International Solidarity in the Low Countries during the Twentieth Century: New Perspectives and Themes 9783110639346, 9783110634310

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1. A Revolutionary Robin Hood
Chapter 2. Mobilizing Internationalism
Chapter 3. Mains libres vs Internationalism
Chapter 4. “23a Paradise,” a Dutch “Salon” in North London
Chapter 5. Human Rights for Spain
Chapter 6. Forgotten Friends and Allies
Chapter 7. Hooligans Without Borders
Chapter 8. Insurrection in the Schools
Chapter 9. Connecting People, Generating Concern
Chapter 10. Belgium’s Wider Peace Front?
Chapter 11. Dutch Unions’ Solidarity with the Third World (1950s–1970s)
Chapter 12. Divided by a Common Language
Chapter 13. Solidarity or Indifference?
About the authors
Index of Persons

Citation preview

International Solidarity in the Low Countries during the Twentieth Century

International Solidarity in the Low Countries during the Twentieth Century New Perspectives and Themes Edited by Kim Christiaens, John Nieuwenhuys and Charel Roemer

ISBN 978-3-11-063431-0 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-063934-6 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-063519-5 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020939852 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Cover image: Building a stage for the Vietpop concert near Amsterdam, 28 April 1972. Anefo / Nationaal Archief. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Table of Contents Kim Christiaens, John Nieuwenhuys & Charel Roemer Introduction The Power, Borders and Legacies of International Solidarity in the Low Countries 1 Wouter Linmans Chapter 1 A Revolutionary Robin Hood Max Hölz (1889 – 1933) and the Dutch Communist Movement Eleni Braat Chapter 2 Mobilizing Internationalism The Dutch League of Nations Union (1919 – 1932)

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Nicolas Lépine Chapter 3 Mains libres vs Internationalism The Belgian Workers’ Party’s Internationalist Solidarity with Republican Spain in Times of National Withdrawal 73 Lonneke Geerlings Chapter 4 “23a Paradise,” a Dutch “Salon” in North London Rosey E. Pool’s Promotion of African American Poetry (1950s – 113 1960s) Víctor Fernández Soriano Chapter 5 Human Rights for Spain Anti-Francoism in Belgium, Between Old and New Forms of Protest (1960s–1970s) 135

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Kim Christiaens & Jos Claeys Chapter 6 Forgotten Friends and Allies Belgian Social Movements and Communist Europe (1960s – 1990s) 159 Rimko van der Maar Chapter 7 Hooligans Without Borders Transnational Perspectives on the Dutch Anti-Vietnam War Movement 183 (1965 – 1975) Wim de Jong Chapter 8 Insurrection in the Schools The Dutch Critical Teachers as Part of a Transnational Solidarity 215 Movement (1969 – 1973) Charel Roemer Chapter 9 Connecting People, Generating Concern Early Belgian Solidarity with the Liberation Struggle in South Africa and the Portuguese Colonies 241 John Nieuwenhuys Chapter 10 Belgium’s Wider Peace Front? Isabelle Blume, the Peace Movement and the Issue of the Middle East (1950s – 1970s) 275 Peter van Dam Chapter 11 Dutch Unions’ Solidarity with the Third World (1950s – 1970s) Reappraising Transnational Solidarity as an Entangled History of Globalization 311

Table of Contents

Wouter Goedertier Chapter 12 Divided by a Common Language Flemish and Dutch Engagements with Apartheid in South Africa 343 Idesbald Goddeeris Chapter 13 Solidarity or Indifference? Polish Migrants in Belgium and Solidarność About the authors Index of Persons

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Introduction

The Power, Borders and Legacies of International Solidarity in the Low Countries The wars, divisions and conflicts that have long dominated our understanding of the past hundred years were only one side of the story of the twentieth century. Especially as the century came to a close, accounts began to characterize it with epithets that highlighted another side of the past. It became the story of the “century of NGOs”¹, the “power of global civil society”² and the “age of nonviolent resistance”.³ An impressive web of social movements and campaigns indeed entered the arena of national and international politics in the decades following the end of the First World War, building connections – real and imagined – with other societies and causes across geographical boundaries. Apparently little hampered by language differences, distance, or national borders, social movements were galvanized by causes across the globe, ranging from civil wars in Spain or Central America and revolutionaries in Cuba or Vietnam to apartheid in South Africa or the plight of dissidents in Eastern Europe. One of the most conspicuous concepts that drove this bonanza of border-crossing activism was “international solidarity”, which inspired a variety of campaigns that not only focused on different countries but also on different issues, ranging from labor rights and world peace to anti-colonialism and fair trade.⁴ These “international solidarity cultures” have left an important yet often forgotten imprint on presentday societies and international relations, and have been remembered as an essential part of twentieth-century history. The international solidarity campaigns

 Akira Iriye, “A Century of NGOs,” Diplomatic History 23/3 (1999): 421– 435.  Mary Kaldor, Global Civil Society: An Answer to War (Oxford: Wiley, 2013); Randall Germain and Michael Kenny, The Idea of Global Civil Society: Politics and Ethics in a Globalizing Era (London-New York: Routledge, 2005); Don Eberly, The Rise of Global Civil Society: Building Communities and Nations from the Bottom Up (New York: Encounter Books, 2008).  Adam Roberts and Timothy Garton Ash, eds., Civil Resistance and Power Politics: The Experience of Non-Violent Action from Gandhi to the Present (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2009).  Stefan Berger, “The Internationalism of Social Movements: An Introduction,” Moving the Social 55 (2016): 5 – 16; Glenda Sluga and Patricia Clavin, eds., Internationalisms: A Twentieth-Century History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017); Jessica Reinisch, “Introduction: Agents of Internationalism,” Contemporary European History 25 (2016): 195 – 205. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-001

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of the past decades have been considered, in many respects, the trailblazers of present-day social and cultural globalization.⁵ Despite this impact and legacy, however, research on these campaigns has long been rather limited and fragmented. For many decades, scholars and especially historians have shown little interest in the study and history of international solidarity or internationally oriented social movements. International solidarity as a field of historical research began to emerge in studies of trade union work, the fight for women’s rights, or the ultimately ineffective attempts to prevent the Second World War, but these studies remained rather insular.⁶ It was only in the last decade of the twentieth century, at the beginning of the 1990s, that there emerged a flood of scholarly attention to the history (and potential) of what became then dubbed “transnational activism”. The end of the Cold War was seen as the breakthrough of a “global civil society”: studies highlighted the role of transnational networks and civil society and their potential for democratization. Some went as far as to credit them with ending the Cold War and sweeping away the remainders of colonialism and apartheid.⁷ From the very beginning, this field of research was predominantly spearheaded and dominated by political and social scientists, who occasionally also delved into some historical precursors and connections of present-day globalized campaigns and NGOs. Political and social scientists were for instance dominant in most of the early research on the so-called “new social movements” which mobilized in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s around “immaterial” and “transnational” values and themes such as peace, environment, gender, human rights, or anti-colonialism.⁸  Håkan Thörn, “Solidarity Across Borders: The Transnational Anti-Apartheid Movement,” Voluntas 17/4 (2006): 298.  Helga Uckermann, Gewerkschaften und dritte Welt: Konzeption, Strategien und Standort im System der Nichtregierungsorganisationen (Sinzheim: Pro-Universitate-Verl., 1996); Jeffrey Harrod and Robert O’Brien, Global Unions? Theory and Strategies of Organized Labour in the Global Political Economy (London-New York: Routledge, 2003); Leila J. Rupp, Worlds of Women: The Making of an International Women’s Movement (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998); Charles Chatfield and Peter van den Dungen, eds., Peace Movements and Political Cultures (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1988); Michael C. Pugh, Liberal Internationalism: The Interwar Movement for Peace in Britain (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012).  Håkan Thörn, Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.  E. g. Charles Tilly, La France conteste, de 1600 à nous jours (Paris: Fayard, 1986); Alberto Melucci, “Social Movements and the Democratization of Everyday Life,” in Civil Society and the State, ed. John Keane (London: Verso, 1988), 245 – 260; Sidney G. Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Hanspeter Kriesi, Dieter Rucht and Donatella Della Porta, Social Movements in a Global-

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Historians, however, eventually followed suit. Especially from the beginning of the 2000s onwards, many historians have become fascinated with the history of international solidarity movements.⁹ This growing interest was intimately linked to a so-called “transnational turn” in historiography, but also benefited from the growing availability and accessibility of sources and archives documenting the historical development of internationally oriented activism and social movements. Over the past few years, international solidarity movements have become one of the most burgeoning fields of research in contemporary European history. A plethora of research projects, publications, and international conferences dealing with various articulations of international solidarity continue to be set up at universities and research centres. This volume, which is the result of an international conference organized by ULB and KU Leuven in May 2016, builds on and expands new trends and insights in the international historiography, plumbs them to the history of international solidarity movements as they developed in Belgium and the Netherlands, and aims, in turn, to put these movements into broader histories of social movements and politics in the twentieth century in the Low Countries and beyond. To do so, this volume brings together a variety of international solidarity movements that developed in Belgium and the Netherlands after the end of the First World War. Conceptually, we start from the assumption that “international solidarity” covers a multiplicity of social and political activism that engaged with spaces stretching beyond national borders. We approach “international solidarity”, then, as a “floating signifier”, which could mean different things to different groups and whose relevance cannot be understood within the confines of Marxist ideology. International solidarity was not an abstract theory, but political and societal activism by individuals and social movements whose identities and feelings of belonging surpassed the borders of their own nations.

ising World (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1999); Doug McAdam, Sidney Tarrow and Charles Tilly, Dynamics of Contention (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Olivier Fillieule and Bernard Pudal, “Sociologie du militantisme. Problématisations et déplacement des méthodes d’enquête,” in Penser les mouvements sociaux: Conflits sociaux et contestations dans les sociétés contemporaines, ed. Éric Agrikoliansky et al. (Paris: La Découverte, 2010), 163 – 184; etc.  See for instance: Pierre-Yves Saunier, “Transnational,” in The Palgrave Dictionary of Transnational History. From the Mid-19th Century to the Present Day, ed. Akira Iriye and Pierre-Yves Saunier (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2009), 1047– 1055; Akira Iriye and Pierre-Yves Saunier, “Introduction: The Professor and the Madman,” in The Palgrave Dictionary of Transnational History, ed. Iriye and Saunier, xviii; Padraic Kenney and Gerd-Rainer Horn, “Introduction: Approaches to the Transnational,” in Transnational Moments of Change: Europe 1945, 1968, 1989, ed. Padraic Kenney and Gerd-Rainer Horn (Lanham MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2004), ix – xix.

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This volume’s geographical and chronological scope are innovative. The history of internationally oriented solidarity movements in the Low Countries has indeed been for a long time overshadowed by the historiographical attention to their neighboring countries, France, Germany and the UK. Relevant accounts of international solidarity movements in Belgium and the Netherlands, for their part, have mostly ignored any broader international or transnational dimensions.¹⁰ One aspect that underlies the chapters of this book is the way in which they address transnational connections, cross-overs and exchanges between activism in the Low Countries and other countries, both in Europe and beyond. They establish not only the impact of international networks and organizations on local activism, but inversely also the role that a number of Belgian and Dutch activists and organizations played in campaigns beyond the borders of the Low Countries. The focus on international solidarity movements as they developed in Belgium and the Netherlands allows, then, for a combination of different levels of activism, ranging from the local to the regional and the international. Spanning the period before and after the Second World War and including different types of international solidarity movements, this volume aims to show entanglements and cross-overs between movements that have most commonly been understood in isolation. In this introductory chapter, we will discuss some major trends in historical research on international solidarity movements, and how these new trends are reflected and elaborated on in the chapters of this volume. It emphasizes the importance of borders and limits and argues that international solidarity movements were far from being “activism without borders”.

Beyond the New Left paradigm: ideologies and their limits International solidarity might well have a long pedigree stretching back to the nineteenth century, however historical research has above all associated twentieth century international solidarity movements with the so-called “New Left”,  With a few exceptions, e. g. José Gotovitch and Anne Morelli, Les solidarités internationales: histoire et perspectives (Brussels: Labor, 2003); Daniel Laqua, ed., Internationalism Reconfigured: Transnational Ideas and Movements Between the World Wars (London: Tauris, 2011); Id., The Age of Internationalism and Belgium, 1880 – 1930: Peace, Progress and Prestige (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2013); Id., Wouter Van Acker and Christophe Verbruggen, International Organizations and Global Civil Society: Histories of the Union of International Associations (London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2019).

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which emerged in the first two decades after the end of the Second World War. International solidarity, indeed, seemed to reach its zenith in resonance and scope in the 1960s and 1970s, when a gamut of organizations linked to the left placed the concept on the agenda of the so-called “new social movements” that emerged during this period in the West.¹¹ Internationally oriented social movements entered the public scene (and memory) with large-scale campaigns that raised awareness of a variety of foreign issues, most notably in the Third World, but also extending the scope of their attention to Eastern and Southern Europe. Several chapters in this volume indeed stress the “novelty” and disruptive nature of these international solidarity cultures emerging in the 1960s. International issues – most notably the Vietnam War – offered a means for a new generation of often youthful activists to contest the status-quo at home. International solidarity came to be understood as an act of rebellion against the borders imposed by nationalism, pillarization, older generations, and the established order. The centricity of the “radical internationalism” of the “New Left” during the 1960s in understanding international solidarity, brings many drawbacks, however. It has overshadowed the existence of different and even competing and conflicting ideas and practices, it has downplayed attention to the links and continuities with activism in previous decades, and has also tended to push international solidarity to the – more or less radical – margins of Western European societies.¹² Many chapters bring into view several ideologies and actors beyond and even opposed to the New Left or not typically associated with international solidarity. There is, for instance, the role of what might be labeled the “old left” – social democracy and communism – for whom international solidarity had been a central concept since the nineteenth century. During the twentieth century, political parties and civil society groups belonging to these political currents played a critical role in campaigns on behalf of foreign causes. The Belgian and Dutch Communist Parties in particular emerge in this volume as an often neglected but active player in the field of international solidarity in the Low Countries. Wouter

 Christoph Kalter, Die Entdeckung der Dritten Welt. Dekolonisierung und neue radikale Linke in Frankreich (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2011); Quinn Slobodian, Foreign Front: Third World Politics in Sixties West Germany (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012); Tony Judt, Postwar: A History of Europe since 1945 (London: Penguin, 2006), 421; Claudia Olejniczak, “Dritte-Welt-Bewegung,” in Die Sozialen Bewegungen in Deutschland seit 1945. Ein Handbuch, ed. Roland Roth and Dieter Rucht (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2008), 325 – 329.  Kim Christiaens, “From the East to the South, and Back? International Solidarity Movements in Belgium and New Histories of the Cold War, 1950s–1970s,” Dutch Crossing 39/3 (2015): 187– 203.

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Linman’s contribution on Dutch campaigns on behalf of the release of the German revolutionary Max Hölz shows how deeply solidarity had become embedded in the Dutch Communist Party’s culture. However, as the chapters by John Nieuwenhuys and Charel Roemer reveal, such international campaigns were not limited to communist figures. After the Second World War, the Belgian Union for the Defence of Peace (BUVV/UBDP), linked to the Belgian Communist Party, succeeded in positioning itself centrally in a variety of campaigns with an international orientation, ranging from those on behalf of Palestine and Vietnam to those on behalf of anti-apartheid activism or East-West détente. Also, religious and church-inspired groups enter in this volume as a source of transnational activism. As Kim Christiaens and Jos Claeys argue in their chapter, Pax Christi and other groups linked to the Catholic Church underwent an impressive globalization in the decades after the end of the Second World War, linking their engagement on behalf of the Third World with campaigns over issues in Eastern Europe.¹³ The focus of various chapters on currents such as pacifism and humanitarianism further confirms the argument that ideologies and practices of international solidarity were not restricted to one political tradition. In her chapter on the Dutch League of Nations Association, Eleni Braat brings us to pacifism during the interwar period. Braat illustrates a new facet of the then developing transnational campaigns in favor of peace: far from the crowd of mass mobilizations, we discover a specific type of solidarity, more white-collar in nature, academically-minded in its argumentation, and capable of both speaking direct truths to its audience and becoming more abstract under the pressure of imminent war danger. Similar ideological diversity was present in humanitarianism and in the landscape of NGOs as it developed in Belgium and the Netherlands during the second half of the twentieth century. As Nieuwenhuys stresses in his chapter, a wide range of very different organizations, including Entr’Aide Socialiste, Caritas Catholica as well as communist “peace” activists, equally supported the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA). Such pluralism is also visible in the struggle for women’s rights or against anti-Semitism, racism, and colonialism, which have been carried by social democratic, communist, liberal, and Christian activists alike – whom through a common acceptation are lumped under the broad “progressive” nametag. Indeed, maybe more interesting than the sheer diversity of ideologies is the observation that international solidarity was able to blur, transcend and over-

 Peter Van Kemseke, Towards an Era of Development: The Globalization of Socialism and Christian Democracy, 1945 – 1965 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2015).

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come traditional ideological borders and divisions at home.¹⁴ In this respect, international solidarity campaigns are an interesting perspective from which to look at the transformations of broader social and political structures which were, especially in Belgium and the Netherlands, deeply entrenched by pillarization.¹⁵ Ideological divisions were often trumped by pure indignation and the urge to stage concrete campaigns. Activists from different ideological stock rallied around organizations and sites where they could access information and find avenues for action. Ideologies were furthermore blurred by an orientation towards concrete persons and groups. As various chapters in this volume illustrate, international solidarity seldom engaged with an abstract borderless outer world, but instead focused on and projected specific peoples, groups, regions, and identities with whom different groups could identify and claim common cause. The labor internationalism of social democratic and Christian trade unionists, for instance, identified primarily with workers – be it in Latin America, the Iberian Peninsula or Eastern Europe. Migrants, refugees, and exiles fleeing dictatorship and arriving in the Low Countries became the object of concrete relief campaigns much more than of ideological reflections and struggles. A number of activities revolved even around individual personalities who, because of the symbol they embodied, were building bridges between communities. Nelson Mandela, Angela Davis, and Lech Wałęsa are some of those recent icons who naturally come to mind. In his chapter, Wouter Linmans brings us back to the 1920s to recall how Max Hölz became a living embodiment of the bond between Dutch and German communists. What is striking in this case is that it reminds us that such living symbols existed well before the mass media apogee of the second half of the twentieth century. With the difference, perhaps, that Hölz, like martyrs Sacco and Vanzetti, was essentially a symbol within the limited scope of his own political family, whereas the development of pop culture has allowed heroic figures like Mandela or Ernesto “Che” Guevara to transcend such boundaries. Yet, one remains surprised to learn that Hölz, from his German prison, received support from such diverse personalities as Thomas Mann, Martin Buber, or Albert Einstein. Foreign causes provided not only common causes but also common enemies. In particular, anti-Americanism – in all its variations – runs through various chapters of this volume. Opposition to NATO, the

 Frank Parkin, Middle-Class Radicalism: The Social Bases of the British Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1968); Andrew S. Tompkins, Better Active than Radioactive! Anti-Nuclear Protest in 1970s France and West Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 7– 8.  Peter van Dam, James Kennedy and Friso Wielenga, Achter de zuilen: op zoek naar religie in naoorlogs Nederland (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2014).

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American war in Vietnam but also the fascination and contacts with communism and Eastern Europe disrupt the storyline of Belgium and the Netherlands as “loyal allies” of the United States.¹⁶ Yet, international solidarity not only had the power to transcend traditional ideological borders but also projected and created other ones. One might even argue that international solidarity blossomed out of the confrontation with borders. The opposition between progressive and conservative which we have mentioned before, invites us to consider the existence of solidarities that have not only brought together different traditions but also divided some internally. In his chapter on the impact of the Spanish Civil War on the Belgian Labor Party, Nicolas Lépine addresses the disruptive power of international solidarity in the 1930s. Such internal divisions continued in the context of the Cold War and Western European integration; here, the usual political labels are unfit to articulate the opposition between Atlantist zealots and the supporters of EastWest détente among the social democrats. This is at least what is suggested by the respective works of Víctor Fernández Soriano and John Nieuwenhuys, who recall in this volume the progressive, almost dissident activity of some the most respected Belgian social democratic senators and lawyers of the post-war decades. One step further from mere enthusiasm for the Atlantic alliance, anticommunism is an example of a disruptive ideology that equally swept through Christian, liberal and social democratic traditions. The context wherein this took place largely overlapped that of decolonization, which triggered among representatives of each of these traditions, either protectionist reactions, or surges of solidarity in pursuit of justice for all peoples. Overall, the conservative (to be distinguished from the “extreme”) right did not only oppose international solidarity, it also promoted it in cases where the left would not: helping the victims of the Biafran crisis or the Cambodian genocide, for instance.¹⁷ Moving beyond conser-

 Kim Christiaens et al., “The Low Countries and Eastern Europe during the Cold War: Introduction,” Dutch Crossing 39/3 (2015): 187– 197.  On the conservative right’s networks and campaigns of solidarity, see for instance Michael Scott Christofferson, French Intellectuals Against the Left: The Antitotalitarian Moment of the 1970s (New York, Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2004); Klaartje Schrijvers, “L’Europe sera de droite ou ne sera pas! De netwerking van een neo-aristocratische elite in de korte 20ste eeuw” (PhD diss., Universiteit Gent, 2007); Martin Durham and Margaret Power, New Perspectives on the Transnational Right (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010); Johannes Grossmann, Die Internationale der Konservativen: Transnationale Elitenzirkel und private Außenpolitik in Westeuropa seit 1945 (Munich: Oldenbourg Wissenschaftsverlag, 2014); Luc van Dongen, Stéphanie Roulin and Giles Scott-Smith, eds., Transnational Anti-Communism and the Cold War: Agents, Activities, and Networks (New York-Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014); Clarisse Berthezène and JeanChristian Vinel, eds., Postwar Conservatism, a Transnational Investigation: Britain, France, and

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vative right ideologies were the racialist, anti-Semitic, fundamentalist, ultra-imperialist or even white supremacist theories that have inspired a far-right solidarity.¹⁸ In the Cold War context, this takes us back not only to the neo-fascist resurgences in Western Europe but also the reddish-brown experiments that sought the blending of social and racial theories into a “third way” between American Capitalism and Soviet Communism. With regard to the Third World, these far-right organizations opposed the colonies’ emancipation and supported the racist regimes of Rhodesia and South Africa, prior to also embracing antiimperialist struggles based on the thought that each race should indeed be able to claim its own natural Lebensraum. ¹⁹ For the most part, the complex story of this form of solidarity “on the wrong side of history” remains to be told. Not to mention that the issues of racism and support to the South African apartheid regime – of obvious relevance in the case of the Low Countries – extended well beyond the limited audience of far-right splinter groups.²⁰ Wouter Goedertier and Charel Roemer, in their contributions to this volume, open up new perspectives on such topics, as they also address the obstacles encountered by the Belgian and Dutch anti-apartheid movements. Their contributions invite us to write the history of different and even competing ideological expressions of international solidarity not as separate stories, but to approach them rather in tandem and in interaction with each other.

the United States, 1930 – 1990 (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017); Marco Duranti, The Conservative Human Rights Revolution: European Identity, Transnational Politics, and the Origins of the European Convention (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017); A. Dirk Moses and Lasse Heerten, Postcolonial Conflict and the Question of Genocide: The Nigeria-Biafra War, 1967 – 1970 (New York: Routledge, 2018); etc. To our knowledge, there still lacks a comprehensive history of right-wing solidarity with the South-Vietnamese exiles in the West, the Vietnamese boat peoples and the victims of Pol Pot’s regime in Cambodia, from the 1970s to the 1980s.  Andrea Mammone, “The Transnational Reaction to 1968: Neo-Fascist Fronts and Political Cultures in France and Italy,” Contemporary European History 17/2 (2008): 213 – 236; Arnd Bauerkämper and Grzegorz Rossolinski, Fascism without Borders: Transnational Connections and Cooperation between Movements and Regimes in Europe from 1918 to 1945 (New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2017).  Nicolas Lebourg, Le monde vu de la plus extrême droite. Du fascisme au nationalisme-révolutionnaire (Perpignan: Presses universitaires de Perpignan, 2013).  Allan D. Cooper, Allies in Apartheid: Western Capitalism in Occupied Namibia (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988); Isabelle Delvaux, Ces Belges qui ont soutenu l’apartheid. Organisations, réseaux et discours (Brussels: P.I.E.-Peter Lang S.A, 2014); Hennie van Vuuren and Anine Kriegler, Apartheid Guns and Money: A Tale of Profit (Johannesburg: Jacana Media, 2017).

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Infrastructures, networks and individual agency Next to ideological diversity, there is also a growing focus in recent research on the importance of organizational power and networks, or what might be labeled as the “infrastructure” of solidarity, including communication channels, media, and mobility, which allowed activists to “go international” or resulted from this very effort. Typically, many accounts of international solidarity focused heavily on ideals and ideologies, rather than on its organizational dimensions. International solidarity, however, was not only “imagined,” but also built on concrete campaigns, networks, and organizations. The histories presented in this volume address the question of infrastructure by giving due attention to organizational structures and networks at different levels. Several chapters take a “spatial turn,” and in doing so show a very local dimension to bear on international solidarity campaigns. The place of action for many activists going international was indeed the “local”: sites of activism varied from locally organized solidarity committees to schools, streets, bookstores, printing houses, or individual homes.²¹ In her chapter on the Dutch writer and translator Rosey E. Pool, Lonneke Geerlings tells us about a private literary salon: she displays how three continents could meet within the four walls of a tiny London studio. She invites us to consider that the notion of “space” can be understood not only as an abstract or symbolic, but also as a physical reality. By the same token, isn’t the street the usual scenery of mass protests – a place of circulation in the most literal sense of the word? In spaces we find not only reserves of activists or hotbeds of protest, but also “arenas” to be conquered through carefully planned action. Among such arenas were, next to the street, the factory, the church, the school, the parliament, but also the media, whose role has evolved with the advent of radiotelephony, television and now the internet. It does not suffice to simply understand how solidarity movements have approached these arenas but also how the latter have sometimes been the very cradle of solidarity campaigns. Members of Parliament, it appears in this volume, have often been targeted to relay a cause to decisionmaking bodies, but some of them initiated activism. Similarly, it is true that solidarity actors have often made a priority of seeking media attention; but in some cases, journalists were first to raise awareness through bold reporting bordering on editorial activism. As such, they almost worked as the “competing partners” of social movements at times. Many activists turned themselves into journalists  Uwe Sonnenberg, Von Marx zum Maulwurf. Linker Buchhandel in Westdeutschland in den 1970er Jahren (Göttingen: Wallstein-Verlag, 2016).

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and tried to challenge the monopoly of mainstream media. Local media initiatives often provided spaces for exposing the daily activities of solidarity groups.²² It remains to be seen how the relationship between solidarity activists and journalists has reacted to the setback of investigative journalism, from the rise of private broadcasting in the 1980s to today’s social media²³. Finally, similar observations apply to education: activists began to take over the school grounds with their solidarity work more actively in the 1960s, while many teachers also helped raise awareness in their daily work. However, secondary schools have long remained absent from the history of student activism and it is only very recently that historians have also begun to actively research the school as a venue of political history.²⁴ In his chapter, Wim de Jong furthers the effort by taking a look at the Critical Teachers’ movement in the Netherlands and assessing the place that international solidarity occupied in their calls to reform education. School and the media bring us closer to what could be called “cultural arenas”: militant theatre, partisan songs, performances of Chilean or South African music – with radio and vinyl pressings allowing this medium to be shared – and, last but not least, cinema. In the second half of the twentieth century, movie theaters became highly disputed political spaces. Many solidarity activities were indeed organized around the representation of movies and documentaries. It is also important here to focus on the organizational aspect of the production, the circulation and re-appropriations of these movies, as well as to the interactions between Southern and Northern actors. Over the past few years, an evergrowing level of attention has been accorded to those many Third World nationals who came up North to train in filmmaking, whether in the East or in the

 Mathieu Beys, “Sous les pavés, une presse libérée! Trois tentatives de journalisme radical en Belgique après 1968: ‘Notre Temps’ (1972– 1977), ‘Hebdo’ (1975 – 1977) et ‘Pour’ (1973 – 1982),” in Presse communiste, presse radicale 1919 – 2000. Passé / Présent / Avenir?, ed. José Gotovitch and Anne Morelli (Brussels: Aden, 2007), 64– 92; Tony Harcup, Alternative Journalism, Alternative Voices (London-New York: Routledge, 2013); Dae Sung Jung, Der Kampf gegen das Presse-Imperium: die Anti-Springer-Kampagne der 68er-Bewegung (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2016); Laurent Martin, “La ‘nouvelle presse’ en France dans les années 1970 ou la réussite par l’échec,” Vingtième Siècle. Revue d’histoire 98/2 (2008): 57; Astrid Waterinckx, “Alternatieve pers in België na mei ’68: Agence de Presse Libération-Belgique,” Brood & Rozen. Tijdschrift voor de geschiedenis van sociale bewegingen 4 (2006): 26 – 41.  Hugues Le Paige, Une minute de silence (Brussels: Labor, 1997).  Marc Birchen, Schülerzeitungen im Spiegel der Zeit (Luxembourg: Fondation Lydie Schmit, 2018); Didier Leschi and Robi Morder, Quand les lycéens prenaient la parole: les années 68 (Paris: Syllepse, 2018).

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West.²⁵ We would like to suggest that this history still needs to be further connected with a history of the many local initiatives, small budget productions and the creation of “alternative” networks that were able to organize the reception and diffusion of these pictures in Europe.²⁶ Additionally, it would be interesting to see how these networks reacted and evolved in the 1980s, when mainstream cinema, including Hollywood, began to invest in the topic of the liberation struggle.²⁷ Beyond the strictly cultural arenas are those that concern everyday life in the most mundane sense, and that activists have invested most effectively through “direct action”: campaigning against the banks whose investments contribute to perpetuating a situation of oppression; calling shoppers to boycott certain products in their supermarkets, etc. Although the politicization of consumption practices became evident in the 1980s, the phenomenon had already existed long before. The first fair trade association was reportedly founded in the Netherlands during the late 1950s.²⁸ By the 1970s, calls to boycott the Angolan coffee sold by Albert Heijn had become commonplace. And when Max Havelaar was created in the next decade, it was named after the hero of a Dutch novel which had denounced the exploitation of Indonesian coffee planters under col-

 Christoph Kalter, Inga Kreuder and Ulrike Peters, “Nationalized Mourning, Nostalgic Irony: The Portuguese Decolonization in Film,” WerkstattGeschichte 69 (2015): 55 – 70; Gabrielle Chomentowski, “L’expérience soviétique des cinémas africains au lendemain des indépendances,” Le Temps des médias 26/1 (2016): 111; Radina Vučetić, “We Shall Win: Yugoslav Film Cooperation with FRELIMO,” Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais 118 (2019): 131– 150.  Guy Hennebelle and Khémais Khayati, La Palestine et le cinéma (Paris: Éditions du Centenaire, 1977); Olivier Hadouchi, “Cinéma dans les luttes de libération. Genèses, initiatives pratiques et inventions formelles autour de la Tricontinentale (1966 – 1975)” (PhD diss., Université de Paris 3, 2012); Morgan Di Salvia, Progrès films: Un demi-siècle de distribution cinématographique en Belgique (Cuesmes: Éditions du Cerisier – Brussels: CArCoB, 2015); Léonard Henny, “Promouvoir le dialogue visuel,” Revue Tiers-Monde 28/111 (1987): 601– 605.  Vivian Bickford-Smith, “Picturing Apartheid: With a Particular Focus on ‘Hollywood’ Histories of the 1970s,” in Black and White in Colour: African History on Screen, ed. Vivian BickfordSmith and Richard Mendelsohn (Oxford: James Currey, 2007), 256 – 278; Jakob Skovgaard, “To Make a Statement: The Representation of Black Consciousness in Richard Attenborough’s Cry Freedom (1987),” Zeithistorische Forschungen/Studies in Contemporary History (Online-Ausgabe) 13 (2016): 372– 377; Charel Roemer, “Comment transmettre l’image d’une ‘révolution à visage humain’: le cas du mouvement de solidarité avec le Nicaragua sandiniste,” in Quand l’image (dé) mobilise. Iconographie et mouvements sociaux au XXe siècle, ed. Ludo Bettens et al. (Namur: Presses universitaires de Namur, 2015), 53 – 71.  Peter van Dam, “Handel im Tempel? Fair trade und Kirchen in den Niederlanden seit 1945,” in Neue Soziale Bewegungen als Herausforderung sozialkirchlichen Handelns (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2015), 279 – 296.

Introduction

13

onial rule as early as 1860. Activists have thus proposed alternatives to the purchase of products with a high human cost: shopping at Oxfam-Wereldwinkels, for instance, can actively help support populations in need. Although they might come across as “apolitical” humanitarian aid, such gestures could almost qualify as a form of cultural and economic resistance against a people’s oppression, including in hotly debated cases such as the Israeli occupation of the West Bank – and it is no surprise that a movement such as Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) seeks to gain legitimacy by appropriating the memory of the successful anti-apartheid campaigns. Along with the development of such activities, solidarity has finally reached the inside of our homes, all the way to our savings, our wardrobes and kitchens – where squeezing the wrong oranges or using a SodaStream machine becomes a political act. While stressing the role of the local, many chapters show at the same time the impact of and connection with international networks and organizations on local and national activism in the Low Countries, stimulated, inter alia, by international actors in cities like Brussels, The Hague or Amsterdam. Several contributions in this volume for instance mention the impact of the International Association of Democratic Lawyers (IADL), founded in Paris in 1946 by former communist resistance fighters. It spread its influence through numerous branches both West and East of the Iron Curtain, while maintaining an international secretariat in Brussels. The IADL shared with other communist-inspired organizations of the Cold War era, such as the International Union of Students (IUP) or the World Peace Council (WPC), that they have long been presumed to be acting strictly on behalf of the Kremlin. The nature of their functioning, their financing and the margin of maneuver of their members, however, invite us to much more nuanced observations: they were organizations that principally disrupted the usual representations of national, East-West or North-South divisions. International mobility and encounters figure also prominently in the chapters of this volume. In his chapter, Charel Roemer shows that Belgian solidarity against Portuguese colonialism and apartheid was a direct product of the major international conferences that took place between the 1960s and 1970s, which provided a meeting spot for actors from different political backgrounds and sites for information, inspiration, and interaction. Sometimes more important than the meeting itself, was the way to it: their preparation alone often presented different actors with opportunities to interact. While one would open its address book, another would help financially, as another would provide the venue and a last would detach translators, typists, stewards, etc. A number of individuals even mobilized their own personal resources, which allowed for more private types of interaction. For instance, Roemer also mentions the intimate ties of friendship

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that developed between African liberation leaders and the activists who welcomed them in their homes while they sojourned in Brussels. As the latter example shows, the emphasis on organizations and campaigns should not eclipse the role of individuals. The mobility, energy and influence of a handful of outstanding personalities actually played a decisive role in social mobilization. The contributions to this volume yield numerous examples of this; they show us structures which were much more porous than their institutional design originally suggested, and individuals who had the capacity to link various movements together across geographical and ideological boundaries. Their role is made evident by several characters whose names pop up in different contributions. The socialist and later communist peace activist Isabelle Blume, for instance, linked the mobilization on behalf of the Spanish resistance in the interwar period with the international solidarity with the Arab peoples or the Vietnam resistance in the 1960s. In his chapter, Rimko van der Maar mentions the role of activist Sietse Bosgra while assessing the Dutch anti-Vietnam War from local, national and transnational perspectives. It so happens that Bosgra later became a central figure of the Dutch anti-apartheid Movement – and that the Vlaams Angola Komitee kicked off after his visit to Leuven, which highlights the transnational impact of such characters. Another example is that of Piet Nak, a former resistance fighter active on both the Vietnam War and, later on, Palestine. These individual trajectories accounted for important continuities within international solidarity’s shifting orientations.

Beyond ethics: instrumentality, diplomacy and the limits of solidarity A last major trend on which this volume builds is a shift away from overly normative accounts towards more critical approaches to the history of “international solidarity”. Most of the accounts of international solidarity were written by “activists-turned-historians”.²⁹ Typically, such accounts have favored internal perspectives, and cultivated the nexus between solidarity and ethical principles such as human rights and democracy. Others have stressed personal convictions, contacts and emotions to be the central pillar of engagement. Over the past few years, a new generation of historians has however started to break open this historiography, cutting through what Clifford Bob has called the “sentimental cant”  See for instance: Hans Beerends, Tegen de draad in. Een beknopte geschiedenis van de (derde) wereldbeweging (Amsterdam: KIT Publishers, 2013).

Introduction

15

of solidarity or the traditional story of “altruism”.³⁰ Taking an outsider’s perspective, new accounts have started to link the ethics of solidarity with broader political histories and focused on the limits and contested nature of transnational activism. Critically, this shift has been stimulated by a growing availability of sources and archives, and is also visible in the chapters of this volume. Many of our authors have exploited rarely-seen sources and archives which no longer draw exclusively from activist circles but also include, for instance, diplomatic and foreign documentation. As a result of these shifts, historians have in recent years adopted perspectives that reveal how transnational activism and discourses about the ethics of solidarity and human rights have concealed a more instrumental form of politics and specific interests.³¹ The relation between international solidarity and politics has always been an ambivalent one: on the one hand, international solidarity movements often found their place outside the realm of institutionalized politics and understood themselves as an antithesis of established authorities. On the other hand, however, activists cultivated the belief in the power of international solidarity to defy and change politics at home and abroad, and engaged in actions on the political field – inside and outside the parliament and political parties. Various contributions challenge the idea that international solidarity movements belonged only to a culture of contestation; rather, they stress a symbiosis with a variety of governmental and state actors or established political organizations and movements, which provided resources and opportunities enabling activists to go “international”. International solidarity, in turn, often served political and strategic interests. Cross-border contacts and international engagement served as an important resource of legitimacy, power, and knowledge. Activists that operated in isolation or faced marginalization in their countries drew strength from the idea of belonging to a transnational community or a “global public opinion”. The “politics” of international solidarity draws, then, attention to particular interests and strategies. In his chapter, Peter van Dam explores competing visions of solidarity, beyond those of radical Christian and leftist groups. Focusing on trade unions, he sheds light on initiatives to promote global solidarity that

 Clifford Bob, The Marketing of Rebellion: Insurgents, Media, and International Activism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).  Idesbald Goddeeris, “Introduction: Solidarity, Ideology, Instrumentality, and Other Issues,” in Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982, ed. Idesbald Goddeeris (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2013), 1– 18. See also: Christie Miedema, Not a Movement of Dissidents. Amnesty International beyond the Iron Curtain (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2019).

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aroused the interest of workers and employees but enjoyed little success beyond that. In their chapter on East-West campaigns in Belgium, Kim Christiaens and Jos Claeys argue that human rights violations and the plight of dissidents in Eastern Europe remained largely out of the scope in the agenda of Belgian social movements as this collided with other and more important interests – ranging from détente, the Third World, to contacts with official partners in Eastern Europe. Instrumentality and strategy not only existed on the side of the “donors”, however, but also on the other side of the solidarity chain. Vietnamese “people’s diplomacy”, for instance, played a critical role by triggering and coordinating solidarity activism in Western Europe during the 1960s – setting in motion campaigns that focused on “tangible” support rather than a “moral” solidarity, including the collection of money and humanitarian aid. Likewise, the South African ANC proved itself capable of mobilizing different types of discourses, ranging from armed revolution to worker’s and human rights, in order to garner moral but above all political and financial support. The latter examples bring us to one of the most contested political dimensions of international solidarity movements, namely the part of foreign agency and diplomacy. Suspicions that international solidarity movements were a hotbed and instrument of foreign agents – whether it be the Vatican, Moscow or Berlin – have a long history.³² In particular, the international solidarity movements that blossomed during the Cold War have been subject to such accusations: while campaigns on behalf of the political movements in the Third World were often pooh-poohed as “front organizations” in the hands of Moscow or Beijing, communist propaganda was keen to depict human rights campaigns as a “CIA-plot”. Rather than stimulating research into their validity, such associations, rumors, and accusations have contributed to a neglect of foreign agency in internationally oriented social movements, whose accounts (and memories) resolutely centered on Western activists and give little consideration to the other side of the solidarity chain, which they considered, at best, as a rather passive projection screen. This unilateral story has been radically disrupted in recent years by accounts that stress the involvement, impact and agency of the “recipients” of solidarity.³³ In several chapters of this volume, this involvement becomes obvious in different ways. Rather than stressing the impact of solidarity

 Emiel Lamberts, ed., The Black International/L’Internationale noire, 1870 – 1878: The Holy See and Militant Catholicism in Europe/Le Saint-Siège et le catholicisme militant en Europe (Brussels: Institut historique belge de Rome, 2002).  See for instance: Slobodian, Foreign Front; Kim Christiaens, “Between Diplomacy and Solidarity: Western European Support Networks for Sandinista Nicaragua”, European Review of History/Revue européenne d’histoire 21/4 (2014): 617– 634.

Introduction

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on the recipients, virtually all chapters focus on how actors and ideas “from abroad” – be it the Third World, Eastern Europe, Southern Europe – changed the “donors”, in this case activists in the Low Countries. This impact was mediated through different channels, ranging from diplomats and politicians of national liberation movements to migrant communities and exiles, and impacted various aspects of solidarity campaigns.³⁴ At the same time, these transfers along the “solidarity chain” were far from being trouble-free or spontaneous, and characterized by many mismatches. In his chapter, the Belgian historian Idesbald Goddeeris warns not to exaggerate the impact of “foreign” guests in their host countries: he assesses the gap that remained between the Solidarność activists in Belgium and the rest (and majority) of the Polish diaspora in the 1980s, whose involvement in solidarity campaigns remained limited. All in all, rather than subscribing to the narrative of “activism without borders”, this volume pays attention to stories of conflicts, failures and disappointments as an essential part and even driving force of international solidarity. Reading through the chapters of this volume, one may well be struck by the galvanizing power of international solidarity to set in motion ideas, resources, and people. Yet, it remains an open question what the real impact of these movements – often locally, informally and ephemerally organized – was. By contrast with what some iconic images of street demonstrations or the budgets of some NGOs might suggest, international solidarity was often ephemeral and limited to the engagement of a handful of activists. Campaigns were often slow to develop, and even quicker to fade, as is illustrated by the chapters of Wim de Jong and Peter van Dam. Such limits make it even more important to ask why specific

 Françoise Blum, Pierre Guidi and Ophélie Rillon, eds., Étudiants africains en mouvement: contribution à une histoire des années 1968 (Paris: Editions de la Sorbonne, 2017); Anne Cornet, “Migrations subsahariennes en Belgique. Une approche historique et historiographique,” in Migrations subsahariennes et condition noire en Belgique: à la croisée des regards, ed. Jacinthe Mazzochetti (Louvain-la-Neuve: L’Harmattan, 2015), 39 – 64; Michael Goebel and Pauline Stockman, Paris, capitale du tiers monde: comment est née la révolution anticoloniale (1919 – 1939) (Paris: La Découverte, 2017); Constantin Katsakioris, “Transgresser les frontières de la Guerre froide. Militants, intellectuels et étudiants africains en Union soviétique, 1956 – 1991,” Présence Africaine 175 – 176 – 177/1 (2007): 85 – 92; Sara Lennox, Remapping Black Germany: New Perspectives on Afro-German History, Politics, and Culture (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2016); Éric Morier-Genoud and Michel Cahen, eds., Imperial Migrations: Colonial Communities and Diaspora in the Portuguese World (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013); Matthew G. Stanard, “‘Made in Congo?’ On the Question of Colonial Culture in Belgium,” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 88/4 (2010): 1301– 1318; A. J. Stockwell, “Leaders, Dissidents and the Disappointed: Colonial Students in Britain as Empire Ended,” The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 36/3 (2008): 487– 507; Slobodian, Foreign Front.

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causes succeeded in generating long term solidarity and why others did not. One could even question whether the capacity of some causes to generate support did not hinder the evolution of others. Indeed, rather than uncovering one symbiotic type of “global activism”, the chapters of this book show how solidarity movements often competed with each other in terms of ideology, public attention, or financial power. Kim Christiaens and Jos Claeys thus illustrate how campaigns on behalf of the Global South feared rather than welcomed the attention to Central and Eastern Europe after 1989. Most of the committees and activists discussed in this volume have now become history. Their impact on changing the course of international politics might be, in most cases, uncertain and limited, if existent. Many of these movements even ended in disillusionment. Some of them have left an abundance of disparate materials – including posters, bulletins and correspondence – in archival institutions, but others have left virtually no traces beyond the memories of the few surviving activists or some well-hidden coffers in someone’s cellar. And yet, despite all of these odds, stories of international solidarity continue to arouse a growing fascination of new generations both inside and outside academia. From today’s vantage point, the apogee of international solidarity in the twentieth century might indeed appear as a particular and intriguing moment of interconnectedness across borders, in times without internet, Google street view, cheap plane tickets, and social media. Yet, to answer the question about impact and legacy, we should not only look at these movements as they developed in the Low Countries, but also include the voices from the “recipient side”: peoples, families, individuals, projects and organizations across the world, but also sometimes inconspicuously and surprisingly close to home, such as migrant communities, exiles, and NGOs, which formed the “objects” of solidarity. For too long, the latter’s voice has been silenced in histories and memories of international solidarity. Rather than asking the question of how activists in Belgium and the Netherlands perceived and engaged with the world around them, it might become time to ask the reverse. The answers will definitely be different and conflicting, but also fascinating and confronting.

Abbreviations ANC: African National Congress BDS: Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions BUVV/UBDP: Belgische Unie voor de Verdediging van de Vrede / Union belge pour la Défense de la Paix CIA: Central Intelligence Agency

Introduction

IADL: IUP: KU Leuven: NGO: ULB: UNRWA: WPC:

19

International Association of Democratic Lawyers International Union of Students Leuven University Non-governmental organizations Université Libre de Bruxelles (Free University of Brussels) United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East World Peace Council

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Leschi, Didier, and Robi Morder. Quand les lycéens prenaient la parole: les années 68. Paris: Syllepse, 2018. Mammone, Andrea. “The Transnational Reaction to 1968: Neo-Fascist Fronts and Political Cultures in France and Italy.” Contemporary European History 17/2 (2008): 213 – 236. Martin, Laurent. “La ‘nouvelle presse’ en France dans les années 1970 ou la réussite par l’échec.” Vingtième Siècle. Revue d’histoire 98/2 (2008): 57 – 69. McAdam, Doug, Sidney Tarrow and Charles Tilly. Dynamics of Contention. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Melucci, Alberto. “Social Movements and the Democratization of Everyday Life.” In Civil Society and the State, edited by John Keane, 245 – 260. London: Verso, 1988. Miedema, Christie. Not a Movement of Dissidents: Amnesty International Beyond the Iron Curtain. Göttingen: Wallstein, 2019. Morier-Genoud, Éric, and Michel Cahen, eds. Imperial Migrations: Colonial Communities and Diaspora in the Portuguese World. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Moses, A. Dirk and Heerten, Lasse. Postcolonial Conflict and the Question of Genocide: The Nigeria-Biafra War, 1967 – 1970. New York: Routledge, 2018. Olejniczak, Claudia. “Dritte-Welt-Bewegung.” In Die Sozialen Bewegungen in Deutschland seit 1945. Ein Handbuch, edited by Roland Roth and Dieter Rucht, 319 – 345. Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2008. Parkin, Frank. Middle-Class Radicalism: The Social Bases of the British Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1968. Pugh, Michael C. Liberal Internationalism: The Interwar Movement for Peace in Britain. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Reinisch, Jessica. “Introduction: Agents of Internationalism.” Contemporary European History 25 (2016): 195 – 205. Roberts, Adam, and Timothy Garton Ash, eds. Civil Resistance and Power Politics: The Experience of Non-Violent Action from Gandhi to the Present. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Roemer, Charel. “Comment transmettre l’image d’une ‘révolution à visage humain’: le cas du mouvement de solidarité avec le Nicaragua sandiniste.” In Quand l’image (dé)mobilise. Iconographie et mouvements sociaux au XXe siècle, edited by Ludo Bettens, Florence Gillet, Christine Machiels, Bénédicte Rochet, and Anne Roekens, 53 – 71. Namur: Presses universitaires de Namur, 2015. Rupp, Leila J. Worlds of Women: The Making of an International Women’s Movement. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998. Saunier, Pierre-Yves. “Transnational.” In The Palgrave Dictionary of Transnational History: From the Mid-19th Century to the Present Day, edited by Akira Iriye and Pierre-Yves Saunier, 1047 – 1055. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2009. Schrijvers, Klaartje. “L’Europe sera de droite ou ne sera pas! De netwerking van een neo-aristocratische elite in de korte 20ste eeuw.” PhD diss., Universiteit Gent, 2007. Skovgaard, Jakob. “To Make a Statement: The Representation of Black Consciousness in Richard Attenborough’s Cry Freedom (1987).” Zeithistorische Forschungen / Studies in Contemporary History (Online-Ausgabe) 13 (2016): 372 – 377. Slobodian, Quinn. Foreign Front: Third World Politics in Sixties West Germany. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012.

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Sluga, Glenda, and Patricia Clavin, eds. Internationalisms: A Twentieth-Century History. Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Sonnenberg, Uwe. Von Marx zum Maulwurf. Linker Buchhandel in Westdeutschland in den 1970er Jahren. Göttingen: Wallstein-Verlag, 2016. Stanard, Matthew G. “‘Made in Congo?’ On the Question of Colonial Culture in Belgium.” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 88/4 (2010): 1301 – 1318. Stockwell, A. J. “Leaders, Dissidents and the Disappointed: Colonial Students in Britain as Empire Ended.” The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 36/3 (2008): 487 – 507. Tarrow, Sidney G. Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Thörn, Håkan. “Solidarity Across Borders: The Transnational Anti-Apartheid Movement.” Voluntas 17/4 (2006): 285 – 301. Thörn, Håkan. Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Tilly, Charles. La France conteste, de 1600 à nous jours. Paris: Fayard, 1986. Tompkins, Andrew S. Better Active than Radioactive! Anti-Nuclear Protest in 1970s France and West Germany. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Uckermann, Helga. Gewerkschaften und dritte Welt: Konzeption, Strategien und Standort im System der Nichtregierungsorganisationen. Sinzheim: Pro-Universitate-Verl., 1996. Van Kemseke, Peter. Towards an Era of Development: The Globalization of Socialism and Christian Democracy, 1945 – 1965. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2015. Vučetić, Radina. “We Shall Win: Yugoslav Film Cooperation with FRELIMO.” Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais 118 (2019): 131 – 150. Vuuren, Hennie van, and Anine Kriegler. Apartheid Guns and Money: A Tale of Profit. Johannesburg: Jacana Media, 2017. Waterinckx, Astrid. “Alternatieve pers in België na mei ’68: Agence de Presse Libération-Belgique.” Brood & Rozen. Tijdschrift voor de geschiedenis van sociale bewegingen 4 (2006): 26 – 41.

Wouter Linmans

Chapter 1 A Revolutionary Robin Hood

Max Hölz (1889 – 1933) and the Dutch Communist Movement His name will likely be unfamiliar to most modern day readers. Yet, in the eyes of the German establishment, Max Hölz was the embodiment of anarchy and wickedness for nearly fifteen years. In the eyes of the German working classes, however, Hölz symbolized their revolutionary aspirations. He was well-known in the Soviet Union too: schools, factories and other buildings, army battalions and steamships moving along the Volga river bore his name.¹ Despite his fame in revolutionary socialist milieus in Germany and elsewhere, Hölz came from humble beginnings. Over the course of his forty year lifespan, he grew into a figure of socialist violence and revolutionary action. Inspired by the Russian Revolution of 1917 he took up a leading role in the German Revolution of 1918 and the subsequent revolutionary skirmishes in the German countryside. In June 1921 he was arrested and sentenced to jail, only to be released in July 1928. Mounting conflict and tensions between Hölz and the Soviet Komintern would lead to his untimely death in 1933. His body was found on the 16th of September 1933 in the river Oka by a group of fishermen. He seems to have been killed by the Soviet Secret Police, although the exact cause of death remains unclear to this day.² In recent literature, Hölz has been portrayed as a rebel who was driven by heartfelt socialist sentiment and revolutionary conviction, a man who fought against the repression of the working classes without striving for personal gains. Nonetheless, Hölz did not shun violent and harmful practices. He took part in a conflict that resulted in much damage dealt to both property and peo-

 Rudolph Philipp, Max Hölz. Der letzte Deutsche Revolutionär (Zürich: Reso Verlag A.G., 1936), 5 – 6; Peter Giersich and Bernd Kramer, Max Hoelz. Man nannte ihn: Brandstifter und Revolutionär, Robin Hood, Che Guevara, einen Anarchisten, den Roten General. Sein Leben und sein Kampf (Berlin: Karin Kramer Verlag, 2000), 23 – 24. See also: Manfred Gebhardt, Max Hoelz – Wege und Irrwege eines Revolutionärs (Berlin: Neues Leben, 1985); Christian Heisenberg, Das schwarze Herz oder Die wahre Geschichte vom Leben und Sterben des Max Hoelz. Eine politische Biographie (Berlin/Plauen: Projektgruppe M, 2010); Norbert Marohn, Hoelz. Biografie einer Zukunft (Leipzig: Lychatz Verlag, 2014).  Ulla Plener, Max Hoelz: “Ich grüsse und küsse Dich – Rot Front!”: Tagebücher und Briefe, Moskau 1929 bis 1933 (Berlin: Dietz, 2005), 9 – 52. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-002

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ple. Hölz himself was well aware of his notoriety at the time. In a letter he wrote during his incarceration in the Breslau prison on the 18th of December 1922, he explained his motivation behind his actions: Ein Großer Teil der öffentlichen Meinung erklärt mich für einen “Räuber”, “Mordbuben”, “Brandstifter” und dergleichen mehr, aber nur die allerwenigsten Menschen halten es überhaupt für notwendig, auch nur die Frage nach den Beweggründen meines Handelns aufzuwerfen… Ich habe mich bei allem nur von dem Gefühl der Zusammengehörigkeit mit den notleidenden Massen leiten lassen.³

To the wider public, Hölz was a violent anarchist, a murderer and an arsonist, but Hölz claimed to have acted out of feelings of solidarity with the working classes and with only one goal in mind: the liberation of the proletariat. Hölz found admirers amongst comrades in revolutionary socialist circles. He reiterated his heartfelt connection to the working classes in the foreword to his memoirs, published in 1929 under the title Vom Weißen Kreuz zur roten Fahne, by explicitly devoting his nearly 400 page-long autobiography to all prisoners, fellow outcasts of society and revolutionaries. Hölz connected his life to that of the working classes who saw themselves as being repressed at the hands of the capitalist establishment.⁴ These feelings of solidarity with the revolutionary working classes were reciprocal. This contribution will show how the international solidarity between Dutch and German communists took shape partly around the figure of Hölz. The focus will be on the Dutch Communist Party (CPN), with the addition of other revolutionary perspectives for comparative purposes. That Hölz played an important role in the Dutch communist milieu becomes clear from the columns of the daily communist newspaper De Tribune (The Tribune). It was founded in 1907 as a weekly journal, appeared on a daily basis from April 1916 onwards, and served as the official party magazine of the relatively small but radical group of Marxists who had united in what would later be called the CPN. De Tribune was the authoritative voice within the communist party. Whomever received and read the newspaper on a daily basis would have had a strong connection with the party.⁵ There is much uncertainty about the exact size of the CPN. The haphazard administration of the Dutch communist bureau results in unreliable statistics.  Derived from: Plener, Max Hoelz, 10.  Max Hoelz, Vom “Weissen Kreuz” zur Roten Fahne. Jugend-, Kampf- und Zuchthauserlebnisse (Berlin: Malik-Verlag, 1929), 12.  Gerrit Voerman, De meridiaan van Moskou. De CPN en de Communistische Internationale (1919 – 1930) (Amsterdam: Veen, 2001), 455.

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Numbers are scarce and unevenly distributed, which makes it difficult to paint an accurate picture. On the whole, the CPN was relatively small. The official number of party members ranged from around eighteen hundred in 1919 to over ten thousand in 1939. During the 1920s and 1930s, the number of subscribers to De Tribune far surpassed the number of people who were officially registered as party members, by often more than double the amount. This indicates that the communist community was in fact much larger than the number party membership suggests.⁶ This, in turn, makes De Tribune an important source for studying communist party culture in the Netherlands. The newspaper had a wide readership and gives insight into what was a main source of daily information for communists. The newspaper served as an important conduit of the ideas in circulation among communists and their sympathizers, making it a very valuable source when researching the practice of solidarity.⁷ This contribution, then, deals with the question of how Hölz was mediated through (first and foremost) De Tribune. The Dutch communist community provides a case study to analyze international solidarity and influences.⁸ The Dutch communists were proud of their heritage, yet due to their relatively small numbers they failed in their aspirations to start a socialist revolution. November 1918 had seen the outbreak of socialist revolutions throughout Eastern Europe and Germany. At the end of October, sailors of the German war fleet had started a revolt that soon spread through large parts of Germany. The revolutionary unrest in Germany in early November 1918 inspired Dutch revolutionaries and resulted in a “Red Week” in the Netherlands. Dutch Marxists and other revolutionaries from Amsterdam felt as though they were on the brink of a revolution. Around 3,000 communists, anarchists and other sympathizers assembled in the streets of Amsterdam on Wednesday the 13th of November 1918. They were supported by no less than 400 armed soldiers.

 J. Wormer, “De CPN in cijfers,” in Van bron tot boek. Apparaat voor de geschiedschrijving van het communisme in Nederland, ed. Cor. Boet et al. (Amsterdam: IPSO Stichting Beheer IISG, 1986), 177– 190; Gerrit Voerman and J. Wormer, “De CPN in cijfers, 1909 – 1991,” in De communistische erfenis. Bibliografie en bronnen betreffende de CPN, ed. Margreet Schrevel and Gerrit Voerman (Amsterdam: Stichting Beheer IISG, 1997), 161– 170.  Some issues have to be taken into account. To a certain extent, most pressingly, the individual responses to what was published does remain hidden from the eye of the researcher. Sadly, more personal sources such as correspondences or autobiographies which might help to nuance the press coverage are either not available or not very useful. At the very least De Tribune reflects the ideals and wishes shared by the communist community.  Patricia Clavin, “Introduction. Conceptualizing Internationalism between the Wars,” in Internationalism Reconfigured. Transnational Ideas and Movements between the World Wars, ed. Daniel Laqua (London: I. B. Tauris, 2011), 1– 7.

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In the end, their radical approach amounted to nothing. The demonstration resulted in a relatively small but violent confrontation between the revolutionary activists and the soldiers who were housed in Amsterdam barracks. This event, during which four revolutionaries died and several others were wounded, came to be both the culmination and the premature ending of a week of revolutionary unrest in the Netherlands. The revolutionary class war, which had been fought successfully in Russia in 1917 and which was being fought in Germany at that very moment, quickly passed over the Netherlands.⁹ In this situation, transnational solidarity mattered a great deal. The vacuum left by the failed attempt at a revolution in the Netherlands could be filled by laying claim to the strength of the international communist movement. By claiming to be part of a much larger, international class war and a swelling international revolutionary tide, the Dutch revolutionaries were able to write themselves into a larger and more potent revolutionary movement. This was not only an important means to uphold a certain posture to outsiders, but served to strengthen the commitment of insiders as well. Transnational solidarity, in this respect, was a means of keeping up the fighting spirit. It helped strengthen the idea that the revolutionary movement was very much alive and still had potential – one only needed to look at the successes booked by revolutionaries in Russia. The lack of Dutch revolutionary heroes or heroines could be evened out by the adoption of foreign heroes such as Hölz. As historian Kasper Braskén noted in his study on interwar transnational solidarity, a great many studies on solidarity have in the past focused on the sociological and philosophical ideas behind international solidarity. Braskén advocates a relatively new approach to solidarity that investigates not the theoretical or ideological background but rather its practical outcome: the expressions, representations and articulations of international solidarity.¹⁰ This perspective relates to a new approach in Dutch historiography on the functioning of socialist parties in the Netherlands and elsewhere. Recent research on the history of Dutch socialism has turned its eye to the sociable and informal aspects of being part of a political party.¹¹ There is, however, still a lot of ground to

 Ron Blom and Theunis Stelling, Niet voor God en niet voor het Vaderland. Linkse soldaten, matrozen en hun organisaties tijdens de mobilisatie van ’14–’18 (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2004), 600; Wouter F.J. Linmans, “Een voorschot op toekomstige dapperheid. De herinnering aan een revolutie die niet doorging,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 130 (2017): 349 – 366.  Kasper Braskén, The International Workers’ Relief, Communisme, and Transnational Solidarity. Willi Münzenberg in Weimar Germany (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 3 – 4.  For a theoretical exposition on this topic, see for instance: Henk te Velde, “Het wij-gevoel van een morele gemeenschap. Een politiek-culturele benadering van partijgeschiedenis,” in

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cover. What role, for instance, did international revolutionary figures and stories play in the daily lives of Dutch communists? Vladimir Lenin has been recognized as an example for later generations of Dutch communists,¹² but little else is known about this aspect of communist community building. This is especially surprising given the fact that the communist movement was fundamentally internationally orientated. International solidarity and the unification of socialist forces all over the world were at the core of the communist worldview, as is expressed in one of the most famous rallying cries of the 1848 Communist Manifesto: “Workers of the world, unite!” As German social scientist Sigrid Baringhorst attested in her Politik als Kampagne, the rise of modern mass media during the 1920s played an important role in creating solidarity. Information about faraway atrocities, struggles and cries for help could be spread swiftly through this new type of public communication. Baringhorst emphasizes the importance of including both images and texts in all analyses of international solidarity, since most campaigns combine the use of strong images and equally appealing slogans.¹³ Inspired by both Baringhorst and Braskén, this contribution will look at the ways in which Hölz’s image was mediated through De Tribune and other media, and how this informed the practical outcome of international solidarity in the form of concrete acts and activities.¹⁴ The result can perhaps best be described as an inquiry into international solidarity at work: through solidarity campaigns and the efforts of communist children’s groups, solidarity was being woven into the fabric of everyday communist life. Heroic figures embody the values any particular group holds in high esteem. They can symbolize virtue, daring, courage or cunning. To pursue or emulate

Jaarboek Documentatiecentrum Nederlandse Politieke Partijen (Groningen: Documentatiecentrum Nederlandse Politieke Partijen, 2005), 106 – 123; Gerrit Voerman, “De stand van de geschiedschrijving van de Nederlandse politieke partijen,” Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 120 (2005): 226 – 269; Gerrit Voerman, “Partijcultuur in Nederland. Naar nieuwe invalshoeken in de studie van de politieke partij,” in Kossman Instituut. Benaderingen van de geschiedenis van politiek, ed. Gerrit Voerman and Dirk Jan Wolffram (Groningen: Kossmann Instituut, 2006), 43 – 49. Two recent examples of the results this approach may yield, see: Dennis Bos, Bloed en barricaden. De Parijse Commune herdacht (Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2014); Adriaan van Veldhuizen, De Partij. Over het politieke leven in de vroege S.D.A.P. (Amsterdam: Prometheus Bert Bakker, 2015).  Voerman, De meridiaan van Moskou, 460.  Sigrid Baringhorst, Politik als Kampagne. Zur medialen Erzeugung von Solidarität (Wiesbaden: VS Verlag fü r Sozialwissenschaften, 1998), 9 – 12; Braskén, The International Workers’ Relief, 27.  Braskén, The International Workers’ Relief, 3 – 4.

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these figures was to preserve the moral codes and values of the communist milieu in the Netherlands and to acquire these moral codes and virtues was of paramount importance for continuity and a reflective, self-conscious culture, as well as educating future generations.¹⁵ Taking the perspective of George Mosse in The Image of Man (1996), Hölz can be seen as both a strong and masculine revolutionary fighter, as well as a more amiable father figure.¹⁶ As we shall see hereafter, in practice these two male behavioral models overlapped and strengthened each other. The remainder of this chapter is divided into three parts. First, it introduces Max Hölz and the relationship between revolutionary Germany and the Netherlands. The second part focusses on Hölz as a revolutionary fighter, while the third part weighs Hölz as a father figure.

The adoption of a foreign hero Hölz was born on the 14th of October 1889 at Moritz bei Riesa as the son of an agricultural worker. He was born second in what would become a family of six children. Hölz had to start working from an early age to supplement the family income. Having finished his elementary school, he worked as a day laborer with different landowners from 1903 onwards. He volunteered to serve the King’s Hussars of Saxony in 1914. Hölz had not been politically active until the outbreak of the First World War and had no connection to the revolutionary movement. He decidedly turned towards communism under the influence of the Russian October Revolution of 1917, after which he tried to school himself in revolutionary writings. In the spring of 1919, he founded a local branch of the German Communist Party (KPD) in Falkenstein, very near to where he had been born. He and his followers terrorized the bourgeoisie, freed prisoners, destroyed deeds as well as police and legal archives, burned down villas of the rich, robbed manu-

 Willem Frijhoff, Heiligen, idolen, iconen (Nijmegen: SUN, 1998), 7.  George L. Mosse, The Image of Man. The Creation of Modern Masculinity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). The scholarly literature on masculinity is ever expanding, yet Mosse still stands out when it comes to his analysis of fascist and communist masculinity. For a range of studies into masculinity, see for example: Lynne Segal, Slow Motion: Changing Masculinities, Changing Men (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1990); Timothy C. Edwards, Cultures of Masculinity (London: Routledge, 2010); Alexandra Shepard, The Meanings of Manhood in Early Modern England, 1560 – 1640 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). For a somewhat outdated yet informative analysis of ideas of masculinity in the history of fascism, see: Klaus Theweleit, Männerphantasien II. Männerkörper. Zur Psychoanalyse des weißen Terrors (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1978).

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facturers and redistributed the money amongst the Falkenstein-population.¹⁷ At least amongst his followers, Hölz inspired awe as the leader of an independent band of partisans. He was given nicknames by both his friends and enemies, ranging from “Mordbrenner”, “Räuberhauptmann” and “Diktator des Vogtlandes” to “deutscher Robin Hood”, “Kesselheizer der Revolution” and “revolutionärer Feuerkopf”.¹⁸ In April 1919 a reward of 30,000 Mark was promised for his capture, but he would not be arrested until March 1921. Having suffered a military defeat he fled to Berlin where he was arrested, tried for murder and sentenced to prison. If his revolutionary career had not already made him infamous, his incarceration would. Hölz’s name spread beyond communist or revolutionary circles, for he was wrongfully convicted. According to false eyewitness reports, circumstantial evidence and slanderous accusations, Hölz had murdered a German landowner named Heß. Hölz would spend more than seven years in prison for a murder he had not committed. In the eyes of Hölz’s sympathizers, his trial and imprisonment came to symbolize the injustice, bias and flawed nature of the Weimar justice system.¹⁹ For Dutch communists, this was all the more reason to greet Hölz as an heroic figure of the revolutionary movement. All the while, the attention to his imprisonment grew. The campaign for his release attracted broad support in Germany from far beyond the communist or radical left. In 1927 a so-called Neutral Committee for Max Hölz (Neutralen Komitee für Max Hoelz) issued a public call for solidarity and the release of Hölz. Amongst its members were intellectuals such as the writers Thomas Mann, Egon Erwin Kisch and Lion Feuchtwanger, actor Heinrich George, illustrator Heinrich Zille, philosopher Martin Buber and physicist Albert Einstein. In 1928 he was finally released after the Reichstag had decided on an amnesty for political prisoners.²⁰

 Plener, Max Hoelz, 12– 14. For Hölz’s personal take on these events, see: Giersich and Kramer, Max Hoelz, 105 – 128.  After Hölz was sentenced to prison by the German courts in 1921, Kurt Tucholsky deemed Hölz to be the man “der die mutigste Rede vor einem deutschen Gericht gehalten hat.” Giersich and Kramer, Max Hoelz, 10, 163.  Ibid., 19 – 24.  Hermann Weber, “Hölz, Max,” in: Neue Deutsche Biographie 9 (1972), 338 – 339 [online version].

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A revolutionary fighter The editorial board of De Tribune deemed Hölz one of the “greatest and purest revolutionary figures of our times” and a “reincarnation of Karl Liebknecht.”²¹ A connection was made between Hölz and the founders of the KPD: Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg. They had been killed by reactionary right-wing Freikorps-members during the so called Spartacist uprising in January 1919. Soon after, their death inspired a yearly commemorative tradition in the Netherlands. The communist youth union De Zaaier even dubbed the 15th of January, the day on which Liebknecht and Luxemburg had been killed, “Karl Liebknecht-day.” The union headquarters in Amsterdam, likewise, was named the “Karl Liebknecht-house.”²² Moreover, De Zaaier actively used the saintly aura surrounding Liebknecht and Luxemburg to entice working class sons and daughters to join the communist movement.²³ In a very similar way, Lenin too would be used to inspire generations of communists. Next to these figures stood the men and women who were still alive and continuing the fight against the establishment – Hölz was one of them. Like Liebknecht and Luxemburg, he was seen as a figure of courage, discipline and perseverance. Moreover, to Dutch revolutionaries, Hölz embodied the ideal of a decidedly masculine militancy that would finish off the capitalist bourgeoisie.²⁴ During his trial in 1921, a courtroom correspondent of the Dutch daily newspaper Algemeen Handelsblad portrayed Hölz not as a soldier but as a criminal, comparing him to countless fictional villainous figures from popular stories. Hölz supposedly had a “Raffles-mouth, both witty and intelligent; dark fiery Rinaldo-eyes, with something fanatical of the high-minded communist […] and the large and protruding ears of the Lombroso-client.”²⁵ Some medical professio-

 De Tribune, 22 November 1926, 3; De Tribune, 21 July 1928, 1.  Wouter F.J. Linmans, “De communistische paplepel. Opgroeien in de communistische beweging, 1918 – 1939,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 129 (206): 565.  See for example: De Jonge Communist. Orgaan van den Communistischen Jeugdbond De Zaaier, January 1921, 2.  Mosse, The Image of Man, 127.  Arthur J. Raffles was the “gentleman thief” who originated with the British writer E. W. Hornung at the end of the nineteenth century. Rinaldo Rinaldini was a literary figure from the nineteenth century robber novels of the German author C. A. Vulpius. With the reference to Lombroso the author had not referred to a fictional character but to the famous Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso who was known primarily for his theory that criminal behavior was hereditary, which meant that criminals could be recognized on the basis of physiological features such as aberrant shapes and sizes of for example nose and ears. Algemeen Handelsblad, 14 June 1921, 5.

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nals, who had examined Hölz ahead of the trial, claimed that he had a mental disorder, which would mean that he had only “diminished responsibility.” Other commentators declared him to be hysterical or even a psychopath.²⁶ While these accusations were not debated in communist milieus, there were outspoken ideas about his background. According to De Tribune, books and courses on communist ideology and theory did not appeal to Hölz. On the whole, he had enjoyed very little education in his lifetime.²⁷ More so than intellectual capacities and scholarship, he valued the idea of brute force and armed insurrection. The Dutch astronomer and communist Anton Pannekoek saw in Hölz the embodiment of the proletarian revolutionary: “Not an erudite man of great wisdom and science, not a gifted orator, not a leader, imbued with no special capabilities: [he was] an ordinary man.”²⁸ When Hölz’s story served as the inspiration for a feature length film in 1974, produced in East-Germany under the title Wolz – Leben und Verklärung eines Deutschen Anarchisten, a quote from the main character served as the tagline of the film: “Ich bin kein NachDenker, sondern ein Vor-Kämpfer.” Freely translated: “I’m not a thinker, but a fighter.” This became part of Hölz’s appeal to Dutch communists back in the 1920s. He himself had been part of the ordinary working class milieu. He was one of them, and as such he became a source of inspiration for those who believed in the necessity of a socialist uprising. This meant that Hölz appealed to a wholly different type of revolutionary socialist too: the anarchist. Like communists, Dutch anarchists saw Hölz as a symbol of revolutionary action.²⁹ Anton Constandse, a leading figure in the Dutch anarchist movement, hailed Hölz in his anarchist monthly Alarm as a figure who belonged to the admirable variety of “stormverwekkers” (literally: “storm progenitors”), by which he meant the renowned anarchists of the late nineteenth century who had adhered to the idea of “propaganda by the deed.” Here, Constandse holds Hölz to the light of role models such as Emile Henry, Errico Malatesta and Peter Kropotkin: These are the men who [George] Sorel had in mind when he wrote his book on the defense of violence in 1906, these are the sons of Mikhail Bakunin, yes even of Kropotkin who in his

 Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant, 14 June 1921, 2; Het Centrum, 14 June 1921, 2; De Tijd, 14 June 1921, 5.  De Tribune, 23 November 1926, 3.  J. Braak [pseud. Anton Pannekoek], “Max Hölz,” De Nieuwe Tijd. Revolutionair-socialistisch halfmaandelijksch tijdschrift 26 (1921): 466.  Opstand. Revolutionair maandblad: orgaan van het Sociaal-Anarchistisch Verbond 3 (1928): 2.

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“words of an insurrectionist” wanted to start a revolution by “fire and iron,” and under the thundering roar of canons and the rattling of machine guns saw the fiery light of the new world.³⁰

Fig. 1: A stylized representation of Max Hölz on the cover of the anarchist monthly Alarm. Anarchistisch maandblad 11 (March-April 1923).

Mythical stories about Hölz’s exploits circulated within communist spheres, stories that are likely to be only loosely tied to the reality of the actual events. Their truth-status was of secondary importance to contemporaries, for these stories expressed abstract qualities which were held in high esteem, such as courage

 Anton L. Constandse, “Max Hölz,” Alarm. Anarchistisch Maandblad 1 (1923): 122 – 123. See also: George Woodcock, Anarchism. A History of Libertarian Ideas and Movements (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1962), 287.

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and perseverance in struggles in which the odds were very much against you. One of the more popular stories describes how Max Hölz and several members of his Red Guard came face to face with over one hundred heavily armed policemen on the train station of the village of Chemnitz in Saxony. In the spring of 1920 Hölz travelled the German countryside with fifty of his comrades of the Red Guard, who were supposedly armed with only a couple of hand grenades. As the policemen posted on Chemnitz train station saw Hölz and his men disembark a train, they could already see themselves claiming the 30,000 Mark reward for his capture. However, as soon as Hölz ordered his men to get their hand grenades at the ready, the policemen scurried away in fear of their lives.³¹ The writer of the German brochure Der rote General (1921) classified the events at Chemnitz train station as a “revolutionäre Tat ersten Ranges” (‘a first class revolutionary act’).³² These and other stories came to strengthen the mythical allure of Hölz and his Red Guard roaming Saxony like a band of partisan fighters.³³ To his revolutionary admirers, Hölz embodied the ideal of the masculine, military man. He did not just appeal to ideals such as strength and athleticism, discipline and self-control, but also to military leadership. In the eyes of Dutch communist Gerard van het Reve (who would later be the father of the wellknown Dutch writers Karel and Gerard van het Reve) Hölz’s revolutionary eminence was beyond dispute. He saw in Hölz both a commanding military leader and a representative of the German communist Red Army. As a well-known journalist and publicist in the Dutch communist movement, van het Reve joined party member J. Brommert (secretary and treasurer of the Dutch section of the Workers International Relief) on a trip to the Dutch city of Enschede in the summer of 1924, in order to support the textile workers that had been on strike for several days. Not long after a grand open air meeting, the two of them were arrested and held in custody by the police for three weeks. Van het Reve wrote letters and poems in his cell. He would spend just three weeks in prison, a period which can hardly be compared to the three years which Hölz had by that time been imprisoned, but it is no surprise that van het Reve’s thoughts went out to Hölz for he felt a strong connection with his German fellow prisoner. This remarkable poem by Van het Reve was addressed to his “fellow victims” (in a very similar way Hölz would later dedicate his autobiography to his “fellow outcasts”). On the 5th of July 1924 this poem was published on the front page of De Tribune. Its contents are telling for the way in which Van het Reve valued  De Tribune, 11 August 1928, 7.  Alfred Braun, Der rote General Max Hölz. Eine Würdigung der Tätigkeit von Max Hölz im Dienste des Proletariats und der Revolution (Prague: N. Totalowitsch, 1921), 14– 15.  See also: Erich Mühsam, War einmal ein Revoluzzer (Berlin: Rowohlt, 1978), 22– 24.

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Hölz, since he places him right next to two renowned figures of the Russian Red Army: Leon Trotsky and Semyon Bodyonny. Greetings, Red Soldier at attention, Greetings, Red Army, Trotsky! Budyonny! Hölz – forward! Swarm across these countries. Long live Communism!³⁴

The image revolutionary socialists in Germany and the Netherlands created around Hölz caused discussion amongst intellectuals as well. In late 1934, about a year after Hölz’s tragic death, an interesting dialogue took place between Dutch communist Jacques Gans and the Dutch writer Edgar du Perron in the Dutch literary magazine Forum. Central to their conversation was the definition of the “revolutionary personality”. Both writers agreed upon the idea that a distinction had to be made between the type of revolutionary who had both the appearance and the inner conviction of a true revolutionary, versus the type of person who only tried to make it seem as though they were a revolutionary, when in fact they were not. Hölz was both on the inside and outside a true revolutionary, wrote Gans in a letter to du Perron on the 29th of October 1934. According to Gans – himself a communist – Hölz had gained his esteem as a revolutionary hero by sheer hard work and sacrifice. Du Perron took a more critical stance by writing how the revolutionary could evoke his sympathy only as an “oppositional figure”: a true revolutionary had to be someone who revolted against anything and everything that was unkind or hostile to him. According to du Perron, the revolutionary figure was “the type of man which simply had to lose, the sort of man which had to be summarily executed by his enemies – or by his friends, in case of a victory” [emphasis added].³⁵

A revolutionary “family man” In The Image of Man, George Mosse points out two aspects of the Soviet ideal of masculinity which at first seem to be somewhat contradictory: “On the one hand, the new communist man of Soviet propaganda was said to be a ruthless fighter; on the other, he was said to have internalized the rules of daily life

 De Tribune, 5 July 1924, 1.  Jacques Gans and Edgar du Perron, “Als het moet, alleen tegen de geheele wereld”: de briefwisseling tussen E. du Perron en Jacques Gans 1933 – 1936 (Amsterdam: VU, 2006), 83.

