidium is presently made up of Lepper, five deputy leaders and sixteen voivodship leaders. The structure of the organisation consists of a presidium, a national executive, a national council (krajowa radd) and a general congress. However, for outsiders at least, the movement appears to be run in a rather haphazard way. At the second Congress held in 1995 (there was no first Congress), delegates were not chosen or voted upon, but put themselves forward. Lepper was (re)elected leader by acclamation. None of the members of the presidium named in the registration acts of the trade union is still active. The impression that Lepper runs Samoobrona largely as a one-man show was strengthened when one of the presidium members was asked by a reporter to name the other members and was unable to do so (Polityka 6 February 1999). The same member said that the national council was made up of one hundred members and that there was a political council which consisted of forty-six members. He would not or could not give any details about who they were. Close colleagues, but also other union leaders, have accused Lepper of dictatorial methods in running the union, breaking democratic rules on decision-making, and lacking transparency over financial control of the union’s assets (Wprost 16 April 2000). Lepper has always claimed that the union is as poor as the Polish peasant and refuses to answer questions as to sources of financing. However, the January 1999 blockade of the Swiecko-Frankfurt/Oder border crossing was well prepared. Pamphlets instigating actions were distributed beforehand, while buses and food were supplied to the protesters. Samoobrona probably receives some of its financial support from private businessmen who like Lepper’s nationalist brand of politics, and who are worried about increased competition in a European marketplace. There are also persistent rumours that he is supported by the Schiller Institute, founded by a maverick American businessman, Lyndon LaRouche. Whether or not there are any financial links, much of Lepper’s thinking appears to be inspired by the writings of LaRouche and the various publications of the Schiller Foundation. Tactics and strategy Throughout its existence, with no parliamentary representation, Samoobrona’s strategy has been to attract the maximum amount of media attention. Lepper complains that his movement is not given adequate press coverage due to the fact that most of the press is dominated by foreign capital. The implication is that

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the movement has little option but to seek publicity by actions such as blocking roads, occupying government buildings, organising marches on Warsaw, and generally activity aimed at creating disorganisation and even chaos. As a result, Lepper has been arrested a number of times and has even spent several short stints in prison. He has dozens of court cases pending for illegal blockades, occupations and insulting ministers. He has taken part in hunger-strikes, sit-in strikes in the Ministry of Agriculture, road blockages and demonstrations. In September 2000, in the middle of his presidential campaign, Lepper was sentenced to thirty days in prison for consistently failing to answer a court summons on charges of blocking the Polish—German border crossing in Swiecko. Prior to the arrest he went into hiding and announced that he would ask President Alexander Lukashenka for political asylum in Belarus. This was part of a publicity stunt as shortly thereafter he turned up at Samoobrona’s headquarters in Warsaw, making sure the press knew the date and time of his arrival. He then held a press conference and vowed to continue his presidential campaign from prison, thus ensuring that his arrest would receive maximum coverage. In the event, Lepper spent less than a week in prison because a judge decided that thirty days was too severe a sentence for contempt of court. In addition to such high-profile attempts at attracting media attention, Samoobrona also issues appeals to the government, sends letters of protest and petitions to ministers, and publishes a trade union journal together with another radical trade union, Sierpief ’80 (August ’80), to put forward its views and programme. All this is aimed, according to Samoobrona, at raising governmental and public awareness of the dramatic plight of the agricultural sector. In concrete terms, protests have been aimed at increasing subsidies for farm produce, raising quotas to lower the level of imports, and protecting farmers against credit repayments. Often, long-term emotional values are added to material demands. For example, Samoobrona activists have protested with scythes, a potent symbol of peasant protest against the powers that be.5 The most successful and high-profile protests, including blockades that paralysed transport links, were held in the spring of 1999. The protesters demanded minimum prices for agricultural products, import quotas and better credit facilities. The protests were not limited to Samoobrona. They were sponsored by three trade unions: Rural Solidarity (NSZZ RI ‘S’) with 400,000 members, the National Association of Farmers’ Circles and Organisations (KZRKiOR) with 1.8 million members, and Samoobrona. The size and organisation of these unions reflect the networks that had existed prior to 1989, both as part of the communist establishment (KZRKiOR) and of the Solidarity movement. However, although Lepper has tactically co-operated with other union leaders, his style of aggressive populism and frequent personal attacks on other politicians and trade union leaders means that most alliances are shortlived. In 1999, while the other two unions settled down to talks with the government, Lepper was more radical. Having forced the government to recognise him as a partner in the talks, he then demonstratively tore up the

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protocol of the talks at a press conference. This led to him being criticised by other trade union leaders for extremism and self-promotion. A few months later, at the third union conference on 5 May 1999, Lepper portrayed Samoobrona as an organised social force, capable of activity throughout the country, and set up to defend the interests of Polish farmers and the rural community against the destructive policies of the government. In March 2000 Samoobrona activists and their supporters again blocked roads claiming that the government had not kept promises made after the 1999 protests. An estimated 1300 people took part, mostly in groups of anywhere between 50 to 200, far fewer than the estimated 8000 in the January 1999 protests. Samoobrona claimed to have set up seventy blockades; the police counted thirty. The protests in March 2000 were less effective than former protests. The police have learnt to control them better, pre-empting occupations of ministries, and taking a more assertive stance. The main reason, however, was that this time Samoobrona did not have the support of its former allies. The Solidarity-backed farmers’ unions did not participate, nor did KZRKiOR. The latter had already had some success in getting its demands met. Many Samoobrona activists, who had wanted a more co-operative attitude to other farmers’ organisations and to work with local government to improve the peasants’ lot, left the movement. They were worried that while Samoobrona helped to dissipate pressures in the agricultural community, it had failed to solve any of the problems faced by farmers. The lesson was not lost upon Lepper, who in the run-up to the 2000 presidential elections, and even more in television appearances for the Samoobrona list in the 2001 parliamentary elections, toned down his language and sought to broaden his appeal. Samoobrona's constituency Samoobrona has generally been strongest in areas such as northeastern and northwestern Poland where huge (average size over 4000 hectares) state and collective farms were established by the communist authorities. It should be remembered that Poland, in contrast to other countries under communist rule, retained a large private farm sector. In 1989 small private farms (average size about 7 hectares) made up about 76 per cent of farmland (Gorlach and Mooney 1998). State and collective farms were set up mainly in the territories that became part of Poland in 1945. These areas are largely populated by people who were moved there after World War II, often from former Polish territories to the east. Unlike farmers in southeastern Poland, they have not farmed the same land for generations, clinging to traditional culture and with extensive family and local networks. The state and collective farms in the north and west, which had received state subsidies under the communist regime, have either been closed down or have gone bankrupt, leaving large numbers of farm workers with no work and little source of income. Their private plots are often too small to be

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self-sustainable. Alternative work for the largely unskilled former state farm workers is extremely difficult to find and unemployment benefits are paid out only for a limited period of time (between six months and one year depending on a given region’s level of unemployment and the structure of job opportunities). At the same time, these are areas where there are now also larger and more market-oriented private farms. They are owned by farmerentrepreneurs who are less oriented toward the political traditions of Polish peasant parties that emerged towards the end of the nineteenth century—namely, PSL-Piast in areas under Austro-Hungarian rule and the more radical PSL-Wyzwolenie in Russian dominated areas. Some farmer-entrepreneurs have been successful under the transformation to a market economy. However, many others that had been dependent on state assistance and cheap credit, on centrally fixed and relatively stable prices for their supplies and for their products, and that had never faced competition from good quality, cheap imports had great difficulty in adjusting to the new conditions. Indeed, because they had more to lose, the shock therapy was more painful for more developed farms that had benefited more under the previous system than the subsistence peasant farms of the southeast. Many of the leaders of Samoobrona are heavily indebted to banks. A recent survey has found that ‘farm size seems to be the defining factor both with respect to support for various types of protest, as well as for the readiness to participate personally in protest actions’ (IPA 1999:29). Road blocks were seen as the most effective form of protest by 44 per cent of respondents (farmers). Overall 70 per cent of respondents supported participation in road blocks, but among owners of large farms this rose to 84 per cent, with three-quarters saying they would be prepared to participate themselves. However, it should be noted that supporters of direct action are not limited to Samoobrona members and sympathisers. The survey found similar support among potential voters of the Polish Peasant Party (PSL) and the Alliance of the Democratic Left (SLD), although less so among potential voters of Solidarity Electoral Action (AWS). This suggests that many (potential) protesters are not seeking a ‘third way’ but simply want a better deal for farmers. There has been a lack of enthusiasm for radical and extreme measures proposed by movements such as Samoobrona, especially in the more conservative and traditional areas of southern and south-eastern Poland where PSL has widespread support. In the 1993 parliamentary elections PSL was able to profit from traditional peasant conservatism; in other words, the tendency to support what is known and tested (Paluch 1995). However, after four years of PSL/SLD coalition government, farmers still felt they were being ignored and left behind. Indeed, the infrastructure in rural areas has worsened rather than improved in the past ten years. Unemployment is high and average farmers’ incomes are only about 40 per cent of average incomes among urban dwellers (Naszkowska 1999). Farmers thus form one of the main groups that have benefited little from the fruits of economic transformation. There is real hardship, which is easily exploited.

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Samoobrona’s constituency is made up first of all of farmers and workerpeasants, but also of the unemployed, pensioners and undereducated young people in small towns and villages. However, these are traditionally the least likely people to participate in elections. In the 1997 parliamentary elections only 42 per cent of those in the countryside entitled to vote actually did so. Moreover, successive public opinion surveys between 1993–2000 gave ratings of only between 2–3 per cent electoral support for Samoobrona, although data for farmers gave ratings of 9 per cent in June 1999 (IPA 1999). Until the 2001 parliamentary elections, Samoobrona’s electoral performance was weak, despite Lepper’s claims of widespread national support. In 1993 it won 2.78 per cent of the vote with lists throughout the country (44 of the 52 districts). Only in two districts of northern Poland, did it receive much over 5 per cent. In Koszalin, where the movement started, Samoobrona was the second largest party with 13.9 per cent of vote, beating PSL (11.2 per cent) into third place. In Słupsk it came third, after SLD and PSL, with 10 per cent. In the 1995 presidential elections, Lepper received only 1.32 per cent of the votes. In 1997 Samoobrona’s electoral results were even less impressive. It won only 0.08 per cent, contesting just 16 of the 52 districts. Following the 1997 elections the party seemed to be facing complete marginalisation. However, in the presidential elections in October 2000, Lepper more than doubled his share of the vote, gaining 3.05 per cent and coming fifth in a field of thirteen. Among the rural population his popularity has risen considerably, from 3 per cent in 1995 to 8 per cent in 2000, 14 per cent if farmers are taken alone, and 2 per cent higher than support for Jaroslaw Kalinowski, the PSL candidate (IPA 1999). Lepper’s relative success in the presidential elections enabled him to keep a high profile and mobilise his actual (and potential) electorate for the 2001 parliamentary elections. And indeed, Samoobrona’s results were as spectacular as they were unexpected. It won 10.2 per cent of the vote, making it the third largest party in parliament with 53 seats in the 460 seat Sejm. Moreover, its candidates failed to win seats in only three electoral districts, making it a nationwide party. Lepper himself increased his share of the vote (44, 814 votes) in Koszalin, coming in second after the SLD-UP (which got more than twice as many votes), but squeezing the PSL out altogether. It seems that Samoobrona was able to tap into a feeling of dissatisfaction caused by socio-economic hardships and mismanagement by the AWS government of a number of farreaching reforms. Samoobrona has always tried to portray itself as a party that is neither ‘left’ nor ‘right’, but which will best serve the true interests of Poland and the Poles. In a 1993 survey, respondents were asked to place parties on a left-right scale. Almost 23 per cent of respondents saw Samoobrona as a leftist party. 31 per cent saw it as a right wing party, while 24 per cent put it in the centre (Banaszkiewicz 1995:76). This inability to place Samoobrona on either the left or the right of the political spectrum reflects its own pronouncements and its predominantly populist style and character. In its view the party system does not represent the

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interests of the Polish nation. The parties of the ‘left’ (such as SLD) no longer fight for Poland’s independence and sovereignty as did the Polish Socialist Party in the early twentieth century. They are now ‘liberals and cosmopolitan Europeans’ believing in capitalism and propagating extreme free market ideas with no social conscience. They are no longer true socialists, but model themselves upon British and German (right-wing) social-democrats. The parties of the ‘right’ (especially AWS) no longer defend national interests either and have turned into the same pro-integration Europeans as the left. According to Lepper, unless other parties give up ‘cosmopolitanism and new internationalism’, the problems of Poland will not be solved. It will continue down the road leading to destruction and liquidation of the state and its national economy (Lepper n.d.). In its defence of rural interests, Samoobrona is in fierce competition with PSL. However, unlike that party, it has never formed part of the political establishment and PSL has never expressed any interest in working together with Samoobrona. As a trade union, Samoobrona has at times co-operated as well as competed with other rural pressure groups and farmers’ organisations. As a political party, it has tried to strengthen its position by forming a bloc with other populist, nationalist groups. In January 2000, it organised a congress in Warsaw, which was attended by about 2000 people, mostly sympathisers, for the purpose of establishing a Peasant-Nationalist Bloc (Paradowska 2000; Rzeczpospolita 18 January 2000).6 However, nothing much has been heard of it since its inauguration and Samoobrona contested the 2001 elections under its own banner. Lepper was able to increase support for Samoobrona by speaking the language of his potential electorate—blue-collar and unskilled workers, the over 55s, and farmers in small and medium-sized towns and rural Poland. What they have in common is their dissatisfaction with the current socio-economic situation and their acceptance of radical forms of protest (Kolarska-Bobinska 2001). Lepper understands provincial Poland like no other politician and he was able to put across his message in understandable and direct language. In the 2001 campaign, in conditions of rising unemployment and a slowdown in the economy, Lepper discarded his more extreme rhetoric, and mobilised the ‘losers’ of transition to vote for Samoobrona. He was the only politician who addressed their fears and said what they wanted to hear. His programme promised the introduction of a social minimum wage, which would allow people to live in dignity. For pensioners, he promised pensions higher than the minimum wage so that they could afford to pay for medicines. For the unemployed, he promised unemployment benefit for an unlimited period of time provided they were genuinely unable to find work. For the farmers and workers, he promised greater investment in agriculture and the construction industry. All this would be financed by increasing the internal debt and a change in monetary policy. He avoided any complex economic arguments, merely reverting to the slogan: ‘Balcerowicz must go unconditionally’, referring to the head of the Polish