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that had stayed constant over millennia, producing morally pure and beautiful men and women.”³⁶ The ideal of the communist family man was very important to the future socialist society. While the first order of business was to start the revolution, raising children as morally sound communists was an important part of communist community building and the preparations for a future society. To that end, eight Dutch communist children’s groups were founded in 1921. About 200 children in total, all between the ages ten and fourteen years, took part in the activities organized by these groups. They may best be described as the communist alternative to boy scout associations. Its youthful members were known as pioneers, after their Russian counterparts. The Dutch communist children’s groups were dwarfed by those in Germany, England, Switzerland and Sweden. The groups were constituted by order of Moscow, but the practical implementation was left to the local group leaders.³⁷ This freedom gave room for the adoption of Hölz as a figure who was used to inspire communist children, both as a revolutionary fighter and as a father figure. From the confines of his cell in Sonnenburg, just to the east of Berlin, Hölz wrote letters to his revolutionary comrades in Germany and elsewhere. These were published in De Tribune, which is how in the summer of 1922 Dutch communists received the news that Hölz was being mistreated. Hölz did not disclose any details, which made the maltreatment seem all the worse. According to one of his letters, he had “endured sorrow and torment that could not be put into words.” Although the truth to these claims is impossible to establish, Hölz wrote a powerful call to his readers to free him and his captured companions from the German prisons: Do you want to wait until the revolutionary flame dies out completely? Do you want to sit cross armed and watch how your associates, your fellow brethren, are being tortured and broken? Do you want to wait until body and mind are broken? Do not settle for mourning the mangled bodies of your mistreated and in prison cells ruined brothers in arms like teary-eyed old women.³⁸

 Mosse, The Image of Man, 129.  De Tribune, 5 October 1921, 1; Voerman, De meridiaan van Moskou, 458. I wrote an article on the Dutch communist children’s groups: Linmans, “De communistische paplepel.” For the German communist children’s groups, see: Heiko Müller, “Kinder müssen Klassenkämpfer werden!” Der kommunistische Kinderverband in der Weimarer Republik (1920 – 1933) (Marburg: Tectum Verlag, 2013). For the Soviet Russian communist education, see: Lisa A. Kirschenbaum, Small Comrades. Revolutionizing Childhood in Soviet Russia, 1917 – 1932 (New York: Routledge Falmer, 2001).  De Tribune, 18 August 1922, 1.

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Hölz also exchanged letters with Dutch communist children, to whom he was presented as a sort of living patron saint.³⁹ One of the ways in which the children were familiarized with Hölz was by christening one of the Dutch communist children’s groups “Max Hölz”. It was customary for these groups to be named after revolutionary figures: “Rosa Luxemburg” and “Karl Liebknecht”, the Russian playwright “Maxim Gorki”, the Indonesian communist politician “Tan Malakka”, and the most well-known Dutch revolutionary figure “Ferdinand Domela Nieuwenhuis”.⁴⁰ Some of these groups were named after revolutionary figures who had already passed away, such as Nieuwenhuis, Liebknecht and Luxemburg. This made it possible for these children to personally get in touch with Hölz himself. In the spring of 1928, letters were sent to Hölz, who answered them personally. It was a unique opportunity for the members of the Max Hölz children group of the Amsterdam Jordaan-neighborhood to get in direct contact with an internationally renowned figure like Hölz. As a representative of one of the Amsterdam based children’s groups, the young Theo Baars (himself a member of the Hölzgroup) even had the pleasure of shaking Hölz’s hand shortly after he had been released from prison. In a letter published in De Tribune he told the tale of how he had met Hölz during his stay at a communist children’s summer camp in the German town of Uelsen in the summer of 1928: “The children were cheering with joy. He had spent seven years in prison and now he was free. We were all very happy to see him, he is a true comrade, a true Bolshevik […] He shook our hands upon leaving and we looked him straight in the eyes.”⁴¹ The idea behind all this was that the children were supposed to continue the revolutionary struggle that figures such as Lenin, Liebknecht and Luxemburg had started. Through newspaper articles and social gatherings, Hölz was supposed to inspire new generations of communists. Like Liebknecht and Luxemburg, he was explicitly presented as a revolutionary example for these ten to fourteen year old children: “Of course comrade Max finds it hugely pleasurable to know that young pioneers in Holland are thinking of him, feel sympathy for him, and write letters and send billboards to him. He finds it even more pleasurable to know that you try so hard to become strapping communists.”⁴² Here, Hölz was portrayed not as a fierce and rancorous fighter, but as a much more gentle father like figure who would rejoice in the knowledge that he was being loved. Simultaneously, Hölz was still portrayed as a masculine role    

De De De De

Tribune, 7 July 1928, 7. Tribune, 12 February 1927, 5. Tribune, 18 August 1928, 7. Tribune, 18 December 1926, 5.

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model who should elicit awe amongst the communist youth. Young boys were to take Hölz as an example and put their manliness in service of the communist ideal.⁴³

Campaigning for Hölz One of the goals of the children’s groups was to teach its members what was going to be expected of them as grown-up communists. One of the aspects of communist life was actively taking part in solidarity campaigns.⁴⁴ In December 1926, when the attention to Hölz’s captivity grew swiftly amongst Dutch communists, one of the members of the Max Hölz children’s group made a rhyme in which he pressed his fellow comrades to fight for their incarcerated pal: “Little comrades, we say: / Max Hölz should be freed! / He is our hero / For him we fight!”⁴⁵ In the fall of 1926, Dutch communists devoted more and more time and energy to doing what they could in order to secure Hölz’s release from prison. De Tribune regularly printed biographical articles chronicling the life of Hölz’s heroic history, sometimes including a small portrait – a rare exception for the relatively small and financially troubled newspaper. The editorial board occasionally reprinted Hölz’s last words spoken before the German court. In the fall of 1928, only after he had been released, one of his famous remarks was depicted on the cover of the Dutch communist periodical Roode Hulp: “Justice is the whore and you (facing the judges) are her masters.” The cover showed a drawing of a stereotypical capitalist, wearing a top hat and dressed in a long robe, fondling Lady Justice who mischievously looked at her suitor from under her blindfold. With a discrete gesture the capitalist tips the scales to his advantage by overloading it with coins. At the foot of the scales, judges are assiduously filling their pockets with the fallen coinage. Hölz’s last words gave the drawing an ominous resonance: “There once will come a time of freedom and revenge! – then, we will be the judges!”⁴⁶

 The urge to serve a cause higher than the individual had been part of the definition of masculinity from the very beginning. To quote Mosse: “The education to manliness was directed toward making boys hard, sculpting their bodies, and giving them a proper moral posture.” Mosse, The Image of Man, 109.  Linmans, “De communistische paplepel.”  Original: “Kameraadjes, wij zeggen: / Max Hoelz moet vrij! / Hij is onze held / Voor hem vechten wij!” De Tribune, 11 December 1926, 5.  Roode Hulp. Orgaan van de Internationale Roode Hulp (IRH) Afdeeling Holland (1928): 1.

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Fig. 2: A cartoon on the cover of the communist monthly Roode Hulp, illustrating one of Hölz’s remarks during his trial, on the cover of Roode Hulp. Orgaan van de Internationale Roode Hulp (IRH) Afdeeling Holland 11 (1928).

Hölz found an admirer in the Dutch communist Nico Rost, who published a number of brochures pleading for his release. In publications in De Tribune and other communist periodicals, Rost used Hölz’s personal letters as evidence for his innocence. The letters were translated and published in Dutch. Their value, according to Rost, was equal to the letters of “that other, great revolutionary figure Rosa Luxemburg,” whose letters were read and admired by many revolution-

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aries.⁴⁷ According to Rost, everyone who read Hölz’s letters would immediately become convinced of the fact that a man who writes like this, who even in prison is not only filled with worries for the social struggle, but also keeps asking if his little son is not left to sleep next to an open window, a man who asks his wife to send Christmas presents to another prisoner who has no living relatives – that a man who writes like that simply cannot be an arsonist or a murderer and should never have been condemned to a lifelong prison sentence.⁴⁸

In June 1928, Rost visited Hölz in prison. The Sonnenburg-prison, where Hölz was held at the time, was one of the most notorious prisons in the whole of Germany. “In the Berlin criminal underworld people speak with reverence of those who are held prisoner in Sonnenburg,” Rost wrote in De Tribune. ⁴⁹ This “German Bastille” was no place for a noble figure such as Max Hölz, he found.⁵⁰ With a fine sense for drama, Rost described the constricting atmosphere of the prison cell, the bleak view of the courtyard, the bucket in which Hölz had to relieve himself, and the bed in which he still had to spend thousands of nights all by himself. But the cell had some homely aspects as well: there was a writing desk and a bookshelf, with books written by authors who were very familiar to Dutch revolutionaries. Hölz proclaimed himself to be a great admirer of the work of Herman Gorter and Henriette Roland Holst, both of whom were Dutch communists and writers. The bookshelf contained numerous translated brochures and writings of them, which he had read several times. Through these books, Hölz had told his interviewer, he felt a direct connection with his Dutch comrades.⁵¹ This is telling for the relationship between Dutch communists and Hölz. The books indicate how the solidarity between Dutch and German communists was not a one way street. All at the same time, the idea that Hölz read the works of these well-known Dutch communists might have eased any worries about him being a bad example to young communists: Hölz’s bookshelf suggested that he was more intellectually developed than his image as a heartless fighter seemed to suggest. Nico Rost emphasized the bond shared by the revolutionaries in the Netherlands and the imprisoned Hölz, who was portrayed as a symbol of the German revolutionary community as a whole. In his attempts to rally support for the release of Hölz, Rost went even further. If the Dutch revolutionaries were to get up     

De Tribune, 3 May 1927, 1. Klassenstrijd. Revolutionair maandblad 2 (1927): 319 – 320. De Tribune, 7 July 1928, 4. De Tribune, 19 November 1928, 4. De Tribune, 7 July 1928, 4.

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and take action for Hölz’s release, then it would be highly effective if the liberation of Hölz were connected to the liberation of the whole of the revolutionary working classes, or so Nico Rost seems to have thought: “We need to take action because our future has to be different. Max Hölz’s trial is our trial. […] He and us are one!”⁵² If Hölz and the Dutch revolutionary socialists were indeed as one, then that meant that the Dutch revolutionaries could lay claim to Hölz’s rebellious character. With that, just like Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg, Hölz became the embodiment of communism and an important source of inspiration to Dutch revolutionaries: “Let us make Max Hölz and his wife into an example. Let us try to adopt a bit of their willingness to make sacrifices and loyalty to the cause of communism. Yes, let’s make our hearts and minds glow just as fiercely for the great cause.”⁵³

Free at last In July 1928, the German Reichstag decided on an amnesty for political prisoners, including Max Hölz. When he was released on the 18th of July, after having been held prisoner for seven years, the editorial board of the Dutch communist newspaper De Tribune had the pleasure of being there when Hölz’s wife Traute received the good news. Traute Hölz resided in the Netherlands at the time, in order to chair a meeting in the provinces. Carrying a large bouquet of flowers she entered the editorial office of De Tribune. Her face showed both stress and excitement, the editors recalled. They triumphantly read the latest telegrams out loud: Max Hölz had indeed been released and would arrive at the Silesian train station in Berlin (the current Berlin Ostbahnhof) where he would be awaited by the revolutionary working classes of the German capital.⁵⁴ The editorial phone flew off the hook in order to make a call to the Berlin office of the Workers International Relief, so as to arrange Traute’s return to Germany. Despite the joyous news of her husband’s release, Traute decided not to travel to Berlin until she had made an appearance at the public assembly of the CPN, which was scheduled to take place later that day in Amsterdam. All this she had told to someone on the other end of the phone: “Ich komme morgen um fünf Uhr in Berlin [an]… Bestelle ihm die Grüsse, auch von den holländischen Genossen… ’n Tag Genosse. Rot Front!” The Tribune-editors hastily gathered the forty guilders

 De Tribune, 10 March 1928, 8.  De Tribune, 27 July 1928, 5.  De Tribune, 21 July 1928, 2.

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Traute would need to buy an airplane ticket to Berlin. The editorial board clearly felt they needed to make a statement and wrote proudly of how they would see she got home safely. “Auf Wiedersehn! Convey our greetings to Max and his fellow comrades.”⁵⁵ Several days later De Tribune published the first photographs of the thousands of Berlin workers that had come to greet “the Red General” upon his arrival in the German capital. Red flags were seen waving in the working class districts and several hundred members of the Red Guard oversaw the festivities.⁵⁶ Hölz held a speech in which he claimed his place within the “army” of the revolutionary working classes, not as a leader, but as an “ordinary soldier”, thereby setting an example for all socialist revolutionaries in Germany and elsewhere.⁵⁷

Concluding remarks After his death in late 1933, Hölz more or less disappears from view.⁵⁸ Very few traces of him can be found in De Tribune or other Dutch socialist journals after 1933. Beyond the 1930s, then, it is difficult to tell if and in what way Hölz continued to play a role in the lives of Dutch communists. We know that at least as the namesake of one of the communist children’s groups in Amsterdam, Hölz’s name lived on in the Netherlands. It is difficult to pinpoint why exactly Hölz disappears from the Tribune-columns, but an important factor seems to be that shortly before his death, a new proletarian hero took to the stage. In March 1933, the leader of the German communist paramilitary force, known as the Alliance of Red Front-Fighters (RFB), had been arrested and imprisoned by the newly established Nazi-regime. Ernst Thälmann had been born only three years before Max Hölz. He came from a similar proletarian background, working in German ports and later in transport. Like Hölz, he had served during the First World War and became active as a revolutionary shortly afterwards. Whereas Hölz had taken a leading role in the communist activities in the Vogtland, Thälmann was hailed as the leader of the communist uprising in Hamburg in 1923. And like Hölz, he was imprisoned, resulting in a large scale international campaign wherein communists propagated Thäl-

 De Tribune, 21 July 1928, 2.  De Tribune, 24 July 1928, 1.  Roode Hulp. Orgaan van de Internationale Roode Hulp (IRH) Afdeeling Holland (1928): 5 – 6.  Peter Giersich and Bernd Kramer have included a somewhat unorganized but insightful chapter about the more recent collective memory of Max Hölz in Germany, based on personal correspondences in the run up to the release of their book on Hölz.

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mann’s release. Just like Hölz, Thälmann was portrayed as a revolutionary hero who was a strong leader and a dedicated revolutionary, with a strong personality and a strong sense of personal sacrifice, who came from humble beginnings and grew out to be a strong and confident leader and an example to the communist youth.⁵⁹ In the first week of September 1933, a newly founded children’s group in Enschede in the Netherlands was baptized “Ernst Thälmann”.⁶⁰ Despite the many similarities, there is also an important difference: Whereas Hölz had been a symbol of the corruption and failure of the Weimar justice system, Thälmann became a symbol of the repressive Nazi-regime under Adolf Hitler.⁶¹ As such, Thälmann seems to have taken Hölz’s place as an agent of international solidarity and campaigning.⁶² Hölz seems to have been only mentioned once after the 1930s in the communist daily De Waarheid (the continuation of De Tribune) and even then, he is only mentioned in passing.⁶³ This is telling for Hölz’s place in Dutch communist party culture. During his lifetime, he served as a powerful example of revolutionary conduct and aspirations. But perhaps, in the end, he was little more than an example of a man who had (or was thought to have) these traits. In comparison to Liebknecht or Lenin, Hölz did not prompt any real political or ideological development. Hölz and the discussions around him did not have any concrete repercussions on the political and ideological debates amongst Dutch communists. He more or less fits into the existing framework of aspired revolutionary action and inspiring old and new generations of communists. As a symbol and an example, Hölz was a means to an end: a way to strengthen international solidarity between Dutch and German communists. After he had died, other figures such as Ernst Thälmann could take his place with relative ease. Perhaps that is the reason why Hölz quickly and quietly disappeared from view. Thälmann fit the same set of traits and aspirations of which Hölz had been made a symbol during the 1920s. On paper, humane or gentle masculinity and a more military form of manliness seem to exclude one another.  Karl Liebknecht, Redner der Revolution vol. IX (Berlin: Neuer Deutscher Verlag, 1926).  De Trommel 1 (1933): 4.  De Tribune, 6 July 1935, 7 and 16 April 1936, 1; De jeugd eischt vrijheid voor Thaelmann! (unknown publisher, unknown date); Ernst Thaelmann 50 jaar!, 16 april 1936: zijn werk en zijn leven, zijn strijd voor de jeugd (unknown publisher, 1936); Algemeen Nederland Jeugd Verbond, Ernst Thälmann: een duitse arbeiderszoon (Amsterdam: ANJV, unknown date [1945?]).  This might not suffice as a sole explanation for the fact that Hölz was forgotten completely after his death in 1933, for it seems only likely that the campaign for the release of Thälmann would in some way be connected to the campaign for Hölz. The campaign for Hölz’s release might have been used as a source of hope and inspiration, but this was not to the case.  De Waarheid, 19 April 1952, 5.

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The above case study, however, points out that the ideal of the loving father and the relentless revolutionary fighter could exist side by side and were in fact very difficult to separate. To both old and new generations of Dutch communists, Hölz was presented as both a caring human being and a profound soldierly fighter. In the end Hölz might not have left a lasting impression on the Dutch communists in the same way that Lenin, Liebknecht or Luxemburg did. They had exerted a substantial influence on the revolutionary struggle of the working classes, whereas Hölz had been just one of the many revolutionaries that followed their example. At the same time, that was exactly what made Hölz into such an attractive figure for fellow revolutionaries both in Germany and elsewhere. He was not a learned man, but a man of action, and that sent an important message: everyone, even those who come from humble origins, is capable of doing great revolutionary deeds.

Abbreviations CPN: Communistische Partij Nederland (Dutch Communist Party) KPD: Kommunistische Partei Deutschlands (German Communist Party) RFB: Rote Frontkämpferbund (Alliance of Red Front-Fighters)

Bibliography Algemeen Nederland Jeugd Verbond. Ernst Thälmann: een duitse arbeiderszoon. Amsterdam: ANJV, n.d. [1945?]. Baringhorst, Sigrid. Politik als Kampagne. Zur medialen Erzeugung von Solidarität. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag fü r Sozialwissenschaften, 1998. Blom, Ron, and Theunis Stelling. Niet voor God en niet voor het Vaderland. Linkse soldaten, matrozen en hun organisaties tijdens de mobilisatie van ’14 – ’18. Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2004. Bos, Dennis. Bloed en barricaden. De Parijse Commune herdacht. Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2014. Braak, J. [pseud. Anton Pannekoek]. “Max Hölz.” De Nieuwe Tijd. Revolutionair-socialistisch halfmaandelijksch tijdschrift 26 (1921): 464 – 467. Braskén, Kasper. The International Workers’ Relief, Communisme, and Transnational Solidarity. Willi Münzenberg in Weimar Germany. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015. Braun, Alfred. Der rote General Max Hölz. Eine Würdigung der Tätigkeit von Max Hölz im Dienste des Proletariats und der Revolution. Prague: N. Totalowitsch, 1921. Clavin, Patricia. “Introduction. Conceptualizing Internationalism between the Wars.” In Internationalism Reconfigured: Transnational Ideas and Movements between the World Wars, edited by Daniel Laqua, 1 – 7. London: I. B. Tauris, 2011. Constandse, Anton L. “Max Hölz.” Alarm. Anarchistisch Maandblad 1 (1923): 122 – 123.

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De jeugd eischt vrijheid voor Thaelmann! N.p., n.d. Edwards, Timothy C. Cultures of Masculinity. London: Routledge, 2010. Ernst Thaelmann 50 jaar! 16 april 1936: zijn werk en zijn leven, zijn strijd voor de jeugd. N.p., 1936. Frijhoff, Willem. Heiligen, idolen, iconen. Nijmegen: SUN, 1998. Gans, Jacques, and Edgar du Perron. “Als het moet, alleen tegen de geheele wereld”: de briefwisseling tussen E. du Perron en Jacques Gans 1933 – 1936. Amsterdam: VU, 2006. Gebhardt. Manfred. Max Hoelz – Wege und Irrwege eines Revolutionärs. Berlin: Neues Leben, 1985. Giersich, Peter, and Bernd Kramer. Max Hoelz. Man nannte ihn: Brandstifter und Revolutionär, Robin Hood, Che Guevara, einen Anarchisten, den Roten General. Sein Leben und sein Kampf. Berlin: Karin Kramer Verlag, 2000. Heisenberg, Christian. Das schwarze Herz oder Die wahre Geschichte vom Leben und Sterben des Max Hoelz. Eine politische Biographie. Berlin-Plauen: Projektgruppe M, 2010. Hoelz, Max. Vom “Weissen Kreuz” zur Roten Fahne. Jugend-, Kampf- und Zuchthauserlebnisse. Berlin: Malik-Verlag, 1929. Kirschenbaum, Lisa A. Small Comrades. Revolutionizing Childhood in Soviet Russia, 1917 – 1932. New York: Routledge Falmer, 2001. Liebknecht, Karl. Redner der Revolution. Vol. IX. Berlin: Neuer Deutscher Verlag, 1926. Linmans, Wouter F.J. “De communistische paplepel. Opgroeien in de communistische beweging, 1918 – 1939.” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 129 (2016): 545 – 568. Linmans, Wouter F.J. “Een voorschot op toekomstige dapperheid. De herinnering aan een revolutie die niet doorging.” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 130 (2017): 349 – 366. Marohn, Norbert. Hoelz. Biografie einer Zukunft. Leipzig: Lychatz Verlag, 2014. Mosse, George L. The Image of Man. The Creation of Modern Masculinity. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Mühsam, Erich. War einmal ein Revoluzzer. Berlin: Rowohlt, 1978. Müller, Heiko. “Kinder müssen Klassenkämpfer werden!” Der kommunistische Kinderverband in der Weimarer Republik (1920 – 1933). Marburg: Tectum Verlag, 2013. Philipp, Rudolph. Max Hölz. Der letzte Deutsche Revolutionär. Zürich: Reso Verlag A.G., 1936. Plener, Ulla. Max Hoelz: “Ich grüsse und küsse Dich - Rot Front!”: Tagebücher und Briefe, Moskau 1929 bis 1933. Berlin: Dietz, 2005. Shepard, Alexandra. The Meanings of Manhood in Early Modern England, 1560 – 1640. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Segal, Lynne. Slow Motion: Changing Masculinities, Changing Men. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1990. Theweleit, Klaus. Männerphantasien II. Männerkörper. Zur Psychoanalyse des weißen Terrors. Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1978. Velde, Henk te. “Het wij-gevoel van een morele gemeenschap. Een politiek-culturele benadering van partijgeschiedenis.” In Jaarboek Documentatiecentrum Nederlandse Politieke Partijen, 106 – 123. Groningen: Documentatiecentrum Nederlandse Politieke Partijen, 2005. Veldhuizen, Adriaan van. De Partij. Over het politieke leven in de vroege S.D.A.P. Amsterdam: Prometheus Bert Bakker, 2015. Voerman, Gerrit. De meridiaan van Moskou. De CPN en de Communistische Internationale (1919 – 1930). Amsterdam: Veen, 2001.

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Voerman, Gerrit. “De stand van de geschiedschrijving van de Nederlandse politieke partijen.” Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 120 (2005): 226 – 269. Voerman, Gerrit. “Partijcultuur in Nederland. Naar nieuwe invalshoeken in de studie van de politieke partij.” In Kossman Instituut. Benaderingen van de geschiedenis van politiek, edited by Gerrit Voerman and Dirk Jan Wolffram, 43 – 49. Groningen: Kossmann Instituut, 2006. Voerman, Gerrit, and J. Wormer. “De CPN in cijfers, 1909 – 1991.” In De communistische erfenis. Bibliografie en bronnen betreffende de CPN, edited by Margreet Schrevel and Gerrit Voerman, 161 – 170. Amsterdam: Stichting Beheer IISG, 1997. Weber, Hermann. “Hölz, Max.” In: Neue Deutsche Biographie 9 (1972), 338 – 339 [online version]. Woodcock, George. Anarchism. A History of Libertarian Ideas and Movements. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1962. Wormer, J. “De CPN in cijfers.” In Van bron tot boek. Apparaat voor de geschiedschrijving van het communisme in Nederland, edited by Cor. Boet, Mies Campfens, Hansje Gadesloot et al., 177 – 190. Amsterdam: IPSO Stichting Beheer IISG, 1986.

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Chapter 2 Mobilizing Internationalism The Dutch League of Nations Union (1919 – 1932) In the 1920s and 1930s, the prevention of another world war was an urgent issue, which led to novel, ideologically driven initiatives. The League of Nations promoted the idea that world peace depended on collective security through disarmament, arbitration, negotiation and international law, and on cooperation through transnational networks rather than through traditional multilateral expedients.¹ This held the promise that disputes would be settled through legal channels,² and a new generation of diplomats would enhance open diplomacy, replace the international, aristocratic elite, and democratize politics. The 1920s were also “the first ‘Golden Age’ of disarmament theory and practice.”³ For the first time, an international organization such as the League touched upon arms limitation or even arms reduction. These initiatives led to a true détente for Europe, the United States and the Pacific, particularly noticeable around 1925 – 1928. Simultaneously, pacifist organizations blossomed, on a religious, political and humanitarian basis, and became transnationally organized.⁴ Recent scholarship on interwar international relations has shown more appreciation for the novelty of these initiatives related to the League of Nations,⁵ in contrast

 For example, see Susan Pedersen, “Back to the League of Nations,” The American Historical Review 112/4 (October 2007): 1091– 1117.  Roger Chickering, Imperial Germany and a World Without War (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975), 18 – 23.  Dick Richardson, “Process and progress in Disarmament: Some Lessons of History,” in Europe in Transition: Politics and Nuclear Security, ed. Vilho Harle and Pekka Sivonen (London: Pinter, 1989), 26.  Peter Brock and Thomas Socknat. “Preface,” in Challenge to Mars: Essays on Pacifism from 1918 to 1945, ed. Peter Brock and Thomas Socknat (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), ix.  For example, see: Zara Steiner, The Lights that Failed: European International History, 1919 – 1933 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Patrick Cohrs. The Unfinished Peace after World War I: America, Britain and the Stabilisation of Europe, 1919 – 1932 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Pedersen, “Back to the League of Nations.” https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-003

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with most works prior to the 1990s, which tended to emphasize the interwar crises that eventually led to World War II.⁶ The Dutch government welcomed the foundation of the League of Nations hesitantly in the beginning, due to its successful policy of neutrality during World War I. It became a member of the League of Nations, participated in the international disarmament negotiations and, on a non-governmental level, a diverse and active peace movement arose. Research on this post-war re-emergence of the Netherlands on the international scene is largely concerned with matters of foreign policy and the government’s initial attempts to remain both neutral and have a greater say in international affairs, mainly its gradual and active involvement in international initiatives of war prevention.⁷ Research on the interwar Dutch peace movement is scarcer, and primarily deals with how the peace movement positioned itself regarding national defense budgets, such as the governmental proposal to reinforce the colonial fleet in 1923.⁸ However, the Dutch peace movement was involved in both national and international questions. The movement consisted of different organizations and parties that roughly corresponded to the pillarized structure of Dutch society and politics: the Social Democratic Workers’ Party (SDAP), the Protestant Kerk en Vrede, and the Dutch League of Nations Union (the Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede or Vereeniging for short) were the leading actors within the Dutch peace movement. Despite their differences, most pacifist organizations in the Netherlands acclaimed the creation of the League of Nations and struggled in their responses to its declining effectiveness in the field of war prevention. This chapter deals with the Dutch League of Nations Union, focusing on the communicative strategies it chose to achieve its goals as well as its role in the international disarmament negotiations. Like its sister organizations in other

 Examples of this old school of research are Philip Noël-Baker, The First Disarmament Conference 1932 – 1933 and why it failed (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1979) and Maurice Vaïsse, “La SdN et le désarmement,” in The League of Nations in Retrospect, ed. Arnold Angenendt (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1983), 245 – 265.  For example, see Remco van Diepen, Voor Volkenbond en vrede. Nederland en het streven naar een nieuwe wereldorde 1919 – 1946 (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1999); and a number of general handbooks on Dutch foreign policy in which the interwar period is a small section, such as Duco Hellema, Buitenlandse politiek van Nederland. De Nederlandse rol in de wereldpolitiek (Utrecht: Spectrum, 2006).  Henri Beunders, “Weg met de Vlootwet! De maritieme bewapeningspolitiek van het kabinetRuys de Beerenbrouck en het succesvolle verzet daartegen in 1923” (PhD diss., University of Amsterdam, 1984); John Bout, “The Nature and Extent of Antimilitarism and Pacifism in the Netherlands from 1918 to 1940 and the Degree to Which They Contributed to the Quick Defeat in May 1940” (PhD diss., University of British Columbia, 1976).

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countries, the Vereeniging was concerned with forging Dutch public opinion in favor of the League of Nations. In doing so, it devoted much attention to the international disarmament negotiations, which may be considered a lens through which contemporaries viewed the overall functioning of the League in the field of war prevention. This chapter analyzes how the Vereeniging changed its communicative strategies to forge public opinion and governmental policy in favor of the League of Nations. It argues that, as the international political situation declined, moral arguments prevailed over pragmatic arguments and the Dutch peace movement changed its character accordingly. As such, this chapter contributes to our understanding of the Dutch peace movement, which was more internationally oriented than the literature has assumed. It also offers a more detailed insight into the timing of the peace movements’ mobilization overall. Indeed, Sam Marullo and David Meyer have argued that peace movements tend to mobilize too late, when war is imminent and they are least likely to make a difference.⁹ However, one can observe in the 1920s widespread hope that peace would be preserved, not as a response to a threat of new war but as a reaction against militarism in the aftermath of war. In the following pages, the chosen sources and methods used to analyze the Vereeniging’s changing arguments are explained first. Then, the Vereeniging itself, the wider Dutch peace movement and the European civil society to which it belonged, as well as the international disarmament negotiations to which the Vereeniging responded will be introduced. The empirical part of this chapter consists of two main components, which focus on how the Vereeniging justified its existence and how it pursued its goals. It will argue that, as the détente gave way to an ever-stronger feeling of international crisis, the Vereeniging gradually shifted from a pragmatic stance to a more morally-driven argumentation. If it can be shown that this change of discourse heavily depended on the course of international politics, it would mean that parts of the Dutch peace movement were more internationally oriented than the relevant literature has assumed to date.

Sources and methods The archive of the Vereeniging and its journal De Volkenbond (The League of Nations) is part of the collection of the International Institute of Social History

 Sam Marullo and David S. Meyer, “Antiwar and Peace Movements,” in The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements, ed. David A. Snow, Sarah A. Soule and Hanspeter Kriesi (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 642.

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(IISG) in Amsterdam. This source tells us much about the ideals of the Vereeniging, their development and the adjustment of its means and language to changing international politics toward the end of the 1920s. The archive has informative brochures, pamphlets, programs of action, and circular letters from the executive committee to the local sections. In the majority of cases these documents are voted decisions or measures. More interesting for the purpose of this chapter are the Vereeniging’s journals, in particular the journal De Volkenbond. This was a platform where new directives of the Vereeniging took shape. It was a forum where members, supporters and critics, however minor, of the Vereeniging could freely express their opinions and arguments. Contrary to the propagandistic smaller journal Voor Volkenbond en Vrede (For the League of Nations and Peace), authors in De Volkenbond usually signed their writings and the editors assumed no responsibility for the contents.¹⁰ In several cases, discussions in De Volkenbond led to “official”, new directives of the Vereeniging. ¹¹ To analyze changes in the argumentation of the Vereeniging, I draw upon Habermas’ theory on communicative action and its applicability in relation to argumentative strategies of movements. Habermas notes that actors can adopt pragmatic, ethical and moral ways to justify the imperatives that are needed to solve their specific questions. Pragmatic arguments are instrumental and deal with practical questions. The point of departure is the realization of one’s own interests. Reflection is rational and focuses on the realization of a feasible purpose, goal or value. Pragmatic language also tends to underline the need for compromise should interests need to be combined into a single strategy or goal.¹² This corresponds to, for example, actively addressing concrete issues or actors instead of more abstract ones.¹³ Ethical uses of practical rationality focus on the good. They deal with questions that affect one’s own values in

 IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 26, Cover 45: “Rapporten van Bestuur,” General Secretary to the Executive Committee of the Vereeniging, 1930.  For example, the initial program of action of the Vereeniging in 1919 contained the abolition of compulsory military service. By 1927 it was removed from the program of action due to disagreement in the executive committee (IISG, Archive Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 25, Cover 6: “Statuten van de Vereeniging voor Volkerenbond en Vrede,” 1919; Ibid., File 25, Cover 14: “Rapport van de Commissie herziening Program van Actie 1926 – 1927”). In De Volkenbond, in the meantime, there was a fierce discussion on the abolition of compulsory military service and conscientious objection.  Jürgen Habermas, Justification and Application (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2005), 2– 3, 6, 16.  For instance, a pragmatic statement is: “the government should spend less money on armaments in next year’s budget with the goal of having other governments do the same and therewith encourage worldwide disarmament.”

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the first place, and are thus closely connected to one’s identity. Ethical reflection focuses on what is good, for oneself primarily.¹⁴ Concretely, this category corresponds to evocative, occasionally emotional language, which makes use of metaphors and may tend to be formulated in the first person plural. Finally, moral uses of practical rationality focus on the right and are more universal in their intent. They deal with questions that affect the values and interests of more people than those of oneself. For moral language to be valid it needs to be abstract and it needs to be disconnected from a specific context.¹⁵ Concretely, this category corresponds to abstract, emotional language, the use of passive forms and binary oppositions, such as the self and other, logical and illogical, sound and foolish, and good and wicked.¹⁶ Such a conceptual framework inevitably presents us with an abstraction of the past, but allows us to apply our conclusions more easily to comparable case studies.

The Dutch League of Nations Union as part of an emerging European civil society The Netherlands had a thriving peace movement during the interwar period. In 1923, 80,000 people marched the streets of Amsterdam and more than a million – a third of the adult population – successfully signed a petition against a governmental decision to reinforce the naval fleet and bolster the Dutch East Indies’ defense.¹⁷ During the interwar period between 40 and 50 antimilitarist and pacifist organizations worked nationally and an equal amount worked on a regional or local level.¹⁸ These organizations were “pillarized”, which means they were either Protestant, Catholic, socialist or liberal. This was in line with the pillarized structure of Dutch society and politics, which connected people to either Protestant, Catholic, socialist or liberal political parties, schools, football clubs, hospi-

 Habermas, Justification and Application, 4– 6, 11– 12.  Ibid., 6 – 7, 13 – 14.  These three categories do not have to occur only separately. They can co-exist in one person or organization concerning a specific question. For example, one can reflect pragmatically on a moral problem, and develop strategies in order to reach the goal. Accordingly, a moral problem can require various practical rationalities – pragmatic, ethical or moral ones – depending on the changing environment or situation.  See Beunders, “Weg met de Vlootwet!”.  Bout, “The Nature and Extent of Antimilitarism and Pacifism,” 7.

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tals, radio and television stations, housing associations, etc.¹⁹ “Pillars” in the Dutch peace movement roughly correspond to three sources of inspiration of interwar pacifism, as coined by Martin Ceadel.²⁰ First, religion as the “oldest and most durable” inspiration found expression in the pacifist organization Kerk en Vrede, the then largest and currently oldest pacifist organization of the country.²¹ Even if ecumenical in theory, the organization was Protestant and almost anarchical in practice,²² in contrast to its slightly smaller Catholic equivalent, the Roomsch-Katholieke Vredesbond. ²³ A second, nineteenth-century source of inspiration for the peace movement were political creeds such as socialism or anarchism. These inspired the SDAP which was the main instigator of the successful mobilization against the reinforcement of the colonial naval fleet in 1923, the Liberal Democratic Party (Vrijzinnig Democratische Bond),²⁴ and two communist parties. The anarchical International Antimilitaristic Association (IAMV), with Bart de Ligt as its tireless figurehead, was the leading and flourishing Dutch section of an international association. It was flanked by the British War Resisters’ International, some of whose leading members were also members of the IAMV, and the International Antimilitaristic Bureau, an umbrella organization for smaller antimilitaristic organizations in the Netherlands. In 1926, the IAMV joined forces with the German International Workers’ Association (IAA) and created the International Antimilitaristic Commission (IAK).²⁵

 See the standard work on the pillarization of Dutch politics by Arend Lijphart, Verzuiling, pacificatie en kentering in de Nederlandse politiek (Haarlem: Becht, 1990).  Martin Ceadel, Pacifism in Britain 1914 – 1945: The Defining of a Faith (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 13 – 14.  Kerk en Vrede was founded in 1924 and exists up until today. Its membership rapidly grew from 76 in 1925, 3,772 in April 1929, to 9,723 in 1933 (statistics derived from the homonymous journal of the organization, archived at the International Institute for Social History, Amsterdam, the Netherlands).  See also Eleni Braat, “Le pacifisme confessionnel face au désarmement dans les Pays-Bas, 1925 – 1933,” in De la guerre juste à la paix juste. Aspects confessionnels de la construction de la paix dans l’espace franco-allemand (XVIe-XXe siècle), ed. Jean-Paul Cahn, Françoise Knopper and Anne-Marie Saint-Gille (Ville d’Ascq: Septentrion, 2008), 241– 255.  Exact amounts of members of the R.K. Vredesbond are unknown. The organization has existed between 1925 and 1942 and had 70 local units in the Netherlands. Johannes B.Th. Hugenholtz, ed., Handboek voor de vredesbeweging in Nederland (Gouda: Mulder, 1930).  The Liberal Democratic Party was nicknamed the “civil servants and professors party.” It was an intellectually important party, but had little societal and political influence (Beunders, “Weg met de Vlootwet!”, 129).  Bout, “The Nature and Extent of Antimilitarism and Pacifism,” 68 – 69; Eleni Braat, “Disarmament, Neutrality and Colonialism: Conflicting Priorities in the Netherlands, 1921– 1931” (PhD diss., European University Institute, 2008), 186 – 187.

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Fig. 3: Poster of Agitatie-Comité tegen de Vlootwet en hare gevolgen advertising for a demonstration against the reinforcement of the Dutch East Indies’ defence. IISG, BG E2/535.

A third and final source of inspiration – the major pacifist innovation of the interwar period, according to Ceadel – was utilitarianism.²⁶ “Utilitarian” pacifism did not object to war on the basis of higher religious or political principles, but on the basis of a seemingly rational weighing of the advantages and disadvantages of war, thereby concluding that war always outweighs any conceivable benefit. This utilitarian pacifism was humanitarian in its justification, although

 Ceadel, Pacifism in Britain, 81.

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no less a dogma than religious or political pacifism. For example, it propagated that international disputes are capable of settlement by diplomatic negotiations or international arbitration. The League of Nations functioned on the basis of these principles, and a number of national League of Nations Unions propagated the organization’s principles and work on a national level. The Dutch League of Nations Union is what was referred to as the ‘Vereeniging’ for short in the introduction. Founded in 1919, the Vereeniging reached its peak in popularity and size in 1930 when it had acquired 80 local sections and about 10,000 individual members. Mass membership, it should be noted, did not always enhance efficiency. Rather, it could also lead to internal division and apathy.²⁷ These numbers were, moreover, small compared to those of the British League of Nations Union (LNU). The LNU was by far the largest among all national associations and the driving force behind cooperation between League societies in trying to forge world public opinion in favor of the League of Nations.²⁸ The Vereeniging aimed “to promote the development of the League of Nations as an international legal organ, to spread the principles of peace, and to fight war.” In order to reach these goals the Association organized congresses, meetings and participated in relevant gatherings. It tried to exercise its influence on children’s education through its commissions for “Youth and Education” and for “Mothers and Caregivers”.²⁹ Such commissions organized contests, excursions, and recommendations to government for changes in national education and, in this way, followed the successful LNU’s policy on educational matters. The Vereeniging explored “academic questions” concerning the peace movement, and it tried to influence legislation and government policy. The most interesting and arguably most influential means to reach its goal was the publication of pamphlets and brochures and, in particular, its two journals:³⁰ De Volkenbond from 1925 onward, and the less frequent and propagandistic Voor Volkenbond en Vrede from 1928 onward. The Vereeniging clearly aimed at a higher educated audience, positively predisposed towards the values and ideals of the League of Nations, aided of course by the views expressed in De Volkenbond. The status of those individuals expressing such views, some of them very well-known, is somewhat indicative of

 Donald S Birn, The League of Nations Union, 1918 – 1945 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981), 125.  See Ibid., 14. On the International Federation of the League of Nations Societies, see Ibid., 12– 14.  IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, Zakagenda, 1938, 5, call number: ZO 53503.  IISG, Archive Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 25, Cover 6: “Statuten van de Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede,” 1919.

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the educated audience which they addressed: they were government representatives, public intellectuals, representatives of the armed forces, not to mention those regular authors or reporters of the journal, whose possible secondary occupations remained unmentioned. Truth be told, the journal also featured a number of anonymous authors. All these people expressed the ideals of the Vereeniging and contributed toward keeping discussions alive.³¹ Though favoring varying angles, the authors all tried to convince their readership of the rightfulness of their arguments in support of the League of Nations. It is the developments in the formal language in which these arguments were expressed that are striking. The Vereeniging can be seen as part of an emerging global civil society³² that tried to influence international politics in the field of war and peace, based on international law, and connected local and national communities to global and transnational developments. Officially, the International Federation of League of Nations Societies (IFLNS), founded in 1919, played an important role in strengthening this global civil society, by facilitating collaboration among national League of Nations Unions to forge world public opinion in favor of the League.³³ In practice, however, the IFLNS suffered from a number of deficiencies, which considerably undermined its transnational purpose. To start, at its first annual congress, delegates failed to agree on an idea of the organization’s mission. Instead, as they would again in later annual congresses, they devoted a significant amount of time to the declaration of abstract principles and proposals already in line with the League of Nations’ policy. Annual congresses were con Because of the variety of authors with a comparable mindset in this article I often refer to De Volkenbond or the Vereeniging in general, whereas I specify the names of those authors with singular views. When referring to contributions in De Volkenbond I always mention the name of the author.  Neera Chandhoke, “The Limits of Global Civil Society,” in Global Civil Society 2002, ed. Marlies Glasius, Mary Kaldor and Helmut Anheier (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 35 – 53; Mary Kaldor, “The Idea of a Global Civil Society,” International Affairs 79/3 (May 2003): 583 – 593; Cecelia Lynch, Beyond Appeasement: Interpreting Interwar Peace Movements in World Politics (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1999).  In 1922 the International Federation for League of Nations Societies included member societies specifically aimed at the League of Nations from South Africa, Germany, Argentina, Australia, Austria, Belgium, Bulgaria, Canada, China, Spain, Estonia, United States, France, Georgia, Britain, Greece, Haiti, Japan, Latvia, Lithuania, New Zealand, the Netherlands, Persia, Poland, Portugal, Rumania, Russia, Switzerland, Czechoslovakia, Ukraine and Yugoslavia. In 1922 Finland, Denmark, Hungary, Italy, Norway, Sweden associated through societies with a broader goal than the League of Nations specifically. Union internationale des associations pour la Société des Nations, Bulletin no. 1. Liste des Associations affiliées à l’Union ou en relations avec elle (Brussels: Imprimerie F. van Buggenhoudt, 1922).

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cluded with formal resolutions that the IFLNS presented to the president of the League of Nations’ Assembly. These thus gave the impression that the former was but a branch of the latter supranational organization rather than an independent, bottom up movement. Moreover, the steady growth of the IFLNS increasingly rendered it a liability to the League of Nations itself, as national points of view often overshadowed international interests and the congresses tended to expose dissention rather than union.³⁴ Despite the more imagined than real global civil society that the International Federation represented, it still provided a platform to annually meet with foreign sister organizations. The Dutch Vereeniging always attended the annual congresses. Moreover, the archives show that the Vereeniging actively sustained a network of international likeminded societies, also outside the framework of the IFLNS. For example, the annual report of 1926 noted, among other activities, that two board members travelled to Spain for a Dutch-Spanish joint commemoration of Hugo de Groot; the Vereeniging also invited Sir Arthur Salter, head of the League’s economic and financial section, to inform Dutch business circles on the economic work of the League; and a delegation of the board paid an official visit to the British League of Nations Union. The Vereeniging planned, moreover, to draw up joint League policies with countries “in almost similar political circumstances,” such as Denmark, Sweden and Finland.³⁵ Let us now move closer to discussions in the Vereeniging from 1919 until the beginning of the 1930s: a period when the ideals of the League of Nations, the issue of disarmament in particular, got into an ever tighter corner. The pressure is noticeable, first, in language on the justification of the Vereeniging’s right and need to exist, and second on the pursuit of its goals, namely the international disarmament debate.

How did the Vereeniging justify its existence? The desire for peace corresponded to a number of recurring trends in Dutch foreign policy, which benefitted the “raison d’être” of the Vereeniging. As a small European state with a large colonial empire the Netherlands strived to maintain the status quo, a foreign policy of abstentionism or neutrality, and the rule of

 Birn, The League, 13 – 14, 79 – 80.  Jaarverslag van de ‘Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede’ over 1925 – 26 (Leiden: Sijthoff, 1926), 10 – 16, 19 – 20.

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international law.³⁶ For these reasons, the Dutch government and peace movement both supported membership of the League of Nations and questioned its benefits. Membership corresponded to the peace loving, legalistic, and moralizing image many Dutch had of their country, and the wish to see international disputes regulated.³⁷ However, membership would also jeopardize the cherished policy of neutrality, which had become strongly embedded in Dutch foreign policy since World War I. The maintenance of neutrality during the war was, according to the government, proof that the policy actually worked, even if its success should be mostly attributed to the fact that Dutch neutrality suited both German and British interests. Also, the desire to remain neutral had evolved, starting in 1900, from a utilitarian principle to an ideological goal in itself, combined with a feeling of superiority and disdain regarding great power politics.³⁸ The League of Nations would keep in check unconstrained politics among great powers, or so its supporters hoped. Throughout the years the Vereeniging gradually changed its charter and its official program of action. As a result, in De Volkenbond we see changing ways to express the aims and means of the Vereeniging. Following its foundation in 1919, the Vereeniging drew up its first Program of Action. Point 1 was rather ambitious: “The fight against war as a legal means for the settlement of international conflicts.” Other relevant points from this first Program of Action were the “resolution of all international conflicts by committees, composed of impartial and independent persons” (point 2); “the speedy realization of international agreements on the limitation of armaments and on the abolition of compulsory military service” (point 3); to realize “such composition of the organs of the League of Nations, that a true representation of the people is realized” (point 4); “complete implementation of the principles, laid down in Wilson’s 14 points” (point 8); “development of the League of Nations as a legal community of all people with an orderly state government” (point 9).³⁹

 See also Anne-Isabelle Richard, “Between the League of Nations and Europe: Multiple Internationalisms and Interwar Dutch Civil Society,” in Shaping the International Relations of the Netherlands 1815 – 2000: A Small Country on the Global Scale, ed. Ruud van Dijk et al. (London: Routledge, 2018), 99 – 101.  On characteristics of this self-image see, for example: J.C. Boogman, “Achtergronden, tendenties en tradities van het buitenlands beleid van Nederland,” in De kracht van Nederland. Internationale positie en binnenlands beleid, ed. Niek van Sas (Haarlem: Gotmer, 1992), 16 – 35; Joris Voorhoeve, “Idealisme en realisme in het Nederlandse buitenlands beleid,” in De Nederlandse natie, ed. S.W. Couwenberg (Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1981), 80 – 99.  Van Diepen, Voor Volkenbond en vrede, 16 – 17.  IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 25, Cover 4: “Program van Actie,” 1919.

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The following years showed promising perspectives for the League of Nations which came to solve a number of territorial conflicts and intervene, often successfully, in conflicts between and within states. In the field of disarmament, the Washington Naval Conference (1921– 1922) contributed to the beginning of a postwar détente. The United States, Britain, Japan and France discussed the limitation and control of naval armaments. China, the Netherlands, Belgium and Portugal were also present in order to discuss “Pacific and Far Eastern questions”. Even if the Washington Conference had its serious shortcomings concerning Chinese and Japanese arms limitation, it clearly led to a détente in the Pacific region. Also in the Netherlands, the government and public opinion gradually turned in favor of the League, especially as a number of Dutch officials obtained key positions within the Genevan organization. However, the trend was not pointed imperturbably upward. The failed ratification of the Geneva Protocol (1924) disappointed many supporters of the League of Nations. The said Protocol had sought to stipulate the consubstantial character of the peaceful settlement of international disputes, security and disarmament, i. e. the main three principles from the League of Nations Covenant. Dutch supporters of the League of the Nations had enthusiastically acclaimed the Geneva Protocol. The Dutch government, however, waited to see whether the newly elected British government would vote in favor of the protocol, which it eventually did not.⁴⁰ When, shortly afterwards, De Volkenbond was first published at the end of 1925, it immediately warned its readers to safeguard a rational, “academic” argumentation. The journal seemed to anxiously warn against emotionally loaded “strong phrases”, “oversensitivity” and “arid sentimentality”.⁴¹ An “emotional tone” was acceptable, the journal wrote, but it should not become dominant. After all, the Vereeniging did not aim at “merely invoking the heart and conscience, but […] the common sense and national interest.”⁴² This common-sense point of departure resonated in De Volkenbond. Next to being a platform for discussion, and functioning as an engine for new “official viewpoints” of the Vereeniging, De Volkenbond was also expressly used for propaganda. “But in the good, elevated sense of the word,” the journal was quick to underscore in 1925. It did not intend to address the Dutch public with strong phrases on world peace, whose contents would, in the long run, only appear inversely proportional to the violence of the words. On the contrary, this journal will make its propaganda mostly […] by discussing international ques-

 Van Diepen, Voor Volkenbond en vrede, 69 – 75.  “Ter inleiding,” De Volkenbond 1/1 (15 Oct. 1925): 2.  C.H. Dresselhuys, “Een dringende oproep!,” De Volkenbond 1/3 (15 Dec. 1925): 2.

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tions, by contemplative reports on the most important events, in particular those in and around the League of Nations. […] What matters here is to make the Dutch public caught in the sphere of the growing League of Nations, to excite its interests for international questions.⁴³

Let us return to the official Program of Action. In 1926 the Vereeniging adjusted the 1919 Program of Action to current domestic and international political developments. The commission who tackled the necessary amendments probably considered the previous Program of Action too ambitious. In a Program of Action, the practical international and national reforms that, according to the Association, can lead to the desired goal, need to be mentioned. Hence, in the Program of Action we should not place general ethical and economic principles, but rather concrete wishes, which may be realized either by national Governments or by the international League of Nations. […] Preferably, we should not focus on the distant future, but rather include wishes, whose realization in the near future should at least not be considered entirely impossible.⁴⁴

The following years, between 1927 and 1930, saw some significant international changes, ranging from international successes such as the Briand-Kellogg Pact (1928) to gradually more disappointing developments such as the international disarmament debates in the Preparatory Commission for the Conference of Disarmament (1926 – 1930). This Commission had to agree on a draft convention for a future worldwide disarmament conference. Around the midst of the talks in 1928, as proposals became more concrete, contributors started experiencing more and more difficulties to reach agreements. These developments in the international system coincided with a clear twist in how De Volkenbond formulated its aims and means. According to A. Anema, a prominent member of the Vereeniging, the main aim of his association in 1929 was “the fight against the idea of power as a dominating factor in life of the people and states among each other.”⁴⁵ In 1930, he advised his association to stay strictly impartial, far removed from “radical pacifist movements,” as well as from “groups of ultra-conservative nature.” The Vereeniging was supposed to

 “Ter inleiding,” De Volkenbond 1/1 (15 Oct. 1925): 1.  IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 25, Cover 14: “Rapport van de Commissie herziening Program van Actie 1926 – 1927.”  A. Anema, “Het doel onzer Vereeniging,” De Volkenbond 4/8 (May 1929): 225.

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put forward, where this was possible, the foundations of a “powerful and united Dutch international policy, and of abstention, where this was not possible.”⁴⁶ A year later, in 1931, it was time again to review the Program of Action. After an initial review in 1931, it changed again in 1932. Point 1 became “the strengthening of international trust. The Association applies itself to use all legal means that can reinforce international trust between the people.” Point 2 was “the universality of the League of Nations.”⁴⁷ At this point in time, the lengthy series of talks and the ensuing draft convention of the Preparatory Commission for the Conference of Disarmament had lost much of their initial optimism. The universal and moral abstract character of these justifications for aims and means is striking, especially if we compare them to earlier insistence around 1925 – 1926 to instrumentally express only feasible wishes and goals. Between the mid-1920s and the beginning of the 1930s aims and means of the Vereeniging had become more abstract and broader, more radical than they had been during the starting years around 1919 – 1920.

How did the Vereeniging pursue its goals? Security and disarmament were interdependent, according to the Vereeniging. The former both required and could lead to the latter. Accordingly, security and disarmament could serve each other in a vicious circle, and the issue of disarmament could play a leading role in the realization of peace. This significance of disarmament is expressed in the Programs of Action of the Vereeniging. In its first Program of Action (1919) it had called for “the speedy realization of international agreements on a limitation of armaments and on the abolition of compulsory military service” (point 3).⁴⁸ When it modified its Program of Action in 1926, by removing unrealistic wishes,⁴⁹ the disarmament section remained nearly unaltered. However, the wish to abolish compulsory military service disappeared from the program, because there was too much dis-

 “Openingsrede van Professor Mr. A. Anema op de Algemeene Jaarvergadering der Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede te Hoorn op 8 november 1930,” De Volkenbond 6/2 (Nov. 1930): 40 – 43.  IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 28, Cover 69: “Brochure met de geschiedenis en de statuten van de Vereeniging,” 1932. See also File 28, Cover 75.  IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 25, Cover 6: “Statuten van de Vereeniging voor Volkerenbond en Vrede,” 1919.  Ibid., File 25, Cover 14: “Rapport van de Commissie herziening Program van Actie 1926 – 1927.”

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agreement on this issue within the Vereeniging. ⁵⁰ The Dutch peace movement also disagreed regarding the topic of compulsory military service: whereas the Protestant Kerk en Vrede was strongly in favor of an abolition, the Catholic R.K. Vredesbond remained half-heartedly against abolition.⁵¹ In parallel, in 1922, the Dutch government had brought down the annual number of conscripts from 23,000 to 19,500 and reduced their training from eight months to five and a half months.⁵² It also cut back salaries of the military, all of which resulted in a lack of professional personnel and material.⁵³ In 1926 the Preparatory Commission for the Conference of Disarmament started its lengthy and strenuous work, which would last until 1930. To many supporters of the League of Nations the vision of a worldwide Conference of Disarmament had acquired such proportions that it came to embody the ideals and work of the entire League of Nations. Hopes were high when the Preparatory Commission commenced its work in 1926, and the Vereeniging kept a close eye on the negotiations. Extensive, detailed reports appeared in De Volkenbond on the preparatory work for the Conference of Disarmament. Often the contents of these reports were rather factual, without many interpretative or concluding remarks. But when a year of negotiations had passed, the head of the Dutch delegation to the Preparatory Commission was the first to acknowledge in De Volkenbond that the said body was doing “a not so brilliant” job.⁵⁴ Disarmament, another

 IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 25, Cover 14: “Rapport van de Commissie herziening Program van Actie 1926 – 1927.” This document notes there was disagreement regarding this issue, but it does not mention the arguments in favor or against compulsory military service.  The Protestant Kerk en Vrede was more radical than the Catholic R.K. Vredesbond. Moreover, the latter had closer ties to its political counterpart, the government coalition party Roomsch Katholieke Staatspartij (Roman Catholic State Party) than Kerk en Vrede had to its Protestant political counterpart, the Anti-Revolutionaire Partij (Anti-Revolutionary Party). See Braat, “Le pacifisme confessionnel.”  Robert Wichink, “Van conservatief-liberaal tot rechts-autoritair: de reactie van het kader van beroepsofficieren op de afbraak van de Nederlandse krijgsmacht, 1918 – 1933” (PhD diss., Erasmus Universiteit Rotterdam, 1994), 50.  An example of the bad condition of the available military material consisted of the fact that men used machine guns, which had already been used by the German and British armies and which were in a very bad state. J.A.M.M. Janssen, “Kerk, coalitie en defensie in het interbellum,” in Tussen crisis en oorlog, ed. Ger Teitler (Dieren: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1984), 54.  V.H. Rutgers, “De voorbereiding der beperking van bewapening,” De Volkenbond 2/8 (May 1927): 238 – 244.

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contributor sighed, “was not one of the hits of the League of Nations.”⁵⁵ More than that, the head of the Dutch delegation to the Preparatory Commission declared that “one cannot even mention the most minor result. […] A house under construction is not a building; it is still completely uninhabitable.”⁵⁶ Yet, De Volkenbond was eager to avoid the persistence of a spirit of pessimism and repeatedly declared that the Preparatory Commission was not supposed to complete the work of the Conference of Disarmament, but merely to prepare it.⁵⁷ Moreover, it was already a positive fact that government representatives had gathered in order to discuss the issue of disarmament – even if these discussions remained rather fruitless, as was readable between the lines.⁵⁸ The Preparatory Commission continued expressing its intentions to work on arms limitation without, however, committing itself to concrete technical-military agreements. However, this good will hardly persisted. The Preparatory Commission found itself stuck and paralyzed on several occasions. In July 1926, De Volkenbond still acknowledged that the tasks of the Preparatory Commission were very difficult. Yet, “every now and then one asks oneself to what extent governments are sufficiently zealous to make international agreements succeed.”⁵⁹ A couple of months later, in November 1926, the journal expressed its admiration for the amount of work of the technical-military sub-commission of the Preparatory Commission, as well as the uselessness of its work. After all, De Volkenbond argued, the issue of disarmament was a mainly political question, which would easily overrule whatever technical advice the technical-military commission could provide.⁶⁰ In April 1928, discussions in the Preparatory Commission had attained such “a hopelessly low level, that it often did not exceed the level of political fracas.”⁶¹ The headcount of the army and navy instructed reserves were not subjected to any limitation – though the Dutch government saw this as a priority to restrain the French army. Likewise, direct limitation of war material – in contrast to indirect, budgetary limitation –, and even the obligatory publication of the quantities and types of war material, were all non-feasible measures.

 C.A. Kluyver, “De ontwapeningsbespreking, Genève 18 mei,” De Volkenbond 1/8 (May 1926): 12.  Rutgers, “De voorbereiding,” 243.  Kluyver, “De ontwapeningsbespreking,” 14.  Ibid.  [Anonymous], “Wat er in de afgeloopen twee maanden gebeurd is,” De Volkenbond 1/9 (July 1926): 26.  R.T., “October in de Volkenbondsstad,” De Volkenbond 2/2 (Nov. 1926): 37.  H.J. van Meurs, “De jongste zitting der ontwapeningscommissie,” De Volkenbond 3/7 (April 1928): 234.

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At this stage, the words of A. Anema, the abovementioned prominent member of the Vereeniging, are noteworthy. According to him, the frustrated disarmament negotiations needed “the thought of the positive national community of international cooperation,” and “positive cooperation in world politics.”⁶² A regular contributor to De Volkenbond expressed himself in similar words. In 1929, J. Oudegeest Jr. surprisingly declared that states would proceed to disarmament “if the people have a strong will for its realization and if they are ready to devise the means to guarantee lasting peace.”⁶³ Suddenly, “the moral support of the people” had become an indispensable factor for the success of the preparatory work.⁶⁴ In 1931, another contributor to De Volkenbond stated that “the conscience and economic interest of the world demand a fully international Peace Force and an end to national militarism.”⁶⁵ The abstraction of these wordings is striking. The sudden and rather late interest of De Volkenbond in chemical warfare was another impetus for radicalizing views on war prevention. “If one sees,” an anonymous author declared in 1929, “the possibilities of chemical warfare in a sober-minded and unemotional way, one arrives – it is only one step ahead – at disarmament. […] The solution lies in banishing war as an institution according to international law.”⁶⁶ This sudden simplification and radicalization is remarkable. It does not correspond to the carefully chosen balance between security, disarmament and arbitration, and the patience required to implement the Geneva Protocol. As the 1930s approached, broader and vaguer goals threw a different light on the role of disarmament in the framework of war prevention. After the proceeding preparatory work had become increasingly criticized, surprisingly enough, De Volkenbond shifted to the use of an optimistic language regarding the end results of the preparatory work. It underlined “the worldly historical meaning” of a universal disarmament convention, “however minimal its contents may be.” Moreover, this first step in the disarmament negotiations had certainly been the most difficult.⁶⁷ “Better times are underway,” we may read between the lines.

 A. Anema, “Groei in de Volkenbondspolitiek,” De Volkenbond 5/2 (Nov. 1929): 31.  J. Oudegeest Jr., “Het bijeenkomen van de Voorbereidende Ontwapeningscommissie op 15 April,” De Volkenbond 4/7 (April 1929): 193.  Ibid.: 194.  L. Simons, “Ontwapening,” De Volkenbond 7/4 (Dec. 1931): 106.  W., ‘De chemische oorlog’, De Volkenbond 4/5 (Feb. 1929): 143.  B. de Jong van Beek en Donk, “De zesde zitting der Ontwapeningsconferentie,” De Volkenbond 6 (1930): 244– 249.

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Even if the contents of the […] draft treaty leave much to be desired, and especially even if the mood, among the delegates during the various sessions and on the closing day, induces to very modest expectations regarding the extent of arms limitation, whereto one will decide in 1932 – all this should not qualify the worldwide historical significance of the fact that delegates of more or less thirty governments from all over the world have drafted, for the first time, a treaty concerning the limitation of land, sea and air forces and moreover have approved it, with the exception of Germany and Soviet Russia.⁶⁸

Such optimism required some effort. Arguably, this unexpectedly positive endnote stemmed from a need to cultivate a positive mind-set among the readers of De Volkenbond. Simultaneously, the Vereeniging had slightly changed its Programs of Action in 1931 and 1932 concerning the issue of disarmament. Instead of aiming at a “limitation” of armaments, the Program of Action in 1931 mentioned a “restriction” of armaments. This meant that an actual agreement was more important than the realization of its contents. Accordingly, the Program of Action added that the Association shall apply oneself to promote filling the gaps in the draft convention […]. However, in this issue, it will be led by the consideration that the realization of a convention, acceptable to all States of the World, is most needed for the preservation of Peace.

In other words, it was more important to have a feeble convention that all parties agreed upon than a strong convention that few agreed upon.⁶⁹ The subsequent Program of Action of 1932 referred to a “restriction and limitation” of armaments.⁷⁰ This modification – however slight it might seem – indicated that the Vereeniging was carefully curtailing its expectations concerning disarmament and abandoned the use of pragmatic arguments. In February 1932, the long-expected Conference of Disarmament started. After it had begun, expectations sunk so quickly that, during the summer of 1932, Henri van der Mandere, one of the driving forces behind the Vereeniging, considered it a blessing, “a psychological guarantee,” that the Conference had

 B. de Jong van Beek en Donk, “De sluitingszitting van de Voorbereidings-commissie voor de Ontwapeningsconferentie,” De Volkenbond 6/3 (Dec. 1930): 77– 78.  IISG, Archive Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 27, Cover 60: “Herziening Program van Actie 1930.”  Ibid., File 28, Cover 69: “Brochure met de geschiedenis en de statuten van de Vereeniging, 1932.”

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Fig. 4: Photo of an unidentified protester promoting the 1932 World Disarmament conference. LSE Library, WILPF/22/1.

not yet reached a breakdown. As long as such point had not been reached, the arms race could at least not continue uncontrollably, he essentially wrote.⁷¹ Pressing this issue demanded a careful balancing of words, a somewhat forced and artificial optimism. This is shown in a communiqué to the press on the first months of the long-awaited Conference of Disarmament and its disappointing start.

 H.Ch.G.J. v.d. M., “Nieuw vooruitzichten voor de ontwapeningsconferentie,” De Volkenbond 7/ 10 (June/July 1932): 316.

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When listening to many voices in our country, one gets the impression that the Conference of Disarmament should already be considered a failure. Even if one cannot deny that last year’s expectations had been disappointing in many respects, one should not jump to such pessimistic conclusions. Those who speak of a failure, do not have enough attention for what has been accomplished in the first phase of the conference, with the adoption of the resolution Benesj on July 23, 1932. First of all it should be stated that in this resolution have only been mentioned principles whose practical realization depends on the further results of the Conference. However, it should be considered important that principal agreement had been reached on the following point especially. […] Yet, the warning cannot be too great that those who expect far-reaching results from the Conference of Disarmament on the shortest term, will probably be disappointed. […] Concerning security, a solution can come closer when the realization gains ground that “security” should not be identified with maintenance of the status quo. The objections, stemming from the recognition of this solution, could only gradually be cleared. Yet, even the willingness to cooperate to this end, can have a positive influence on the security question.⁷²

Finally, in October 1932, De Volkenbond warned against “a dangerous nihilism,” a “crisis of confidence,” a “hypertrophy of the specifically military idea of security,” and it advised lawyers and specialists of the League of Nations to “break this monopoly of military information.”⁷³

Conclusions The Dutch interwar peace movement was diverse, thriving, internationally oriented and embedded in European networks. Existing literature on the Dutch peace movement has highlighted national defense issues against which it mobilized, most notably the governmental proposal in 1923 to reinforce the colonial naval fleet and the mass mobilization this led to. This chapter on the changing argumentation of the Vereeniging has shown that the organization was closely related to the international disarmament negotiations, and that it adapted its argumentation to the course of international politics. This chapter has further suggested that the international civil society, which the Vereeniging was arguably part of, almost seemed global in the political interests shared between sister organizations around the world and through affiliation to the IFLNS. In practice, however, it was also shown that the latter orga-

 IISG, Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede, File 28, Cover 86: “Communiqué aan de pers terzake van den stand der Ontwapeningsconferentie” [exact date unknown].  H. Willemse, “Publieke opinie en ontwapening,” De Volkenbond 8/1 (Oct. 1932): 10 – 11.

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nization had too many deficiencies which caused national interests to prevail over international ones. As such, one can conclude, the Vereeniging was part of a largely imagined global civil society. The civil society’s European dimensions, by contrast, were perhaps more real, as is shown by the bilateral, regional contacts which the Vereeniging entertained. Changes in argumentation of the Dutch Vereeniging have shown how national members of an international civil society responded to changes in international politics. Between 1919 and 1932 the Vereeniging saw its principles and ideals alternately move closer to and further away from realization. Two questions predominated: how did the argumentative strategy change and why did it change as it did? Change in argument is visible, firstly, in how the Vereeniging justified its existence and, secondly, in how it commented on the disarmament negotiations – one of its principal goals. Despite the fact that the Vereeniging preferred to see itself as a down-to-earth, “academically-minded” and pragmatic association, it expressed its viewpoints in a more radical, moral and abstract manner as the international political climate grew more difficult and opportunities for the Vereeniging turned out grimmer. Even stronger than Habermas notes, arguments are very sensitive to context. That is to say, in the case at hand, that the Dutch peace movement adapted its arguments as a direct response to the likelihood that its goals would be realized. Hence, this study was intended to enhance, at any small level, our understanding of the possible drives for change in the arguments used by social movements.⁷⁴ Further research may show if sister organizations in, for example, Belgium, France, Italy and the UK had comparable ways of relating to international politics, in both intensity and types of argumentation.

 Even if several scholars have made use of Habermas’ typologies, the transition between these typologies has not attracted much attention. For the use of Habermas’ typologies, see for example: Helene Sjursen, “Why Expand? The Question of Legitimacy and Justification in the EU’s Enlargement Policy,” Journal of Common Market Studies 40/3 (2002): 491– 513; Marika Lerch and Guido Schwellnus, “Normative by Nature? The Role of Coherence in Justifying the EU’s External Human Rights Policy,” Journal of European Public Policy 13/2 (2006): 304– 321; Sonia Piedrafita and José Torreblanca, “The Three Logics of EU Enlargement: Interests Identities and Arguments,” Politique européenne 1/15 (2005): 29 – 59; Erik Oddvar Eriksen, “Towards a Logic of Justification: On the Possibility of Post-National Solidarity,” in Organizing Political Institutions: Essays for Johan P. Olsen, ed. Morten Egeberg and Per Laegreid (Oslo: Aschehoug, 1999), 215 – 244; Erik Oddvar Eriksen and John Erik Fossum, eds., Democracy in the European Union: Integration through Deliberation? (London: Routledge, 2000).

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Abbreviations IISG:

International Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (International Institute of Social History) SDAP: Sociaal-Democratische Arbeiderspartij (Social Democratic Workers’ Party) IAA: Internazionalen Arbeiter assoziation (International Workers’ Association) IAK: Internationale Antimilitaristische Kommissie (International Antimilitaristic Commission) IAMV: Internationale Antimilitarisische Vereeniging (International Antimilitaristic Association) IFLNS: International Federation of League of Nations Societies LNU: League of Nations Union

Bibliography Beunders, Henri. “Weg met de Vlootwet! De maritieme bewapeningspolitiek van het kabinet-Ruys de Beerenbrouck en het succesvolle verzet daartegen in 1923.” PhD diss., University of Amsterdam, 1984. Birn, Donald S. The League of Nations Union, 1918 – 1945. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981. Boogman, J.C. “Achtergronden, tendenties en tradities van het buitenlands beleid van Nederland.” In De kracht van Nederland. Internationale positie en binnenlands beleid, edited by Niek van Sas, 16 – 35. Haarlem: Gotmer, 1992. Bout, John. “The Nature and Extent of Antimilitarism and Pacifism in the Netherlands from 1918 to 1940 and the Degree to Which They Contributed to the Quick Defeat in May 1940.” PhD diss., University of British Columbia, 1976. Braat, Eleni. “Disarmament, Neutrality and Colonialism: Conflicting Priorities in the Netherlands, 1921 – 1931.” PhD diss., European University Institute, 2008. Braat, Eleni. “Le pacifisme confessionnel face au désarmement dans les Pays-Bas, 1925 – 1933.” In De la guerre juste à la paix juste. Aspects confessionnels de la construction de la paix dans l’espace franco-allemand (XVIe – XXe siècle), edited by Jean-Paul Cahn, Françoise Knopper and Anne-Marie Saint-Gille, 241 – 255. Ville d’Ascq: Septentrion, 2008. Brock, Peter, and Thomas Socknat. “Preface.” In Challenge to Mars: Essays on Pacifism from 1918 to 1945, edited by Peter Brock and Thomas Socknat, ix – xiv. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999. Ceadel, Martin. Pacifism in Britain 1914 – 1945: The Defining of a Faith. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980. Chandhoke, Neera. “The Limits of Global Civil Society.” In Global Civil Society 2002, edited by Marlies Glasius, Mary Kaldor and Helmut Anheier, 35 – 53. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Chickering, Roger. Imperial Germany and a World without War. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975. Cohrs, Patrick. The Unfinished Peace after World War I: America, Britain and the Stabilisation of Europe, 1919 – 1932. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005.

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Diepen, Remco van. Voor Volkenbond en vrede. Nederland en het streven naar een nieuwe wereldorde 1919 – 1946. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1999. Eriksen, Erik Oddvar. “Towards a Logic of Justification: On the Possibility of Post-National Solidarity.” In Organizing Political Institutions: Essays for Johan P. Olsen, edited by Morten Egeberg and Per Laegreid, 215 – 244. Oslo: Aschehoug, 1999. Eriksen, Erik Oddvar, and John Erik Fossum, eds. Democracy in the European Union: Integration through Deliberation? London: Routledge, 2000. Habermas, Jürgen. Justification and Application. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2005. Hellema, Duco. Buitenlandse politiek van Nederland. De Nederlandse rol in de wereldpolitiek. Utrecht: Spectrum, 2006. Hugenholtz, Johannes B.Th., ed. Handboek voor de vredesbeweging in Nederland. Gouda: Mulder, 1930. Jaarverslag van de ‘Vereeniging voor Volkenbond en Vrede’ over 1925 – 26. Leiden: Sijthoff, 1926. Janssen, J.A.M.M. “Kerk, coalitie en defensie in het interbellum.” In Tussen crisis en oorlog, edited by Ger Teitler, 42 – 62. Dieren: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1984. Kaldor, Mary. “The Idea of a Global Civil Society.” International Affairs 79/3 (May 2003): 583 – 593. Lerch, Marika, and Guido Schwellnus. “Normative by Nature? The Role of Coherence in Justifying the EU’s External Human Rights Policy.” Journal of European Public Policy 13/2 (2006): 304 – 321. Lijphart, Arend. Verzuiling, pacificatie en kentering in de Nederlandse politiek. Haarlem: Becht, 1990. Lynch, Cecelia. Beyond Appeasement: Interpreting Interwar Peace Movements in World Politics. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1999. Marullo, Sam, and David S. Meyer. “Antiwar and Peace Movements.” In The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements, edited by David A. Snow, Sarah A. Soule and Hanspeter Kriesi, 641 – 665. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2004. Noël-Baker, Philip. The First Disarmament Conference 1932 – 1933 and why it failed. Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1979. Pedersen, Susan. “Back to the League of Nations.” The American Historical Review 112/4 (October 2007): 1091 – 1117. Piedrafita, Sonia, and José Torreblanca. “The Three Logics of EU Enlargement: Interests Identities and Arguments.” Politique européenne 1/15 (2005): 29 – 59. Richard, Anne-Isabelle. “Between the League of Nations and Europe: Multiple Internationalisms and Interwar Dutch Civil Society”. In Shaping the International Relations of the Netherlands 1815 – 2000: A Small Country on the Global Scale, edited by Ruud van Dijk, Samuel Kruizinga, Vincent Kuitenbrouwer and Rimko van der Maar, 97 – 116. London: Routledge, 2018. Richardson, Dick. “Process and Progress in Disarmament: Some Lessons of History.” In Europe in Transition: Politics and Nuclear Security, edited by Vilho Harle and Pekka Sivonen, 26 – 44. London: Pinter, 1989. Sjursen, Helene. “Why Expand? The Question of Legitimacy and Justification in the EU’s Enlargement Policy.” Journal of Common Market Studies 40/3 (2002): 491 – 513. Steiner, Zara. The Lights that Failed: European International History, 1919 – 1933. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

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Union internationale des associations pour la Société des Nations. Bulletin no. 1. Liste des Associations affiliées à l’Union ou en relations avec elle. Brussels: Imprimerie F. van Buggenhoudt, 1922. Vaïsse, Maurice. “La SdN et le désarmement.” In The League of Nations in Retrospect, edited by Arnold Angenendt, 245 – 265. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1983. Voorhoeve, Joris. “Idealisme en realisme in het Nederlandse buitenlands beleid.” In De Nederlandse natie, edited by S.W. Couwenberg, 80 – 99. Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1981. Wichink, Robert. “Van conservatief-liberaal tot rechts-autoritair: de reactie van het kader van beroepsofficieren op de afbraak van de Nederlandse krijgsmacht, 1918 – 1933.” PhD diss., Erasmus Universiteit Rotterdam, 1994.

Nicolas Lépine

Chapter 3 Mains libres vs Internationalism

The Belgian Workers’ Party’s Internationalist Solidarity with Republican Spain in Times of National Withdrawal The Spanish Civil War provoked a groundswell of solidarity that jeopardized the integrity of the Belgian socialist movement. In his memoirs, Hendrik De Man wrote that solidarity with Republican Spain forced Émile Vandervelde to choose between being a minister or a socialist – he opted for the latter and became increasingly radicalized in doing so. Paul-Henri Spaak, by comparison, wrote the exact opposite in his autobiography, as he admitted his first cabinet experiences had purged him of his radicalism and made him a “better statesman.”¹ Obviously, in the second half of the 1930s, solidarity with the Frente popular in Spain developed into a flashpoint for the struggle between internationalist and nationalist factions within the Belgian Workers’ Party (BWP/POB) over two conflicting perspectives of foreign policy: collective security vs. independence. In regard to the Spanish affair, the dilemma became whether to abrogate or maintain nonintervention, and articulate the solidarity campaign accordingly. In the battle that followed within the party’s Bureau, within the General Council of the workers’ movement, and within parliament, the internationalist faction did its utmost to thwart the country’s inward turn in foreign affairs, evoking repeatedly the moral duty of Marxists to manifest internationalist solidarity, to defend Republican Spain and to defuse attempts at legitimizing the Rebels’ camp. Despite the bitter internecine struggle, a middle ground was found that resulted in a unique mass solidarity campaign for the membership that superseded in many ways the failing efforts of other international organizations such as the League of Nations. Still, we know little about this campaign of the interwar period due to the ultimate defeat of the Frente popular and the occupation of Belgium during the Second World War.

I am much grateful to the editors as well as to Talbot Imlay, Geert Van Goethem, E´tienne Verhoeyen, Jean-Yves Bernard and Ronald Harpelle for their recommendations.  Hendrik De Man, Herinneringen (Antwerp: De Sikkel, 1941), 220; Paul-Henri Spaak, Combats inacheve´s (Brussels: Fayard, 1969); Janet Polasky, “The Insider as Outsider: Emile Vandervelde and the Spanish Civil War,” Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 1– 2 (1987): 353. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-004

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The first part of the chapter lays the groundwork by addressing the inward turn of Belgian foreign policy in the wake of the Great Depression and the decline of the Versailles-Locarno settlements. In 1935, King Leopold III called for a national unity cabinet involving the three major parties (Socialist, Liberal and Catholic) in the hope of curbing the economic slump, the sociopolitical polarization and the returning threat of a continental war. The following year, he and Prime Minister Paul Van Zeeland confirmed the nationalist turn in foreign affairs by abandoning the 1920 Franco-Belgian Security Pact and nominating Spaak rather than Vandervelde (the signatory of Locarno) as Minister of Foreign Affairs: hence began the mains libres policy. However, this commitment to an independent foreign policy would soon be challenged by a contingent event abroad: the successful resistance of the Spanish Republic to a military coup, and the resulting groundswell of solidarity from the Belgian workers’ movement. The second and main part of the chapter explores how the Belgian Workers’ Party’s solidarity campaign on behalf of Republican Spain hindered the implementation of Spaak’s mains libres policy. It does so by focusing on the three consti‐tuent elements of the campaign: military aid, political lobbying and humanitarian aid. Military aid consisted of acquiring weapons and recruiting volunteers. It responded to France’s sudden cancellation of an arms sale contract with the Republic and to the defection of the bulk of the Republican army. Military aid became an extralegal affair after Belgium ratified the non-intervention agreement, and lost its relevance following the Soviet Union’s military intervention at the end of October 1936. This resulted in a political lobbying campaign that galvanized the BWP/POB’s internationalist group into defending the Republic’s interests, namely the abrogation of non-intervention, and ultimately hindered Spaak’s social-nationalist agenda by blocking the Rebels’ recognition. Lastly, the humanitarian campaign provided the material resources and sanitary services that the Republicans lacked, while maintaining the internationalist engagement and depicting the Republican camp as the sole legitimate protagonist. Regarding methodology, this chapter subscribes to Akira Iriye’s “beyond the state” paradigm and his call for more studies of international cooperation.² It does so by addressing the practice of international socialism – not just its principle or failures – as this sheds light on a spectrum of initiatives that previously passed under the radar.³ Furthermore, the chapter’s transnational approach  Akira Iriye, “Foreword,” in Internationalisms: A Twentieth-Century History, ed. Glenda Sluga and Patricia Clavin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), viii.  See Talbot C. Imlay, The Practice of Socialist Internationalism: European Socialists and International politics, 1914 – 1960 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018); Id., “The Practice of Social Internationalism During the Twentieth Century,” Moving the Social 55 (2016): 17– 38; Patrizia Do-

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draws inspiration from Roger Brubaker’s conception of nation states as a product of utopian constructions, a notion recently transposed to studies of internationalism by Glenda Sluga and Patricia Clavin in their effort to relativize the “utopian” character of “idealist internationalism.” Also fundamental is Sluga and Clavin’s notion that transnational structures compensate for the shortcomings of the nation states and their diplomatic networks.⁴ Yet, in its focus on Belgium, this chapter’s approach is also inspired by the recent revaluation of the national sphere within transnational studies by Constance Bantman and Bert Altena.⁵ Last but not least, regarding the boundaries of the study, it evokes once again Sluga and Clavin who underscore the “reductiveness” of defining internationalism as a solely communist idea.⁶

National withdrawal dynamic vs. remnants of internationalism Postwar democratic internationalism enjoyed its heyday before the 1929 Wall Street Crash hit and the Great Depression settled in. As the 1930s unfolded, Italy and Germany’s desire for a revision of the Versailles settlement grew intensely. Meanwhile, the UK committed to appeasement in the hope of keeping Hitler and Mussolini separated, while France sought rapprochements with the USSR to replace the failing Little Entente in Eastern Europe, where authoritarian conservatism was on the rise. In short, there was a growing inadequacy between

gliani, “The Fate of Socialist Internationalism,” in Internationalisms, ed. Sluga and Clavin, 38 – 60; Talbot Imlay, “Socialist Internationalism after 1914,” in Internationalisms, ed. Sluga and Clavin, 214.  Glenda Sluga and Patricia Clavin, “Rethinking the History of Internationalism,” in Internationalisms, ed. Sluga and Clavin, 8.  A trend that stems from the globalization backlash or “deglobalization.” See Constance Bantman and Bert Altena, eds., Reassessing the Transnational Turn: Scales of Analysis in Anarchist and Syndicalist Studies (Oakland: PMP Press, 2017). For a summary and critic of the latter, see Nicolas Lépine’s review of Reassessing the Transnational Turn: Scales of Analysis in Anarchist and Syndicalist Studies, ed. Constance Bantman and Bert Altena, H-Socialisms, H-Net Reviews, October 2018, www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=50188. For a definition of deglobalization, see Pierre-Yves Saunier, Transnational History (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 139.  The unpopularity of international socialism studies amongst the post-Second World War labor historians is best explained by the pro-Atlanticist stance adopted by Western European socialist parties in the wake of the 1947 Truman Doctrine and Marshall Plan. Regarding the relativization of communist internationalism, see Sluga and Clavin, “Rethinking,” 12.

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postwar pacifism and the possible return of continental war.⁷ This pushed the Oslo Bloc countries (Benelux and Scandinavia) toward neutralism: they had no intention of paying once more for the folie of grandeur of their powerful neighbours. The historian Jeffery Gunsburg termed this retreat from continental developments La grande illusion or the great deception.⁸ In Fall of 1934, the Belgian Prince Leopold replaced his father King Albert I, victim of a climbing fall. Leopold III set out to repeat his father’s equilibrium act between the democratic powers (France and England) and revisionist Germany, in spite of an international climate that kept deteriorating. The 1935 LavalMolotov Pact between France and the USSR worsened his fears of provoking the German neighbour, while the invasion of Abyssinia later that year saw the League of Nations’ failure to impose sanctions on Mussolini, or in other words, to protect a small member. This led Leopold III to abrogate the FrancoBelgian Pact on 6 March 1936, a decision immediately followed by Germany’s remilitarization of the Rhineland. The passivity of the UK and France following Hitler’s breach from the Locarno settlement further justified the King’s desire to disengage from continental affairs, and especially from Article 16 of the Charter of the Covenant that granted a right of way to democratic powers in the likelihood of a German aggression.⁹ In domestic affairs, Leopold III called, in March 1935, for the creation of a national union cabinet led by the independent – yet close to the Catholics – Paul Van Zeeland, which had to tackle the economic slump as well as rising populism and separatism. It was the start of a succession of liberal, catholic and socialist tripartite coalitions that would lead the country throughout this decade in turmoil. In May 1936, while affronting rising fascist political parties such as Rex and the Flemish National Union (VNV), the socialists succeeded in establishing themselves as the main political force of the re-elected tripartite, after winning 70 of the 202 seats of the Chamber. This explained Leopold’s initial request that Vandervelde form the next cabinet. However, due to opposition from the catholics, Van Zeeland was reappointed as Prime Minister, while Le Patron (Vandervelde’s nickname) was to inherit Foreign Affairs, that is until he made explicit his intention to align with France’s Front populaire antifascist foreign policy, a declaration bitterly received by the francophobe Flemish component of the alli-

 See Leonardo Rapone, La socialdemocrazia europea tra le due guerre. Dall’organizzazione della pace alla resistenza al fascismo (Rome: Carocci, 1999).  See Jeffery A. Gunsburg, “La Grande Illusion: Belgian and Dutch Strategy Facing Germany, 1919–May 1940 (Part I),” Journal of Military History 78/1 (2014): 101– 158.  For an aging, yet valid reference, see Jonathan E. Helmreich, Belgium and Europe (The Hague: Mouton, 1976), 338, 362– 363.

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ance. He was finally granted the inoffensive Public Health portfolio. Van Zeeland then caused a stir by nominating to Foreign Affairs the 37-year-old former Communications and Transports minister, socialist Paul-Henri Spaak, despite his total lack of experience in the field. Spaak originated from the extreme-left fringes of the BWP/POB. However, the rise of the extreme right had made him receptive to the nationally orientated brand of socialism championed by Hendrik De Man. Toning down his maximalism had earned him the transportation portfolio in Van Zeeland’s first cabinet, a promotion that transfigured him into a pragmatic politician.¹⁰ Van Zeeland and Leopold III were aware of the Young Turk’s mindset, and their decision to make him Foreign Affairs Minister in May 1936 proved beneficial as Spaak enforced cabinet decisions over an often reluctant BWP/POB. He exceeded expectations by becoming Prime Minister in May 1938, and trying to establish a “democratic authoritarian” government,¹¹ a project that stumbled on the opposition within his own party’s ranks, namely over the recognition of the Spanish Rebels’ regime – a no go for the BWP/POB’s internationalists. For now, in June 1936, the nomination of this neophyte to Foreign Affairs best explains how Van Zeeland’s second cabinet initially stated its continental policy in the blurriest of terms: Belgium would observe “the most complete independence as well as the obligations of international collaboration.”¹² Its position became more clear-cut as the Minister of Foreign Affairs gained confidence through the support of Prime Minister Van Zeeland, the King and his grey eminence Raoul Van Overstraeten, and Foreign Office mandarins Fernand Van Langenhove and Pierre van Zuylen. On 20 July, Spaak made his maiden speech to the International Press Union, declaring that the time had come for more “realism” in the country’s international policy: “I want only one thing, a foreign policy which is exclusively and wholly Belgian.”¹³ His words were praised by the Ger-

 About Spaak’s mindset, see David O. Kieft, Belgium’s Return to Neutrality (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 99, 103 – 104; Helmreich, Belgium and Europe, 336. For an update on the historiographical debate, see Fabien Conord, “Paul-Henri Spaak, héraut ou soliste du socialisme belge?” Canadian Journal of History / Annales canadiennes d’histoire 49 (2014): 1– 30. For a vivid critic, see Marcel Liebman, “P.-H. Spaak ou la politique du cynisme, éléments pour une étude biographique,” Fondation Marcel Liebman 26 (1972): 1– 22.  Regarding Spaak’s conversion, his premiership and attempt to establish an authoritarian democracy, see Michel Dumoulin, Nouvelle histoire de Belgique, vol 2: 1905 – 1950 (Brussels: Complexe, 2005), 214, 225, 251.  Annales (Chamber) Extraordinary Session, 24 June 1936, 25. In Kieft, Belgium’s Return, 102.  Brussels, Fondation Paul-Henri Spaak (FPHS), Fonds Paul-Henri Spaak (PHS), 7: Discours devant l’Union de la Presse étrangère, 2– 3. See also Kieft, Belgium’s Return, 110; Spaak, Combats inachevés, 42– 45.

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man and Italian press, by Rex and the VNV, as well as by the liberal and the catholic parties, but not so by his own, as this unauthorized declaration constituted a major infringement of the Marxist internationalist principle. It bears mentioning that at the very same moment, a coup was being resisted in Spain by fellow socialists and their Frente popular allies. The reprobation incurred by Spaak’s speech within the BWP/POB stemmed from the strength of its internationalist tradition. Well established nationally, the party, moreover, took an active part in the Socialist International which was presided successively by three prominent Belgians: Camille Huysmans, Émile Vandervelde and Louis de Brouckère. In 1923, the headquarters of the newly christened Labor and Socialist International (LSI) were established in London, and then moved to Zurich in 1925: Switzerland had become the international organizations’ hub, bordered by the influential German and Austrian socialist movements. A decade later, Zurich lost its strategic raison-d’être following the brutal proscription of the German and Austrian organizations. The Swiss government proved increasingly reluctant to grant visas to the LSI’s delegates, especially the exiles. Jean Delvigne, the BWP/POB’s secretary for Wallonia and an executive member of the LSI, went out of his way to convince general-secretary Friedrich Adler to move to Brussels’ Maison du Peuple, the BWP/POB’s headquarters.¹⁴ This made complete sense considering the importance of the Belgian socialist movement and its involvement in the government. Also pressed by his new president Louis de Brouckère, who had replaced Vandervelde when the latter joined Van Zeeland’s cabinet, Adler finally accepted. Hence in April 1935, Belgium became the bastion of international socialism while – ironically – Leopold III and Van Zeeland championed an isolationist policy. The following year, the internationalist principle was jeopardized by this young socialist thrown at Foreign Affairs. Following his speech to the foreign press, Spaak was summoned to the General Council’s session of 27 July for a disciplinary talk. The General Council regrouped the leading instances of the BWP/ POB, the Commission syndicale (or trades union congress) and the regional federations. The matter was serious enough that LSI president de Brouckère was invited while France’s socialist Prime Minister Léon Blum was kept informed.¹⁵ After senators Henri Rolin and Fernand Brunfaut accused Spaak of sounding like Hitler, de Brouckère lectured him on the internationalist principles, making

 Amsterdam, Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (IISG), Archief Socialistische Arbeidersinternationale (SAI), 1260: Adler to Delvigne, 24 December 1934.  Kieft, Belgium’s Return, 111, footnote 8; FPHS, PHS-7: Message téléphoné par M. van Langenhove, 23 July 1936, 48 – 49; FPHS, PHS-7: Delvigne to Spaak, 52– 53.

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it plain he had no right to diverge on this. The General Council consequently ordered Spaak to stick to the collectivist and internationalist ideals. The Council’s session was about to end when de Brouckère suddenly expressed his worries over the situation in Spain, or what was becoming a “war of the Spanish reaction against the Republic; a war of all fascisms against a single democracy.”¹⁶ Secretary Delvigne then wrote a solidarity telegram that was unanimously adopted. It evoked how “Your victory that we utterly desire, will not only free the Spanish people, but consolidate democracy and socialism in the whole world.”¹⁷ This was the first morale gesture for the Republicans. Yet, the assembly had little awareness that this question would monopolize the debates for the next two and a half years, while deepening the fault between the social-nationalist and internationalist groups. For the time being, solidarity had to be expressed in more tangible terms since the joint LSI and International Federation of Trade Unions’ (IFTU) solidarity campaign for the Frente popular was to be launched the following day.

The Belgian parliament and the crisis in Spain The military rebellion that started on 17 July in Spanish Morocco spread the next day to the Iberian Peninsula, only to backfire when the workers were granted access to the arsenals. This unexpected and stubborn resistance from the Frente popular workers’ militias soon turned into civil war, while triggering a tremendous wave of hope and solidarity across the Pyrenees, as proof was given that authoritarian conservatism and its fascist offspring could be defeated. Meanwhile, in the Belgian parliament, most of Van Zeeland’s cabinet members felt a certain unease toward the solidary tide that ran against the sacrosanct mains libres policy: the socialists Spaak and De Man worried this would interfere with their nationalist agenda, the liberals worried about their mining interests in the Iberian Peninsula, whereas the catholics worried about the stories of exactions against the Church and started campaigning in favor of the Rebels. Not helping to quell anxieties, the open secret regarding French Prime Minister Blum’s support of the Republicans now justified Italy’s and Germany’s involvement beside the factious generals. In other words, there were threats of escalation in Spain and spreading of the civil war North of the Pyrenees. Hence the re Ghent, Amsab-Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (Amsab-ISG), Se´ance du Conseil Ge´ne´ral, 1936 – 07– 27_bwp_AR.pdf, 86.  Amsab-ISG, Se´ance du Conseil Ge´ne´ral, 1936 – 07– 27_bwp_AR.pdf, 5. See also “Le POB et le discours de Spaak,” Le Populaire, 28 July 1936.

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lief with which Blum’s first neutralist move on 25 July was welcomed. On 8 August, he proclaimed formal non-intervention and asked all countries to do the same. By doing so, however, he committed a serious infringement of the Marxist solidarity principle. Whereas the Belgian Catholic and Liberal Parties wholly advocated non-intervention, the topic proved a prickly one for the BWP/POB. On the one hand, there was the social-nationalist faction led by Spaak and De Man, who could not care less about a Mediterranean country whose history was riddled with pronunciamentos. They therefore agreed with their liberal and catholic counterparts that non-intervention was the best option to prevent a contagion of the crisis. On the other hand, there was the internationalist faction of Vandervelde, Delvigne, and Rolin, as well as MPs Isabelle Blume and Max Buset, who remained dubious of non-intervention unless it could be used as a smoke screen for military aid. And finally, the rank and file, who felt an unconditional solidarity for the Republicans while accepting non-intervention if applied bilaterally. Indeed, this proved to be the precise problem: how to fairly apply non-intervention when Germany and Italy were increasing their commitment to the Rebels, while the democracies administered a chokehold to the Frente popular. In regard to other parties involved in parliament, the Communist Party of Belgium (KPB/PCB) was excluded from the ruling tripartite, the BWP/POB included, and this prevented further growth.¹⁸ Nevertheless, Joseph Jacquemotte and Xavier Relecom’s party fared relatively well at the May elections, increasing from 3 to 9 seats. They advocated solidarity for Republican Spain while supporting Spaak’s non-intervention, this in agreement with Moscow’s initially ambivalent policy. Like most of its counterparts in democratic Europe, the KPB/PCB proved a pro-active and vocal minority group for the Spanish cause, despite its humble size and resources.¹⁹ It benefitted from a surge of popularity stemming from the Soviet intervention, but this was spoiled by the purges in the USSR and by the scarcity of the available resources. Hence the repeated appeals for unity of action with the socialists, a further bone of contention for the PWB/ POB which had rejected front popularism in January 1936. Outside of Van Zee-

 The BWP/POB rejected the popular front in January 1936. Such a coalition was established within the youth movement Jeunes gardes socialistes, rechristened Jeunes gardes socialistes unifiées in December 1936, only to be disbanded by the BWP/POB a few months later. This was a unique phenomenon outside of Spain. See José Gotovitch, “Histoire du Parti communiste de Belgique,” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 1582 (1997/37): 21, 23 – 24; Elsa Rayet, “Onteniente et la Guerre d’Espagne,” Cahiers marxistes 213 (1999): 159.  With the notable exception of the French communist party.

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land’s cabinet, but with seats at the extreme right of the parliament, were Rex and VNV, which had become significant forces. Rex leader Léon Degrelle had successfully hijacked the radical fringe of Hubert Pierlot’s Catholic Party and deprived him of 21 seats at the May 1936 general election. Whereas in Flanders, Staf De Clercq and his VNV scored 16 seats. Rex and VNV ran their own solidarity campaign for the Spanish rebels, to assist the “victims of Marxist barbary.”²⁰ Yet, they all supported non-intervention after it became clear it undermined mainly the Republicans’ war effort.

Military aid for Spain In agreement with the moral duty of international solidarity, the Belgian socialist movement took a leadership role in the global campaign for Republican Spain. Initially the BWP/POB and the Commission syndicale were in favour of backing the Republicans by all means – including military aid. This total commitment was unaffected by Blum’s declaration of neutrality of 25 July, as the inner circles remained confident that he would seek ways to secure armaments for the Republicans.²¹ The French Prime Minister’s decision nonetheless forced the Frente popular to look for alternate sources in arms producing countries where the socialist movements were influential, namely Belgium. On 4 August, Secretary Delvigne presented the BWP/POB’s Bureau with a request for assistance from the Republican embassy, and consequently received the mandate along with his Flemish homologue August De Block.²² Delvigne was well positioned in the military milieu as his father, the deputy and Le Peuple editor Isy Delvigne, was to become the next commissar of the national arsenal.

 Rex received funds from fascist Italy while the VNV received funds from Nazi Germany. See Francis Balace, “La droite belge et l’aide à Franco,” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis - Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 18/3 – 4 (1987): 605, 611.  On 25 July, the French socialist Prime Minister Léon Blum suspended a weapons contract passed with Spain the previous year as his coalition partner, the Radical Party, threatened to abandon the Front populaire, and the UK to withdraw from the Anglo-French Pact. See Michael Alpert, A New International History of the Spanish Civil War (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 1994), 22– 23. Regarding the involvement of the French secret services, see Olivier Forcade, La République secrète. Histoire des services spéciaux français de 1918 à 1939 (Paris: NME, 2008); Gérald Arboit, Des services secrets pour la France. Du Dépôt de la Guerre à la DGSE, 1856 – 2013 (Paris: CNRS Editions, 2014).  The BWP/POB was then united linguistically and had both a Flemish (De Block) and a Walloon (Delvigne) secretary. The proletarian internationalist identity it promoted was deemed superior to linguistic identities.

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However, as the meeting was happening, Spaak passed his first royal decree regulating arms exports. Yet the Bureau refrained from criticizing the move to avoid attracting attention to its military aid initiative.²³ On 8 August, Blum ratified a non-intervention policy in France that prevented exports of weapons to either the Republican or Nationalist sides, while asking all other countries to do the same. The Belgian military aid scheme was not seriously jeopardized until 19 August, when Spaak passed a further decree which prohibited any arms exports toward Spain. The fact that the Minister of Foreign Affairs had once more acted without his party’s approval wasn’t met with significant resistance, as the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE)’s envoys Fernando de los Ríos and Luis Jiménez de Asúa had agreed in Paris (although reluctantly) on the necessity of maintaining friendly governments in power, and nonintervention seemed the best way to do so.²⁴ Formal non-intervention was finally proclaimed on 28 August, making Belgium one of the last countries concerned by the strife to join the agreement.²⁵ Meanwhile, the BWP/POB’s internationalists remained committed to assisting the Republicans despite the legal hurdles. On the very same day that Spaak passed his second royal decree, the embassy’s chargé d’affaires Antonio Bolanos acquired three declassified Fokker airplanes from the national transporter Sabena, thanks to the intervention of socialist minister Arthur Wauters.²⁶ Secretary Delvigne carried on with the arms acquisition activities and recruitment of volunteers while Secretary De Block assumed his administrative duties.²⁷ Spaak turned a blind

 Amsab-ISG, Séance du Bureau du Conseil général, 1936 – 08 – 04_bwp_BU.pdf, 12; Christine Denuit-Somerhausen, “La Belgique au Comité de non-intervention en Espagne,” BTNG-RBHC 18/ 1– 2 (1987): 17.  IISG, SAI, 485/31– 40: Rapport du Secre´tariat de l’IOS sur la pe´riode s’e´tendant du 1er janvier 1936 au 31 de´cembre 1936, 8; Tom Buchanan, The Spanish Civil War and the British Labour Movement (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 48 – 49. See also the interview with Pietro Nenni in George Soria, Guerre et re´volution en Espagne, 1936 – 1939, vol. 2 (Paris: Laffont, 1976).  Jorge Vargas Visu´s, “Belgica y la Guerra de Espan˜ a” (PhD diss., University of Zaragoza, 2018), 149 – 150. See also Id., “El impacto de la Guerra Civil española en el Partido Obrero Belga,” Ayer 111 (2018): 225 – 252.  The deal was cancelled in December 1936 and Bolanos protested over his lost investment. Due to Belgian socialist pressures, the funds were redirected to buy trucks and relief aid. See Michel Vincineau, “La guerre civile espagnole, les exportations belges d’armes,” BTNG-RBHC 18/1– 2 (1987): 81– 123; Étienne Verhoeyen, “Les achats d’armes de la Cagoule en Belgique: chronique d’un échec annoncé,” in Tegendraadse criminologie, ed. Elke Devroe (Antwerp: Maklu, 2012), 473 – 482; Francis Balace, “La droite belge,” 573.  Recruitment by Delvigne amounted to a dozen Italian exiled socialists and several more Jeunes gardes socialistes amidst the 1,800 who fought with the International Brigades. See Jose´ Gotovitch, “La Belgique et la Guerre civile espagnole: un e´tat des questions,” BTNG-

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eye on such activities, as reflected by the correspondence between the BWP/POB’s secretaries. For example, on one occasion, Delvigne asked De Block if the Minister of Foreign Affairs had processed his application for an arms exporting license to Lithuania, while stating his intention to apply for more third-party countries.²⁸ Back then, even the moderate leader of the Commission syndicale, Corneille Mertens, agreed with helping the Republicans militarily. This reflected an initial consensus to defend the Republic by all means, under the cloak of non-intervention, or what became known as non-intervention relâchée or relaxed non-intervention.²⁹ In mid-September, the military aid scheme received a further blow after the Republican embassy’s military attaché, Antonio Huerta, left compromising documents on a train bench. They were soon leaked to the press, which revealed the existence of an arms smuggling ring overseen by the BWP/POB’s Walloon secretary, and involving the Spanish and Mexican embassies, as well as the national branch of the International Transport Federation. In what became known as the “Delvigne affair,” the “ring leader” faced relentless attacks from the right and extreme right as arms caches were uncovered one after another.³⁰ He nevertheless carried on stoically while Vandervelde pulled all strings to avoid his prosecution. The fact that the rest of the Bureau did not lift a finger made him bitter. He consequently opted to remain in Spain in the Winter of 1937 as the International’s representative.³¹ In short, by the late fall 1936, sending military aid had become too dangerous in the legal context of non-intervention. Moreover, the Soviet Union’s military intervention that had started in late October solved the weapons issue for RBHC 14/3 – 4 (1983): 508, footnote 30; Anne Morreli, “Les Italiens de Belgique face à la Guerre d’Espagne,” BTNG-RBHC 18/1– 2 (1987): 194– 195; Paul Kehren, “Ve´rite´ pour tous. Re´cit de la vie d’un homme de 1903 a` 1972 (manuscrit, doc. personnelle, 158 – 159),” in Balace, “La droite belge,” 671, footnote 399. Regarding involvement of the Jeune gardes socialistes with the International Brigades, see FPHS, PHS-14: Godefroid to the Spanish ambassador in Paris, 18 March 1937, 11. The Liberal Minister of Justice François Bovesse cracked down on recruitment activities. He passed the Bovesse Law on 13 December 1936, which sanctioned recruiters. His 11 July 1937 complement punished recruits. See Balace, “La droite belge,” 684; Denuit-Somerhausen, “La Belgique au Comité de non-intervention,” 26.  Amsab-ISG, August De Block, 211, 1/1: Delvigne to De Block, 18 September 1936; Amsab-ISG, Séance du Bureau du Conseil général, 1936 – 08 – 18_bwp_BU.pdf, 24.  Regarding Mertens, see Amsab-ISG, Se´ance du Bureau du Conseil Ge´ne´ral, 1936 – 08 – 18_bwp_BU.pdf, 24.  The leaked papers mentioned 200 machine guns and 10,000 Mausers. For a complete account of the Delvigne affair, see Verhoeyen, “Les achats d’armes.” For Rex’s pamphlets references, see Balace, “La droite belge,” 657, footnote 342. For newspaper articles references, see Vargas Visu´s, “Belgica y la Guerra de Espan˜ a,” 154, footnotes 549 – 550.  IISG, SAI, 2763E/50: Vandervelde to Adler, 13 February 1937.

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the Republicans. Consequently, the Minister of Foreign Affairs Julio Alvarez del Vayo pressed his European allies to commit themselves in the political arena and abrogate non-intervention. In Belgium, this proved problematic, because his homologue was an advocate of mains libres, appeasement and nonintervention.

Defending internationalism and the Republic in the political realm In mid-October 1936, rumors of a Soviet intervention in Spain worsened King Leopold’s fear of a continental escalation. He consequently addressed the parliament in a confidential speech that stressed once more the need for an independent foreign policy. The King’s speech received considerable praise, even by Vandervelde who insisted it should be made public, even if it was at odds with his internationalist convictions. The flattered monarch finally agreed, but the result was a blunder, in Belgium and internationally. At the national level, the royal allocution was decried by the Walloon community and the socialist rank and file, which remained sympathetic to the democratic powers and the ideal of collective security. At the international level, French and British diplomats protested against this further withdrawal from collective security. Spaak was left picking up the pieces as he tried with mixed success to convince Minister of Foreign Affairs Anthony Eden and especially Yvon Delbos that mains libres was the best option for Belgium. The BWP/POB’s president had obviously made the King commit a faux pas. According to historian Jonathan Helmreich, this incident explains why mains libres was ultimately implemented half-heartedly.³² The BWP/POB formally rejected non-intervention on 25 October, only days before the USSR’s intervention was made public. It was a mixture of Spanish pressures, enthusiasm and wariness of a rank and file’s defection toward the communists that best explains this move. The LSI followed suit and asked all affiliated parties to do the same. The Marxist duty of international solidarity once again prevailed.

 Helmreich, Belgium and Europe, 338; FPHS, PHS-11: Memorandum d’une conversation avec M. Eden, 28 November 1936, 42– 45.

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Fascists at Madrid’s embassy: the de Borchgrave affair During the Rebels’ thrust on Madrid, the BWP/POB received disturbing reports regarding the Belgian embassy: the staff was of questionable allegiance and harbored sympathisers with the Rebels. Ambassador Robert Evers had fled to Biarritz, where he stayed for the remainder of the war. He was replaced by the chargé d’affaires Joseph Berryer, a viscount considered filofascist by the Republican authorities. There was another Belgian of noble stock who was also under suspicion: Baron Jacques de Borchgrave, the son of the Belgian ambassador to the Holy See. Reports from the Republican Ministry of State reveal that the baron had married a Spanish widow whose sons were known to be fascists, that he housed one of his stepsons at the embassy, and that his chauffeur and lover was a Falangist spy.³³ Furthermore, the baron administered a vehicle depot for the German firm Dampf Kraft Wagen (DKW), and it was rumored that his DKW fleet would transport the Rebels’ avant-garde once it had penetrated Madrid’s defenses.³⁴ De Borchgrave’s trips to the front increased as the rebels closed in. He also frequently visited the Belgian volunteers of the International Brigades and distributed leaflets promoting desertion, especially targeting the Flemish brigadistas. This did not escape the watchful eye of Fuencarral’s district commander, a Belgian named Eugène Van den Bossch. The now generalissimo Francisco Franco called off the general offensive on Madrid in late November 1936, but this did not prevent de Borchgrave from carrying on. On 20 December, while the Rebels’ attempted a breakthrough in the Guadarama sector, he left on his own without his chauffeur and never came back. A few hours later, an embassy staffer rushed to the Republican War Ministry to report his disappearance. The baron’s body was later found in a ditch off

 See Madrid, Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores de Espana (AMAEE); Archivo de Barcelona, Ministerio de Estado. RE. 113, carp. 3, doc. 42, in Victor Fernández-Soriano, “Bélgica y la Guerra Civil Espan˜ ola: el impacto del conflicto espan˜ ol en la política y la diplomacia de una pequen˜ a potencia,” Cuadernos de Historia Contempora´nea 29 (2007): 228; Marina Casanova, “Las relaciones diploma´ticas hispano-belgas durante la Guerra Civil espan˜ ola: el caso del Baro´n de Borchgrave,” Historia Contemporanea 5 (1992): 293 – 302; Vargas Visu´s, “Bélgica y la Guerra de Espan˜ a,” 177– 188; IISG, SAI, 2763E/50: Vandervelde to Adler, 13 February 1937. Also see Rick Coolsaert, Vincent Dujardin and Claude Roosen, Les Affaires étrangères au service de l’État belge de 1830 à nos jours (Brussels: Mardaga, 2014).  FPHS, PHS-14: Huysmans to Spaak, 7 April 1937, 15.

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the road to Fuencarral. The executioners were either militiamen or counterintelligence agents from the International Brigades who caught him red-handed and without credentials in a restricted zone near two ammunition depots, an International Brigades’ sanitary post, and other strategic locations. The wireless transmitter and tools for changing car plates did not support his plea for innocence. De Borchgrave’s corpse was autopsied and reburied with all the honours due, and with even the Rebel’s Radio Salamanca paying tribute. However, Radio Salamanca did not report the incident involving the Belgian brigadistas who, during the funeral oration, voiced their outrage that full honours were granted to a traitor and not to their fallen comrades – the true heroes. While the incident was defused and mitigated in Spain,³⁵ in Belgium, the death of the baron caused a scandal that embittered the already tense relation between both Foreign Affairs Ministers.³⁶ Pressed by the Catholic Party, Spaak cavalierly handled the case, insisting on official excuses and a one-million-Franc reparation. This created a lasting deadlock with Alvarez del Vayo, who insisted the case should be solved at The Hague’s Court of International Justice. Meanwhile, in the Belgian parliament, Vandervelde and Spaak repeatedly clashed over the issue, the latter accusing the former of conducting his personal diplomacy in agreement with the “Socialist International’s diktat.” ³⁷ On 25 January, Van Zeeland “resigned” Vandervelde and the battle continued at the BWP/POB’s Bureau, where Le Patron and MP Max Buset wanted to end ministerial participation. Yet, Spaak and De Man prevailed by securing majorities at both the party’s Bureau and the General Council, thanks to the support of union leader Mertens.³⁸ While this was unfolding, another old guard internationalist conducted his own transnational diplomacy: Camille Huysmans, former head of the International, mayor of Antwerp and president of the Chamber of Representatives.³⁹

 FPHS, PHS-15: Rapport sur l’affaire du Baron Borchgrave, 14 January 1937, 10 – 11, 17.  “Le Baron de Borchgrave a e´te´ assassine´ a` Madrid par les rouges,” La Libre Belgique, 4 January 1937; “L’inertie du Gouvernement dans l’affaire de Borchgrave a fait de la Belgique la sanglante rise´e de l’Europe,” Le Pays re´el, 7 January 1937; “Spaak assiste, indiffe´rent au massacre des Belges en Espagne,” Le Pays re´el, 7 January 1937; “La douloureuse affaire,” Le Peuple, 14 January 1937, in: Vargas Visu´s, “Belgica y la Guerra de Espan˜ a,” 186, 197– 198. Regarding the extreme right’s reaction, see Balace, “La droite belge,” 607, 643.  Janet Polasky, The Democratic Socialism of Emile Vandervelde: Between Reform and Revolution (Oxford: Berg, 1995), 241.  Amsab-ISG, Séance du Bureau du POB, 1937– 01– 22_bwp_BU.pdf, 36; André Leroux, “La crise politique belge,” Le Populaire, 29 January 1937, 3.  See Amsab-ISG, Camille Huysmans Archives, accessed 5 January 2019, www.amsab.be/en/ beleef/topstukken/118-archief-van-camille-huysmans; “Camille Huysmans,” Letterenhuis, accessed 5 January 2019, https://anet.be/desktop/letterenhuis/core/index.phtml?language=N&

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Huysmans relentlessly promoted the Republican cause among fellow socialist leaders. He even advocated that the LSI’s headquarters be moved from Brussels to Valencia to further mark solidarity.⁴⁰ In January 1937, he sojourned in Spain along with a BWP/POB deputation and made his own enquiry into the de Borchgrave affair, and came to the verdict that the baron spied for the Rebels. He consequently wrote to Spaak in the boldest terms: “your agents were aware of the situation, and were therefore accomplices, no one doubts about this any longer,” while pointing out that he would have the whole gang shot. Huysmans then asked for the embassy’s staff to be replaced immediately, and if not, that the PWB/POB withdraw from Van Zeeland’s government.⁴¹ These efforts paid off as the embassy’s staffers were sacked in May 1937 and the new team overseen by a socialist nominee.⁴² Yet, the settlement over the de Borchgrave affair dragged on and saw extensive talks through the transnational channel between the two Foreign Affairs Ministers and the cool-headed secretary De Block, who did his best to extinguish fires. The issue was finally resolved in July 1938, after Alvarez del Vayo agreed on reparations.⁴³

The Socialist Interparliamentary Union project As previously mentioned, Huysmans led a BWP/POB deputation to Spain in late January 1937. They agreed on several proposals with Prime Minister Francisco Largo Caballero and Pascual Tomás, the secretary-general of the General Union of Workers (UGT). One such proposal was the creation of an alternative to the “bourgeois” Inter-Parliamentary Union (IPU) based in The Hague. This was designed to improve the coordination of the solidary campaigns and avoid further incidents like the de Borchgrave affair. In short, the idea was to establish a transnational web of socialist ministers to supplant the failing diplomacy of the nation states and of the League of Nations. The proposal was submitted to the BWP/POB’s Bureau on 5 February by returning deputation members Buset and Édouard Anseele Jr., and backed by secretary De Block, who explained

euser=&session=&service=isaarlh&robot=&deskservice=desktop&desktop=letterenhuis&work station=&extra=pattern=Huysmans.  Amsab-ISG, Re´union du Conseil ge´ne´ral, 1937– 02– 18_bwp_AR.pdf, 9.  FPHS, PHS-14: Huysmans to Spaak, 4 April 1937, 14– 15, 22. See also Jan Hunin, Het enfant terrible Camille Huysmans, 1871 – 1968 (Amsterdam: Meulenhoff-Kritak, 1999), 325.  “Acto de solidaridad,” La Vanguardia, 5 May 1937, 3.  Dumoulin writes that “Spaak negotiated outside the official circuit with his Spanish homologue.” See Michel Dumoulin, Spaak (Brussels: Racine, 1999), 89 – 90.

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Fig. 5: Caricature of Camille Huysmans on the cover of the Pourquoi Pas? magazine, where he is depicted as toreador Escamillo from the opera Carmen, as well as the champion of the Spanish popular front’s cause. This edition appeared at the height of the de Borchgrave affaire that led to Vandervelde’s resignation from the cabinet. Pourquoi Pas? (19 February 1937). Amsab-ISG, PR000423.

how such a network would allow the establishment of “a continent-wide relaxed non-intervention.”⁴⁴ The socialist IPU project was approved and relayed a few

 Brussels, Institut Émile Vandervelde (IEV), Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 5 February 1937, 87.

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doors down to the LSI’s secretariat, which thereafter called for an extraordinary conference in London during the second week of March.⁴⁵ Although the March 1937 London Conference was advertised as an ISF relief rally for Spain, behind closed doors hundreds of socialist parliamentary delegates discussed the IPU proposal without ever reaching an agreement. Despite this setback for socialist transnational diplomacy, it is worth noting that the London Conference was the LSI’s largest event since the last conference in Paris in 1933, and it was triggered by Belgian solidarity with Spain.⁴⁶ The socialist IPU project was reiterated a year later at the LSI by PSOE’s secretary-general Ramón Lamoneda, who this time wanted the conference to be held in Republican Spain. It was rejected by the Dutch and Danish delegates, who evoked the threats of bombardment and the futility of reproducing the existing network. The best Lamoneda could obtain were engagements to send deputations to the 1938 Spring parliamentary reassembly in Valencia and a preliminary meeting at The Hague’s IPU session in August the same year.⁴⁷ Returning to spring 1937, the London Conference was followed by Schevenels and Adler’s visit to Spain, and their subsequent decision to organize an international solidary week during Workers’ Day celebrations.⁴⁸ The LSI’s Women’s Committee took an active role in the organization of the events, as demonstrated by Belgian secretary Alice Pels who told the affiliates: “mass meetings will be organized; March editions of women’s publications will be consecrated to the solidary week; posters generated; exchange of orators in some countries, etc. We will do our utmost for the week to be a success.”⁴⁹ In Brussels, Vandervelde inaugurated a temporary exhibit on Republican Spain that proved just as suc-

 Bracke, “Pour l’Espagne re´publicain: L’effort des deux Internationales,” Le Populaire, 7 March 1937, 2.  For a description of the conference, see IISG, SAI, 936/25 – 26: Re´solution de la Confe´rence de Londres, 10 – 11 March 1937, 2; IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 15 March 1937, 147; Louis Levy, “Ce que fut la dernière journée de la conférence,” Le Populaire, 13 March 1937, 3; Marceau Pivert, “D’une tragédie à l’autre?” Le Populaire, 13 March 1937, 4.  IISG, SAI, 500/83: Proposition du Parti Espagnol, pour l’exécutif de l’IOS des 16 et 17 janvier 1938; IISG, SAI, 3402: Circulaire, Ramón Lamoneda au Comité Exécutif de l’IOS, 1– 2 and Circulaire, Adler aux secrétariats des partis affiliés à l’IOS, 7 février 1938; “L’IOS salue la victoire de Teruel,” Le Populaire, 18 January 1938, 2  Friedrich Adler, “May Day Celebration in Favour of Spain,” International Information, 28 April 1937, 198 – 200. See also Amsab-ISG, “Manifeste de la Fédération Syndicale Internationale pour le Premier Mai,” Le mouvement syndical belge, 20 April 1937, 124.  IISG, SAI, 3401: Aux membres du Comité international des Femmes de l’IOS, 15 février 1937.

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cessful in Charleroi, Louvain, Antwerp and in smaller towns like Quaregnon or La Louvière.⁵⁰

Mandatory solidarity for Spain: the Azorín resolution and the summer of 1937 In late June 1937, the PSOE’s rapporteur to the LSI Francisco Azorín submitted a binding resolution project making solidarity with the Republic mandatory. The proposal was finally adopted amidst threats of resignation by President de Brouckère, Secretary-General Adler and Belgian treasurer Joseph Van Roosbroeck. The following step was its adoption by the parties: the French Section of the Socialist International (SFIO) and the British Labor Party followed suit with no significant problems.⁵¹ However in Belgium, Spaak had the BWP/POB reject its binding character by evoking the meli-melo or “hotchpotch” character of “yet another unrealistic LSI resolution,” pointing out how the Labor Party sat on opposition benches while the SFIO no longer headed the Front populaire’s cabinet. He went on complaining that no other socialist minister from any country faced such pressures over Spain.⁵² Spaak’s attitude did not prevent the BWP/POB’s internationalists from stepping up their campaigning, in agreement with the LSI’s desire to hold a second solidarity week at the beginning of August. In Belgium, celebrations began on 31 July during the closing ceremony of Antwerp’s Olympiads. The newspaper Vooruit reported the great cheering caused by the arrival of the Spanish delegation, headed by the notorious Austrian politician Julius Deutsch, the president of the Socialist Workers’ Sports International, former head of the Austrian Schutzbund militia, and now a general in the Republican army.⁵³ This symbolized the transnational character of the antifascist struggle. Solidarity rallies were organized at People’s Houses across the country. In Namur, Le Patron claimed that his party stood wholly with the Azorín resolution and praised “the Belgian work-

 Amsab-ISG, “Exposition consacrée à la tragédie espagnole,” Le mouvement syndical belge, 27 April 1937, 151; “Acto de solidaridad,” La Vanguardia, 5 May 1937, 3.  IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 16 July 1937, 251.  Amsab-ISG, Séance du Conseil général, 1937– 07– 23_bwb_AR.pdf, 15a, 24, 42; “Los obreros belgas hacen presión sobre su gobierno en favor de España,” El Socialista, 30 July 1937 1; “El POB adopta por unanimidad el punto de vista de las dos Internacionales,” El Socialista, 31 July 1937, 3.  Vooruit, 2 August 1937, in Jan Tolleneer and Eric Box, “An Alternative Sport Festival: the Third Workers’ Olympics Antwerp,” Stadion 12 (June 1986): 186.

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ing class who has never realized such an effort!”⁵⁴ In Brussels, Buset made an intervention on the state Radio INR only to be censored after mentioning the “horrible character of the war.”⁵⁵ Other militants like Huysmans, Blume and Rolin attended joint rallies, and nearly faced sanctions by secretary De Block for doing so. A series of abrogationist articles was published in Le Peuple, the Vooruit, and foreign newspapers like Geneva’s Journal des Nations or la Dépêche de Toulouse, which typically aroused the ire of the Foreign Affairs Minister.⁵⁶

The 1938 Thaw Hope was apparent in the first half of 1938: a cascade of events suggested a major shift in continental affairs. Losing patience over Mussolini’s exactions in the Mediterranean, the British Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden had authorized the Front populaire to temporarily open the border and let Soviet armaments pour through.⁵⁷ This gave the newly formed Republican Army its first tactical victory by taking Teruel on New Year’s Day, only to lose it on 20 February.⁵⁸ In France, the socialist Léon Blum took the reins of the Front populaire once again in March 1938. He held urgent bilateral talks with his Spanish homologue Juan Negrín, and asked his military staff to consider forcing Hitler to evacuate the Iberian Peninsula. Blum’s proposal was dismissed in favor of a partial mobilization along the Catalan border, a dissuasive move that allegedly slowed the Francoists’ Aragon offensive. A more significant gesture was Blum’s reopening of the border. The Soviet military shipments poured once again into the Republican zone, allowing the creation of a mobile army to be unleashed in the Ebro sector over the summer.⁵⁹ At about the same time, still in Paris, the LSI and the IFTU held a session where the final resolution advocated “repelling non-intervention by all means, even the most energetic.”⁶⁰ Its adoption was,

 “El POB adopta por unanimidad, el punto de vista de las dos Internacionales,” El Socialista, 31 July 1937.  Amsab-ISG, Séance du Conseil général, 1937– 07– 23_bwb_AR.pdf, 19a.  IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 7 July 1937, 13 December 1937, 25 April 1938, 228, 48, 611. See also “Solamente con actos de solidaridad humana no se ayuda lo debido a la república,” El Socialista, 31 July 1937, 4.  Alpert, A New International History, 150.  Ibid., 152– 154.  Alpert, A New International History, 155 – 156.  According to historian Leonardo Rapone, this was the most activist resolution of the decade. See Leonardo Rapone, “La crisi finale dell’Internazionale Operaia et Socialista,” I socialisti e l’Europa (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1989), 54.

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however, preceded by an incident involving the Belgian delegation headed by the leader of the Commission syndicale, rechristened Centrale générale du travail de Belgique (CGTB). The week before, at the Belgian General Council, the social-nationalist group of Spaak, De Man and Mertens had defeated a non-confidence vote submitted by Buset. It was consequently decided that a majority member – Mertens – would join Buset and Vandervelde at the LSI-IFTU session in Paris. Once there, Le Patron let the bold union leader be the spokesperson. Failing to take into account the surge of combativeness in this warm spring of 1938, Mertens pleaded in favor of non-intervention. Whereas such words were tolerated in national organisations, they were obviously not at the LSI-IFTU where the internationalist principle still prevailed. His realist lecture fell flat as the Spanish, British, French, Czechoslovak and exiled Italian delegations accused him of defending Spaak’s social-nationalist policy. The union leader backed down, thus allowing the adoption of a strong unanimous resolution advocating collectivist values, antifascist struggle and concrete steps for the abrogation of non-intervention.⁶¹ The sly Vandervelde had struck again, only this time he had Mertens committed the faux pas. Mertens got his revenge in Brussels, when his fellow neos blocked the resolution at both the BWP/POB’s Bureau and at the General Council. Furthermore, Spaak, now Prime Minister, committed a major neutralist move on 24 July by announcing that he and his Oslo Bloc homologues were no longer bound by the Covenant’s treaty. He had once again acted behind his party’s back. This infuriated the internationalists, particularly when the Republican Army launched its Ebro offensive, which needed a steady flow of armaments, thus making abrogation of non-intervention most urgent. Vandervelde and his supporters therefore increased attacks against Spaak, until the Sudetenland crisis forced them to temporarily close ranks.

 “La reunión de Internacionales: A Austria y a Checoslovaquia hay que defenderlas desde España,” El Socialista, 22 March 1938, 1; “La réunion commune de l’IOS et de la FSI,” Le Populaire, 17 March 1938, 1– 2; IISG, SAI, 3402: Projet de Résolution soumis par la commission des Résolutions, pour la session commune de l’IOS et de la FSI, Paris, les 15 et 16 mars 1938; IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 3 March 1938, 568; Nuovo Avanti, 19 March 1938. Regarding Mertens’ perspective, see “Situations dangereuses en Europe: La FSI et l’IOS,” Le mouvement syndical belge, 20 March 1938, 91– 94.

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The Munich Pact and the Burgos dilemma At the end of September 1938, a continental war was averted after the British Prime Minister Chamberlain forced Czechoslovakia to cede Sudetenland to Hitler. The situation for the Spanish Republic was now desperate. The Munich Pact brushed aside any hopes to link up with a continental conflagration.⁶² Furthermore, the Ebro Army was worn out as non-intervention prevented its replenishment, while Moscow had lost interest in Spain. The risk to see another settlement à la Munich, applied this time to Spain, was vividly decried by the PSOE-UGT.⁶³ For once the overwhelming fear of a continental war had brought the BWP/ POB’s internationalists alongside Spaak, now the prime minister. The latter nonetheless sought to use this momentum to solve the Spanish question once and for all. He had for some time been pressed by the King and the liberals and the catholics to dispatch a commercial attaché to Burgos, the Rebels’ capital. The secretary of the Belgian embassy in Valencia, George Delcoigne, had started talks with Franco, but they kept stumbling on the generalissimo’s desire for a de facto recognition. This was a no go for the BWP/POB as well as a legal impossibility, as Belgium recognized one government per nation. Spaak nonetheless announced at the end of October his intention to send a representative to Burgos.⁶⁴ Ironically, it took this ministerial declaration to shake the party’s internationalists out of their Munich torpor. At the BWP/POB’s congress held on 5 – 6 November, Spaak was ordered not to make further unauthorized declarations. He thus rewrote his proposal, this time taking into account a suggestion from Senator Rolin regarding a withdrawal from the non-intervention committee. Spaak was now positive he had a win-win offer, but his modified declaration was equally rejected by the BWP/POB’s Bureau, which knew the British and

 In Beevor’s words: “Munich also marked the postponement of the European war on which Negrín was counting to force Great Britain and France to aid the Republic.” Antony Beevor, The Spanish Civil War (London: Penguin, 2001), 240. See also Ángel Viñas, ed., Al servicio de la República: diplomáticos y Guerra Civil (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2010), 71.  It was finally rejected, partly due to the opposition of the LSI, the IFTU, and the British and the French labour movements. See “Appel au prole´tariat mondial,” Le Populaire, 9 October 1938, 1; “Una acción decidida de las internacionales acabaria en corto plazo con las dictaduras,” El Socialista, 27 November 1938, 1; IISG, SAI, 524/4: Rapport du Secre´tariat de l’IOS, pour la session de l’Exe´cutif de l’IOS, Bruxelles, les 18 et 19 octobre 1938.  For the most complete account of the events, see Vargas Visu´s, “Bélgica y la Guerra de Espan˜ a,” 244– 293. See also Jean Salmon, “La reconnaissance du gouvernement de Burgos,” BTNG-RBHC 18 (1987): 146.

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French diplomats would never allow such a move. Spaak replied that only he and the government made the decisions – not the BWP/POB or the LSI – and carried on with his plans. Vandervelde’s group replied by calling an extraordinary party congress on 5 December in order to submit the Prime Minister’s policy to a vote of confidence. The LSI’s president de Brouckère and PSOE’s general secretary Ramón Lamoneda were called in as reinforcement.⁶⁵ Meanwhile, a major diplomatic incident was unfolding as the Spanish ambassador Mariano Ruiz-Funes was recalled to Barcelona, now the capital. The latest of a series of fin de non-recevoir proved the proverbial straw for Foreign Affairs Minister Álvarez del Vayo, who had already put up with the Sabena affair at the inception of the war, the fascists at the Belgian legation in Madrid, and the hefty reparations paid for the killing of a spy. Spaak added fuel to the fire by recalling his ambassador and preparing to switch allegiance to Franco.⁶⁶ The alarms went off at BWP/POB’s Bureau, where Secretary De Block maintained diplomatic ties through the transnational channel.⁶⁷ The atmosphere was tense at the congress on 5 December. Spaak rejected all blame, evoking the folly of triggering a ministerial crisis while the fascists were allegedly in full ascension. He also pointed out how his liberal, his catholic, or worse, his extreme-rightist counterparts, would not hesitate granting Burgos recognition. Internationalists Vandervelde, Buset, Rolin, Charleroi’s deputy Arthur Gailly and LSI’s de Brouckère then secured a resolution from the assembly that stressed the “absolute moral impossibility” of sending a commercial attaché to Burgos. Lamoneda rejoiced in this victory on the diplomatic front, while the PSOE’s newspaper El Socialista headlined “The sun broke through the clouds in Flanders.”⁶⁸ This lack of support from his own party did not prevent Spaak from winning the confidence vote in parliament, thanks to catholic, liberal and Rexist deputies. He therefore remained Prime Minister, to the great disappointment of the internationalists. Still, tensions ran high in parliament amongst socialists, as neither of the factions backed down. A two-week parliamentary truce was consequently decreed to allow them to get their acts together.⁶⁹ Yet, the situation remained tense at the Bureau, where the furious Spaak berated the equally stubborn but aging Vandervelde, who relied on a hearing aid despite the screams. It

 Amsab-ISG, Réunion du Conseil général, 1938 – 11– 30_bwp_AR.pdf, 5.  “La actitud del gobierno Spaak motiva la llamada a España de nuestro embajador en Bélgica,” El Socialista, 2 December 1938, 1.  IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 3 December 1938, 848 – 849.  “En Flandres ha salido el sol,” El Socialista, 7 December 1938, 1.  Dumoulin, Spaak, 125; Balace, “La droite belge,” 567.

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was reported that on one occasion, Le Patron became entangled in the apparatus’ wiring and fell, to the amusement of his mortal foes. This bitter struggle over Spain took its toll. On 27 December, El Socialista headlined “The sun set in Flanders” as Vandervelde passed away. A month earlier, he had prophetically declared, “And when we abandon the Republicans, we will have failed in our commitment toward Spain and democracy. I will never be part of this!”⁷⁰ He went peacefully. As Barcelona was falling, Spaak finally resumed talks with Burgos. Still, Vandervelde would not have had too much to be upset by,⁷¹ as Belgium’s de jure recognition of Franco came on 21 March, achieved by the catholic Prime Minister Hubert Pierlot and his cabinet deprived of socialists. Against all odds, Spaak’s government did not collapse over Spain, but over bilingualism, a very national problem that arose at the forefront as the Spanish question waned.⁷²

Spaak’s subsequent conversion to the collectivist ideal At the beginning of the Second World War, the BWP/POB joined Pierlot’s national defense cabinet. Spaak regained the Foreign Affairs portfolio, while his mentor De Man became deputy premier. The mains libres foreign policy proved itself a grande illusion after the Germans’ invasion and subsequent occupation of Belgium in May 1940. De Man opted for collaboration through his corporatist Union des travailleurs manuels et intellectuels (UTMI), whereas Spaak fled southwards and began his political conversion to collective security. After France’s defeat, Spaak and Prime Minister Pierlot made it to Spain where they were placed under house arrest despite having supported non-intervention and Burgos’ recognition during the civil war. After being tipped-off that they were to be handed to the Nazis, the pair made it clandestinely to Lisbon, from where they flew to

 Amsab-ISG, Réunion du Conseil ge´ne´ral, 1938 – 11– 30_bwp_AR.pdf, 37.  His widow Jeanne Vandervelde declared that Émile’s failure to withdraw the BWP/POB from the government in December was like losing him a first time. Polasky, “The Insider as Outsider,” 355.  The Liberals subsequently left the cabinet over the integration of Adriaan Martens to the Flemish Medical Academy. Martens was a Flemish nationalist that had been previously jailed, condemned to death, and amnestied. See Conord, “Paul-Henri Spaak,” 14, 24; Dumoulin, Nouvelle histoire de Belgique, 226. It is worth pointing out that bilingualism was intrinsically linked to foreign policy, as Flemish generally supported mains libres while most Walloons opposed it. See Gailly’s intervention at BWP/POB’s Bureau, IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 10 October 1938, 757.

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London and joined the government in exile. Spaak later wrote about his cavalcade: “The cruelest months of my life. A distressing political ordeal. The war, the surrendering army, the taste of total defeat, on the verge of renouncement, and the awakening that brought me to London during the Blitz, during the struggle. Already another man, now a free man.”⁷³ Humbled by his tribulations, he started advocating for a continental federation as the Second World War drew to a close.⁷⁴ He would take a leadership role in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and the European community, two multilateral forums that denied membership to Franco.

The relief initiative The socialists’ relief campaign assumed huge proportions since it allowed for the quenching of the thirst for solidarity without causing a significant stir. In Belgium, the party and the trades union congress relief initiatives were centralized around a joint fund administered by BWP/POB secretaries De Block and Delvigne, and to a lesser extent by Max Buset. The Matteotti Fund was the national branch of the Internationals’ Solidarity Fund, or ISF,⁷⁵ overseen mainly by the IFTU’s general-secretary Walter Schevenels. The Belgian initiative usually ranked third after France and Great Britain.⁷⁶

 Dumoulin, Spaak, 211.  Ibid., 232.  The first solidarity fund for victims of fascism was the International Red Aid (IRA) established in 1922. Humble in size, it was further undermined by the definitive failure of the Red International Labour Union (RILU) at the turn of 1930 (due to the monopoly of the socialist IFTU) and the RILU’s ultimate replacement by the USSR’s Profintern, or trades union congress. The Matteotti Fund was created by the LSI in the wake of Italian deputy Giacomo Matteotti’s assassination in 1924. The IFTU joined formally the Matteotti Fund in 1930 due to the multiplication of authoritarian-conservative and fascist regimes. The Matteotti Fund defended its incarcerated members, providing them with relief and legal aid, as well as hosting the exiles and finding them employment. Due to the international situation, the organization’s budget was increased in 1935, and its socialist character reconfirmed. It became the International Solidarity Fund or ISF. See José Gotovitch and Anne Morelli, eds., Les solidarités internationales: histoire et perspectives (Brussels: Labor, 2003); Fredrik Petersson, “In Control of Solidarity? Willi Mü nzenberg, the Workers’ International Relief and League against Imperialism, 1921– 1935,” Comintern Working Paper 8 (2007): 1– 21. Regarding the ISF’s expansion in 1935, see IISG, IFTU Archives, 94: Report of the Secretariat on the activities of the IFTU during the period from 1st April 1934, to 31st March 1935, 10; IEV, Fonds Émile Vandervelde, EV/III/75: IOS circulaires 2e partie, Fonds Matteotti, Février 1931.  Christine Collette, “Le Fonds de Solidarité de l’Internationale ouvrière socialiste (1934– 1940),” in Les solidarités internationales, ed. Gotovitch and Morelli, 58; IISG, SAI, 2763i/19 – 23,

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The humanitarian campaign continued for the duration of the civil war and beyond. Its contribution was not only material, but also politico-moral as it depicted the Republicans as the sole legitimate protagonists. By doing so, it sought to counteract so-called “bourgeois” funds like the Quakers’, Save the Children’s, or especially that of the Red Cross. The latter allegedly paid lip service to a failing international order by ignoring the true roots of the civil war: the rise of fascism facilitated by the bourgeois democracies’ appeasement, neutralism, and non-interventionism. The progressive fringes of the Liberal and Catholic movements usually gave to these international non-governmental organizations (INGO), although donations to the Matteotti Fund increased slightly after the Rebels’ atrocities were reported in the pious Basque Countries.⁷⁷ Meanwhile, elements of the extreme-right sympathetic to Franco held their own initiatives. Paul Hoornaert’s Légion nationale was the most engaged amongst the twilight of fascist leagues, with activities ranging from recruitment for Franco’s Tercio to knitting clubs for the winter campaign.⁷⁸ However, right-wing and extreme-right-wing campaigning was in no way comparable to that of the socialists and their extensive transnational network. The communists’ relief fund shared a common principle with the ISF: internationalist solidarity toward the victims of fascism. If the war in Spain brought the IRA to its zenith, it also led to its steep decline. Its legitimacy was crippled by Soviet policies in favor of appeasement or neutralism, but also by the Stalinist show trials and the isolationist turn taken by Moscow over 1937.⁷⁹ For Schevenels and De Block, the IRA was part of a non-democratic International – the Comintern – committed to “demagogic charity” just like the catholics.⁸⁰ Hence unity of action was out of the question. Collaboration with third party initiatives was frowned upon, especially if it involved communists, like the Belgian IRA chapter, the Comité de centralisation de l’aide à l’Espagne or the Centrale sanitaire internationale, for it was thought this created more “confusion” than actual aid. Schevenels and De Block sought to counter the influence of the IRA. The latter had

Fonds International de Solidarité: Action de secours pour l’Espagne, juillet 1936 – 1er décembre 1938.  “La solidaridad del pueblo belga con España,” La Vanguardia, 16 March 1938, 3; Balace, “La droite belge,” 507– 508.  Most leagues and fascist groupings were members of CAUR, or Mussolini’s International. See Balace, “La droite belge,” 605, 657.  Claudio Natoli, “Pour une histoire comparée des organisations communistes de solidarité: Le Secours ouvrier international et le Secours rouge international,” in Les solidarités internationales, ed. Gotovitch and Morelli, 41– 42.  Amsab-ISG, Se´ance du Conseil ge´ne´ral, 1938 – 06 – 22_bwp_AR.pdf, 22.

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increased its prestige in the wake of the USSR’s military intervention in Spain, yet had to rely on third-party funding, especially in Belgium, where the KPB/ PCB remained a marginal force. This did not prevent some internationalist deputies of the BWP/POB, such as Rolin and Blume, from involving themselves in joint committees.⁸¹ The ISF’s global campaign kicked off on 28 July at Brussels’ Maison du Peuple. A week later, Nenni and de Brouckère went to Spain to establish the ISF,⁸² and survey the most pressing needs. Nenni remained in order to serve as ISF’s delegate, whereas de Brouckère flew back to Brussels with the demands in hand and to send a rushed first shipment by airplane, which mainly consisted of medical supplies, fatigues, boots and tobacco for the militiamen.⁸³ There followed ambulances and lorry convoys packed with more medical supplies, clothing and foodstuffs, but also tanks, planes, crew apparel and other items for the military effort that were not proscribed by the non-intervention agreement.⁸⁴ Whereas the Soviet trades union congress – or Profintern – sent funds directly to the Republican government, the ISF focused on providing the Republicans with the non-military aid they lacked most. To this end, they used the mandatory contributions and donations to the national branches. In Belgium, the Matteotti Fund saw its budget further increased following the cancellation of the militia program.⁸⁵ Material aid was collected in people’s houses or cooperatives, and sent off by lorry convoys, trains, cargo ships and less frequently by airplanes under the watchful eye of the custom officers’ union and affiliates of the International Transportation Federation (ITF). Military apparel and gear (excluding weapons) were ordered by the Spanish embassy’s chargés d’affaires Antonio Bolanos and Antonio Huerta. Sympathetic companies contributed goods on the behalf of socialist officials. For example, Huysmans lobbied for donations from the cap, gaiters and tarp producer Carlier Frères. ⁸⁶ Regardless of non-intervention,

 José Gotovitch, “Isabelle Blume (1892– 1975)” (Brussels: CArCoB, 1995), accessed 5 January 2019, www.carcob.eu/IMG/pdf/biographie_isabelle_blume.pdf.  Stanley Payne, The Spanish Civil War, the Soviet Union, and Communism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 129 – 130.  IISG, SAI, 2764/37– 41, Fonds International de Solidarite´ pour l’Espagne, “Rapport Inte´rimaire,” 4 Septembre 1936, 4– 5.  Denuit-Somerhausen, “La Belgique au Comité de non-intervention,” 26 – 27.  Amsab-ISG, Bureau du POB, 1937– 10 – 01_bwp_BU.pdf, 306.  Antwerp, Archief en Museum voor het Vlaamse Cultuurleven-Letterenhuis, Archives Camille Huysmans, F/105/1a/10 – 16.

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there could also be light weaponry and ammunition concealed in the shipments, which explained their confidential character.⁸⁷

Expanding the relief initiative BWP/POB’s secretary Jean Delvigne first went to Madrid in September 1936 as part of the delegation that created the ISF’s Spanish Committee, against the backdrop of the nationalists’ offensive on Madrid.⁸⁸ After a stalemate was reached thanks to Soviet weapons, Delvigne returned to re-establish contact. He also wrote an article expressing his frustration over the non-military character of the socialist aid: But, what have we done for the Spanish people? Nothing. Yet by its innumerable gifts, by its moving proofs of solidarity, the working class of our country has clearly shown that it was heart and soul with the workers attacked by the generals who had broken their oath. We have only been able to translate this into platonic resolutions.⁸⁹

It is worth asking what more could have been done in the restrictive context of non-intervention. Moreover, Delvigne was already facing legal sanctions over the BWP/POB’s gun trafficking scheme. The priority for the Belgian social-internationalists thus became securing the involvement of the movement, namely through an increase of the scope and visibility of the initiative. The momentum became favourable in the winter of 1937 as Prime Minister Caballero and Air and Marine Minister Prieto sought to curb the communists’ growing influence in the state apparatus. Hence the talks regarding the establishment of a military hospital, of a Socialist International’s Bureau as well as of an increase of the socialist commissars in the International Brigades. Sanitary considerations, however, prevailed, as this corresponded to a strength of the Belgian socialists, and a need for the Republicans.

 Alcalá de Henares (Spain), Fundación Pablo Iglesias, AH 78 – 22, 9: Hernandez to Lamoneda, 15 December 1936; IISG, SAI, 479/14– 18, Fonds International de Solidarite´ pour l’Espagne: Rapport inte´rimaire arrê te´ le 4 septembre 1936, 4.  Relaxed non-intervention was certainly addressed off the record at this meeting. IISG, SAI, 479/19 – 24, Fonds de Solidarité International: Rapport de la Délégation en Espagne, du 10 au 21 septembre 1936, 25 September 1936, 2; IISG, SAI, 2763a/35 – 36: Friedrich Adler aux secre´tariats de l’UGT et du PSOE, 10 October 1936.  IISG, SAI, 20/3/24: “We have not yet done enough for Spain,” International Information, 29 December 1936, 500 – 501; “Jean Delvigne en Barcelona,” La Vanguardia, 17 December 1936, 2.

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Fig. 6: Isabelle Blume and Max Buset visiting Republican Spain in February 1937. They were part of a BWP/POB parliamentary delegation headed by Camille Huysmans. Amsab-ISG, FO012927.

The Belgian socialist deputation formed by Huysmans, Buset, Blume, Anseele and Paul Finet visited Spain at the turn of February 1937 and came back fired up with enthusiasm. At the Bureau meeting on 5 February, Buset accused his peers of running the solidarity campaign as if “Franco would win” and shared his wariness that “the 2nd International would meet its death in Spain.”⁹⁰ He then criticized the ISF’s low profile campaigning, quoting the multiparty conference he had just coordinated: “We learned at this conference that both our internationals [LSI-IFTU] put 14 Million [Francs] at the disposal of Spain. Russians have the advantage of having their country behind them, but in regard to their International, it has accomplished less than ours, but in a more efficient and organized way than ours.”⁹¹ Thuin’s MP insisted that a permanent representative be dispatched and that a headquarters of the Socialist Internationals established in Valencia, at that time the capital. Little did he know that the Walloon secretary was already on his way, since he had just been nominated by Schevenels and Vandervelde.

 IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 2 May 1936, 77– 78.  Ibid.

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Delvigne took office on 12 February and wrote to his Flemish homologue De Block: “Tell me, how are things in the country of social-nationalism, how did our friends react to my departure? As for me, I am more than rejoiced to be facing danger with the comrades. My departure was a liberation as so many called me a coward.”⁹² His arrival coincided with the fall of Malaga. The terror bombings, the aerial gunning of refugee columns, the massacres, and especially, the lack of proper sanitary services for the wounded soldiers, soon led him to advocate for the creation of a military hospital “since we can’t provide weapons.”⁹³ In short, humanitarian considerations took precedence over political ones.

The Ontinyent military hospital A hospital project was first mentioned at the BWP/POB Women’s Committee meeting held in fall 1936, during which Marthe Huysmans, the daughter of the notable Camille, commented on her latest visit to Spain. Blume thereafter carried the project for she was a socialist MP and often sojourned in Spain. She secured support from Spanish Prime Ministers Caballero and his eventual replacement Juan Negrín, as well as from Spaak and De Man, who did not mind the relief initiative as long as it did not jeopardize non-intervention. She also enlisted the Brussels’ deputy Albert Marteaux, a public health specialist with wartime experience.⁹⁴ Finally, the Health Ministry remained in socialists’ hands after Vandervelde was replaced by Arthur Wauters in February 1937, meaning that the stars were aligned for the realization of the project. However, the ISF’s director Schevenels remained reluctant to invest large sums in a building that could be air bombed, while the Spanish sanitary services pressed for an ambulance fleet. The project was abandoned after the main financial backer, the American Federation of Labor, was convinced by the Republican ambassador in Washington, Fernando de los Ríos, to buy armaments instead.⁹⁵ Meanwhile, in Belgium, BWP/POB’s secretary De Block managed to secure the necessary funding. Marteaux, for his part, recruited the country’s top surgeon Robert Neuman, the Italian-Belgian antifascist surgeon Robert Crespy-

   

Amsab-ISG, August De Block, 211, 1/1: Delvigne to De Block, 18 September 1936. IISG, SAI, 2763E/108 – 109: Premier rapport. Gotovitch, “Isabelle Blume.” IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 25 February 1937, 123.

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Duclos, as well as a group of nurses of communist affiliation.⁹⁶ In short, the ISF’s hospital would largely be financed, administered and furnished by Belgian socialists, thus its Spanish nickname El Belga “the Belgian.” This contrasted with the IRA’s sanitary initiative that relied mainly on funds from the Republican government for its operations. The location also contrasted sharply, for the communists were granted a luxurious seaside complex in Benicassim, whereas the ISF received an austere ecclesiastical college in Ontinyent,⁹⁷ a village lost in the hills between Albacete and Alicante. The International Military Hospital , also known as El Belga, became functional in April and quickly reached its maximum capacity of a thousand beds. With its state of the art equipment, it constituted a unique model military hospital.⁹⁸ However, it was plagued from its inception by a governance crisis, namely a deadlock between ISF representative Delvigne and the quick-tempered administrator Marteaux who, moreover, advocated collaboration with the communists. Schevenels had warned his representative to keep a watchful eye on Marteaux, as well as on Blume, who also advocated unity of action. Whereas keeping Blume aloof from the hospital’s administration did not prove problematic, such was not the case with Marteaux, who felt this was his own project. Delvigne thought the same and believed he had precedence as a BWP/POB’s secretary, a LSI’s executive member, the Fund’s representative in Spain and now a major in the Republican army’s health services. Marteaux was a tough nut to crack and Delvigne soon bogged down as he tried desperately to regain the upper hand at the hospital, and by doing so, neglected his political duties in Valencia and at the frontline. He ultimately proved to be the weaker of the two. This internecine quarrel took a further toll on the ISF’s envoy, who was already affected by the smearing campaign back home. In July, Delvigne suddenly resigned from all socialist organizations. Ironically, he had become just like his nemesis Marteaux, an advocate of popular frontism, and was reprehended by Schevenels for being so. This was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, and Delvigne quit the ISF, the LSI and the BWP/POB altogether. Schevenels consequently asked the BWP/POB Bureau to replace him with De Block, only to receive a resounding no from Spaak, who added that the party was not at the ISF’s serv-

 A group of East European exiles who would come to be known as Las mam’ás belgas. See Sven Tuytens, “Vrijwilligsters uit België in El Belga, het militair hospitaal van Ontinyent tijdens de Spaanse Burgeroorlog (1936 – 1939),” Brood & Rozen 3 (2016): 32– 59.  Ontinyent in Valenciano language, Onteniente in Castellano.  The instructions of the radiographer were momentarily lost. See Le Populaire, 5 January 1938, 6; IISG, SAI, 2763G/40: Pour Adler, 30 October 1937.

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Fig. 7: Walter Schevenels (IFTU/ISF), Albert Marteaux (BWP/POB), Friedrich Adler (LSI) and Jean Delvigne (LSI/BWP in a Republican uniform. Picture taken in Ontinyent or Valencia. Marteaux and Jean Delvigne were at odds regarding the hospital’s administration, and both eventually resigned from the Belgian Workers’ Party as they felt not enough was done for the Republicans. Amsab-ISG, FO003525.

ice.⁹⁹ Since no permanent delegate could be found, De Block, Mechelen’s Federation secretary Antoon Spinoy and IFTU’s vice-secretary Georges Stolz took turns to ensure control over the initiative on the Spanish terrain. The hospital carried on.¹⁰⁰ Émile and his partner Jeanne Vandervelde visited Ontinyent in early 1938.¹⁰¹ Their presence coincided with the arrival of several hundred wounded from the Teruel debacle. In his memoirs, Le Patron wrote that the hospital worked to “perfection,” as patients and staff were “all bound by the deepest solidary sentiment in a common effort for freedom of Spain and the world.”¹⁰² He was especially impressed by the inscriptions on the medical apparatuses stating their origin, such as one “From Charleroi’s steel workers.” On the other hand, he lamented how communist propaganda had eclipsed the socialist initiative. The fear of an air raid might also explain Ontinyent’s scarce mentions in the press.

 IEV, Bureau du POB, 1937– 1938, 16 July 1937, 251– 253.  Ibid., 15 June 1937, 224, 226.  Jeanne Vandervelde headed the Belgian branch of the International Association of Women Doctors.  IISG, SAI, 2763G/47– 55: Émile Vandervelde, Au secours de l’Espagne (draft); “Emile y Jeanne Vandervelde: La labor de las Internacionales socialistas en favor de la España republicana,” La Vanguardia, 18 March 1938, 4; Rayet, “Onteniente,” 172.

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As the Republic’s new mobile army crossed the Ebro in July 1938, plans for the ISF’s sanitary network were ambitious: its ambulance fleet would be expanded to serve a growing network of frontline posts, a second hospital would be established in the Northern zone as requested by Blume, and both institutions would serve as medical schools once fascism was defeated. However, things did not go as planned and the evacuation of children began as the summer drew to its end. A colony of 5,000 children was created next to Ontinyent’s hospital at about that time. In late fall 1938, most of Ontinyent’s international staff was evacuated. In January 1939, it received the several casualties from the air bombing of the nearby Xativa railroad station, as well as the swarm of refugees pushed eastward by Franco’s advancing armies. After the area fell to the Nationalists in March 1939, its name was conveniently changed to “Hospital for Republican prisoners”. The building was ultimately handed back to the Franciscan monks who were delighted by its revamping on behalf of international socialist solidarity, while remaining oblivious to the presence of the LSI’s initials on the iron gate of the porch.¹⁰³

 The acronym and the iron gate are still in place today. For complementary information on the hospital, the readers of Valenciano and Castellano will consult Joan Josep Torró Martínez, El Collegi Nacional de Cecs: de Madrid evacuat a Ontinyent 1936 – 1939 (Ontinyent: Fantasma de los Sueños, 2015); Id., “Solidaritat socialista i ajuda me`dica a la causa republicana durant la Guerra Civil 1936 – 1939: l’Hospital Militar Internacional d’Ontinyent,” Afers 84 (2016): 1– 18; Id., “El hospital militar internacional de Ontinyent,” in La Guerra Civil en la Communidad Valenciana, vol. 10, ed. Albert Girona Albuixech and Jose´ Miguel Santacreu Soler (Valencia: Prensa Valenciana, 2007), 114– 115; Manuel Requena Gallego and Rosa Maria Sepúlveda Losa, La sanidad en la Brigadas Internacionales (Madrid: Universidad Castilla La Mancha, 2006), 165. See also Juan Josep Torró Martínez, “Educació i societat a Ontinyent (1800 – 1975)” (PhD diss., University of Valencia, 2016); Id., Ontinyent 1937 – 1939: hospital militar internacional, solidaridad en tiempos de guerra (Valencia: Edicions96, forthcoming). Torró Martínez is also working on a documentary on Ontinyent’s children refugees. See Nicolas Lépine, “De Belgische Werkliedenpartij en de solidariteit met het republikeinse Spanje (1936 – 1937),” Brood & Rozen 3 (2014), 4– 23; Id., “El Belga: het militair hospitaal van het Internationaal Solidariteitsfonds dat niemand kende (Spanje, 1937– 1939),” Brood & Rozen, 3 (2016), 5 – 31; Sven Tuytens, “Vrijwilligsters uit België in El Belga.” Tuytens has produced a documentary on the Belgian nurses in collaboration with J. J. Torró Martínez of Ontinyent’s city council and Professor Rudi Van Doorslaer. Les mamàs belgues was first aired in Ontinyent on April 2016 with Amsab-ISG director Geert Van Goethem as special guest.

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One last major effort: the commitment to the displaced The Ebro Army now laid in shambles, Franco and his allies kept advancing toward the Mediterranean while terror bombings wreaked havoc. The ISF worked hard to relocate children, and the socialist women took an active part in that matter. Alice Pels, the head of the LSI’s Women’s Committee, kept pressing Schevenels to widen the span of the socialist Children’s fund. The latter replied that the ISF was overwhelmed but would nonetheless gather 15 million French francs for the establishment of five colonies in Catalonia and a dozen more in southern France. Pels also asked her own affiliates to increase donations for operations to shelter children and their families, while suggesting to the poorest militants to get involved in knitting clubs.¹⁰⁴ Isabelle Blume insisted on her behalf that all affiliates augment their commitment to the youngest Republicans, “since we can’t provide them with weapons, let’s relieve our comrades of the worry of having their children in the rearguard.”¹⁰⁵ By focusing on humanitarian matters, she succeeded in creating her own transnational network that proved useful where other avenues failed. For example, she convinced Prime Minister Spaak to secure the funding of colonies by the French and British governments.¹⁰⁶ Many more children were sent to Belgium and other countries through the socialist network, and several were adopted by devoted militant families like Blume’s.¹⁰⁷ As Barcelona fell in late January 1939, Blume pleaded with the General Council of the BWP/POB for more involvement, while raising awareness in parliament over refugees and terror bombings.¹⁰⁸ She then rushed to the border and collaborated closely with the ISF, the French trade union congress and the Republican authorities to organize an exile that soon proved a humanitarian crisis. Hundreds of thousands of refugees crossed the border in the most dire condi-

 IISG, SAI, 3402: Alice Pels, Rapport sur l’activite´ du Comite´ international des femmes de l’IOS (pe´riode s’e´tendant du 15 septembre 1937 au 15 juillet 1938), pour la session du Comite´ international des femmes de l’IOS a` Bruxelles, les 27 et 28 aoû t 1938; IISG, SAI, 3402: Annexe C: Lettre du Camarade Schevenels a` Alice Pels, 3 septembre 1938; IISG, SAI, 2763i/19 – 23, Fonds International de Solidarite´: Action de secours pour l’Espagne, juillet 1936 – 1er de´cembre 1938, 3.  IISG, SAI, 516/3 – 4: Communication de la Citoyenne Isabelle Blume.  Amsab-ISG, Séance du Conseil général, 21 November 1938, 1938 – 11– 21_bwp_AR.pdf, 8 – 9; IISG, SAI, 516/3 – 4: Communication de la Citoyenne Isabelle Blume.  Gotovitch, “Isabelle Blume,” 5.  Amsab-ISG, Se´ance du Conseil ge´ne´ral, 1939 – 01– 25_bwp_AR.pdf, 2.