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central bank. Finally, he promised voters that if things did not improve within one year, Samoobrona would take to the streets again. Samoobrona in the context of economic and political transformation The phenomenon of Samoobrona should be seen in the context of a society coming out of communist rule and the certainties of a basic social net to the uncertainties of an emerging market economy. The economic transformation took place in a fragile new democracy in conditions of economic recession. For large sectors of the population, approval for a market economy was rather abstract. The political leadership introduced new market mechanisms and the people waited for their situation to improve.7 Those who lost out due to the transformation tended to blame those in power rather than themselves. After all, the intervention of the state has been essential in building the conditions for a market economy and the reforms had been, in the words of Lech Mazewski, ‘imposed by the ruling elites and carried out by the state bureaucracy’, introducing a programme which citizens did not understand and in which they did not participate as individuals (in Szacki 1995:150). If the new elites had an economic policy, there was little sign of an integrated social policy. The transition has not been easy for considerable sections of the population. Many believe that the state, rather than individual initiatives, should provide for the needs of society. It is collective action rather than individual responsibility that tends to appeal to the weak. They are interested in statutory social/ positive rights similar to those guaranteed, although not necessarily implemented, under the previous communist regime (Kovacs 2000). At the same time, for a large part of the population, experiences under communism also left them with a deep-seated suspicion of the state. The state had been the enemy due to its arbitrariness and its refusal to countenance autonomous organisation. The state penetrated society, but lacked linkages with it (except for coercive ones). The consequence of ‘a distrustful society’ (Jowitt 1992:13) has been that consultation and co-operation as ways of finding solutions to problems of collective choice remain relatively underdeveloped. Moreover, an absence of trust at the interpersonal level led to social atomisation and a tendency to fall back on family networks. At state-society level it led to patronage and clientalism as ways of getting things done rather than selforganisation with the view of promoting and protecting collective interests. As a result, people have been wary of placing their trust in political institutions (government, parliament, political parties). The hegemonic role of communist parties had precluded the creation of independent, opposition parties and left people wary of party organisation and party related activity. Many political activists distrusted the idea of party politics altogether, preferring instead to put their faith in broad, ideologically diffuse, ‘anti-political’ social movements such as Solidarity in Poland or Civic Forum

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and Public against Violence in Czechoslovakia. When political parties did emerge from such groups and movements, they were oriented towards the state and tended to monopolise decisionmaking processes from above. In Poland, this elitist approach to politics, the implication that only the politicians knew what was in the best interest of the country, the weakly developed grass-roots party organisation and the lack of consultative mechanisms led to a populist backlash from a number of trade union organisations (which apart from the postcommunist parties were the groups with the most developed grass-roots organisation) and alternative political groups. Samoobrona and radical splinters from Solidarity, such as Solidarity’ 80, claim that sovereignty resides in the masses who have the right to express their will under any circumstances. They feel betrayed by labour unions such as the AWS union wing (NSZZ ‘S’) or the All-Poland Trade Union Alliance (OPZZ), whose representatives ran for parliament on SLD tickets, and accuse them of being inextricably linked with governing parties formulating liberal policies. Many activists would claim that it is former Solidarity activists and members of the Workers’ Defence Committee (KOR) who have betrayed the ethical element of Solidarity of the 1980s and that it is Samoobrona that is now closer to the original ‘ethos’ of the movement. Shortly after setting up Samoobrona, Lepper claimed that Solidarity had lost its legitimacy due to having turned itself into an elite-dominated movement: ‘Samoobrona’s roots are the same as Solidarity’s. The cause of Samoobrona’s emergence lies in the arrogance of the power elite’ (in Gorlach and Mooney 1998:276). More recently, in a declaration issued on the twentieth anniversary of the August 1980 Agreements, Lepper argued that although Solidarity had unmasked the bankruptcy of the communist regime, the Round Table Agreements and ten years of systemic transformation show that its original aims and ideas have been betrayed by its leaders. They have been corrupted by power, have sold off huge national assets and are accumulating wealth on the back of the whole nation. In addition, they are impervious to large-scale unemployment and extreme rural poverty. Indeed, after 1989, the specific notion of civil society as a ‘parallel polis’ and the moral dimension of civil society disintegrated as the regime within which it operated changed shape and a new civil society had to be rebuilt in different circumstances (Smolar 1997). Yet Samoobrona clings to the idea of struggling against the state and the powers that be and espouses the idea of a new and alternative society drawing upon concepts promoted by KOR in the late 1970s. Its very name is reminiscent. However, here the similarities end. KOR, established in 1976, faced a repressive, authoritarian regime. It provided concrete, practical help for the families of workers who had been dismissed or imprisoned for striking and rioting in protest against a large increase in food prices in June 1976 and, through the underground press, informed the public about repressive tactics practised by the authorities. Dissident intellectuals reached out to other social groups and managed to make an impact on the wider

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society. Workers were encouraged to set up unions that would strive for better wages and working conditions. By 1980 independent activity in Poland had developed into a social movement with a broad organisational network. Despite the imposition of martial law on 13 December 1981, and the outlawing of Solidarity, the authorities did not succeed in reasserting their grip on society. Solidarity was a trade union fighting for workers’ rights but it also had a very strong moral element. It actively endorsed values such as freedom, national sovereignty, truth, dignity, honesty, and justice as a counterweight to the moral emptiness of the authoritarian regime. After 1989 the ethical model of civil society was replaced by a transitional model of civil society in which many searched for a third way that would combine the positive features of socialism and capitalism (Ogrodzinski 1995). The end of communist power meant the end of a unified civil society as ‘us’, the people, against ‘them’, the authorities. However, Samoobrona still clings to this concept, while at the same time taking advantage of resentments caused by increasing economic and social inequalities. Its ‘third way’ rejects both capitalism and socialism as being exploitative. At the same time, Samoobrona fits into a tradition of trying to achieve economic and political goals through disruptive collective action. There has been some emphasis among populist parties on ethnic nationalism including the use of xenophobic or racist slogans, on the need for a strong state or even a more authoritarian state model. However, a more salient feature has been coping with the changing socioeconomic order and protecting traditional (national) values. In this sense, Samoobrona and other radical trade union and political groups, but also less radical and more ‘acceptable’ parties, such as Olszewski’s Movement for Rebuilding Poland (ROP), tap into a ‘legitimacy vacuum’ (Glinski and Reddaway 1999) as perceived by significant sectors of the population. Relations with the state and government Many of Samoobrona’s protests, such as setting up road blocks or occupying public buildings, are illegal, but the authorities have rarely attempted to arrest or prosecute the protestors. Moreover, rather than accepting that those who have suffered economic losses from the imposition of road blocks should be compensated, the protestors actually asked the government to reimburse them for any farm machinery (tractors, etc.) damaged by the police in the course of blockades. Samoobrona has profited from memories of strikes by Solidarity in the 1980s and of martial law, which have left governments extremely reluctant to come down hard on demonstrators even when they disturb the public order and prevent other citizens from going about their business. This has been the case even though confrontational and sometimes violent actions by Samoobrona did not sit easily with Solidarity’s non-violent ethos. However, the psychological burden of a government made up of parties and unions that had also used disruptive, even

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if largely non-violent tactics against a communist government must not be forgotten. There was also a reluctance to bear down too hard on Samoobrona and thus make martyrs of them. At the time of the largest protests in early 1999, opinion polls showed that there was much public support and understanding of the protests. In a survey carried out by CBOS in February 1999, 73 per cent of respondents thought the protesters had good reason to protest and 53 per cent thought that the blockades were an acceptable form of protest. Only 22 per cent thought the police should move in to remove the protesters (CBOS 1999). Direct action, whether by peasants or industrial workers, backing political demands by parties, has a long tradition in Poland. In Galicia in 1906, 300,000 peasants took part in demonstrations to add to pressure from the Polish Peasant Party, which was demanding recognition of (Polish) peasants as equal citizens of the Habsburg Empire. In the Russian part of Poland, over 500 agrarian strikes were held in 1905 demanding greater economic and linguistic rights (Dziewanowski 1996). In the 1930s, in protest against low prices for farm products and the high cost of credit, peasants held numerous strikes, stopping food deliveries to urban centres. Strikes were also held against the authoritarian Sanacja (1926–39) regime, calling for free elections and the release of imprisoned peasant leaders. During the collectivisation drive by the communists in the first half of the 1950s, peasants embarked on passive go-slow strikes, creating food shortages by failing to meet their delivery quotas. From the late 1970s, peasants embarked on more active methods, forming independent local and later national organisations. There is thus a strong and recent tradition of political conflict and protest (Ekiert 1997). Given such a legacy, it is not surprising that Samoobrona and its leader were taken seriously by mainstream politicians. Lepper has met members of both governing and opposition parties as well as state functionaries, despite his numerous virulent and slanderous attacks against government ministers and the president. Blockades that were recognised as being illegal were not lifted and there was little attempt by the police to intervene. However, successive governments have insisted that protests should end before entering into any negotiations. Unlike other union leaders involved in protests, Lepper has usually refused to enter into substantive talks with the government even after an agreement to lift blockades or occupations had been reached. Given Samoobrona’s ideological stance and for tactical purposes it was often not in his interest to do so. Nevertheless, Lepper as a trade union leader, needs to make demands on the government on specific issues; for instance, low interest agricultural credits from the state or minimum prices for agricultural products. In this, he is constantly competing with other farmers’ organisations and parties, while needing to maintain a precarious balance between being able to take credit for concessions from the government and not being seen to be currying for favour from the political establishment. His aim is to keep a high profile, to gain publicity, and to try to keep the momentum going. At the time of protests and blockades in much of Western Europe against high petrol prices, Lepper immediately called for

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demonstrations by transport firms, taxis, private car owners and anyone using fuel to demand a 30 per cent reduction in the cost of fuel and for the profits of a number of refineries to be published and the names of members of their executive boards to be made known. However, there is no longer much sign of the large-scale protests and blockades seen in the spring of 1999. Lepper’s unwillingness to compromise or even enter into negotiations with the government, his tendency to see everyone else as traitors to the cause and as the enemy, have left him unable to forge lasting coalitions and disenchanted some of his supporters. Until the 2001 elections, he was not very successful in his attempts to extend his appeal to other groups. During his presidential campaign he tried to woo the coal miners of Silesia, another group likely to suffer in the run-up to EU membership, with 88,000 miners having left their jobs since 1998, and another 30,000 set to lose their jobs by 2002 (Financial Times 19 January 2001). However, miners are well unionised and represented by unions within Solidarity, which formed the government between 1997–2001. It was that government, with acquiescence of the unions, which started restructuring the coal mining industry. Unlike farmers, miners are eligible either for early retirement, retraining or state-funded severance payments. Although the labour market is growing increasingly saturated, alternative jobs have been easier to find for miners than for the rural population. So (ex-)miners were not that likely to be lured by Lepper’s populism and in wooing the miners he risked alienating his rural supporters, who remember miners’ privileged status under communism and resent what are seen as excessive handouts from the government. If we look at Samoobrona’s programme and listen to its propaganda alone there can be no co-operation with other organisations, no work with local government and no co-operation with the state either. In principle, it wants to create a completely different order and rejects both capitalism and certain aspects of democratic freedom, such as freedom of information. In practice, Samoobrona has been somewhat more pragmatic. Lepper has had success in local elections, and was elected a provincial councillor in Western Pomerania in the northwest of the country. When asked by a journalist during the 2000 presidential campaign which politicians or historical personalities were closest to his heart, Lepper mentioned four: Charles de Gaulle, Olaf Palme, Wincenty Witos8 and Jozef Piłsudski—a rather mixed bunch, but none of them a radical populist. Indeed, Lepper is a political chameleon. Already in the elections in 2000, and even more so in the 2001 campaign, he shifted from peasant populism to economic populism to broaden his appeal and (perhaps tactically) dropped his more radical ideology. Conclusions Samoobrona’s political ideology has been a mixed blessing for its trade union activities. On the one hand, its contentious stance against neoliberal economic policies and what it sees as the arrogance of political elites has helped it to mobilise discontent caused by the costs of transformation. On the other hand, its

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refusal to co-operate or enter into negotiations with the government, and its inability to forge lasting coalitions with less radical unions, has reduced its effectiveness as a trade union that delivers on its promises. Samoobrona often claims to have taken on the mantle of Solidarity after the latter had sold out to the state and taken on ‘the arrogance of power’. There has indeed been a shift of East European civil society towards the state since 1989, with many leading members of the former oppositional civil society having turned themselves into governing elites (see Kopecký and Barnfield 1999). In Poland, there has been tension between Solidarity as part of a reformist, economically neo-liberal elite and Solidarity’s trade unionist traditions. Throughout the period under consideration, trade unions have been directly represented in public office (government and/or parliament) as well as taking on more traditional union roles. Samoobrona in its dualistic political/trade unionist role is following a well-trodden path. Nor are its forms of protest that different from those of other organisations. The difference lies in the fact that Samoobrona challenges the legitimacy of the regime in its political programme and rhetoric, if not in its trade union activity. However, despite Samoobrona’s mobilisation potential, its threat to the regime is more illusory than real. Most sympathisers are not looking for radical economic and systemic change. Many are simply seeking a material improvement to their current situation and they have lost faith in the ability of mainstream parties, such as PSL, to help them. During the last few years, farmers have been faced with increasing quantities of imports of good quality, cheap Western agricultural products and a collapse of the Russian market for their products. This has led to a crisis in agriculture. They simply cannot compete and they know that with the prospect of EU membership, many of them will not survive. However, surveys show that farmers’ fears about integration into the EU are economic rather than cultural in nature. Farmers are far more worried about bankruptcy, competition from cheap imported food products and foreigners buying up land, than about loss of national identity, an erosion of morals, or a weakening of religious attitudes (IPA 1999:22). They are more likely to support Samoobrona’s hands-on grass-roots actions as a way of voicing their economic demands and exerting pressure on the authorities, than to embrace some of its more radical populist rhetoric. Surveys of attitudes among the rural population and farmers show that participation in collective protest actions is often seen as being far more effective than joining a political party, a trade union, or voting (IPA 1999). This does not necessarily constitute a threat to democratic consolidation. Like France, Poland has a tradition of taking to the streets. There is a higher incidence of strikes, occupation of public buildings, blockades, and even violent action than in Hungary or Slovakia (Ekiert and Kubik 1998). Trade unions play a more prominent role in such protests than political parties and economic demands are more frequently voiced than political ones. Samoobrona’s greatest mobilising potential has been

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seen when it has co-operated with other trade unions and farmers’ organisations. This suggests that protests are a reaction to economic hardship rather than a serious challenge to the legitimacy of the regime. Indeed, it was only when Samoobrona toned down its more extreme rhetoric and addressed the largely economic fears and anxieties of significant sectors of the population, that it broke through in electoral terms. In this, it was helped by the inability of many of the pro-reform elites to communicate with those who feel left behind. Samoobrona will now have to decide how to tackle the conundrum of being an anti-establishment party that challenges the very legitimacy of the current regime, and trying to deliver on its electoral promises through its role as a parliamentary opposition party. Since its influence in parliament is likely to be limited (at least in terms of pushing through its programme), contentious collective action is likely to continue, but it should not be seen as a harbinger of radical populism. Notes 1 With its entry into parliament in 2001, Samoobrona changed its website address to: http://www.samoobrona.org.pl. 2 The motto above the door to the central office reads: ‘The assertion, that after the fall of communism the only alternative is capitalism, is unacceptable—John Paul II’. This not only covers the ‘third way’ but the fact that this is a quote from a Polish Pope also brings on board Polish historical, cultural and religious traditions. 3 Conversation of the author with participants of the first Falzmann Memorial Symposium, Jachranka, Poland, 15–17 July 1994. Such fears are linked to a pessimistic interpretation of the Club of Rome’s 1972 report ‘Limits to Growth’ and a belief that Poland, as a ‘developing’ country would remain in a situation of enforced backwardness. 4 According to Samoobrona trade union’s statute there are six levels of organisation, from local agricultural circles made up of at least five members, through to the national organisation. 5 Such actions draw their inspiration from the historical battle of Raclawice in 1794. There, for the first time, peasants, and not only the gentry (szlachta), were mobilised for the national cause. Under Tadeusz Kosciuszko peasants armed with scythes and pikes attacked Russian gun positions and put the enemy to flight. 6 Lepper has often described Samoobrona as a peasant or people’s patriotic movement (ruch ludowo-patriotyczny). The word lud means people, the populace, usually the working classes or peasants. Ludowy is usually translated either as people’s or peasant’s [party]. 7 For the substantial role played by political leaders in the transformation from a planned to a market economy, see, for instance, Balcerowicz (1995). In Poland, attitudes towards ‘the Balcerowicz Plan’ (shock therapy) have formed one of the factors determining electoral choices (see Jasiewicz 1993). 8 Witos was leader of the moderate PSL-Piast and prime minister from 1920–1, and for six months in 1923. He tried, unsuccessfully, to carry out a policy of land

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reform, and speed up the purchase of land from big estates and its redistribution to the rural poor.

8 Civil society in the Czech Republic ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ Vladimíra Dvo áková

Introduction In the ‘decade of transition’, many discussions in the Czech Republic have focused on the problems of the formation of civil society and of its role in society and politics. Not only scholars but also (mainly) politicians and intellectuals, often former dissidents, were active in these discussions, which were published in daily newspapers rather than in scientific journals. The problems of civil society have become the battlefield for different political streams and politicians. Each political group espoused different concepts of civil society and used them for direct and immediate gains in political competition. At the same time, the gap between politics and society has been deepening in the eyes of common citizen. The frustration (which is present after any revolution, because never all expectations are fulfilled) was strengthened by everyday political practice, i.e. the bargaining between the main parties and the (perceived) neglect of the everyday problems of the citizens. Moreover, politics was mediated to the citizens by a mass media that still had to learn how to be independent. Non-critical or hypercritical approaches dominated, with most of the journalists concentrating mainly on the questions of ‘high politics’ without understanding the gist of the problems and neglecting the important problems in the daily life of society. In 1999, the tenth anniversary of the Velvet Revolution called for the evaluation of the achievements and for the re-opening of the questions and ideas that had been discussed before. In the Czech Republic this process was connected with the formation and activities of two civic initiatives: Impuls 99 (‘Impulse 99’), and D kujeme, Odejd te (‘Thank You, Time To Go’). These two civic initiatives are subject of analysis in this chapter. I start with a historical excursus, analysing the historical roots of the current development of civil society, both in the communist and post-communist period. The focus is on the main features, problems and traditions (most notably that of the dissidents) that influenced the formation of civil society. An important part of this section concentrates on the dis-courses of civil society in Czech(oslovak) politics. I argue that particular concepts of civil society (represented by the conflict

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between President Václav Havel and former Prime Minister Václav Klaus) have been used in the political competition to strengthen the political position of these two politicians. The next two sections present detailed descriptions of the two main initiatives, ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’, including analyses of their basic declarations, forms of organisation, activities, immediate public response, and future perspectives. The role and character of the two initiatives is analysed in the final section. I concentrate mainly on the question of the appeal of the intellectuals on mass mobilisation, and the dilemma connected with the forms of mediation of their demands into politics (non-political politics vs electoral participation and deeper collaboration with political parties). My main argument is that the activities of ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ have not strengthened civil society in the Czech Republic, and have even, in the long run, deepened the citizens’ frustration with politics and political participation. Historical excursus Before we can come to a deeper understanding of the role and character of these two initiatives, we have to go back to the history, the tradition, and the role of civil society in both communist and post-communist society. These initiatives were not formed in a vacuum (tabula rasa), but they are deeply rooted in Czech political culture, and are connected with the main political conflicts of the communist and post-communist period. Civil society in the post-communist countries seems to be a magic formula that can explain almost all the problems connected with the transitions to democracy. One can find serious theoretical concepts and (to a lesser extent) empirical research as well as simplistic and contradictory interpretations mentioning at the same time the non-existence of civil society during the communist regime, the glorious victory of civil society in 1989 and the total incapacity of civil society since 1989.1 The problem is complicated further by the very different notions of what civil society is and what its role is supposed to be, by the very static and to some extent ahistorical understanding of it, and by the underestimation of cultural, psychological, social, economic and political circumstances that influence its development. I understand civil society to mean a place where people with common interests (generally not interpreted in a simply political or economic sense) are able to meet and communicate, where they are able to formulate their demands and to some extent to transfer them into politics, where they have a capacity to prevent the intervention of the state to the private sphere, where they ask for accountability of the politicians, and where they form organisations that in an economic or political sense are independent of the state. The first point may need further explanation. Communication is crucial for any society, because it prevents polarisation of society along political lines, and thereby the formation of enemies. It also enables cross-cutting social contacts that are unconnected

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with politics; it opens up space for the inclusion of particular groups into society and politics. In highly politicised societies, which most post-communist societies are, communication and social contacts seem to be of particular importance. Civil society before and after 1989 Under the communist regime no organisation that was financially and politically independent of the state could legally exist. All financial sources were obtained from the state (and partly from the fees of the members). The leadership of the organisations had to be approved or consulted by some higher institution, usually the communist party committee at some level. The level of official participation of people in these organisations was very high (almost 100 per cent in trade unions). Being organised was interpreted as a declaration of loyalty to the system and was part of the information in the questionnaires that were submitted with applications for jobs or children’s applications to high school and university studies. Communication with the ‘state’ was one-dimensional, i.e. the state used these organisations for better control of the population, for ‘ideological penetration’, and mainly for the formation of an atmosphere in which loyalty was the acceptable and reasonable way of life. There was no space for formulating demands from below, and the official documents of these organisations mostly concentrated on slogans about support for results of the last party congress, etc. In the late 1980s, groups of independent young people were formed, through which, in the very last phase of communism, some communication with official structures started—mainly through the Socialist Union of Youth.2 Also, mainly among young people there was some influence of ‘underground’ cultural activities. This notwithstanding, the group of dissidents in Czechoslovakia was rather small and existed mostly in isolation from the public, particularly when compared to Hungary and Poland On the other hand, this was the only group discussing the problems of civil society, developing ideas such as the ‘parallel polis’ and ‘life in truth’. Petr Kopecký and Edward Barnfield (1999:78) stress that ‘the notion of civil society became an articulated political theory of opposition to totalitarianism. It was envisaged primarily as a strategy of opposition against the communist regime; but it was also presented as a programme for a post-communist society, and possibly even a ‘post-democratic’ one’. Although the real impact of these discussions remained very low before 1989, they did influence political discourse, discussions and the formation of the political space after the revolution. In short, the communist regime left a peculiar legacy with respect to the formation of civil society. The citizens of Czechoslovakia had some crosscutting social contacts, but they were also frustrated by forced participation. There was no experience of the formulation of demands, no fund-raising skills, no experience of writing projects, conflict-resolution, or the transfer of demands from the social sphere to politics. Moreover, when the revolution started, there

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were no legal rules regulating activities of non-governmental organisations (NGOs), forms of sponsorship, etc. Directly after the revolution, a true mushrooming of organisations of civil society took place. Civil society itself remained very weak, however. The main problems were connected with legal aspects, most notably with the question of financing activities. Legislation was passed only in 1995 (the law on the organisations of benefit to the public) and in 1997 (the law on the foundations). Almost no sources for internal private financing of NGOs existed, partly because of the political culture, but mainly because of the weakness of the private sector. The most important financing came from abroad. It was clear that the civil sector could not be formed without the help of the state.3 Indeed, in February 1993 the National Property Fund founded a joint-stock company, Foundations Investment Fund, which was supposed to obtain 1 per cent of the stocks from the privatisation of state property. The nominal value of the financial sources was 2. 8 billion Czech crowns (c. $79 million). A few months before, in June 1992, the Governmental Council for Foundations (RN) had been formed. However, the right-wing coalition government of Prime Minister Klaus (1992–6) showed no real interest in solving the problems of non-profit organisations. The Governmental Council for Foundations did almost no work. It was only in 1998 that its competencies were broadened and it was renamed as the Governmental Council of Non-State Non-Profit Organisations (RNNO). However, the sources of the Foundation Investment Fund were not allocated until 1999. Competing concepts of civil society and post-revolutionary politics The debate about civil society in the Czech Republic has been dominated by two positions, each represented by one prominent politician. On the one side, Klaus’s position is very often described by these basic characteristics: rejection of the concept of civil society (‘It is not clear what the concept of civil society means— there is a state on one side and the citizen on the other and nothing in between’.); rejection of any state support for NGOs (‘Why should the state take care of NGOs when the key feature of these organisations is their independence of the state?’); and rejection of influence of NGOs on politics and of holding discussions with them (‘The voters have a chance to elect their political representatives every four years and politics cannot bow to the pressures of some organisations’.). His position is often interpreted as influenced by neo-liberalism (or Thatcherism in particular). On the other side, Havel’s position is often characterised by the stress on the role of civil society, understanding it as a ‘parallel polis’ and as an opposition to the state. He understands democracy mainly as ‘a way of life’, while procedures, rules, and formal sources of legitimacy are not considered to be particularly important. In that, Havel follows the humanistic tradition of the first

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Czechoslovak president, Tomáš G.Masaryk; his political attitudes were also strongly influenced by his own experience of dissidence. There are a lot of descriptions of the conflict of the two Václavs (Klaus and Havel) in Czech politics (e.g. Bugge 1998). However, the interpretation of these positions in connection with political competition for power is often missing. It was not only an ideology and a way of thinking about politics that influenced the respective positions of Klaus and Havel respectively; it also became a tool to realise their political goals and to strengthen their own political positions. For the realisation of Klaus’s concept of economic transformation it was important to keep the social peace, not to enable the formation of the structures of civil society and relevant alternatives toward this concept— the weaker civil society, the better the position of the cabinet. Klaus’s position toward civil society strongly influenced the atmosphere in society, largely through the mass media, which for the most part were totally uncritical towards him. It weakened the position and authority of the few organisations that were able to formulate some demands, i.e. trade unions and ecological movements, which were denoted as anti-democratic and extremist or as organisations with roots in the communist past. Discussion was very limited. Klaus had to accept the tripartite structure of negotiations between the trade unions, the state and the business organisations during the process of transformation. But he wanted to limit it to only discussions between the trade unions and the business organisations in the future. This lack of communication with professional chambers, trade unions and civic associations probably deepened the crisis and hindered the positive transformation of, for example, health care, the educational system, etc. (Pot ek 1997). It did strengthen the position of Klaus, however. The absence of challenges of organised protest to his politics, gave him more space to strengthen the role of the political community, mainly that of political parties and everyday politics, which enabled the transfer of particular interests directly into the sphere of politics. And this is another point why, for Klaus, a structured civil society was not acceptable. Civil society is mediating some demands, some societal interests, but for rapid economic transformation and support for his politics he did not need any mediation or compromise. What he needed was the loyalty of the party managers, the support of the mass media, etc. This fits with general characterisations of political parties in East-Central Europe as very strong politically and very weak socially, or in the words of one scholar, parties are ‘hovering’ or ‘floating’ over social reality (Ágh 1997:138–9). The socially weak parties have a tendency to concentrate mainly on micropolicies, i.e. dealing with the ways in which particular interests are to be handled or being interested in dividing the spoils of power (see Kunc 1999). They do not need any communication with society. They do not initiate channels for communication and or for influencing decision making. Observers have described this situation as ‘a strong political society, composed of elite organizations (such as political parties) which penetrate the state. They

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monopolize the decision making processes, and either actively suppress or simply ignore the groups organized beyond their auspices’ (Kopecký and Barnfield 1999:77). Communication is concentrated only on electoral campaigns, which are more or less without content. What is important is the influence in the mass media. The basic challenge to democratic stability that ensues from this understanding of civil society and politics is that it can lead to the almost total separation of the social and political spheres, losing any feedback and communication with society. The mediation of demands and particular interests will be very limited, the ‘contraction of the political system’ (Luhmann 1982) will be very strict. The gap between society and politics will get deeper and deeper and the possibilities for the reproduction of the system will be limited. Step-by-step, democracy and its procedures will lose its high value, and protest or anti-establishment parties can gain wide support. The opposite view on the role of civil society, represented mainly by President Havel, understands it almost as an alternative form of politics. This position is also rooted in the past, in the experience of the communist regime, where almost no institution of mediation worked and where the opposition between political and civil society was rather sharply polarised. This is also the reason why antipolitical (non-political) activity of civil society is supposed to be superior to the ‘political’ realm in both social and moral terms (Mudde 2001; Kopecký and Barnfield 1999). Standard liberal institutions and procedures are not important to Havel. The spirit, the principles, and common sense are above procedures. He is strongly opposed to the institutionalisation of politics, and against routine in politics. In this sense he prefers the role of particular personalities to that of political parties. This also means a preference for some level of unpredictability in politics. Here we can see Havel the dramatist. Analysing some of his political decisions, or the structure of his speeches, we can see that politics in his understanding has the same structure as a drama; the particular actors have to surprise not only their counterparts but also the public. The main challenge to democratic stability that stems from this position is that civil and political society will fade into one. The process of mediation will be very weak. The demands will get channelled directly into politics; the contraction of the system will not work, and the system can get flooded with demands. Underestimation of the institutional procedures will raise the question of the legitimacy of the decision making process. Moreover, Havel’s vision of civil society is elitist (although this is never explicitly expressed). It conceives of civil society as led by intellectuals with a moral and ethical appeal to the masses, not as the organisations of ‘commoners’ such as trade unions. To conclude, civil society has been very weak in the Czech Republic. The main problem seems to be its structure (less connected with concrete problems of everyday life), the low level of participation of the citizenry, and the low ability to transfer demands into politics. Although the legal framework for the activities of the organisations of civil society and even the communication of the political