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tions, only to be interned in concentration camps at Argeles and Saint-Cyprien, with the Red Cross barely noticeable.¹⁰⁹ She secured further involvement from the Belgian parliament, an initiative unhindered by Spaak’s efforts to recognize the Rebels’ junta. The Republic was agonizing and the Matteotti Fund’s finances stretched to the limit. At the BWP/POB’s Bureau, Gailly worried over this strain on the country’s military preparedness, while complaining that “as always, France, Belgium and maybe England will make the greatest sacrifice.”¹¹⁰ The consensus was nonetheless maintained over the necessity of aiding the mass of refugees, and especially the PSOE-UGT cadres and militants before they could cross to Mexico, where an exiled Republican government was being established.¹¹¹ In the end, from July 1936 to December 1938, the ISF raised 35 million French francs (FF) for Republican Spain. Belgium ranked third amongst donors with 5.2 million FF, Sweden second with 6.2 million FF, and the UK first with 14.2 million FF.¹¹² Unfortunately there is nothing in the archives regarding donations in the first half of 1939, when the collection of funds apparently peaked. In short, the transnational relief effort of the Belgian socialists was much more important than the “bourgeois” or communist initiatives, even though it was one-sided or committed to maintaining the unilateral engagement of the BWP/POB toward the Republican camp.

Conclusion and aftermath Despite the bitter internecine struggle over the Spanish question, the BWP/POB kept its unity and found a middle ground between the social-nationalist and internationalist stances. The result was a large solidarity campaign that supported the Republicans politically, morally, materially and humanitarianly. This took place in the restrictive context of mains libres, appeasement and non-intervention, three policies that fostered isolationism, undermined collective security, and thus cleared the path for the fascist powers. More precisely, the contribu-

 Amsab-ISG, Bureau du POB, 1939 – 02– 27_bwp_BU.pdf, 1.  Amsab-ISG, Bureau du POB, 1939 – 03 – 06_bwp_BU.pdf, 7– 8 and 1939 – 02– 27_bwp_ BU.pdf, 1– 2.  Amsab-ISG, Se´ance du Conseil ge´ne´ral, 1939 – 01– 25_bwp_AR.pdf, 2 and Bureau du POB, 1939 – 02– 27_bwp_BU.pdf, 1.  France would have been first, but the CGT insisted on waging her campaign outside of the ISF. See IISG, SAI, 2763i/19 – 23, Fonds International de Solidarité: Action de secours pour l’Espagne, juillet 1936 – 1er décembre 1938, 3.

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tions of the BWP/POB were defending the Republic’s legitimacy and interests in the public sphere, sending tons of material aid, and establishing a sanitary network and relocating refugees. The efforts were not vain: the example set by the BWP/POB inspired the first generation of postwar NGOs.¹¹³ One such NGO was socialist and re-emerged to help once more the Spanish affiliates. Max Buset is indeed known for recasting the Socialist International, but less known for recasting the Matteotti Fund, which became the Comité d’aide aux socialistes espagnols. The Comité funded the clandestine operations of the PSOEUGT (including guerilla warfare), defended jailed activists and supported the exiled community. The relief fund was expanded into Entraide Socialiste, which in Buset’s words “was about creating a socialist workers’ alternative to the humanitarian funds of our political adversaries, like Caritas Catholica, Entraide Libérale and the communists’ Notre solidarité.”¹¹⁴ Isabelle Blume also proved fundamental in establishing Entraide Socialiste and securing the transnational umbrella organization within the new Socialist International.¹¹⁵ Furthermore, she remained faithful to her habit of prioritizing solidarity over party allegiance, as she got involved in communist initiatives opposing Western integration, such as the campaign against the Marshall Plan and the World Peace Council.¹¹⁶ Yet, what got her expelled from the socialist party was her opposition to Spaak’s Atlanticism, which she equated with the policy of pacts that had precipitated the world wars.¹¹⁷ She consequently spent the rest of the 1950s as an independent, and ultimately joined her son Jean in the Communist Party. One last word on Spaak. In the postwar, he became prime minister three times, general secretary of NATO, worked for European unification and clashed repeatedly with Henri Rolin over the question of German rearmament. He was finally expelled from the party’s Bureau in the mid-1960s, due to his support for the establishment of the NATO headquarters in Brussels. Spaak consequently defected, not to the Liberal Party (as one could expect), but to the International Tel-

 Stangeherlin writes that the origins of the first generation of postwar NGOs stem from the Catholic interwar experience, although he concedes that the BWP/POB’s initiative during the Spanish Civil War (that he anachronistically calls Entraide Socialiste) played a fundamental part in the eventual creation of the Fonds pour la Coopération that was most active during decolonization. Gregor Stangherlin, “Les organisations non gouvernementales de coopération au développement,” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 1714– 1715 (2001/9): 6, 8 – 9.  IEV, Fonds Max Buset, 80B: Entraide socialiste internationale, 1948 – 1951.  IEV, Fonds Max Buset, 165: Relations internationales, contacts du POB avec les pays étrangers, 1947, 7; “La conférence socialiste internationale d’Anvers a terminé ses travaux lundi soir,” Le Peuple, 2 December 1947, 1– 2.  Gotovitch, “Isabelle Blume,” 7.  Conord, “Paul-Henri Spaak,” 16.

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ephone and Telegraph Company, an American multinational known for its collaboration with the Central Intelligence Agency. Ironically, Buset, Blume and Rolin now opposed Western integration, whereas Spaak championed it.

Abbreviations BWP/POB: CAUR: CGT: CGTB: DKW: FPHS: FSI: IEV: IFTU: IISG: INR: IOS: IPU: IRA: ISF: KPB/PCB: LSI: PHS: PSOE: SAI: SFIO: VNV: UGT:

Belgische Werkliedenpartij/Parti ouvrier belge (Belgian Workers’ Party) Comitati d’azione per l’Universalità di Roma (Mussolini’s International) Confédération générale du travail ((French) General Confederation of Labor) Centrale générale du travail de Belgique (Belgian General Labor Union) Dampf Kraft Wagen Fondation Paul-Henri Spaak Fonds International de Solidarité (International Solidarity Fund) Institut Émile Vandervelde International Federation of Trade Unions Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (International Institute of Social History) Institut national de radiodiffusion (Belgian National Broadcasting Institute) Internationale Ouvrière et Socialiste (Labor and Socialist International) Inter-Parliamentary Union International Red Aid International Solidarity Fund Kommunistische Partij van België/Parti communiste de Belgique (Communist Party of Belgium) Labor and Socialist International Fonds Paul-Henri Spaak Partido Socialista Obrero Español (Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party) Archives of the LSI Section française de l’Internationale socialiste (French Section of the Socialist International) Vlaams National Verbond (Flemish National Union) Unión General de Trabajadores (General Workers’ Union)

Bibliography Alpert, Micheal. A New International History of the Spanish Civil War. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 1994. Arboit, Gérald. Des services secrets pour la France. Du Dépôt de la Guerre à la DGSE, 1856 – 2013. Paris: CNRS Éditions, 2014. Balace, Francis. “La droite belge et l’aide à Franco.” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis – Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 18/3 – 4 (1987): 505 – 689.

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Bantman, Constance, and Bert Altena, eds. Reassessing the Transnational Turn: Scales of Analysis in Anarchist and Syndicalist Studies. Oakland: PMP Press, 2017. Beevor, Antony. The Spanish Civil War. London: Penguin, 2001. Buchanan, Tom. The Spanish Civil War and the British Labour Movement. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Casanova, Marina. “Las relaciones diploma´ticas hispano-belgas durante la Guerra Civil espan˜ ola: el caso del Baro´n de Borchgrave.” Historia Contemporanea Serie V (1992): 293 – 302. Conord, Fabien. “Paul-Henri Spaak, héraut ou soliste du socialisme belge?” Canadian Journal of History / Annales canadiennes d’histoire 49 (2014): 1 – 30. Coolsaert, Rick, Vincent Dujardin, and Claude Roosen. Les Affaires étrangères au service de l’état belge de 1830 à nos jours. Brussels: Mardaga, 2014. De Man, Hendrik. Herinneringen. Antwerp: De Sikkel, 1941. Denuit-Somerhausen, Christine. “La Belgique au Comité de non-intervention en Espagne.” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis – Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 18/1 – 2 (1987): 15 – 38. Dumoulin, Michel. Nouvelle histoire de Belgique. Vol. 2: 1905 – 1950. Brussels: Complexe, 2005. Dumoulin, Michel. Spaak. Brussels: Racine, 1999. Fernandez-Soriano, Victor. “Bélgica y la Guerra Civil Española: el impacto del conflicto español en la política y la diplomacia de una pequeña potencia.” Cuadernos de Historia Contempora´nea 29 (2007): 219 – 233. Forcade, Olivier. La République secrète. Histoire des services spéciaux français de 1918 à 1939. Paris: NME, 2008. Gotovitch, José. “Isabelle Blume (1892 – 1975).” Brussels: CArCoB, 1995. Accessed 5 January 2019. www.carcob.eu/IMG/pdf/biographie_isabelle_blume.pdf. Gotovitch, José, and Anne Morelli, eds. Les solidarités internationales: histoire et perspectives. Brussels: Labor, 2003. Gotovitch, José. “Histoire du Parti communiste de Belgique.” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 1582 (1997/37): 1 – 36. Gotovitch José. “La Belgique et la Guerre civile espagnole: un e´tat des questions.” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis – Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 14/3 – 4 (1983): 497 – 532. Gunsburg, Jeffery A. “La Grande Illusion: Belgian and Dutch Strategy Facing Germany, 1919– May 1940 (Part I).” Journal of Military History 78/1 (2014): 101 – 158. Helmreich, Jonathan E. Belgium and Europe. The Hague: Mouton, 1976. Hunin, Jan. Het enfant terrible Camille Huysmans, 1871 – 1968. Amsterdam: Meulenhoff-Kritak, 1999. Imlay, Talbot C. The Practice of Socialist Internationalism: European Socialists and International politics, 1914 – 1960. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018. Imlay, Talbot C. “The Practice of Social Internationalism during the Twentieth Century.” Moving the Social 55 (2016): 17 – 38. Kieft, David O. Belgium’s Return to Neutrality. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972. Lépine, Nicolas. “De Belgische Werkliedenpartij en de solidariteit met het republikeinse Spanje (1936 – 1937).” Brood & Rozen 3 (2014): 4 – 23.

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Lépine. Nicolas. “El Belga: het militair hospitaal van het Internationaal Solidariteitsfonds dat niemand kende (Spanje, 1937 – 1939).” Brood & Rozen, 3 (2016): 5 – 31. Lépine, Nicolas. Review of Reassessing the Transnational Turn: Scales of Analysis in Anarchist and Syndicalist Studies, edited by Constance Bantman and Bert Altena, H-Socialisms / H-Net Reviews, October 2018. www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id= 50188. Liebman, Marcel. “P.-H. Spaak ou la politique du cynisme, éléments pour une étude biographique.” Fondation Marcel Liebman 26 (1972): 1 – 22. Morreli, Anne. “Les Italiens de Belgique face à la Guerre d’Espagne.” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis – Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 1 – 2 (1987): 187 – 214. Payne, Stanley. The Spanish Civil War, the Soviet Union, and Communism. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004. Petersson, Fredrik. “In Control of Solidarity? Willi Mü nzenberg, the Workers’ International Relief and League against Imperialism, 1921 – 1935.” Comintern Working Paper 8 (2007): 1 – 21. Polasky, Janet. “The Insider as Outsider: Emile Vandervelde and the Spanish Civil War.” Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 1 – 2 (1987): 343 – 355. Polasky, Janet. The Democratic Socialism of Emile Vandervelde: Between Reform and Revolution. Oxford: Berg, 1995. Rapone, Leonardo. “La crisi finale dell’Internazionale operaia e socialista.” In I socialisti e l’Europa, 37 – 93. Milan: Angeli, 1989. Rapone, Leonardo. La socialdemocrazia europea tra le due guerre. Dall’organizzazione della pace alla resistenza al fascismo 1923 – 1936. Rome: Carocci, 1999. Rayet, Elsa. “Onteniente et la Guerre d’Espagne.” Cahiers marxistes 213 (1999): 145 – 178. Requena Gallego, Manuel, and Rosa Maria Sepúlveda Losa. La sanidad en la Brigadas Internacionales. Madrid: Universidad Castilla La Mancha, 2006. Salmon, Jean. “La reconnaissance du gouvernement de Burgos.” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis – Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 18 (1987): 125 – 155. Saunier, Pierre-Yves. Transnational History. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Sluga, Glenda, and Patricia Clavin, eds. Internationalisms: A Twentieth-Century History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Soria, George. Guerre et re´volution en Espagne, 1936 – 1939. Vol. 2. Paris: Laffont, 1976. Spaak, Paul-Henri. Combats inacheve´s. Brussels: Fayard, 1969. Stangherlin, Gregor. “Les organisations non gouvernementales de coopération au développement.” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 1714 – 1715 (2001/9). Tolleneer, Jan, and Eric Box. “An Alternative Sport Festival: The Third Workers’ Olympics Antwerp.” Stadion 12 (June 1986): 183 – 190. Torró Martínez, Juan Josep. Ontinyent 1937 – 1939: hospital militar Internacional, solidaridad en tiempos de guerra. Valencia: Edicions96 (forthcoming). Torró Martínez, Juan Josep. Educació i societat a Ontinyent (1800 – 1975). PhD diss., University of Valencia, 2016. Torró Martínez, Juan Josep. “Solidaritat socialista i ajuda me`dica a la causa republicana durant la Guerra Civil 1936 – 1939: l’Hospital Militar Internacional d’Ontinyent.” Afers 84 (2016): 1 – 18.

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Torró Martínez, Juan Josep. El Collegi Nacional de Cecs: de Madrid evacuat a Ontinyent 1936 – 1939. Ontinyent: Fantasma de los Sueños. 2015. Torró Martínez, Juan Josep. “El hospital militar internacional de Ontinyent.” In La Guerra Civil en la Communidad Valenciana, vol. 10, edited by Albert Girona Albuixech and Jose´ Miguel Santacreu Soler, 106 – 115. Valencia: Prensa Valenciana, 2007. Tuytens, Sven. “Vrijwilligsters uit België in El Belga, het militair hospitaal van Ontinyent tijdens de Spaanse Burgeroorlog (1936 – 1939).” Brood & Rozen 3 (2016): 32 – 59. Vargas Visu´s, Jorge. “Bélgica y la Guerra de Espan˜ a.” PhD diss., University of Zaragoza, 2018. Vargas Visu´s, Jorge. “El impacto de la Guerra Civil española en el Partido Obrero Belga.” Ayer 111 (2018): 225 – 252. Verhoeyen, Étienne. “Les achats d’armes de la Cagoule en Belgique: chronique d’un échec annoncé.” In Tegendraadse criminologie, edited by Elke Devroe, 473 – 482. Antwerp: Maklu, 2012. Viñas, Ángel. Al servicio de la República: diplomáticos y Guerra Civil. Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2010. Vincineau, Michel. “La guerre civile espagnole, les exportations belges d’armes.” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis – Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 18/1 – 2 (1987): 81 – 123.

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Chapter 4 “23a Paradise,” a Dutch “Salon” in North London Rosey E. Pool’s Promotion of African American Poetry (1950s – 1960s) During the 1950s and 1960s, the London home of the Dutch writer and translator Rosey E. Pool (1905 – 1971) often buzzed with key figures from the Black Atlantic, such as Langston Hughes, Julia Fields, Earle Hyman, Gordon Heath, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Arthur Spingarn. Her home at 23a Highpoint in North London offered visitors opportunities to meet likeminded people in a very informal setting, offering a “safe space” for activists and artists who fought against South African apartheid, American racial segregation, and colonization. The visits to Rosey Pool’s London home reveal a hidden yet important “contact zone” of the Black Atlantic of the 1950s and 1960s. It provided great opportunities for Black authors to be published and to be read by Western European and American readers alike. In one photograph from May 1962 taken at 23a Highpoint, we see the Ghanaian journalist Frank Parkes (1932– 2004, center), who is discussing a publication with South African writer Bloke Modisane (1923 – 1986, left) and the American National Association for the Advancement of Colored People’s (NAACP) president Arthur Spingarn (1878 – 1971). Rosey Pool is not included since she snapped the shot. Pool’s small living room at times connected three continents and multiple histories during the time of decolonization, the Civil Rights Movement and the Cold War. Rosey Pool’s home became an intimate place for get-togethers and political discussions. Its importance can be understood through the lens of mobility. Mary Louise Pratt defined “contact zones” as “[…] social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of power, such as colonialism, slavery, or their aftermaths as they are lived out in many parts of the world today.”¹ In a rapidly changing world with shifting power relations, a focus on mobility opens up new perspec-

The research for this article was partially conducted at the British Library in London as a Postgraduate Fellow of the Eccles Centre and the British Association for American Studies.  Mary Louise Pratt, “Arts of the Contact Zone,” Profession (1991): 34. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-005

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Fig. 8: A meeting at 23a Highpoint, London, May 1962. From left to right: South African writer Bloke Modisane (1923 – 1986); Ghanaian journalist Frank Parkes (1932 – 2004); and Arthur Spingarn (1878 – 1971), founding member of the NAACP. Personal photo album of Rosey E. Pool / Personal archives of Rudi Wesselius.

tives on this “salon” in the old Continent. As a cultural mobilizer,² Rosey Pool combined culture with politics, and brought together the personal and political. Mobility was a central notion to the people evoked in this chapter, who moved between different countries, cultures and contexts, while at the same time mobilizing others in their politically informed practices of consciousness raising. The various contact zones where they met allowed them to negotiate different perspectives on empire, race, and religion. Literature provided a common theme for many of these intellectuals from the African diaspora. As Shane Graham has mentioned before, Black Atlantic literature can be considered a space in itself.³ This chapter argues that the poetry anthologies compiled by Rosey Pool bonded people together, sometimes in a

 Stephen Greenblatt, Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 251.  Shane Graham, “Black Atlantic Literature as Transnational Cultural Space,” Literature Compass 10 (2013): 508 – 518.

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very literal sense. Publications provided a background for discussions, and publications were an important precondition for the creation of contact zones. Rosey Pool’s “salon” was a meeting place of (former) fellow travelers, antiimperialists, socialists and communists, but also attracted gay men, lesbians, Blacks and Jews. It is impossible to say how much these people felt solidarity for each other’s personal and political struggles. This was before the age of identity politics and gay liberation of the late 1960s and 1970s. However, social theorists have emphasized the importance of collective identities, a “shared definition of a group that derives from members’ common interests, experiences, and solidarity.”⁴ These collective identities could have great potential for activism. Kimberlé Crenshaw already concluded in her seminal essay on intersectionality that “organized identity groups” can be seen as “potential coalitions.”⁵ In this respect, it is clear that there is great potential here in terms of solidarity. From a more critical perspective, it has also been argued that the intersection of multiple identities – which the case of Pool and many in her network emphasized – could lead to “intersectional invisibility.” Compared to individuals with a “single” issue, individuals with multiple subordinate-group identities are often non-prototypical members of their respective identity groups, rendering them less visible and perhaps also less committed to a single goal.⁶ This also explains why Rosey Pool, and many figures in her network, have remained invisible for so long in historiography. The “safe space” she offered in the private quarters of her home was, however, very real. The visitors seem to have been coming from many parts of the world, fighting for different causes. Yet, the general context of the Cold War turned them in Schicksalsgenossen, or “fellow sufferers,” united by chance through a partly unchosen, partly self-chosen “otherness.” Their “otherness” in the conservative societies they lived in might have brought them together, as they each faced oppression or discrimination. In a hostile Cold War climate, a home away from home across the Atlantic was thus much wanted and needed.

 Verta Taylor and Nancy E. Whittier, “Collective Identity in Social Movement Communities: Lesbian Feminist Mobilization,” in Frontiers in Social Movement Theory, ed. Aldon D. Morris and Carol McClurg Mueller (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), 104.  Kimberlé Crenshaw, “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color,” Stanford Law Review 43/6 (1991): 1299.  Valerie Purdie-Vaughns and Richard P. Eibach, “Intersectional Invisibility: The Distinctive Advantages and Disadvantages of Multiple Subordinate-group Identities,” Sex Roles 59/5 – 6 (2008): 378.

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Rosey Pool Rosey E. Pool (1905 – 1971) was a Dutch translator, educator, and anthologist of African American poetry. She grew up in a secular Jewish family in Amsterdam. She was active in a variety of left-wing Popular Front movements, and occasionally in communist groups, before she moved to Berlin in the late 1920s where she studied English Literature. Shortly after the Kristallnacht of November 1938 she returned to Amsterdam, where she worked as a translator and teacher (one of her pupils was Anne Frank). When World War II broke out, she became involved in a German Jewish resistance group. In 1943, she was held in the Nazi transit camp of Westerbork, where she witnessed her parents and brother get deported to Nazi death camps. Pool was able to escape with the support of her resistance group. She survived the war by hiding for eighteen months with family and friends. She was one of the very few members of her family to survive the Holocaust. Shortly after she had returned from hiding, she found a new purpose in life: Black poetry, with a special focus on American poets. Pool thought that poets had a special role in society: “To be a writer, poet or artist,” Pool wrote, “means to be a person with more than ordinary sensitiveness […].”⁷ And Black poets were even more special – Pool considered them the conscience of society. Already as a student she had been fascinated by African American poetry, especially by Countee Cullen, who could describe discrimination in a few simple yet powerful verses. Pool’s wartime experiences enflamed her interest in Black poetry into a fierce activism and a deep commitment to the Black cause. She herself remarked: “That piece of yellow cotton became my black skin.”⁸ Intersectionality was thus a central theme in her personal and professional life. During the 1950s and 1960s, she became a tireless promoter of Black poetry as part of the fight against (American) segregation as well as racism and discrimination in general. Pursuing these goals, she visited the Deep South on multiple occasions, both with a Fulbright grant and as a visiting scholar with the United Negro College Fund (UNCF). In the US, she repeatedly referred to her past as a World War II freedom fighter, stressing that her experiences under the German occupation “made cruel realities of segregation, persecution and racial discrimination.”⁹ It

 Rosey E. Pool, ed., Beyond the Blues: New Poems by American Negroes (Kent: Hand and Flower Press, 1962), 19.  University of Sussex, The Keep Special Collections, Rosey Pool Collection, SxMs19/11/1/2: Documentation Zielen vol soul, “Mijn zwarte ziel …,” 1.  “Clark To Hear World War II Dutch Leader,” Atlanta Daily World, 9 February 1960, 4.

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is interesting that she often minimized her Jewish background or even outright denied it. Instead, she emphasized her Dutchness and her past as a resistance fighter. Between 1958 and 1965 Pool edited several groundbreaking anthologies that were published many years before any major American anthologies on Black poetry appeared. These works greatly contributed to a “second Renaissance” of African American poetry, the first one being the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s.¹⁰ In these publications, she consciously used her position as a “Caucasian” woman from the old continent to inspire more respect for Black poetry and thereby Black culture. Her Dutchness was often highlighted in these publications. Her 1965 anthology Ik ben de nieuwe neger (“I Am the New Negro”) had as an explanatory title “poetry, rhymes, songs and documents of 300 year resistance of the American negro.” The use of the Dutch word verzet in the mid-1960s undeniably referred to the Dutch resistance against Nazi Germany during the Second World War. Emphasizing this connection, in the very first pages, Pool thanked the three people that offered her a hiding place after she had escaped from Westerbork, by dedicating to them a poem by the African American poet Mari Evans. The introduction of the book was from historian Jan Willem Schulte Nordholt (1920 – 1995), a specialist in African American history who had been arrested during the war for distributing the underground newspaper Vrij Nederland. This also shows how Pool consciously used Dutch history to make claims about injustices in the US.

Black London After the Holocaust, Pool felt estranged from the Netherlands. On the other side of the North Sea she felt at home again: “London has gained warmth through the presence of decolonized immigrants,” she wrote. “In spite of the problems, real and imagined, the great capital has gained in color, tone, and relaxation.”¹¹ Pool moved in with her friend Ursel “Isa” Isenburg (1901– 1987), whom she knew from her Berlin days. Isenburg was a German Jewish radiologist, who had come to London in 1936 together with her mother and sister. “She was a gaunt, Prussian lady, brusque and angular,” a friend remembered, “tailored suits, short hair,  Julius E. Thompson, Dudley Randall, Broadside Press, and the Black Arts Movement in Detroit, 1960 – 1995. (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1999), 24; Melba Joyce Boyd, Wrestling With the Muse: Dudley Randall and the Broadside Press (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2004), 111.  Sussex, SxMs19/11/3/18, Rosey Pool, “As Waves of One Sea” [English manuscript of Lachen om niet te huilen], 3.

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Fig. 9: Cover of Rosey E. Pool, Ik ben de nieuwe neger. Gedichten, rijmen, liedjes en dokumenten uit 300 jaar verzet van de Amerikaanse neger (Den Haag: Bert Bakker Daamen, 1965). The introduction is by Jan Willem Schulte Nordholt.

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and, in all matters, skeptical.”¹² In March 1949 Pool moved in with Isenburg in her 1930s modernist flat in North London, which is now known as one of Britain’s most iconic modernist buildings. The home itself was very small – around 45 square meters (500 square feet). It consisted of two small rooms with a kitchen and a bath, but in particular the balcony was something special as it offered a view of London both to the west and to the east. Their apartment at 23a Highpoint, Highgate (that Pool liked to call “the highest point of London”) soon became a hub for cultural and political activities in post-war Black London. England had played an important role for people of the African diaspora, dating back to the late eighteenth century, when the country offered (white) abolitionists a neutral ground. The imperial capital of London was at the centre of this. By the mid-twentieth century the city greatly contributed to a growing awareness of a global Black community.¹³ After the war, London became a magnet for people from Britain’s colonies and former colonies.¹⁴ England, and London in particular, never failed to make an impression on Black visitors. Famous Black Londoners included the American opera singer and actor Paul Robeson¹⁵ and his wife Essie Robeson, the Trinidadian Pan-Africanist writer George Padmore, and the Trinidadian journalist and activist Claudia Jones. The people who visited Rosey Pool at 23a Highpoint thus not only visited her, but also came to see the city they had often dreamt about for years. When Pool moved to London, she quickly connected with the Black London communities. She often went to places such as the West African Arts Club and the International Language Club in Croydon, where African students, Caribbean migrants and African Americans travelers met. By the late 1940s Pool was already acquainted with leading figures from the London Caribbean theater scene, including the singer and actor Edric Connor, and the American, London-based singer Elisabeth Welch.¹⁶ Pool also got to know the British actress Cleo Laine and the American playwright Vinnette Carroll. By the late 1950s, Pool had built up an impressive network with hundreds of individuals, mostly Americans. She held close contact with major figures such as Langston Hughes, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Arthur Spingarn, but what most enriched her social capital

 Gordon Heath, Deep Are the Roots: Memoirs of a Black Expatriate (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 1992), 88.  Marc Matera, Black London: The Imperial Metropolis and Decolonization in the Twentieth Century (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2015), 24.  James Procter, ed., Writing Black Britain 1948 – 1998. An Interdisciplinary Anthology (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), 13.  Jan Carew, “Paul Robeson and W.E.B. Du Bois in London,” Race & Class 46/2 (2004): 48.  Heath, Deep Are the Roots, 87.

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was a high number of what are called “weak ties” in network theory.¹⁷ These weak ties depended on on-and-off correspondence, sometimes consisting even of a single letter. However, such letters could be of great significance, as her correspondents included the Senegalese president Léopold Senghor, the poet James Baldwin, and the novelist Ann Petry. Thanks to this vast network, African Americans passing through London were eager to meet Rosey Pool. Her genuine interest in Black culture often was a great icebreaker. When the African American actor Gordon Heath met Pool for the first time in 1947, backstage in a London theater, he was amazed by her in-depth knowledge of Black culture. “How did this roly-poly Dutch lady who had never set foot in America come by her firmly-held opinions, her acute perceptions, her formidable intuitions, her informed passions?”¹⁸ For hours they talked about Black theater, Black poetry and Black art. To journalists, Pool described herself as a Dutch “expert of Negro literature.”¹⁹ And that was not far off: many of her American friends were amazed at how she had memorized not only whole poems but also plays and even entire operas (!). She had compiled her first collection of African American poetry when she was in hiding during World War II. Because books were scarce, she had written down all the poems down by heart.²⁰ That was why Langston Hughes described her – in highly racialized and essentialist terms – as “a Dutch bonbon bar.”²¹ Meaning: white on the outside, but Black on the inside. A great deal has been written on the role of white patrons towards Black writers and artists of the 1920s Harlem Renaissance or “New Negro Renaissance.” Often, these white sponsors not only financed and stimulated Black aspiring artists but simultaneously exploited them in the process.²² Although their profiles could vary, most of these patrons were white philanthropists with good intentions who wanted to question the color divide. There was, however, a thin

 Mark S. Granovetter, “The Strength of Weak Ties,” American Journal of Sociology 78/6 (1973): 1360 – 1380.  Sussex, SxMs19/13/1: Memorial Volume: Gordon Heath [1972].  Sussex, SxMs19/14/1/8: Scrapbook 1962– 1963, n.p. “Nederlandse vrouw expert van de negerliteratuur,” Algemeen Dagblad, 19 April 1966, n.p.  Sussex, SxMs19/12/2/4: “First collection” [ca. 1939 – 1940].  Shane Graham and John Walters, eds., Langston Hughes and the South African Drum Generation: The Correspondence (New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 145: Letter Langston Hughes to Bloke Modisane, 14 May 1962.  Bruce Kellner, “‘Refined racism.’ White patronage in the Harlem Renaissance,” in The Harlem Renaissance, ed. Harold Bloom (Philadelphia, PA: Chelsea House Publishers, 2004), 53 – 66; Carla Kaplan, Miss Anne in Harlem: The White Women of the Black Renaissance (New York, NY: Harper, 2013).

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line between patronage and patronizing, and some of these patrons actually upheld power hierarchies by stimulating their own careers through parasitizing on a primitivist notion of Black culture. Although most research on white patrons focuses on the interwar period, the phenomenon of white patronage was not unique to the Harlem Renaissance, and the later contribution of Rosey Pool raises the issue of whether she should be considered a “patron” for the Black Atlantic. She is even labeled as such in the finding aid of her papers at Howard University (Washington DC).²³ Pool was conscious of her whiteness or “Blanchitude” as she called it. She used her position as a “Caucasian” woman from the old continent to create more respect for Black poetry and thereby Black culture. In this process she also envisioned a role, perhaps even a mission for herself as well. However, due to the limited financial support she could offer and because she lived outside of the US, she had a different role than other patrons. She appears more as a spokesperson of an oppressed minority and a moral authority. Her background as freedom fighter and Holocaust survivor, but also as a Dutch woman, was of great importance in her role as an activist. Although in a “voluntary exile,” Pool never forgot about the Netherlands. She gave Dutch language courses at Holborn College in London to any who were interested.²⁴ She also worked for the BBC Dutch Service, a broadcaster that produced radio and television programs in Dutch until 1957. She also appeared on Dutch television occasionally. In 1966 she was one of the few women who, alongside Dutch writers Jan Wolkers, Simon Carmiggelt, and Harry Mulisch, animated a TV auction for victims of the apartheid regime in South Africa.²⁵ So she always continued to feel a “Dutchwoman,” or “Hollander” as she called it, for the latter term created less confusion abroad.²⁶ As James Clifford noted, a person’s (national) background is decisive in their motivations and activism because “roots always precede routes.”²⁷ Likewise her travels, activism, and solidarity was guided by her own (Dutch) experiences. When she criticized Jim Crow laws she sometimes even gave herself a thick Dutch accent in order to emphasize her “otherness.”  “POOL, Rosey,” Howard University, Manuscript Division, last modified 1 October 2015, http:// dh.howard.edu/finaid_manu/158.  Rosey E. Pool, ’n Engelse sleutel. Een ABC over het “Perfide Albion” (Amsterdam: De Boer, 1957), 71– 72.  “Morgenavond in Frascati: Een ton d’r op. Veiling ten bate slachtoffers apartheidspolitiek,” Friese koerier. Onafhankelijk dagblad voor Friesland en aangrenzende gebieden, 11 May 1966, 2. See also: Roeland Muskens, “Aan de goede kant. Een geschiedenis van de Nederlandse antiapartheidsbeweging 1960 – 1990,” (PhD diss., University of Amsterdam, 2013), 58 – 59.  Sussex, SxMs19/11/3/18, 16 – 17: “Welcome To Our Country,” 2.  James Clifford, Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 3.

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One time in the early 1960s she went into a laundromat in North Carolina that had a sign that read “Monday: White Only.” Pool went in, exagerrated her Dutch accent, and asked why they could not wash colored clothes on Mondays, all in order to make white employees uncomfortable.²⁸ Her position as a white woman was used similarly as she made it her goal to publish Black poetry, which was excluded from “Caucasian” poetry collections.

A Black Atlantic “salon” Over the years Pool’s place became a hub for cosmopolitan artists and intellectuals. The year 1963, in particular, was one to remember. Pool called this the year of an “American invasion” at her home. Obviously referring to the British invasion of the Beatles, the Americans who visited her apartment were “bringing, as it were, the States to 23a Highpoint.”²⁹ Pool’s guest book from this period is lost, unfortunately, but some visitors have been identified through her correspondence and scrapbooks, showing a peak in 1963. The same year celebrated the Centenary of Emancipation (1863), creating an “emancipatory” buzz across the Atlantic. Black emancipation became a hot topic in public debates and the Civil Rights Movement was in full swing. At the same time air travel became much cheaper in this period. London was often used as a transfer airport for flights to Africa and continental Europe and a lot of travelers therefore made a pit stop at her house. From the early 1950s onwards, Pool held gatherings where people could meet each other. Pool cooked meals, organized parties and often offered her spare room to friends and acquaintances. One of Pool’s appealing assets was that she was in contact with some of the most well-connected actors in the field, including W.E.B. Du Bois and Shirley Graham, Harold Jackman, Robert Hayden, and of course Langston Hughes. Moreover, she worked for the BBC and had contacts with radio and television producers in England and the Netherlands, and with publishers in England, the Netherlands, and the United States. A visit to Pool could mean a turning point for one’s career. Her network and her thorough knowledge of Black culture also made people feel instantly at home. Mozell Hill, an American sociologist working at the University of Nigeria, wrote to Pool in late 1960, reminiscing about his visit to her

 Sussex, SxMs19/11/3/18, 16 – 18: Rosey E. Pool, “White Monday” [1962] 1– 3: 2.  Howard University, Moorland-Spingarn Research Center, Rosey E. Pool Papers, Box 82– 1, Folder 42, Owen Dodson: Letter Rosey Pool to Owen Dodson, 4 September 1963.

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flat: “23a Highpoint is like a second home […].”³⁰ Most correspondents – wisely – kept silent that many dissidents, militants and radicals attended her home. Pool herself had been a (radical) socialist before the Second World War and her resistance group had later included many (party) communists.³¹ In the years after 1945, she had become extremely discrete about her past and any remarks about communism whatsoever. However, it is clear that Rosey Pool’s “salon” was a centre of (former) fellow travelers, whether anti-imperialists, socialists, and communists, just as it attracted many gays, lesbians, Blacks, and Jews. In short, Pool welcomed people that were “different.” The likeness to Gertrude Stein’s famous Paris salon of the 1920s and 1930s did not go unnoticed to many visitors. Both Pool and Isenburg were Jewish, they were partners, and they lived in a self-chosen exile. Some visitors even literally compared Isenburg to Alice B. Toklas. “She [Isenburg] was the vertical one against Rosey’s spherical spontaneity – the Toklas to Pool’s literary Stein persona,” one friend wrote.³² 23a Highpoint was also very similar to Stein’s salon in other respects. Many of Pool’s contacts were based on a very personal connection: some were friendships that had lasted decades. Pool felt a close connection to “her” poets, the ones that appeared in her anthologies.³³ The like-mindedness of Pool and her visitors was cemented by a professional interest in Black poetry, but it can also be argued that sexuality was an important interpersonal connector as well. Langston Hughes and Gordon Heath have already been mentioned, but many other visitors came across as “closet gays,” much like Pool and Isenburg themselves.³⁴ The variety of identities among people in Pool’s network could often be related to systemic injustices and social inequalities, which provided important occasions for bonding on a group level. The actor Earle Hyman, African American and also a closeted homosexual, was one of the first to stay for a longer period of time at Pool’s home in 1959. He nicknamed the place “23a Paradise” when he left.³⁵ The intersection of subordinate identities of

 Howard, Box 82– 2, Folder 65, Mozell Hill: Letter Mozell Hill to Rosey Pool, 11 December 1960.  Milo Anstadt, Kruis of munt. Autobiografie 1920 – 1945 (Amsterdam: Contact, 2000), 371; Ben Braber, Passage naar vrijheid. Joods verzet in Nederland 1940 – 1945 (Amsterdam: Balans, 1987), 29.  Heath, Deep Are the Roots, 88.  Yale University Library, Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, JWJ MSS 26, Langston Hughes Papers, Box 130, Folder 2432: Letter Rosey Pool to Langston Hughes, 21 September 1962.  Other homosexual visitors included the Dutch actor Albert Mol, and the poet and playwright Owen Dodson, who stayed for a period of four months in Pool’s spare room in 1969.  Howard, Box 82– 2, Folder 72, Earle Hyman: Letter Earle Hyman to Rosey Pool, 10 October 1959.

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race and sexuality was instrumental in creating group solidarity. These meetings could decrease feelings of loneliness and isolation, and perhaps transcend personal dismay into political activism. In short, the intimate was highly connected with the political at 23a. A similar bonding appeared because of Pool’s Jewish background, although far less frequently. Arthur B. Spingarn, NAACP president and also Jewish, visited her house for the first time in May 1958. It was Langston Hughes who introduced them, and the meeting was a great success. “I loved him from the moment I saw him,” Pool wrote to Hughes afterwards. Pool was glad that “he liked the friends he met at my place and certainly they too were very happy to meet him.”³⁶ The appreciation was mutual and Spingarn would make an annual visit to 23a Highpoint in the years to come. Pool and Spingarn had a lot in common: both were secular Jews who had a strong interest in Black emancipation. As a lawyer, Spingarn worked for decades for the NAACP, functioning as an intermediary between the white world, in which Jews had gained recognition, and the Black world, which still needed help.³⁷ Together with his brother he has been described as the “most selfless of […] philanthropists.”³⁸ Their Jewish backgrounds were never mentioned, although it is very likely that it played a role in terms of interracial solidarity and kinship.

Poetry anthologies as a “contact zone” Rosey Pool did more than simply provide a “second home” abroad to many African and African American travelers. Through her network she also provided opportunities for many writers to be published for the first time. During the 1950s there was little interest in African American poetry. The period 1949 to 1958 was especially meager, and no anthologies appeared that focused exclusively on African American poetry. After major publications such as Beatrice Murphy’s Ebony Rhythm (1948) and Langston Hughes’ and Arna Bontemps’ The Poetry of the Negro (1949), little to no Black poetry was published for some time.³⁹

 Yale, Langston Hughes Papers, Box 130, Folder 2431: Letter Rosey Pool to Langston Hughes, 23 May 1958.  Hasia R. Diner, In the Almost Promised Land: American Jews and Blacks, 1915 – 1935 (Westport, CT: JHU Press, 1995), 113, 125.  Kellner, “‘Refined racism,’” 59.  Keneth Kinnamon, “Anthologies of African-American Literature from 1845 to 1994,” Callaloo 20/2 (1997): 470.

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It was not until 1958, nine years later, that Rosey Pool published her first anthologies with the Hand and Flower Press, located in a little village called Aldington in Kent, England. Erica Marx (1909 – 1969), of German Jewish descent, started the Hand and Flower Press in the 1940s with the inheritance of her father. Her aim was to produce well-printed books filled with fine poetry.⁴⁰ Marx and Pool, both deeply influenced by Germanic social democrat ideals of self-cultivation, shared a passion for poetry. After they met a productive collaboration began. First Pool published a small booklet together with Harlem Renaissance writer Eric Walrond, named Black and Unknown Bards (Hand and Flower Press, 1958). There was a growing interest in Black poetry in the Netherlands as well. That same year Pool published another pocket anthology, this time in Dutch and compiled together with her protégé Paul Breman (1931– 2008), named Ik zag hoe zwart ik was (“I Saw How Black I Was”) (Bert Bakker/Daamen, 1958). It was the first Dutch publication in over twenty years on the subject and it became the only, much-needed publication aimed at a Dutch-speaking audience.⁴¹ However, Pool’s key publication from these years was Beyond the Blues (Hand and Flower Press, 1962). This was the first “proper” English language anthology on African American poetry in years. Audre Lorde called the collection “an attractive, welcome piece of work.”⁴² Dudley Randall considered the introduction to the book “a landmark in criticism of Negro poetry” that included important statements on “the role assigned by whites, in America, to Negroes in the arts, Negroes’ access to anthologies and publications.”⁴³ And Oliver LaGrone, also featured in the book, wrote in 1969 that Beyond the Blues was “one of the first guns in the cultural revolutions now sweeping America” and that the collection was a personal boost for many of the authors.⁴⁴

 British Library, Sound and Moving Image Catalogue, “There was a publisher,” [Portrait of the poet and publisher Erica Marx] by John Carroll, T3921, BBC Radio 3, 4 April 1981; Barry Newport, ed., A Hand and Flower Anthology: Poems and Fables Commemorating Erica Marx and the Hand and Flower Press (privately printed, 1980), 8.  The last anthology that featured Dutch translation of African American poetry and songs was Jan H. Eekhout’s, De neger zingt. Amerikaansche negerlyriek (Amsterdam: Uitgeversmij Holland, 1936). For a review of Pool’s anthology Ik zag hoe zwart ik was see: M. Mok, “De zwarte dichter niet de mindere van de blanke. Bloemlezing uit negerpoëzie: ‘Ik zag hoe zwart ik was,’” Algemeen Dagblad, 30 May 1959, 15.  Sussex, SxMs19/1/2: Correspondence: Letter Audre Lorde to Rosey Pool, 5 October 1962.  Howard, Box 82– 1, Folder 130, Dudley Randall: Letter Dudley Randall to Rosey Pool, 22 November 1962.  Sussex, SxMs19/1/2: Correspondence: Letter Oliver LaGrone to Rosey Pool, 10 July 1969.

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In her anthologies Pool connected Harlem Renaissance writers with young, aspiring poets. In Beyond the Blues she showcased some classic poets and some of her latest “discoveries,” most notably Margaret Danner, Mari Evans, Audre Lorde and Julia Fields. Pool very much considered them “her” poets. Some she had discovered while traveling the USA as a visiting scholar in 1959 – 1960 and as a scholar in residence in 1962– 1963, 1965, and 1966 – 1967. For other poets, it was again Langston Hughes who connected the dots. Pool asked him in 1961 for some unpublished poems, but instead Hughes sent again some addresses. These were, according to him: [T]he most interesting – some completely lacking in negritude – several on the fashionable beatnik side – but not bad in that genre. Some quite dark in color, but one can’t tell their writing from whites – which maybe is what integration is supposed to do – erase the color line from waitingrooms [sic] to writing. Do you reckon?⁴⁵

This integrationist stand of Hughes was something that Pool aspired to as well: that Black poets would be seen as poets and be judged as such. (It was this vision that was about to become outdated soon.) On this list were also the addresses of Audre Lorde and Mari Evans, who were immediately included in her new anthology. With Pool as a curator, these anthologies brought people together. These poets were also presented to the reader as the representatives of a certain “school,” although they often did not see themselves in that way. The poets were suddenly part of a group and it could be an incentive for writers to contact each other. As Shane Graham has mentioned before, Black Atlantic literature can be considered a space in itself.⁴⁶ Much is true for these anthologies, which can perhaps be regarded as “contact zones” that gave opportunities for writers to meet. When Margaret Danner walked around the campus of Wayne State University (Detroit) she saw Pulitzer Prize winning poet William Snodgrass reading Beyond the Blues. When she asked him where he got the book, he said he borrowed it from one of the university librarians.⁴⁷ These collections could thus bond people, sometimes in a very literal sense.

 Yale, Langston Hughes Papers, Box 130, Folder 2431, 111: Letter Langston Hughes to Rosey Pool, 21 October 1961.  Graham, “Black Atlantic literature.”  Howard, Box 82– 1, Folder 130, Dudley Randall: Letter Dudley Randall to Rosey Pool, 22 November 1962.

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23a: A “safe spaceˮ where cultures met There was an interplay between American visitors to 23a, Pool’s travels, and Pool’s poetry anthologies. One case where location and publication clearly intersected was that of Julia Fields. Fields grew up in Alabama, and later attended Knoxville College in Tennessee as an English major. At this small college in midFebruary 1960 she met Rosey Pool, who was on a lecture tour across the Deep South. Pool was immediately impressed by the poetry of the 22-year old student. Ever since Pool had encountered the poetry of Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes and Waring Cuney when she was a student herself, she greatly appreciated short poems. Pool loved poems that spoke directly to the heart but became more meaningful over time. A confined verse was essential because it would be easier to remember. “The mere fact that poets have to economize means that they are more honest,” Pool said. “They have to give more of themselves away.”⁴⁸ Pool and Fields shared this sense for “economized poems.” Fields wrote to Pool: “I really want to write THREE good poems. No more. No less. […] Do you think that I could do this in less than a lifetime?”⁴⁹ Impressed by her poetry, Pool included Fields’ poems in Beyond the Blues (1962) and soon her work was published in major Black journals and other anthologies, including Langston Hughes’ New Negro Poets: USA (1964). In the spring and summer of 1963, Fields stayed at 23a for a couple of weeks before she took off to a summer school in Edinburgh. Simultaneously the South African writer Richard Rive was passing through London and was finally able to meet Langston Hughes, one of his idols who happened to be in London. Rive described how he had dinner with Hughes and then was dragged along to 23a Highpoint because of Hughes’ enthusiasm: “Did I know Rosey? Everyone knew Rosey. I must meet Rosey. So we took a taxi afterwards to the apartment of Dr Rosey Poole [sic] […].”⁵⁰ There he met Pool and, by chance, her other guest Julia Fields. Rive was struck by this “strikingly beautiful, statuesque Black girl,” but she instead was thrilled to meet the great Langston Hughes. At first, Fields appeared to have little interest in the humble teacher from South Africa, who was introduced by Hughes as “Dick.” Rive remembered: “I tried hard to make conversation but could not break through the cold barrier,” he remembered. That was, until she asked: “Do you know a writer from your country called Richard

 Sussex, SxMs19/10/1/9: Scrapbook 1963 – 1967: “Dr. Rosey Pool Speaks at Bowie,” The Pacesetter [Maryland], February 1967, n.p.  Howard, Box 82– 1, Folder 51, Julia Fields: Letter Julia Fields to Rosey Pool, n.d.  Richard Rive, Writing Black (Cape Town: David Philip, 1981), 103 – 104.

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Rive?” He responded: “I am Richard Rive.”⁵¹ Fields warmed up at once. Apart from this being a humorous incident, it appears that this meeting provided food for thought for all participants to discuss oppression in their home countries. Rive remembers how Fields told him about the time she worked as a teacher in the American South, when “[w]hite racists were cruising in cars around her segregated school shooting into the classrooms.” Fields kept her pupils calm by reading them stories – most often, she read Rive’s “The Bench,” a story in which a young Black South African fights to sit on a bench reserved for “Europeans Only.” The apartheid regime struck a chord with the Black children living in the Deep South. Recent research has shown that there is a strong link between historically Black colleges and the Civil Rights Movement.⁵² Still the wider impact of such references to the apartheid regime remains unkown. We can certainly conclude that the traveling experience of individuals like Fields often had an impact at home, and in Pool’s apartment where new ideas were exchanged. Next to political discussions, there was also room for relaxation at 23a Highpoint. Later that evening Pool discovered that Rive spoke Afrikaans, a language derived from seventeenth century Dutch that Protestant settlers had brought with them from the Dutch Republic. Pool and Rive were actually able to have a discussion in Afrikaans/Dutch. Hughes witnessed the whole scene open-mouthed and proclaimed, astonished: “My God, now I’ve heard it all. A goddamn nigger speaking Dutch.”⁵³ These were meetings that influenced Pool deeply. They were among like-minded people and were able to discuss freely things that were considered to be “radical.” These political discussions on racial oppression must have struck a nerve with Pool, who had lived in Nazi Germany in the 1930s and Nazi occupied Holland in the 1940s. As a Holocaust survivor, she knew what could result from prejudice and intolerance. She often linked Jim Crow laws to the anti-Jewish measures she had experienced. As a mediator between the Netherlands, United Kingdom and the United States, it was clear to her that she could not mention the Holocaust itself (“the big tragedy” as it was then mostly called). Pool kept it personal and non-judgmental when she made claims such as “that piece of yellow cotton became my black skin.” Without getting into too much detail, she referred to American racial segregation as “American apartheid.”⁵⁴ The meeting with Bloke Modisane, Frank Parkes and Arthur

 Rive, Writing Black, 103 – 104. Emphasis added.  James E. Smethurst, “The Black Arts Movement and Historically Black Colleges and Universities,” in New Thoughts on the Black Arts Movement, ed. Lisa Gail Collins and Margo Natalie Crawford (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2006), 108.  Rive, Writing Black, 104.  Rosey E. Pool, Lachen om niet te huilen (Rotterdam: Lemniscaat, 1968), 24.

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Spingarn mentioned in the beginning of this chapter was one of those moments when different histories were brought together. Pool described the meeting as a “memorable occasion” where Frank Parkes “read to us, very pompously, very long subject poems.”⁵⁵ It is likely that they also talked about Pool’s recent journey to the US Deep South, where she taught at several Black colleges as a visiting scholar of the UNCF. There she repeatedly criticized segregation, thereby referring to her past as a Dutch freedom fighter and former teacher of Anne Frank, presenting herself as a moral authority.⁵⁶ Modisane went the next year on a similar tour through the South, where he compared Jim Crow and apartheid as similar systems of “pigmentocracy” (a system based on skin color, or pigment).⁵⁷ It is possible that intimate meetings like those at Pool’s house cemented Modisane’s ideas and encouraged him to go public with them as well. Rosey Pool’s “contact zone” at the highest point of London thus had an effect on an international scale, connecting different histories. By looking at the floorplan of her apartment, we see that the intimacy of political ideas was symbolized by actual physical intimacy. Pool provided a “safe space” where members of the Black diaspora could meet and discuss things that were dangerous to say out loud in public. These individuals had in common that they had suffered persecution in the past or were still experiencing it. A mutual feeling of “not belonging” in their countries of birth was an important interpersonal ground for mutual respects. These “traveling minds” met each other by sheer luck in a 14.5 square foot living room where they could feel at “home” again, if only for a little while.

Concluding remarks As she dedicated her life to a marginalized form of poetry, Rosey Pool remained an outsider as a white, European, Jewish woman. Her friend Dudley Randall remarked after her death that “many [Black poets] forget those who’ve helped us.”⁵⁸ Her goals were to fight segregation and discrimination, which were combined in promoting Black poetry:

 Howard, Box 82– 2, Folder 69: Letter Rosey Pool to Langston Hughes, 17 May 1962.  “Southern Racists and Nazis Similar Says Dutch Scholar,” Afro-American, 22 May 1965, 19.  “South African Tells of Brutality, Fear of War,” Atlanta Daily World, 23 March 1963, 1; “S. African Writer Tours Dixie Schools,” Afro-American, 2 March 1963, 18.  James V. Hatch, Sorrow is the Only Faithful One: The Life of Owen Dodson (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1995), 253.

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I’ve been asked so often: why do you publish segregated anthologies […]. My answer: I’ll quit as soon as Negro poets who are Americans will find fair representation in anthologies of American verse and fair publication opportunities if their talent deserves it. No matter what they write about.⁵⁹

While the Civil Rights Movement evolved and Black Power groups rose, Rosey Pool’s segregated anthologies became old-fashioned and clearly fell out of favor. There was no longer need for a white woman guiding young Black poets, often in a well-meant, yet sometimes paternalistic manner. By the mid1960s Pool sensed that new, bi-racial anthologies would set her “off on the road to retirement.”⁶⁰ Pool became a symbol for “Uncle Tommish” poets – poets who were looking for cross-racial conversations yet looking for approval of whites. What is more, the Black community now focused on its “own” heroes, and Pool was an outsider from another continent and of another race. At the end of her life she became more and more isolated. Less and less people wrote letters, and her spare room at 23a often remained unoccupied, as a symbol of an empty space that appeared in her life with the Black emancipation struggle in the United States. The attention shifted back to the USA. By the late 1960s there was a “poetic explosion” with a boom of Black Poetry anthologies. At last, American publishers opened their doors to Black writers, accelerated by an increasing interest in Black Studies, the proceeding Civil Rights Movement and Black Power groups. Many of these collections included poets that Pool had “discovered.” She was disappointed to find out that she was no longer mentioned as a source. “However,” she wrote to Robert Hayden, “the work is being done, it is spreading and that is all that matters.”⁶¹ As a transnational intermediary across the Atlantic she is largely forgotten. However, her anthologies were groundbreaking and included many poets that are now considered to be canonical. Poets such as Audre Lorde, Amiri Baraka, Margaret Danner, and Dudley Randall – they all had their first work published in book form in Pool’s anthologies, often years before they were finally able to publish within the United States itself. The role of anthologies in the formation  Sussex, SxMs19/12/2/6: Suggestions for a program of poetry by American negroes: “Interviewer’s question to the theme of how did this interest come about…” [n.d., ca. late 1950s to 1960s], 5.  Rosey E. Pool, “The discovery of American negro poetry,” Freedomways 4/3 (1963): 517. One of those new bi-racial anthologies she referred to here was Walter Lowenfels’ Poets of Today: A New American Anthology (New York: International Publishers, 1964).  Howard, Box 82– 1, Folder 130, Dudley Randall: Letter Rosey Pool to Dudley Randall, 18 November 1963.

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of canons has been stressed before, as to be included in anthologies is often the first step towards inclusion in literary canon(s).⁶² Pool’s collections brought often unknown poetry to new readers and offered aspiring writers a platform. Finally, the importance of her encouragement should not be underestimated. Paul Vesey [Samuel Allen] stated that “from her beautiful apartment in Highgate to the rural corners of Alabama,” she was “aiding, teaching, encouraging young black students to write.”⁶³ Even to older and even semi-professional poets her encouragement could be of crucial importance. “Strange,” Dudley Randall wrote to her in 1963, “a year ago I thought of myself as a person who occasionally tried to write poetry. Now, I think of myself as a poet. A lot of that you are responsible for, by your encouragement.”⁶⁴ The Dutch and British publications were a boost for the self-esteem of many aspiring writers and poets. Pool’s collections were also much needed “professional achievements” for poets to list on their résumé when sending in poetry to American literary magazines and applying for scholarship applications. According to Lauri Ramey, the significance of Pool was that she treated African American poets “with greater literary respect than did the mainstream US cultural establishment.”⁶⁵ Her pioneering anthologies, combined with her background as a World War II freedom fighter, gave prestige and encouragement to many poets.

Abbreviations NAACP: National Association for the Advancement of Colored People UNCF: United Negro College Fund

 Michiel van Kempen, “Complexities of non-Western Canonization,” in Shifting the Compass: Pluricontinental Connections in Dutch Colonial and Postcolonial Literature, ed. Jeroen Dewulf, Olf Praamstra and Michiel van Kempen (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2012), 261.  Sussex, SxMs19/13/1: Memorial Volume: Paul Vesey [a.k.a. Samuel Allen] (n.d.).  Howard, Box 82– 2, Folder 130, Dudley Randall: Letter Dudley Randall to Rosey Pool, 30 October 1963.  Lauri Ramey, The Heritage Series of Black Poetry, 1962 – 1975: A Research Compendium (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 3.

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Bibliography Anstadt, Milo. Kruis of munt. Autobiografie 1920 – 1945. Amsterdam: Contact, 2000. Boyd, Melba Joyce. Wrestling With the Muse: Dudley Randall and the Broadside Press. New York: Columbia University Press, 2004. Braber, Ben. Passage naar vrijheid. Joods verzet in Nederland 1940 – 1945. Amsterdam: Balans, 1987. Carew, Jan. “Paul Robeson and W.E.B. Du Bois in London.” Race & Class 46/2 (2004): 39 – 48. “Clark To Hear World War II Dutch Leader.” Atlanta Daily World, 9 February 1960, 1, 4. Clifford, James. Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997. Crenshaw, Kimberlé. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review 43/6 (1991): 1241 – 1299. Diner, Hasia R. In the Almost Promised Land: American Jews and Blacks, 1915 – 1935. Westport, CT: JHU Press, 1995. Eekhout, Jan H. De neger zingt. Amerikaansche negerlyriek. Amsterdam: Uitgeversmij Holland, 1936. Graham, Shane. “Black Atlantic Literature as Transnational Cultural Space.” Literature Compass 10 (2013): 508 – 518. Graham, Shane, and John Walters, eds. Langston Hughes and the South African Drum Generation: The Correspondence. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Granovetter, Mark S. “The Strength of Weak Ties.” American Journal of Sociology 78/6 (1973): 1360 – 1380. Greenblatt, Stephen. Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Hatch, James V. Sorrow is the Only Faithful One: The Life of Owen Dodson. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1995. Heath, Gordon. Deep Are the Roots: Memoirs of a Black Expatriate. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 1992. Kaplan, Carla. Miss Anne in Harlem: The White Women of the Black Renaissance. New York: Harper, 2013. Kellner, Bruce. “‘Refined Racism.’ White Patronage in the Harlem Renaissance.” In The Harlem Renaissance, edited by Harold Bloom, 53 – 66. Philadelphia, PA: Chelsea House Publishers, 2004. Kempen, Michiel van. “Complexities of non-Western Canonization.” In Shifting the Compass: Pluricontinental Connections in Dutch Colonial and Postcolonial Literature, edited by Jeroen Dewulf, Olf Praamstra and Michiel van Kempen, 261 – 270. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2012. Kinnamon, Keneth. “Anthologies of African-American Literature from 1845 to 1994.” Callaloo 20/2 (1997): 461 – 481. Lowenfels, Walter. Poets of Today: A New American Anthology. New York: International Publishers, 1964. Matera, Marc. Black London: The Imperial Metropolis and Decolonization in the Twentieth Century. Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2015.

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Mok, M. “De zwarte dichter niet de mindere van de blanke. Bloemlezing uit negerpoëzie: ‘Ik zag hoe zwart ik was.’” Algemeen Dagblad, 30 May 1959, 15. “Morgenavond in Frascati: Een ton d’r op. Veiling ten bate slachtoffers apartheidspolitiek.” Friese koerier. Onafhankelijk dagblad voor Friesland en aangrenzende gebieden, 11 May 1966, 2. Muskens, Roeland. “Aan de goede kant. Een geschiedenis van de Nederlandse anti-apartheidsbeweging 1960 – 1990.” PhD diss., University of Amsterdam, 2013. Newport, Barry, ed. A Hand and Flower Anthology: Poems and Fables Commemorating Erica Marx and the Hand and Flower Press. Privately printed, 1980. Pool, Rosey E. ’n Engelse sleutel. Een ABC over het “Perfide Albion.” Amsterdam: De Boer, 1957. Pool, Rosey E., ed. Beyond the Blues: New Poems by American Negroes. Kent: Hand and Flower Press, 1962. Pool, Rosey E. “The Discovery of American Negro Poetry.” Freedomways 4/3 (1963): 511 – 517. Pool, Rosey E. Lachen om niet te huilen. Rotterdam: Lemniscaat, 1968. Pratt, Mary Louise. “Arts of the Contact Zone.” Profession (1991): 33 – 40. Procter, James, ed. Writing Black Britain 1948 – 1998: An Interdisciplinary Anthology. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000. Purdie-Vaughns, Valerie, and Richard P. Eibach. “Intersectional Invisibility: The Distinctive Advantages and Disadvantages of Multiple Subordinate-Group Identities.” Sex Roles 59/5 – 6 (2008): 377 – 391. Ramey, Lauri. The Heritage Series of Black Poetry, 1962 – 1975: A Research Compendium. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008. Rive, Richard. Writing Black. Cape Town: David Philip, 1981. “S. African Writer Tours Dixie Schools.” Afro-American, 2 March 1963, 18. Smethurst, James E. “The Black Arts Movement and Historically Black Colleges and Universities.” In New Thoughts on the Black Arts Movement, edited by Lisa Gail Collins and Margo Natalie Crawford, 105 – 123. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2006. “South African Tells of Brutality, Fear of War.” Atlanta Daily World, 23 March 1963, 1. “Southern Racists and Nazis Similar Says Dutch Scholar.” Afro-American, 22 May 1965, 19. Taylor, Verta, and Nancy E. Whittier. “Collective Identity in Social Movement Communities: Lesbian Feminist Mobilization.” In Frontiers in Social Movement Theory, edited by Aldon D. Morris and Carol McClurg Mueller, 104 – 129. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press 1992. Thompson, Julius E. Dudley Randall, Broadside Press, and the Black Arts Movement in Detroit, 1960 – 1995. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1999.

Víctor Fernández Soriano

Chapter 5 Human Rights for Spain Anti-Francoism in Belgium, Between Old and New Forms of Protest (1960s–1970s) The international solidarity movements that came into bloom in the 1960s owed something to a pre-existing Spanish solidarity. Since the days of the Spanish Civil War (1936 – 1939), the opposition to the Franco regime and solidarity with its victims had spurred an international unrest that resulted in different forms of local protest in many countries, with the common goal of prompting their respective governments to set punitive measures against the Spanish dictatorship of General Francisco Franco. These protest movements constituted an international “anti-Francoism,” a foreign pendant to the Spanish inner unrest traditionally known in the Spanish historiography as “antifranquismo.” When international solidarity movements spread in the 1960s, anti-Francoism was still active and both shared common patterns in their means of organization and propaganda. Nevertheless, Spanish solidarity seemed somewhat disconnected from other international solidarity movements. Although Spain was frequently present in the international solidarity demonstrations or meetings, it seemed to have played a secondary role in comparison with the “Third World;” with countries such as Vietnam, South Africa, Brazil, Chile or Argentina. In parallel with the spur of international solidarity, human rights activism significantly spread in the 1960s and 1970s, with the surge of specialized nongovernmental organizations such as Amnesty International. International solidarity and human rights activism often crossed paths, since they overall pursued a common goal, i. e. to denounce authoritarian rule in foreign countries. Both shared claims (such as denouncing practices of political imprisonment, unfair justice or ill-treatment) and used a similar language with constant references to “freedom” and “rights.” In the 1960s – 1970s, international solidarity movements also tended to use the term “human rights” more profusely. Both movements represent two essential facets of activism in what was called the “long 1960s” and are entwined with the surge of student and civil rights movements during this period. Nevertheless, Spain also played a secondary role in the socalled human rights “breakthrough” of the 1960s–1970s in comparison with countries such as Eastern European communist countries and, once again, those of the Third World. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-006

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This chapter examines the relations between Spanish solidarity and international solidarity and human rights activism in the long 1960s. Its aim is to stress the connections between the three and explain why Spanish solidarity sometimes seemed disconnected from other forms of international solidarities and human rights activism. The study suggests that the main reason is that Spanish solidarity related to old structures of mobilization rather than to the new forms of protest that emerged in the long 1960s. Spanish solidarity relied on the cadres of antifascism, political exile and traditional political parties (especially the communist and socialist parties), whereas youth culture, student unrest and civil rights encouraged other international solidarities. The study is centered on the case of Belgium, as the country illustrates well these dynamics for several reasons. International solidarities were a visible feature of social mobilization in Belgium in the long 1960s. Belgium was also home to a series of prominent advocates of international human rights, whom will be referred to in this article. At the same time, Belgium was home to numerous groups of Spanish solidarity. The nature of these groups varied, which manifested through the diversity of their means, as will be explained. For these reasons, Belgium constitutes a paradigmatic case that shows the rich interplay among these groups. For practical reasons, the context of Brussels will be the main point of focus, since many of these groups were based in the Belgian capital and their archives were the most readily available for this research. Furthermore, this chapter will argue that the introduction of the term “human rights” into Spanish solidarity had a particular outcome. The Belgian solidarity with Spain found in this term, imprecise and ill-defined, a ground for political consensus on the opposition to Franco’s dictatorship. This term allowed the creation of an informal common political front against Franco, catalyzed by the regime’s last political executions.

International solidarity and human rights activism in Belgium This volume presents multiple examples of international solidarity groups in Belgium, which indicates that international solidarity was a regular feature in the Belgian social movements of both the 1960s and 1970s. Dictatorial rule in Greece, Chile or Brazil, the Vietnam War or apartheid in South Africa were usual causes of protest for Belgian students, youth or activists. Moreover, Kim Christiaens has shown that the Belgian international solidarity movements adopted “human

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rights” rhetoric early, in campaigns for Greece, Chile and Brazil, for example.¹ International solidarity was expressed in Belgium by various means (demonstrations, meetings, conferences, etc.), organized by multiple groups of the local civil society, especially groups related to political parties, student movements, nonprofit associations or trade unions. Compared to the growing historiographical interest in international solidarity, studies on human rights activism in Belgium remain scarce. Apart from isolated contributions, mostly dissertations, unfortunately unpublished,² the emergence of this activism and its role in Belgian society is a history waiting to be written. This contrasts with the growing attention to human rights activism in international research.³ Although historians still discuss today the time frame in which human rights became a general concern,⁴ most agree on considering the 1970s as the moment

 Kim Christiaens, “Why Brazil? The Belgian Mobilization Against Repression in Brazil and its Significance for Third World Solidarity Activism in the 1970s and Beyond,” Journal of Belgian History 43/4 (2013): 108 – 147; Id., “Belgium: The Chilean Factor and the Changing Dimensions of Solidarity Activism,” in European Solidarity with Chile 1970s–1980s, ed. Kim Christiaens et al. (Brussels: Peter Lang, 2014), 207– 237; Id., “Between Diplomacy and Solidarity: Western European Support Networks for Sandinista Nicaragua,” European Review of History 21/4 (2014): 617– 634; Id., “From the East to the South, and Back? International Solidarity Movements in Belgium and New Histories of the Cold War, 1950s–1970s,” Dutch Crossing 39/3 (2015): 187– 203; Id., “Communists are no Beasts: European Solidarity Campaigns on Behalf of Democracy and Human Rights in Greece and East-West Détente in the 1960s and early 1970s,” Contemporary European History 26/4 (2017): 621– 646.  Karim Cham, “La Ligue belge pour la Défense des Droits de l’Homme: l’action nationale (1954– 1978)” (MA diss., Université libre de Bruxelles, 2000); Fabrice Delooz, “Histoire de la Ligue Belge pour la Défense des Droits de l’Homme entre 1954 et 1983: positions et actions nationales” (MA diss., Université libre de Bruxelles, 2000); Thomas Deslypere, “Lichtpuntjes in de duisternis: de Chileense campagne van Amnesty International Vlaanderen van 1973 tot 1979” (MA diss., KU Leuven, 2014).  Robert Brier, “Beyond the Quest for a ‘Breakthrough’: Reflections on the Recent Historiography on Human Rights,” European History Yearbook 16 (2015): 155 – 173.  Floribert Baudet, “A Statement Against the Totalitarian Countries of Europe: Human Rights and the Early Cold War,” Cold War History 16/2 (2016): 125 – 140; Jan Eckel, Die Ambivalenz des Guten Menschenrechte in der internationalen Politik seit den 1940ern (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014); Stefan-Ludwig Hoffmann, “Human Rights and History,” Past & Present 232/1 (2016): 279 – 310; Mikael Rask Madsen, “La Guerre Froide et la fabrique des droits de l’homme contemporains: une théorie transnationale de l’évolution des droits de l’homme,” Journal européen des droits de l’homme 2 (2016): 197– 220; Mark Mazower, “The Strange Triumph of Human Rights, 1933 – 1950,” The Historical Journal 47/2 (2004): 379 – 398; Id., No Enchanted Palace: The End of Empire and the Ideological Origins of the United Nations (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009); Andrew Moravcsik, “The Origins of Human Rights Regimes: Democratic Delegation in Postwar Europe,” International Organization 54/2 (2000): 217– 252.

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of a human rights “breakthrough” in international politics and activism.⁵ In the long 1970s, human rights exceeded the realms of diplomacy and academic discussion,⁶ and became a regular item of public debate. Much of the interest in the 1970s as a turning point for human rights is due to the works of the American historian Samuel Moyn, who argued in his book The Last Utopia (2010) that human rights in the 1970s brought about a malleable and ill-defined idealism, to which both left and right opinions could easily subscribe.⁷ The 1970s were a moment of a human rights breakthrough in Belgium too. The popularity gained by human rights during this period gave public notoriety to international human rights advocates, who had been active for quite some time already, and led to the success of some specialized non-governmental organizations. This was the case of the members of the Belgian League for the Defense of Human Rights (LBDH), quite influential in some Belgian political milieus of the time. The LBDH was created in 1954, as a re-foundation of a previous League established in 1901 in Brussels as a Belgian equivalent of the French League for the Defense of Human Rights, created in the aftermath of the Dreyfus affair. The 1901 League had been dissolved by the German occupiers during World War II and was re-founded in 1954 by some of its old members, many of whom were related to the Belgian Socialist Party (BSP/PSB).⁸ Since January 1962, the League published a bulletin called Chroniques des Droits de l’Homme, which was also sent to the Belgian press as well as to the embassies of the countries targeted by the LBDH’s campaigns.⁹ The most prominent members of the LBDH were international lawyers or political professionals, mainly members of the Belgian parliament. Some of them were also engaged within Brussels groups of Spanish solidarity (as well as of other international solidarities). The following pages refer to four cases: those of Isabelle Blume, Jeanne Vandervelde, Jules Wolf and Pierre Le Grève. These

 Samuel Moyn, “The Return of the Prodigal: The 1970s as a Turning Point in Human Rights History,” in The Breakthrough: Human Rights in the 1970s, ed. Jan Eckel and Samuel Moyn (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 10 – 14.  Mikael Rask Madsen, La genèse de l’Europe des droits de l’homme: Enjeux juridiques et stratégies d’État (France, Grande-Bretagne et pays scandinaves, 1945 – 1970) (Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg, 2010).  Samuel Moyn, The Last Utopia: Human Rights in History (Cambridge (MA) and London: Harvard University Press, 2010).  Cham, “La Ligue Belge”; Delooz, “Histoire de la Ligue Belge.”  “Chronique des droits de l’Homme,” Bulletin d’information de la Ligue belge pour la défense des droits de l’Homme 15 (January 1965): 5.

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two women and two men were connected to the milieus of Spanish solidarity in Brussels and denounced the Spanish dictatorship at important occasions. Isabelle Blume (née Grégoire, 1892– 1975) was a prominent international activist for the rights of women. She had been a member of the BSP/PSB until 1951 and, as a member of the Belgian parliament, firmly opposed Franco during the Spanish Civil War. Since the 1950s, Blume was an active member of the World Peace Council. In 1964 she finally joined the Belgian Communist Party (KPB/ PCB).¹⁰ Jeanne Vandervelde (née Beeckman, 1891– 1963) had been a member of the LBDH prior to its dissolution by the German occupiers. Like Blume, she advocated for the rights of women. She was the widow of the former president of the BSP/PSB, Émile Vandervelde, who had firmly opposed the recognition of Franco’s government in 1938 – 1939, as Nicolas Lépine recalls in his chapter in this volume. She was also a BSP/PSB senator for several years.¹¹ Jules Wolf (1904 – 1985) was a lawyer and had played a key role in the resistance milieus during World War II. During this period, he had spent some time in prison in Spain, captured by Franco’s police while trying to escape from occupied Europe. After the war, he participated as a lawyer in several trials against war criminals (including the Nuremberg trials as well as other trials in Belgium). Wolf was close to the BSP/PSB, although he never became a member, and represented Belgium at the United Nations Commission on Human Rights.¹² Lastly, Pierre Le Grève (1916 – 2004) was active in the clandestine milieus during World War II. Although he had been a member of the BSP/PSB for some time, his political ideas related to Trotskyist internationalism and he was a member of the Belgian section of the Fourth International. As such, Le Grève was engaged in early movements of international solidarity and was a friend of several Spanish exiles who lived in Belgium.¹³ Apart from the LBDH, the local sections of Amnesty International (AI) represented another nucleus of human rights activism in Belgium during this period. In its early years (AI was founded in 1961 in London), AI revolved in Belgium around two Flemish politicians: the Christian democrat lawyer Louis Kiebooms

 José Gotovitch, “Grégoire Isabelle (1892– 1975), épouse Blume,” in Dictionnaire des femmes belges XIXe et XXe siècles, ed. Éliane Gubin et al. (Brussels: Racine, 2006), 289 – 292.  Catherine Jacques, “Beeckman, Jeanne,” in Nouvelle Biographie nationale 8 (Brussels: Académie Royale de Belgique, 2005), 25 – 27.  Sylvain Wolf, Fonds Jules Wolf (archive catalogue, Brussels: CEGESOMA, 2004).  Michel Mombeek, Fonds Pierre Le Grève (archive catalogue, Brussels: CEGESOMA, 2005).

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and (somewhat surprisingly) Herman Todts,¹⁴ then also close to the Christian Democrat Party, but previously a member of the Flemish far right movement Verdinaso.¹⁵ Because of their personal ties with the founders of AI, these two men participated at the early AI international meetings, the very first of which was held in Luxembourg.¹⁶ With the idea of rotating the international meetings around the countries its members came from, the second AI international conference took place in Belgium, at the Castle of Male, in the outskirts of Bruges.¹⁷ In the following years, the number of AI Belgian associates grew. AI Belgium officially kickstarted in 1968, before splitting into two different sections in 1972: one for Dutch speakers (AI Flanders) and the other for French speakers (AI Belgium Francophone), both based in Brussels.¹⁸ Besides the catalogue of the AI Flanders archive, there is hardly any literature on the history of AI in Belgium up to this date.¹⁹ Beyond these organizations, some Belgian politicians individually played a key role as human rights advocates, especially in European transnational milieus (European Economic Community, Council of Europe, etc.). Mentioned here will be the names of two long-serving senators, members of the BSP/PSB, who frequently criticized any European cooperation with the Spanish dictatorship in the fora wherein they were politically active: Fernand Dehousse and Henri Rolin. Dehousse (1906 – 1976) was a lawyer and, as a Belgian senator, sat at different European parliamentary assemblies. Moreover, he was one of the authors of the European Convention on Human Rights (1950).²⁰ Rolin (1891– 1973), also a lawyer, had confronted his own party on its politics of laissez-faire vis-à-vis Germany, Italy and Franco Spain in the late 1930s. He be-

 Amsterdam, Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (IISG), Archive Amnesty International, AI 2: International Planning Meeting, London, 8 October 1961.  Étienne Verhoeyen, “L’extrême droite en Belgique,” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 715 – 716/9 (1976): 1– 44; Bruno De Wever, “Catholicism and Fascism in Belgium,” Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions 8/2 (2007): 343 – 352.  IISG, Amnesty International, AI 1: International Planning Meeting, Luxembourg, 22– 23 July 1961.  Ibid., AI 3: Second International Conference, Sijsele, 28 – 30 September 1962.  Ghent, Amsab-ISG, Archive AI Vlaanderen, 455 1– 3: Reports of activities 1971– 1973.  Jessica Langouche, Inventaris van het archief van Amnesty International Vlaanderen (1961 – 2010) (archive catalogue, Ghent: Amsab-ISG, 2013).  Philippe Carlier, “Dehousse, Fernand,” in Nouvelle Biographie nationale 3 (Brussels: Académie Royale de Belgique, 1994), 114– 117.

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came one of the first vice-presidents of the European Court of Human Rights in 1959 and later its president, from 1968 to 1971.²¹ The panorama of international solidarities crossed with human rights activism composes the general background of Spanish solidarity in Belgium. Nevertheless, another factor is key to understanding their particularities: the presence of an important community of Spanish exiles and migrant workers.