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and social sphere have improved since 1998, it is still far from ideal. Klaus’ vision of civil society is still strong in the sphere of politics (although not so strong within the social democratic cabinet, 1998–2002), while Havel’s vision is supported mainly among intellectuals, within the mass media, and in the form of rhetoric of the now defunct Four Coalition (see below). It is in this context that the two civic initiatives, to which we now turn, have developed at the end of the 1990s. ‘Impulse 99’ ‘Impulse 99’ appeared with its first declaration in July 1999. It was organised mainly by Czech intellectuals, most of whom were connected with the antiCommunist dissent. The formation followed more than a half year of discussions and meetings in the eská spo itelna club in Prague. According to one of the participants, Czech sociologist Jirina Šiklová, personalities with different political opinions participated in these meetings and there was no aim to come to a common opinion. What they had in common was a concern for the present state of Czech society and politics: ‘lf the cabinet and the parliament engage in political non-politics (…), then the citizens have to engage in non-political politics. This means they must act by themselves, with disregard for the decisions of the political parties’ (Šiklová 1999:123). The timing of the first declaration was rather problematic. On the one hand, the ‘silly season’ provided enough space for discussions and information about the initiative in all the newspapers. On the other hand, a lot of people started their holidays and thus had less contact with and interest in public affairs. The main reason for this timing was a Senate byelection in August 1999. If the seat was gained by an independent Senator, the two main parties, the Czech Social Democratic Party ( SSD) and the Civic Democratic Party (ODS), would lose their constitutional majority in the Senate and the prepared changes of the constitution would not be accepted. So, from the very beginning, the initiative was actually aimed at ‘high politics’, attempting to influence the political process. In its declaration, ‘Impulse 99’ expressed strong concerns over the state of society and politics: ‘Our republic is heading in a direction which may stifle the hope for a rapid integration into European structures, and lead to a further decline in the economic, legal, social and moral spheres.’4 Their criticism concentrated mainly on national politics: We are disturbed by the inability and unwillingness of politicians to communicate with society and to heed critical voices, foreign and domestic (…) We challenge politicians to finally begin to concern themselves with the real problems of our country and not merely with power games. We exhort them to engage in dialogue with citizens and their initiatives, as well as such institutions as trade unions, churches, universities, and

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professional organizations. The way in which the state engages in dialogue with its citizens directly determines the way in which citizens view and fulfil their responsibility to the state. This part was directed mainly against the so-called ‘opposition agreement’ (a bargain between the two leading political parties— SSD and ODS), and reflected the opinions and criticism of two opposition parties, the Christian Democratic Union (KDU- SL) and the Freedom Union (US), and of President Havel. Another part was connected more to specific political questions: ‘We are tired of the eternal bickering of politicians and of their populist attempts to cull public opinion, as was the case for example, with the recent crisis in Kosovo.’5 The declaration of ‘Impulse 99’ includes also a brief appeal for some personnel changes, which are close to the later position of ‘Thank You, Time To Go’: ‘We would rather have that more people of character assume public office, people who possess courage and the moral determination needed to engage the public actively and creatively’. The most important tasks under consideration of ‘Impulse 99’ were the rapid integration of the Czech Republic into European structures, cultivation of a civil society, renewal of moral values, the support of solidarity and responsibility among citizens, adhering to decent business practices, introduction of a debate on the principles of political society and on the extent of redistribution of assets by the state, strengthening decentralisation and regional autonomy, development of a culture of law in the state and improving the functioning of the justice system, and education, i.e. the creation of conditions for broader entry into institutions of higher learning and the improvement of their quality. In fact, these main tasks were more or less connected with all aspects of societal life. The last paragraph of the declaration tries to define the main aspirations of the initiative: The ‘Impulse 99’ initiative arose out of a common reflection and a search for a solution to our current crisis. We do not pretend to have ready answers, nor do we assume the role of defenders of society. By initiating momentum, we wish to support change. We wish to contribute to the development of the creative potential of civic society, and to overcome feelings of helplessness and distaste. Because we do not wish to create ‘parallel political structures’, we submit this initiative to all democraticallyminded citizens, without consideration of their political preference. We feel kinship with numerous similar efforts by like-minded people in our country. We believe that despite varying opinions, there are numerous decent and responsible citizens who are connected by their common sense of responsibility for the current state of democracy and for the future of our country. The proclamation was signed by 200 people, mainly intellectuals, although in some cases people claimed never to have signed, and expressed their surprise to

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have been included on the list of signatories. The next document that ‘Impulse 99’ presented, dealt with the problems of European integration (6 October 1999). Here the authors strongly criticised the level of the country’s preparation, which ‘remains disorganized and is falling significantly behind’. It asked for changes in the political personnel and even in the cabinet: Should the current government and political parties which support European integration feel that they are not up to the task, personnel and political changes must take place. (…) Clear priority should be given to early and full EU membership, a process which cannot be ensured by a minority cabinet. There exist several possibilities for creating a government with majority representation. This ‘majority representation’ could be interpreted as the possibility of the formation of a right-wing coalition with the participation of Four Coalition (KDU- SL, US and two small right-wing parties), which did not succeed in the negotiations with ODS after the 1998 elections. Alternatively, it could have meant a caretaker cabinet, with less influence of political parties, similar to the one that ruled the country for half a year before the 1998 elections and that was supported by Havel. The declaration finished with general proposals on the most important tasks concerning the EU accession process (e.g. the strengthening of the accountability of particular ministers in following the recommendations of the European Commission, decentralisation of the state, preparation of the schedule for EU entry, public and civic discussion forums, collaboration with NGOs and specialinterest organisations). Four days after this declaration was published, ‘Impulse 99’ presented a new document dealing with the proposed changes in the constitution: ‘Impulse 99’ strongly protests the manner in which the ruling Social Democrats and their opposition-agreement partner, the Civic Democratic party, are pushing through their proposals for a change in the constitution of the Czech Republic (…) The proposed provision, in which the president of the Republic would automatically have to entrust the naming of the cabinet to the chairman of the party which receives the majority of votes, may open the door to an extremist party assuming rule, and thus damage democracy. The last part of the quotation is connected with the proposal for limiting the power of the President, which was in part a reaction of the two strongest political parties to events of the 1998 pre-election period, when Havel had publicly declared that he did not feel obliged to ask the winner of the elections to form the cabinet. SSD and ODS interpreted this as an attempt by Havel to form a caretaker cabinet after the elections.

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One week after the constitutional proclamation, a protest against the construction of the wall in Mati ní Street in Ústí nad Labem was published,6 while the next month ‘Impulse 99’ published a declaration supporting the initiative ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ (see below). The stance was as follows: Our support for the proclamation of ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ is an appeal. An appeal to the responsibility of the leaders of the strongest parties for the fate of this country. They would serve the country best if they give up their posts for more dynamic and less profaned politicians who could try to renew the trust in democratic politics of the citizens. If the current politicians will find the courage to leave, they are worthy of our thanks for that and for everything that they have done for this country since 1989.7 Two more proclamations followed in December 1999. The first was a protest against the cabinet proposal to protect the internal market in power supply, in which mainly a fear of an increased dependency on Russian gas was formulated. The second declaration was in favour of support for a demonstration of the trade unions, which protested against the fact that some workers had not been paid their salaries. In addition, two large meetings to discuss the question of the European Union were organised in Brno and Prague in the autumn of 1999. ‘Impulse 99’ also created special sections, which the signatories could join. These section focused on six broad topics: 1 integration into European structures and the international position of the Czech Republic; 2 civil society institutions and the moral problems of the country; 3 development of public services and public administration; 4 legal awareness, the law-abiding state and judiciary; 5 economic and social policy and agriculture; and 6 the environment and sustainable development. During the autumn it also opened regional centres, later followed by a students’ section. Among the first three spokespersons of ‘Impulse 99’, a tradition taken from the dissident organisation Charta 77 (Charter 77), was Tomáš Halík, a priest and leading Catholic intellectual who was once mentioned by Havel as his possible successor as president; Ji í Pehe, a former adviser of President Havel; and Jana Šmídová, a journalist working for Radio Free Europe. Later, for the purpose of greater contacts with the US, another spokesperson was appointed: Petr Bisek, a Czech emigrant to the US, who in 1998 received the Medal of Recognition from President Havel for his lobbying efforts in the US Congress in favour of the Czech Republic’s entry into NATO. After a half year of existence, ‘Impulse 99’ was supported by almost 4000 signatories. In the year 2000 two new

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spokespersons were named: Halík continued in his post, while the newcomers were Slavomír Hubálek, a psychologist, and Krystyna Wanatowiczová, a student at the Faculty of Philosophy of Prague’s Charles University, who organised the student section of ‘Impulse 99’. Reviewing the first year, Halík (n.d.) stressed that the positive impact of the activities of ‘Impulse 99’ was probably mainly in the revival of a greater interest in the process of EU integration by both politicians and the public, and that it had contributed to the refusal of the proposed constitutional changes. However, he mentioned also the fact that ‘Impulse 99’ had not been able to mobilise a large part of its signatories and sympathisers, and that the communication and dialogue with political parties was very weak—the contacts were mainly with Four Coalition. In 2000 the main activities of ‘Impulse 99’ were connected with the proposed changes in the constitution—on 16 February a letter, signed by more than eighty leading intellectuals, was sent to all senators with an appeal not to support the changes—and with the discussions about Czech state television ( T). Its first proclamation dealing with T was called ‘Decision of the Parliament threatening independent Czech media’ (14 March 2000), and stated among others: Last week, the Parliament of the Czech Republic removed the entire leadership Council of Czech Television from office. Parliament justified its decision by stating that the Council did not fulfil its public interest role (…) ‘Impulse 99’ therefore wishes to express its serious and grave concern regarding the future of independent Czech television. ‘Impulse 99’ has decided that it will focus its activities on supporting freedom of speech and supporting the independence of existing media to a maximal degree. Further activities connected to this problem were proclaimed: first, the creation of a working team to monitor and disseminate information regarding the current situation in television; second, the request that new members of the Czech television council come from independent and politically neutral personalities; third, the organisation of a conference on the problems of media independence in Brno in May; and, fourth and last, ‘Impulse 99’ requests that any of all persons who have concrete evidence of instances of political influence or interference with independent media activities immediately forward this information to the offices of ‘Impulse 99’’. The second point was connected to a further declaration, published on 31 March, in which ‘Impulse 99’ criticised the ODS proposal for new members of the Council of Czech Television. Its main bone of contention was that the ODS press spokesperson was included on the list and it offered its own proposal for new members. On 5 June 2000 ‘Impulse 99’ also protested in the case of the moderator of a discussion program, who was dismissed after a discussion with ODS leader Klaus. It warned against the increased pressures on T.

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The last proclamation dealing with this topic was made on 21 December 2000 and had the very strong title: ‘The Proclamation of ‘Impulse 99’ concerning the threat to democracy stemming from the election of the new director of Czech TV’. In it, the initiative declared its support for the employees of T, who organised a strike against the newly appointed director. Importantly, this last proclamation was signed not by the spokespersons but by the members of the committee of the newly formed civic association ‘Impulse 99’. The civic association was formed in December 2000 with forty-five founding members. The members of the committee were mostly people connected with previous activities of ‘Impulse 99’: Halík, Hubálek and Wanatoviczová (all spokespersons in 2000), Jana Šmídová (spokesperson in 1999), and ‘newcomer’ David Špinar, a student and the only person with a party affiliation (US). The reasons for the change of status were deep internal divisions within ‘Impulse 99’, connected probably with the unfulfilled ambitions of some activists, who had considered the initiative as a vehicle to enter politics (i.e. the Senate elections of autumn 2000). As a consequence, ‘Impulse 99’ lost its Prague headquarters, which had been provided by Martin Jan Stránský, the grandson of a leading Czech intellectual of the First Czechoslovak Republic, who grew up in the US and returned after the Velvet Revolution. The future of the new civic association remains unclear. In fact, no new information has been published on the website of ‘Impulse 99’ since January 2001.8 Nevertheless, some public activities are still organised—mainly discussions with the broader public. The last, in February 2002 concentrated on the question of the next president (Havel’s term ends in the beginning of 2003) mainly whether to change the way the president is elected.9 This discussion was organised together with the students’ association Polis (students of political science from Charles University), which included a lot of young people and thereby broadened the spectrum of participants. ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ The second initiative that aroused attention was D kujeme, odejd te (‘Thank You, Time To Go’). Its first declaration was published on 17 November 1999, the tenth anniversary of the Velvet Revolution. The authors, six former student leaders of that revolution, concentrated mainly on criticism of the current political representation. We are deeply disappointed and outraged by the way the current political representation conducts itself in power that was entrusted to it. The tenth anniversary of the Revolution caught us in the deepest political and moral mess so far. We feel betrayed. We watch the face of arrogant political power, which is not able to come to an agreement about anything, and which only accuses the citizens of their bad voting.

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The current government and its behaviour grossly distorts and harms the image of our country abroad! It causes sadness and hopelessness among the population. It brings us again close to internal emigration as we remember it from the period of communism. In the name of our generation and in the name of the next generation, we categorically call for the return of respectability, morality, political correctness and humanistic orientation. We ask the leading politicians of the main political parties to resign in the interest of the country. They cannot help this country anymore; they can neither address the challenges of the process of European integration, nor can they be trustworthy members of NATO which is vital for us. They have become a thing of the past; their inability to come to an agreement is the evidence of this.10 Later a civic association ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ was formed, which established a student section in February 2000. The association also works on the regional level. Its most important form of political activity is the demonstration. The first, and most successful, was held on Prague’s Wenceslas square on 3 December 1999, with the participation of some 60,000 people. The second demonstration, in February 2000, called ‘Anti-February’,11 was somewhat of a fiasco, with only very marginal participation of less than 100 people, most of whom were passers-by. Unlike ‘Impulse 99’, ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ was not supposed to form any kind of organisation, and the former student leaders were actually surprised by the mass pressure to create some kind of association or even a political party. Also, ‘Impulse 99’ appealed mainly to intellectuals, speaking of the necessity to discuss important societal questions, in which common people could hardly participate. ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ only identified the sources of frustration and disillusion. They had no idea how to solve the situation, and even no idea who could or should take over after the demanded resignation of the current politicians. The main goal was to say: ‘This is not what we wanted ten years ago’ (Stastna 2000). This is also clear from the declaration of Šimon Pánek, at the demonstration of 3 December 1999, in which he stressed that the Proclamation ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ from 17 November was a demonstration of civic interest and definitely not the solution to the current situation; it is a call to look for such a solution (…) The signatories are now occupied with different scenarios for further developments. However, the signatories remain ordinary citizens who manifested their disagreement with the current situation. (Pánek 1999) Just before the ‘Anti-February’ demonstration another proclamation was published, which announced the decision to form a civic association ‘Thank You, Time To Go’. It also expressed the will to continue.