Spanish solidarity in Belgium Spanish solidarity had been present in Belgian social movements since the time of the Spanish Civil War (1936 – 1939).²² As Kesteloot pointed out in 1987, antifascism represented one of the main stimuli for the Belgian support to the Spanish republicans and this connection remained apparent in the Belgian resistance against German occupation during World War II.²³ This argument may be extended up to the Long 1960s: anti-Francoism persisted as an essential feature of Belgian post-war antifascism, based on the idea that Franco’s represented the last fascist regime in Europe. The same idea remained vivid in Belgian social movements in the following decades.²⁴ Different actors promoted Spanish solidarity mobilization in Belgium. Although they converged in their goals and sometimes cooperated in joint actions, they were not necessarily connected. We may distinguish four main categories of actors in the organization of Spanish solidarity campaigns in Belgium, i. e. Spanish exiles, Spanish migrant workers, Belgian individuals with Spanish connections and Belgian individuals with no Spanish connection. The Spanish exiles who lived in Belgium urged protest against Franco. In the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War, many Spaniards who were fleeing Franco’s repression chose Belgium as their land of exile. Some of them even joined the

 Robert Devleeshouwer, “Rolin (Henri),” in Biographie nationale 41 (Brussels: Académie Royale de Belgique, 1979), 693 – 698.  Víctor Fernández Soriano, “Bélgica y la Guerra Civil: el impacto del conflicto español en la política y la diplomacia de una pequeña potencia,” Cuadernos de Historia Contemporánea 29 (2007): 219 – 233; Jorge Vargas Visús, “El impacto de la Guerra Civil Española en el Partido Obrero Belga,” Ayer 111 (2018): 225 – 252; Id., “Bélgica y la guerra de España” (PhD diss., Universidad de Zaragoza, 2018).  Chantal Kesteloot, “La tradition de la guerre d’Espagne dans la presse clandestine (1940 – 1944),” Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 18/1– 2 (1987): 465 – 480.  Víctor Fernández Soriano, Le fusil et l’olivier: Les droits de l’Homme en Europe face aux dictatures méditerranéennes (1949 – 1977) (Brussels: Éditions de l’Université de Bruxelles, 2015), 85 – 89.

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resistance during World War II and some were interned in German concentration camps.²⁵ After 1945, most Spanish parties in exile had a section in Belgium and there existed Spanish-Belgian associations too. In the 1960s, the rapid politicization of the newly arrived Spanish migrant workers fostered these groups’ activities.²⁶ The Spanish Communist Party (PCE) published a series of journals in Brussels, which targeted the Spanish migrant workers: Nuestras Ideas, a compendium of theoretical texts first published in May 1957;²⁷ Libertad, a 4-page newspaper for the Spanish workers first issued in April 1963;²⁸ and Información Española, a 24-page newspaper on Spanish news first published in April 1968.²⁹ The Spanish Socialist Party (PSOE) and Trade Union (Unión General de Trabajadores, UGT) also had local sections in Belgium, which established, in November 1958, a joint propaganda committee in the Brussels district of the Marolles.³⁰ The Belgian section of the Spanish anarchist trade union Confederación Nacional del Trabajo (CNT)³¹ was, during the 1960s–1970s, on good terms with the Socialist UGT, with which it even formed an alliance for campaigning among migrant workers, active from 1964 onwards.³² In addition, apart from these bigger parties, there existed a myriad of smaller associations composed by Spanish exiles: Frente de Liberación Popular,³³ Movimiento Popular de Resistencia ³⁴ or Agrupación Republicana Española de Lieja,³⁵ etc. Thousands of Spanish workers emigrated to Belgium from the late 1950s to the 1970s. The signature of a Belgian-Spanish convention on migration in 1956 marked the beginning of Spaniards’ mass migration to Belgium. According to data consulted by Maria-José Sánchez, in 1970, 67,584 Spaniards lived in Belgium.³⁶ Many Spanish migrant workers acquired a political conscience in Bel Some of these actors were interviewed during the 2000s and early 2010s by the Foro de la Memoria de Bélgica, a non-profit association based in Brussels.  Isabel Martín Sánchez, “La conexión entre exilio político y emigración económica,” Cuadernos Republicanos 29 (1997): 29 – 43.  Madrid, Archive of the PCE: “Nuestro Intento,” Nuestras Ideas 1, Brussels, May 1957, 3 – 6.  Ibid.: Libertad: Portavoz democrático de los emigrados españoles en Europa 1, Brussels, April 1963.  Ibid.: Información Española 1, Brussels, April 1968.  IISG, Archive Acción Comunista, AC 5: Correspondence 1962.  Ibid., CNT en el exilio, verbatim 1965.  Brussels, CEGESOMA, Stéphane Huvenne Papers, AA 2204 22: UGT-CNT alliance 1964.  IISG, AC 5, Eduardo Tell’s Papers, 1962.  Ibid., AC 19, 1959.  Madrid, Archive of the Spanish Republic in exile, JJ 92– 3, 1963.  Maria-José Sánchez, “Les Espagnols en Belgique au XXe siècle,” in Histoire des étrangers et de l’immigration en Belgique, de la préhistoire à nos jours, ed. Anne Morelli (Brussels: Couleur Livres, 2004), 279 – 296.

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gium in contact with their fellow Belgian workers affiliated to trade unions or political parties, or with the Spanish exiles living in Belgium prior to their arrival.³⁷ The so-called García Lorca clubs, social centres for the local communities of Spanish workers sponsored by the PCE (but with no formal link with the KPB/ PCB), became an important space for the expression of anti-Francoist solidarity by Spanish migrant workers. The García Lorca club of Brussels opened in 1954 and the one in Liège opened in 1960.³⁸ They hosted debates on the political situation in Spain and promoted Spanish solidarity by prompting their members to participate at rallies or demonstrations against Franco.³⁹ In addition, the Spanish immigrants constituted sections within the Belgian trade unions or parties and were quite active in the organization of anti-Franco activities sponsored by these. Furthermore, Spanish students in Belgium established small groups at the universities, such as the Federació Nacional d’Estudiants de Catalunya at the Free University of Brussels (ULB), and contributed to anti-Franco protests sponsored by bigger university associations (such as, for instance, the Cercle du Libre Examen of the ULB).⁴⁰ Some Belgian politicians or activists had a personal connection with Spain. This was the case of individuals such as Jules Wolf, who had been detained in Spanish jails during World War II, or Jeanne Vandervelde, whose husband had been a symbol of anti-Francoism during the Spanish Civil War. This was also the case of some groups, especially of Spanish solidarity associations created during the Spanish Civil War which re-emerged after World War II. Many of these were still active in the 1960s, such as the Mouvement d’Aide à l’Espagne démocratique, or the veteran associations of the Spanish Civil War International Brigades, such as Amicale des anciens volontaires Brigades internationales en Espagne républicaine (the Belgian section of a French organization) and Volontaires des Brigades internationales. ⁴¹ Other Belgian actors had no personal attachment with Spain but were moved by the political situation under Franco. These actors mobilized against  Ana Fernández Asperilla, “Émigrées économiques ou exilées politiques espagnoles? Une frontière difficile à établir,” Sextant 26 (2009): 77– 91.  Id., Mineros, Sirvientas y Militantes: Medio Siglo de Emigración Española en Bélgica (Madrid: Fundación 1° de Mayo, 2006); Maïte Molina Mármol, “Les clubs Federico García Lorca dans la région liégeoise,” Sextant, 26 (2009): 93 – 105.  Madrid, Fundación 1° de Mayo, Archive Club Federico García Lorca de Bruselas, 2– 5: Campaign Fuera las bases atómicas de España, 1966.  IISG, AC 5, Eduardo Tell’s Papers, 1958; “Les étudiants bruxellois ont manifesté pour la restauration des libertés démocratiques en Espagne,” La Dernière Heure, 28 November 1958.  IISG, AC 5: Correspondence between Mouvement d’Aide à l’Espagne démocratique and FLP, 1961.

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Franco Spain as it represented an important feature of Belgian antifascism. Belgian parties and trade unions’ institutional framework played a key role in this type of mobilization. Spanish solidarity was, indeed, conveyed by organizations or associations within the orbit of what in Belgium was known as the “pillars,” i. e. civil society structured around a major political party (Christian, liberal or socialist), including trade unions, social centres, youth associations, etc. The Christian and liberal pillars occasionally participated in anti-Francoist rallies, but it was the socialist pillar that was essential to Spanish solidarity. The BSP/ PSB social centres such as the Maison du Peuple in Brussels or the Vooruit in Ghent, the socialist trade union General Federation of Belgian Labor (ABVV/ FGTB) or the Socialist Young Guard were usual venues of anti-Franco protest. In addition, other groups beyond the “pillars” were quite active too. Such were the cases of the LBDH and the Association belge des Juristes démocrates, created in 1973 and affiliated to the Paris-based International Association of Democratic Lawyers. Such was also the case of anarchist groups, who frequently collaborated with communist or other groups. Among the latter, one of the most active was the Belgian branch of the Fédération ibérique des Jeunesses libertaires, led by the Belgian anarchist Stéphane Huvenne.⁴² Many individuals, members or sympathizers of political parties or associations, stood out in their action to denounce the Spanish dictatorship in Belgium. Some were even members of transnational networks, like Jules Wolf and Isabelle Blume, who were both members of the Conférence d’Europe occidentale pour l’Amnistie aux Emprisonnés exilés politiques espagnols. The latter was born out of a conference organized in Paris in March 1961⁴³ but its headquarters were established in Brussels.⁴⁴ Others were MPs who brought the Spanish question to political fora (not only to the parliament, but also to transnational party networks and international organizations). Such were the cases of socialist senators Fernand Dehousse, Henri Rolin and Jeanne Vandervelde, who frequently used their tribunes to condemn Franco’s dictatorship and were quite critical of the Belgian government’s attitude vis-à-vis Franco.⁴⁵ Others put their professional expertise at the service of Spanish exiles. Pierre Le Grève, for instance, inter-

 CegeSoma, Stéphane Huvenne Papers, AA 2204 28: Campaign for the political prisoners in Spain and Portugal, 1965.  Conférence d’Europe occidentale pour l’amnistie aux emprisonnés exilés politiques espagnols (Paris, 1961).  Fundación 1° de Mayo, Club Federico García Lorca de Bruselas, 2– 10: Letters from the Conférence d’Europe occidentale pour l’amnistie aux emprisonnés exilés politiques espagnols, 1964.  Senate of Belgium, Annales parlementaires, 1961– 1962, 37, 21 March 1962, 899 – 906.

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vened in favor of several Spanish citizens who applied for refugee status in Belgium in the early 1970s.⁴⁶ These actors were commonly interconnected. Spanish exiles influenced migrant workers, while Belgian actors regularly counted on the Spanish communities to organize anti-Francoist activities. Frequently, a group lent its facilities to another for rallies or meetings, or simply exchanged propaganda material such as films, posters or books.⁴⁷ Anti-Francoist mobilization in Belgium, represented by these four categories, shared several characteristics. Regardless of the category, many actors were connected to traditional party structures and to the “pillars.” Although anti-Francoist manifestations eventually extended to Christian and liberal milieus too, the socialist and communist parties generally played a leading role: most manifestations were organized in the framework of existing BSP/PSB, ABVV/FGTB or KPB/PCB structures, often in cooperation with their pendants inside the Spanish exile community, namely PSOE, UGT(‐CNT) and PCE. Furthermore, antifascism weighed significantly in the Spanish solidarity. Many of those who spoke out against Franco in Belgian politics in the Long 1960s were respected local antifascist figures. Jules Wolf, Fernand Dehousse and Pierre Le Grève had participated in the Belgian resistance, while Henri Rolin had been a member of the Belgian government in exile. Isabelle Blume had even been an icon of antifascism ever since the 1930s. The veterans of the International Brigades in Spain considered themselves veterans of the struggle against fascism that had continued during World War II. Furthermore, the link between “Francoism” and “fascism” was essential to the Spanish exile narrative, which drew legitimacy from opposing a fascist regime and used antifascism to appeal to local public opinions too. Spanish solidarity was not necessarily linked to other international solidarity movements. Although some individuals such as Wolf or Le Grève were prominent international solidarity advocates, Spanish solidarity seemed rather autonomous in its organization and crossed its paths with other international solidarities only sporadically, for instance at mass rallies where anti-Francoism was used as a symbol of antifascism. Spanish banners were common at trade union demonstrations, especially at International Workers’ Day, typically held by Spanish migrant workers.⁴⁸ Spanish banners also appear in the images of  CegeSoma, Pierre Le Grève Papers, AA 1936 222: Interventions in favour of Spanish citizens, 1970 – 1975.  CegeSoma, Stéphane Huvenne Papers, AA 2204 10: Convention with the García Lorca club, 1960, and correspondence with the League for the Defence of Human Rights, 1965.  Fernández Asperilla, Mineros, Sirvientas y Militantes.

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an important anti-nuclear demonstration held in Brussels on 23 April 1967 along with banners of Greek solidarity (a military coup d’état had taken place in Greece only two days before).⁴⁹ At university rallies, Spain was also present as an antifascist symbol at occasions such as, for instance, an “Anti-Imperialist Day” organized by the Belgian Communist Youth at the ULB on 29 March 1975.⁵⁰ Spanish solidarity actors protested by different means. Rallies or street demonstrations were a widespread practice, frequent since the late 1940s. In Brussels, anti-Francoist protesters usually rallied downtown in front of a monument to the memory of Francisco Ferrer, a Catalan anarchist pedagogue condemned to the death penalty in 1909.⁵¹ Some campaigns were intended to collect money with the purpose of sending it to political prisoners or clandestine political groups in Spain. Cultural manifestations were also common: conferences by academicians, politicians or Spanish exiles, exhibitions to commemorate Spanish Civil War events, projections of films on Spain and on the Civil War (such as André Malraux’s L’Espoir), etc. In the 1970s, some small anarchist groups also took the path of violence to protest against the detention of anarchist activists in Spain with a series of car bombs against Spanish companies in Brussels and Liège.⁵² This mobilization was activated by different stimuli. Events in Spain represented the main stimulus for anti-Francoist groups, so that whenever news of repression in Spain, such as a strike violently stifled by the Spanish police or the execution of political prisoners, arrived in Belgium, Spanish solidarity reacted. In this sense, some important events in Spain marked anti-Francoist unrest from the 1950s until Franco’s death in 1975: Spanish student demonstrations in the late 1950s, a series of big strikes in 1962 started by Asturias mineworkers, communist leader Julián Grimau’s execution in 1963, the declaration of a state of exception in 1969, the so called Proceso de Burgos (trials to militants of Basque separatist armed organization ETA) in 1970, anarchist militant Salvador Puig Antich’s execution in March 1974, and several members of ETA and the communist armed group FRAP’s executions in September 1975. Apart from these events, special acts usually took place to commemorate the anniversary of a notable epi-

 “À Bruxelles, 30 000 jeunes ont clamé hier leur peur de la bombe et leur désir de paix,” Le Peuple, 24 April 1967, 1.  Brussels, CArCoB, Archive Jeunesse communiste de Belgique, AFF005/0077, 1975.  CEGESOMA, Stéphane Huvenne Papers, AA 2204 22: 50th anniversary of the death of Francisco Ferrer, 1959.  “Les terroristes avaient effectivement disposés trois voitures-bombes en Belgique,” Le Soir, 23 – 24 May 1974, 1; “Plusieurs attentats à la bombe contre des établissements espagnols lundi matin à Bruxelles,” Le Soir, 6 August 1974, 1.

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Fig. 10: Protest in support of Julián Grimau in Brussels (1963). Fundación 1° de Mayo.

sode of the Spanish Civil War, such as 1937 Guernica air bombing or 1938 Ebro Battle. International politics could stimulate Spanish solidarity too. A good example of this is the negotiation of a preferential agreement between the European Economic Community (EEC) and Spain, which led to a series of acts of protest in Belgium. Also, at the occasion of King Baudouin’s marriage to Spanish socialite Fabiola de Mora y Aragón in 1960, even if this did not cause massive protest, some groups, such as the Jeune Garde Socialiste, did demonstrate with the slogan La Belgique n’épouse pas Franco. ⁵³ Spanish diplomatic representatives in Belgium kept an eye on Spanish solidarity as much as they could. They informed the Spanish government on Spanish solidarity activities and sent to Madrid copies of journals, newsletters or brochures produced by their organizers. Spanish diplomatic representatives often referred to these files as “Anti-Spanish campaigns in Belgium” or “Red press

 Anne Morelli, Fabiola, un pion sur l’échiquier de Franco (Brussels: Rennaissance du Livre, 2015); Amsab-ISG, 037 Archive Socialistische Jonge Wacht, 27.7: Correspondence with foreign organizations, 1961.

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in Belgium.”⁵⁴ The Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs records show that Spanish diplomatic representatives also managed to infiltrate agents into anti-Francoist reunions and rallies.⁵⁵ In December 1957, at the instigation of the Spanish embassy, a group of twenty Spaniards armed with knives bounced into a rally organized by the ABVV/FGTB at Brussels’ Maison du Peuple. They stabbed several men, most of them members of an ABVV/FGTB Spanish section.⁵⁶

Spanish solidarity and human rights movements in Belgium In the early 1960s, the term “human rights” was rarely used in the rhetoric of Belgian anti-Francoist mobilization, with one obvious exception: the LBDH. Many of the slogans of that time revolved around phrases such as “free the Spanish people” and “solidarity with Spanish students and workers.” The semantic field of “free” was the most commonly used on posters and banners. For instance, in a 12 May 1962 demonstration organized in Brussels jointly by the socialist and communist youths along with several student associations in solidarity with striking workers in Spain, protesters campaigned with the slogan “free the strikers and the students recently arrested” and “free all political prisoners.”⁵⁷ Along with this semantic field, Spanish solidarity campaigns in the 1960s in Belgium featured two recurrent themes: on the one hand, there was the question of Spain and the EEC, which resulted in “No to Franco Spain in Europe” becoming a common slogan. On the other hand, campaigners encouraged Belgians not to go to Spain for their holidays, at a moment of booming tourism in the country, as a means to boycott the economic interests of Franco’s dictatorship. The ABVV/FGTB even acknowledged both themes in its 1965 statuary congress as the fundamental items of its campaigning against Franco Spain.⁵⁸ For most of the 1960s, “human rights” indeed remained limited to the milieus of lawyers and politicians who advocated for human rights and who

 Madrid, Archive of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Spain, R 7526 58: Campañas antiespañolas en Bélgica, 1964; R 7541 57: Prensa roja en Bélgica, 1964.  Ibid., R 7773 12: Conference of the West-European communist parties in Brussels (1965).  “La bagarre a été provoquée par 20 franquistes armés de poignards,” Le Peuple, 27 December 1957, 1.  CegeSoma, Stéphane Huvenne Papers, AA 2204 47: Demonstration in Brussels, 12 May 1962.  Amsab-ISG, Archive FGTB: Statutair Congres 16 – 17 – 18 en 19 december 1965. Moreel en administratief verslag voor de jaren 1962 – 1963 – 1964.

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were usually members of the LBDH. Only in these actors’ discourses were human rights a common feature. Their action usually did not take place in street rallies or demonstrations, but rather in political tribunes such as the Belgian parliament or transnational networks. A good example of this is Jules Wolf, who presided over the LBDH’s legal commission and was particularly engaged in antiFranco protests. Although not officially a member of the BSP/PSB, he used to write for the party review Socialisme: in a 1962 article, Wolf used the abuse of human rights as the main argument to condemn Franco’s regime.⁵⁹ In another article, in 1966, he again related anti-Francoism to a struggle for human rights.⁶⁰ These articles show the effort of international law experts to soak human rights into political languages. Articles like Wolf’s contributed toward progressively introducing the language of human rights into Spanish solidarity, within the traditional frame of the BSP/PSB. Yet, the term “human rights” appeared relatively late in Belgian Spanish solidarity compared with Third World international solidarity movements. Its inclusion into anti-Francoist rhetoric responded to the emergence of a global trend favorable to the human rights language in the 1970s, highlighted by Moyn and other historians. Like solidarities with Greece or Chile, the first campaigns for human rights in Spain focused on state violence and, particularly, torture, commonly relating these issues to the situation in the Basque Country, where Franco regime declared a state of emergency at different occasions in the early 1970s. In the summer of 1975, following a new state of emergency declared by Franco in April 1975, Amnesty International launched a campaign on torture in the Basque Country.⁶¹ The campaign was publicized in the Belgian press,⁶² and different leaflets on torture in the Basque Country circulated in the Belgian human rights activism milieus.⁶³ Spanish solidarities and human rights particularly came together at the occasion of the last death penalties carried out in Spain, in September 1975 (some weeks before Franco’s death). In the first weeks of September 1975, three military tribunals sentenced to death eleven persons accused of being members of either the Basque separatist group ETA or the “Revolutionary Antifascist Patriotic Front” (FRAP). These death sentences caused an international uproar, at a time

 Jules Wolf, “À propos des prisonniers et exilés politiques espagnols,” Socialisme 49/1 (1962): 58 – 65.  Id., “Les outrages aux Droits de l’Homme,” Socialisme 91/1 (1969): 27– 41.  Amnesty International, Report of an Amnesty International Mission to Spain: July 1975 (London: Amnesty International Publications, September 1975).  “Amnesty International: On torture au Pays basque,” Le Soir, 3 October 1975, 3.  CegeSoma, Pierre Le Grève Papers, AA 1936 238.

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when Spain had become the only European country under military rule, after the downfall of the Greek and Portuguese dictatorships in 1974. The Belgian government reacted like most Western European governments and called the Spanish government for clemency.⁶⁴ The main argument put by the Belgian government, as well as by its allies, was that the “human rights” of these prisoners, namely their right to life and their right to a fair trial, should be respected.⁶⁵ At the same time, civil society actors mobilized, once more, to protest against these death sentences. In Belgium, for instance, the BSP/PSB organized a conference-debate in its Brussels headquarters, to which it invited Felipe González, leader of the Spanish socialists.⁶⁶ However, all these calls for clemency did not alter the decision of the Spanish government which executed five of these prisoners on 27 September 1975. The September 1975 executions provoked global unrest and protests across Europe. In Belgium, on 28 September 1975, demonstrators threw Molotov cocktails at the Spanish embassy in Brussels and to the Hogar Español (a social centre sponsored by the Spanish government) in Liège, while there was a violent clash between demonstrators and the police in Brussels too.⁶⁷ These incidents led to crossed accusations of violence between the mayor of Brussels, Liberal Pierre van Halteren, and the KPB/PCB Brussels section, which denounced the use of violence by the police. In their words, the incident “brought back painful memories of the Nazi occupation” as “honest democrats” were injured instead of being allowed to exercise their rights.⁶⁸ The September 1975 executions led to what was probably the most significant episode in Belgian Spanish solidarity since the Spanish Civil War. Protests spread beyond the traditional framework of anti-Francoism. For instance, these executions motivated strike actions by Belgian workers. The ABVV/FGTB and the Christian trade union called for work stoppages in every sector on 2 October 1975 at 12 hours, and were backed by other smaller trade unions.⁶⁹ The Belgian national air company, Sabena, cancelled all of its flights to Spanish airports for  “Le gouvernement belge, à son tour, en appelle à la ‘clémence’ de Franco,” Le Peuple, 26 September 1975, 1.  Antonio Moreno Juste, “The European Economic Community and the end of the Franco regime: the September 1975 crisis,” Cahiers de la Méditerranée 90 (2015).  “Conférence à la Maison du P.S.B.,” Le Soir, 24 September 1975, 3.  “Turbulentes manifestations à Bruxelles où des bureaux espagnols ont été saccagés,” Le Peuple, 29 September 1975, 3.  CArCoB, Archive Fédération bruxelloise du Parti communiste, 62: Soutien à l’Espagne, 1975.  “Solidarité avec le peuple espagnol: La FGTB appelle les travailleurs à manifester,” Le Peuple, 1 October 1975, 3; “Les travailleurs belges se dressent contre le fascisme,” Le Peuple, 3 October 1975, 1.

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Fig. 11: Poster of the Belgian Communist Party (Brussels section) in support of death row inmates in Spain, designed by Willy Wolsztajn (1975). Amsab-ISG, AF007190.

48 hours.⁷⁰ Students, civil servants, mineworkers, factory workers and even Eurocrats⁷¹ went out on the streets to demonstrate against the Franco regime. The National Theatre, in Brussels, dedicated its performances to the victims of Fran-

 “Aujourd’hui à midi: Solidarité-Espagne! Le boycott des avions a commencé hier à Bruxelles,” Le Peuple, 2 October 1975, 9.  “Eurocrats join protest against Spain,” Financial Times, 30 September 1975, 6.

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co’s repression.⁷² Some factory workers blocked the road between Charleroi and Mons on 2 October 1975.⁷³ The Belgian government called back its ambassador in Madrid and, like its counterparts in the EEC, formally protested to the Spanish government in the name of “democracy and human rights.”⁷⁴ These protests established a propitious climate for cooperation among antiFrancoist groups on the ground of human rights. Since the first days of this wave of protest, several associations such as the Association belge des Juristes démocrates, the Union des Avocats belges, the Femmes pour l’Europe or the Union belge pour la Défense de la Paix, published a series of communiqués condemning the Spanish regime in the name of “democracy and human rights.”⁷⁵ Political parties and organizations within trade unions followed their examples. For instance, the KPB/PCB Central Committee and the BSP/PSB Bureau delivered public communiqués using similar arguments.⁷⁶ Even religious groups such as the Catholic Church, the Belgian Protestant Church and the Centre Communautaire Laïc Juif issued communiqués to condemn the executions, using terms such as “human dignity” or “democratic rights.”⁷⁷ As a result, “democracy,” “peace,” “freedom” and “human rights,” became recurring terms in the opinion articles published in the press on Spain during those days.⁷⁸ They also made their entry in rallies and demonstrations along with the slogan “Franco, assassin.” These rallies and demonstrations were characteristic in their diversity: they were frequently set up by organizations of different tendencies (Christian, socialist, communist; trade unions, political parties, Spanish associations, etc.) and individuals with different motivations (workers, activists, immigrants, etc.) indistinctly participated at them.⁷⁹ However, despite this diversity, they shared a common feature: the call for “human rights” for Spain. Human rights had by then become a commonplace in the activists’ rhetoric, as it was inclusive and malleable enough to reassemble different political sensibilities in the name of a common vague objective.

 “Le National dédie ses représentations aux exécutés,” Le Peuple, 29 September 1975, 3.  “Le monde du travail a protesté jeudi contre le régime fasciste,” Le Peuple, 3 October 1975, 3.  “Rappel de l’ambassadeur belge à Madrid,” Le Peuple, 29 September 1975, 3.  “Violentes échauffourées à Bruxelles,” Le Soir, 29 September 1975, 3.  “Réactions diverses,” Le Peuple, 29 September 1975, 3; “Le bureau du P.S.B. demande une concertation au niveau européen,” Le Peuple, 30 September 1975, 6.  “Les évêques belges et l’Église protestante condamnent toute violence,” Le Soir, 3 October 1975, 3; “Le Centre communautaire laïc juif invite les Juifs à boycotter l’Espagne,” Le Peuple, 4 October 1975, 5.  “Pourquoi de toutes parts cette indignation?,” Le Soir, 30 September 1975, 2; André Cools, “Isoler le franquisme,” Le Peuple, 4– 5 October 1975, 1.  “Les travailleurs de tout le pays se dressent contre le fascisme,” Le Peuple, 3 October 1975, 3.

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This unity lived on past Franco’s death some months later. A demonstration in December 1975 represents best how the cooperation had become apparent after the September 1975 executions. After the death of the dictator, some associations called to continue to protest against the Spanish government, now presided by King Juan Carlos I. The LBDH distributed a leaflet entitled “Franco is dead. Fascism continues in Spain” in late November 1975.⁸⁰ By the same token, some of the main anti-Francoist groups in Belgium jointly called for a national demonstration in Brussels on 14 December 1975, asking the new Spanish government to release its political prisoners and to let exiles return to Spain. Among the organizers were the BSP/PSB, the KPB/PCB, the Association belge des Juristes démocrates, several associations within the socialist and Catholic trade unions, the Spanish communists and the main Spanish associations of Brussels, such as the García Lorca and the local UGT, all of them reassembled in a so called Plataforma de Lucha de Bruselas. The main slogan of this demonstration was to demand “the full exercise of human rights and political freedoms [in Spain] enshrined in international legal texts, especially trade union freedoms and of all political parties, without any exclusivity.”⁸¹

Conclusion Belgian groups of Spanish solidarity represent a good example of how international solidarities and human rights crossed and met in the 1970s. AntiFrancoism was one of the oldest international solidarity movements, emerging in the late 1930s as a symbol of antifascism that remained quite vivid after World War II. As such, it drew most of its political and propagandistic vocabulary from antifascist traditions and entertained close connections to left-wing parties and trade unions. Anti-Francoism was thus not a new phenomenon of international solidarities in Belgium or elsewhere in the 1960s. It had existed then for decades and had cultivated a range of long-standing practices. Spanish solidarity in Belgium experienced a series of changes in the long 1960s, which led it to converge with new international solidarity movements. Among these changes were the Belgian society’s growing interest in the political situation in Spain, the mass arrival of Spanish migrant workers during that same period and, lastly, the growing appeal of the language of human rights. As  CegeSoma, Jules Wolf Papers, AA 1836 52: “Franco est mort. Le fascisme continue en Espagne,” 1975.  CArCoB, Archive Fédération bruxelloise du Parti communiste, 62: National demonstration for Spain, 14 December 1975.

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“human rights” seemed a standard concept quite easy to accept for different ideological sensitivities, it gradually acquired space in the language of Spanish solidarity and finally became standard within it too. Nevertheless, Spanish solidarity remained secondary in the global wave of international solidarities developed in the 1960s and 1970s. Spanish solidarity already relied on an organizational structure which had existed prior to the development of international solidarities and which anchored them within antifascism and traditional parties’ networks. If international solidarities in the 1960s and 1970s relied considerably on new social movements, linked to what the historiography often calls the “New Left,” Spanish solidarity owed much to the old left and to the antifascist tradition. This may explain the slight disconnection that existed between Spanish solidarity and the new trends of international solidarities in the 1960s and 1970s, and why the former seemed to play a secondary role in the latter. It may also explain why the language of human rights was needed to bridge the gap between old and new forms of protests.

Abbreviations ABVV/FGTB: Algemeen Belgisch Vakverbond/Fédération générale du Travail de Belgique (General Federation of Belgian Labor) AI: Amnesty International Amsab-ISG: Amsab-Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (Ghent) CArCoB: Centre des Archives du Communisme en Belgique (Brussels) CegeSoma: Centre for Historical Research and Documentation on War and Society (Brussels) CNT: Confederación Nacional del Trabajo (National Confederation of Labor) EEC: European Economic Community ETA: Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (Basque Homeland and Liberty) FRAP: Frente Revolucionario Antifascista Patriótico (Revolutionary Antifascist Patriotic Front) IISG: Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (International Institute of Social History, Amsterdam) LBDH: Ligue belge pour la Défense des Droits de l’Homme (Belgian League for the Defense of Human Rights) KPB/PCB: Kommunistische Partij van België/Parti communiste de Belgique (Belgian Communist Party) PCE: Partido Comunista Español (Spanish Communist Party) BSP/PSB: Belgische Socialistische Partij/Parti socialiste belge (Belgian Socialist Party) PSOE: Partido Socialista Obrero Español (Spanish Socialist Party) UGT: Unión General de Trabajadores (General Union of Workers) ULB: Université libre de Bruxelles (Free University of Brussels)

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Chapter 6 Forgotten Friends and Allies

Belgian Social Movements and Communist Europe (1960s – 1990s) During the Cold War, a plethora of social movements with an international orientation developed in Belgium.¹ So far, the international solidarity campaigns that mobilized on behalf of the “Third World” and what we now dub the “Global South” have received most of the scholarly and public interest.² Far less attention, by contrast, has been devoted to social movements with an East-West orientation. The history of these movements has been predominantly remembered and written with a focus on campaigns that mobilized on behalf of dissidents and human rights in Eastern Europe and struggled against “real existing socialism” in the Eastern bloc. It has been first and foremost the storyline of largescale campaigns in support of the victims of the crushing of the Hungarian revolution in 1956, or the “tremendous solidarity” with the banned Polish trade union Solidarność in the 1980s.³ Criticism of the Soviet Union and opposition to the human rights violations in the Eastern Bloc also pop up in histories of the Belgian peace movements, which have predominantly been written with a focus on New Left groupings.⁴ This narrative, however, runs into some contradic Brigitte Raskin, “Drukgroepen voor internationale politiek in Vlaanderen: een dossier,” Tijdschrift voor Diplomatie 2 (1975): 3 – 47.  Kim Christiaens, “From the East to the South, and Back? International Solidarity Movements in Belgium and New Histories of the Cold War, 1950s–1970s,” Dutch Crossing. Journal of Low Countries Studies 39/3 (2015): 187– 203; Jan Van de Poel, “Solidarity without borders? The Flemish Third World Solidarity Movement and Transnational Coalitions,” Revue belge de Philologie et d’Histoire / Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Filologie en Geschiedenis 89 (2011): 1381– 1403.  Frank Caestecker, “Vluchtelingen uit Hongarije in 1956. Het Belgische verhaal,” Brood & Rozen 4 (2016): 21– 37; Frédérique Werbrouck, “Les réactions de l’opinion publique et du monde politique Belge face à la révolution hongroise de 1956,” Bijdragen tot de Geschiedenis van de Tweede Wereldoorlog, special issue Hongarije (1995): 70 – 88; Idesbald Goddeeris, “Introduction: Solidarity, Ideology, Instrumentality, and Other Issues,” in Solidarity with Solidarity. Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982, ed. Idesbald Goddeeris (Plymouth: Lexington Books, 2010), 1– 18.  Stefaan Walgrave, Nieuwe sociale bewegingen in Vlaanderen (Leuven: SOI, 1994); Mark Hooghe, “Een bewegend doelwit. De sociologische en historische studie van de (nieuwe) sociale bewegingen in Vlaanderen,” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis - Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine (BTNG-RBHC) 34/3 (2004): 331– 357; Patrick Stouthuysen, “Oud en Nieuw https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-007

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tions. It is, for instance, at odds with the image of Belgium as a pioneer and key player in East-West détente, which historians of Belgium’s foreign policy, and more broadly, of Europe’s Cold War have established.⁵ Moreover, such a storyline has neglected the variety of contacts and networks that existed between social movements and state supported organizations in Eastern Europe: new Cold War histories have indeed debunked the image of a divided Europe or “Iron Curtain” by stressing social and cultural exchanges across a “Nylon Curtain”, in which, for instance, Catholic and Church-linked groups appeared to have played an important role.⁶ This contribution aims, then, to cut through the narrative of an anti-communist juggernaut, which has so far dominated the history of internationally oriented social movements in Belgium. Delving into East-West movements as they developed in Belgium from the 1960s until the early 1990s, it analyzes the variety of contacts that existed between Belgian social movements and Eastern Europe. Most innovatively, this contribution intends to connect these East-West movements to the broader history of transnational activism during the Cold War. It does so by placing these movements in a comparative perspective and by assessing their relationship with North-South movements that developed simultaneously.

Catholic cooperation in the 1960s Until the mid-1960s, contacts of Belgian social movements with Eastern Europe might, on the face of it, appear to be relatively limited. Contacts mainly proceeded through the networks of the small Belgian Communist Party (KPB/PCB), which crumbled into a small opposition party after its expulsion from govern-

in één. De Vredesbeweging als atypische nieuwe sociale beweging,” BTNG-RBHC 34/3 (2004): 399 – 419.  Rik Coolsaet, “België in de Koude Oorlog,” in De Koude Oorlog. Een nieuwe geschiedenis. (1917 – 1991), ed. Yvan Vanden Berghe et al. (Leuven: Acco, 2008), 441– 460; Id., België en zijn buitenlandse politiek 1830 – 1990, (Leuven: Kritak, 1998); Michel Dumoulin, Spaak (Brussels: Éditions Racine, 1999); Kim Christiaens et al., “The Benelux and the Cold War: Re-interpreting WestWest Relations,” Dutch Crossing: Journal of Low Countries Studies 40/1 (2016): 1– 9.  Beatrice De Graaf, Over de Muur. De DDR, de Nederlandse kerken en de vredesbeweging (Amsterdam: Boom uitgevers, 2004); Renato Moro, “The Catholic Church, Italian Catholics and Peace Movements: The Cold War Years, 1947– 1962,” Contemporary European History 17/1 (2008): 365 – 390.

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mental power in 1947.⁷ From the late 1940s, friendship committees with individual Eastern European countries were established with the support of the KPB/ PCB. For instance, following the example of the older friendship society with the Soviet Union, a Belgium-Poland friendship society was established in 1947, followed by similar ones with Hungary and East Germany.⁸ The latter was established in 1963 at the initiative of Albert De Coninck, the national secretary of the KPB/PCB, who had good relations with the East German SED.⁹ These associations staged cultural activities and travels to the Eastern bloc, often in cooperation with associations of former Nazi prisoners and victims.¹⁰ One of the principal organizations was the Belgian Union for the Defense of Peace (BUVV/ UBDP) – established in the late 1940s and integrated in the international network of the World Peace Council, the coordinating body of communist peace movements. The BUVV/UBDP was the best organized peace movement in Belgium in the first decade following World War II, and mobilized not only on behalf of peaceful coexistence, but also on behalf of the fate of the budding Third World – staging, for instance, campaigns against the Korean War.¹¹ Although intimately connected to the KPB/PCB and often described as “front organizations”, these organizations were able to involve an important number of nonCommunist activists.¹² International conferences on issues such as peace, the Third World, and disarmament staged by the World Peace Council drew a varied assortment of Belgian activists and groups to places such as Helsinki, Warsaw and Moscow in the 1950s and 1960s. Contacts sometimes drew on prosaic interests: friendship committees featured the striking presence of liberal politicians and industrials, for whom these organizations presented important commercial and trade opportunities with Eastern Europe: the liberal politician Ernest De-

 Luc Peiren, “De communistische partij van België gedurende de Koude Oorlog 1944– 1968,” in Oost West West Best. België onder de Koude Oorlog 1947 – 1989, ed. Mark Van den Wijngaert and Lieve Beullens (Tielt: Lannoo, 1997), 191– 201.  Hélène Oger, “Les amitiés belgo-polonaises. Analyse de la revue éditée entre 1952 et 1959 par l’ASBL éponyme” (master thesis, UCL, Louvain-la-Neuve, 2011).  Carel Horstmeier, “Die DDR und Belgien (1949 – 1972),” in Die DDR und der Westen. Transnationale Beziehungen 1949 – 1989, ed. Ulrich Pfeil (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 2001), 309 – 328.  Berlin, Bundesarchiv, DY 30 13572; Eva Schandevyl, “Een bijdrage tot de studie van het intellectuele veld in België: communistische intellectuelen tijdens de Koude Oorlog (1945 – 1956),” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire / Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Filologie en Geschiedenis 77 (1999): 1003 – 1049.  Ludo De Brabander and Sarah Claes, Hoe koud was de vrede? Achtergrond en catalogus bij de tentoonstelling van vredesaffiches tijdens de koude oorlog naar aanleiding van 40 jaar “Vrede” (Ghent: Vrede vzw, 1997).  Stouthuysen, “Oud en Nieuw in één,” 402.

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muyter, for instance, was the founding president of Les Amitiés BelgoPolonaises. ¹³ The Belgian friendship association with East Germany, for its part, was explicitly rooted in efforts to stimulate trade between the two countries: it worked in the Belgian parliament through a commission for relations with the DDR – headed by the socialist Hubert Rassart and the liberal Norbert Hougardy. What was most striking, however, was the growing involvement of many activists and groups with an explicitly Catholic profile, especially from the 1960s onwards, in contacts with Eastern Europe.¹⁴ As in the past, the Belgian Church continued in the late 1940s to profile itself as a bastion of anti-communism.¹⁵ The episcopacy backed Oostpriesterhulp/Kerk in Nood, the initiative of the Norbertine father Werenfried van Straaten founded in 1947 to provide relief to refugees in Central Europe, which extended its scope to aid for worshippers behind the Iron Curtain. In 1956, the crushing of the Hungarian revolution provoked a groundswell of solidarity in Catholic milieus: the Catholic University of Leuven became a central node of nationwide and even international campaigns on behalf of Hungarian students and refugees.¹⁶ Catholic support was not only about “beating communism” abroad, but also served domestic interests.¹⁷ Against the backdrop of the “school struggle” between the Catholic opposition and the liberal-socialist coalition government, campaigns on behalf of Hungary drew their strength from their potential to contest the ruling government and its détente policies with the Eastern bloc: Catholics touted an attack on freedom and religion both in Belgium and Hungary. This anticommunism and the attention to the plight of worshippers in Eastern Europe dwindled, however, and became superseded by other concerns as early as the late 1950s. First, conservative sectors within the Belgian Catholic Church prioritized their struggle against communism from the 1950s onwards towards the Third World, where, by contrast with Eastern Europe, they believed communism could still be contained. This inspired, for instance, the foundation of the Collegium pro America Latina (COPAL) in Leuven in 1953, which trained priests and lay-helpers to combat communism in Latin America through development, edu-

 Oger, “Les amitiés Belgo-polonaises.”  Horstmeier, “Die DDR und Belgien,” 314.  Lieve Gevers, “Hoogtepunt en einde van een tijdperk (1926 – 1961). Het aartsbisdom onder kardinaal Van Roey,” in Het aartsbisdom Mechelen-Brussel. 450 jaar geschiedenis. Deel II: 1802 – 2009 (Antwerp: Halewijn-KADOC-KU Leuven, 2009), 224– 225.  “Uit het dakvenster,” De Volksmacht, 1 December 1956, 2; “De eerste Hongaren in Leuven,” Ons Leven, 6 December 1956, 8 – 9.  “Groet aan het nieuwe jaar,” De Volksmacht, 29 December 1956, 1.

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Fig. 12: The crisis in Hungary in 1956 became a flashpoint for ideological struggles between the Catholic opposition and socialist-liberal government. The Belgian socialist prime minister Achiel Van Acker is depicted in this cartoon next to his Soviet colleague Nikolai Bulganin. The latter promises that Van Acker can count on Soviet tanks, if the former would need them. KADOC-KU Leuven, Poster Collection, KCB708

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cation and charity.¹⁸ Likewise, Oostpriesterhulp shifted – despite its name – its scope to include the Third World.¹⁹ Secondly, from the late 1950s, contacts with the reality of poverty and repression developed by missionary works in Latin America started to change the perception of communism as an enemy among progressive church groups. This is clearly visible in the trajectory of canon François Houtart – who would become an icon of solidarity with the Third World in Belgium.²⁰ Houtart, who had traveled in the 1950s to Latin America to help the Young Christian Workers keep the working class out of the hands of communists, shifted from anti-communism to criticism of American imperialism and capitalism.²¹ Such shifts also made an impact on wider progressive Catholic milieus who, starting in the 1960s, entered the peace movement and became advocates of “peaceful coexistence” and rapprochement with Eastern European countries. This shift is most clearly registered in the activities of Pax Christi – of which a Belgian branch was founded in 1952. Established as a church movement led by the episcopacy, it transformed into a more independent and progressive peace movement in the wake of the Second Vatican Council, most notably under the leadership of the Walloon canon Raymond Goor, who became the national chaplain of the organization in 1965. The organization developed a myriad of contacts with peace movements in Eastern Europe; Goor even became a member of the World Peace Council and was awarded the Lenin Peace Prize in 1975.²² Belgian Catholic activists and priests also actively participated in the international conferences of the Berliner Konferenz Europäischer Katholiken, an organization established in 1964 by the DDR to promote world peace and justice. It staged international meetings in cities like Warsaw and East Berlin which com-

 Caroline Sappia, “Le Collège pour l’Amérique latine et la présence de prêtres belges dans le continent latino-américain, 1953 – 1983,” in Les relations de Louvain avec l’Amérique latine. Entre évangélisation, théologie de la libération et mouvements étudiants, ed. Caroline Sappia (Louvainla-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2006), 87– 113.  Arthur De Bruyne, “Werenfried van Straaten en de derde wereld. Hij kijkt niet uitsluitend in één richting,” Gazet van Antwerpen, 4 November 1974.  Kim Christiaens, “Diplomatie, activisme en effectieve solidariteit. Een nieuw perspectief op de mobilisatie voor Vietnam (1960 – 1975),” Brood en Rozen: Tijdschrift voor de Geschiedenis van Sociale Bewegingen 18/1 (2013): 4– 27.  See for instance: Francine Meunier’s (Archives et Musée de la Littérature, Brussels) lecture about François Houtart and Latin America presented at the conference Encuentro 2019. The Low Countries and Latin America. Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Shared Histories and Sources, Leuven, 8 – 10 April 2019.  Clive Rose, Campaigns Against Western Defence: NATO’s Adversaries and Critics (London: MacMillan Press, 1985), 62– 63.

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Fig. 13: Canon Raymond Goor giving his acceptance speech for the International Lenin Peace Prize in Moscow in 1975. Goor played a key role in contacts with the World Peace Council. KADOC-KU Leuven, Collection Het Volk (APN Novosti Press Agency Moscow USSR ©).

bined campaigns for East-West cooperation with attention to the problems of the Third World.²³ Indeed, the engagement of Pax Christi and other Catholic groups with Eastern Europe did not only draw from an abstract concern with “peace”, but also thrived on a growing criticism of capitalism and the US and most notably on concerns about underdevelopment and conflicts in Third World. Already in the mid1960s, the leadership of the World Peace Council, which was headed by the Belgian communist Isabelle Blume, saw in campaigns on behalf of the Vietnam War and other causes in the Third World a common ground for further cooperation with Catholic groups.²⁴ The Belgian National Vietnam Committee, which  Berichten, Oostpriesterhulp. Dienst Internationale Propaganda, 10 December 1969, 3.  Bobigny, Departmental Archives of Seine-Saint-Denis, Archives of the Conseil Mondial de la Paix et le Mouvement de la Paix, 170 J 181: “Session of the Presidency,” Prague, 25 – 27 February 1967.

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was established in 1967 with the support of the KPB/PCB and staged massive demonstrations against the Vietnam War, included the canons François Houtart and Raymond Goor among its leading figures. The Third World was indeed an important issue that inspired cooperation with communist movements, notably because the latter offered a contact zone with a multitude of national liberation movements in the Third World. When explaining his engagement with the World Peace Council and the KPB/PCB, for instance, Goor related this to the “previously unexperienced opportunity of close contact with representatives coming from the East, the Middle and Far East, and above all the Third World.”²⁵ As the next section will argue, the nexus between East-West cooperation and campaigns on behalf of the Third World was also key in the campaigns for European Security and Cooperation, which were developed at the initiative of East Germany, the USSR and other communist countries in the 1960s, and in which Belgian activists would take a leading role.

Belgium as a site for East-West détente: Campaigns for European Security and Cooperation Already in the early 1960s, the German Democratic Republic (GDR) started to reach out to Belgian groups in its efforts for recognition in Western Europe and access to markets. The GDR indeed devoted a particular interest in Belgium as a key site for campaigns for its international recognition. From the perspective of the East German Foreign Ministry, the country’s importance to GDR interests stemmed not only from the existence of “one of the largest social democratic parties in Western Europe,” but also from the presence of a number of important figures on the political and intellectual European scene, among which was the socialist Foreign Minister Paul-Henri Spaak.²⁶ In 1964, after negotiations with Walter Ulbricht, the Belgian Communist Party leaders Albert De Koninck and Jean Terfve invited the Belgian socialist Maurice Lambiliotte, an adviser to Paul-Henri Spaak and co-president of the Belgian USSR friendship association,

 Aurélie Stocq, “Le Chanoine Raymond Goor (1908 – 1996). Prix international Lénine de la Paix. Itinéraire d’un prêtre au service du rapprochement Est-Ouest et de l’amitié entre les peuples” (master thesis, UCL, Louvain-la-Neuve, 2003), 131.  Berlin, Bundesarchiv, DY 30 13572: Letter from Wolf Dietrich Bohm, 26 January 1965.

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to travel to East-Germany.²⁷ In April 1964, Lambiliotte stayed with his wife in Berlin, where he had meetings with Foreign Minister Lothar Bolz and the prominent politician Hermann Axen.²⁸ The meeting was the beginning of a deal that consisted of East German support for Lambiliotte’s journal Synthèses, and, the other way around, made Lambiliotte one of the central figures in the plans for a European-wide campaign on behalf of European Security and Cooperation. These would usher in a succession of conferences advocating East-West détente and the organization of an interstate conference on the topic of European Security and Cooperation among a broad assortment of social movements, including trade unions, NGOs, and church groups, not only in Belgium, but across Europe.²⁹ In Belgium, Lambiliotte, together with members of the Communist Party with whom he cooperated in the peace movement, was able to rally a number of prominent individuals and representatives of political parties and social movements in the launching of international campaigns for European security and cooperation.³⁰ Again, Catholic activists were conspicuously present: next to canon Goor, the committee included for instance the Christian democratic politician Raymond Scheyven, but also leading figures of the Christian workers’ movement, such as Ignaas Lindemans and François Martou.³¹ With the support of the GDR and piggybacking on the international networks of the World Peace Council, the Belgian committee built up a campaign that included committees from what were called “Atlantic”, “socialist” and “neutral” countries.³² Across Western and Eastern Europe, committees for European security and cooperation settled in place. In November 1969, canon Goor presided a first international conference on European Security and Cooperation, organized in Vienna.³³ Partly thanks to the Ostpolitik of the Belgian government, the Bel-

 Carel Horstmeier, “La politique de reconnaissance de la RDA en Belgique jusqu’en 1972,” in La RDA et l’Occident (1949 – 1990), ed. Ulrich Pfeil (Paris: Presses Sorbonne Nouvelle, 2000), 213 – 226.  Bundesarchiv, DY 30 13572: Meetings with Lambiliotte, 1964.  Andreas Wenger, Vojtech Mastny and Christian Nuenlist, eds., Origins of the European Security System: The Helsinki Process Revisited, 1965 – 75 (London: Routledge, 2008).  Bundesarchiv, DY 30 13773: Meeting between Marcel Leveaux and Paul Markowski, 12 January 1968, and Abschrift, 29 March 1968.  Brussels, State Archives of Belgium, International Committee for European Security and Cooperation, T 491: “Réunion sur la Sécurité et la Coopération Européennes,” 22– 24 June 1971.  Departmental Archives of Seine-Saint-Denis, Archives of the Conseil Mondial de la Paix et le Mouvement de la Paix: 170 J, 106: Meeting of Representatives of European peace committees, Saarbrucken, 11– 12 September 1971.  Amsterdam, Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (IISG), Wereldvredesraad, 3: Conference for European Security and Cooperation, 1969.

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gian committee became a central node in this network, and Brussels its central hub. In June 1972, the Brussels Congress Palace hosted, after a previous conference in Sofia, the International Assembly of Representatives of Public Opinion on European Security and Cooperation, mustering more than thousand participants, including activists, scientists, and clerics, of which a majority came from Eastern Europe. They called for the convening of an interstate conference to recognize the post-war border of Europe and to stimulate political, economic and cultural cooperation between East and West.³⁴ The conference gained widespread national and international attention and was a succession of public events, such as a concert with the Soviet musician Leonid Kogan, but also an ecumenical service. Catholics and religious leaders indeed played a visible role in the campaign, which was supported by Pope Paul VI, the Belgian Cardinal Suenens and his Dutch counterpart Alfrink.³⁵ Over the next years, Belgium remained a centre for new campaigns: the International Committee for Security and Cooperation, established in 1972 to coordinate campaigns at the international level, was almost completely run by Belgian organizations. The initiative could benefit from the Ostpolitik of the Belgian government – recognizing the GDR in 1973 – and continued to operate over the following years and up until the 1980s, organizing international conferences (such as in Liège in 1975), publishing bulletins on East-West relations, and cooperating with peace groups in diverse Eastern European countries.³⁶ From 1971 onwards, Goor, for instance, also participated in the campaigns staged by the Polish Stowarzyszenie PAX, which focused on the role of Christians in East-West détente. These Belgian campaigns on behalf of peace and East-West cooperation were not only internationally connected, but drew much of their impact from their connections with broader social movements in Belgium, especially those working on the Third World. In the early 1970s, campaigns for East-West détente continued to be entangled with campaigns on behalf of issues such as solidarity with the Chilean resistance or anti-apartheid, not only in terms of personnel and organizations involved, but also in ideas.³⁷ The end of the East-West conflict in

 State Archives of Belgium, International Committee for European Security and Cooperation, T 491: “Assemblée des représentants de l’opinion publique pour la Sécurité et la Coopération Européennes,” 2– 5 June 1972.  Raymond Goor, “Quand se parlent les peuples européens,” Pax Christi. Bulletin belge du Mouvement international Pax Christi. Bulletin trimestriel, October 1972, No. 3, 10 – 12 and 16.  Bulletin Spéciale. Documents de la deuxième assemblé des représentants de l’opinion publique pour la Sécurité et la Coopération Européennes, 1975.  Christiaens, “From the East to the South, and Back?”, 216.

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Europe became a symbolic weapon to fight against dictatorships and injustice in the Third World.

The paradoxical neglect: Eastern European dissidents Up until the late 1970s, there was, however, one group that virtually remained out of the scope on the agenda of internationally oriented social movements in Belgium: Eastern European dissidents. Following the crushing of the Hungarian Uprising in 1956, as previously mentioned, a broad mobilization developed on behalf of the victims, and several thousands of Hungarian exiles arrived in Belgium, but already after a few months, the campaigns crumbled.³⁸ A number of important exiles settled in Belgium, among them Anna Kéthly – the exiled president of the Hungarian Social Democratic Party – who participated in the foundation of the Imre Nagy Institute in Brussels in 1958. In the following years, the institute committed to the dissemination of knowledge about the events of 1956 and worked closely together with anti-Stalinist intellectuals and politicians of the European New Left.³⁹ However, the Institute was dissolved already by 1963 due to internal struggles and a decline of interest for the Hungarian cause.⁴⁰ Likewise, the 1968 crushing of the Prague Spring provoked an initial outcry of sympathy with the victims of the Warsaw Pact invasion, but once again solidarity faded as quickly as it had flared up. Support for dissidents did not mobilize the traditional Christian and social democratic organizations, but was mainly centered around anti-Stalinist intellectuals of the New Left. This was by no means a unique Belgian phenomenon: so-called “eurocommunists” in Italy and France were among the most vocal supporters of Eastern European dissidents.⁴¹

 Piet Creve, “Vroeg invallende winters. België en de Hongaarse en Tsjechoslovaakse crisissen van 1956 en 1968,” in: Oost West, West Best: België onder de Koude Oorlog, 1947 – 1989, ed. Mark Van den Wijngaert and Lieve Beullens (Tielt: Lannoo, 1997), 110 – 116.  Bill Lomax, “The Hungarian Revolution in Retrospect,” Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 13/2 (1997): 152– 158.  Peter Kende, “The Imre Nagy Institute in Brussels. A Letter of Sorts to Janos M. Bak,” in The Man of Many Devices Who Wandered Full Many Ways. Festschrift in Honor of Janos M. Bak, ed. Balasz Nagy and Marcell Sebök (Budapest: Central European University Press, 1999), 18 – 25.  Maud Bracke, Which Socialism? Whose Détente? West European Communism and the Czechoslovak crisis of 1968 (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2007); Frédéric Heurtebize,

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As soon as August 1968, Peter Uhl – one of the future founders of Charter 77 – met with the prominent Marxist intellectual Ernest Mandel in Brussels during a meeting of the IVth International.⁴² Mandel was a key figure in the Trotskyist movement and his public stance against the Warsaw Pact invasion inspired many Belgian leftist intellectuals. Jean-Marie Chauvier, a Belgian journalist and correspondent in Moscow for the communist newspaper Drapeau Rouge, was ousted from the Belgian Communist Party due to his criticism of the Soviet actions in Prague. Together with the Czechoslovak dissident Jiři Pelikán, he founded the Belgian Committee for a Free and Socialist Czechoslovakia in 1973, which included the support of leftist intellectuals and activists, such as Pierre Le Grève, Marcel Liebman and Pierre Galand. In the aftermath of the Helsinki Final Conference of 1975 and following the foundation and suppression of Charter 77, a number of support committees sprang up – such as the 1 Mei Komitee Fondation du Premier Mai and the Komitee Tsjechoslovakije – 10 jaar. Again, both committees were founded by intellectuals from the New Left, respectively of Trotskyist and Maoist inspiration.⁴³ They supported Eastern European dissidents in a number of ways: most importantly through the dissemination of magazines with news of the human rights situation in the Eastern Bloc, but they also organized meetings, debates and support manifestations attended by Czechoslovak dissidents, such as Jiři Pelikan.⁴⁴ In 1978, they organized a march through Brussels, ending at the Czechoslovak embassy.⁴⁵ However, these organizations operated at the margins of Belgian society. They were unable to mobilize a large audience, nor could they draw on the support of the Belgian trade union movements, the ACV/CSC and ABVV/FGTB. The committees were aware of the importance of trade union support for giving their cause a greater resonance in society, and they did try hard to involve them in their meetings and manifestations, but they were unsuccessful in their attempts. Though the unions attended some of the events, they did not send important representatives and

“Eurocommunism and the Contradictions of Superpower Détente,” Diplomatic History 41/4 (2017): 747– 771.  Rik De Coninck, “‘L’autre Printemps’, colloquium, Université Libre de Bruxelles, 21 en 22 november 2008,” Brood & Rozen (2009) 1: 89 – 93.  Both organizations were founded by intellectuals of the New Left. The 1 mei Komitee / Comité du Premier Mai was founded by Trotskyist intellectuals while the Komitee Tsjechoslovakije – 10 Jaar was inspired by Maoism. Though these organizations sometimes supported each other’s actions, they had a conflicting relationship.  Ghent, Amsab-ISG, Komitee Tsjechoslovakije 10 jaar, PAD/0045: “News, September 1978,” Robotnik informatiebulletin van het Vlaams 1 Mei Komitee voor de verdediging van de demokratische vrijheden en arbeidersrechten in Oost-Europa (1), January 1980.  Amsab-ISG, Komitee Tsjechoslovakije 10 jaar, “Nieuws,” September 1978.

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their commitment remained minimal, mostly confined to verbal expressions of sympathy and support.⁴⁶ The attitude of the trade unions towards the cause of Eastern European dissidents was ambiguous at best. Although, after the Second World War, the ACV/ CSC and ABVV/FGTB had established specific sections for Eastern European migrant workers, both trade unions displayed a very low interest in the Eastern European dissidents that came to the fore in the 1970s. In 1976, Anna Kéthly – then dubbed the Joan of Arc of Hungarian politics – passed away in the Belgian coastal town of Blankenberge, isolated and forgotten. While the ABVV/FGTB did condemn the suppression of Charter 77 one year later⁴⁷, the ACV/CSC gave no reaction at all. On the contrary: in 1978 it made an official visit to their Czechoslovak counterpart ROH.⁴⁸ It was only in 1980 that they got involved in a campaign against the trial of Charter 77 spokesman Rudolf Battek. During this trial, the ACV/CSC was contacted by Pierre Weinstadt, a professor at the Université Libre de Bruxelles. He pressed the ACV/CSC to condemn the trial by writing letters to the ROH and Czechoslovak president Gustáv Husák. The ACV/CSC was hesitant to act and played the issue on to the ACW/MOC,⁴⁹ with the argument that Battek was an intellectual, “and not a worker”.⁵⁰ Likewise, opposition movements in Eastern Europe were virtually absent from the public debate. The newspapers of the Belgian trade unions De Volksmacht (ACV/CSC) and De Werker (ABVV/FGTB) did not pay attention to the emerging dissident movements in the 1970s and instead focused on issues in Third World countries. Even in the case of Solidarność, a dissident movement with a distinct worker identity, the Belgian unions reacted late and very cautiously in comparison with other trade unions in the West. In August 1980, when strikes broke out on the Lenin shipyard in Gdańsk, Belgian trade unions barely reacted.⁵¹ Support actions slowly got into gear and only reached full speed after the declaration of martial law in December 1981. Critically, support for Poland

 Amsab-ISG, Robotnik, 1 januari 1980; Leuven, KADOC-KU Leuven, Archive ACV/CSC Dienst Internationale Betrekkingen (ACV IB), BE/942855/929/43: Contacts with Czechoslovakia, “Invitation Solidarity march CBCICR,” 15 November 1981.  Amsab-ISG, Contacts ABVV with Conseil Central des Syndicats Tchéchoslovaques (CCST), 144.00745: “Invitation Congress CCST,” 2 February 1977.  ACV IB, BE/942855/929/43: Czechoslovakia, “Correspondence Jef Houthuys to Karel Hoffman,” May 1978.  The ACW/MOC is the broad labor movement that consisted among others of women and youth organizations, a health insurance and the trade union ACV/CSC.  ACV IB, Czechoslovakia, BE/942855/929/43: “Issue of Rudolf Battek,” 31 June 1980.  Idesbald Goddeeris, “Belgium: The Christian Emphasis,” in Solidarity with Solidarity, ed. Idesbald Goddeeris, 244.

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was mainly a case of the Christian inspired ACV/CSC.⁵² The latter’s support was important, but can hardly be called “tremendous”.⁵³ Not only did these actions see a delayed start, solidarity with the Polish cause faded away quickly. In 1982, the “Actie Polen” collected an impressive sum of 28.5 million Belgian francs, but this dwindled in the following years: 732,031 francs in 1983 and only 268,900 francs in 1985.⁵⁴ Within the ACV/CSC, there was no consensus for the continued support for Poland.⁵⁵ Moreover, already in 1983, the ACV/CSC noted the bankruptcy of Solidarność, blaming extremists on both sides. This observation was made by a delegation of the ACV/CSC that visited Poland after the lifting of martial law that same year. While they met with members of Solidarność, they did not visit Wałęsa. Instead, they paid a visit to the new teachers’ trade union (founded by the communist regime) and were invited by labor minister Stanisław Ciosek as the first Western trade unionists, thus seemingly legitimizing the policy of normalization in Poland.⁵⁶ Support for Eastern European dissidents did indeed not fit the international policy of the ACV/CSC: since the early 1970s, the World Confederation of Labor focused its efforts on the Third World⁵⁷, even cooperating on some issues – such as anti-apartheid – with the communist World Federation of Trade Unions. Even the Polish born secretary-general of the WCL – Jan Kułakowski – admitted internally that human rights violations in Eastern Europe were not a priority, since the plight of the Third World was harsher and more important.⁵⁸ The ACW/MOC also resolutely centered its international strategy towards the Third World with the foundation of Wereldsolidariteit in 1971.⁵⁹ Likewise, the Belgian socialist trade union concentrated its international policy on issues in Latin

 Ibid., 261.  Ibid., 243.  ACV IB, Poland, BE/942855/929: “Actie Polen,” 1986.  Ibid.: “Aktie Polen. Moet humanitaire hulp stopgezet worden?”, 1986.  Goddeeris, “Belgium: The Christian Emphasis,” 254.  The action program 1985 – 1989 of the WCL referred almost exclusively to issues in the Third World such as Apartheid and the debt crisis in developing countries. See “Het WVAActieprogramma,” Labor, January/February 1987, 4– 10.  Kim Christiaens, “The Failure of a Third Way: The World Confederation of Labor and the Globalization of Solidarność during the 1980s,” in Christian Democracy and the Fall of Communism, ed. Michael Gehler, Piotr Kosicki and Helmut Wohnout (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2019), 62.  Wereldsolidariteit already existed since 1961 as a support fund of the ACW/MOC for the Third World, in 1971 it was turned into a full-fledged office within the labor movement. See: Emmanuel Gerard, “Het Algemeen Christelijk Werknemersverbond,” in De Christelijke Arbeidersbeweging in België. Deel II, ed. Emmanuel Gerard (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1991), 600.

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America and Africa, while they favored a policy of Ostpolitik in Europe.⁶⁰ All in all, the Belgian trade union confederations were not the main protagonists of Belgian campaigns for Solidarność. Instead, and much more likely, these campaigns originated from regional divisions of the ACV/CSC, the Polish section within ACV/CSC and most notably from numerous local Christian-inspired initiatives and church groups.⁶¹ With regard to the East, one could argue that Belgian trade unions practiced the opposite of what they preached. While the interaction of the Belgian trade union confederations with dissidents remained marginal and mostly confined to moral support, contacts with the official (communist) trade unions reversed this attitude. From a moral point of view, the practices of communist unions and the human rights violations by the communist regimes were publicly condemned. Virtually all invitations for conferences of communist trade unions were automatically rejected. As a rule, no congresses or 1st of May parades of unions belonging to the communist WFTU were attended.⁶² In reality, the Belgian unions developed – sometimes strong – relationships with their communist counterparts. Belgian trade unions thus became important advocates of cooperation between the East and the West, within the broader state policy of détente.⁶³ They were no exception and followed the general tendency in Western European states which “[…] were not inclined to derail détente in favor of the cases of CEE dissidents.”⁶⁴ The nature of these contacts differed significantly and ranged from intense to occasional, guided by the openness of the regime and the human rights record of the country. During the 1970s and 1980s, a wave of official delegations traveled back and forth the Iron Curtain.⁶⁵ The most important partner on the other side of the Iron Curtain was the Hungarian communist trade union SZOT: both the ABVV/FGTB and the ACV/CSC had intense contacts with the country of “Goulash communism”. The atmosphere during a visit of a Hungarian delegation to the ACV/CSC in 1978 was “frank and cordial”.⁶⁶ The following year,

 Amsab-ISG, ABVV, Statutair Congres, 1981 and Statutair Congres, 1986.  Goddeeris, “Belgium: The Christian Emphasis,” 253; Id., “The Polish Section of the Belgian Christian Trade Union ACV/CSC,” in Christian Democracy across the Iron Curtain: Europe Redefined, ed. Piotr Kosicki and Slawomir Lukasiewicz (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 257– 275.  Amsab-ISG, ABVV, Contacts ABVV with Conseil Central des Syndicats Polonais, 144.00739: “Congress Invitation Georges Debunne,” October 1976.  Stefan Müller, “West-German Trade Unions and the Policy of Détente (1969 – 1989),” Moving the Social. Journal on Social History and the History of Social Movements 52 (2014): 109.  Mark Gilbert, Cold War Europe. The Politics of a Contested Continent (London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2015), 201.  The ABVV/FGTB exchanged more than 25 delegations with CEE, the ACV/CSC more than 15.  ACV IB, Hungary, BE/942855/929/14: “Visit Hungarian delegation,” 24 April 1981.

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a delegation of amateur dancers was invited to Hungary, to join the festivities for the 25th anniversary of the research institute of SZOT in Szeged.⁶⁷ In February 1986, both the ACV/CSC and the ABVV/FGTB attended the 25th congress of SZOT. Hervé Decuyper, the ACV/CSC delegate, was surprised by the open discussions that could be held at the conference and was enthusiastic about the constructive atmosphere.⁶⁸ Trade union delegations were also related to contacts with Eastern Europe that thrived on more poetic aspects of life such as tourism. For communist regimes, tourism was an opportunity to show the West the more pleasurable aspects of a socialist society and – more importantly – a way to generate hard currency.⁶⁹ The state tourist agencies of Eastern European governments cooperated with a number of partners in the West to attract tourists: governments and tourist offices, as well as trade unions. Communist trade unions owned large holiday complexes to provide the domestic workers the opportunity to go on holidays.⁷⁰ This accommodation was also used to attract Western tourists. Belgian trade unionists were regularly invited to spend their family vacation in a Black Sea resort or to participate in exchanges with the unions’ youth organizations.⁷¹ Destinations in Eastern Europe were interesting for the travel agencies of the Belgian labor movement because they offered an alternative way to provide cheap holidays for the workers.⁷² From the end of the 1960s on, these travel agencies started to promote holidays in communist countries.⁷³ In 1969, the ABVV/FGTB discussed the possible construction of a vacation house of their own in Czechoslovakia.⁷⁴ Special travel guides were published by Vakantiegenoegens, the travel agency of the ACV/CSC, on Romania and Hungary.⁷⁵ An article in  Ibid.: “Correspondence Sandor Gaspar to Jef Houthuys,” 31 March 1978.  Ibid.: “Congres SZOT,” 5 May 1986.  Sune Bechmann Pedersen, “Eastbound Tourism in the Cold War: The History of the Swedish Communist Travel Agency Folkturist,” Journal of Tourism History 10/2 (2018): 131.  Kristen R. Ghodsee, The Red Riviera: Gender, Tourism and Postsocialism on the Black Sea (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 82.  Amsab-ISG, Contacts ABVV with Conseil des Syndicats Bulgares (CSB), 144.00703: “Correspondence Michev with Debunne,” 14 March 1975.  Belgian labor movements had their own travel agencies: the ACW/MOC could rely on Vakantiegenoegens and Ultra Montes, the ABVV/FGTB disposed of Vakantievreugde ATO. See: Gerard, “Het Algemeen Christelijk Werknemersverbond,” 601.  “Onvergetelijke vakantie aan het Goudstrand,” De Volksmacht 29/35 (1973), annex 1.  Amsab-ISG, Contacts ABVV with Conseil Central des Syndicats Tchéchoslovaques (CCST), 144.00745: “Correspondence Craenincxk with Debunne,” 21 August 1969.  Raymond Claes and Piet Van Couwenberghe, Info-Reiswijzer: Hongarije (Brussels: Vakantiegenoegens, s.d.); Raymond Claes and Piet Van Couwenberghe, Info-Reiswijzer: Roemenië (Brussels: Vakantiegenoegens, s.d.).

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their travel magazine described the latter as the “Eastern Bloc country that winks to the West.” The cultural sights were praised, but also the cheap food and consumer goods were used as an argument to visit the country.⁷⁶ The Belgian Communist Party also had an affiliated travel agency – its main office conveniently located on Stalingrad Lane in Brussels – which organized travels to destinations such as the USSR, Cuba and Eastern Europe.⁷⁷ Thousands of Belgians yearly spent their holidays in the East, from Lake Balaton in Hungary to the beaches of the Red Rivièra in Romania and Bulgaria.⁷⁸

Reconfiguring solidarities and memories after 1989 From 1988, the escalation of protests in Eastern Europe and the subsequent collapse of the communist regimes brought Eastern Europe to the centre of attention in Belgian society. Not only trade union leaders but also politicians and journalists were engulfed by a sudden enthusiasm for the “other Europe”. The visit to Belgium of Lech Wałęsa in May 1989 was a major event: Wałęsa was invited by the Brussels-based International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU) and also paid a visit to the WCL and the Belgian trade union headquarters. Moreover, he was received by Belgian prime minister Wilfried Martens, by European Commission president Jacques Delors, and even by Belgian King Boudewijn.⁷⁹ Already in January 1990, Foreign Minister Mark Eyskens published a work in which he analyzed the consequences of the implosion of communism in Europe.⁸⁰ The overthrow of the communist regimes at the end of the year were a hot issue in the Belgian press. Romania especially was omnipresent after the killing of TV-journalist Danny Huwé by the Romanian army on Christmas Eve. Belgian author and publicist Julien Weverbergh published two books

 Etienne Rotsaert and Marleen Haezebrouck, “Hongarije. Oostblokland dat knipoogt naar het Westen,” Info Vakantiegenoegens, 2 December 1987, 21– 23.  Brussels, CArCoB, Archive Michel Vanderborght, Tourisme Populaire, CAR PP3/58: “Programs and Itineraries,” 1978.  East Europe Report. Economic and Industrial Affairs, Foreign Broadcast Information Centre, 2442 (1983), 9.  “Walesa op bezoek in België,” De Financieel-Economische Tijd, 18 May 1989.  Mark Eyskens, Van Détente naar Entente. Gevolgen van de implosie van het communisme (Brussels: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 1990).

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in which he gave Romanian dissidents a voice.⁸¹ Inspired by the fate of dissidents, the NGO Opération Villages Roumains (OVR) was founded in Brussels in December 1988. It originally protested against the systematization policy of Romanian general-secretary Ceausescu by promoting the twinning of Western European communities with Romanian ones. OVR evolved at the beginning of the 1990s into a Europeanwide network that gave humanitarian support to Romania.⁸² It was one of the few Western NGOs to address the problems in Romania and criticized the Belgian government for having favored détente above human rights.⁸³ Next to OVR, numerous church groups that were key in the support for Solidarność, continued their work on the basis of their existing networks. This sudden Eastern Europhilia obscured not only the disinterest in Eastern European dissidents in the previous decades, but also the fears and concerns which the changes provoked among Belgian social movements. The revolutions of 1988 – 1989 made clear that dissidents were going to take up a leading role in their countries, and became a challenge for social movements that had up until recently favored détente and neglected dissidents. The opening of Eastern Europe was, for instance, a big concern for the leadership of the Christian trade union movement, which feared not only competition by social democratic movements over access to these new societies, where new trade unions and political parties were formed, but also its rather negative perception among Eastern European dissidents, who had perceived the international Christian trade union movement as collaborative with the now defunct communist regimes. When a delegation of Christian trade unionists visited Warsaw in 1989, they were received in a rather cool way. They could only meet separate members of the Solidarność leadership and no joint meeting took place, nor did anyone of the government bother to meet them.⁸⁴ In the early 1990s, the Belgian ACV/CSC and the WCL invested – in vain – considerable efforts to recruit support in the post-communist societies through the organization of travels and development projects.⁸⁵

 Julien Weverbergh, Nacht in Roemenië. Feiten, relazen, getuigenissen en cartoons (Baarn: De Prom, 1990); Id., Terug naar Roemenië: relaas van een manipulatie (Baarn: De Prom, 1990).  Gautier Pirotte, L’e´pisode humanitaire roumain: construction d’une crise, e´tat des lieux et modalite´s de sortie (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2006), 17– 18.  Paul Hermant, Au temps pour moi. Journal intime d’une association d’idées 1989 – 2004 (Brussels: Les Carnets du Desserts de Lune, 2004), 17.  KADOC, Archive Willy Peirens, BE/942855/19/455: “Short report on the mission of the WCL in the USSR, Poland and Hungary,” 2– 8 July 1989.  Ibid., “Mission Czechoslovakia, Romania, Bulgaria,” February 1990.

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Fig. 14: Solidarność leader Lech Wałęsa is visiting the headquarters of the World Confederation of Labor in 1989. After the fall of communism, the WCL tried to obscure its previous ties with communist organizations and emphasized its support for Solidarność. KADOC-KU Leuven, Collection WCL (ISOPIX ©).

Much skepticism towards the bonanza of interest in post-communist Europe also emerged from within the Belgian “Third World” movement, which feared rather than welcomed the impact of the changes in Eastern Europe on the Third World.⁸⁶ As early as 1990, the annual report of the Nationaal Centrum voor Ontwikkelingssamenwerking (NCOS), the Belgian umbrella organization for development organizations, stated that “the Eastern Bloc will become a rival for the Third World: a shift towards the East in the budgets for aid, trade, credit and investment.”⁸⁷ These fears and conflicts can only be fully understood by looking at the different connections and overlaps that had existed between North-South and East-West movements prior to 1989 and that were at odds with the new political agendas of the post-Cold War era. Against this backdrop, narratives of “global activism” that blossomed in academia and public debates after the end of the Cold War not only retroactively painted – even invented – a

 Mark Heirman, “De omwentelingen in Oost-Europa en de Derde Wereld,” De Gids op Maatschappelijk Gebied 82/4 (1991): 371– 381.  NCOS, “Annual Report. Belgian Developmental Aid 1989,” De Wereld Morgen, June 1990, 20.

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story of “tremendous solidarity” with Eastern European dissidents, but also silenced a now unwelcome variety of engagements and contacts, ranging from strategic to principled, that had existed between a multiplicity of social movements and communist Europe.

Abbreviations ABVV/FGTB:

Algemeen Belgisch Vakverbond/Fédération Générale du Travail de Belgique (General Federation of Belgian Labor) ACV/CSC: Algemeen Christelijk Vakverbond/Confédération des syndicats chrétiens (Confederation of Christian Trade Unions) ACW/MOC: Algemeen Christelijk Werkersverbond/Werknemersverbond/Mouvement ouvrier chrétien (Confederation of Christian Employees) Amsab-ISG: Amsab-Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (Institute for Social History, Ghent) BUVV/UBDP: Belgische Unie voor de Verdediging van de Vrede/Union belge pour la Défense de la Paix (Belgian Union for the Defence of Peace) CArCoB: Centre des Archives du Communisme en Belgique (Brussels) CCST: Conseil Central des Syndicats Tchéchoslovaques (Central Council of Czechoslovak Trade Unions) CEE: Central and Eastern Europe COPAL: Collegium pro America Latina GDR: German Democratic Republic ICFTU: International Confederation of Free Trade Unions IISG: Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (International Institute of Social History, Amsterdam) NCOS: Nationaal Centrum voor Ontwikkelingssamenwerking (National Centre for Development Cooperation) KADOC: Documentation and Research Centre on Religion, Culture and Society KPB/PCB: Kommunistische Partij van België/Parti communiste de Belgique (Communist Party of Belgium) SED: Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands (Socialist Unity Party of Germany) WCL: World Confederation of Labor WFTU: World Federation of Trade Unions

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Raskin, Brigitte. “Drukgroepen voor internationale politiek in Vlaanderen: een dossier.” Tijdschrift voor Diplomatie 2 (1975): 3 – 47. Rose, Clive. Campaigns Against Western Defence: NATO’s Adversaries and Critics. London: MacMillan Press, 1985. Rotsaert, Etienne and Marleen Haezebrouck. “Hongarije. Oostblokland dat knipoogt naar het Westen.” Info Vakantiegenoegens, 2 December1987, 21 – 23. Sappia, Caroline. “Le Collège pour l’Amérique latine et la présence de prêtres belges dans le continent latino-américain, 1953 – 1983.” In Les relations de Louvain avec l’Amérique latine. Entre évangélisation, théologie de la libération et mouvements étudiants, edited by Caroline Sappia, 87 – 113. Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2006. Schandevyl, Eva. “Een bijdrage tot de studie van het intellectuele veld in België: communistische intellectuelen tijdens de Koude Oorlog (1945 – 1956).” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire / Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Filologie en Geschiedenis 77 (1999): 1003 – 1049. Stocq, Aurélie. “Le Chanoine Raymond Goor (1908 – 1996). Prix international Lénine de la Paix. Itinéraire d’un prêtre au service du rapprochement Est-Ouest et de l’amitié entre les peuples.” Master thesis, UCL, Louvain-la-Neuve, 2003. Stouthuysen, Patrick. “Oud en Nieuw in één. De Vredesbeweging als atypische nieuwe sociale beweging.” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis / Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 34/3 (2004): 399 – 419. Van de Poel, Jan. “Solidarity without Borders? The Flemish Third World Solidarity Movement and Transnational Coalition.” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire / Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Filologie en Geschiedenis, 89/4 (2011): 1381 – 1403. Walgrave, Stefaan. Nieuwe sociale bewegingen in Vlaanderen. Leuven: SOI, 1994. Wenger, Andreas, Vojtech Mastny and Christian Nuenlist, eds. Origins of the European Security System: The Helsinki Process Revisited, 1965 – 75. London: Routledge, 2008. Werbrouck, Frédérique. “Les réactions de l’opinion publique et du monde politique Belge face à la révolution Hongroise de 1956.” Bijdragen tot de Geschiedenis van de Tweede Wereldoorlog, special issue Hongarije (1995): 70 – 88. Weverbergh, Julien. Nacht in Roemenië. Feiten, relazen, getuigenissen en cartoons. Baarn: De Prom, 1990. Weverbergh, Julien. Terug naar Roemenië: relaas van een manipulatie. Baarn: De Prom, 1990.

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Transnational Perspectives on the Dutch Anti-Vietnam War Movement (1965 – 1975) “I’m fed up listening to the opinions of hooligans on Vietnam,” Dutch Minister of Foreign Affairs Joseph Luns told an American embassy staffer in 1967.¹ Though exceptionally harsh in his disapproval, Luns was not the only one aggravated by social criticism of U.S. military intervention in Vietnam. Everywhere in the world, especially in Western countries, the Vietnam War at that time sparked demonstrations, heated debates, and criticism of authorities. While he may have disapproved, Luns could not ignore the protest movement. Opposition to the Vietnam War has mostly been studied from an internal or national perspective, with considerable attention to the American anti-war movement.² However, since the 2000s, similar protests in Western Europe have been examined in depth as well.³ It makes sense, in a way, to examine

This chapter was translated by Alana Gillespie. I would like to thank Alana, Peter van Dam, and Kim Christiaens for their helpful comments on earlier versions.  Quoted in: Rimko van der Maar, “Minister for Foreign Affairs Joseph Luns and the Vietnam War,” in La guerre du Vietnam et l’Europe, 1963 – 1973, ed. Christopher Goscha and Maurice Vaïsse (Brussels: Bruylant, 2003), 112.  Charles Chatfield, “At the Hand of Historians: The Antiwar Movement of the Vietnam Era,” Peace and Change, 29 (2004): 483 – 526.  For example: Nick Thomas, “Protests against the Vietnam War in 1960s Britain: The Relationship between Protesters and the Press,” Contemporary British History, 22 (2008): 335 – 354; James Godbolt, Chris Holmsted Larsen and Søren Hein Rasmussen, “The Vietnam War: The Danish and Norwegian Experience, 1964– 1975,” Scandinavian Journal of History, 33 (2008): 395 – 416; CarlGustaf Scott, Swedish Social Democracy and the Vietnam War (Stockholm: Södertörns högskola, 2017); Nick Thomas, Protest Movements in 1960s West Germany: A Social History of Dissent and Democracy (Oxford/New York: Bloomsbury, 2003), 69 – 86; Jost Dülffer, “The Anti-Vietnam Movement in West-Germany,” in La guerre, ed. Goscha and Vaïsse, 287– 305; Rimko van der Maar, “The Right to Be Right: The Vietnam Movement in the Netherlands (1965 – 1973),” in Lion and Dragon. Four Centuries of Dutch-Vietnamese Relations, ed. John Kleinen et al. (Amsterdam: Boom, 2007), 191– 210; Wilfried Mausbach, “European Perspectives on the War in Vietnam,” Bulletin of the German Historical Institute Washington DC, 30 (2002): 71– 86; Effie G. H. Pedaliu, “Transatlantic Relations at a Time When ‘More Flags’ Meant ‘No European Flags’: The United States’ War in South-East Asia and its European Allies, 1964– 8,” The International History Rehttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-008

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these cases through a national lens, since activists and critics initially denounced the support that their governments – like the Dutch – voiced for U.S. Vietnam policy.⁴ Furthermore, the debate about the Vietnam War became entangled with domestic and sometimes very local discussions about the relationship between citizens and the authorities. The Dutch press, for example, wondered whether the Amsterdam police force had responded too aggressively to Vietnam protesters. This triggered a historiographically well-documented debate about freedom of speech and the right to protest, one in which the Vietnam War was only a side issue.⁵ Privileging the national point of view, however, has left the transnational dimension of anti-Vietnam War protests in the shadows. Recent research has called for opposition to the Vietnam War to be analyzed as a global phenomenon.⁶ The Dutch anti-Vietnam War movement reveals this combination of global and local dimensions. On the one hand, Dutch activists found most of their inspiration abroad and they were in frequent contact with like-minded foreign activists. As Dutch student organizer and anti-Vietnam War activist Ton Regtien recalled in his memoirs, “Pressure groups and initiatives with similar activities and objectives sprang up in their thousands, everywhere. The connections grew nat-

view 35 (2013): 556 – 575. The Eastern European response to the Vietnam War has been examined as well. See, for example, Amy Austin Holmes, Social Unrest and American Military Bases in Turkey and Germany (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 80 – 88; Günter Wernicke, “The World Peace Council and the Antiwar Movement in East Germany,” in America, the Vietnam War, and the World, ed. Andreas W. Daum, Lloyd C. Gardner and Wilfried Mausbach (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 299 – 319; James Mark, Péter Apor, Radina Vučetić and Piotr Osȩka, “‘We Are With You Vietnam’: Transnational Solidarities in Socialist Hungary, Poland and Yugoslavia,” Journal of Contemporary History 50 (2015): 439 – 464.  France is the exception. The former colonizer of Indochina had vehemently condemned American involvement in Vietnam for years. All the same, a sizable anti-war movement emerged in France too. Niek Pas, “Sortir de l’ombre du parti communiste français. Histoire de l’engagement de l’extrême-gauche française sur la guerre du Vietnam 1965 – 1968” (thesis, Institut d’études politique Paris, 1998); Bethany S. Keenan, “‘Flattering the Little Sleeping Rooster’: The French Left, de Gaulle, and the Vietnam War in 1965,” Historical Reflections Réflexions historiques 37 (2011): 91– 106.  Hans Righart, De eindeloze jaren zestig. Geschiedenis van een generatieconflict (Amsterdam/ Antwerp: Arbeiderspers, 1995), 211– 235.  Lien-Hang T. Nguyen, “Revolutionary Circuits: Toward Internationalizing America in the World,” Diplomatic History 39 (2015): 411– 422; See Kim Christiaens, “Europe at the Crossroads of Three Worlds: Alternative Histories and Connections of European Solidarity with the Third World, 1950s–1980s,” European Review of History 24 (2017): 932– 954.

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urally across borders and between cities.”⁷ On the other hand, Dutch activists, including Regtien, were chiefly active in the local and national arena, and this is where they debated the issue of the Vietnam War. Their efforts extended beyond protests in the streets of Amsterdam; they also published articles in a variety of small and large publications, appeared on television, and tried to influence national political parties. Like other opposition movements, the anti-Vietnam War movement was multi-dimensional; different parts intersected with and reinforced each other at the local, the national, and the transnational or global dimension.⁸ This chapter explores the intersections of these different dimensions, focusing primarily on the extent to which anti-Vietnam War activists’ transnational ties influenced Vietnam War opposition in the Netherlands. But before this question can be answered, we must clarify the kind of transnational ties under investigation. Did these relations consist mainly of exchanging information about the development of the war and anti-war demonstration methods, or did activists also help each other by coordinating their protests? Which countries did Dutch anti-Vietnam War activists look to the most? And what role did representatives of North Vietnam and the South Vietnamese National Liberation Front (NLF) play in shaping Dutch opposition to the war? In fact, recent research has shown that during this period, the network of anti-war activists transcended boundaries between West and East. Representatives of North Vietnam and the NLF influenced the opposition movement in Western Europe. In Belgium, for example, they supported the activists and helped them to structure the Belgian movement.⁹ Although the term “anti-Vietnam War movement” is common usage, it remains problematic. Should this movement be seen as a collection of pressure groups or should it be conceived of more broadly? Sociologist Charles Tilly de-

 Ton Regtien, Springtij. Herinneringen aan de jaren zestig (Houten: Het Wereldvenster, 1988), 157.  See, for example, Timothy S. Brown, “‘1968’ East and West: Divided Germany as a Case Study in Transnational History,” American Historical Review 114 (2009): 69 – 70; Sidney Tarrow, The New Transnational Activism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 59 – 76; Jon Piccini, Transnational Protest: Australia and the 1960s Global Radicals (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 1– 16.  Kim Christiaens, “Diplomatie, activisme en effectieve solidariteit. Een nieuw perspectief op de mobilisatie voor Vietnam (1960 – 1975),” Brood en Rozen. Tijdschrift voor de Geschiedenis van Sociale Bewegingen, 18 (2013): 5 – 27; Kim Christiaens, “Voorbij de 1968-historiografie? Nieuwe perspectieven op internationale solidariteitsbewegingen tijdens de Koude Oorlog. Kritische reflecties vanuit België,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 128 (2015): 377– 406; Harish C. Mehta, “People’s Diplomacy: The Diplomatic Front of North Vietnam During the War Against the United States (1965 – 1972)” (PhD diss. McMaster University, 2009); Nguyen. “Revolutionary Circuits.”

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fines a social movement as a “sustained, organized public effort making collective claims on target authorities,” which calls on a specific repertoire, including public meetings or statements in public media. Members of a social movement identify, he argues, as “worthy, unified, numerous, and committed.”¹⁰ The anti-Vietnam War movement, seen in this light, had all the characteristics of a social movement. Its members all believed that an immediate cessation of American military intervention in Vietnam was necessary, and they typically used tried-and-true methods, like the petition. But it should be remembered that the anti-Vietnam War movement was by no means homogeneous: the motives, cultural backgrounds, political leanings, and ages of members of the movement were highly diverse. Frequently, there was conflict and competition between the different pressure groups. The question, then, emerges of the conditions of belonging: were influential, left-wing journalists or politicians who sympathized with protesters but did not participate in demonstrations part of the anti-Vietnam War movement? How did the movement relate to left-wing opposition more generally during the 1960s, in which Vietnam was just one of many issues?¹¹ Answering these difficult questions is beyond the reach of this contribution, but asking them is important to define some parameters. To illuminate the transnational dimension of Vietnam War opposition, this chapter will focus chiefly on pressure groups and activists whose main cause was the Vietnam War. It will pay relatively less attention to the ever-changing but growing group of sympathizers surrounding the protesters, despite the great appreciation that antiVietnam War activists had for their support.

 Charles Tilly, Social Movements 1768 – 2004 (London: Paradigm Publishers, 2004), 3 – 4; see Tarrow, The New Transnational Activism, 6 – 7.  The importance of Vietnam to the 1960s as a decade of change and protest has been discussed in, among others: Arthur Marwick, The Sixties: Cultural Revolution in Britain, France, Italy and the United States, c. 1958–c. 1974 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998); Martin Klimke and Joachim Scharloth, ed., 1968 in Europe: A History of Protest and Activism, 1956 – 1977 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Martin Klimke, Jacco Pekelder and Joachim Scharloth, ed., Between Prague Spring and French May: Opposition and Revolt in Europe 1960 – 1980 (New York: Berghahn, 2011); Robert Gildea, James Mark and Anette Warring, ed., Europe’s 1968: Voices of Revolt (London: Oxford University Press, 2013).

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Inspiration from the United States and North Vietnam When it began, it was not evident that the Vietnam War would become one of the major foreign policy issues of the sixties and early seventies. The Dutch news media and parliament largely agreed about the circumstances and necessity of American intervention. The most common explanation was that the bombing of North Vietnam and the subsequent deployment of ground troops in South Vietnam were necessary to stop the spread of international communism, orchestrated by China. This reading was in line with the United States’ justification of the conflict, and given the country’s good reputation in the Netherlands, Dutch acceptance of this rationale is unsurprising.¹² Nevertheless, objections were voiced early on. In fall 1964, left-wing students as well as other (non-student) youths criticized President Lyndon Johnson’s Tonkin Gulf Resolution, which gave the president authority to take military action if he considered it necessary. Six months later, when the U.S. government began bombing raids (Operation Rolling Thunder) and the first ground troops were deployed in South Vietnam, young anti-war activists organized the first protests. Older intellectuals and religious leaders supported their dissent. In October 1965, along the model of the American pacifist “Clergymen’s Emergency Committee for Vietnam of the Fellowship of Reconciliation,” these older critics ran a fullpage petition in an important Dutch broadsheet.¹³ Initiated mainly by members of the Pacifist Socialist Party (PSP), the petition called on the Dutch government to pressure the U.S. government to cease the bombing raids. Established in 1957, the PSP was opposed to the Cold War, especially the arms race, and ongoing colonial oppression throughout the world, including in Algeria and Angola. It was a small party, but its members were very active. The petition was signed (and paid for) by 250 clerics, professors, journalists, artists, doctors, and theologians.¹⁴ Another source of inspiration from the U.S. was the teach-in, an informal public debate and discussion about controversial themes. The first teach-in on

 Rimko van der Maar, “Dutch-American Relations and the Vietnam War,” in Four Centuries of Dutch-American Relations, ed. Hans Krabbendam, Cornelis van Minnen and Giles Scott-Smith (Amsterdam: Boom, 2009), 683 – 694.  NRC, 16 October 1965; see Andrew Preston, “Tempered by the Fires of War: Vietnam and the Transformation of the Evangelical Worldview,” in American Evangelicals and the 1960s, ed. Axel R. Schäfer (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2013), 195.  See: Ontwapenend. Geschiedenis van 25 jaar PSP (Amsterdam, n.d.), 71– 95.

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the Vietnam conflict was held at the University of Michigan on 24– 25 March 1965.¹⁵ The teach-in was brought to the Netherlands by Maarten van Dullemen, a medical student and later a prominent anti-Vietnam War activist, who introduced it to students in Amsterdam. The organizers were doubtful the teach-in would work in the Netherlands. Media experts they had consulted on the matter were skeptical, maintaining that the Dutch were not debaters and that besides, the war in Vietnam was not causing “that much public concern and emotional upheaval.”¹⁶ In retrospect, this estimation was a gross misunderstanding. The trade exchange in Amsterdam (Beurs van Berlage) was packed: more than 2,000 people came, mostly students, but also journalists, professors, teachers, and left-wing politicians. High attendance aside, the emotional involvement of the participants was remarkable. The public cheered loudly for critics of American intervention who spoke at the teach-in, including French poet and Vietnam expert Madeleine Riffaud. Those who spoke in defense of the U.S. were met, to their surprise, with jeers and whistles. The latter group included prominent figures like Loe de Jong, director of the Royal Dutch Institute for War Documentation, who was known for his extensive studies about the Netherlands during World War II. De Jong was booed off the stage not only for his pro-U.S. stance, but also because he opposed accusations that the soon-to-be crown prince of the Netherlands, the German Claus von Amsberg, had been guilty of wrongdoing during World War II. According to author Harry Mulisch, who was at the teach-in, De Jong never stood a chance with the young crowd. “The audience concluded that understanding for the monarchy apparently went hand in hand with understanding for the Americans in Vietnam, and condemned him on that basis,” Mulisch recalled.¹⁷ It comes as no surprise that the first Dutch Vietnam committee came out of student circles, given the success of the teach-in. The Youth Committee for Peace and Self-determination in Vietnam was established by the student leader Regtien, Huib Riethof, Sietse Bosgra, and others. The organizers were experienced activists, having demonstrated against French intervention in Algeria, Portugal’s colonial presence in Angola, and the atom bomb. The Vietnam committee consisted of 15 student and youth organizations, mostly with left-wing or Christian

 Charles DeBenedetti, An American Ordeal: The Anti-War Movement of the Vietnam Era (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1990), 107– 108, 114– 115.  Rimko van der Maar, Welterusten mijnheer de president. Nederland en de Vietnamoorlog (Amsterdam: Boom, 2007), 50.  Harry Mulisch, Bericht aan de rattenkoning (Amsterdam: De Bezige Bij, 1966), 109 – 110; Righart, De eindeloze jaren zestig, 211– 216.

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ties; the Surinamese and Indonesian student union also joined. The committee first targeted political circles in The Hague, with the aim of forcing the Dutch government “to act” against the United States in NATO.¹⁸ However, this proved too ambitious, as Minister for Foreign Affairs Joseph Luns, who had a reputation for making anti-communist statements, ensured there could be no public misunderstanding about his support for American action in Vietnam.¹⁹ Exerting political pressure was not easy; the big political parties remained out of reach for the young activists. To gain traction, the committee directed its efforts toward an alternative audience, mainly intellectuals and artists, such as Jan Wolkers, a wellknown author, sculptor and painter in the Netherlands. The committee also organized public debates, demonstrations, a picket line outside the American consulate that lasted ten days and nights, and a silent march (two American forms of protest). At the same time, they tried to expand their activities beyond Amsterdam.²⁰ The protests were usually accompanied by internal discussion. For example, not all the youth organizations agreed that blame for the conflict rested solely with the U.S.; some claimed that North Vietnam and the NLF were also responsible for escalating the fighting. The communist youth who had organized in the General Alliance of Dutch Youth (ANJV) received criticism too.²¹ Especially those young people aligned with the social democratic Dutch Labor Party (PvdA) and Christian student organizations believed that the communist youth of the ANJV were co-opting Vietnam just to bring the Dutch Communist Party (CPN) out of isolation.²² To a certain extent, the critics were right. The CPN was piggybacking off the success of related communist movements like the Dutch Women’s Movement (Nederlandse Vrouwenbeweging), the Dutch Peace Council (Nederlandse Vredesraad), and the aforementioned ANJV, but these movements were not official arms of the party and often acted independently in their anti-Vietnam War

 IISH, Amsterdam, Ton Regtien Archive, 201: Minutes meeting “Actiecomité inzake verklaring voor het Vietnamese volk,” 30 June 1965.  Van der Maar, “Luns.”  For the protest methods of the anti-war movement in the U.S. during this period, see DeBenedetti, American Ordeal, 103 – 140; see Van der Maar, Welterusten, 46 – 48; “Een stille mars is een optocht,” de Volkskrant, 25 August 1966. See especially the correspondence in IISH, ANJV Archive, 103.  Duco Hellema, Peter van Eekert and Adrienne van Heteren, Johnson moordenaar. De kwestie Vietnam in de Nederlandse politiek 1965 – 1975 (Amsterdam: Jan Mets, 1986), 52.  Van der Maar, Welterusten, 45 – 46. See Gjald Zondergeld, “PSP, Provo en Vietnam,” in Confrontatie en spanning: maatschappij en krijgsmacht in de Koude Oorlog 1966 – 1989, ed. Jan Hoffenaar et al. (The Hague: Sdu Uitgevers, 2004), 81– 99.

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activities.²³ The communist youth were well organized and industrious, and initially succeeded in gaining the trust of other young people. The Youth Committee’s foreign relations with North Vietnam and the NLF demonstrate the impact that the communist youth had. In 1966, a Vietnamese delegation approached representatives of the ANJV.²⁴ This occurred in Sophia at a conference organized by the communist World Federation of Democratic Youth.²⁵ The delegation asked the Dutch youth to collect plastic to protect the Vietnamese from napalm attacks. The members of the committee were not all convinced that the material was intended for that purpose,²⁶ but the campaign came to fruition, and non-communist young people participated in large numbers. In February 1967, a Dutch delegation delivered a package containing approximately 10,000 meters of plastic to East Berlin to be given to an NLF representative. The envoy told the Dutch youth that it “was better to avoid extremist elements in the organization of protests because that could stand in the way of gaining the support of a larger section of society.”²⁷ Later, the Committee received a thank-you letter in French, urging the members to “further intensify their actual support for the NLF and to send them more materials.”²⁸ However, many of the moderate non-communists refused to be overshadowed by the com-

 Robert Schurink, “Het ontstaan. Zullen we elkaar dan straks plotseling loslaten en vijandig aankijken?” in De duizend daden. Een geschiedenis van het Algemeen Nederlands Jeugd Verbond 1945 – 1989, ed. Tamara Blokzijl et al. (Amsterdam, 1985), 10 – 18; Jolande Withuis, Opoffering en heroïek. De mentale wereld van een communistische vrouwenorganisatie in naoorlogs Nederland 1946 – 1976 (Amsterdam: Boom, 1990), 228 – 236, 245 – 249. See Arthur Stam, De CPN en haar buitenlandse kameraden. Proletarisch internationalisme in Nederland (Soesterberg: Uitgeverij Aspekt, 2004), 215 – 218.  First contact took place in August 1965. “De agitatie inzake Vietnam h.t.l. en haar internationale achtergrond,” Report Dutch Secret Service (Binnenlandse Veiligheidsdienst), 885.354, 41– 42, accessed 1 June 2017, http://www.inlichtingendiensten.nl/ambtsberichten/885354.pdf.  Roel Walraven, “Vrijheid voor Vietnam,” in 50 jaar Algemeen Nederlands Jeugd Verbond. Wij hebben er geen spijt van, een boek over strijd, actie, vriendschap en solidariteit uit de 50-jarige geschiedenis van het ANJV, ed. Nel van Aalderen et al. (Amsterdam, 1998), 186 – 190.  Both the Dutch media and several participating youth organizations claimed that the plastic was actually intended for military purposes, such as packaging meals for NLF soldiers downstream, who would fish the packages out of the river. See: “Agitatie,” Report Dutch Secret Service, 30; see IISH, ANJV Archive, 105: Letter Kerk en Vrede to Jongerenkomité, 26 August 1966 and minutes “Kernkomite,” 7 September 1966; Het Parool, 23 September 1966.  IISH, ANJV Archive, 102: “Verslag van de afronding van de plastic-contra-napalm-actie,” 12 February 1967. With thanks to Sebastiaan Klokgieters.  Ibid., 103: Letter Jongerenkomité to its supporters, 23 May 1967; see Ibid., 105: Letter “South Vietnam Peace committee to all Vietnam solidarity and Vietnam aid committees in Europe and the USA,” 15 December 1966.

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munist faction of the Youth Committee. Internal divisions led the Committee to disband in 1967, and little came of the Vietnamese request. Subsequently, the communist youth joined forces with some radical-minded, left-leaning youth, forming a new committee explicitly tasked with collecting money and medication for the NLF.²⁹

Looking for information, confrontation, and a voice By the beginning of 1966, when it had become clear that finding a solution to the conflict in Vietnam could take longer than initially thought or hoped, protests quickly became more frequent.³⁰ The Dutch, for the most part, followed foreign examples and sources to wage their opposition campaigns. Regtien, Van Dullemen, and Bosgra started a magazine, the Vietnam Bulletin, which published critical articles from international news media in translation. They had taken the idea for an alternative magazine from Cuba activists who, since 1961, had been publishing a Cuba Bulletin that defended the revolution.³¹ The PSP pursued a similar strategy in 1965 with its Vietnam Black Book (Zwartboek Vietnam), which had already sold many copies; it also appeared in translation in the U.S., the UK, and West-Germany.³² The Vietnam Bulletin published translated articles from Le Monde and reproduced articles from The New York Times, The Guardian, and small American magazines and newsletters on the radical left, like Ramparts and I.F. Stone’s Weekly. Works by Bernard Fall, the French Vietnam expert who lived in the U.S., were also published in translation. Fall’s writings presented a more nuanced, less anti-communist view of the NLF than was typically expressed in Dutch news media.³³ The Vietnam Bulletin, with 2,000 subscribers at its peak in 1968, was an important source of information in the Netherlands. The sociologist Godfried van Benthem van den Bergh – a prominent

 IISH, Ton Regtien Archive, 201: “De Vietnamacties in Nederland,” 1. See Monthly overview Dutch Secret Service, 1 and 4, 1968, accessed 1 June 2017, http://www.inlichtingendiensten.nl/ jaarkwartaalmaand/1968-04.pdf.  See: “Agitatie,” Report Dutch Secret Service.  Rimko van der Maar and Joppe Schaaper, “Socialisme onder de zon. Nederlandse Cubasympathisanten in de jaren zestig,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 130 (2017): 197– 223.  See: Ontwapenend, 71– 95.  Vietnam Bulletin, 5 August 1966.

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critic of American involvement in Vietnam – described it as a “superb” and “indispensable” magazine.³⁴ The intensification of the protest movement in the United States in 1966 served as an example in the Netherlands. Teach-ins were held frequently, also outside Amsterdam. Sit-down protests regularly took place in downtown Amsterdam. This spectacular form of direct action, in which a large group of demonstrators would occupy the sidewalk and refuse to budge, was straight out of the American Civil Rights Movement. The British National Youth Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament was also an example. A group of antiwar activists, who had been instrumental in the Dutch “Ban the bomb” movement in the early 1960s, were another source of inspiration for the anti-Vietnam War activists.³⁵ In the summer of 1966, an Amsterdam-based group of older, more experienced radical-pacifist activists and young anarchists and socialists established the Vietnam Action Group (Aktiegroep Vietnam). They took their name from the American Quaker Action Group, as well as some of its methods, like the use of peace marshals, a core group which provided oversight and suggested tactical changes where needed (e. g., in response to police action).³⁶ A leading figure in this group was the eccentric Otto Boetes, who taught Philosophy and Social Psychology and belonged to The Society of Friends, originally a British religious body devoted to pacifism founded in the seventeenth century (also know as the Quaker movement). In the U.S., the Quakers had been involved in direct action against the Vietnam War since 1965.³⁷ Boetes was deeply inspired by two radical pacifists who visited the Netherlands in 1966: John Swomley, professor of Social Ethics at the University of Kansas, and the British Quaker Kenneth Lee. Both men were active in the International Confederation for Disarmament and Peace, a group of pacifist organizations from several Western countries. Swomley’s explanation of how to achieve a process of social change made a big impression on the Dutch activists. Swomley held that a confrontation between the activists and the authorities was inevitable. He believed that, for society at large, this clash would be like “dropping a pebble in the water,” whereby “the splash creates a

 Godfried van Benthem van den Berg, De ideologie van het Westen. Essays, kritieken, polemieken (Amsterdam: Kritiese Bibliotheek, 1969), 38.  Niek Pas, Imaazje! De verbeelding van Provo. 1965 – 1967 (Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2003), 27– 33.  Ibid., 189.  See: Isaac May, “Forged in the Fire: Norman Morrison and the Link between Liberal Quakerism and Radical Action,” The Graduate Journal of Harvard Divinity School (Spring 2014), accessed 1 June 2017, https://projects.iq.harvard.edu/hdsjournal/book/spring-2014. Thanks to Josephine Eisses.

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ripple effect across the wider environment.”³⁸ With this in mind, the Vietnam Action Group succeeded in provoking the authorities with cries of “Johnson Murderer,” a slogan outlawed in the Netherlands for supposedly being offensive, and therefore illegal, to a “friendly head of state”. In a display of authority, police arrested hundreds of protesters, with some eventually facing trial (with a small minority of convictions). The judicial action taken, however, did not quell the protests; Boetes was pleased to see the demonstrations grow bigger along with the resulting increase in media coverage.³⁹ Despite its radical leanings, the Vietnam Action Group also engaged in foreign relations with North Vietnamese agents. First contact was established at a large international conference in Moscow in 1967, marking the annual celebration of International Women’s Day (until the United Nations adopted International Women’s day in 1975, it was celebrated by the socialist movement and communist countries). This time the Dutch took the initiative: carrying flyers and photographs of Dutch Vietnam demonstrations, Lia Boetes reached out to the North Vietnamese conference guests. Several months later, her husband Otto was issued a visa for North Vietnam through the North Vietnamese Peace Committee, which often invited Western activists to visit, such as the American activist Tom Hayden.⁴⁰ After his visit, the radical pacifist Boetes reported being deeply impressed by “the incredible unity of the Vietnamese people,” which had reminded him of the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. He was also moved by his half-hour conversation with Prime Minister Pham Van Dong. At the same time, he was disappointed by the restrictions on his movements; his guides, whom he found blinded by ideology, had only allowed him to see parts of Hanoi.⁴¹

 Interview with Otto Boetes and Lia Boetes-Ridder, in Ruud Stapel, “De Vietnam-beweging in Nederland. De eerste actieperiode 1964– 1968” (thesis University of Nijmegen, 1982), 60 – 61; “Proces-verbaal van getuigenverhoor O.M. Boetes,” 30 May 1967, Slotrapport de commissie van onderzoek Amsterdam (The Hague: Staatsuitgeverij, 1967), appendix 128, 1– 2.  Rimko van der Maar, “Johnson War Criminal! Vietnam War Protests in the Netherlands,” in Between Prague Spring and French May: Opposition and Revolt in Europe 1960 – 1980, ed. Martin Klimke, Jacco Pekelder and Joachim Scharloth (New York: Berghahn, 2011), 103 – 116.  Stapel, “Vietnam-beweging,” 127– 128; Monthly overview Dutch Secret Service, 3, 1967, 22, accessed 1 June 2017, http://www.inlichtingendiensten.nl/jaarkwartaalmaand/1967-03.pdf. On the North Vietnamese Peace Committee, see: Staughton Lynd and Tom Hayden, The Other Side: Two Americans report on their Forbidden Visit inside North Vietnam (New York: Signet/ New American Library, 1967); see Christiaens, “Diplomatie,” 10.  Het Vrije Volk, 9 September 1967. Pham Van Dong frequently received activists. See Lynd and Hayden, The Other Side.

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As the Vietnam War debate became more heated and emotional, Boetes’ critical stance was remarkable, even refreshing. In activist circles, it had become rare to admit that it was also possible to criticize North Vietnam. Upon returning from Vietnam, Boetes met with considerable criticism from his peers and the Aktiegroep broke up soon after.⁴² One former member, Tine Hofman, shifted her focus to an increasingly popular form of activism: organizing medical aid for North Vietnam and the NLF. In early 1967, Vietnamese diplomats stepped up their efforts to mobilize activists in Western Europe.⁴³ Hofman’s archives show that she was in touch with several French committees, including the Association médicale franco-vietnamienne, an organization that worked closely with North Vietnam and the NLF. Hofman eventually raised approximately 17,500 Dutch guilders (USD 4,865) and presented it to the permanent delegation of North Vietnam in Paris.⁴⁴ In the meantime, the Dutch government’s position remained a thorn in the side of many activists. When Rolling Thunder kicked off, activist groups and concerned citizens alike sent countless letters to the Queen, the Prime Minister, and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, in which they called for a more proactive stance.⁴⁵ In 1966, a 40-year-old history teacher from the province of Zeeland attempted to influence the Dutch position by organizing a petition.⁴⁶ In shape, execution, and objective, the petition was very much a Dutch affair, but there was a transnational slant to it. Like the Youth Committee before him, the initiators wanted to get the Dutch government to pressure other Western European countries to express opposition to the U.S. presence in Vietnam. It was believed that “consultation between the Netherlands and a few European allies could even force the American government to reconsider its Vietnam policy.”⁴⁷ However, despite getting 60,000 signatures, the petition failed to achieve its objective. The Dutch government remained deaf to the demands of the activists. Members of the Dutch House of Representatives were not interested in the petition or a de-

 IISH, Tine Hofman Archive, 33: Boetes to fellow activists, 15 September 1967.  Christiaens, “Diplomatie,” 17.  For the correspondence with Association médicale franco-vietnamienne, see: IISH, Tine Hofman Archive, 32; see Ibid., 29: Letter from Otto Boetes to sympathizers of the Aktiegroep, 14 January 1969.  See: National Archives, The Hague, Archives Office of the Prime Minister, 2.03.01, 3476.  Nieuwe Leidsche Courant, 15 July 1966; Trouw, 26 August 1966; IISH, ANJV Archive, 104: “Verslag van vorderingen,” 4 August 1966; Netherlands Institute for Sound and Vision, Hilversum, V93493: Attentie (NCRV), 16 August 1966.  Trouw, 26 August 1966.

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bate about the Vietnam War.⁴⁸ The Dutch government’s stance on the issue was a recurring source of annoyance to activists and motivated them to continue their protests. In early 1967, one of the most prominent Vietnam activists, Van Dullemen, wrote in the student magazine Demokrater that it was time for activists to coordinate their efforts to launch a “massive display of public opinion that would make it impossible for the Dutch government to continue pledging its support for the Americans.”⁴⁹

From American deserters to medical aid The anti-Vietnam War movement expanded significantly in 1967 and tried to light a bigger fire under Dutch politicians. First, there was the role of a clandestine but transnational source of opposition: aid to American deserters. If we accept Tilly’s definition of a social movement, it is hard to see this largely hidden form of aid as part of the anti-Vietnam War movement. But because these activities were a hot topic in the press and put the Dutch authorities in an embarrassing position, we can consider them oppositional action, especially to the extent that they were presented and viewed as such. For example, in a national TV segment on current affairs, Clarence Montfort, a 20-year-old American soldier, explained why he had deserted.⁵⁰ With the support of journalists, the activists repeatedly asked the Minister of Defense whether the Netherlands would extradite deserters to the United States being a NATO ally. Initially, the Dutch position on this was unclear, but media pressure forced the Minister to admit in 1967 that American deserters, who often came to the Netherlands from U.S. bases in West Germany, did risk extradition to the United States. The Dutch police never actively pursued deserters though.⁵¹

 See: Parliamentary Debates, 5th meeting, 11 October 1966, Proceedings of the House of Representatives, 1966 – 1967, 138 – 139. The House did pass a tightened motion in fall 1966 urging Luns to call for a bilateral de-escalation of the conflict via diplomatic means.  Demokrater, 28 January 1967.  Andere Tijden, 1 February 2007, accessed 1 June 2017, https://anderetijden.nl/aflevering/363/ Vietnamdeserteurs.  Het Vrije Volk, 23 January 1968; Van der Maar, Welterusten, 143 – 150. For international research, see: Paul B. Glatz, “Amerikanska desertörer och vietnam protester: Agitation och kampanjer i Europa,” Arbetar Historia, 131 (2009): 4– 11; Elizabeth D. Sherwood, Allies in Crisis: Meeting Global Challenges to Western Security (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 124– 125; Tycho Walaardt, “New refugees: manly war resisters prevent an asylum crisis in the Netherlands, 1968 – 1973,” in Gender, Migration and Categorisation: Making Distinctions between Migrants and

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Help for deserters came first from youth and students living in Amsterdam, but shelters (eventually there were about 90 of them) popped up across (the western part of) the Netherlands. In addition to their humanitarian motives, those involved hoped to contribute to the Vietnam protests; as they saw it, the best thing would be for the American soldiers based in Western Europe to refuse deployment to Vietnam en masse. ⁵² Transnational cooperation was essential if this goal was to become reality. In West Germany, where three large American bases were located, students of the German Student Movement (SDS) were already taking in American deserters. After some time, a group a French, Dutch, and Belgian aid workers combined forces to seek publicity. The Dutch contingent included Regtien and the activist Herman Hoeneveld; their private papers contain their correspondence with fellow activists all over Europe, in the U.S., and even in Japan.⁵³ The so-called Second Front, an alliance of Paris-based aid workers and American deserters, commissioned French film-maker Paul Bourron to produce a documentary which claimed that hundreds of deserters were living on the streets of Western European cities, including Amsterdam.⁵⁴ According to one Dutch member of the alliance, these numbers were grossly exaggerated and the documentary was sensational.⁵⁵ Nonetheless, the film was broadcast on Dutch national television and received ample media coverage. With that, the producers of the film achieved their goal. Deserter aid ran smoothly for a while. The Dutch group of aid workers, who eventually organized as the Dutch American Committee for Peace in Vietnam, brought the deserters by car to France, where they would be safe from extradition to the United States. At that time, France and the United States disagreed on many issues, including the Vietnam War. French President de Gaulle announced in 1966 France’s withdrawal from NATO’s integrated military structure. Initially, the French government had no intention to round up and extradite

Western Countries, 1945 – 2010, ed. Marlou Schrover and Deirdre M. Moloney (Amsterdam: AUP 2013), 75 – 104.  Andere Tijden, 1 February 2007, accessed 1 June 2017, https://anderetijden.nl/aflevering/363/ Vietnamdeserteurs. See: Regtien, Springtij, 156 – 162.  See also IISH, Ton Regtien Archive, 202.  Personal papers of Herman Hoeneveld: “Note about aid to American deserters” (no date or place); Haagse Post, 8 July 1967; IISH, Ton Regtien Archive, 202.  There is no official count of deserters in Western Europe. It has been established that between 1967 and 1973, approximately 800 American deserters and draft-resisters found refuge in Sweden, one of the primary destinations for deserters. To that total can be added approximately 200 more men who never reported their presence to Swedish authorities. Scott, Swedish Social Democracy, 133.

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American deserters from military bases outside of France.⁵⁶ However, that changed once De Gaulle resigned in 1969. No longer welcome in France, neutral Sweden became the new haven for the deserters hosted in neighboring countries. However, the deserters had little enthusiasm for politics and the massive walkout from American military bases that activists had hoped for never came about. This discouraged the aid workers and eventually led to the collapse of Dutch deserter aid around 1970.⁵⁷ While the first American deserters were being taken to France, demonstrations quickly multiplied in the Netherlands. One new, moderate committee in particular was drawing attention. In May 1967, the Piet Nak Committee, named after its sexagenarian founder, organized a demonstration in Amsterdam that was attended by 10,000 people from all walks of life.⁵⁸ To what extent can the scale of the demonstration be attributed to encouragement from North Vietnamese envoys and representatives of the NLF? The large demonstrations held around the same time in Belgium had been largely organized by the Belgian Communist Party. As such, Belgian communists were answering the Vietnamese call to expand the protest movement.⁵⁹ However, in the Netherlands neither the CPN nor its members were involved in organizing the large demonstrations in Amsterdam. In fact, protest organizers even refused to work with the Dutch communists because they believed that communist participation would prevent them from reaching a large section of Dutch society.⁶⁰ Furthermore, in the 1950s, leader Piet Nak had left the CPN on bad terms and joined the PSP. Since breaking with CPN, Nak – who retained communist sympathies – had been in constant conflict with members of his old party.⁶¹ The Piet Nak Committee’s formula for success was a combination of increasing public outrage about the American bombing campaign and the U.S. government’s refusal to stop it and frontman Nak’s media savvy. Press reports demon-

 Maurice Vaïsse, La Grandeur. Politique étrangère du général de Gaulle 1958 – 1969 (Paris: Artheme Fayard, 1998), 381– 386.  American deserters did not make Dutch headlines again until 1971, when U.S. Marine Ralph Waver decided to desert while in Vlaardingen. Initially the Dutch authorities had agreed to extradite him to the U.S., but through a complicated judicial process Waver was granted a residency permit in 1972. Van der Maar, Welterusten, 150 – 166; Walaardt, “New refugees.”  See: De Telegraaf, 22 May 1967.  Christiaens, “Diplomatie,” 15.  See especially the private papers of Dik Degenkamp for more on the origins of this committee. Copy in author’s collection.  A. Mooij, “Nak, Pieter Frederik Willem (1906 – 1996),” in Biografisch Woordenboek van Nederland, accessed 1 June 2017, http://resources.huygens.knaw.nl/bwn1880 – 2000/lemmata/bwn6/ nak; IISH, CPN Archive, 287, file June 1967: Minutes board meeting (no date).

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strate that he was skilled at finding the right words to describe people’s sense of indignation. Furthermore, Nak was a national celebrity because of his involvement in the resistance during the German occupation of World War II.⁶² Although being a member of the CPN during the war, in the sixties he was a suitable front man for different political leanings. The new committee included members of the PSP, but also members of the much more moderate social democratic PvdA and the Protestant Anti-Revolutionary Party (Anti-Revolutionaire Partij).⁶³ Print and television media alike devoted lots of attention to the Amsterdam demonstration in advance and the American Embassy reported extensively on it to Washington.⁶⁴ Another reason for such high turn-out was the new committee’s strategy of connecting directly to protests in the United States, along the rationale that the Dutch would be less reticent if they only realized that a large section of American society – the “Other America” – agreed with them.⁶⁵ The new committee pointed to statements made by Martin Luther King, whose civil rights campaigning was highly respected in the Netherlands.⁶⁶ Slogans like “Johnson Murderer” were strictly taboo during events organized by the committee, which turned out to be a good strategy. In October 1967, the committee successfully followed up on the massive demonstrations that were taking place in large U.S. cities. Like their Italian, Danish, West-German, and Canadian counterparts, Nak and his committee organized a national demonstration on the same day that the March on the Pentagon was held in Washington D.C., mustering 15,000 people in the streets of Amsterdam.⁶⁷ After its early success, the committee – which renamed itself the National Vietnam Committee (Nationaal Comité Vietnam) – began to associate more openly with North Vietnam and the NLF. Initially, it claimed to have contacts in Vietnam, but took pains to point out their links to both North and South Vietnam

 Mooij, “Nak.”  Van der Maar, Welterusten, 81.  Rimko van der Maar, “If we could only have escaped Vietnam. De ambassade en het debat over de oorlog in Vietnam,” in De Amerikaanse ambassade in Den Haag. Een blik achter de schermen van de Amerikaans-Nederlandse betrekkingen, ed. Duco Hellema and Giles Scott-Smith (Amsterdam: Boom, 2016), 110 – 111.  On Dutch public opinion of the U.S., which was generally positive, see: Dutch Public Opinion of Foreign Politics: Inventory of Research conducted in the Netherlands between January 1, 1960 to January 1, 1975 into Opinions and Attitudes about Foreign Affairs (The Hague, 1975).  Another proponent of the “other America” was J.K. Galbraith, economist and professor at Harvard. His work appeared in Dutch: Een uitweg uit Vietnam. Een alternatief van het andere Amerika (Amsterdam: Kritiese Bibliotheek, 1968).  Algemeen Dagblad, 23 October 1967.

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to project a neutral face. The announcement of the demonstration in October was published along with a list of Vietnamese students throughout Vietnam who “wanted to exchange letters with Europeans.”⁶⁸ By the end of 1967, however, the committee adopted a more partisan stance, even if it meant getting into big arguments. When the more moderate organizers then decided to leave, the National Committee began seeking donations for medical aid for “victims of the war,” which was to say those in North Vietnam or in areas under NLF control. It is not clear whether North Vietnamese envoys were behind this change of course, but it is known that they were in touch. As an ex-member of the CPN, Nak still knew people in communist circles, as did Co Dankaart, who joined the committee in late 1967. Dankaart had also left the CPN, but he had a large international network partly due to having worked with the Comintern during World War II.⁶⁹ In October 1967, Piet Nak visited Moscow on the 50th anniversary of the Revolution (the identity of his contact there is not known). Soon after his Moscow visit, he met with a Dutch doctor in West Berlin, a certain Landman, who had spent some time training doctors for North Vietnam in East Berlin. The National Committee’s first shipment (quinine) most likely left East Berlin for North Vietnam in early 1968.⁷⁰ The National Committee’s decision to focus on medical aid was partly motivated by the discouraging position of the Dutch government. At first, the new committee had devoted a good deal of energy to influencing members of the House of Representatives and Minister Luns. Nak had even presented 60,000 signatures to the President of the House of Representatives. When Luns refused to directly criticize the American government, despite a House motion criticizing the American bombing campaign, many National Committee activists became

 Vietnam Bulletin, 30 September 1967.  Ger Harmsen, “Co Dankaart, zoon van het werkende volk 1912– 1991,” Bulletin Nederlandse Arbeidersbeweging, 24 (1991): 48.  Stapel, “Vietnam-beweging,” 107– 108. Nothing else is known about Dr. Landman. See Monthly overview Dutch Secret Service, 1, 1968, 19, accessed 1 June 2017, http://www.in lichtingendiensten.nl/jaarkwartaalmaand/1968-01.pdf. Based on statements taken from one social democrat on the committee, in 1968 the American Embassy reported to Washington that the committee was under the influence of the “soviet bloc” and was being used by an Eastern European country. Beyond this, the U.S. State Department apparently knew nothing more about the matter. See: National Archive United States, Pol 27 Viet S, Subject Numeric files, box 2799, Record Group 59: American Embassy The Hague to Secretary of State, 11 January 1968.

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disillusioned with politicians and turned to what they considered more meaningful forms of direct action, like medical aid.⁷¹

Student protests and the Russell Tribunal It hardly comes as a surprise that very few students were involved in the National Committee. The members of its board were too old for the student demographic, their methods of protest too polite, and the people who participated in their demonstrations were too mainstream.⁷² Instead, the students preferred to focus on provocation. The Tet Offensive provided a good momentum: a massive NLF attack on South Vietnamese and American forces was launched on 30 January 1968. The Tet Offensive showed that the American military was not exactly close to victory, despite what Commander William Westmoreland would have people believe.⁷³ To support the Vietnamese struggle, Dutch Students began using a new, provocative slogan: “Johnson War Criminal: according to the criteria of Nuremburg and Tokyo.” This text, which often appeared on posters, referred to the Russell Tribunal, established in 1967 by British philosopher, pacifist, peace campaigner, and Nobel Prize for Literature laureate Bertrand Russell, who was nearly 100 years old at the time. Russell’s investigative body was intended to have intellectuals and lawyers investigate whether the U.S. was guilty of crimes against peace, war crimes, or crimes against humanity, as defined by the post-WWII war crimes tribunals in Nuremburg and Tokyo. The evidence introduced against the U.S. consisted mainly of witness testimonies and information drawn from North Vietnam and revolutionary South Vietnam.⁷⁴ In the Netherlands, a small working group (Werkgroep Vietnamtribunaal), including students Ton Regtien and Maarten van Dullemen, published extensive reports about the hearings in left-wing magazines and appeared on the

 Stapel, “Vietnam-beweging,” 99; Co Dankaart, “‘Naastenliefde’? Solidariteit van hier tot gunter!,” in Vietnam. Toekomst van een volk, ed. Anton Claassen (Groningen: Medisch Comité Nederland Vietnam, 1983), 20.  Van der Maar, Welterusten, 92.  See: Ingrid Gilcher-Holtey, Die 68er Bewegung: Deutschland-West-Europa-USA (Munich: C.H. Beck Verlag, 2001), 72– 80.  See: Arthur Jay Klinghoffer and Judith Apter Klinghoffer, International Citizens’ Tribunals: Mobilizing Public Opinion to Advance Human Rights (New York: Palgrave, 2002), 103 – 162; Bruna Bagnato, “Les Etats-Unis mis en accusation: le Tribunal Russell et la commission d’enquête sur les crimes américains au Vietnam,” in La Guerre, ed. Goscha and Vaïsse, 222– 239; Mehta, “People’s diplomacy,” 213 – 236.

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radio.⁷⁵ The slogan “Johnson War Criminal” was not simply a reaction to developments in Vietnam. The impetus to adapt it had come directly from the courts. A few months earlier, professor of philosophy and a long-time critic of American intervention in Vietnam Bernard Delfgaauw – inspired by the Russell Tribunal and supported by many Dutch professors and scholars – had publicly proclaimed that Johnson indeed fit the definition of a “war criminal.” As with the students who had shouted “Johnson murderer,” the question arose as to whether the professor’s controversial claim was a punishable offense. Following a long investigation, Minister of Justice Carel Polak determined that Delfgaauw had not committed a crime since his statements had been part of a longer speech. In contrast, students who hung up posters quoting the disputed claim were not as lucky; they were regularly arrested and prosecuted.⁷⁶ The energy that went into the slogan affair had partly been generated by the transnational student network that students in the Netherlands, Belgium, and West Germany had started in 1967. The so-called Critical University (see Wim De Jong’s chapter in this volume) dealt with student issues and also promoted solidarity with Third-World liberation movements.⁷⁷ Dutch students sympathized with the growing unrest in West German student circles, and many visited West Berlin and Frankfurt.⁷⁸ On 21 February 1968, SDS leader Rudi Dutschke, who was much admired by radical Dutch students, paid a return visit to Amsterdam. There, after a torchlight procession, he addressed a group of about one thousand students and a sizable press corps. Dutschke’s visit was instrumental in mobilizing students to instigate further confrontation and helped stoke controversy around the slogan “Johnson War Criminal.”⁷⁹ The transnational solidarity was exemplified by a sign that Dutch students carried with them during a demonstration on 16 March 1968, reading: “Berlin, Rome and Utrecht: we demand the right to tell a ‘friendly head of state’ what we think.”⁸⁰

 It included: VPRO-radio, Trouw, de Volkskrant, Vrij Nederland, de Groene Amsterdammer and Friese Koerier. See also: Vietnam Bulletin, 27 May 1967, 23 December 1967 and 16 March 1968. See Ton Regtien and Maarten van Dullemen, Het Vietnam-tribunaal Stockholm-Roskilde 1967 met een voorwoord van Jean-Paul Sartre (Amsterdam: Kritiese Bibliotheek 1968).  Van der Maar, “Johnson War Criminal,” 109 – 110.  Hugo Kijne, Geschiedenis van de Nederlandse studentenbeweging 1963 – 1973 (Amsterdam: Socialistiese Uigeverij, 1978), 69; Jos Dohmen and Oscar Steens, Bevrijding en bezetting. Vijftig jaar Algemene Studenten Vereniging Amsterdam (Amsterdam: Vossius Pers AUP, 1995), 158 – 166 and 175 – 185.  See Regtien, Springtij, 156 – 160; Haagse Post, 24 February 1968.  Van der Maar, “Johnson War Criminal!,” 108 – 109.  Ibid, 110.

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Fig. 15: “Yankee get out of Vietnam”. A protest demonstration in the heart of Amsterdam, 1966. Anefo Nationaal Archief.

All of this activity was still not enough to change the official Dutch stance on Vietnam, but it did force the government on the defensive. In an address to the Senate, Minister of Justice Carel Polak said that he could imagine that the younger generation, who saw “so much injustice, such immense suffering” elsewhere in the world on the daily news, longed for the older generation to take more action. Although Polak denounced the provocations, he also sympathized with the protesters: “They want action, and in the absence of deeds, they at least want us

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to openly choose a side, to stand by their side and shout from the rooftops how awful the others are being. They also feel abandoned by us. And I believe they consider us cowardly, indifferent, and complacent.”⁸¹ Just as quickly as they had come, the protests disappeared in April 1968. On 31 March 1968, President Johnson announced his decision not to run for reelection, and the partial halting of the bombing of North Vietnam. In the Netherlands, the news had a de-escalating effect. Student activists who carried on were taken less seriously.⁸² Anti-Vietnam War demonstrations did take place, but they were considerably smaller than the protests of the last two years. From May 1968 onward, Dutch activists turned their attention and efforts to different countries, such as France, West Germany, and Italy, where students had begun occupying university buildings and faced the authorities in intense clashes. The Warsaw Pact’s truncation of the Prague Spring in August 1968 also had a dispersive effect. Some of the anti-Vietnam War activists supported the intervention, while others were deeply disappointed about events in Prague. This split engendered confusion, bickering, and division.⁸³

Medical aid to “liberated zones” The Dutch anti-Vietnam War movement re-emerged during 1969, frequently under the leadership of newly formed peace campaigners. The movement’s revival came in response to widespread disappointment about the progress of the negotiations between the U.S. and North Vietnam in Paris, which quickly reached an impasse as the fighting continued unabated. In spring 1970, newly elected President Richard M. Nixon shocked the world by attacking North Vietnamese forces in Cambodia and escalating the war: exactly the opposite of what he had campaigned on. Although U.S. forces were being phased out, the South Vietnamese army was being built up on a massive scale while the bombing campaign was intensified with the aim of forcing an honorable agreement. As a result, more and more Dutchmen came to perceive and sympathize with

 20th meeting Dutch Senate, 13 March 1968, Proceedings Dutch Senate, 1967– 1968, 450.  In the following months, the minister appointed a commission to investigate how the alleged law article should be changed. The commission decided that the article would not be abolished; instead, insulting a friendly head of state would only be punishable by law if the relevant head of state filed a complaint through diplomatic channels.  Dankaart, “Naastenliefde,” 24; IISH, Tine Hofman Archive, 29: Letter from Otto Boetes to Aktiegroep sympathizers, 14 January 1969; IISH, Ton Regtien Archive, 201: “De Vietnamacties in Nederland.”

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Fig. 16: Students building a stage for the Vietpop concert, 28 April, 1972. Anefo Nationaal Archief.

North Vietnam as a third world underdog that was being victimized by the continuing American bombings.⁸⁴ Transnational connections abounded in the anti-Vietnam War movement of the 1970s. Part of the movement invested considerable energies in gathering information, just as they had before, but they soon became interested in different themes. In addition to the Vietnam Bulletin, many books about life in North Vietnam appeared in translation in the Netherlands and other Western countries.⁸⁵ Later, the extensive damage to the environment done by the U.S. Air Force in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos became a hot topic. Public sympathy was bolstered by visits from the Paris delegation of the Provisional Revolutionary Government of the Republic of South Vietnam. The arrival of this delegation in the Netherlands had an inspirational and productive effect. A new information centre in Paris served as a new source of information and photographs. The Vietnamese doctor Le Van Loc, a crucial liaison for Western European activists,  Van der Maar, Welterusten, 170 – 171, 192– 196.  For example, Susan Sontag, Reis naar Hanoi (Utrecht: Bruna, 1969); Wilfred G. Burchett, Vietnam wint (Amsterdam: Pegasus, 1969; Mary McCarthy, Bericht uit Vietnam (Leiden: A.W. Sijthoff, 1968); Sara Lidman, Gesprekken in Hanoi (Utrecht: Bruna, 1968).

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opened the photography exhibition “Why is Vietnam Winning” in Amsterdam.⁸⁶ Dutch activists also continued to model their direct action on the American antiwar movement. In fall 1970, a member of the Vietnamese delegation spoke at a “Vietnam Week” in Groningen, an event based on the example of Berkeley University students.⁸⁷ The Vietnamese presence in Paris had a stimulating effect on medical aid. Although medical initiatives existed in the 1960s, communication and transport channels were rudimentary. The Netherlands-Vietnam Medical Committee, established by three Dutch doctors, played a pivotal role in expanding the aid efforts. The North Vietnamese delegation in Paris was at the centre of this committee. One of its founders, surgeon Nick van Rhijn, learned from the Vietnamese in Paris of another Dutch doctor, a pediatrician named Jaap de Haas, who was also eager to provide medical assistance.⁸⁸ This was the beginning of a strong partnership. At first, the aid project was wayward and amateurish, but it did not take the Medical Committee long to become professional and successful. For example, in 1971, 330 doctors were associated with the committee and a year later, 11,000 donors had given more than 4.5 million Dutch guilders (USD 1.4 million) to its cause, exceeding donations to the Dutch Red Cross.⁸⁹ The media devoted regular attention to the committee’s activities; in 1970, a telethon held by the progressive broadcasting network VPRO raised 140,000 Dutch guilders (USD 38,600) in one night.⁹⁰ The money went to medicines, like quinine, and other supplies like scientific literature. In 1974 the Medical Committee even sent a fully equipped, 250-bed hospital to North Vietnam in different shipments.⁹¹ The Medical Committee would not have been able to function without an extensive transnational network. The previously mentioned founders, including Fred Groenink, a communist doctor of internal medicine, made routine visits to the delegation in Paris to discuss what was needed, as well as the means

 Vietnam Bulletin, 14 February 1970. See Christiaens, “Diplomatie,” 20; Robert K. Brigham, Guerrilla Diplomacy: The NLF’s Foreign Relations and the Vietnam War (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999): 78 – 82.  Vietnam Bulletin, 24 October 1970.  Rob van Wijk, “Vreedzame coëxistentie? Het Medisch Comité Nederland Vietnam en de CPN (1968 – 1975),” in Jaarboek Documentatiecentrum Politieke Partijen 2006 (Groningen: Documentatiecentrum Nederlandse Politieke Partijen, 2006), 223 – 242.  IISH, Medisch Comité Nederland Vietnam (MCNV) Archive, 360: “Nederlandse Rode Kruis en het Medisch Comité Nederland-Vietnam,” March 1972.  Van der Maar, Welterusten, 172– 174.  IISH, MCNV Archive, 39: Van Rhijn to the American Friends Service Committee, 26 July 1974.

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and routes by which the goods would be transported.⁹² Such logistical details were not always clear. One attendee recalled that it sometimes seemed as though the Vietnamese delegation was tentatively discussing ideas and sketches of plans rather than established policy.⁹³ Chairman De Haas frequently travelled to Hanoi on various exploratory visits. In late 1970, though not a communist himself, De Haas went to Vietnam with a group of American and British scientists on a trip sponsored by the UK-based communist organization the World Federation of Scientific Workers.⁹⁴ These Western activists had a meeting with Premier Pham Van Dong and were given a tour of pre-selected destinations, like the partially destroyed city of Nam Dinh. These visits had a big impact on the Dutch aid workers. De Haas described the enormous sense of guilt he felt during this trip that the modern military technology of “the free West” had been so successful in “bringing death and destruction” to tiny Vietnam. In a distressed letter to his financial backers, he praised North Vietnam as a “bastion of patriotism, decisiveness, and inventiveness.”⁹⁵ The Medical Committee’s network reached beyond the North Vietnamese delegation; its French counterpart, the Association médicale francovietnamienne, was an influential example to the Dutch. The Dutch committee was often a step ahead of similar initiatives in Belgium, the UK, Switzerland, Sweden, Norway, New Zealand, and other countries.⁹⁶ They corresponded with each other about their experiences and their most recent activities, and exchanged advice and film tips. The activists also visited each other regularly and attended each other’s events. At an event hosted by the East German peace organization Vietnam Ausschuss, the Dutch contingent of the Medical Committee was awarded the official pin of the NLF by the Vietnamese representatives who were present.⁹⁷ Dutch doctors also had outstanding connections in the U.S.. The Dutch committee exchanged letters with everyone from famous actress and anti-Vietnam War activist Jane Fonda to the Indochina Resource Centre.

 See their letters in IISH, MCNV Archive, 44.  Peter de Goeje, Met solidaire groet. Technische en wetenschappelijke hulp aan Vietnam (Amsterdam: KIT, 2012), 27.  For a recent study of this organization see: William Styles, “The World Federation of Scientific Workers, a case study of a Soviet Front Organisation: 1946 – 1964,” Intelligence and National Security, 33 (2018): 116 – 129.  IISH, MCNV Archive, 252: Jaap de Haas, “Bezoek aan Noord-Vietnam eind 1970.”  Ibid., 38 – 44; see Christiaens, “Diplomatie,” 20 – 23.  IISH, MCNV Archive, 43: “Rapport betreffende de bespreking van een MCNV delegatie met de Vietnam Ausschuss,” 4, 5, and 6 June 1971.

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One translated report by this centre sold more than 10,000 copies in the Netherlands.⁹⁸ To facilitate internal coordination, all the medical committees in Western Europe agreed to meet once a year (at the Colloques des Associations Medicales Européennes d’aide à l’Indochine).⁹⁹ But their good intentions were not enough to create a well-functioning Western European partnership. This failure is unsurprising, since fundraising was easier to conduct nationally. In the Netherlands, several small, local action groups were created, and most of the money they raised was usually donated to the Medical Committee.¹⁰⁰ In addition, the doctors succeeded in engaging in the major Dutch media. The news stories initially turned on the Medical Committee’s decision to exclusively send aid to North Vietnam and the “liberated areas” in South Vietnam. False rumors that the CPN had infiltrated the committee also triggered some scathing reporting.¹⁰¹ During 1972 though, the war became so unpopular that the Medical Committee’s position became increasingly accepted, especially because of the massive outrage at Nixon’s decision to resume bombings in December. Local authorities came into action. Various Dutch cities participated in an initiative to adopt Vietnamese cities (e. g., Amsterdam supported Hanoi, and Rotterdam Haiphong). The Dutch government considered it unjust to only select North Vietnamese cities, but could raise no formal objection.¹⁰² Public opinion exerted considerable pressure on the Dutch government during 1972/73. After Luns stepped down to become Secretary General of NATO in 1971, the Dutch centre-right government’s position toward the American bombings became increasingly critical. In response to surging uproar about the resumption of U.S. bombing campaigns in December 1972, The Hague filed an official protest to the U.S. government for the first time. Additionally, Dutch parliamentary pressure initiated a fact-finding mission to Hanoi to investigate North Vietnam’s continuous call for diplomatic recognition. This had been a topic of discussion among activists and left-wing political circles since the beginning of the decade, especially after Norway and Denmark recognized North Viet-

 Ibid., 39: Letter from De Haas to the American Friends Service Committee, 30 November 1971 and 9 July 1972; Ibid., 255: Jane Fonda to Nick van Rijn, 30 September 1974.  See also: Christiaens, “Diplomatie,” 18.  For more details, see: Anton Claassen, ed., Vietnam. Toekomst van een volk (Groningen: Medisch Comité Nederland Vietnam, 1983), 10 – 41; Hellema, Van Eekert and Van Heteren, Johnson moordenaar, 115 – 119.  Van Wijk, “Vreedzame coëxistentie.”  National Archives, The Hague, 2.02.05.02: Minutes of Dutch ministerial council, 9 February 1972.

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nam in 1971.¹⁰³ Initially, the mission was postponed because the U.S. strongly objected, but at the end of 1972 the Dutch government persisted. After the Dutch ambassador to China visited Hanoi in March 1973, the Netherlands established diplomatic relations with North Vietnam.¹⁰⁴ Following the Paris Peace Accords in January 1973, the new centre-left government of social democrat Joop den Uyl took diplomatic recognition a step further, by subsidizing the Medical Committee’s activities (to the tune of 3.5 million Dutch guilders).¹⁰⁵ This move was in keeping with the left-wing, human rights-oriented course that Den Uyl’s government had plotted.¹⁰⁶ After 1973, Dutch activists reinforced their already strong ties with representatives of the South Vietnamese Provisional Revolutionary Government. While the Medical Committee was working overtime and the so-called Science and Technology Committee for Vietnam (Komitee Wetenschap en Techniek voor Vietnam) became more vocal, for its part, the “Broad Vietnam Movement Netherlands” (Brede Vietnam Beweging Nederland) focused on political issues that had been brought to their attention by the Vietnamese diplomats.¹⁰⁷ The primary goal was to secure diplomatic recognition for the Provisional Revolutionary Government, just like North Vietnam. However, the Netherlands’ diplomatic relationship with the South Vietnamese regime meant the government remained silent on the issue.¹⁰⁸ More politically minded activists also demanded attention for political prisoners in South Vietnam; reports circulated that thousands of prisoners were being held in terrible conditions (e. g. in tiger cages). Campaigners tried to address the issue of political prisoners by contacting other NGOs like Amnesty International. Anti-Vietnam War activists organized a major international conference with Amnesty about political prisoners in South Vietnam in October 1973 in Amsterdam, where a delegation of the Provisional Revolutionary Government

 Geir Lundestad, The United States and Western Europe since 1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2003), 160.  Kim van der Wijngaart, Bondgenootschap onder spanning. Nederlands-Amerikaanse betrekkingen, 1969 – 1967 (Hilversum: Uitgeverij Verloren, 2011), 104– 111.  Hellema, Van Eekert and Van Heteren, Johnson moordenaar, 143.  Chilean exiles fleeing Augusto Pinochet’s right-wing regime also received support from this government. See: Mariana Perry, “‘With a Little Help from my Friends’: The Dutch Solidarity Movement and the Chilean Struggle for Democracy,” European Review of Latin-American and Caribbean Studies, 101 (2016): 75 – 96.  For example: IISH, Brede Vietnam Beweging Archive, 16: Speech Jan Boonstra at the “Internationaal congres politieke gevangenen in Zuid-Vietnam,” 12 October 1973.  Van der Maar, Welterusten, 212; John Kleinen, “The Dutch Diplomatic Post in Saigon. DutchVietnamese Relations (1945 – 1975),” in Lion and Dragon, ed. Kleinen et al., 127– 156, 151– 156.

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was also present.¹⁰⁹ Prisoners of war were a popular cause until North Vietnamese and NLF forces captured Saigon on 30 April 1975, an event that Western activists interpreted as the “liberation” of South Vietnam. What had seemed unthinkable a decade earlier happened a year later: the Dutch government granted 100 million guilders in development aid to reunified, communist Vietnam.¹¹⁰

Conclusions Worldwide social and political opposition to the Vietnam War has mainly been studied from a national or local perspective. This contribution shows that although the national and local circumstances were important to the development of the Dutch anti-Vietnam War movement, one can only understand its success by attending to its transnational aspects. On the one hand, Dutch activists were informed, inspired and encouraged by Western groups, individuals and media. In the first years, the American anti-Vietnam War movement was a great source of inspiration for Dutch activists, who not only adopted its protest forms, but also legitimized their protest by pointing to widespread social unrest in the U.S. Furthermore, the personal relationships with foreign activists from different Western countries (France, Great Britain, West Germany, and the U.S.), pushed the Dutch toward physical and moral confrontation with the authorities, while inspiring them to help American deserters and providing a model for how to better coordinate initial medical aid efforts in the Netherlands. On the other hand, representatives from North Vietnam and the NLF spurred on the protest actions by spreading propaganda, consulting with activists, endorsing their activities and regularly requesting medical aid. Initially, only a small group of activists got the opportunity to meet with Vietnamese representatives. Dutch communists and radical pacifists established the first contacts in the corridors of large international communist conferences in Eastern Europe and Moscow. Later, when North Vietnam and the NLF sent permanent delegations to Paris, where the peace negotiations were held, non-communist groups met with Vietnamese envoys, both in the French capital and in the Netherlands. Increasingly, Dutch activists became part of an expansive Western - North Vietnamese aid network.

 See IISH, Brede Vietnam Beweging Archive, 14– 18; Van der Maar, Welterusten, 212– 213.  De Goeje, Met solidaire groet; Duco Hellema, “Changing Perspectives: The Netherlands and Vietnam since 1976,” in Lion and Dragon, ed. Kleinen et al., 211– 231.

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As a result, the Dutch movement transformed. What started as a predominantly domestic-oriented, politically motivated and anti-authoritarian protest movement became a practical and transnational solidarity movement. The Netherlands-Vietnam Medical Committee, founded by experienced doctors, not only had a close relationship with the regime in Hanoi, but its medical approach proved invaluable to establishing contacts with groups and people around the world. However, in spite of regular meetings, an overarching Western European Vietnam Committee was never an option because mobilization and fundraising activities worked best, if not only, on national or local platforms. In the Netherlands, the transnational humanitarian strategy breathed new life into the anti-Vietnam War movement and boosted anti-imperialist sentiments in society, making way for new transnational solidarity movements.¹¹¹ The renewed anti-Vietnam War movement of the 1970s also succeeded in garnering political support, something that the earlier movement had not managed. This eventually contributed to the Dutch government’s more accommodating stance toward North Vietnam.

Abbreviations ANJV: CPN: IISH: MCNV: NLF: PSP: PvdA: SDS:

Algemeen Nederlands Jeugd Verbond (General Alliance of Dutch Youth) Communistische Partij Nederland (Dutch Communist Party) International Institute of Social History Medisch Comité Nederland-Vietnam (Medical Committee Netherlands-Vietnam) National Liberation Front of South-Vietnam Pacifistisch-Socialistische Partij (Pacifist Socialist Party) Partij van de Arbeid (Dutch Labor Party) Sozialistischer Deutscher Studentenbund (German Socialist Student Movement)

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 Such as the one involved with the Chilean struggle for democracy. Perry, “With a Little Help,” 83.

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Wim de Jong

Chapter 8 Insurrection in the Schools The Dutch Critical Teachers as Part of a Transnational Solidarity Movement (1969 – 1973) On Saturday the 3rd of May 1969, in the speaker’s corner of the Amsterdam Vondelpark, a peculiar gathering took place. Some two hundred students from schools in Amsterdam listened to a speech by the young teacher of Dutch language and literature Piet Calis. The youngsters had convened because of a pamphlet that declared the final exams in schools to be an infringement of the Law on Gambling, namely because the exam was based on completely arbitrary criteria, giving its passers an unfair advantage toward earning a larger salary. Worse, one could only pass the exam by accepting the current social selection system which discouraged critical thinking, social empathy and creativity. Subsequently, the youngsters marched with Calis to the Prinsengracht, to lodge their complaint at the Palace of Justice. Soon afterwards, the Kritiese Leraren (Critical Teachers, written in the new spelling of 1960s action movements) presented themselves as a movement set to radically democratize the school system. Not only did they see it as riddled with authoritarian teachers replicating a capitalist society, but they also denounced, in the words of progressive educator S. Goedemoed, that “politics in the classroom is taboo, just like sexual education. It’s like everyone’s afraid that the American policies in Vietnam will be denounced, or that Mao Zedong will be glorified, that the school will foster leftist sympathies…”¹ And indeed, progressive teachers brought the global struggles of the Third World to the classroom. International solidarity provides a fresh perspective on the historiography of the radical school movement of the 1960s, inspired by the student movement and radicalized modern pedagogical movements, from Montessori to Jenaplan.² Most attention in the literature, which generally ignores notice of the Critical Teachers movement, is usually given to the movement’s anti-authoritarian features, libertarian sexual morals, and provocative rhetoric, describing it as either

 “Leerling is politieke analfabeet,” Leeuwarder courant, 8 March 1969.  Gerd-Rainer Horn, The Spirit of ’68: Rebellion in Western Europe and North America, 1956 – 1976 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 198 – 201, “free schools and universities.” https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-009

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confused or demagogic.³ This contribution however emphasizes the consistency of some of the movement’s ideas, the close relation between democratization of the school and international solidarity but also, at the same time, the potential tensions arising from it. As with other 1968 movements, the radical education reform movement is hardly conceivable outside the context of international politics. The mobilizing factor of the Vietnam War and decolonization in countries like Angola mixed with the local democratization drive of the school. International struggles were an inspiration for domestic ones during an age of protest, in which the Netherlands became a hotbed of so-called “new” social movements, from the peace to the environmental movement. This period started circa 1965, when the famous anarchist Provo movement (1965 – 1967) began, and continued to the end of the Cold War.⁴ At first glance, the radical movement for educational reform seemed to mainly concern a domestic, very local issue: democratizing the classroom. But it was also a case of globalizing this space. The Critical Teachers politicized and opened up the classroom to the outside world, both locally and globally, engaging with issues that confronted the First World with the Third World. This movement strove to radically widen the scope of “democratization” by bringing closer the levels of the local school, Dutch society and the global world, through advocating anti-colonialism and Third World liberation. In his seminal The Art of Moral Protest, social theorist James Jasper makes a useful distinction between citizenship movements, defined as movements of citizens to acquire rights for themselves such as voting rights or salaries, and socalled post-citizenship movements. The Critical Teachers in one respect were a citizenship movement: they consisted of young teachers with precarious contracts, demanding professional space to shape teaching in a democratic way. This movement was contemporary to the student occupations, and shared many of its ideas, like defining democracy as the ideal of giving all people greater influence in every domain of society they were part of and subjected to. But it could be said that school spawned even heavier discussions about “societization” (vermaatschappelijking) and politicization than the university did, the latter

 Piet de Rooy, Een geschiedenis van het onderwijs in Nederland (Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2018), 197; Jozef Vos and Jos van der Linden, Waarvan akte. Geschiedenis van de MO-opleidingen, 1912 – 1987 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004), 110; Marc Depaepe, De pedagogisering achterna (Leuven: Acco, 1998): 223. The lengthiest exploration still is Theo Jansen and Anne-Ruth Wertheim, Buiten de orde. Dilemma’s in de ontwikkeling van projektonderwijs (Nijmegen: SUN, 1984), 21– 41.  Duco Hellema, “De lange jaren zeventig,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 123/1 (2010): 78 – 93, describes this age as stretching from the mid-1960s until 1982; however, there are good reasons to expand it to 1989, taking the fall of the Berlin Wall as a watershed.

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being already accepted, albeit grudgingly, as a space of political contestation over issues such as solidarity with Vietnam. And this was despite the fact that many educators thought on the contrary that the school should be kept clear of radical politics. Illustrative of this controversy were the reactions to the Little Red Schoolbook, which in its different versions all over the world provided a manual for students to stand up against authority and introduced them to a libertarian lifestyle. The Danish original by Bo Dan Andersen, Søren Hansen and Jesper Jensen was soon translated and adapted all over the Western world, and was sometimes banned or censored.⁵ However, one could say that the Critical Teachers were also a “postcitizenship” movement, in Jaspers’ terms, “composed of people already integrated into their society’s political, economic, and educational systems. Because they need not demand basic rights for themselves, they often pursue protections or benefits for others, including on occasion the entire human species.”⁶ In contrast to the university setting, secondary education concerned youngsters who were widely regarded as children, which might have seemed obvious earlier but now became a point of debate: movements in both university and school thus strove to free the young people from the parochial treatment they were given by parental and teacher authorities. Jasper finally notes that citizenship and post-citizenship often blend into each other, which is demonstrated here: the Critical Teachers not only fought for their own rights but also demanded that underage pupils be treated like adults. This piece aims to show that the post-citizenship aspect of the movement particularly came to the fore in its engagement with international solidarity. Part of post-citizenship activism is based on solidarity with bigger and more abstract causes like social and economic equality and international peace. This contribution thus explores the Critical Teachers as an international solidarity movement along with its comprehensive vision of the relationship between the

 Dan Andersen, Søren Hansen and Jesper Jensen, Den lille rode bog for skoleelever (Copenhagen: Hans Reitzels Forlag, 1969). These moral and political responses to radical educational reformers and emancipators constitute a conservative social activism in its own regard, as a backlash social movement pioneered in the 1970s as part of a “silent majority”. In the Netherlands as well as abroad it contributed to formulating conservative ideas about morality and politics. Anna von der Goltz and Britta Waldschmidt-Nelson, Inventing the Silent Majority in Western Europe and the United States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). In the United States, the historiography of the conservative revolution in the 1970s–80s has brought conservative social movements in response to 1968 to the fore: viz. Richard Perlstein, Nixonland: The Rise of a President and the Fracturing of America (New York: Scribner, 2009).  James Jasper, The Art of Moral Protest: Culture, Biography, and Creativity in Social Movements (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 7.

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local and global. The Critical Teachers were a radical example of a broader trend among progressive educators to reform the curriculum towards a more postcolonial and globalized perspective, particularly within the framework of “peace education”. This contribution is based on a variety of sources from the Critical Teachers’ archive and newspapers, to policy reports and lesson material, which are critically assessed and contextualized, showing how this movement connected the global and the local, solidarity among students and international solidarity.

The emergence of the movement The Critical Teachers movement arose after the school student movement, in the wave of New Left activism around 1968. In both movements, engagement with topics of international solidarity formed a natural ingredient from the outset. For the Teachers, education reform meant anti-authoritarian politicization and democratization on the local, structural and international level. Solidarity with e. g. Vietnam and the decolonization of Angola formed an integral part in their ideas of project-based education, their publications, and their activities. It was essential for them to sensitize students to the connection between global and local injustice. In the Netherlands, the school student movement was more short-lived, spontaneous, and separated from the student movement than in other countries such as West-Germany. There it was closely affiliated with radical student activism and rapidly institutionalized with a formal membership structure and local branches.⁷ On the Dutch side, the main achievement of the Scholieren Belangen Organisatie (SBO), founded by high school student Marja Oosterman, was the organization of a foundational conference on topics varying from democratization to sex education and global aid.⁸ While Oosterman denied that the SBO was particularly engaged in such issues, she nevertheless let a representative of the International Federation Kurdistan speak about the political bias of teachers and the Dutch press.⁹ During the short lifespan of the SBO, many school parlia-

 The term “school student movement” is a translation of the German “Schülerbewegung” or “scholierenbeweging” in Dutch. Torsten Gass-Bolm, “Revolution im Klassenzimmer? Die Schülerbewegung 1967– 1970 und der Wandel der deutschen Schule,” in Wo “1968” liegt. Reform und Revolte in der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik, ed. Christina von Hogenberg and Detlef Siegfried (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 2006), 113 – 138.  Het Parool, 30 May 1968; Het Parool, 30 November 1968.  De Volkskrant, 30 November 1968.

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ments and other participatory institutions were founded, often initiated by the school board.¹⁰ Several members of the Critical Teachers had just graduated from university and still had connections with radicalized students in Amsterdam and Nijmegen. They themselves were driven by indignation and frustration. Many of them were Dutch language teachers who had been fired for supposed obscenities proffered when discussing contemporary novels in class. They quickly channeled their emotions into a radical critique of the education system. Anton Oskamp, one of its leading members, envisioned the Critical Teachers not as a common interest group but as a slippery, flexible movement popping up in every venue that provided an opportunity to garner media attention and take aim at the educational system.¹¹ They demanded a fully democratic school, where students would determine what, how, when and with whom they would be taught, with “spaces to talk, dance, play, make love, smoke, learn, sport, or work with your hands…”¹² The novelty of the Critical Teachers was located in the polarizing way they proposed their ideas, combining ludic protest and civil disobedience. In the vein of anarcho-libertarian social movements like Provo, they organized “actions” that spawned media attention.¹³ They published an alternative school diary. They also made a movie titled Lokaalvredebreuk (School disturbance), which showed them going into schools, taking over lessons and being thrown out.¹⁴ Their local action groups with hotspots in Amsterdam and Nijmegen soon had some 1,260 sympathizers.¹⁵ These actions paled in comparison to the hysteria surrounding the bestselling Dutch version of the Rode Boekje voor scholieren in September 1970. The translators had heavily amended the Danish original. The resulting booklet was a more politicized combination of a black book of the existing system, a manual for libertarian living, organizing school revolutions, and an educational program.¹⁶ The Little Red Schoolbook attacked the

 Vos and Van der Linden, Waarvan akte, 109.  Amsterdam, International Institute for Social History IISG/IISH (hereafter IISG), Archive Kritiese Leraren, 1: A. Oskamp to Van der Sluijs, 13 April 1969.  Claartje Hülsenbeck, Jan Louman and Anton Oskamp, Het rode boekje voor scholieren (3rd ed., Utrecht: Bruna, 1970,), 67. Based on Andersen, Hansen and Jensen, Den lille rode bog for skoleelever, passim.  NRC Handelsblad, 23 October 1970.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 17: De Andere agenda (Kritiese Leraren Amsterdam) and Lokaalvredebreuk (Kritiese Leraren Amsterdam); see press release 17 November 1970 film Lokaalvredebreuk.  Jansen and Wertheim, Buiten de orde, 21– 41.  Helge Bonset, Nooit met je rug naar de klas (Amsterdam: Bezige Bij, 1969).