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No matter how much they make fun of us, or how much they ignore us, no matter how they mock the resolve many of you have expressed, we will continue to ‘meddle in politics’. We will do so in order to remind political actors that their role in public life is principally and above all to serve, and that they are obliged to be accountable throughout the whole four year mandate! (…) We are neither moral fundamentalists nor naive dreamers; what we want is to return decency to the political scene, and to eliminate arrogance, cynicism and (above all) CORRUPTION and PROTECTIONISM from everyday reality.12 In this declaration the authors also raised the question of the formation of a political party. They considered this possibility only at the moment that ‘it was for the best of this country’. Their website carried an open discussion on the question. On the first page was a preliminary proposal, entitled ‘Several sentences on what is necessary’ (without the name of the author). The political goals spoke of a referendum on a fifty-year moratorium on the communist ideology, the full publication of all the files of the secret police, the dissolution of the Senate, a change in the electoral system (i.e.a proposal for a plurality system), the direct election of the president (‘American style’), support for Czech products (‘Czechs buying Czech products’), etc. The proposal as a whole was very incoherent, simplistic, and included some features of anti-communist, populist, radical right-wing ideology. In fact, only one person participated in the further discussion on the web. One year later, one of the leading personalities of the civic association, Monika Pajerová, admitted in an interview with the Czech daily Lidové noviny (18 October 2000) that the initiative had only limited possibilities to change the existing situation. She mentioned that they had been surprised by the huge response of the citizens to their declaration and that they had not expected such strong pressures on them to organise some change. She left the question of direct participation in politics open. Among the other activities that ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ organised were, in March 2000, a series of discussions called ‘Citizens to Citizens’, in collaboration with the House of Europe, with as the first topic ‘Referendum: democratic challenge or a trap?’ In May it initiated, together with ‘Impulse 99’, a forum of civic associations aimed at changing Czech political culture. The forum, in which tens of representatives of different civic associations participated, received a personal letter from President Havel. The forum was not able to concentrate on particular topics, and the discussions were plagued by deep ideological conflicts, ‘fortunately without direct assaults’, in the words of one of the participants (Brož 2000). No common proclamation or conclusions were presented. The association further prepared a common proclamation with ‘Impulse 99’ on the crisis at T, on 18 December, in which they criticised the open attack of the political parties on the freedom of speech and democracy.

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During the first days after the 17 November proclamation, some 200,000 signatories declared support for ‘Thank You, Time To Go’. However, they had problems to get the supporters to participate directly in the work of the association. In April 2000 the Prague branch counted just fifty-one members, which included also members from regions where no regional organisation actually existed. Data regarding the membership of other regional organisations were not available. The website contained only the contact addresses for nine cities (regions), including Prague. During autumn 2001 discussions about the future orientation of the association started, after several leading personalities had taken part in the preparation of a new political party (see below). The new leadership, with the journalist Josef Brož as chairperson, was elected in January 2002 with a pledge to focus on non-partisan activities. The last activity mentioned on the new website is the sending to politicians of letters with the sticky label ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ where the expression ‘Thank You’ is crossed out. Public response It is difficult to measure the public response, particularly from a long-term perspective. Immediately after the first proclamations, the response was on average rather high, although at different levels. The proclamation of ‘Impulse 99’, whose appeal focused mainly on intellectuals, was initially signed by 200 personalities. Later some 4000 people declared their agreement with the proclamation and its goals. ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ directly gained 200,000 signatures and was able to organise a huge demonstration in December 1999. Its supporters were more ordinary people, who declared their frustration with politics. Particularly in the case of ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ we can speak of successful mass mobilisation, even though it was short-term, as was clear from the failure to organise the Anti-February demonstration. When these initiatives changed into civic associations with direct membership, it became apparent that the number of real activists is very limited. Both associations have an active membership in the order of tens. Membership is not the only way to measure influence, and probably not even the best. Both initiatives, later associations, had problems informing the public about their activities. As usual, daily newspapers and other mass media lost their interest very quickly. Afterwards, the information was mainly disseminated through the monthly Nová p ítomnost (New presence) of Stránský. On the websites of both initiatives some documents could be found, including a monitoring of the press and some basic information (statutes, proposals, etc.). Plans for further activities in the centre or in the particular regions could not be found there, though. The participants at the open forums, organised by ‘Impulse 99’ and/or ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ often declared their dissatisfaction with the low level of co-ordination. The main complaint related to the abundance of topics and different positions that participants expressed, as a consequence of

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which no output of these discussions could be presented. The revival of the initiatives (associations) partly started with the crisis of Czech public television. The activists participated in all the protests and demonstrations, together with a newly formed initiative, ‘Czech TV—a public matter’. These activities were successful in that the new T leadership was dismissed and a new law was passed by the parliament (although not all demands of the initiatives were met). The question of the future of these associations thus remains open. Internal tensions have increased since spring 2001, when the process of the formation of a new political party started, with some personalities connected to ‘Impulse 99’ (mainly Stránský) and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ (mainly Pajerová) playing an important role. There were different proposals for the name of the new party: Strana ob anské solidarity (Party of citizens solidarity, SOS), Vize (Vision), and, finally, Cesta zm ny (Path of change, CZ). The formation of the new party led to strong internal conflict. Two days before the planned first party convention, which had to accept the statutes, programme, etc., part of the leadership around Ji í Lobkowitz took the lists with the required signatures of the supporters and asked for registration. At the same time they registered the trade mark ‘Path of change’ and the web domain. The group of Lobkowitz represented the people who were able to provide money for the new party. As a consequence of this coup, the party split already before its foundation. Most of the people connected with particular civic initiatives were left out of the process. A few days later, in a document published by representatives of the civic initiatives, they warned against the people ‘who see in politics mainly business, and who follow the slogan “he/she who pays decides”’ (Právo 20 September 2001). The group of Pajerová from ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ later formed their own political party, Nad je (Hope). The role and character of the two initiatives The role and character of these initiatives can be interpreted in many different ways. One can follow, for example, the discussions on the competition of rival elites forced into the language of civil society by the needs of time. The extent to which the former dissidents and civil society activists in East and Central Europe swept into power in the post-revolutionary days, assuming either high state functions or moving into the emerging capitalist business sector, was striking. (…) Rather than remaining outside the state, they tended to try and colonize it: civil society appeared as a stepping stone to more lucrative careers within the state. (Kopecký and Barnfield 1999:86–7) The problem of this interpretation is not in the fact that one could not find evidence to prove such cases, but in its generalisation. First, the group of Czech dissidents was rather small. Second, a lot of dissidents did not sweep into power

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or were connected with politics only in the very first phase of transformation and then returned to (non-lucrative) positions in the academic sphere or in NGOs. For most of the organisers of the two initiatives discussed above, very often former dissidents or ‘revolutionaries’ from 1989, this was not a way to return to or enter politics on the national level. On the other hand, these initiatives were neither truly non-partisan, nor fully anti-partisan. Rather, they were against certain political parties. Moreover, their position was close to those of both the Four Coalition and to President Havel. In this sense, both initiatives became part of the conflict of competing political elites. Another interpretation is connected with the frustration of the citizens. The mass response of the citizens to these initiatives during the first weeks provides strongest support for this interpretation. At that time, the idea of non-political politics and of a civil society directly involved in politics, always present in the politics of Havel, gained strength. Maybe memories of the Velvet Revolution, when everything went so easy and the will of the masses was sufficient to bring about change, played a role. But the contemporary context was of course different. The political representatives that the initiatives mobilised against were not representing a non-democratic state. Therefore, it was not so easy to form a line between ‘us’ and ‘them’, if one did not want to use simplistic populist language. In this situation the appeal for discussion was an important factor that stressed the understanding of pluralism in society, but other problems immediately arose. How could the results of the discussion be transferred into politics? How could the decision-making processes on so many topics be influenced (mainly as they were identified by ‘Impulse 99’)? To be a watchdog of the morality, responsibility, ability, etc., of the politicians, or to prepare an own position on the main problems of society through pluralistic discussion is not easy. The initiatives somehow got into stalemate, when the initial enthusiasm and acceptance rapidly declined and the expectations were not fulfilled. This situation led to the discussion about the formation of a political party, or about a possible collaboration with Four Coalition.13 The latter aspect in particular had a decomposing effect on the two initiatives. Some of the leading figures refused to participate in any discussion concerning direct political participation or party affiliation, as at the moment it was proposed, the public became more sensitive to the (very simplistic and populist) criticisms of both initiatives from Klaus and, to a lesser extent, new prime minister Miloš Zeman. Others decided for the foundation of a new political party, as described above. It is necessary to stress that the discussions about the formation of a political party or the search for some forms of inclusion is the logical result of the development of any movement. Claus Offe (in Dryzek 1996:484) describes three phases of development: the take-off phase of civil society is informal, spontaneous, and militant; the stagnation (consolidation) phase involves the definition of a group membership, leadership, and organisation; while the institutionalisation phase involves the use of the resources that the movement has mobilised in the previous phases to achieve access to real political power. John

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Dryzek (1996:484–5) suggests the importance of two criteria for any movement to decide whether to enter the state. First, the group should consider whether its defining interest can be assimilated to any state imperative. If the answer is no, then entry into the state is a poor strategy in instrumental terms, for it is unlikely that the group’s goals will be embodied in public policy; and entry is bad for democracy, because the vigorous democratic life of the public sphere will be forsaken in favour of co-optation and a politics of symbolic rewards. (…) The second criterion to be considered is whether the group’s entry into the state would leave behind a flourishing civil society. If the answer is no, then a depleted civil society would mean a less democratic polity, even though it might mean a more democratic state. For any decision of ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ the second criterion is very important. But the interpretation is not straightforward. The analyses of Offe, Dryzek, and others refer to movements that are ‘onedimensional’, i.e. concentrated on one single issue—ecology, feminism, human rights, peace, etc. ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ were involved in multi-dimensional activities and their topic includes the whole realm of politics. Moreover, they are against those who are now in politics, but maybe they will not oppose another political stream if it comes to power. The multidimensional character of the activities also raises the above mentioned question of how to find a common position. In any movement you can find particular streams, i.e. radicals or moderates, but here the streams are crosscutting. Everybody can agree that it is necessary to reform the educational system, but does it mean paying fees? Integration to the European Union can be faster or slower, but it can be connected also with different economic and social measures. Moral values are important for any society, but does morality mean a pro-life position? Integration of minorities is also important, but does it include the support for gay marriages or a pro-immigration policy? Thus, the main problem of these movements was that they were mostly against something, not for something. They were against the current political situation, against the ‘opposition agreement’, which enabled the existence of a minority social democratic cabinet. They criticised the way politics was conducted. They disapproved of almost all the steps that were taken by the SSD cabinet. But they were unable or unwilling to formulate any specific alternatives. In fact, they could not. Any attempt to specify their demands and goals on such a broad spectrum of problems and questions would immediately destroy the pluralistic character of these initiatives, because their search for an own identity was based on the distance from politics, not on the formation of political alternatives. ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ partly succeeded in reviving public discussions, but the inability to formulate a common position on the topics

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they wanted to put on the political agenda limited their possibilities. Their only success was connected with the crisis at T, when, together with other civic initiatives and the trade union of the T employees, they were able to limit the direct attempts of politicians to influence public broadcasting. The mobilisation of the citizens was successful and, although groups with different ideological backgrounds participated in these demonstrations, they could be ‘united’ on this one specific issue. But even in this situation one could see some misunderstandings of the role of the sphere of civil society and the sphere of politics. During the strike, when the employees occupied the main building of Czech TV, one of the leading personalities of the Four Coalition, the Vice-President of the Senate and a former dissident and close friend of Havel, Jan Ruml, spent a night together with the strikers. In his fight for an independent mass media, the high ranking politician did not use his political position to call for some special meeting of his political club or party, or to prepare some proposals for the Senate; rather, he directly participated in the activities, at a moment when the legality of the strike was questioned. The message that this sent to part of the public was that not the independence of public television at stake, but the type of dependency, i.e. which political group would control or influence broadcasting. Nevertheless, the activities connected with the crisis in Czech TV manifested the ability of these type of initiatives to prevent politicians from penetrating into the spheres that are to be open to the public. The initiatives also successfully demanded accountability of politicians. This is important in any democratic state, but of particular importance in post-communist states, where the traditional political culture does not include a strong sense of public accountability of politicians. That said, it is important to look for some form of inclusion, to find the channels to transfer demands into politics. Mass mobilisation (demonstrations) can be important, but it is a tactic that can be used only in limited cases and in situations when all other strategies have failed. The crucial problem of these initiatives was that they were not able to admit any positive tendencies that occurred under the SSD government. They criticised the level of preparation for accession to the EU, but failed to mention that the problems were mostly the legacy of the previous cabinets of Klaus (in which a lot of the leading members of Four Coalition had participated), and that the processes of preparation for EU membership had actually gathered speed. They criticised the communication with civil society at a time that the level of institutionalisation of communication and support was better than ever. In the end, their position was that of the ‘dogged’ opposition, rather than that of a dynamic force that tries to push for some further, partial and positive changes. The most dangerous aspect of these two initiatives, from the point of view of democratic consolidation in the Czech republic, is their ‘us’ against ‘them’ thinking. This populist style is based on a long tradition of appeals of Czech intellectuals to mass mobilisation. Its roots can be traced to the AustroHungarian Empire, but it continued to some extent in the First Czechoslovak

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Republic, and was most strongly developed during the period of dissent under communism. It includes a total underestimation of the institutions of democracy, of the rule of law, and of the forms of mediation of demands to the sphere of politics. Paradoxically, it was the dissidents who presented this vision of an almost ‘permanent revolution’. Conclusion ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ could have played the role of an open forum to establish cross-cutting social contacts in (civil) society, which is now mainly divided along the lines of party political preferences. This could have had a positive impact in the long run, changing the atmosphere in society and strengthening the involvement of the public in societal life. But it is also true that the hopes that these initiatives awakened at the very beginning of their existence were not and could not be fulfilled. As a consequence, the frustrations in society deepened further. In fact, these initiatives neither helped the better structuring of civil society, i.e. the formation or strengthening of the organisations that would be able to reflect the problems of the society and formulate particular demands, nor strengthened the mediating position of the particular movements and initiatives, mainly because they viewed the politicians as their ‘enemies’. Given the strong unfulfilled expectations of the citizens that were available from the outset, the potential for the activities of the citizens has been partly wasted. The competing visions of the role of civil society and its impact on politics, reflected in the conflict of the two Václavs (Klaus and Havel), has lost its sharpness of the mid-1990s. Klaus lost his position as Prime Minister and Havel’s position is weakened by the fact that his second (and last) presidential term is nearing its end. This does not mean that the competing traditions and the surviving different types of political culture cannot influence the future of Czech politics. The gap between society and politics is still very deep, although some development of the structures of civil society and of the ability to communicate with politicians can be witnessed under the social democratic cabinet. If a new political party is formed, there is a possibility that this type of appeal will reappear again. It is difficult to predict how much public support it can gain, particularly in the long run. The problem is not only that of any newcomer who would like to penetrate a structured party system. It is a problem of the programme and the identity of the newly formed party. To base its own identity on a ‘different political style’ is not sufficient, as a similar attempt of the ‘Political Club’ showed in 1998 (also supported by some leading intellectuals and former dissidents). On the other hand, to base a new party on clear positions on key political topics immediately narrows its pluralistic dimension based upon the activities of both initiatives. It is symptomatic that in several interviews with journalists during spring and summer 2001, those active in the preparation of the new party, Path of Change, did not answer any questions dealing with the specific programme and party stands.

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They merely stated that the programme was not a topic to be discussed at that time, and that it would be formulated only after the party was formed (sic!). This is a very specific way to organise a new political party that is supposed to bring together people with common ideas. A few days before the official foundation (and split) of the new political party, Lobkowicz explained his vision of the new political party in an interview with Lidové noviny (8 September 2001): We have here parties representing business, parties representing the state, parties ‘led by God’, parties led by the ideal of liberty. But we have no party that would really represent the citizens. Our goal is to be a real party of citizens, formed by the citizens. (…) The party would not be a party in the classical sense of the word. Our party is close to the Castle,14 because it holds a position close to the philosophy of Mr President. In short, it is a party close to the ideas of civil society. (…) We have to build a new vision, that is the reason for the name Path of Change. We would like to show people a new path. A path, where the citizen is at the centre of politics. No money, corruption, bureaucracy, misappropriation, tunnelling, party politics etc. (…) It is still premature to say specifically what we want to change and how. This quotation clearly illustrates that Havel’s vision of civil society is still alive. It also clearly shows a strong populist appeal that does not recognise the complexity of and the different interests inside society. The main goal of the party is to prepare ‘some’ change, which means that it is against the current situation. This can help it attract votes from all people who are dissatisfied, i.e. protest votes. However, it does not clarify what it stands for. This can create serious problems when particular decisions have to be taken, as the problems with the registration of the party, in September 2001, made painfully clear. Therefore, the space for an appeal of civil society still exists in Czech society, but the ability of such an appeal and of politics to solve the problems of Czech society and to narrow the gap between society and politics is minimal. Moreover, ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’, and their unsuccessful attempts to influence politics, have hindered the formation of the structures of civil society. They have strengthened the feeling of frustration among the people. True change can only be achieved through the formation of deeper structures of civil society and through the institutionalisation of new forms of communi cation with politics. Neither was achieved by the two civic initiatives. Notes 1 This paradox is partly explained by John Dryzek (1996:485), who, following Ash, argues ‘this migration (of East European civil society into the state in 1989) left

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behind little or nothing in terms of oppositional public spheres. The gain was a liberal democratic state: the loss was a state of discursive democratic vitality’. The demonstration on 17 November 1989 (to commemorate Jan Opletal, a student who was murdered by the Nazis in 1939), which started the Velvet Revolution, was officially organised by the Socialist Union of Youth, but independent groups could publicly declare their position at this meeting. This was the key paradox of the transition from socialism to capitalism. How to build capitalism without capital and capitalists? How to create a civil sector independent of the state with no available private financing? In both cases the role of the state as the primordial mover proved extremely important. If not indicated otherwise, all quotations of the documents of ‘Impulse 99’ are taken from the English pages of their official website: http://www.impuls99.cz The Czech public was strongly divided over support for NATO intervention in Kosovo. President Havel and the two aforementioned opposition parties strongly supported it (Havel used the expression ‘humanitarian bombing’). The position of SSD was ambigeous: among party members and voters the war was not very popular, but the cabinet had to fulfil the obligation of the country’s newly achieved NATO membership. The position of ODS was not clearly stated. Publicly the party did not criticise NATO, but speeches of ODS politicians contained some proSerbian statements. The wall was supposed to segregate the part in which mainly Romanies (‘Gypsies’) lived from the part inhabited by the ‘white’ Czechs. Translation from the Czech language document on the website. This is according to the end of March 2002. In fact some articles, reprinted from Czech newspapers, were added (the last in June 2001), but the website did not entail any information on new activities or meetings of ‘Impulse 99’. Currently the President is elected by both houses of parliament, while ‘Impulse 99’ prefers direct popular election of the President. The document was originally taken from the website http://www.filosofie/cz/ odejdete/indexx.htm (October 2000), but can now be found at: http://www. volny.cz/sdo ‘Victorious February’ was the term used by the communist regime to celebrate the communist take-over of 25 February 1948. D kujeme, vytrváme! was originally available at http://www.filosfie.cz/ odejdete/ doc/vytrvame.htm, and can now be found at http://www.volny.cz/sdo The collaboration was suggested mainly in that some representatives of ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ could participate in the regional or Senate elections with the support of Four Coalition. However, there was a problem with the Senate elections, as the minimum age is forty, which was too old for some of the former student activists. In Czech political tradition ‘the Castle’ refers to the group around the President. It was very powerful during the First Czechoslovak Republic, under President Masaryk, and Havel has tried to renew it to strengthen his own political position.

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9 Civil society in post-communist Europe Lessons from the ‘dark side’ Cas Mudde

Introduction The key thrust of this book was to challenge some of the orthodoxies that exist in the literature on civil society in general, and on civil society in post-communist Eastern Europe in particular. In order to do so, we have assembled a collection of chapters that look in rich empirical detail at several organisations and movements in different Eastern European countries. In particular, we have chosen mainly groups that are often a priori excluded from civil society on both conceptual and normative grounds. Each chapter then offered analysis of these civil society organisations (CSOs) in terms of their mobilising strategies, their relationship with the state and political parties, their internal organisation and ideological goals, and their overall position in their respective political systems. This concluding chapter will provide some concluding observations. Rather than summarising each chapter in detail, I have tried to find elements that can potentially be generalised, by linking the empirical material presented in the chapters with the theoretical and conceptual problems surrounding the concept of civil society that were highlighted in Chapter 1. In particular, I offer generalisations concerning first, the uncertain boundaries between groups of civil society on the one hand, and the state, political parties and uncivil society on the other; second, the relationships between civil society and different political systems and democratisation; third, the influence of the legacies of the past on civil society; and, finally, the cyclical nature of civil society mobilisation. The uncertain boundaries of civil society Civil society is most often defined as organised collective activities that are not part of the household, the market (or more general economic production), and the state. Moreover, several authors also make a distinction between ‘civil society’ and ‘uncivil society’. As was pointed out by Petr Kopecký, however, the boundaries that are set to distinguish between civil society and other sub-systems

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of the polity are problematic, both theoretically and empirically.1 The chapters in this book bear these problems out quite clearly. (Un)civil society and the state One of the key problems in defining civil society concerns its boundaries and relations with the state. Civil society is commonly defined on the basis of its independence from the state. This has several facets, some of which I will address later in this chapter, but financial independence is often considered most important. Indeed, this criterion has also at times been used to exclude so-called ‘uncivil movements’, like Matica Slovenská in Slovakia, from the narrowly defined civil society in their respective countries. However, this appears to be naively rigid, especially if financial independence is interpreted in a static way. First of all, many of the ideal cases of CSOs in Western Europe— ranging from ecological movements to anti-racist organisations—are financed, if not fully dependent, upon their national state. A major comparative study found that even in the US ‘(g)overnment is (…) almost twice as significant a source of income for American non-profit organizations as is private giving, despite the presence there of numerous large foundations and corporate giving programs’ (Carothers 1999–2000:26). Second, the criterion of financial independence from the state becomes even more problematic if one looks beyond the confines of the relationship between civil society and the national state. Nowadays, borders have changed in meaning, and, in particular, with respect to civil society and its financial support, the world has become more and more integrated. This can be seen clearly in postcommunist Europe, where Western states and private foundations have invested billions of dollars in both the building of (domestic) civil societies and the using of NGOs to develop and implement international aid programmes, following similar practices in Africa and Latin America. But what does this ‘globalisation of civil society’, or the so often proclaimed arrival of ‘global civil society’, mean for the argument of fiscal independence? If civil society should be financially independent from its own national state, shouldn’t it then also be independent from other states? Finally, state support for organisations of civil society is not always the same over time. For example, while Matica Slovenská received generous funding during the Me iar governments, this was far less the case during other governments (see Malová; also CSGP 2000). This is similar to the situation of the War Veterans’ Movement in Croatia under the Tudjman and post-Tudjman governments (see Chapter 5). Thus, while at one point in time a movement is almost indistinguishable from the state, it appears to be a model of selfsustainable and independent organisation at another point in time. Does this influence its inclusion or exclusion from civil society? Moreover, is there a financial threshold that determines whether an organisation is or is not a member of civil society?

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I believe that the criterion of financial independence should not be interpreted too rigidly. Civil society organisations can (at times) even be fully dependent upon the state, i.e. receiving their full budget from the state. The key point is that they are not legally a part of the state structure; in other words, they should enjoy at least formal independence. To be sure, (un)civil organisations that are highly dependent upon state funding are probably less likely to act truly independently, but so are, for example, movements that are led by people who share political affiliations with leading state members. In fact, empirical studies show that while NGOs may appear to de-radicalise when participating in a policy network with the state, this may be more because they are not influential enough to mount serious opposition to state policies, than because of their co-optation through financial dependence (Grugel 1999). (Un)civil society and political parties The relationship between political parties and civil society has always been problematic, mainly because political parties (in Western Europe) have historically been seen as part of civil society. Recent developments in theory and research nevertheless indicate that contemporary political parties, at least in Western Europe, are now part of the state, rather than of civil society (see Katz and Mair 1995). Moreover, the democratisation literature has seemingly accepted the distinction between political parties and civil society, with the former trying to occupy the state, while the latter merely tries to influence it (e.g. Linz and Stepan 1996). Several chapters in this book show that the relationship can be rather complicated in reality. First, some groups, like the Slovak National Movement (SNM), actually functioned partly within the state, while it also included (highranking members of) political parties and broad-based popular movements. SNM also served as a breeding ground for new political parties, by providing the basis for future party organisations, or by supplying personnel for future political parties. Second, some groups chose to function both as a civil society organisation and as a political party.2 This is most radically the case with Samoobrona in Poland, being both a trade union and a party, with overlapping, yet somewhat different goals and constituencies (see Chapter 7). A less radical example is the Serbian Resistance Movement (SPOT), as its party phase was shorter and less successful (see Chapter 2). Third, some groups have extremely close links with certain political parties, and by and large tie their faith to that of the parties in question. The examples from our chapters include SNM and HZDS/ SNS, (some) Croat war veterans’ groups and HDZ/HIP, as well as ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ and the parties of Four Coalition in the Czech Republic (see Chapter 8). Regarding the relationship between political parties and civil society, two more points are worth emphasising. First, the type of previous authoritarian regime appears to be an important determinant of the nature of the relationship in

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post-authoritarian societies, especially in the transition period. Since one of the defining characteristics of the communist regimes in Eastern Europe was an (almost) complete ban on political parties, it is likely that the distinction between the newly emerged parties, CSOs, and even the state, will be significantly blurred in the initial phases of democratisation. Indeed, the situation described by Darina Malová in her chapter on SNM in Slovakia, i.e. unclear boundaries and the active role of political parties in contentious politics, is far from unique in Eastern Europe; it appears to be a general regional pattern of interaction between political parties and civil society in the transition period. Second, once political actors start to settle, say in the phase of consolidation, the dynamic of inclusion and exclusion, so aptly outlined by John Dryzek (1996), begins to take shape. Theoretically, political parties can dominate and control CSOs; alternatively, CSOs can dominate and control political parties. One can supersede the role of the other. Extrapolating from the chapters presented here, it is apparent that, in Eastern Europe, a process of politicisation of civil society has taken place, whereby political parties (attempt to) exercise more and more control over CSOs, which, in turn, are more and more apt to forge alliances with certain, usually likeminded, political parties. The result is not necessarily a complete inclusion of CSOs in the state, but clearly a significant curbing of their autonomy through a process of controlled incorporation into the networks organised by political parties. One of the key reasons for this development may be the strong position of East European parties within the state. Political parties there have by and large been created within the state institutions, and they have been in a strong position to define the rules of the game under which the state (and thus political parties) operate (cf. van Biezen and Kopecký 2001; Lewis 2000). However, parties in Eastern Europe have also from the outset represented the newly emerged (democratic) system, rather than society. The drive to legitimise political parties at the grass roots may therefore be responsible for the attempt to co-opt organisations of civil society. Civil/uncivil society The often made, yet usually unclear and theoretically problematic distinction between ‘civil’ and ‘uncivil’ society has been one of the key themes addressed in this book. The chapters demonstrate on an empirical level that the reasons for the separation, and the subsequent exclusion of certain organisations from the sphere of civil society, seems to be the result of normative/personal rather than empirical/ academic arguments. One of the criteria to separate civil from uncivil society is the ideology of organisations. ‘Uncivil’ ideologies (most notably nationalism)3 are ‘bad’, while civil society is ‘good’. How weak, and relative, this argument is, can be shown by the world of difference that exists between the categorisations by (often similar) authors of relatively similar movements at different times. So, while the

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nationalist movement in Slovakia in 1990–2 is generally described as ‘bad’, and is excluded from ‘real’ civil society, similar organisations and same persons were included in the ‘good’ civil society in 1989. This difference in classification does not reflect a change in the character of SNM. They fought for national independence and (their interpretation of) democracy in both struggles. Rather, it reflects the difference in ‘enemy’, and the perception of it by these authors. Thinking in simplistic antagonistic models, nationalists were ‘good’ when they opposed a ‘bad’ regime (communist Czechoslovakia). But they turned ‘bad’ when they started to oppose a ‘good’ regime (post-communist Czechoslovakia). And given that civil society is always ‘good’, this means that nationalism was one time part of civil society, and one time not. Empirically, this obviously does not make any sense. As virtually all accounts of the anti-Communist ‘revolutions’ testify, they were in general as much about nationalism (national independence from the Soviet Union) as they were about democracy (anti-Communism). In short, nationalism was very much a part of civil society in 1989–90; in some cases it became even the dominant ideology, leading some scholars to talk about ‘nationalist civil society’ (Kuzmani 1994). It was not surprising, then, that in post-communist times nationalist forces remained active in the civil societies of Eastern Europe (as they do in most other countries; cf. Chandhoke 2001). In some cases, nationalists thought they were still occupied (this included both minority and majority nationalists), while in others nationalists tried to sustain their position in a time that national independence was achieved and the vast majority of the people no longer cared for the nationalists’ programme. The strength of nationalist movements in the early 1990s is shown in various chapters. For example, SNM constituted by far the most active part of Slovak civil society in 1990–2 (see Chapter 4). While this was in opposition to a nonnationalist regime, in Serbia nationalist movements even mobilised against a nationalist regime. However, Florian Bieber’s chapter also shows that nationalist groups can change, i.e. that ‘uncivil’ movements can become ‘civil’. While SPOT started out as an ultranationalist group that pressured the Miloševi regime into more anti-Albanian and pro-Serbian policies, it slowly but steadily developed into a relatively moderate counterweight to the nationalist regime, even establishing itself as the official interlocutor of the Kosovo Serbs for the international community. Moreover, several chapters showed another reason why the distinction between civil and uncivil society appears problematic in practice: the existence of multiple activities of groups. This has most clearly been demonstrated by the war veterans in Croatia and Samoobrona in Poland. While the political face of these movements/organisations may have appeared ideologically radical, populist and even extremist, it is difficult to overlook the fact that they also served their constituency (cf. Chambers and Kopstein 2001); for example, by providing financial and other support for bereaved families of deceased Croatian soldiers,