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“hidden curriculum”: schools were political in that they avoided the conversation about politics, teaching obedience to authority and a capitalist mentality of competition, to make students “just like your boss wants you to be.”¹⁷ Eventually, the SBO conference descended into chaos when the school students, mainly preoccupied with anti-authoritarian concerns with, for instance, censuring of school newspapers, opposed the radical university students from the peace and socialist movements (Pacifistische Socialistische Partij and Socialistische Jeugd) in attendance. A critical stance toward NATO, an international political issue with large bearings on local security politics, turned out to be the only issue they agreed on. As a result, they adopted resolutions concerning NATO expenditure, which were aimed at improving education.¹⁸ Nevertheless, as will be shown, the Critical Teachers also saw international solidarity as a possible distraction from the necessary revolution in the classroom.

International solidarity in the Critical Teachers movement Within traditional teacher unions, the perspective of international solidarity as global aid had existed since the beginning of the 1960s, but the Critical movement radicalized and politicized it drastically by the end of the decade.¹⁹ The Critical Teachers were typical of New Left movements superseding “pillarized” denominational or ideology-based organizations. They were partly a reaction against this corporatist organization of society, which slowed down educational reform.²⁰ Without institutional affiliation, they criticized existing teacher unions and extended their message to public and denominational schools. Their discourse concerned the education system in general, injecting fresh didactic and political perspectives into it. In the Critical Teachers’ ideas for project-based education (pioneered by American pragmatist philosopher John Dewey and British educator William

 Hülsenbeck, Louman and Oskamp, Het rode boekje, 7.  Het vrije volk, 2 December 1968.  Bram Mellink, Worden zoals wij. Onderwijs en de opkomst van de geïndividualiseerde samenleving sinds 1945 (Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2012), 241.  Vos and Van der Linden, Waarvan akte, 109 – 110; Cornelis Morsch, Met de moed van de hoop: studies over de vernieuwing van opvoeding, onderwijs en maatschappij in Nederland in de periode tussen ± 1930 en 1984 (Eindhoven: Greve Offset, 1984), 241; Theo Hoogbergen, Over geestdrift en bevlogenheid: 75 jaar Ons Middelbaar Onderwijs, 1916 – 1991 (Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact, 1991), 305 – 306.

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Hearst Kilpatrick)²¹, international solidarity came directly to the fore. The first topic for a school project integrating subjects would be the Vietnam War. History teachers would provide societal background knowledge; geography teachers would explain Vietnam’s physical and natural characteristics in connection with the guerrilla struggle; chemistry teachers would teach about napalm; even mathematics teachers could take their examples from Vietnam.²² The Critical Teachers saw international solidarity, democratization at the national and local classroom level as directly connected. Helge Bonset, for instance, thought subjects like civics and economics should provide knowledge about non-Western systems and a postcolonial perspective; students should be engaged in global problems. Revolution should be portrayed as desirable, projecting the possibility of anticapitalistic change in society.²³ Their version of the Little Red Schoolbook contested the notion that society should be kept out of schools: “you hear more about the wars of the sixteenth century than about the Vietnamese struggle for liberation. And if they talk about Vietnam, it is suggested that the school has nothing to do with it, as if it were an island within society.”²⁴ One would have to open up such closed-ended discussions by fostering a critical, postcolonial mindset, which was why the Nijmegen Critical Teachers published materials on China and the junta in Greece.²⁵ The Dutch version referred more to international politics than either the English or German translations, even though Oskamp and his colleagues said that they discarded parts about the Third World and Vietnam to draft a sharper version, leaving those topics for a second book.²⁶ The alternative school diary, the Andere Agenda, did extensively address Vietnam and refer to the Medical Committee NetherlandsVietnam’s aid to North Vietnam.²⁷ One way to promote international solidarity was through developing course material. Even after the armistice of January 1973 the Nijmegen Teachers, rebranded the Socialisties Onderwijs Front, published primary school material entitled Vietnam what now?. This material insisted that the struggle went on be-

 Jansen and Wertheim, Buiten de orde, 21.  Ibid., 38.  Ibid., 29.  Hülsenbeck, Louman and Oskamp, Het rode boekje, 7.  Griekenland informatie (Socialisties Onderwijs Front, reviewed by the Greece working groups in Amsterdam, Nijmegen and Utrecht, 1973); Ineke Marijnissen, Onderwijs in China, Nieuwsbrief 3/1 (Utrecht: Socialisties Onderwijs Front, 1972).  The Little Red Schoolbook (New York: Pocket, 1971); Das kleine rote Schülerbuch (Vienna: Aktion kritischer SchülerInnen (AKS), 2003; 1st ed. 1969).  De andere agenda (Amsterdam: Polak and Van Gennep, 1970).

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cause, at that point, Thieu was still in power: “We did this project for you, so you know what bad things the Americans have done in Vietnam…”²⁸ Together with students from the pre-final gymnasium grade, they critically assessed primary school history books for their denial of class conflict and description of Western voyages of discovery as heroic undertakings, with no reference to imperialism and colonization.²⁹ The decolonization of school books was still in its infancy and the Teachers helped develop discussions about it. The movement was thus careful not to lose sight of revolutionizing the classroom by presenting it as a microcosm of global problems and linking global solidarity topics to the perpetuation of class and ethnic inequalities in Dutch society through the education system. In addition to their publications, solidarity with international struggle was visible in the activities of the Teachers. Their Nijmegen branch promoted conscientious objection together with the Pacifist Socialist Party in an “Anticlamation” (as opposed to a proclamation) seizing the opportunity of the yearly World War II commemorations to demand solidarity with victims of the world economic system; it also called to join the boycott movement in support of the liberation of Angola from colonialism, adding in one breath “we commit ourselves to the democratization of the school, workplaces, and factories where we work…”³⁰ They founded an Educational Front (Onderwijsfront), emulating the Critical University, and a counterinstitution alongside Dutch universities, the Freedom School. Here they showed movies about China, Argentina, Vietnam, and the May revolt in Paris,³¹ which “you will never get to see in history class, or only in a twisted way,” one of the participants commented.³² Their radicalism was only surpassed by the youngsters of the Freedom School, who soon struck out on their own, trying to get Black Panther representative Eldridge Cleaver to come from Alger to Amsterdam – a project they had to abandon as they could not guarantee he would not be extradited to the United States. They still imitated the Black Panthers, engaging in neighborhood cleanup activities in Amsterdam. Furthermore, the Freedom School activists occupied a studio to read a statement of solidarity with the South Moluccan struggle for a state independent of Indonesia, which they saw as a postcolonial duty of the

 Vietnam, wat nu? (Socialisties Onderwijsfront, 1973), 3; De Volkskrant, 10 March 1973.  Nieuwsbrief Socialisties Onderwijs Front (1972– 1973), 12 August 1972.  “Massale actie voor dienstweigering,” Het vrije volk, 28 October 1970; “Solidariteit,” Leeuwarder Courant, 4 May 1970.  Report “Vrijheidsschool gaat actievoeren,” Algemeen Handelsblad, 7 February 1970.  Report “Vrijheidsschool gaat actievoeren,” Algemeen Handelsblad, 7 February 1970.

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Fig. 17: Conference of high school students, Utrecht 1968. A student from the “Critical University” speaks. Eric Koch / Anefo / Nationaal Archief.

Dutch government toward its Ambonese citizens.³³ They explicitly endorsed violence, exonerating the killing in the occupation of the Indonesian embassy in Wassenaar of a police officer by South-Moluccan radical youngsters, a step the Critical Teachers never took.³⁴ In sum, the Critical Teachers stood up for the interconnection of classroom activity, class struggle, and the postcolonial perspective. In an environment where international solidarity was very much en vogue – the Netherlands sprawling with “committees” to support causes in the 1970s from Angola to Chile – this focus helped garner media attention, on which the movement mainly thrived.

 “Cleaver van Black Panther mogelijk naar Amsterdam,” Nieuwsblad van het Noorden, 7 March 1970; “Overleg voor buurtacties met wijkcentrum,” Algemeen Handelsblad, 28 July 1970; “NOS-onderzoek naar incident,” Het vrije volk, 29 October 1970.  “Net geen geweld bij demonstratie voor Zuid-Molukken,” NRC Handelsblad, 2 November 1970.

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The limits of international solidarity It also happened that the Critical Teachers’ framing approach backfired, to the point where they were accused of instrumentalizing international solidarity. In 1973, the movement participated in an Amsterdam school strike for Vietnam, with 6,000 youngsters from some thirteen schools demonstrating in front of the American consulate.³⁵ The dean of the Barlaeus Gymnasium did not really see the point of the strike, as the school had been addressing Vietnam for years, with information stands and other activities. Students could still participate, “but only if they had already participated in these activities. Otherwise I will take it up with their parents…” He thought that the Critical Teachers were trying to use Vietnam to promote their alternative educational ideas.³⁶ The latter, on the contrary, insisted that the global and local were inseparably connected. In their view, the social system needed transformation at its core: promoting a change which would ultimately impact the global struggle for peace. The engagement of the Critical Teachers with international solidarity was a typical stance of progressive educators in the 1970s. Peace education was hugely influential, rooted in the peace movement (popularly supported in the Netherlands as early as the late 1950s Easter Marches and culminating in massive demonstrations in the 1980s).³⁷ Progressive educators felt people should be made “peace minded”, a claim supported by the nascent discipline of “polemology” which was headed by professor of international law Bert Röling and aimed at preventing war. Peace education greatly influenced Dutch pedagogical debate through such channels.³⁸ The idea was that preventing the escalation of international conflicts could only be achieved by changing popular mentality. Peace educators like Steven Derksen in How do we learn peace? thus explained how a postcolonial perspective was necessary for successful peace education. The same discipline could perhaps involve, educational journalist Ton Elias wrote, a reflection on how the West can learn from less aggressive and less competitionobsessed civilizations. International solidarity was essential to rethinking the history curriculum; the history of battlegrounds should be substituted for that

 “Eerste dag schoolstaking is vrij rustig verlopen,” NRC Handelsblad, 19 January 1973.  “Scholierenstaking brengt gemoederen in beweging,” NRC Handelsblad, 13 January 1973.  The Easter Marches were organized in imitation of the British Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.  Maarten van den Bos, Mensen van goede wil. Pax Christi 1948 – 2013 (Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2013), 90 – 92.

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of tolerance.³⁹ It was felt that, in all school subjects, peace should become central to the formation of pupils.⁴⁰ Ideas about education reform even harked back to the interwar peace movement.⁴¹ Sympathizing critics however feared that all of this would salvage a mentality of a powerless and irrelevant international solidarity, without much real impact. To make things worse, focusing on international solidarity risked leaving domestic political and social issues untouched, which would ultimately serve conservative agendas.⁴² The Critical Teachers themselves saw a possible tension between international solidarity and domestic democratization. If slavish obedience to capitalist society was still the structural effect of education domestically, not much would be gained. The Little Red Schoolbook indeed stated: “Perhaps authorities will allow you to organize a solidarity event with South America; if however you start talking about your own school, you will soon find out you run your head against the wall.”⁴³ Peace educators saw the problem: Derksen also wanted internal democratization of the school to make education for democracy possible as, “reform schools like Montessori and Dalton besides, Dutch schools are still ruled by authority and uniformity.” Authoritarian schools, in his view, would yield aggressive personalities.⁴⁴ Derksen however emphasized that in the Cold War situation, the possible escalation of conflict was dependent on public pressure and panic, necessitating the creation of peace-minded and emotionally stable people. Yes, structural factors such as the system of subjection and threats in a world without an international rule of law needed change. In the end, peace educators prioritized the mentality change they deemed crucial.⁴⁵ Moderately progressive peace educators generally agreed with the Critical Teachers on the ideal school in the vein of Summerhill or Kees Boeke. But the

 Ton Elias, “Weinig twijfel aan onze voortreffelijkheid. School doet nog weinig aan vredesopvoeding,” De Tijd, 24 December 1969.  Ben ter Veer, “De behandeling van oorlog- en vredesvraagstukken in het middelbaar onderwijs,” in Vrede in vakken. Onderwijs in dienst van de vrede, ed. Marian Albinski (Roermond: Romen, 1969), 99.  See e. g. Vincent Stolk, Tussen autonomie en humaniteit. De geschiedenis van levensbeschouwelijk humanisme in relatie tot opvoeding en onderwijs tussen 1850 en 1970 (Utrecht: Papieren Tijger, 2015), 145 – 249.  Willem Langeveld, review of Hoe leren wij de vrede, by Steven C. Derksen, Onderwijs en Opvoeding: Orgaan van het Paedagogisch Studiecentrum van de Nederlandse Onderwijzers Vereniging 19 (July/August 1968), 150.  Hülsenbeck, Louman and Oskamp, Het rode boekje, 13.  Steven C. Derksen, Hoe leren we de vrede (2nd ed., Groningen: Wolters Noordhoff, 1968), 49.  Id., “Vrede is een zaak die ook geleerd moet worden,” NRC Handelsblad, 9 March 1973.

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Critical Teachers did not believe in a constructive dialogue with adversaries, while Derksen, for instance, thought that democracy was a way of life, achieved only by debating and convincing other people. This brings him closer to the US edition of the Little Red Schoolbook which also claimed that democracy was a method of discussion and majority rule, and accordingly promoted student councils.⁴⁶ Before striking or demonstrating “you should have tried every other method first to get your grievance settled,” it insisted.⁴⁷ Its Dutch counterpart was much more disenchanted: “When your demands are granted, they were not important enough to demonstrate for in the first place; if they are refused, you arrived at the proper point: talking brings you nowhere.”⁴⁸ In this view, school parliaments only “encapsulated” students, diverting their revolutionary potential by making them a part of the existing power structure – a notion influenced by the New Left radical tendencies of national and international political engagement. The anarcho-socialist Critical Teachers conversely saw conflict as fundamental, viewing authority as the natural enemy: well-willing teachers would form a harmonious unity with their pupils, which would make maintaining order in the classroom unnecessary. The views ultimately varied according to institutional position and generation. Peace educators and polemologists were often settled, middle-aged men using the strategy of goodwill and persuasion as the means to serve their holistic ideals.⁴⁹ The younger Critical Teachers conversely used a “the medium is the message” style of controversial “action” to pry open the education system. The call for action gave the Little Red Schoolbook an accusatory and slightly forcing didactic tone, which served to cause controversy.⁵⁰ At the same time, Oskamp and the other contributors tried to keep the tone somewhat light, especially compared to the more somber Nijmegen branch.⁵¹

 Soren Hansen and Jesper Jensen with Wallace Roberts, The Little Red Schoolbook (2nd ed., New York: Pocket Books, 1971), 238.  Ibid., 73.  Hülsenbeck, Louman and Oskamp, Het rode boekje, 85.  As visible in e. g. Bert V.A. Röling, Polemologie. Een inleiding tot de wetenschap van oorlog en vrede (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1973), 168.  Bonset, Nooit met je rug naar de klas, 107– 112.  Kritiese Leraren, Demokratie op school (Nijmegen: Sun, 1970), 5 – 10 and further.

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The Little Red Schoolbook and the Dutch culture wars: raising a Hitler Jugend? The reception of the Little Red Schoolbook was intense and highly controversial, to the satisfaction of Oskamp. The libertarian way of speaking about sex was a particular stumbling block. As in Denmark, the coarse language and provocative segments about masturbation spawned disgusted reactions, but little outrage beyond that.⁵² This contrasts with other cases, like in France, where the book was prohibited, or in Belgium and Switzerland, where the entire first edition was seized by the authorities. The pope denounced it as sacrilegious and the Greek publisher was even imprisoned. In Australia, it caused a government crisis.⁵³ There seems to have been a difference here between Protestant and Catholic countries, although Switzerland is an example of a religiously mixed country. This emphasizes that, although the idea of school revolution spread like contagion in Western Europe, there remained strong differences. In the Netherlands, the political ideas seemed just as important as the “sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll” side of the book. Dutch politicians from established political parties such as the Social Democrats called it dangerous, especially its refusal of parliamentary democracy and hostile attitude towards compromise.⁵⁴ The Dutch version was much more political and radical, causing some politicians to compare the Critical Teachers to the Nazis.⁵⁵ On the other hand, the book’s reception in the Netherlands was not as heavily anticommunist as in Switzerland, for example. Anticommunism in the Netherlands had already been toned down since the breakthrough of the 1968 movement and was discarded as atavistic in countercultural circles since 1966 – 67. What was really emphasized, in the end, was the book’s undemocratic and “indoctrinatory” content.⁵⁶ The response of the teacher unions was even angrier. The Critical Teachers were depicted as irresponsible agitators, creating a class struggle within the school and betraying their col Mellink, Worden zoals wij, 133 – 140; Per Nyboe Jensen and Klaus Petersen, “Den lille røde bog for skoleelever. En bog og en masse ballade i 1969,” Arbejderhistorie 1/2 (2005): 85 – 98.  Sophie Heywood, “The Little Red Schoolbook (1969),” posted on 23 September 2016 open access on The children’s ’68: An international research network on the impact of the ’68 years on cultures of childhood, https://children68.hypotheses.org/37#more-37.  Laurens ten Cate in Leeuwarder Courant, 12 September 1970.  Leeuwarder Courant, 17 February 1970.  Nadine Ritzer, Der Kalte Krieg in den Schweizer Schulen. Eine kulturgeschichtliche Analyse (Bern: hep Verlag, 2015), 396; Van den Bos, Mensen van goede wil, 160; Ben Knapen, De lange weg naar Moskou: Nederlandse relaties tot de Sovjet-Unie, 1917 – 1942 (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1985), 249.

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leagues.⁵⁷ In return, the Critical Teachers suggested that the teacher unions were conservative bulwarks. Their movement conversely demanded much more drastic reform, they insisted, such as the inception of a middle school system that would replace the comparatively early competitive selection of students within the Dutch secondary education system.⁵⁸ The early 1970s thus witnessed the development of a small cultural war over education. Right-wing political parties claimed that the system was being taken over by radical socialist teachers who indoctrinated students and bullied less modern colleagues. Oskamp, for his part, did not accept criticism of the authoritarian tone of the book. In his opinion it was impossible to put forward an argument without some force, and he saw an asymmetry between the authorities’ apparatus and the action group he himself belonged to.⁵⁹ The populist right-wing newspaper Telegraaf, on the other hand, went as far as writing in 1972 that the progressive teachers were breeding a “Hitlerjugend”. Examples to back this up all involved Vietnam: a moderate teacher who had purportedly tried to give a more rounded view of the war, and of decolonization in Angola, had supposedly been accused of indoctrination by left-wing “critical teachers” (used as a general invective) with “authoritarian” predispositions; in other schools, left-wing teachers distributed pamphlets against NATO, Greece, Portugal, and Spain. Even if De Telegraaf had to concede that the numbers of “critical teachers” were small, it thought they could easily contaminate others and feared for the future: the pedagogical academies were filled with radicalized students, leading the newspaper to the dystopian reflection that in the near future “aap noot mies” (the famous first words Dutch children learn to read) would be substituted for “Americans leave Vietnam”.⁶⁰ At the same time, many moderate voices also claimed that the duty of schools was not to politicize or “societize” students, but to orientate them in society and the pluriform nature of political debate; the teacher should thus provide them with a more distanced view of the “temporary excitements of society.”⁶¹ Such voices promoted a more parliamentary, “agree to disagree” vision

 Arnold C. Henny, “De klassestrijd in de klas,” Weekblad AVMO 3/6 (1970): 186; Michielsen, “Jaarrede” 1285, cited in Vos and Van der Linden, Waarvan akte, 109.  Anti-mammoetrapport (Kritiese Leraren Nijmegen. Werkgroep Mammoetwet, Nijmegen: SUN, 1969).  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 17: Anton Oskamp, “Aan iedereen die reageerde op het verschijnen van het rode boekje,” January 1971.  “Handjevol kritiese leraren kweekt een Hitlerjugend,” De Telegraaf, 27 May 1972.  Evert M. Janssen Perio, Altijd met je gezicht naar de klas. De teknagogie van Helge Bonset, Vrije bladen 5 (Amsterdam: Oorschot, 1970), 26.

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of democracy, against the utopian vision of the Critical Teachers.⁶² In the end, this was also a debate over the extent of autonomy that teachers were granted to transform the classroom into a breeding ground of solidarity activists, which leads us to one of the Critical Teachers’ most central paradoxes: on the one hand, Oskamp claimed there was way too much autonomy for teachers of the “scholastic” sort while, on the other hand, the Critical Teachers wanted more autonomy for “democratic” teachers who underwrote their ideas of direct anarcho-democracy in the classroom. But their goals went beyond just that: not much would be gained if one single critical teacher was tolerated by his colleagues. Their ideal seems to have been that all teachers would cooperate in the transformation of the entire school system, which challenges the very notion of a teacher’s autonomy. This polarized environment ultimately proved a perfect breeding ground for conservative reaction. Right-wing political parties like the conservative liberal Volkspartij voor Vrijheid en Democratie (VVD) and the Democratic Socialists ’70, a conservative breakaway of the Social Democrats, thrived on the indignation they constantly expressed over the indoctrination of youngsters. On the one hand, the Netherlands were a very permissive society in the 1970s: a lot of space was given to teachers and pupils, especially in the big cities, as was illustrated by the strike in 1973. On the other hand, most schools’ fundamental structure remained unchanged, in part because of their autonomy in a system where, due to freedom of education, two-thirds of schools were religious and not statecontrolled. To contemporaries, it may have seemed sometimes like a revolution was on the verge of breaking out, but in hindsight the conservative reaction was quite strong, particularly in domains like the school system. This phenomenon would be worth exploring at the international scale: in Great Britain, for instance, conservative social activist Mary Whitehouse sued the publishers of the Little Red Schoolbook over obscenity, so that the latter was finally published in a censored version.⁶³ To sum up, international solidarity and Cold War tensions were not only underlying the arguments made in the Dutch Little Red Schoolbook but were also present in the conservative claims against it. In the current context, the danger of totalitarianism was constantly pinned on the Critical Teachers, who sometimes

 Simon Bakker, Hendrik Eisma and Evert W. de Jong, Het groene boekje. Nuchter protest tegen het rode (Apeldoorn: Semper Agendo, 1970).  Jonathon Green and Nicholas J. Karolides, Encyclopedia of Censorship (New York: Infobase Publishing, 2014), 647; Rebecca Jennings, “Sexuality,” in 20th Century Britain: Economic, Cultural and Social Change, ed. Francesca Carnevali and Julie Marie Strange (New York: Routledge, 2014), 301.

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took the bait, especially the dogmatic Marxists from Nijmegen. In 1972, they provided conservative reactionaries with ammunition in a television program on social criticism: the segment on “Politics in the school” saw Paul Offermans give a lesson on the evils of global capitalism and the necessity of aid to the Third World. It had been difficult to find a school to host the event. Interestingly, it was the Catholic Broadcasting Union (KRO) that found the Werkplaats (the famous Kees Boeke-school) prepared to do so. In his lesson, Offermans denied that Russian dissidents represented the people in general. In January 1972, the dissident Vladimir Bukovsky had been tried for smuggling documentation on the political use of psychiatric clinics out of the Soviet Union, leading to a strengthened awareness of Soviet dissidence in the West. Offermans flatly denied these abuses, while Soviet dissidence found an echo in the students’unrest during the broadcast⁶⁴. In a later reply, the speaker commented that the children in the broadcast had behaved badly and that, if communism was indoctrinatory, then so was capitalist society, which pretty much sealed the deal.⁶⁵

Demise and legacy Soon after its birth, the movement was ripped apart by internal strife between the anti-authoritarian, free-thinking Amsterdam current and the radical Marxists in Nijmegen. The Amsterdam-originating Little Red Schoolbook was typical of the undogmatic Third Way approach of socialism in the mode of the New Left. It “could be used to demonstrate against America as well as Russia,” and explained that fascism could also be seen in countries which claimed to fight it, which put dissenting people in the mad house or jail.⁶⁶ On the other hand, with the 1950s anticommunism on the retreat, joining the Communist Party became a kind of radical chic. Its centralist party culture led to endless disputes within New Left movements, so that many more anarchist-leaning socialists joined the Maoists during the 1970s, as did some of the Nijmegen Critical Teachers. In practice, however, the “basic democracy” nature of these New Left move-

 Mark Hurst, British Human Rights Organizations and Soviet Dissent, 1965 – 1985 (London: Bloomsbury, 2016), 26; Henk Broekhuis, “De kritische leraar,” NRC Handelsblad, 18 February 1972; Leeuwarder Courant, 8 February 1972; De Volkskrant, 8 February 1972. The show was called “Maatschappijkritiek” (KRO), and the segment “Politiek op school” (Politics in the school).  Sjoerd Karsten, “Het lerarenberoep in historisch perspectief,” in Onderwijzen als roeping: het beroep van leraar ter discussie, ed. Henk Kleijer and Gerrit Vrieze (Leuven: Garant, 2000), 48.  Hülsenbeck, Louman and Oskamp, Het rode boekje, 4, 32.

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ments resulted both in a lack of strong organization and a forced centralism which saw the most vocal members prevail.⁶⁷ Pratical problems exacerbated the movement’s ideological differences. After one year, it boasted 1,260 affiliated teachers but had only few active members. The disappointment over what they achieved urged strategic discussions. The Nijmegen group brought the tension to a head. Instead of actions with a humorous note, which were well received by mass media, they now excelled in heavyhanded reports on education law and education in Third World countries.⁶⁸ Their anarchist socialism drifted in the direction of Maoism,⁶⁹ arguing for a pervasive class struggle perspective.⁷⁰ On closer inspection, the two groups disagreed on both means and end: should socialism serve the liberation of the individual, or should individual liberation serve the achievement of a just, socialist society?⁷¹ The Nijmegen group saw students as a new revolutionary subject. This even led them to a puritanical critique of sex as a form of consumption, drifting away from the sexual revolution.⁷² A split occurred in November 1971. The Amsterdam group refused puritanical dogmatism,⁷³ saw a centralized ideology as unnecessary, and preferred “action” instead of “theoretical training”.⁷⁴ They preferred a libertarian Marxism and a return to the everyday practice of teaching.⁷⁵ Kees van Baalen, who wanted to abolish the word “school” and whose antiauthoritarian mathematics class was televised, did not want to get stuck in theoretical criticism but wished instead to experiment with project-based education.⁷⁶ He wanted a revolution “here and now”:  For the Dutch case well recorded by Antoine Verbij, Tien rode jaren. Links radicalisme in Nederland, 1970 – 1980 (Amsterdam: Ambo, 2005).  Such as Lambert Kemerink, Het autoritaire onderwijs (Nijmegen, 1969).  The Maoist “Socialist Party” was founded in Nijmegen in 1972.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 16: Diskussiestuk over strategie en organisatie van de kritische leraren, Nijmegen, April 1970.  “Rekkelijken en preciezen,” as suggested by Karsten, “Het lerarenberoep in historisch perspectief,” 48.  Viz. Ben Wasser, “Barbarij van kritiese leraren,” Volkskrant, 4 April 1970; interview Piet Offermans, De Nieuwe Linie, 23 August 1972.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 1: Notulen vergadering Kritische Leraren Amsterdam, 10 December 1971.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 17: Notulen voorbereidende bespreking voor weekend KL op volkshogeschool Drakenburgh 6 en 7 februari 1970. Oskamp cited in “Scholenrevolutie,” De Vrije Socialist. Anarchisties tijdschrift 2/3 (1973), 15.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 17: Notulen vergadering KLA, ca. May 1970; 8 September 1970.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 17: Kees van Baalen, “Wat willen de Kritiese Leraren nu eigenlijk wel?,” 6 April 1970; 1: Meeting Kritiese Leraren Amsterdam, 10 December 1971 and 14 April 1972.

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I have noticed how through personal and bigger actions little pieces of freedom can be created that cannot be broken again: students who return deeply shocked or wildly enthusiastic from some neighborhood inquiry […] discussion nights where fears and taboos are taken away and you see in their eyes that these people are tomorrow able to do more, will radiate more warmth and contact. I believe in that, despite all the remaining disappointment and subjection.⁷⁷

New Left movements in the Netherlands were in a winning mood; they believed capitalist society could be reformed when people finally saw the problem with authoritarian relationships. Political parties across the board talked about democratizing the workplace and the school. So Critical Teachers like Bonset felt encouraged by the public climate in the Netherlands. At the same time, he wondered whether anything would fundamentally change. In a discussion with a conservative opponent he said that much would stay the same: the unequal distribution of power and resources remained, just like NATO and the Vietnam War.⁷⁸ And indeed, when non-conformist behavior like wearing long hair was accepted in schools, the high school movement collapsed. The Nijmegen group of Critical Teachers got lost in Marxist theorizing, losing the connection with the broader public and the practical reality of education. “Encapsulation”, i. e. becoming part of the existing society by participating in its representative structures, was also unacceptable for the Amsterdam group.⁷⁹ For this reason they never succeeded in transcending their anti-authoritarian origins to become a real trade union.⁸⁰ On the margins of the system they still received some attention, for instance with “actions” against the Institute for Test Development (Centraal Instituut Toets Ontwikkeling, Cito) in 1972.⁸¹ In retrospective, the Critical Teachers’ influence was mainly seen in the rapid spread of new educational ideas. They brought the debate to another level, even

 IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 16: Kees van Baalen, “Aan de Nijmeegse redacteuren van de nieuwsbrief,” 3 December 1970.  “Janssen contra Bonset: een onderwijsrevolutie zal catastrofaal zijn,” Reflector van het hedendaags wereldgebeuren (1970) June/July, 202.  “Zo verzetten ze zich tegen ‘schijndemocratisering’ door de gemeente Amsterdam,” IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 1: Letter, 16 November 1970; Vergadering 30 May 1973: SOF, KLA, Kabouters, PSPonderwijsgroep over Ontwerp Verordening Voortgezet Onderwijs Amsterdam.  IISG, Kritische Leraren, 1: Vergadering Kritiese Leraren Amsterdam, 14 April 1972.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 1: Letter Oskamp to the Kritiese Leraren Amsterdam, 16 November 1970.

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though knowledge-centered education remained dominant overall.⁸² Critics like Janssen Perio accused Bonset of not having a real educational philosophy, but although utopian in many ways, the Critical Teachers had clear-cut ideas about democratic education. For instance, project-based education has since become an accepted didactic method.⁸³ They also helped open up the conversation on a revision of the history curriculum in a more critical and postcolonial direction.⁸⁴ Irritation about their style of protest guaranteed a wide circulation of their ideas and ambivalent responses; this made them in many ways a successful social movement, though not by their own standards. When the transformation of the education system stagnated, the option remained to start democratic schools, which in the Dutch system are fully funded by the state. Accepting this would however also be a form of encapsulation in a system which had blocked their movement. Starting democratic schools implied acceptance of becoming a marginal subculture. Some people with a progressive mind went this way: in Wageningen, from 1973 onwards, “open project-based education” became the basis of a big school; Van Baalen went to work in the Montessori-based IVKO school (Individueel Voortgezet Kunstzinnig Onderwijs).⁸⁵ The Critical Teachers however felt that reform pedagogy-based schools like Montessori and Summerhill were a case of “repressive tolerance”, leaving capitalist society intact.⁸⁶ Nijmegen Teacher Piet Offermans criticized movements like feminism for driving people into a subculture, while they should rather raise class consciousness.⁸⁷ In a polemic with Elias, Critical Teachers sympathizer Willem Langeveld said, “[…] it’s not about creating a nice little school for some subculture. It’s

 In Pieter Leenheer (ed.), De moeite van het vanzelfsprekende. Kennis delen en kennis ontwikkelen in scholennetwerken (Antwerp/Apeldoorn: Garant, 2003) 28, the Teachers are too easily put aside.  Luc Dekeyser and Herman Baert, Projectonderwijs: sturen en begeleiden van leren en werken (Leuven: Acco, 2002), 32– 33; Geert ten Dam (ed.), Onderwijskunde hoger onderwijs. Handboek voor docenten (3rd ed., Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004), 231.  Bernt Feis, Discussie zonder einder: geschiedbeoefening in de Nederlandse samenleving (Utrecht: Utrechtse Studenten Faculteiten, 1971); Bernt Feis and Paul Offermans, Geschiedenis van het gewone volk in Nederland (Nijmegen: Socialisties Onderwijs Front, 1975).  Ed Schüssler, “Weg van de middenschool,” in Weg van de middenschool: dertig jaar na de start van het middenschoolexperiment, ed. Ed Schüssler (Apeldoorn/Antwerpen: Garant, 2006), 30; Stichting tot bevordering van het Maatschappelijk Emancipatieproces, Open Projectonderwijs, Catalogus filmbeschrijvingen 1972 – 1989 (Stichting MEP, 2009), 49; Peter Brusse, “Uit het leven. Kees van Baalen,” Vrij Nederland, 9 October 2010.  IISG, Kritiese Leraren, 2: Bericht kritiese leraren Amsterdam, 2/2 (1972), October.  Cited in an interview with De nieuwe linie in Leeuwarder courant, 24 August 1972.

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Fig. 18: “A little revolution in the school,” drawing by Elsje, circ. 1975. The Critical Teachers continued their existence during the 1970s with episodic actions. IISG, BG E38/116.

about a vital democracy that takes the political education of youngsters seriously, by pointing to the places and causes of injustice, subjection and unhuman conditions. And not with examples that no Dutch person can hope to influence – but in domains that are easily accessible to youngsters.”⁸⁸ Langeveld claimed educational reform should not be harmless to the system. It would not be achieved by accepting a compartmentalized position within that system, nor by

 Willem Langeveld, “‘Schone’ en ‘vieze’ politiek op school,” De Tijd, 23 May 1973.

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using examples of international situations young people could not hope to change in any substantial way. The lack of potential impact was the problem with international solidarity as a frame of action, as illustrated in the harmless school strikes for Vietnam. Finding the suiting action frame was a challenge for radical education movements in other parts of the Western world as well. Historian of education Scott Walter writes about the Free School Movement in the United States: “One wing charted a utopian course, focused on cultural radicalism and withdrawal from the problems of the larger society; another wing stressed political radicalism, with direct confrontation of social evils.”⁸⁹ In a way, the Critical Teachers in the Netherlands also tried to navigate this binary, refusing to withdraw from society, either by getting lost in a subculture or in endless debates over strategy.

Conclusion Radical education movements like the Critical Teachers were almost naturally inclined to questions of international solidarity during the Cold War, in a way closely akin to the student movement. Innovators in that field wanted to bring politics into the classroom, to transform the inner dynamics of the school. They saw the socialization of youth as the basis of the future society, in a continuum between a democratic classroom and social justice both on the national and international levels. The problem of inequality between the First and Third World was replicated in the differences in accessibility of education and economic equality on the domestic front, leading to the same sense of “colonial” and “authoritarian” relationships. To stress this connection, the movement engaged in protests against the Vietnam War and Angola, and promoted a postcolonial perspective in the curriculum. Opening up the classroom to the global world only made sense to the Critical Teachers if there was a relation between these three levels. They emphasized that a structural internal democratization of the school should address inequalities on the national and international levels. Reciprocally, engaging in international solidarity would be pointless if the school system in its methods and effects still reproduced capitalist society. In retrospect, it is safe to say that they did not succeed in promoting change at every level. Twenty years later, some of them said that they now had grown even angrier about a school system reproducing cap-

 Scott Walter, “Free School Movement,” in Historical Dictionary of American Education, ed. Richard J. Altenbaugh (London: Greenwood, 1999), 145.

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italist inequality than they had been at the time.⁹⁰ They however did influence didactic renewal, notably through their ideas about project-based learning and postponing student selection, as well as through popularizing awareness about the hidden curriculum. Rather than focusing on mere peace education, the Critical Teachers used the strategy of épater la bourgeoisie to accomplish this. At the same time, the provocative way in which they put forward their positions undermined the credibility of their “democratic” ideas. Soon they were suspected of indoctrinatory behavior, refusing dialogue and compromise. Their contesters argued that, in a truly open democratic classroom, the Critical Teachers’ ideas should be open for discussion as well, which was not the case. Paradoxically, the latter’s image suffered from such suspicions that they in fact favored authoritarianism. Generally speaking, the Critical Teachers did signal an opening up of the classroom to politics and a debate over what this should entail. They were a symptom of disenchantment with institutionalized corporatism which slowed down educational reform. Regrettably, like many New Left movements, they split over the incompatibility of libertarianism and radical Marxism. The Little Red Schoolbook was focused on the everyday reality of the school, connecting it to the larger political context, while the Nijmegen branch in particular lost themselves in dreams of a world revolution in distant and exotic locations. Still, everything connected. Decolonization of Vietnam and Suriname coincided with the domestic “decolonization of the citizen,” as was stressed by Dutch journalist Henk Hofland.⁹¹ And, in the Netherlands, “the citizen” encompassed the teachers but also the school students and progressive parents. Finally, another line of enquiry for future research pertains to contacts and transfers between radical teachers in Western Europe – which this contribution only touched upon –, bearing in mind that radical education in high schools was also a transnational phenomenon. The drive towards a democratic opening up of the classroom has swept across the West, from Summerhill to freedom schools in the United States. International solidarity was also solidarity between different movements that sprung from sometimes comparable impulses.

 Jan Mars and Jan den Thije, “’Mijn boosheid is nu groter dan toen’: kritiese leraren maken na twintig jaar de balans op,” Vernieuwing. Tijdschrift voor onderwijs en opvoeding, 48/3 (1989): 3.  Henk J.A. Hofland, Tegels lichten. Ware verhalen uit het land van de voldongen feiten (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1972), 223.

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Abbreviations Cito: IVKO: KRO: SBO: VVD:

Centraal Instituut Toets Ontwikkeling (Central Institute Test Development) Individueel Voortgezet Kunstzinnig Onderwijs (Individual Artful Secondary Education) Katholieke Radio Omroep (Catholic Radio Broadcast) Scholieren Belangen Organisatie (Secondary Students’ Interest Group) Volkspartij voor Vrijheid en Democratie (People’s Party for Freedom and Democracy)

Bibliography De andere agenda. Amsterdam: Polak and Van Gennep, 1970. Andersen, Dan, Sören Hansen, and Jesper Jensen. Den lille rode bog for skoleelever. Copenhagen: Hans Reitzels Forlag, 1969. Anti-mammoetrapport. Edited by Kritiese Leraren Nijmegen. Werkgroep Mammoetwet. Nijmegen: SUN, 1969. Bakker, Simon, Hendrik Eisma and Evert W. de Jong. Het groene boekje. Nuchter protest tegen het rode. Apeldoorn: Semper Agendo, 1970. Bonset, Helge. Nooit met je rug naar de klas. Amsterdam: Bezige Bij, 1969. Bos, Maarten van den. Mensen van goede wil. Pax Christi 1948 – 2013. Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2013. Dam, Geert ten, ed. Onderwijskunde hoger onderwijs. Handboek voor docenten. 3rd ed. Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004. Dekeyser, Luc, and Herman Baert. Projectonderwijs: sturen en begeleiden van leren en werken. Leuven: Acco, 2002. Depaepe, Marc. De pedagogisering achterna. Leuven: Acco, 1998. Derksen, Steven C. Hoe leren we de vrede. 2nd ed. Groningen: Wolters Noordhoff, 1968. Feis, Bernt. Discussie zonder einder: geschiedbeoefening in de Nederlandse samenleving. Utrecht: Utrechtse Studenten Faculteiten, 1971. Feis, Bernt, and Paul Offermans. Geschiedenis van het gewone volk in Nederland. Nijmegen: Socialisties Onderwijs Front, 1975. Gass-Bolm, Torsten. “Revolution im Klassenzimmer? Die Schülerbewegung 1967 – 1970 und der Wandel der deutschen Schule.” In Wo “1968” liegt. Reform und Revolte in der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik, edited by Christina von Hogenberg and Detlef Siegfried, 113 – 138. Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 2006. Goltz, Anna von der, and Britta Waldschmidt-Nelson. Inventing the Silent Majority in Western Europe and the United States. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Green, Jonathon, and Nicholas J. Karolides. Encyclopedia of Censorship. New York: Infobase Publishing, 2014. Hansen, Søren and Jesper Jensen with Wallace Roberts. The Little Red Schoolbook. 2nd ed. New York: Pocket Books, 1971. Hellema, Duco. “De lange jaren zeventig.” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 123/1 (2010): 78 – 93. Heywood, Sophie. “The Little Red Schoolbook (1969).” Posted on 23 September 2016 open access on The children’s ’68. An international research network on the impact of the ’68 years on cultures of childhood. https://children68.hypotheses.org/37#more-37.

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Hofland, Henk J.A. Tegels lichten. Ware verhalen uit het land van de voldongen feiten. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1972. Hoogbergen, Theo. Over geestdrift en bevlogenheid: 75 jaar Ons Middelbaar Onderwijs, 1916 – 1991. Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact, 1991. Horn, Gerd-Rainer. The Spirit of ’68. Rebellion in Western Europe and North America, 1956 – 1976. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Hülsenbeck, Claartje, Jan Louman, and Anton Oskamp. Het rode boekje voor scholieren. 3rd ed. Utrecht: Bruna, 1970. Hurst, Mark. British Human Rights Organizations and Soviet Dissent, 1965 – 1985. London: Bloomsbury, 2016. Jansen, Theo, and Anne-Ruth Wertheim. Buiten de orde. Dilemma’s in de ontwikkeling van projektonderwijs. Nijmegen: SUN, 1984. Janssen Perio, Evert M. Altijd met je gezicht naar de klas. De teknagogie van Helge Bonset. Vrije bladen 5. Amsterdam: Oorschot, 1970. Jasper, James. The Art of Moral Protest: Culture, Biography, and Creativity in Social Movements. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Jennings, Rebecca. “Sexuality.” In 20th Century Britain: Economic, Cultural and Social Change, edited by Francesca Carnevali and Julie Marie Strange, 293 – 307. New York: Routledge, 2014. Jensen, Per Nyboe, and Klaus Petersen. “Den lille røde bog for skoleelever. En bog og en masse ballade i 1969.” Arbejderhistorie 1/2 (2005): 85 – 98. Karsten, Sjoerd. “Het lerarenberoep in historisch perspectief.” In: Onderwijzen als roeping: het beroep van leraar ter discussie, edited by Henk Kleijer and Gerrit Vrieze, 29 – 56. Leuven: Garant, 2000. Kemerink, Lambert. Het autoritaire onderwijs. Nijmegen, 1969. Knapen, Ben. De lange weg naar Moskou: Nederlandse relaties tot de Sovjet-Unie, 1917 – 1942. Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1985. Das kleine rote Schülerbuch. Vienna: Aktion kritischer SchülerInnen (AKS), 2003; 1st ed. 1969. Kritiese Leraren. Demokratie op school. Nijmegen: Sun, 1970. Langeveld, Willem. Review of Hoe leren wij de vrede, by Steven C. Derksen. Onderwijs en Opvoeding: Orgaan van het Paedagogisch Studiecentrum van de Nederlandse Onderwijzers Vereniging 19 (1968) 7/8 July/August, 150. Leenheer, Pieter, ed. De moeite van het vanzelfsprekende. Kennis delen en kennis ontwikkelen in scholennetwerken. Antwerp/Apeldoorn: Garant, 2003. Marijnissen, Ineke. Onderwijs in China. Nieuwsbrief 3/1. Utrecht: Socialisties Onderwijs Front, 1972. Mars, Jan, and Jan den Thije. “‘Mijn boosheid is nu groter dan toen’: kritiese leraren maken na twintig jaar de balans op.” Vernieuwing. Tijdschrift voor onderwijs en opvoeding 48/3 (1989): 3 – 7. Mellink, Bram. Worden zoals wij. Onderwijs en de opkomst van de geïndividualiseerde samenleving sinds 1945. Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2012. Morsch, Cornelis, Met de moed van de hoop: studies over de vernieuwing van opvoeding, onderwijs en maatschappij in Nederland in de periode tussen ± 1930 en 1984. Eindhoven: Greve Offset, 1984.

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Perlstein, Richard. Nixonland: The Rise of a President and the Fracturing of America. New York: Scribner, 2009. Ritzer, Nadine. Der Kalte Krieg in den Schweizer Schulen. Eine kulturgeschichtliche Analyse. Bern: hep Verlag, 2015. Röling, Bert V.A. Polemologie. Een inleiding tot de wetenschap van oorlog en vrede. Assen: Van Gorcum, 1973. Rooy, Piet de. Een geschiedenis van het onderwijs in Nederland. Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2018. Schüssler, Ed. “Weg van de middenschool.” In Weg van de middenschool: dertig jaar na de start van het middenschoolexperiment, edited by Ed Schüssler. Apeldoorn/Antwerp: Garant, 2006. Stichting tot bevordering van het Maatschappelijk Emancipatieproces. Open Projectonderwijs, Catalogus filmbeschrijvingen 1972 – 1989. Stichting MEP, 2009. Stolk, Vincent. Tussen autonomie en humaniteit. De geschiedenis van levensbeschouwelijk humanisme in relatie tot opvoeding en onderwijs tussen 1850 en 1970. Utrecht: Papieren Tijger, 2015. Veer, Ben ter. “De behandeling van oorlog- en vredesvraagstukken in het middelbaar onderwijs.” In Vrede in vakken. Onderwijs in dienst van de vrede, edited by Marian Albinski, 98 – 140. Roermond: Romen, 1969. Verbij, Antoine. Tien rode jaren. Links radicalisme in Nederland, 1970 – 1980. Amsterdam: Ambo, 2005. Vos, Jozef, and Jos van der Linden. Waarvan akte. Geschiedenis van de MO-opleidingen, 1912 – 1987. Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004. Walter, Scott. “Free School Movement.” In: Historical Dictionary of American Education, edited by Richard J. Altenbaugh, 145. London: Greenwood, 1999.

Charel Roemer

Chapter 9 Connecting People, Generating Concern Early Belgian Solidarity with the Liberation Struggle in South Africa and the Portuguese Colonies How did social and political mobilizations in the Southern and Northern hemispheres interact? Where did their encounters take place? The early history of Belgian solidarity with the liberation struggle in the Portuguese colonies and the opposition to the white minority regimes in Southern Africa is a striking example of how local and transnational networks interacted to mobilize the support of Belgian public opinion and social organizations. Interestingly, the cornerstone of the first Belgian Committee had not been laid in Brussels, Antwerp or Liège, but a few thousand miles further south. Activist mobility will thus be at the core of this article.¹ The anti-apartheid movement reached a global dimension in the 1980s, when South Africa found itself to be the last bastion of white supremacy on the African continent. In the 1960s and 1970s, the anti-apartheid struggle still had to share the stage with the anti-colonial struggles in the Portuguese colonies (Guinea-Bissau, Angola and Mozambique), Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) and South West Africa (Namibia). The study of international solidarity towards these movements therefore needs to take on a regional perspective, considering the entanglements – both in Africa and in Europe – between these different causes in terms of actors, ideas and infrastructures.² Southern Africa as a whole became a symbol for the struggle against Western colonialism and white racist supremacy on the African continent.³ The transnational connections of the Southern African liberation movements have attracted scholarly attention in recent years.

 Boris Gobille, “Circulations révolutionnaires. Une histoire connectée et ‘à parts égales’ des ‘ années 1968’,” Monde(s) 1/11 (2017): 21.  Aurora Almada e Santos et al., eds., International Solidarities and the Liberation of the Portuguese Colonies, special issue of Afriche e Oriente 19/3 (2017); Iolanda Vasile, Aurora Almada e Santos, and Corrado Tornimbeni, “What Solidarity? Networks of cooperation with the liberation movements from Portuguese colonies: An introduction,” Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais 118 (2019): 127– 130.  For a deeper analysis on the regional impact of this struggle, see John S. Saul, “The Southern African victory: liberation realized or a prelude to recolonization?,” Radical History Review 119 (2014): 7– 23. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-010

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Different authors have covered the diplomatic efforts of liberation movements who sought to influence policy makers and public opinion in Western Europe.⁴ Recent historiography has also attempted to include Eastern Europe and the international networks linked to its foreign policy in the history of solidarity movements.⁵ This chapter will show the connections between activist mobility, transnational solidarity and national mobilization structures. It will focus on the role and the ways in which Southern actors managed to feed a Third World agenda to European activists and their governments.⁶ At the same time, it will shed light on the multiplication of meeting spots for actors from the North, East and South and on the impact these encounters had on the development of the solidarity movement. Belgian historiography has only recently begun to study the role of Belgium in the transnational networks that opposed Portuguese colonialism and apartheid.⁷ This role has so far been studied almost exclusively from the perspective of the Flemish movements, leading to a reading that inserts solidarity with national liberation movements into a history of student activism in the 1970s and the subsequent development of the “New Social Movements” (NSM).⁸ This con-

 Scott M. Thomas, The Diplomacy of Liberation: The Foreign Relations of the African National Congress since 1960 (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996); Matthew Connelly, A Diplomatic Revolution: Algeria’s Fight for Independence and the Origins of the Post-Cold War Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002); Hilary Sapire, “Liberation Movements, Exile, and International Solidarity: An Introduction,” Journal of Southern African Studies 35/2 (2009): 271– 286; Roger Faligot, Tricontinentale: quand Che Guevara, Ben Barka, Cabral, Castro et Hô Chi Minh préparaient la révolution mondiale (1964 – 1968) (Paris: La Découverte, 2013); Kim Christiaens, “Orchestrating Solidarity: Third World Agency, Transnational Networks & the Belgian Mobilization for Vietnam and Latin America, 1960s – 1980s” (PhD diss., KU Leuven, 2013); Southern Africa beyond the West: The Transnational Connections of Southern African Liberation Movements, special issue of Journal of Southern Africa Studies 43/1 (2017).  Kim Christiaens, “From the East to the South, and Back? International Solidarity Movements in Belgium and New Histories of the Cold War, 1950s–1970s,” Dutch Crossing 39/3 (2015): 187– 203; Tobias Rupprecht, Soviet Internationalism after Stalin: Interaction and Exchange between the USSR and Latin America during the Cold War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015); Vladimir Gennadevich Shubin, The Hot “Cold War”: The USSR in Southern Africa (Scottsville: University of KwaZulu-Natal Press, 2008).  Christiaens, “Orchestrating Solidarity.”  Charel Roemer, “« Solidaires ! ». Aperçu historiographique du combat anti-apartheid en Belgique,” Contemporanea 3 (2019).  Wouter Goedertier, “Erst radikal, dann liberal? Die belgische Anti-Apartheid-Bewegung in den 1980er Jahren,” in ‘All we ever wanted…’: eine Kulturgeschichte europäischer Protestbewegungen der 1980er Jahre, ed. Hanno Balz and Jan-Henrik Friedrichs (Berlin: Dietz, 2012), 214– 230; Id., “The Ambiguity of Solidarity: Belgium and the Global Struggle against Apartheid” (PhD diss., KU Leuven, 2015).

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tribution highlights the first mobilizations in Brussels and Wallonia. By focusing on these mobilizations – the first structured solidarity efforts in Belgium – it will nuance the idea that the solidarity movements in Western Europe in the 1970s exclusively followed the patterns of the NSM theory.⁹ For Håkan Thörn, the global struggle against apartheid can be seen as the result of a twofold process involving both the emergence of the NSM and the increased internationalization of traditional (religious or trade union) movements.¹⁰ To a certain degree, this also applies to the Belgian case. The emergence of Belgian support for the liberation struggle in the Portuguese colonies and Southern Africa was embedded in the “old” networks of social mobilization. A second aim of this article will thus be to highlight the relation between old and new forces of social activism in Belgium, and the role of activists that were circulating in between. The Belgian anti-apartheid movement was a latecomer. In Great Britain, the Nordic countries or the Netherlands, solidarity groups appeared in the early 1960s, but Belgium had to wait almost a decade to see the first forms of organized solidarity emerge. What obstacles did activists have to overcome to put the liberation struggles in the Portuguese colonies and South Africa on the political agenda of the Belgian solidarity networks? How did activists influence public opinion? This contribution will argue that, more than the “construction of an imagined community” with a “shared collective identity”¹¹, it was the liberation movements’ capacity to customize the language of solidarity to different audiences that was key for the emergence of solidarity groups in Belgium. “Bridging activists” played a central role in carrying these messages within the different organizations. The various Belgian activists involved have left multiple traces of their activities. Central in this extensive corpus of sources are the archives of the Comité Contre le Colonialisme et l’Apartheid (CCCA), the first Belgian solidarity committee in support of the Southern African liberation struggle. These archives are presently in the process of being disclosed.

 Florence Passy, L’action altruiste: contraintes et opportunités de l’engagement dans les mouvements sociaux (Geneva: Droz, 1998).  Håkan Thörn, “The Meaning(s) of Solidarity: Narratives of Anti-Apartheid Activism,” Journal of Southern African Studies 35/2 (2009): 419.  Id., Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society (Basingstoke - New York: Palgrave Macmillan; 2006), 69.

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Belgian activists going South and East: early activist mobility and the development of organized solidarity During the 1960s, the national liberation struggle in Southern African countries was practically absent from the Belgian media. When these territories were mentioned, they were most often referred to in the context of UN resolutions that concerned them, rarely for the liberation struggle itself. The Sharpeville massacre of 1960 – when 69 demonstrators were killed during protests against the introduction of new limitations to the freedom of movement – was briefly covered by the media in Belgium, but did not generate a lasting mobilization. The South African government spared no effort to justify and trivialize its apartheid policies. The South African Embassy in Brussels was one of the main agents defending the status quo by promoting a cultural agreement between South Africa and Belgium, signed in 1954. From 1967 on, organizations supporting the apartheid regime emerged in the Flemish part of the country.¹² Together with anti-communist and radical Flemish nationalist organizations, they constituted an important pillar of the propaganda efforts against Southern liberation movements, and enjoyed the financial support of Belgian and South African industrial and financial circles.¹³ At that time, Belgian political parties, trade unions and churches, although publicly condemning apartheid policies and Portuguese colonialism, did not openly support the liberation struggle. While trade unions regularly joined the statements of their global union confederations, the latter had little impact on the ground and, in the trade union press, Southern Africa, if present at all, was under-represented in comparison to Vietnam. Similarly, the Belgian Catholic Church officially opposed apartheid and colonialist policies, but its missionary and development organizations mostly focused on other regions and avoided cooperation with liberation movements. Dissenting voices were rare. One of the few exceptions was Paulette Pierson-Mathy, who would become one of the central ac-

 Isabelle Delvaux, Ces Belges qui ont soutenu l’apartheid. Organisations, réseaux et discours (Brussels: P.I.E.-Peter Lang S.A., 2014); Otto Terblanche, “Flanders and South Africa: Diplomatic, Political and Cultural relations, 1945 – 1990,” Historia 54/2 (2009): 77– 97. See also Wouter Goedertier’s chapter in this volume.  Hennie Van Vuuren, Apartheid Guns and Money: A Tale of Profit (Johannesburg: Jacana Media; 2017).

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tors of the anti-colonial and anti-apartheid struggle in French-speaking Belgium in the 1970s and 1980s. Born in 1932, Pierson-Mathy was a globetrotter, academic, and militant, and each of these three personae were indissolubly and increasingly linked. Even before attending university, she became a Fellow of the American Field Service in Connecticut (1948 – 1949) where she remembers having been confronted for the first time with issues of racial inequality.¹⁴ She was awarded a PhD in Law at the Université Libre de Bruxelles (ULB) in 1956 and received a grant from the French government to continue her research in Paris for two years. Back in Brussels, she was hired by the Egmont Institute, a think tank on international relations with close links to the Belgian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where she specialized in international law issues related to Africa. In 1964, while appointed as a teaching assistant at the University of Liège, she published a book on international reactions to South Africa’s racial policies.¹⁵ Her publication, which was a vigorous indictment of apartheid, caught the attention of important figures of the Belgian peace movement. Catholic and communist organizations began to invite her to give lectures and she rapidly developed a reputation for her frankness that “risks scandalizing those who believe that everything must be sacrificed to preserve Africa’s last white bastion”.¹⁶ Her book, one of the very few texts in French on the topic, established her reputation in the Belgian activist sphere and beyond. Indeed, with her book under her arm, she went on holiday with her family to Algiers for two successive summers, in 1967 and 1968, to meet with representatives of the Southern African liberation movements.¹⁷ At that time, PiersonMathy still saw herself more as a researcher than an activist. The transition from one to the other was boosted by an encounter with one of the most emblematic female politicians of the post-war period, Isabelle Blume. In the early 1950s, Isabelle Blume (born Grégoire, 1892– 1975), already a Belgian antifascist and feminist celebrity, had been excluded from the Belgian Socialist Party because of her pro-Soviet positions. The former parliamentarian (and second woman ever elected to the Belgian parliament) joined the Belgian

 Interview with Paulette Pierson-Mathy, 30 November 2016.  Paulette Pierson-Mathy, La politique raciale de la République d’Afrique du Sud (Brussels: Institut royal des relations internationales, 1964).  E. Ugeux, “La politique raciale de l’Afrique du Sud. Par Mme P. Pierson-Mathy,” Le Soir, 6 January 1965.  Interview with Paulette Pierson-Mathy, 30 November 2016. On the central role of Algiers for the networking of southern liberation movements, see Jeffrey James Byrne, Mecca of Revolution: Algeria, Decolonization, and the Third World Order (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016).

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Communist Party in 1964. A year later, she became president of the World Peace Council (WPC), an international peace organization with close ties to Moscow.¹⁸ For the Belgian anti-apartheid and anti-colonial struggle, the role played by the WPC reveals the intertwining of North-South and West-East relations. Indeed, Eastern Europe and the international networks that served as vehicles for the foreign policy of the communist bloc countries became a meeting place where actors from the North, East and South debated issues of decolonization, world peace and solidarity.¹⁹ Through Isabelle Blume, the international peace organization played a crucial role in forging links between local activists in Belgium and actors from the Southern African liberation movements. With the latter, the WPC co-organized a series of international conferences which, by offering a space where different organizations could meet and discuss, promoted three kinds of encounters: between actors from the North and the South, between actors from different European countries, and between those from the same Western European country. One of these events, the Conference in Support of the Peoples of the Portuguese Colonies and Southern Africa, held in Khartoum from 18 to 20 January 1969, acted as an accelerator for the international – and in particular the Belgian – solidarity movement.²⁰ It triggered the formation, a few weeks later, of the first Belgian solidarity committee focused on Southern Africa. Co-organized by the liberation movements, the WPC and the Afro-Asian Peoples’ Solidarity Organization (AAPSO), the Khartoum conference brought together more than 200 delegates from over 50 countries. Isabelle Blume was the driving force behind the coordination of the Belgian participation in the conference. Blume responded to the call of liberation movements to form national conference support committees in European countries, actively promoted the conference in Belgium, and mobilized a panel of progressive actors from different political backgrounds to join her in Khartoum. Unity was the central slogan of the Khartoum conference, as it aimed at strengthening the links between the South African ANC²¹ and the liberation movements of the Portuguese colonies. By granting exclusive recognition to the invited liberation movements as sole official and legitimate authorities of their respective countries, it gave birth to the so-called “Khartoum Alliance” constituted by the MPLA (Angola), PAIGC

 José Gotovitch, “Grégoire Isabelle (1892– 1975), épouse Blume,” in Dictionnaire des femmes belges XIXe et XXe siècles, ed. Éliane Gubin et al. (Brussels: Racine, 2006), 289 – 292.  Christiaens, “From the East to the South, and Back?”  For the international impact of the conference, see Tor Sellström, Sweden and National Liberation in Southern Africa (Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 2003), 30 – 31.  To lighten the text, I have chosen to use the acronyms directly when designating these liberation movements. For their full names, see the list of abbreviations.

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(Guinea-Bissau), FRELIMO (Mozambique), ANC (South Africa), SWAPO (Namibia) and ZAPU (Zimbabwe). Yet, while insisting on “the unity of all forces in all countries”, the conference also led to a long-lasting division of both the liberation struggle and the solidarity movement. The Khartoum conference decided not only who was part of the alliance, but also who was not. By the 1960s, Southern Africa had become a breeding ground for Sino-Soviet tensions, especially after China’s withdrawal from AAPSO in 1968.²² As a consequence, the liberation movements from the region which were branded as pro-Chinese were not invited to the conference and were excluded from any Soviet-backed support, as well as from large parts of the Western European solidarity networks.²³ In respect to Belgium, the channels of solidarity established in the wake of the Khartoum conference were almost exclusively directed towards the liberation movements of the Khartoum Alliance, causing conflicts with Belgian New Left (mainly Maoist) forces.²⁴

Fig. 19: Section of the Presidium of the 1969 Khartoum conference. From the left to the right: Mohamed Sahnoun (Assistant General Secretary of the Organisation of African Unity), Youssef El Sebai (AAPSO), Ali Adbel Rahman (acting PM and Foreign Minister of Sudan), Romesh Chandra (secretary of the WPC), Isabelle Blume (co-president of the WPC) and Robert Resha (ANC). Secheba 3/33 (March 1969).

 Jeremy Friedman, Shadow Cold War: The Sino-Soviet Competition for the Third World (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015).  Kwandiwe Merriman Kondlo, “‘In the twilight of the Azanian revolution.’ Leadership diversity and its impact on the PAC during the exile period (1962– 1990),” Journal for Contemporary History 30/1 (2005): 25 – 43; Gerald Chikozho Mazarire, “ZANU’s external networks 1963 – 1979: an appraisal,” Journal of Southern African Studies 43/1 (2017): 83 – 106.  Wouter Goedertier, “The quest for transnational authority, the anti-apartheid movements of the European Community,” Revue Belge de Philologie et de Histoire 89/3 – 4 (2011): 1249 – 1276.

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The Khartoum conference is thus key to understanding the embedding of early solidarity with the liberation struggle in Southern Africa in the circles of the Old Left in Belgium. In order to lift the solidarity movement to “a new stage, a higher stage”, the conference recommended the creation of national committees in Western Europe to implement the Khartoum resolutions.²⁵ The actors mobilized by Blume for the conference had already collaborated in previous national or international mobilizations. In the 1960s, anti-atomic marches and solidarity with Vietnam gave rise to coordinated action between peace movements, student organizations, trade unions, religious movements and left-wing political forces in Belgium.²⁶ Blume, addressing these movements, appealed to their “moral duty” to fight colonialism and racism and reminded them of Belgium’s “concrete responsibility” through its political, economic and military ties with Portugal.²⁷ The heterogeneous composition of the delegation was intended to create a committee capable of influencing the decisions of these organizations. Besides Blume herself, it included well-connected trade unionists such as Jean Gayetot (1925 – 2009), church figures such as François Houtart (1925 – 2017), a member of the Belgian Communist party, René Noël (1907– 1987), as well as Marc Meurrens (1945–), a young communist student of the Brussels Cercle du Libre Examen (Librex). The participation of Belgian activists in the conference and the subsequent formation of a national solidarity committee resulted from the combined efforts of several actors: the southern liberation movements and their Soviet Bloc sponsors, the WPC transnational network, and the social movements in Belgium. It was Isabelle Blume who connected the dots between these different levels by provoking the encounter between the various actors of the future committee. In the Khartoum delegation, she succeeded in bringing together well-established figures in the solidarity field.²⁸ All Blume needed then was a person who could carry the movement beyond the Khartoum momentum. On the way back home, the Belgian delegation stopped in Cairo to participate in the Second International Conference in Support of the Arab Peoples. They were joined there by a few new Belgian delegates, among whom was Paulette Pierson-Mathy. The young emerging Belgian specialist for Southern Africa was a member of the Belgian sec-

 Brussels, Centre des Archives du Communisme en Belgique (CArCoB), Archives Paulette Pierson-Mathy (PPM): Report by Romesh Chandra, Khartoum conference, 18 – 20 January 1969.  Benoît Rihoux and Michel Molitor, “Les nouveaux mouvements sociaux en Belgique francophone: l’unité dans la diversité?,” Recherches sociologiques (1997) 1: 64.  CArCoB, Archives PPM, P3: Manifeste. Comité belge pour la préparation à la conférence de Khartoum.  CArCoB, Archives Isabelle Blume: Correspondance.

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tion of the International Association of Democratic Lawyers (IADL) – a Soviet funded progressive jurist organization. Being also married to Paul-Louis Pierson, a lawyer from a well-known Belgian socialist family, she had the perfect profile to build up a movement that could navigate between the two traditional pillars of the Belgian left. When both women met for the first time at the Cairo conference, Blume identified Pierson-Mathy as the ideal person to transform the Khartoum alliance’s call for the creation of national committees into a reality on the Belgian soil. Shortly after the delegation’s return to Belgium, Blume convened a meeting in her apartment in Brussels to found what was to become the Committee against Colonialism and Apartheid (CCCA). Among the people invited, two individuals in particular were to assume a leading role in the committee, namely Pierson-Mathy and Jean Godin (1922– 2006). Godin, a resistance fighter during World War II, had earned his spurs in different anti-colonial campaigns since the early 1950s. As secretary of the Belgian committees on Vietnam and Algeria, he had extensive militant experience and connections. By associating Godin and Pierson-Mathy, Blume combined proven experience both in solidarity and legal matters. However, the committee first needed to establish its own connections with the main actors of the liberation struggle. Blume, who was not involved in the daily work of the committee, played a crucial role as a mediator, particularly by opening her channels to the Eastern European countries. Pierson-Mathy later said that Blume “introduced [her] to the communist world”, by organizing trips to East Berlin or Moscow where they met with the leaders of the liberation movements.²⁹ The Berlin conference organized in June 1969 by the WPC was particularly important in this respect, as it allowed the CCCA to position itself as Belgian mouthpiece for the liberation movements.³⁰

Putting solidarity on the political agenda The central objective of the newly founded committee was to influence Belgian foreign policy, forcing Brussels to support the liberation struggle in Southern Africa. To do so, the committee had to act as an intermediary between the liberation movements in Southern Africa and the Belgian authorities and non-state actors. The CCCA’s demands towards the Belgian government were based on two  Interview with Paulette Pierson-Mathy, 20 October 2016 (by Charel Roemer).  CArCoB, Archives PPM: Rapport de la IVème Commission sur le colonialisme, le néocolonialisme et l’indépendance nationale, Rassemblement universel pour la Paix, Berlin, 21– 24 juin 1969.

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main axes: on the one hand, an internationally framed human rights discourse, and on the other hand, constant references to international law. Up to that point, the moral condemnation of apartheid or Portuguese colonialism by the Belgian government had rarely been followed up with concrete political action. This waitand-see attitude contrasted with the growing opposition within the United Nations. Several UN General Assembly resolutions proclaimed the legitimacy of the national liberation struggle and consequently the illegality of the Portuguese colonial project, as well as the recognition of the liberation movements of the Portuguese colonies as authentic representatives of the peoples of these territories. These resolutions were of critical importance for the CCCA’s information work and provided the committee with strong arguments for lobbying Belgian official authorities. In 1973, the United Nations General Assembly adopted the “International Convention on the Suppression and Punishment of the Crime of Apartheid” (which came into effect in 1976) and declared apartheid a “crime against humanity”. While Belgian officials abstained from voting – in line with most of the decisions they had taken in the 1960s and 1970s – solidarity movements often referred to this resolution, which gave international legitimacy to their national action. Moreover, following the recommendations of the ANC, in the south and then gradually in the north of Belgium, activists seized this universal human rights discourse in order to put pressure on their government.³¹ The Brussels committee was conceived as a centre for study and action that functioned as an informal structure based on the collaboration of a small number of activists. By recruiting its members from academia, trade unions, clergy and parliament, the CCCA covered a large part of the Belgian political landscape and was able to reach many sympathizers.³² As in other countries, the first coordinated actions on behalf of the Southern African liberation struggle thus emanated mostly from “old” organizations which provided the movement with a form of historical legitimacy and contributed towards building an image of respectability which was a fundamental characteristic of most early European anti-apartheid movements.³³ To promote the cause of the liberation movements within parties, trade unions and religious organizations, the CCCA could rely on its members and sympathizers who made their networks available to the commit-

 Wouter Goedertier’s research has pointed out that in Flanders, Aktiekomitee Zuidelijk Afrika’s (AKZA) discourse, initially impregnated by a Marxist perspective, is gradually deradicalizing in order to adapt itself to the strategic framework defined by the ANC. Goedertier, “Erst radikal, dann liberal?”  In 1977, Jean Godin estimated the number at approximately 1,000. CArCoB, CCCA (Jean Godin), 1976 – 1977: Letter from J. Godin to Georges Debunne, Waterloo, 6 January 1977.  Thörn, Anti-Apartheid, 49 and 86.

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tee. As Belgium was still very much characterized by a vertical division of its political and social life, also known as pillarization, the role of these so-called “bridging activists” was of crucial importance. Trade union solidarity in the 1960s and early 1970s was formatted by the international dichotomy of the Cold War and the opposition between the International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU), the World Confederation of Labour (WCL), and the communist-dominated World Trade Union Confederation (WFTU). Interestingly, the support of international causes could also lead to collaboration between these bodies as shows the organization of the 1973 trade union conference against apartheid in Geneva, reuniting the ICFTU, the WCL and WFTU for the first time since 1948. Still, involving trade unions in peace and solidarity movements was not an easy task, as, in the case of Southern Africa, the demands of economic isolation often collided with the interests of domestic workers. Belgium, for instance, was heading the list of foreign invested capital in the Portuguese overseas territories, directing most of its investments towards the Angolan oil and diamond industry.³⁴ The call for boycott and sanctions thus had a direct impact on Belgian workers as well. In some European countries, this led to open conflicts between solidarity movements and trade unions.³⁵ In Belgium, relations were less conflictual, and collaboration had been initiated with both the social democratic FGTB/ABVV and the Christian CSC/ ACV. The prolific relationship between the Brussel’s solidarity committee and the FGTB/ABVV is mainly linked to Pierson-Mathy’s good connections inside the Belgian Socialist Party. Parliamentarians such as Ernest Glinne were active supporters of the committee and sometimes acted as its spokesmen in the Belgian parliament. He and others not only asserted their influence through various parliamentary questions, but on several occasions also opened the doors of important trade union decision-makers to the committee.³⁶ Within the FGTB itself, the committee could count on the support of influential trade unionists such as

 The Belgian Petrofina Company held important parts of Petrangol and the Societé Générale de Belgique was the main shareholder of Diamong, an Angolan diamond company which directly negotiated the mining rights for Angola with the Portuguese government. Echo de la Bourse, 4 August 1970; “La Belgique, alliée n°1 du colonialisme portugais,” Combat, July-August 1970; “Les intérêts belges en Angola,” APL-Belgique 298 (April 1976).  Charel Roemer, “Das Boykott-Dilemma: Anti-Apartheid-Bewegung und westdeutsche Gewerkschaften in den 1970er- und 1980er-Jahren. Arbeit – Bewegung – Geschichte,” Zeitschrift für historische Studien 3 (2018): 74– 90.  In December 1970, the later president of the BSP Guy Spitaels asked Willy Schugens, the secretary-general of the Liège FGTB section and member of its national secretariat, to “reserve a warm welcome to Pierson-Mathy”. CArCoB, Archives PPM, Namibia correspondence (1970 – 1972): Letter from G. Spitaels to W. Schugens, 16 December 1970.

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the previously mentioned Jean Gayetot, or René Klutz (1909 – 2002). Gayetot, who had been part of the Khartoum delegation in 1969, was responsible for international relations at the FGTB/ABVV’s regional office in Liège and became the union’s national secretary in 1972. On his return from Khartoum, he presented a series of reports to his trade union colleagues in Liège and invited them to put pressure on their national delegates.³⁷ Significant regional disparities existed within the trade union. Solidarity hotbeds developed in some cities, particularly in Liège where the Rassemblement liégeois pour la Paix (RLP), a pluralist trade union front (FGTB/ABVV-CSC/ACV) had brought together some 50 associations.³⁸ Founded in 1965, the RLP initially focused on Vietnam but in 1969 began to concentrate on other international issues and created a section dedicated to anticolonial struggles. René Klutz was particularly active within the RLP and championed the cause of the CCCA. This communist teacher from Liège was also national secretary of the education section of the FGTB/ABVV and general secretary of the Belgian Union for the Defence of Peace (UBDP/BUVV), the national branch of the WPC, which had established itself as one of the central Belgian peace movements and had started collaborating with Christian or socialist organizations on various campaigns.³⁹ At the same time, Pierson-Mathy’s committee also worked to intensify the relations with the Christian trade union. Her personal (national) networks were far more limited within the Catholic Party and its organizations than in respect to their socialist counterparts. As a consequence, the Brussels committee decided, with the help of Christian activists and southern actors, to establish contacts with the WCL, in order to put pressure on its national affiliate, the CSC/ACV.⁴⁰ Doing so, they succeeded in initiating collaborations with the Christian trade union, although their relation would remain somewhat ambiguous. This was mainly linked to the fact that the CSC/ACV remained reluctant towards sanctions or boycott actions and its president, Jef Houthuys, was one of the main European defenders of the idea of “constructive engagement”

 “FGTB de Liège et les mouvements de libération des peuples d’Afrique,” Combat, 6 April 1969.  Ludo Bettens, “Le combat pour la paix, un combat syndical ? Les relations contrastées entre le mouvement pacifiste et le syndicat socialiste,” Analyse de l’IHOES 174 (2017): 1– 12.  Communist organizations also played a role in the national establishment of the movement. The Belgian Communist Party and the various political associations closely or indirectly linked to it, despite their limited number, had a very local presence in Belgian society. See: José Gotovitch, Du communisme et des communistes en Belgique: approches critiques (Brussels: Éditions Aden, 2012).  CArCoB, Archives PPM, Namibia correspondence (1970 – 1972): Letter from P. Katjavivi to C. Custor, 21 April 1971; Ibid.: Letter from P. Katjavivi to F. Houtart, 21 April 1971.

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in South Africa.⁴¹ Increasing pressure from within the Catholic pillar thus became a central goal for the Belgian activists. At the turn of the 1970s, the Belgian Church was increasingly confronted with internal pressure, by both the progressive radicalization of its youth movements and a growing attention for Third-Worldist arguments among its development organizations.⁴² In early 1970, this pressure led to the publication, by the Belgian bishops, of a pastoral statement on development problems in which they provided a mundane response to the structural inequalities denounced by the countries of the South, asking Christians to “commit [themselves] with heart and soul to the fundamental renewal of human institutions”.⁴³ This statement was highly inspired by the motion that the first congress of the Belgian Commission for Justice and Peace had adopted on solidarity with the peoples of the Portuguese colonies, following the initiative of canon François Houtart.⁴⁴ With the latter, the CCCA added a very prolific “bridging activist” to its ranks in order to approach the organizations of the Catholic pillar. Developing very early sympathies for the theories of liberation theology, Houtart – also known as “the red canon” – had become one of the main European theorists of this movement.⁴⁵ In early 1969, he had played a major role in the Vietnam solidarity movement and Blume was very much aware of his potential to mobilize Catholic networks and activists, especially those who were “consider[ing] participating in such action for the first time”.⁴⁶ His presence at the Khartoum conference was thus crucial for connecting the future Belgian solidarity committee with Belgian

 Goedertier, “The ambiguity of solidarity.”  Lieve Gevers, “The Church in Belgium at a turning point: times of hope, protest and renewal (1945 – 1980),” Histoire@Politique 30/3 (2016): 25; Bart Latré, Strijd en inkeer: de kerk-en maatschappijkritische beweging in Vlaanderen, 1958 – 1990 (Leuven: Universitaire Pers Leuven, 2011); Paul Wynants, “De l’Action catholique spécialisée à l’utopie politique. Le changement de cap de la JOC francophone (1969 – 1974),” Cahiers d’Histoire du Temps présent (2003) 11: 101– 117.  “Pastorale verklaring van de bisschoppen over de ontwikkelingsproblemen,” Vrede. Tijdschrift voor internationale politiek en vredesproblemen 13/91 (1970) 3: 13 – 15.  B. Maes, “De internationale conferentie voor solidariteit met de volken van Portugese koloniën (Rome, 27– 29 juni 1970),” Vrede. Tijdschrift voor internationale politiek en vredesproblemen 13/95 (1970) 7: 13 – 15. Created in 1967 on the initiative of the Belgian bishops’ conference, the Justice and Peace Commission was a response to the creation of the Pontifical Commission of the same name, after Vatican II.  Pierre Sauvage, Luis Martínez Saavedra, and Maurice Cheza, Dictionnaire historique de la théologie de la libération: les thèmes, les lieux, les acteurs; suivi de Genèse, évolution et actualité de la théologie de la libération (Brussels: Lessius, 2017).  CArCoB, Archives Isabelle Blume, Courrier divers Belgique, 1965 – 1968: Letter from I. Blume to F. Houtart, 29 January 1969.