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i.e. valuable services that the state or other organisations either could not, or did not want to provide. The complex relations of (un)civil society Civil society and political systems Though many authors stress civil society’s independence from the state, both political and financial, and juxtapose them against each other, they do expect the state to provide a favourable environment for civil society, in legal, political, and often financial (tax benefits, subsidies) terms. I do not subscribe to the antithetical relationship between civil society and the state. For civil society to work well, it needs a functioning and critical, yet essentially supportive democratic state (see also Chandhoke 2001; Foley and Edwards 1998). As Thomas Carothers (1999–2000:26) has argued: ‘Nothing cripples civil society development like a weak and lethargic state’. This works less strictly the other way around (cf. Howard 2002b). Democracies can exist without strong civil societies (Merkel 2001), although they could also clearly profit from a functioning and critical, yet essentially supportive civil society. The relationship between authoritarian regimes and civil society is more complex. As most communist countries proved, civil society hardly functions under a strict authoritarian (i.e. totalitarian) regime. However, if the authoritarian regime is not particularly repressive towards civil society, a fairly blossoming civil society can appear (Galston 2000; Booth and Richard 1998). The Communist Eastern bloc presented two, somewhat different examples of this. On the one hand, Poland provided an excellent example of an authoritarian regime that allowed for ‘negative freedom’, i.e. a (certain level of) freedom from repression of dissent (see Ekiert and Kubik 1999; Zuzowski 1993). Hungary had an even less repressive Communist regime, as the ‘Alliance Policy’ of the Kádar regime also allowed for a level of ‘positive freedom’, i.e. the freedom to organise associational life outside of the communist structures—as long as it was not explicitly anti-communist (see Seleny 1999). However, in such cases of less repressive authoritarian regimes, sustaining civil society without a significant change of the political system seems unlikely. After all, ‘in authoritarian states the struggle for civil society primarily demands the consolidation of a space where people in association with others can debate and contest their own versions of the political’ (Chandhoke 2001:20). This is not to say that the change will inevitably be in a democratic direction. If civil society succeeds in its struggle ‘against the state’, the result will be at least a nominal democracy. However, if it fails, a change in a more or other authoritarian direction is highly likely (as various examples from Latin America testify). In a recent comparative analysis of civil society in four East Central European countries (the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, and Slovakia), Wolfgang

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Merkel concluded clearly surprised: ‘Paradoxically, Slovakia seems, twelve years after the break-up of the Communist regimes, to have the most vibrant civil society. However, Slovak democracy is still the least consolidated among these new democracies in East-Central Europe’ (2001:110–11). However, the material from this study could extend this argument: it shows that nominal democracies with authoritarian tendencies, like Croatia under Tudjman and Slovakia under Me iar (and possibly even former Yugoslavia under Miloševi ) seem to be particularly conducive to developing a strong, pro-democratic civil society. In both countries an almost similar pro-democratic, pro-vote campaign of various civil society groups significantly boasted electoral turnout and thereby helped replace the authoritarian leaders by more democratic ones (see Fisher 2000b; Bútora et al. 1999). However, three important critical notes should be added. First, nominal democracies are not necessarily the same as non-democratic regimes. In fact, both the Me iar and the Tudjman regimes never actively oppressed (oppositional) civil society organisations, though they obviously also did not offer particular support to them. Second, in both cases civil society developed only because of huge assistance (financial, technical, and personnel) from abroad. Third, similarly to the situation after the defeat of the communist regimes, the face of civil society changed fundamentally after the electoral victory—partly because of the decreased ‘threat’, partly because of the incorporation of key elements of civil society into the state —e.g. pro-vote movements made place for war veterans in Croatia (see Chapter 5). (Un)civil society and democratisation As much as we can doubt the negative impact from the organisations of ‘uncivil society’ on democratisation in the region, we can doubt the positive impact of the organisations of ‘civil society’. Vladimíra Dvo áková’s chapter shows the potential harmful effects of ‘good intentions’, by pointing to the disappointing campaigns against the political establishment of ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ in the Czech Republic. Other studies have shown that the results of the efforts of ‘civil society’ are negligible within the countries of origin, despite, and some even argue because of Western aid (e.g. McMahon 2001; Henderson 2000; Stubbs 1996). This is most notably so because many of the NGOs so often hailed in Western policy circles and academia, i.e. the pro-Western, liberal democratic groups, have few if any ties to the national grass roots, and communicate mainly if not exclusively with their international (i.e. Western) donors. So, rather than being part of an active, pro-democratic civil society in their own country, strengthening the process of democratisation back home, they are part of a ‘virtual civil society’ (Henderson 2000), which exists mainly in reports and boardrooms of major NGOs and governmental offices in the West. Moreover, in addition to communicating mainly with external sources (i.e. their donors in the West), they

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often also address the concerns of the foreign elites, rather than the grievances felt by the domestic population (cf. Howard 2002a). Or, in more Marxist terms, ‘these appear to reflect, rather more, the concerns of a “new global professional middle class”, than of oppressed groups and progressive social movements’ (Stubbs 1996:370). In many ways, then, ‘uncivil movements’, like the ones studied in this volume, are more authentic representatives of civil society in post-communist Europe. Not only do they indeed fill the space between the household and the (national) state; they also play an important role in the process of democratisation, be it directly or indirectly (by provoking ‘civil’ movements to respond to their challenge). Moreover, unlike many prominent ‘civil’ organisations in Eastern Europe, which are elite-driven NGOs detached from society, many ‘uncivil’ organisations are true social movements, i.e. involved in grass-roots supported contentious politics (cf. Tarrow 2002). Like ‘civil’ groups, they can at times be part of ‘advocacy networks’: for example, the war veteran organisations under the Tudjman regime or the various Slovak nationalist groups and NGOs (Matica Slovenská) under the Me iar regimes (see Fisher and Malová respectively). A similar misunderstanding prevails over the role of contentious politics during the process of democratisation in general, and democratic consolidation in particular. Theories of democratic consolidation are, in general, strongly predisposed to treat high levels of contentious politics with a high degree of scepticism, because its occurrence could mean a significant challenge to the fragile, newly drawn ‘rules of the game’.4 However, one could also argue that, in case of non-violent contentious politics, it should be seen rather as an expression of acceptance of these rules. After all, various forms of non-violent protest belong to the repertoire of ‘voice’ that the democratic citizen has at its disposal to communicate with the political elite (cf. Szabó 1996). Civil society and the legacies of the past Organisational legacy Bert Klandermans has postulated: ‘Interpreting grievances and raising expectations of success are the core of the social construction of protest’ (1989: 122). The best examples of this are the various national ‘revolutions’ that swept Eastern Europe in the 1989–91 period. Their legacy is often highly visible in the contentious politics of the post-communist period, as was also noted by Grzegorz Ekiert and Jan Kubik (1999:22) in their study of contentious politics in postcommunist Poland: ‘the legacy of this contentiousness under state socialism had a significant impact on the early phase of democratic consolidation (1989–93)’. First of all, almost all groups link their grievances to the unfulfilled expectations of that period—this can be best seen in the rhetoric of the ‘stolen

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revolution’ (see Mudde 2001; cf. Howard 2002a). In the cases under study here, probably the closest examples of this sentiment are the ‘Impulse 99’ and Thank You, Time to Go movements in the Czech Republic, who very literally expressed this view (see Dvo áková). However, similar sentiments were present in the protests of the Ukrainian miners, of the Polish farmers, and of the Slovak nationalists as well (see Mykhnenko, Krok-Paszkowska, and Malová (this volume) respectively). Though different groups often interpreted the ‘ideals of the revolution’ differently, they all claimed that the post-communist elites had ‘stolen’ the revolution by not living up to its expectations. In fact, this is a more general post-revolutionary phenomenon; Guillermo O’Donnell and Philippe Schmitter have argued that ‘the disenchantment that [the popular upsurge] leaves behind is a persistent problem for the ensuing consolidation of political democracy’ (1986:56; see also Dvo áková (this volume)). Second, one can clearly see a ‘legacy of symbols’ in the contentious politics in some countries. That is, different countries have different traditions of political protest. Poland, for example, has a history of mass political protest, with the anticommunist trade union Solidarity as an almost mythical ideal type. Indeed, Ekiert and Kubik describe Poland as ‘the only [Communist] country where mass protest became a frequent way of exerting political pressure and defending collective interests’ (1999:21). As Ania Krok-Paszkowska has shown, post-communist groups like Samoobrona refer to the legacy of Solidarity, using their symbols and characteristics in their actions and rhetoric. Moreover, both the choice for (at times violent) radical forms of contentious politics and the lenient reactions to these by the (former) Solidarity government, are also clearly influenced by the legacy of Solidarity (see also Seleny 1999).5 The resonance of symbols is possibly even stronger in the Czech Republic, where mass demonstrations at Prague’s Wenceslas Square, with songs and Czech flags, have become the modus operandi of ‘prodemocratic’ protest, as well as of various forms of ‘extremist protest’. ‘Thank You, Time To Go’, for example, put its demonstrations therewith clearly in line with the Velvet Revolution of 1989 and the Prague Spring of 1968. Moreover, ‘Impulse 99’, with its internal organisation around policy sections and the pivotal role of spokespersons, was almost a copy of the equally famous model of intellectual dissidence, Charta 77. Third, there has been a certain level of organisational continuity within civil society. Some of the groups that already existed under the communists have played an important role within post-communist civil society, either revamped or not. In the chapters this is most notably shown in the cases of Matica Slovenská, which constituted the core of SNM (see Malová), and the Ukrainian miners (see Mykhnenko). Other examples in Eastern Europe include many trade unions, environmental groups, and organisations of ethnic minorities and women. They had a comparative advantage over new CSOs in the early 1990s, due to their experience and their financial and organisational resources. Interestingly, organisational continuity was weak among youth organisations (Ekiert and Kubik 1999), possibly because of their particularly strong link with the

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communist regime. This factor may very well explain the success of alternative youth subcultures like the skinheads, who filled the void left by the demise of the massive communist youth structure (see K rti (this volume)). Finally, as emphasised by Malová, Slovakia shows the legacy of small, local protests, dating back to the pre-communist period of state and nation-building. This is important to note, because it may shed light on the prevailing nature of civil society in Eastern Europe; i.e. not that it is necessarily non-existent, but that it is largely local and small-scale. This situation also partly stems from the legacy of communist regimes, where friendship and neighbourhood networks represented more meaningful forms of association than the politicised and controlled mass organisations. In various countries, national (mass) mobilisation is therefore reserved for times of crisis, opposition to the regime or, as in Croatia and Slovakia, critical elections. More ‘day-to-day’ affairs, particularly involving socioeconomic and cultural demands, are dealt with at the local or regional level. This could also be seen in the case of the Ukrainian miners, whose great variety of contentious actions remained by and large limited to the Donbas area (see Chapter 6). Ideological legacies The antithetical relationship between civil society and the state, central in the conception of Antonio Gramsci and so dominant in the writings of key East European dissidents (e.g. Havel, Konrád) is still very influential in both the writing on, and the beliefs of activists within civil society in post-communist Europe. In that, many contemporary CSOs do exactly the same as their historic predecessors: they distrust and oppose the state in general, and (party) political elites in particular. Some problematic consequences of this legacy for the development of civil society are addressed clearly and convincingly in Dvo áková’s chapter. However, the anti-statism also puts several CSOs, which might otherwise be interpreted in a different way (i.e. ‘civil’ and ‘uncivil’), in the same basket. For example, why are anti-elite and anti-statist positions of groups like ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’ largely considered positive for democratisation, while very similar positions of groups like Samoobrana are deemed to be detrimental to it? Another ideological legacy of the communist period, which has both ideological and behavioural effects, is that of militarism. Although communist regimes officially preached world peace, and heavily supported the peace movement in the West, their own societies were instilled with a militaristic outlook. This was particularly the case with young people, who were socialised in strict hierarchical, almost paramilitary, organisations like the Pioneers and the various national, Komsomol-like youth groups. As László K rti has argued, this has created a fertile breeding ground for the skinheads in Hungary, whose martialistic bonding rituals perfectly fit the value structures of the postcommunist youth (that were socialised during communism). Similar observations

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have been made for other East European countries. For example, Hans Brinks has argued that ‘for some young people it had turned out to be only a short step from a Wehrspartakiade to a paramilitary Wehrsportgruppe’ in post-communist East Germany (2000:49).6 The cyclical nature of civil society mobilisation Most literature on civil society focuses purely on longevity and stability, i.e. the number of NGOs or of their membership. As discussed by Kopecký, this might lead us to see both more and less civil society than there actually is. Most NGOs in post-communist Europe are cadre organisations with no grass-roots support whatsoever. Their members are generally full-time employees, for whom their work is a job rather than a calling. In sharp contrast, many of the ‘uncivil’ movements do represent and involve parts of society, though in a more fluid and ad hoc manner. However, this is not much different from the way in which ‘civil society’ mobilised in 1989 against the communist regimes; it is possibly also not much different from mobilisation strategies of CSOs in contemporary Western Europe. With the notable exception of Poland, most mass demonstrations in communist Eastern Europe were at best loosely organised, involving few if any CSOs. Indeed, often the key organisation involved was the youth organisation of the communist party (see Chapter 8). Also, the ‘cycle of contention’ was generally rather short (with the obvious exception of Poland), spanning between less than a week to a few months (cf. Merkel 2001). As John Nagle and Alison Mahr have argued: ‘The largest demonstrations in the autumn of 1989 were grand symbolism, but the anti-communist liberation movements were gone within a year or two, leaving little organizational legacy’ (1999:216). In short, the civil society that so heroically ‘defeated’ communism, and was deservedly praised by most scholars in the field, was not much different from the civil society today, which is so often criticised for being weak or even absent. As Dryzek perceptively noted, the mobilisation of ‘civil society’ against the state was followed by the inclusion of civil society into the state. As a consequence, he stated, civil society was left severely weakened. Though partly true, this provides a too limited, homogeneous view of civil society. Not the whole civil society was left weakened by the incorporation of some of its former leading members, but only a section. Indeed, the one section that most scholars focus on exclusively is the ‘pro-democratic’ one. But while that section was left weakened by its leaders’ inclusion in the state, other sections used the vacant space to (again) start mobilising (cf. Szabó 1995). A good example is SNM, which organised and mobilised in much the same way as the anti-communist groups and individuals had done (see Chapter 4). In a similar vein, after (and because of) the incorporation of SNM into the Slovak state, particularly under the third Me iar government (1994–8), a new ‘pro-democratic’ civil society started

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mobilising, which in 1998 led to the successful pro-vote campaign and the consequent victory of the opposition parties (see Bútora et al. 1999). Ekiert and Kubik have argued that ‘within the relatively open political space created by the old regime’s collapse, popular protest should contribute to the process of defining the public domain and remaking the boundaries between state and society’ (1999:11). This painstaking process can be clearly observed in the actions of, most notably, SNM and the Croatian war veterans. In both cases the state initially absorbed (civil) society, i.e. when sympathetic governments were ruling (HZDS-SNS and HDZ respectively). After the fall of these governments, the relationship between the state and the movements was redrawn, which again led to contentious politics, and probably again to renegotiations—after all, democracy is an ongoing process. This is not to say that history is a struggle of ‘civil society’ against ‘uncivil society’, with periodic alternations of power. Civil society is not one homogeneous entity, but rather a heterogeneous sphere in which various groups exist and at times mobilise; sometimes together, sometimes apart, sometimes together against the state, sometimes alone against each other. In general, successful mobilisation of one group/network is followed by its demobilisation (and possibly the inclusion of its leaders into the state). This does not mean the disappearance of civil society as a whole, but the (often temporary) demobilisation of a section of civil society. Various other sections of civil society will remain hardly touched by these events, or, in some cases, will actually become activated by it! Finally, it should be stressed that the implosion of the ‘pro-democratic’ civil society organisations after 1989 (or after 1998 in Slovakia and 1999 in Croatia for that matter) has to do less with the periodic alternations of power than with the character of mobilisation of many CSOs in Eastern Europe. I have noted earlier the strong anti-statist orientation of many groups. However, equally important is their reactive rather than pro-active character (cf. Tilly 1978). The basic form of contentious politics was resistance rather than protest (cf. Ekiert and Kubik 1999). Incidentally, this applies also to many of the movements studied in this book, including both the ‘uncivil’ (e.g. the Ukrainian miners, SPOT, and Samoobrona) and the ‘civil’ (e.g. ‘Impulse 99’ and ‘Thank You, Time To Go’). In contrast, SNM and the skinhead movement are examples of protest, i.e. proactive mobilisation. Conclusion As expressed in the Preface, this book is as much a study of the ‘dark side’ of civil society in post-communist Europe, as it is a challenge to the bulk of recent literature on civil society (in the region in particular). In the words of Neera Chandhoke, ‘what is being suggested here is that our normative expectations about the sphere of civil society should not derange our analysis of actually existing civil societies’ (2001:5). We believe that the chapters in the book have

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proven the need to readjust the conceptual understanding and the empirical study of civil society in general, and in post-communist Europe in particular. I suggest that this should include (at least) these four points. First, the concept of civil society—roughly defined as organised collective activities that are not part of the household, the market (or more general economic production), and the state—should be seen as a heuristic device (cf. Chandhoke 2001). In practice, groups of civil society will at times overlap with all other ‘spheres’. Moreover, civil society is itself hugely diverse and heterogeneous, including a plethora of different and sometimes opposed agents. Hence, it is not useful as a unitary concept in empirical research; i.e. statements like ‘an active civil society is good for democracy’ are invalid, as it depends on which groups within civil society dominate. Second, the separation between ‘civil society’ and ‘uncivil society’ makes sense only in a normative framework, and then exclusively with uncivil society defined as a sub-set of civil society. In empirical research, particularly of a comparative nature, the distinction obscures more than it highlights. As various chapters have showed, CSOs are often difficult to classify as ‘civil’ or ‘uncivil’, as their goals and actions are highly influenced by their environment. They perform multiple tasks, and they sometimes change character. Third, there is no straightforward relation between the ideology of CSOs and their effect on democracy—i.e. ‘civil’ movements are not by definition good for democracy/democratisation, and ‘uncivil’ movements are not by definition bad for democracy/democratisation. Again, this depends to a large extent on the interaction between CSOs and their environment, including both ‘the state’ and other CSOs. Fourth, and consequently, ‘uncivil’ movements and contentious politics should be included in the study of civil society (in post-communist Europe). Both form an important part of associational life, and play an important role in the process of democratisation as well as democratic consolidation in Eastern Europe (and obviously outside it). Though it is slightly exaggerated to claim that “mass protests” are an everyday part of life in the new democracies of East Central Europe’ (Szabó 1995:495), let alone of Eastern Europe more generally, there clearly is more to civil society than just the ‘pro-democratic’ NGOs that most scholars focus on. It is our hope that this volume has raised both an interest, and some pertaining questions, for the further empirical study of post-communist civil society more broadly defined. Notes 1 Marc Morjé Howard (2002b) provides an exceptionally intelligent and lucid discussion of the different boundaries and relationships between the ‘five arenas of democratic consolidation’ as indentified by Linz and Stepan (1996).

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2 This is far from unique to post-communist Europe, as Klaus von Beyme clarifies: ‘Most parties in the West sprang from social movements and the borderlines between groups and parties remained blurred’ (2001:148). 3 The general argument applies to all ‘uncivil’ ideologies, though I focus here primarily on nationalism, as this is the most relevant in the post-communist context. 4 A more balanced position is put forward by Anna Seleny, who argues that ‘it is not hard to imagine that chronically high levels of mass mobilization could prove destabilizing for the regime—especially if many citizens continue to regard such activity as a substitute for the formal channels of democratic politics’ (1999: 515– 16). 5 Robert Zuzowski (1993) has argued that Poland has an even longer tradition of political protest and state acceptance, dating back to the November Uprising of 1830 if not earlier. 6 The Wehrspartakiade were large-scale sporting manifestations in the German Democratic Republic, while Wehrsportgruppen are militant, extreme right groups that have emerged in post-communist east Germany (based on the infamous, West German Wehrsportgruppe Hoffmann, which was banned in 1980).

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Index

Alliance of Democratic Left (SLD) 124, 125, 127 antipolitics 4, 12 anti-Semitism 53, 119 Arato, A. 3, 4, 13, 19, 20 Austro-Hungarian Empire 153, see also Habsburg Empire authoritarian regimes 128, 160, 162

and nationalism 31–5, 55, 162; and political parties 8–10, 14–15, 159– 160; and the state 8–10, 52–3, 113, 158–9; and uncivil society 1–15, 160–4, 170 civil values 60 civility 11, 12, 38, 51 Cohen, J. 10, 19, 20 Committee for the Freedom of Thought and Expression 22–5, 32 Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (KS ) 58, 65 Communist Party of the Soviet Union (KPSS) 93, 98–101 Communist Party of Ukraine (KPU) 101, 103, 107 Communist Youth League (KISZ) 40–2 Co-optation 151, 159 corporatism 8, 58–9 corrupt: bureaucracy 118; democracy 118; elite 5, 114 corruption 147, 155 Croatian Democratic Union (HDZ) 74–92, 159, 168 Croatian Knights 84–5 Croatian Serbs 25, 82 Croatian Spring 77 Crowley, S. 6, 95, 100–3, 110, 113 cycles of contention 98, 109

Balcerowicz, L. 115, 119, 126, 133 Barnfield, E. 3, 5, 38, 132, 136, 139, 150 Belgrade 23–5, 29, 30, 77, 85 Belgrade Circle 19 Bishop Artemije 27–9 Booth, J. 13, 162 Bosnian Muslims 82 Bratislava 58, 64, 68 Brno 143, 145 Bryant, Ch. 32 Budapest 38, 43, 46, 48–9, 53 Canovan, M. 117 Catholic Church 12 Chandhoke, N. 162–3, 169 Charta (Charter) 77 144, 165 Citizens’ Committee for Human Rights 78 civic engagement 7 Civic Forum 127 civil society: and contentious politics 13–14, 167–9; definition of 4, 7–10, 14–15, 19–21, 37, 74–5, 135, 169, 170; global 7, 13, 158; and the market 8–10, 14–15; measuring 6, 7;

Danube Circle 1 Davos 53 Dayton Agreement 25

181

182 INDEX

Della Porta, D. 94, 97 democracy: and civil society 11, 20, 53, 163–4, 169; consolidation of 55, 165; definition (measuring) of 4, 5, 138; transition to 72, 99, 135 Diamond, L. 7, 11 Diani, M. 94, 97 dissidents 3, 4, 5, 12, 21–2, 58, 134, 150, 154, 166 Dnepropetrovsk 108, 110, 113 Donetsk 97, 99, 101–2, 108, 113 Draškovi , V. 21, 27 Dryzek, J. 17, 74–5, 151, 155, 160, 168 Dubrovnik 86 Edwards, B. 14, 15, 162 Ekiert, G. 13, 66, 73, 92, 114, 130, 132, 162, 165–6, 169–9 environmental movements (organisations) 6, 77 environmental protest 1 European Union (EU) 8, 90, 119, 131–2, 142–3, 152–3 Foley, M. 14, 15, 162 Four Coalition 140, 142, 144, 151–3, 156 Gellner, E. 20, 35, 93, 112–3 Genoa 53 Geremek, B. 3 Glas 99 79, 80 92 glasnost 1, 97, 101, 109 globalisation 10, 158 GONG 79, 80 Gorbachev, M. 1, 97, 99, 100, 111 Gospi 88, 92 Gredelj, S. 20, 35 Greenpeace 9, 35 Grugel, J. 9, 159 Györkös, I. 45, 47 Gypsies see Roma Habsburg Empire 55–6, 130; see also Austro-Hungarian Empire Hall, J. 32

Havel, V. 1, 4, 12, 17, 67–8, 135, 138–144, 148, 150, 152, 154–6, 166 Held, D. 53 Homeland War 75–6, 81–2, 84–7, 89–92 Howard, M. 10, 162, 164–5, 170 Hroch, M. 31 Hungarian Justice and Life Party (MI P) 49, 51 Hungarian Socialist Party (MSZMP) 40–2 informal networks 94–5 International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) 76, 82, 87–91 International Helsinki Federation 23 Jasiewicz, K. 117, 133 Jews (Jewish) 38, 44–6, 82, 117 Karadži , R. 25, 35–6 Keane, J. 11, 12 Kemál, G.Ekrem 47–9 Kiev 98, 100, 102–3, 105–6, 110 Klandermans, B. 164 Klaus, V. 135, 137–8, 140, 145, 151, 153– 4 Komsomol 40, 43, 167 Konrád, G. 4, 12, 166 Kopecký, P. 3, 5, 38, 132, 136, 139, 150, 157, 160, 167 Kosovo Albanians 26, 28 Ková , M. 71 Kravchuk, L. 100, 102–3, 112 Ku Klux Klan 10 Kubik, J. 13, 66, 73, 92, 114, 132, 162, 165–6, 168–9 Kuchma, L. 103, 105, 107, 110 Kuzio, T. 99–101 legacies 59, 70; ideological 166–7; organizational 164–6; of the past 17, 157, 164 liberalism 12, 119; neo 138 liberalization 77, 103, 112 Linz, J. 7–9, 159, 170

INDEX 183

Mafia 10, 65, 119 Mahr, A. 77, 167 Matica Hrvatska 82 Matica Slovenská (MS) 56, 62, 65, 69, 70, 158, 164, 166 Me iar, V. 16, 64–6, 69, 70, 158, 163–4, 168 Mesi , S. 76, 88, 91 Mijanovi , V. 22 Miloševi , S. 16, 19, 22, 24–5, 27–8, 30, 34–6, 161, 163 Moscow 96, 100, 109 Mouzelis, N. 32 Movement for Democratic Slovakia (HZDS) 61, 65, 69, 159, 168 Mudde, C. 5, 12, 14, 17, 117, 139, 165 Nagle, J. 77, 167 National Rifle Association 35 nationalism: economic 101; ethnic 129; ideology of 48, 55, 71, 160, 170; see also civil society nationalist mobilisation 2 nationalist movements 10, 34, 55, 111, 161 Német, K. 41 neo-Nazi(s) 42, 44–50, 53 nominal democracies 163 non-democratic regimes 13, 163 Offe, C. 151 opposition movements 1 organisational density 2, 7, 14 Payne, L. 15, 18 ‘parallel polis’ 3, 13, 17, 128, 136, 138 paramilitary organisations 167 perestroika 1, 96–7, 109, 111 Perez Diaz, V. 9 Polish Peasant Party (PSL) 116, 123–5, 132–3 populism 2, 115–7, 122, 131, 133 Prague 53, 58, 140, 143, 145–6, 148, 165 Prague Spring 165 Priština 29 Public Against Violence (VPN) 64–6, 127

public: debate 10, 78; opinion 66, 99, 124, 141; response 135, 148; sphere 9, 55, 113, 151, 155; trust 6 Putnam, R. 7, 9–11 Richard, P. 13, 162 right-wing extremism 117 Roma (Romanies, ‘Gypsies’) 38, 44–7, 50– 1, 53–4, 60, 156 Rosenblum, N. 12 Sampson, S. 21 Sarajevo 25 Serbian Writers’ Union 22–3 Shills, E. 11 Siegelbaum, L.H. 95–105, 108, 110 Simon, R. 112–3 skinheads: bands 45; subculture 42, 44, 50 Slovak National Party (SNS) 61, 64–5, 69, 159, 168 social capital 7, 9–11 social movements 2, 12, 14, 18, 20, 94, 127, 164, 170 Socialist Union of Youth 136, 155 Solidarity 1, 17, 116–120, 122, 127–9, 131– 2, 165 Stepan, A. 7–9, 159, 170 Szabó, A. 45–7, 49 Szabó, M. 38, 164, 168, 170 Szálasi, F. 45–6 Šešelj, V. 27 Tarrow, S. 14, 94, 109, 111, 164 terror(ism) 10, 28, 94, 118 totalitarianism 3, 4, 118 Tudjman, F. 16, 35, 74–6, 78–83, 86–8, 90, 158, 163–4 Trajkovi , M. 24–30 uncivil society: definition of 8, 10–13, 15, 160–2, 169– 170

184 INDEX

uncivil movements 15, 158, 164 uncivility 37, 52 Ústí nad Labem 143 Velevet Revolution 58, 65, 134, 145–6, 150, 155, 165 Vukovar 87, 92 Wał sa, L. 1 Warsaw 120–1, 125 Wilson, A. 94–5, 99–101 Whitehead, L. 11 women’s movements (organisations) 6, 58, 77, 166 Worker’s Defence Committee (KOR) 128 Yugoslav Helsinki Group 23 youth extremism 37, 53 Zagreb 78–9, 81, 86, 89, 90, 92 Žižek, S. 35