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and international Christian organizations. In hindsight, Houtart even considered the conference a turning point for his own activist engagement.⁴⁷ His participation as a priest in an international meeting organized by Marxist militants, seen as endorsing the armed struggle of liberation movements, was met with suspicion by his hierarchy. This led him to defend his involvement in a publication written shortly after his return to Belgium. Insisting on the Christian background of most of the leaders of the liberation movements, he also energetically criticized the religious justifications of South Africa’s and Rhodesia’s systems of racial domination, and attacked the Portuguese episcopate for supporting Portugal’s colonial system.⁴⁸ Houtart’s role in the solidarity movement was of crucial importance, not only because he assured access to Belgian Christian organizations, but also because, similarly to Blume, he could rely on his own networks for establishing relations with the leaders of the liberation movements. In the 1960s, Houtart was already well connected in Latin American countries, particularly through Leuven’s central position in the training of Southern priests.⁴⁹ However, he did not have that strong a foothold on the African continent yet. His participation in previous international campaigns had led him to meet some of the actors in the liberation struggle. Indeed, many future leaders of liberation movements, such as Amilcar Cabral (Guinea-Bissau), and Marcelino dos Santos (Mozambique), used their years of study in Europe to participate in other international campaigns such as Algeria or Vietnam in order to draw attention to their own cause. It is in this context that François Houtart first met Mário Pinto de Andrade, one of the founding members of the Angolan MPLA. Once Houtart started engaging on the Southern African issue, Andrade assured him a privileged access to the leaders of the liberation movements. The correspondence between the two men is enlightening: it demonstrates Houtart’s ability to push the church networks to identify with the liberation struggle and, at the same time, to mobilize their resources. He indeed used international church meetings to visit the colonial territories and to meet the opposi-

 Carlos Tablada Pérez, The Decline of Certainties. Founding Struggles Anew: The Biography of François Houtart (Panamá: Ruth Casa Editorial, 2018), 618.  François Houtart, La Conférence internationale de Khartoum et les mouvements révolutionnaires en Afrique: Observations et réflexions (Leuven: Université catholique, 1969).  Caroline Sappia, Paul Servais, and Françoise Mirguet, Les relations de Louvain avec l’Amérique latine: entre évangélisation, théologie de la libération et mouvements étudiants (Louvain-laNeuve: Academia-Bruylant, 2006).

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tion leaders with Andrade’s help.⁵⁰ In 1970, Houtart visited Mozambique and the MPLA and FRELIMO headquarters in Tanzania where he met with Agostinho Neto (MPLA) and Marcelino Dos Santos (FRELIMO). Subsequently, an epistolary exchange developed between the canon and Neto, and Houtart notably helped the MPLA benefit from small donations from Belgian Catholic charity programs for their medical projects.⁵¹ De Andrade continued his role as intermediary between the two men. In return, he could count on Houtart’s support not only for the MPLA, but also for himself and his family. Houtart was particularly involved in the campaign for the liberation of his correspondent’s brother, Joaquim Pinto de Andrade, before and during his trial in Lisbon in 1971. The Angolan priest had been imprisoned in Angola and then forced into exile. Houtart occasionally served as a messenger between the two brothers, Joachim asking his brother Mário to provide him with instructions and information on the movement through Houtart, whom he considered “a trustworthy person and a friend of our cause”.⁵² The mobilization around this trial is a perfect illustration of how Houtart managed to use his Catholic personal networks. From Mechelen to Rome via Lisbon, Houtart knocked on all doors and approached his various contacts to pass on messages to cardinals and bishops.⁵³ At the same time, the mobilization for the liberation of Pinto Andrade reveals the interplay of multiple networks within the CCCA, both national and international. Houtart mobilized his Catholic networks, and Pierson-Mathy worked for Pinto’s release within the International Association of Democratic Lawyers. Meanwhile, the committee also addressed the Belgian government, in particular the Christian Democratic Minister of Foreign Affairs Pierre Harmel (1911– 2009), whom he urged to send an observer from the Belgian embassy to Joaquim de Andrade’s trial.⁵⁴ The liberation movements clearly understood the need to mobilize Christian milieus more strongly for their cause. At the end of the Khartoum conference, when it was decided that the next event of this type would be organized for

 Casa Comum, Arquivo Mário Pinto de Andrade: Letter from F. Houtart to Mário de Andrade, Leuven, 17 November 1970.  Ibid.: Letter from Agostinho Neto to F. Houtart, Lusaka, 25 September 1970.  Ibid.: Letter from Joachim de Andrade to Mario de Andrade, Leuven, 25 March 1969.  Brussels, Archives et Musée de la Littérature, MLPA 00249/0025/012/04: Letter from F. Houtart to Cardinal Suenens, Leuven, 23 February 1971; Casa Comum, Arquivo Mário Pinto de Andrade: Letter from F. Houtart to Cardinal Roy, Brussels, 17 September 1970; Letter from Yves Congar to F. Houtart, Soisy-sur-Seine, 27 September 1970.  Casa Comum, Arquivo Mário Pinto de Andrade: Letter from Lucio Lara to the Secretariat of IADL, Lusaka, 28 September 1970; CArCoB, Archives UBDP (1952– 1971), PP1/ 44: Mémorandum à Mr. le Ministre des Affaires Étrangères, de la part du CCCA, de l’ABJD et de l’UBDP, September 1970.

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the first time in a NATO country, Rome was a highly symbolic choice. While the Khartoum conference had symbolized the emergence of the Soviet Union as the main supporter of the liberation struggle in Southern Africa, the Rome conference clearly aimed at finding support beyond the ideological divisions of European societies.⁵⁵ By giving a larger role to Socialist and Catholic organizations in the preparation of the event, the liberation movements wanted to present a more pluralistic image of the solidarity movement. For Belgium, their calculation worked out well: 3 out of 7 members of the Belgian delegation came from Christian organizations.⁵⁶ The Rome conference helped strengthen the links between the liberation movements and European organizations. However, it was the papal audition granted a few days later to Marcelino dos Santos, Amilcar Cabral and Agostinho Neto that brought massive media attention to the liberation movement’s cause. The Vatican’s position was ambiguous. The Pope’s 1967 encyclical letter Populorum Progressio had called for peaceful decolonization, but the Vatican did not publically oppose the Portuguese clergy’s discourse that considered colonialism as “Portugal’s sacred duty”. The reception of the leaders by Paul VI further illustrates this ambiguity. It caused a diplomatic crisis between the Vatican and the Portuguese regime, which recalled its ambassador. But the ensuing statements by the Vatican had also been a source of frustration for many Church activists. In an attempt to restore diplomatic relations with Portugal, the Vatican declared that the Pope did not really know who these people were.⁵⁷ Houtart expressed his “disappointment and disgust” to the Vatican’s statement in a letter to Mário de Andrade.⁵⁸ Eventually, the audience proved a significant setback for the Portuguese regime and became a great asset for the liberation movements that courted the support of Catholic organizations.

 Natalia Telepneva, “Our Sacred Duty: the Soviet Union, the Liberation Movements in the Portuguese Colonies, and the Cold War, 1961– 1975” (PhD diss., London School of Economics and Political Science, 2014), 150; Corrado Tornimbeni, “Nationalism and Internationalism in the Liberation Struggle in Mozambique: The Role of the FRELIMO’s Solidarity Network in Italy,” South African Historical Journal 70/1 (2018): 209.  CArCoB, Archives PPM: Liste des participants, Conférence internationale d’appui aux peuples des colonies portugaises, Rome, 27– 29 June1970.  Paolo Faria, The Post-War Angola: Public Sphere, Political Regime and Democracy (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013), 114.  Casa Comum, Arquivo Mário Pinto de Andrade: Letter from F. Houtart to Mário De Andrade, Colombo, 6 August 1970.

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The liberation movements coming to Belgium Activist mobility is crucial to understanding the development of organized solidarity in Europe. The Catholic Church, as mentioned above, was a global network providing channels for the circulation of solidarity activists. European missionaries helped share the accounts of the crimes they had witnessed in the colonial territories. Many of them, like Father Huddleston in England or Markus Braun in Germany, played a central role in the foundation of national solidarity movements in their country. As for Belgium, the visit, in August 1972, of Father Da Costa, a Portuguese missionary expelled from Mozambique a few months earlier, led to the further involvement of Catholic organizations.⁵⁹ However, the development of early solidarity depended as much, if not more, on the mobility of Southern actors. The liberation movements’ travels to Belgium played a fundamental role by granting a certain form of legitimacy to both their own organizations and the CCCA. Daniel Kaiser has shown how the leaders of the liberation movements had drawn “on social and cultural ‘capital’ gained in transnational political networks” to strengthen their domestic political position.⁶⁰ As for the CCCA, these visits gave a certain visibility and credit to its actions. The committee proved it was a privileged intermediary by showing its ability to bring the liberation movements’ leaders to Belgium and to provide them with spaces for encounters with national organizations. The leaders’ visits required the mobilization of the networks of each committee member, offering the liberation movements an access to the political, trade union and religious actors in Belgium. These visits also generated a certain interest in the national media, allowing liberation movements and the CCCA to reach public opinion directly. Several future presidents, including Sam Nujoma (Namibia), Joaquim Chissano (Mozambique) and Agostinho Neto (Angola), seized this opportunity. The visit to Belgium, in January 1971, of António Alberto Neto, one of the main representatives of the MPLA in Europe, illustrates the local aspect that these visits could take on. Far from limiting himself to the country’s political centre, he visited for a series of conferences some fifteen Belgian cities in both Flanders and Wallonia.⁶¹ This directly resulted from the CCCA’s capacity to reach out to local actors and organizations. Meetings with regional trade union sections

 CArCoB, Archives PPM, Dossier Da Costa (1972).  Daniel Kaiser, “‘Makers of Bonds and Ties’: Transnational Socialisation and National Liberation in Mozambique,” Journal of Southern African Studies 43/1 (2017): 29 – 48.  “Voordrachten en kontakten van Antonio en Alberto Neto in ons land,” Vrede. Tijdschrift voor internationale politiek en vredesproblemen 2 (February 1971).

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were made possible through the intervention of Klutz and Gayetot, and some of these sections began to financially support the liberation movements.⁶² PiersonMathy and Houtart did, in turn, take advantage of their respective positions at the universities of Brussels and Louvain-la-Neuve to offer a platform for these figures to share their views. Both activists also offered their visitors access to, respectively, the country’s social democratic party and Catholic Church establishment. In 1973, Agostinho Neto was received by Cardinal Suenens, the Belgian Primate, as well as by André Cools and Jos Van Eynde, respectively president and co-president of the Socialist Party, with whom he was able to discuss the needs of his people.⁶³ Paulette Pierson-Mathy’s role was central in the organization of these visits. Beside the great amount of time she and her husband invested, she also drew on resources from both the Socialist Party and her university for the preparation of these events. At that time, Pierson-Mathy was already working as a researcher at the Centre for International Law (CDI) at the Free University of Brussels (ULB), where she later became a professor. Being also attached to the Centre for African Studies of the Institute of Sociology, she devoted her research and publications to the relationship between international law and national liberation struggles. Over the years, she actively tried to turn the ULB into an actor of the solidarity movement. In this respect, her greatest victory was undoubtedly awarding the title of Doctor Honoris Causa to Nelson Mandela in 1984.⁶⁴ From the beginning, the university served her as a platform to expose the situation in the Portuguese colonies and South Africa, and to welcome the actors of the liberation struggle from these countries. In January 1970, she organized an international seminar on the application of international humanitarian law to international armed conflicts. One central goal of this event was to underline the legality of the national liberation struggle. The conference not only featured many European specialists, but also offered an opportunity for the liberation movements to position themselves.⁶⁵ The meeting with Namibian SWAPO representatives led to the establishment of a fruitful working relationship with the Brussels committee. The organ-

 “A propos du don de 100 000 francs offerts par la FGTB Régionale Liège-Huy-Waremme aux mouvements de libération des colonies portugaises. Interview de J. Gayetot, chargé des relations internationales de la FGTB-LHW,” Afrique Australe. Bulletin d’Information du Comité de Soutien à la Lutte contre le Colonialisme et l’Apartheid 2– 3 (1971): 62– 64.  “Complices d’assassins,” Combat, 9 August 1973.  “Nelson Mandela,” in DHC ULB 175: Les Docteurs honoris causa de l’Université libre de Bruxelles 2010 – 1898 (Brussels: ULB, 2010), 90.  Peter Katjavivi, “Military ethics in the Namibian Liberation Struggle” (presented at the International Conference on Human Rights and Armed Conflicts, ULB, Brussels, January 1970).

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ization of this event and the academic endorsement through the involvement of the ULB established the CCCA as serious partner for the liberation movements in Belgium. The event that consecrated the CCCA at the national and international level is the Conference on Namibia held in Brussels on 26 – 28 May 1972. The initiative for this event was taken by SWAPO, which, confronted with a lack of international visibility, felt the need to attract public attention to the illegal occupation of Namibia by South Africa. As a political, economic, but also military hub in Europe, Brussels provided an ideal setting for this conference. SWAPO had identified Brussels as an “active centre in Western Europe [for the] South African propaganda and from where misleading information about Namibia’s international territory is widely disseminated.”⁶⁶ The Brussels conference aimed at countering South Africa’s presence in Europe. The conference was successful in drawing the attention of national and international media: 43 journalists attended the event. SWAPO, which had been engaged in the armed struggle against the South African occupier since 1966, had long awaited such an opportunity and was aware of the “need to dramatize the struggle”.⁶⁷ Sam Nujoma, president of SWAPO, noted that there was still confusion between Namibia’s struggle and the struggle against apartheid. He then suggested denouncing the Namibian problem “not so much as that of apartheid and racism, but rather as a classic example of the illegal occupation of one country by another.”⁶⁸ The members of the CCCA understood that such an argument could generate support among Belgian activists. Evoking Belgian memories of the occupation during the two world conflicts, the CCCA stated that “the Belgian people [were] able to understand the true nature of the Namibian problem.”⁶⁹ The Namibia conference was a test for the CCCA, requiring the deployment of substantial financial and logistical resources. It perfectly illustrates the different levels of collaboration that existed between national and international organizations. For over 18 months, the CCCA and SWAPO were working closely together to organize the event. The CCCA handled contacts with the Belgian

 CArCoB, Archives PPM: Namibia International Conference Newsletter (Brussels, 26 – 28 May 1972) 1, March 1972.  CArCoB, Archives Isabelle Blume, Courrier divers Belgique, 1965 – 1968: Discours de Sam Nujoma, président du SWAPO, à la Conférence internationale sur la Namibie à Bruxelles, 26 – 28 mai 1972.  CArCoB, Archives PPM: Namibia International Conference Newsletter (Brussels, 26 – 28 May 1972) 1, Mars 1972.  Ibid.: CCCA. Communiqué, 6 October 1971.

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authorities, notably ensuring access to the territory for SWAPO representatives. Paulette Pierson-Mathy was in contact with State Security to facilitate obtaining visas for Nujoma.⁷⁰ In the months preceding the conference, SWAPO increased its visits to Belgium, before establishing a permanent delegation in Brussels in August 1971.⁷¹ At the same time, its representatives toured through Europe to seek support for the conference. The latter was a twofold event, as a first preparatory conference had already brought together representatives of more than 60 national and international organizations in February 1972. At the initiative of the CCCA, in December 1971, a Belgian preparatory committee was set up and involved representatives of several major parties. The committee was chaired by the MPs Glinne (socialist) and Marcel Couteau (communist) as well as by the Christian democratic senator Jean Kevers. Another socialist, Daniel Janssens, accepted the co-presidency of the conference, while its treasury was held by the Christian trade unionist René Rousseaux. The implication of the Socialist Party was crucial, as the participation of key development organizations such as the National Centre for Development Cooperation (CNCD/NCOS) depended on the organizer’s ability to get the endorsement of at least one of the governing parties. Pierson-Mathy thus didn’t hesitate to mobilize her family connections to assure the party’s support.⁷² Once again, the CCCA was trying to establish solidarity action as close as possible to the actors of the Belgian institutional landscape, and SWAPO was highly appreciative of this.⁷³ The CCCA mobilized all the resources from its members and their organizations of origin, which provided, according to their possibilities, the technical staff (translators, interpreters, secretaries) for the conference. Meanwhile, international organizations such as AAPSO and the WPC mobilized their national affiliates, covered delegates’ travel expenses and provided technical assistance during the conference. By endorsing the conference, they also paved the road for state funding from Eastern and Southern socialist countries. Romania, Yugoslavia and Egypt were the main donors, covering more than half of the conference budget (1,200,000 Belgian francs).⁷⁴ This underlines the discrepancy with the CCCA’s own financial resour-

 Ibid.: Namibia Conference 3: Letter of Paulette Pierson-Mathy to Ms. Laloux (deputy administrator of the Belgian Sûreté), Brussels, 19 December 1971.  Namibia Preperatory Conference: Activity Report (Brussels, 14– 15 February 1972) (134).  CArCoB, Archives PPM, Namibia correspondence (1970 – 1972): Letter from M.A. Pierson to W. Calewaert, 12 May 1971; Ibid.: Letter from M.A. Pierson to G. Mathot, 1 June 1971.  CArCoB, Archives PPM: Exposé de M. Mishake Muyongo, vice-président de la SWAPO de Namibie, Brussels, 16 May 1972.  Ibid.: Namibia Conference 3: Réunion du comité préparatoire international, Brussels, 20 April 1972.

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ces, since the committee needed to ask its sponsors’ help for hosting the conference delegates.⁷⁵ The conference therefore combined professional organization with spontaneity and improvisation. The Namibia Conference was a milestone both for the SWAPO and the CCCA as it gave both organizations international recognition. The Namibian liberation movement and the Belgian committee provided each other with legitimacy. Through its ability to organize such an event, the CCCA not only proved its worth to the liberation movements, but also showed the Belgian organizations that it benefited from the confidence of these movements. The SWAPO, which until then had suffered from a lack of credit and visibility, wanted to prove to the West that “the Namibian people [had] acquired the maturity necessary to lead their own country.”⁷⁶ Through the broad support mobilized in Belgium, but also the prestigious Palais des Congrès where the event took place, in the historical centre of Brussels, the conference was intended to establish SWAPO’s legitimacy. It certainly paid off, as illustrated by the observer status acquired by that the UN Committee on Namibia in December 1972. The conference durably strengthened the links between the CCCA and SWAPO. The latter, satisfied with the outcome of the conference, asked the Belgian organizers to extend the existence of the preparatory committee, which then became a continuation committee of the conference.⁷⁷ This committee continued to lobby the Belgian and European authorities. A few months after the conference, a delegation from the committee was received by Sicco Mansholt, President of the Commission of the European Economic Community (EEC).⁷⁸ The pluralistic nature of this delegation, which impressed the SWAPO representatives, reflected the tangible commitment of Belgian organizations for the Namibian cause, as Pierson-Mathy had been able to observe a few months earlier during the preparation of the conference.⁷⁹ The visits of the liberation movements in Belgium allowed the emergence of a form of sociability between solidarity actors and representatives of the South, which was to become a key element for the further development of the commit-

 Ibid.: Conférence de 1972: Namibie (Bruxelles) (3): Letter of CCCA, Brussels, 16 May1972.  Namibia International Conference Newsletter, édition française, 1, March 1972, “Éditorial,” 1– 2.  Conférence de 1972: Namibie (Bruxelles): Comité de continuité Réunion Namibie le 26 juin, chez Isabelle Blume.  Communiqué de presse. Comité de continuation de la conférence internationale Namibie, Brussels, 6 November 1972.  Archives ULB, LIBREX, 03SN/CI (1968 – 1969) (1ère farde): Conférence internationale préparatoire sur la Namibie: Intervention de P. Pierson-Mathy (CCCA), 14 February 1972.

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tee. The committee’s very limited resources forced its members to be inventive, particularly in terms of accommodation. Pierson-Mathy and her family thus regularly hosted visiting personalities in their house in Brussels. Their house became a place of exchange and meeting, and personal links were created between the actors in addition to their political or strategic relations. This especially applies to Sam Nujoma (SWAPO) who stayed with the Pierson-Mathy family on several occasions in the early 1970s, or to Agostinho Neto (MPLA) who was welcomed there three consecutive years (in 1973, 1974 and 1975). It was there that he discreetly met Mario Soares, the future Prime Minister of Portugal, in May 1974. Indeed, just a few days after the Carnation Revolution and before the opposition leader returned to Lisbon, the two men met at the instigation of Pierson-Mathy and Houtart to discuss Angola’s decolonization process.⁸⁰ At that time, the CCCA had already established itself as an important European interlocutor for the liberation movements.

Fig. 20: Photo in the garden of the private house of Pierson-Mathy in Brussels, taken around the time of meeting with Soares. From the right to the left: Paulette Pierson-Mathy, Agostinho Neto, Joaquim De Andrade, and François Houtart. Fundação Dr. António Agostinho Neto.

 Interview with Paulette Pierson-Mathy, 7 May 2019. See also: Kenneth Maxwell, The Making of Portuguese Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 91.

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Broadening the movement, adapting language, diversifying the public In French-speaking Belgium, the sources seem to indicate that the first solidarity actions with Southern Africa did not result from the projection of revolutionary ideas on the Third World.⁸¹ On the contrary, the work of the CCCA was characterized by a certain political pragmatism, seeking to involve as many institutional actors as possible in the fight against apartheid. Yet, as the Brussels Committee was mainly involved in solidarity actions at the political and diplomatic level, the liberation movement’s requests for material assistance had also emphasized the need to further involve actors and organizations from the Belgian civil society in the Belgian solidarity work. The implication of younger generations of solidarity activists then led to the development of new forms of solidarity, and more importantly, to a broader definition of political spaces. Early solidarity action targeted primarily trade unions and church networks, but contacts with pacifist and student organizations also existed at that time. Wouter Goedertier’s research has pointed out that Flemish solidarity with the liberation struggle in Southern Africa directly emerged from the Leuven student mobilizations.⁸² Although the central French-speaking committee clearly followed another path, from its creation, the CCCA also maintained close relations with student movements. Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, Belgian universities were politicized fora for the discussion of anti-colonialism and racism. As Quinn Slobodian demonstrated for the West-German case, Southern students played a role in this process.⁸³ Raising awareness of the situation in Southern Africa, they denounced racist thinking within Belgian universities as well as any academic endorsement these could provide for the maintenance of Portuguese colonialism or the apartheid state. In May 1969, African students protested against the “racist and irresponsible” declarations of the Rector of the Liège University, who during his visit to South Africa, defended the idea of “separate de-

 See for instance: Robert Gildea, James Mark and Niek Pas, “European Radicals and the ‘Third World’: Imagined Solidarities and Radical Networks, 1958– 1973,” Cultural & Social History 8/4 (2011): 449 – 471; Christoph Kalter, The Discovery of the Third World: The French Radical Left and the International Struggle against Colonialism, c. 1950 – 1976 (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016).  Goedertier, “The Ambiguity of Solidarity.”  Quinn Slobodian, Foreign Front: Third World Politics in Sixties West Germany (Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 2012).

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velopment”.⁸⁴ A few years later, Leuven students demonstrated against the appointment of a South African professor, a cultural attaché at the South African Embassy, for the course on Afrikaans literature at their university.⁸⁵ Although Vietnam had been the dominating international topic on Belgian campuses around May1968, Portuguese colonialism and apartheid had also began to draw the attention of the students. In October of that year, Brussels students occupied the ULB buildings to impose the performance of a theatre play denouncing the misdeeds of Portuguese colonialism, a play which had been banned by the university authorities.⁸⁶ Pierson-Mathy, who was teaching at the university, was a central channel between the CCCA and Brussels student organizations, above all the Brussels free thinkers circle (Librex).⁸⁷ Through their publications and conferences, Librex actively promoted solidarity with the liberation struggle on the campus and offered a platform for Belgian activists to reach the younger generations.⁸⁸ Since 1972, on both the French and Dutch-speaking sides, new actors emerged from the student mobilizations and entered the scene of organized solidarity. In Flanders, the Flemish Angola Committee was formed by students from Leuven. In Brussels, Ralph Coeckelberghs, a student from the ULB and president of Librex, integrated Oxfam-Belgium in 1972 and further implicated this development organization in the solidarity process. Oxfam was one of the founding members of the National Coordination for Action for Peace and Democracy (CNAPD), an umbrella organization of pacifist, development and youth organizations from Wallonia and Brussels. For several years, the CNAPD had struggled to mobilize its members around solidarity with Southern Africa. An action week was scheduled for March 1971 but never saw the light of day. The CNAPD failed to take advantage of the Namibia conference to mobilize its members on the Southern African issue.⁸⁹ It reached the conclusion that only a permanent working group could coordinate its members’ activities on Southern Africa. This led to the foundation of the Action Afrique Australe (AAA) in November 1972, animated by Ralph Coeckelberghs. It aimed to reach the widest possible audience, including policy makers, the media and ordinary citizens, with a particular focus on

 Archives ULB, 03SS/CE (1968 – 1969): Fédération des Étudiants Africains en Belgique: Invitation pour une discussion autour du syndicalisme étudiant, le 6 mai 1969.  APL-Belgique n°140, November 1973.  “Le chant fantoche du Lusitanien,” Le Point [October 1968].  The before mentioned Marc Meurrens, who was part of the Khartoum delegation, for instance, was a member of Librex.  Les Cahiers du Librex: Apartheid et luttes coloniales, December 1972.  CArCoB, Archives PPM: Rapport de l’AG du CNAPD du 19.6.1972.

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young people.⁹⁰ The structure of the CNAPD, with its many affiliates from different political families, provided the working group with a regional and local presence. In return, the group allowed the CNAPD to centralize solidarity activities and to provide its members with information material or speakers for their local activities.⁹¹ The AAA’s action repertoire was intended to cover political activities, concrete material solidarity and information work. But as AAA officials stated in April 1974 in an activity report to members of liberation movements and other solidarity committees, they were still mainly addressing people who were “partially or totally ignorant” of the situation in Southern Africa.⁹² The growing interest from peace and Third World organizations in the liberation struggle in the Portuguese colonies and in Southern Africa also led to a diversification of the solidarity action repertoire. Young members pleaded for direct action. In November 1972, the CNAPD organized a stunt to draw public attention to the situation of the Portuguese colonies. Four activists representing Portugal, South Africa, the United States, and the EEC, carried a coffin that was wrapped in banners denouncing apartheid and colonialism. The coffin was followed by 4 “blacks” chained by the neck. Each of them represented one of the white-dominated countries, Angola, Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau and South Africa.⁹³ The choice of the venue in Rue Neuve, Brussels’ main shopping street, aimed to inform shoppers about Belgian investment in the Southern African region and how their consumption contributed to perpetuating the injustice. Linking consumption to politics prefigured the fruit boycott which was to become one of the main weapons of the international anti-apartheid movement a couple of years later. The international fruit campaign empowered a wide audience by translating its opposition to apartheid policies into individual consumer choices, regardless of the foreign policy of their own governments.⁹⁴ This would turn Belgian supermarkets into disputed political spaces where both the promotion and the boycott of Outspan fruit became a political performance. While the Outspan Girls were tasked with displaying an attractive, joyful and white image of South Africa, anti-apartheid activists exposed apartheid discriminations through dis-

 From the beginning, AAA produced information material dedicated to secondary and elementary school audiences. CArCoB, PPM Archives: Letter from CNAPD, Brussels, 25 August 1972.  Ibid.: Dossier Solidarité l’Afrique Australe, [1972].  Ibid.: Report of AAA activities for the year 1973 – 1974, Easter Conference Oxford (12– 15 April 1974).  APL-Belgique 12, November 1972.  Hugh Crosfield, “Commodity Boycotts, Activist Bodywork and Race: A Study of the AntiApartheid Campaigns of Boycott Outspan Action (1970 – 1992) and the Anti-Trafficking Campaigns of Stop The Traffik (2006 – 2013)” (PhD diss., University of London, 2013).

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cussions and by staging public performances.⁹⁵ The boycott action (of which banking and oil campaigns are later examples) were essential to involve local actors in the anti-apartheid struggle in Belgium. Flanders had, in Boycott Outspan Aktie (BOA), a committee specifically dedicated to the boycott. In Brussels and the Walloon cities, the fruit actions were launched under the label of the AAA and were mainly carried out by Oxfam and the Christian Mouvement for Peace (MCP).

Fig. 21: A march sponsored by OXFAM as part of the CNAPD’s “Action Afrique Australe” campaigns, 12 May 1973. Personal photo collection of Ralph Coeckelberghs.

The CNAPD and the CCCA were complementary in their action. The CCCA focused on diplomatic and political pressure on a national and international level. The CNAPD brought the debate to the streets and marketplaces of Belgian cities. A perfect illustration of this synergy was the campaign for the recognition of Guinea-Bissau. By collecting bicycles, school supplies and medical equipment for the PAIGC, the CNAPD informed the public about the war and reconstruction efforts in the liberated territories. Pierson-Mathy visited these same territories with a delegation of socialist parliamentarians to convince them to pressure the Belgian government.⁹⁶ At the occasion of the NATO winter session in Brussels in December 1973, the CNAPD organized a meeting to protest against the con-

 Charles Mather and Carla Mackenzie, “The Body in Transnational Commodity Cultures: South Africa’s Outspan ‘Girls’ Campaign,” Social and Cultural Geography 7/3 (2006): 403 – 420.  Jean-Marie Roberti, “La Belgique doit reconnaitre l’État de Guinée-Bissau,” Combat, 18 July 1974.

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tinuing weapons supply to Portugal and South Africa. In front of both Belgian and Dutch members of parliament present at the meeting, Pierson-Mathy and Houtart denounced NATO’s and Belgium’s responsibility in the survival of Portuguese colonialism.⁹⁷ Such demonstrations increased the visibility of the CCCA’s message. In return, the CNAPD could draw on the international contacts established by the CCCA. When Agostinho Neto came to Belgium in June 1973, he visited Oxfam’s offices in Brussels where CNAPD representatives handed him a cheque for half a million Belgian francs.⁹⁸ Despite these collaborations, the CNAPD failed at an early stage to enroll the CCCA in the AAA working group, and minor conflicts occurred between the two organizations over the years. Here again, the role of the bridging activists was crucial. People like trade unionist René Klutz, for instance, attended the meetings of both committees and contributed to an overall fruitful working relationship between the organizations.⁹⁹ Material and financial aid was a central aspect of political solidarity. Yet, solidarity committees, most of the time, were themselves confronted with financial problems. They thus depended on the support of peace, development, and religious organizations from diverse political and philosophical backgrounds. Human rights formed the grounds for a neutral discourse that reached out to all organizations beyond the traditional divisions of Belgian society. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, it allowed Belgian activists to build bridges between movements belonging to the different pillars organizing social and political life in Belgium. The Belgian activists, because of their heterogeneous backgrounds, were also capable of adapting their discourse to the circumstances and could draw on a wide range of religious, economic and legal arguments. This capacity to target different audiences was one of the main strengths of the liberation movements. In addition to human rights, they also identified another theme able to transcend ideological barriers in Europe. A central element of their rhetoric was to present anti-colonialism and anti-apartheid as a continuation of the historical resistance of the Second World War. On the 20th anniversary of the 1968 Human Rights Declaration, Oliver Tambo, the exiled President of the South African ANC, had already stated that “the Nazi ideology, which it was the primary purpose of the declaration to combat, finds its resurrection in the policy of apartheid.”¹⁰⁰ The leaders of the liberation movements tried to link their struggle

 APL-Belgique 143, November 1973.  CArCoB, Action Afrique Australe (AAA), 1971– 1974: Bulletin de la Commission Afrique Australe 5, August-September 1973.  Interview with Ralph Coeckelberghs (by Charel Roemer), Brussels, 26 March 2019.  Statement on Human Rights Year by Oliver Tambo, 1 June 1968.

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against colonialism and racism with anti-fascist traditions in Europe and, in doing so, aimed to legitimize the very idea of armed struggle as the main instrument to oppose “fascist oppression”.¹⁰¹ Paradoxically, these efforts went hand in hand with a “humanitarian turn” in the communication policy of Southern liberation movements as well as Communist peace organizations. By depicting armed resistance as a necessary evil for the victims of colonialism and fascism, they opened the path for cooperation with Christian organizations, trade unions and NGO’s.¹⁰² To a certain extent, Christian organizations seem to have taken over this discourse in Belgium. In March 1974, Entraide et Fraternité offered their members the option to support the liberation movements in their Share Lent campaign.¹⁰³ They justified their decision of using money from church collections to offer a political and humanitarian support of the liberation movements by declaring that such action was “in line with the commitment offered to the Christians of Belgium, as was the support for anti-fascist resistance movements in our country at the time.”¹⁰⁴ Activists from Flanders and Brussels also worked together. In this respect, it is interesting to highlight the fact that once again, international conferences became meeting places for national actors. The Oxford Conference in April 1974 was such an event where Flemish and Brussels activists met for several days, exchanged their experiences and tried to better coordinate future campaigns.¹⁰⁵ However, in spite of occasional cooperation, Belgian militants were not able to overcome the linguistic divide of the country. After the independence of Angola and Mozambique in 1975, both the Flemish and the Brussels committees focused their work on South Africa and apartheid. In the North, a first attempt to unite existing Flemish anti-apartheid forces was organized during the winter of 1976 – 1977 but the existence of this Flemish Anti-Apartheid Front (VAAF) was shortlived. Organizations close to the Belgian Maoist party AMADA¹⁰⁶ – namely the Anti-Imperialist Federation (AIB) – challenged the ANC’s claim for leadership

 CArCoB, Archives PPM, P3: Draft. Resolution of the second subcommittee of the Political Committee (Khartoum) [1969].  Kim Christiaens, “Europe at the Crossroads of Three Worlds: Alternative Histories and Connections of European Solidarity with the Third World, 1950s–80s,” European Review of History 24/6 (2017): 938.  Carême de Partage, an official collect of the Belgian Catholic Church.  Communiqué from Entraide et Fraternité, in APL-Belgique 179, March 1974.  Ibid.: Rapport de la réunion de la Commission A.A., 24 May 1974.  Alle Macht aan de Arbeiders (AMADA).

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in South Africa, which led to conflicts with the other members of the organization. After accusing the Maoists of undermining its efforts by “spreading lies” and by immobilizing the meetings with “endless and senseless discussions about social-imperialism” (i. e. the role of the Soviet Union), the committee massively voted for the exclusion of the AIB.¹⁰⁷ But these conflicts, as well as the difficulty to reach out to Christian associations prevented the VAAF to establish itself as a lasting umbrella organization in the Flemish political landscape.¹⁰⁸ It is only in the mid-1980s that the Flemish Anti-Apartheid Coordination (VAAK) was founded on the model of the Flemish peace movement coalition. But at no point did a national coordination see the light of day. Although there were some cases of cooperation, establishing relations between both regions remained particularly difficult. At the very moment the Flemish movements tried to build their first umbrella organization, the CNAPD invited them to co-organize a national demonstration in Brussels in March 1977. The VAAF refused the invitation, having scheduled an action week in Antwerp one month earlier. They justified their refusal by arguing that it was important for them to ground their action in a Flemish (as opposed to a national) context since they strove to bring about a mentality change in Flanders. The choice to focus on Antwerp was essential to them since the city was considered as “the heart of the apartheid lobby”.¹⁰⁹ In addition to mentality differences between the two parts of the country, another obstacle that prevented national coordination was structural: public co-financing of development aid activities became more and more regionalized in the 1970s.¹¹⁰

Concluding remarks On the French speaking side, the Brussels CCCA and the pacifist CNAPD had de facto established themselves as the main coordinating bodies for the solidarity actions on behalf of Southern Africa. Through the national and international connections of its main members, the CCCA was able to connect Belgian actors

 Ghent, Amsab-ISG, Vrede, 184/00189: Verslag eerste frontvergadering van het Vlaams Front tegen Apartheid, 8 December 1976; Ibid., 184/00187: Verslag 3de vergadering Vlaams Antiapartheidsfront, 13 January 1977.  Ibid., 184/00187: Verslag VAAF-vergadering, 15 March 1976.  Brussels, Archives Oxfam: Procès-verbal de l’Assemblée générale du CNAPD tenue à Bruxelles, le 6 janvier 1977.  Stefaan Walgrave, “De Vlaamse Derde Wereldbeweging. De ruggegraat van de hele bewegingsector,” in Van Mei ’68 tot Hand in Hand. Nieuwe sociale bewegingen in België. 1965 – 1995, ed. Staf Hellemans and Marc Hooghe (Leuven: Garant, 1995), 32– 34.

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and organizations with the liberation movements in the South. The CNAPD, on the other hand, has provided a more local “grassroots” base to the movement. In many other countries, and even in Flanders, these two dimensions were a source of conflict within solidarity movements.¹¹¹ The international agenda (and mobility) of the leading activists often collided with the groundwork approach of local actors. In Brussels and Wallonia, the complementary approaches of the CNAPD and the CCCA would avoid such problems. Such conflicts underline the need to approach international solidarity from different viewpoints. In a sense, we should think of it in terms of history from above versus history from below. Yet it would be dangerous to categorize too strictly the fields of solidarity in such terms. Activist mobility, for instance, was not limited to one type of activist. Activists like Paulette Pierson-Mathy certainly saw it as a central aspect of their solidarity work: it comes as no surprise that she would attend the independence festivities both in Mozambique and in Angola in 1975. But what about the many development workers who traveled to these countries only a few months later? In the same vein, the impact of the visits of liberation movements leaders to Europe should not overshadow the role of these many migrant students whose names have often been forgotten today, but whose presence affected public debates in Europe, be it on apartheid in South Africa, or on racism in Europe itself. In many respects, international mobility was the driving force behind the links and alliances that were forged during the early years of solidarity with the liberation movements in Southern Africa. However, these links and the victorious outcome of these struggles should not give the illusion of solidarity resembling a long peaceful river. On the contrary, many conflicts undermined the road to solidarity. The involvement of various actors necessarily led to personal or ideological conflicts and divergent agendas. But the history of the international struggle against Portuguese colonialism and apartheid also attests to the capacity of a social movement to transcend generational, ideological and linguistic boundaries.

Abbreviations AAA: AMADA: AAPSO: AIB:

Action Afrique Australe Alle Macht aan de Arbeiders (All Power to the Workers) Afro-Asian Peoples’ Solidarity Organization Anti-Imperialistische Bond (Anti-Imperialist Federation)

 Goedertier, “Erst radikal, dann liberal?”, 220.

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AKZA: ANC: BOA: CArCoB: CCCA:

Aktiekomitee Zuidelijk Afrika (Action Committee Southern Africa) African National Congress Boycott Outspan Aktie Centre des Archives du Communisme en Belgique (Brussels) Comité Contre le Colonialisme et l’Apartheid (Committee against Colonialism and Apartheid) CNAPD: Coordination Nationale d’Action pour la Paix et la Démocratie (National Coordination for Action for Peace and Democracy) CNCD/NCOS: Centre National de Coopération au Développement (National Centre for Development Cooperation) CSC/ACV: Confédération des syndicats chrétiens/Algemeen Christelijk Vakverbond (Federation of Christian Trade Unions) FGTB/ABVV: Fédération générale du travail de Belgique/Algemeen Belgisch Vakverbond (General Federation of Belgian Labor). FRELIMO: Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (Liberation Front of Mozambique) IADL: International Association of Democratic Lawyers ICFTU: International Confederation of Free Trade Unions MCP: Mouvement Chrétien pour la Paix (Christians Mouvement for Peace) MPLA: Movimento Popular de Libertação de Angola (People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola) NSM: New Social Movements PAIGC: Partido Africano da Independência de Guiné e Cabo Verde (African Party for the Indepence of Guinea and Cape Verde) PPM: Paulette Pierson-Mathy RLP: Rassemblement liégeois pour la Paix (Liège Rally for Peace) SWAPO: South West Africa People’s Organisation UBDP/BUVV: Union belge pour la Défense de la Paix/Belgische Unie voor de Verdediging van de Vrede (Belgian Union for the Defence of Peace) ULB: Université libre de Bruxelles (Free University of Brussels) VAAF: Vlaams Anti-Apartheid Front (Flemish Anti-Apartheid Front) VAAK: Vlaams Anti-Apartheid Koordinatie (Flemish Anti-Apartheid Coordination) WFTU: World Trade Union Confederation WPC: World Peace Council ZAPU: Zimbabwe African People’s Union

Bibliography Almada e Santos, Aurora, Bernardo Capanga André, Corrado Tornimbeni and Lolanda Vasile, eds. International Solidarities and the Liberation of the Portuguese Colonies. Special issue of Afriche e Oriente: rivista di studi ai confini tra Africa mediterraneo e Medio Oriente, 19/3 (2017). Bettens, Ludo. “Le combat pour la paix, un combat syndical? Les relations contrastées entre le mouvement pacifiste et le syndicat socialiste.” Analyse de l’IHOES 174 (2017): 1 – 12. Byrne, Jeffrey James. Mecca of Revolution: Algeria, Decolonization, and the Third World Order. New York: Oxford University Press, 2016.

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Christiaens, Kim. “Orchestrating Solidarity: Third World Agency, Transnational Networks & the Belgian Mobilization for Vietnam and Latin America, 1960s–1980s.” PhD diss., KU Leuven, 2013. Christiaens, Kim. “From the East to the South, and Back? International Solidarity Movements in Belgium and New Histories of the Cold War, 1950s–1970s.” Dutch Crossing. Journal of Low Countries Studies 39/3 (2015): 187 – 203. Christiaens, Kim. “Europe at the Crossroads of Three Worlds: Alternative Histories and Connections of European Solidarity with the Third World, 1950s–80s.” European Review of History 24/6 (2017): 932 – 954. Connelly, Matthew. A Diplomatic Revolution: Algeria’s Fight for Independence and the Origins of the Post-Cold War Era. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. Crosfield, Hugh. “Commodity Boycotts, Activist Bodywork and Race: A Study of the Anti-Apartheid Campaigns of Boycott Outspan Action (1970 – 1992) and the Anti-Trafficking Campaigns of Stop The Traffik (2006 – 2013).” PhD diss., University of London, 2013. Delvaux, Isabelle. Ces Belges qui ont soutenu l’apartheid. Organisations, réseaux et discours. Brussels: P.I.E.-Peter Lang S.A, 2014. Faligot, Roger. Tricontinentale: quand Che Guevara, Ben Barka, Cabral, Castro et Hô Chi Minh préparaient la révolution mondiale (1964 – 1968). Paris: La Découverte, 2013. Faria, Paulo. The Post-War Angola: Public Sphere, Political Regime and Democracy. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013. Friedman, Jeremy. Shadow Cold War: The Sino-Soviet Competition for the Third World. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2015. Gevers, Lieve. “The Church in Belgium at a Turning Point: Times of Hope, Protest and Renewal (1945 – 1980).” Histoire@Politique 30/3 (2016): 25 – 36. Gildea, Robert, James Mark, and Niek Pas. “European Radicals and the ‘Third World’: Imagined Solidarities and Radical Networks, 1958 – 1973.” Cultural & Social History 8/4 (2011): 449 – 471. Gobille, Boris. “Circulations révolutionnaires. Une histoire connectée et ‘à parts égales’ des ‘ années 1968’ [Introduction].” Monde(s) 1/11 (2017): 13 – 36. Goedertier, Wouter. “The Quest for Transnational Authority: The Anti-Apartheid Movements of the European Community.” Revue Belge de Philologie et de Histoire 89/3 – 4 (2011): 1249 – 1276. Goedertier, Wouter. “Erst radikal, dann liberal? Die belgische Anti-Apartheid-Bewegung in den 1980er Jahren.” In ‘All we ever wanted…’: eine Kulturgeschichte europäischer Protestbewegungen der 1980er Jahre, edited by Hanno Balz and Jan-Henrik Friedrichs, 214 – 230. Berlin: Dietz, 2012. Goedertier, Wouter. “The Ambiguity of Solidarity: Belgium and the Global Struggle against Apartheid.” PhD diss., KU Leuven, 2015. Gotovitch, José. “Grégoire Isabelle (1892 – 1975), épouse Blume.” In Dictionnaire des femmes belges XIXe et XXe siècles, edited by Éliane Gubin, Catherine Jacques, Valérie Piette and Jean Puissant, 289 – 292. Brussels: Racine, 2006. Gotovitch, José. Du communisme et des communistes en Belgique: approches critiques. Brussels: Éditions Aden, 2012.

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Houtart, François. La Conférence internationale de Khartoum et les mouvements révolutionnaires en Afrique: Observations et réflexions. Louvain: Université catholique, 1969. Kaiser, Daniel. “‘Makers of Bonds and Ties’: Transnational Socialisation and National Liberation in Mozambique.” Journal of Southern African Studies 43/1 (2017): 29 – 48. Kalter, Christoph. The Discovery of the Third World: The French Radical Left and the International Struggle against Colonialism, c. 1950 – 1976. Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Kondlo, Kwandiwe Merriman. “‘In the Twilight of the Azanian revolution.’ Leadership Diversity and its Impact on the PAC during the Exile Period (1962 – 1990).” Journal for Contemporary History 30/1 (2005): 25 – 43. Latré, Bart. Strijd en inkeer: de kerk-en maatschappijkritische beweging in Vlaanderen, 1958 – 1990. Leuven: Universitaire Pers Leuven, 2011. Les Cahiers du Librex: Apartheid et luttes coloniales. December 1972. Mather, Charles and Carla Mackenzie. “The Body in Transnational Commodity Cultures: South Africa’s Outspan ‘Girls’ Campaign.” Social and Cultural Geography 7/3 (2006): 403 – 420. Maxwell, Kenneth. The Making of Portuguese Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Passy, Florence. L’action altruiste: contraintes et opportunités de l’engagement dans les mouvements sociaux. Geneva: Droz, 1998. Pierson-Mathy, Paulette. La politique raciale de la République d’Afrique du Sud. Brussels: Institut royal des relations internationales, 1964. Rihoux, Benoît and Michel Molitor. “Les nouveaux mouvements sociaux en Belgique francophone: l’unité dans la diversité?” Recherches sociologiques (1997) 1: 59 – 78. Roemer, Charel. “Das Boykott-Dilemma: Anti-Apartheid-Bewegung und westdeutsche Gewerkschaften in den 1970er- und 1980er-Jahren. Arbeit – Bewegung – Geschichte.” Zeitschrift für historische Studien (2018) 3: 74 – 90. Roemer, Charel. “” Solidaires ! “. Aperçu historiographique du combat anti-apartheid en Belgique.” Contemporanea 3 (2019). Rupprecht, Tobiagobils. Soviet Internationalism after Stalin: Interaction and Exchange between the USSR and Latin America during the Cold War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Sapire, Hilary. “Liberation Movements, Exile, and International Solidarity: An Introduction.” Journal of Southern African Studies 35/2 (2009): 271 – 286. Sappia, Caroline, Paul Servais, and Françoise Mirguet. Les relations de Louvain avec l’Amérique latine: entre évangélisation, théologie de la libération et mouvements étudiants. Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia-Bruylant, 2006. Saul, John S. “The Southern African Victory: Liberation Realized or a Prelude to Recolonization?”. Radical History Review 119 (2014): 7‐23. Sauvage, Pierre, Luis Martínez Saavedra, and Maurice Cheza. Dictionnaire historique de la théologie de la libération: les thèmes, les lieux, les acteurs ; suivi de Genèse, évolution et actualité de la théologie de la libération. Brussels: Lessius, 2017. Sellström, Tor. Sweden and National Liberation in Southern Africa. Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet; 2003.

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Shubin, Vladimir Gennadevich. The Hot “Cold War”: The USSR in Southern Africa. Scottsville: University of KwaZulu-Natal Press, 2008. Slobodian, Quinn. Foreign Front: Third World Politics in Sixties West Germany. Durham, NC, Duke University Press, 2012. Southern Africa beyond the West: The Transnational Connections of Southern African Liberation Movements. Special issue of Journal of Southern Africa Studies 43/1 (2017). Tablada Pérez, Carlos. The Decline of Certainties. Founding Struggles Anew: The Biography of François Houtart. Panamá: Ruth Casa Editorial, 2018. Telepneva, Natalia. “Our Sacred Duty: The Soviet Union, the Liberation Movements in the Portuguese Colonies, and the Cold War, 1961 – 1975.” PhD diss., London School of Economics and Political Science, 2014. Terblanche, Otto. “Flanders and South Africa: Diplomatic, Political and Cultural Relations, 1945 – 1990.” Historia 54/2 (2009): 77 – 97. Thomas, Scott M. The Diplomacy of Liberation: the Foreign Relations of the African National Congress since 1960. London: I.B. Tauris, 1996. Thörn, Håkan. Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society. Basingstoke - New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. Thörn, Håkan. “The Meaning(s) of Solidarity: Narratives of Anti-Apartheid Activism.” Journal of Southern African Studies 35/2 (2009): 417 – 436. Tornimbeni, Corrado. “Nationalism and Internationalism in the Liberation Struggle in Mozambique: The Role of the FRELIMO’s Solidarity Network in Italy.” South African Historical Journal 70/1 (2018): 194 – 214. Ugeux, E. “La politique raciale de l’Afrique du Sud. Par Mme P. Pierson-Mathy.” Le Soir, 6 January 1965. Van Vuuren, Hennie. Apartheid Guns and Money: A Tale of Profit. Johannesburg: Jacana Media, 2017. Vasile, Iolanda, Aurora Almada e Santos, and Corrado Tornimbeni. “What Solidarity? Networks of Cooperation with the Liberation Movements from Portuguese Colonies. An Introduction.” Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais 118 (2019): 127 – 130. Walgrave, Stefaan. “De Vlaamse Derde Wereldbeweging. De ruggegraat van de hele bewegingsector.” In Van Mei ’68 tot Hand in Hand. Nieuwe sociale bewegingen in België. 1965 – 1995, edited by Staf Hellemans and Marc Hooghe, 29 – 48. Leuven: Garant, 1995,. Wynants, Paul. “De l’Action catholique spécialisée à l’utopie politique. Le changement de cap de la JOC francophone (1969 – 1974).” Cahiers d’Histoire du Temps présent (2003) 11: 101 – 117.

John Nieuwenhuys

Chapter 10 Belgium’s Wider Peace Front? Isabelle Blume, the Peace Movement and the Issue of the Middle East (1950s – 1970s)

There has been a lot written about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but relatively little in relation to international solidarity movements specifically. Broadly speaking, most studies have approached the internationalization of the conflict from the perspective of international relations, or the positioning of Western political parties and parliamentary institutions towards Israel and the Palestinians.¹ Movements of support to the latter, in the years following the Six Day War of June 1967, also received specific attention. This has resulted in works which, compelling as they are, have mainly observed such movements through the lenses of radical internationalism, (Soviet-sponsored) terrorism and the perpetuation of anti-Semitic tropes.² Few authors have proposed approaching these movements as a particular case of international solidarity, one that bore social and cultural relevance for a whole generation of activists and migrants in Western Europe.³ Among these authors, Aribert Reimann also suggested that the “appropriation of anti-Zionism into the 1960s’ politics of protest had little to do with any long-standing tradition of left-wing anti-Semitism, but understood the Mid-

 For a wider discussion of the literature on such topics, see John Nieuwenhuys, “La cause palestinienne en Belgique: enjeux d’une histoire par le bas,” Contemporanea 39/2 (2017), accessed 2 January 2019, www.contemporanea.be/nl/article/2017-2-review-fr-nieuwenhuys.  The most recent and relevant literature notably includes: Jeffrey Herf, Undeclared Wars with Israel: East Germany and the West German Far Left, 1967 – 1989 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016); Remco Ensel and Evelien Gans, eds., The Holocaust, Israel and ‘the Jew’: Histories of Antisemitism in Postwar Dutch Society (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2017). Note that the fiftieth anniversary of the Six Day War has rekindled an interest for related themes, offering seasoned as well as younger historians new opportunities to reappraise them: see “Israel, die PLO und die deutsche Linke 1967– 2017. Oder: Wie der Sechstagekrieg Wahrnehmungen veränderte” (Conference at the Forschungszentrum Historische Geisteswissenschaft, Frankfurt am Main, Goethe-Universität, 25 – 26 May 2017); “‘We all wanna change the world!’ The Revolutionary Sixties in the Mediterranean and the Middle-East” (Conference at the Centre Marc Bloch, Freie Universität, Berlin, 11– 12 October 2018).  E. g. Abdellali Hajjat, “Les comités Palestine (1970 – 1972). Aux origines du soutien de la cause palestinienne en France,” Revue d’études palestiniennes, Les éditions de Minuit (2006): 74– 92. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-011

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dle East – however mistakenly – as yet another example of violent resistance against Western imperialism.”⁴ Looking at Belgian activists, one finds that the anti-Zionism and solidarity with the Palestinians that trended in the late 1960s maintained some level of continuity with former politics of protests, despite the break of a New Left and the rise of radical internationalism.⁵ Furthermore, this continuity with the previous decades’ repertoires of mobilization – such as internationalism and antifascism – was ensured by activists who had expressed solidarity with Jews during the interwar period and the ensuing Nazi occupation. These activists even celebrated the birth of Israel in 1948 as a Socialist victory against (British) imperialism. They then grew disenchanted with the Zionist state as the latter, boycotted by the Arab League, sought support in the West in the context of the Cold War and the Southern peoples’ struggles against colonial rule or military regimes. Indeed, accusations brought against Israel by Third World activists might also have found a particular resonance among the Belgian circles that supported Congolese and Algerian emancipation during the early 1960s. A highly respected figure in such circles was Isabelle Blume (1892– 1975). Initially a socialist representative, and the second woman elected to the Belgian Parliament, she was also a female icon of international solidarity. Indeed, during the inter-war period, she had been at the forefront of the support to Jewish refugees and the solidarity with the Republican forces in the Spanish Civil War. At the outbreak of the Cold War, while some in her party were promoting the Atlantic alliance (which she dreaded), Blume was drawn instead to the communistinspired peace movement that came into being following the Paris-Prague Congresses of 1949.⁶ She then witnessed the creation of the World Peace Council (WPC) in 1950, which soon became one the movement’s main coordinating agencies, connecting activists from both East and West and striving to set foot in the emerging Third World. Blume joined the WPC’s shared presidency in 1955, while also assuming the leadership of the movement’s national representation in Belgium, the Belgian Union for the Defence of Peace (UBDP/BUVV). The same evolution drove her out of the Socialist Party of Belgium (PSB), which now saw her

 Aribert Reimann, “Letters from Amman: Dieter Kunzelmann and the Origins of German AntiZionism during the late 1960s,” in A Revolution of Perception? Consequences and Echoes of 1968, ed. Ingrid Gilcher-Holtey (New York: Berghahn Books, 2014), 77.  Historians have been debating the origins and singularities of a New Left – as opposed to the old or traditional Left. About Belgium, see Jean-Marie Chauvier, “‘Gauchisme’ et nouvelle gauche en Belgique (II),” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 602– 603/16 (1973): 9 – 10.  Isabelle Blume, Pourquoi je suis venue au Conseil Mondial de la Paix (Prague: Conseil Mondial de la Paix, 1952).

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as an adherent of communism. In the mid-1960s, she eventually became the coordinating president of the WPC, at a time when it was drawing nearer to AfroAsian solidarity organizations, proving incidentally that its activities went far beyond Soviet attempts at destabilizing Western capitalist societies.⁷ Blume’s overall influence on the 1960s’ politics of protest in Belgium may have been recalled occasionally since her passing in 1975, but her position regarding the Middle East throughout that period has been widely ignored. Distorted narratives have flourished where this memory has faded, with former activists earnestly believing that Blume had always supported Israel or that she was a Jew.⁸ The latter mistake is not so uncommon as, even in her time, many had been misled by the typical origin of her surname, which was actually her husband’s – a Protestant pastor from whom she separated in the 1930s. Born Grégoire, she too had been raised a Protestant, before becoming an atheist while embracing Marxism.⁹ In fact, Blume was a chief opponent of the Zionist state’s policy in the 1960s, and it appears as if to many her critical stance on this particular issue could not be reconciled with her previous fights against fascism or in the defense of the Jews. Yet, she herself found this stance perfectly aligned with her previous struggles, although she would come to realize that the “Palestinian question” was thornier than other causes (like disarmament or Vietnam) around which a wider front of progressive organizations could develop in Belgium. How she would diffuse the tensions that arose from this specific issue would also determine how successfully she would promote her anti-imperialist views and influence Belgium’s politics of protest past the late 1960s. Based on interviews, press cuttings, militant archives as well as testimonial writings by Blume,¹⁰ the present chapter focuses on her own evolving sentiment

 See José Gotovitch, “Grégoire Isabelle (1892– 1975), épouse Blume,” in Dictionnaire des femmes belges XIXe et XXe siècles, ed. Éliane Gubin et al. (Brussels: Racine, 2006), 289 – 292; Id., “Isabelle Blume,” in Biographie Nationale, vol. 11 (Brussels: Académie Royale de Belgique, 2012), 26.  E. g. interview with Pierre Galand, Brussels, 16 February 2016. Galand is the former secretary general of Oxfam-Belgium and was also president of the Belgo-Palestinian Association (ABP) as of the 1980s.  Brussels, Centre des Archives Communistes de Belgique (CArCoB), Isabelle Blume (IB), Manuscrits 1: Brochure 1967, “Pourquoi je défendis, sans réserve et parfois aveuglément la cause des juifs persécutés?,” Bad-Elster, 1970.  Blume wrote several brochures and extensive notes in view of publishing a book of testimony on the WPC. Although she has often insisted that she would never write her memoirs, the notes she left were essentially drawn from her own recollections and personal documentation. When referencing “Manuscrits” items from Blume’s archives, I am always referring to these

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in regard to the issue of the Middle East. The first part introduces her work within the WPC and how it greatly influenced her understanding of Israeli interference as the main obstacle to the region’s emancipation. The following portions question how such anti-Israel discourses – which owed much to the contributions of Third World actors with little to no direct experience of Nazi occupation or the Holocaust – were received in the progressive circles supporting some of the greatest protests Belgium has known in the 1960s. General conclusions are finally drawn on the overall consistency of Blume’s anti-imperialist views throughout her career, but also the turns and compromises it took to preserve this consistency while addressing one of the most elusive and divisive international issues of the second half of the 20th century.

“Je t’aime moi non-plus:” The Israeli left and the WPC under Blume’s presidency The Warsaw conference of 1950, where the WPC was officially founded, is the first Peace Movement event Isabelle Blume managed to attend. As delegates from around the world were transiting in Brussels, en route to the conference, she was introduced to French journalist and politician Yves Farge, a former Resistance fighter of the Vercors Maquis and one of the movement’s inspirators. The next day, while sharing a taxi to the airport, they laid the foundations of what would become a fruitful collaboration, before Blume boarded the flight without her party’s consent.¹¹ Her reasons for embracing the WPC were the same that would have her excluded from the PSB for working with communists: she rejected the Atlantic alliance championed by Paul-Henri Spaak. For Blume, things were now clear. In her view, Nazism had just been defeated when the imperialist powers were already preparing new ways of oppressing peoples; assisted by the same capital that had facilitated Hitler’s rise, they were now “rearming Germany”.¹² History, she thought, was repeating itself, as Farge had observed in his book La guerre d’Hitler continue (Paris, 1950). In this context, the WPC soon outlined several ways of preventing yet another global conflict: appeal to world notes which, unless indicated otherwise, she wrote sometime between 1970 and 1973. An edited version of her testimony was later published in Isabelle Blume, Le mouvement de la paix: un témoignage (Tubize, Brussels: Gamma Press / Institut Emile Vandervelde. Service bibliothèque et archives, 1996).  Blume, Le mouvement de la paix: 52– 53.  See CArCoB, IB, Manuscrits 2: “La naissance du mouvement.” Note that I have freely translated into English, for readability, all quotations from non-English sources.

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opinion, support popular struggles in order to shelter the Southern regions from imperialist influence, and promote the United Nations (UN) as a tool of harmony.¹³ This became Blume’s course of action as she joined the WPC’s shared presidency. Like many with her background, Blume was initially favorable to the Zionist project. She had even visited the new state in 1948, answering the invitation of Israel’s United Workers Party (Mapam).¹⁴ Upon her return, she had written a series of articles describing the wonders of her journey, which echoed her former criticism of the hesitancy of Spaak’s Belgian diplomacy regarding the partition of Palestine.¹⁵ Naturally, her take on Israel did not change overnight when joining the WPC. She expressed her first doubts when joining a protest in Brussels against the negotiations Israel had undertaken with the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) at the 1952 Conference of Jewish Claims Against Germany. For the protesters, such talks amounted to a scandalous rehabilitation of what they called “rearmed and renazified” Germany.¹⁶ At the same time, WPC chairman Frédéric Joliot-Curie still identified the Zionist state as a positive force in the Middle East – and while there evidently remained tensions between Israel and the Arabs, he hoped to resolve them by facilitating peace talks.¹⁷ Blume understood how arduous this task would be at the Helsinki Peace Assembly of 1955. The event translated the WPC’s intention to approach the AfroAsian representatives which had just come together for the first time at the Bandung conference. Among Blume’s most vivid memories of the assembly was the ongoing feud between the Arab and Israeli delegations, which she had to deal with while chairing the Commission on the Middle East. She was especially displeased to realize that the Egyptian delegates were not her comrades from the Peace Movement, whose passports the revolution’s leader Gamal Abdel Nasser had confiscated, but the latter’s envoys. This made for a good explanation of these delegates’ refusal to engage in constructive debates with their counterparts, who were members of the Israeli Peace Committee (IPC). Only after the

 CArCoB, IB, Manuscrits 1: “Qu’est-ce que le Conseil Mondial de la Paix?,” 1962.  CArCoB, IB, Manuscrits 1: Brochure 1967, “Pourquoi je défendis, sans réserve et parfois aveuglément la cause des juifs persécutes?,” Bad-Elster, 1970.  Catherine Berny, La Terre trop promise: Belgique-Israël, 1947 – 1950 (Louvain-la-Neuve: Ciaco, 1988), 81, 100. About Blume’s critique of Spaak’s policy, see “Le 68ème congrès du P.S.,” Le Peuple, 7 November 1948, 2.  “Initiatief-Comite tegen Joods-Duitse onderhandelingen bijeen,” Nieuw Israelietisch Weekblad, 28 March 1952, 2.  CArCoB, IB, Proche-Orient et Monde Arabe (PO/MA), Israël: Letter of Jacob Majus to Isabelle Blume, 24 May 1957.

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Suez crisis of 1956, and the WPC’s strong condemnation of Israel’s actions, would President Nasser reinstate the Egyptian peace activists and allow them to organize the founding conference of what would later be known as the Afro-Asian Peoples’ Solidarity Organization (AAPSO).¹⁸ It was in the process of planning this conference, right after meeting with Indian President Jawaharlal Nehru, that Blume came in Egypt to see Nasser. However, she instead was received by Khaled Mohieddin, formerly a member of the Free Officers Movement who had helped depose King Farouk in 1952. As a Marxist and a member of the Peace Movement, Mohieddin had differences with Nasser. Yet, he returned to Cairo after the Suez crisis, taking up a leading role in the media.¹⁹ Blume immediately struck up a friendship with Mohieddin, who subsequently joined the WPC’s presidency and became one of its leading figures in the 1960s.²⁰ What this translates to more generally is that the Peace Movement’s evolution did not simply mirror that of the USSR, whose anti-Zionism – often reflecting a thinly veiled anti-Semitism – had become blatant since the infamous trial of Czech Party leader Rudolf Slánský in 1952. The late 1950s were also a time when the WPC strengthened ties with Third World actors through conferences in Western Europe, Africa and South-East Asia. This worked against the interests of IPC activists (many of them Mapam members and Blume’s former friends), who were excluded from such encounters. They thus could not take part in drafting the movement’s resolutions on the Middle East, which they now repeatedly complained about. And although Blume hoped they could keep up the good work against nuclear armament and the Vietnam War, she refused to hear their recriminations unless they would acknowledge their government’s faulty politics and the need to address the pressing issue of the Palestinian refugees.²¹

 Blume, Le mouvement de la paix: 103 – 104. About the Cairo conference, see also General CIA Records: The Afro-Asian Solidarity Conference, Cairo, 26 December 1957 – 1 January 1958, www. cia.gov/library/readingroom /docs/CIA-RDP78-00915R000700140014-4.pdf.  Mohieddin became the editor of Al-Misa, a new Egyptian daily. Joel Gordon, Nasser’s Blessed Movement: Egypt’s Free Officers and the July revolution (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 231.  CArCoB, IB, Manuscrits 1: “Les mouvements nationaux couvrent la Terre: Mouvement National Égyptien”; Manuscrits 2: “Année 1956” and “Année 1957.”  In Blume’s archives, the many letters, telegrams and notes from the IPC show how the latter remained invested in the Peace Movement’s activities but feared, already in 1957, that the recent meetings in Colombo and Cairo had prejudiced the chances for a peaceful solution in the Middle East. See CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: Note from the IPC, “Pour une solution pacifique au Moyen-Orient. Aide-mémoire en vue du Congrès Mondial pour le Désarmement de Stockholm,” 1958.

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Fig. 22: A telegram from IPC members to Isabelle Blume, 30 March 1967. A closed-door meeting would take place in Brussels right before the war broke out in the Middle-East. CArCoB, IB, PO/ MA, Israël.

Before taking a clear stance on the Middle East at the WPC’s Geneva session of June 1966, Blume did try to prevent high passions from derailing the debates, suggesting one last time that the Peace Movement should promote discussions with the Israeli side. Her offer was obviously overruled and, instead, a majority agreed on the need to strengthen ties with partners in Egypt and Syria in order to counter the rising influence of both the US and the conservative Islamic Pact in the Middle East. Blume confirmed this as a strategic priority with the WPC’s Arab and African presidents whom she met in Cairo, in December 1966.²² Further consolidating alliances, she then visited the Ba’ath party in Damascus, where she also encountered Palestinian women from refugee camps and delivered a speech on how American capital flowing through Israel had destroyed the historical “convivence” of Jews and Muslims in the Middle East.²³ She finally noted, at the same time, that a group of Israeli Jews had gathered in Brussels to testify about the Arab populations’ difficult situation in their coun-

 CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Israël: Letter from Jacob Majus to Isabelle Blume, 24 May 1957; Présidents africains: “Réunion des membres africains et arabes du présidium du Conseil Mondial de la Paix,” Cairo, 3 – 5 December 1966; see draft of Blume’s speech at the meeting; see also the Resolution on the Middle East adopted by the WPC at its Geneva session, 13 – 16 June 1966.  CArCoB, IB, CMP 6, Lettres et rapports divers: Letter from Blume to the presidents of the WPC, 22 December 1966.

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try. Blume thus wrote to Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) Chairman Ahmad Shukeiri that never had Israel’s role appeared clearer to the antiimperialist camp, and that the right time had come for his organization to join forces with the Peace Movement.²⁴ Little did she seem to know that Shukeiri would prove a fanatic warmonger and an embarrassment to her own cause – which she would only concede, and rather implicitly, in her memoirs.²⁵ Blume’s itinerary so far evidences the central role which mobility and interpersonal contacts played in drawing the Peace Movement closer to Third World actors during the peak of decolonization. Third World actors often reciprocated visits of European activists with, for instance, Tricontinental Secretary Mehdi Ben Barka, who famously advertised anti-Zionism in Western Europe before he was abducted by fake French policemen in 1965.²⁶ Another example is the abundant literature brought or sent to Blume for a militant brochure on the Middle East, whose edition and wide circulation had been agreed on at the Geneva session.²⁷ All such testimonies insisted that Israel had already interfered with Algeria’s and Congo’s emancipation, just as it now stood with the colonizers in Angola, Mozambique and South Africa. Such accusations blended well with the communist view that Nazism had been but a paroxysmal expression of capitalist and imperialist violence which, unless defeated, would keep threatening freedom and global peace. But as it set foot in the South, the WPC opened up to less Eurocentric references. This eventually connected antifascist experiences from formerly Nazi-occupied countries, on the one hand, with concerns for the underdevelopment and poverty of the peoples now opposing colonial rule, on the other. “Hitler’s continued war” became a war between the wealthy and the wretched. And Israel, lending a hand to colonial powers, came across as America’s valet in the Middle East, a near-fascist regime and the main obstacle to Arab and African development. Mohieddin’s opening speech in Geneva in 1966 is a remarkable example of how an-

 CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Afrique arabe: Letter of Isabelle Blume to Ahmad Shukeiri, 24 August 1966.  “After the 1967 war and the disappearance of Shukeiri’s fanatically revengeful movement, the PLO personified the serious resistance and liberation movement of the Palestinian people.” CArCoB, IB, Manuscrits 1: “Année 1969.”  On the overall influence of Mehdi Ben Barka in Western Europe, see Remco Ensel, “Transnational Left-wing Protest and the ‘Powerful Zionist’,” in The Holocaust, Israel and ‘the Jew’, 181– 214.  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Afrique arabe: Letter of Isabelle Blume to Ahmad Shukeiri, 24 August 1966; CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Guerre israélo-arabe: Documents remis par Mr. Selim El-Yafi de Syrie, s.d.

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tifascist and anti-colonial references could merge harmoniously.²⁸ The note which John D. Bernal (Frédéric Joliot-Curie’s successor as president of the WPC) later wrote on “What the Middle East Confrontation Means to the World” also demonstrates that European members of the WPC presidency, after spending some time in the Third World, had no problem appropriating such references.²⁹ However, it is less evident how the national branches of the Peace Movement would successfully advertise the same notions in Western European countries, where there evidently existed competing discourses on the legacy of Nazi occupation. This is what will be assessed next, returning the focus onto the Belgian scene.

Belgium’s politics of protest in the early 1960s: a common ground for a wider peace front? Belgian political history usually insists that an insurmountable ideological barrier arose between the Communist Party of Belgium (PCB) and the other parties following the Prague coup of 1948 and the Korean War of 1950 – 1953. However, we still lack a biographical history of social democrats such as Henri Rolin, Jules Wolf, Ernest Glinne or Guy Cudell, whose active participation in progressive struggles in the field brought them remarkably closer to anti-imperialist networks. Their experience proves that, while there indeed remained strong ideological differences, social democrats and communists could still share concerns on some of the hottest issues. Rolin summarized this early on when deploring that the peace movement depicted “in a childish, oversimplified way, the problem of armaments,” while conceding however that its call responded “to a real need, deeply felt by the masses.”³⁰ One of several points of contention was the question of Israel’s stance on such issues. Communists, as well as many social democrats with a tradition of antifascism, had jointly saluted the birth of Israel in 1948. Wolf’s involvement alongside Rolin – both of whom rebuilt the Belgian League for the Defence of Human Rights (LBDH) after the war – incidentally reminds us that many Jews  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: Brochure of the International Institute for Peace (IIP) in Vienna, Un problème du Moyen-Orient: Conflit israélo-arabe. Documents du Conseil Mondiale de la Paix (c. 1967), 29 – 37.  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Israël: Note from J. D. Bernal, “What the Middle-East Confrontation Means to the World,” c. June 1967.  Jules Gérard-Libois and Rosine Lewin, La Belgique entre dans la guerre froide et l’Europe (1947 – 1953) (Brussels: Pol-His, 1992), 196.

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were part of this same antifascist tradition.³¹ But while communists later turned their back on Israel, most social democrats remained adamant that it embodied a positive inspiration for the region, even after the Suez crisis of 1956. Here ideological divergences sometimes prevailed over the belonging to a Jewish identity. Indeed, the view that Western powers perpetuated Hitler’s war was not uncommon among Marxist Jews who had been educated in the interwar period, including Jews who had survived the Nazi camps.³² Nevertheless, those among them who accordingly condemned Israel eventually became scarcer, because the gentrification of Belgian Jews in the post-war years – as well as Stalin’s reported crimes and ongoing anti-Semitic purges in the USSR – drove them away from the communist worldview.³³ After June 1967, the PCB still had contacts with Jews harboring critical views on Israel,³⁴ but those now belonged to the limited circles of the Union of Progressive Jews of Belgium (UPJB) as well as the Trotskyist or non-affiliated Marxist intellectuals who wrote in La Gauche ³⁵. One could also be tempted to conclude that the polarization of communist and social democratic views, including on Israel, proportionally reinforced both camps’ internal cohesion. Yet, here again it is not self-evident how the social democratic Rolin became prominently involved with opposition to the Vietnam War, given his belonging to a party that would advocate Ostpolitik and détente but also supported, following Spaak’s impulse, Western integration and the Atlantic alliance. In fact, what drove some of the social democrats closer to anti-

 For further details on Rolin and Wolf, see Victor Fernandez Soriano’s work in Chapter 5 of the present volume.  Enzo Traverso, Understanding the Nazi Genocide. Marxism after Auschwitz (London: Pluto Press, 1999), 50.  Marcel Liebman, Né Juif. Une famille juive pendant la guerre (Brussels: Labor, 1996), 180; Léon Liebmann, “Profil et structures de la communauté juive de Belgique,” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 221/41 (1963): 4, 17. See also Caroline Sägesser, “Les structures du monde juif en Belgique,” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 1615/30 (1998): 1– 28; Arnaud Bozzini, “Engagement politique et reconstruction identitaire: les Juifs communistes à Bruxelles au lendemain de la Seconde guerre mondiale, 1944– 1963” (diss. doct., ULB, Brussels, 2012).  Paul Van Praag, “La section internationale du PCB-KPB: un témoignage sur la période 1976 – 1984,” in Colloque international “L’Autre Printemps.” 21/22 novembre 2008. Première journée. Le PCB, le Printemps de Prague et les pays de l’Est (Brussels: CArCoB, 2008), 27, www.carcob.eu/ IMG/pdf/autre_printemps_-_12_la_section_ internationale_ du_pcb_-_kpb_temoignage_peri ode_1976_-_1984.pdf.  The newspaper La Gauche was initially attached to the social democratic pillar. Its editorial staff gradually came under the influence of the Trotskyist militants who practiced a tactic of “entryism” within the PSB. After being exposed and expelled from the party in 1964, they continued to run La Gauche, which thus represented the views of the IVth International in Belgium as well as independent Marxist intellectuals.

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imperialist struggles – and right into the communists’ arms in the case of Blume – was perhaps opposition to Spaak himself. This reminds us that the latter, within the PSB, had often been an embarrassment since the 1930s, and a cause for internal disagreement on the course to follow in external affairs. During the Spanish Civil War, as is made clear in Nicolas Lépine’s chapter in this volume, prominent activists like Emile Vandervelde, Camille Huysmans and Isabelle Blume had championed internationalist and antifascist values within the Belgian Labour Party (later the PSB). A social democrat as well, Spaak had concurrently entered the government as Minister of Foreign Affairs, where he had defended a pragmatic policy contrary to his party’s tradition: some would later recall his conciliatory attitude towards fascist regimes and his hesitancy to follow the government into exile following the defeat of 1940.³⁶ After the war, arguing that he had learned from his mistakes, he converted to the prospects of Western integration and military alliance, which he outlined in his famous Discours de la peur at the beginning of the Cold War.³⁷ His policy was once more at odds with the internationalist values of many social democrats who had known the interwar period, which precipitated Blume’s long overdue departure from the PSB. Here one could make the counterargument that she had simply been won over by communist rhetoric. In fact, Blume’s departure had been in the making since her interpersonal feuds, in the late 1930s, with Spaak and future collaborationist Henri De Man. She hardly renounced her political family as a whole, however. In 1959, she unsuccessfully tried to reenter the PSB and only a few years later joined the PCB.³⁸ In the social democrat camp, the opposition between those with a tradition of antifascist struggle and Atlantist enthusiasts such as Spaak reached a climax when the latter became Secretary General of NATO in 1957. Tensions lingered after he retired from statesmanship to become administrator of a subsidiary of the American-owned International Telephone and Telegraph (ITT) company in 1966.³⁹

 Marcel Liebman, “Paul-Henri Spaak ou la politique du cynisme,” in Entre histoire et politique. Dix portraits (Brussels: Aden, 2006), 151– 177.  See Spaak’s speech before the UN General Assembly at the Palais de Chaillot, Paris, 28 September 1948. In this address, Spaak violently attacked the foreign policy of the USSR. This speech increased Spaak’s notoriety on the international scene, and is sometimes compared to the that which Winston Churchill (with whom Spaak cultivated a physical resemblance) gave at Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri, on 5 March 1946.  José Gotovitch, “Inventaire Blume Isabelle” (Brussels: CArCoB, 1995): 6, www.carcob.eu/ IMG/pdf/blume_isabelle.pdf.  Jacques Willequet, “Spaak (Paul-Henri),” in Biographie Nationale de Belgique, vol. 11 (Brussels, 1976), 805; John M. Jr Swomley, “America’s ‘Private’ Empire,” Fellowship 38/2 (New York, 1972): 5.

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The question of Israel also developed as a point of divergence, though more subtly, between the two types of social democrats. In the interwar period, Vandervelde and Huysmans had already proven fierce defenders of the Jews and supporters of the Zionist option.⁴⁰ In 1947, by contrast, Spaak was strongly criticized by members of his own party – Blume especially – for expressing his reservations towards Zionism and advising caution before voting on the partition of Palestine at the UN.⁴¹ By the time of the Suez Crisis, however, he came to celebrate Israel’s political inclination towards the West. So much so that Spaak now appeared more unconditional in his support than Henri Rolin who, a friend of the Jewish state though he was, questioned whether its recent actions had really been lawful.⁴² Thus, while analyses of how the Zionists served capitalist interests in the Third World were popularized in anti-imperialist milieus during the high times of decolonization, they seemed all the more justified as Spaak had become Israel’s most fervent defender, in contrast with his initial reservations. In a sort of chiasmus, the Belgian advocates for the Atlantic alliance, who had planned for “Germany’s rearmament” in the 1950s, seemed to have grown fonder of Israel just as the communists had grown disenchanted with it. And though most social democrats remained faithful to the Jewish state, some were puzzled by Spaak’s excessive enthusiasm, especially at the time of the Six Day War. When the conflict broke out, the retired statesman supported pro-Israel solidarity campaigns, joining street demonstrations and even offering to donate his blood.⁴³ Most notably, he penned a column in Le Soir under the title “I am not neutral,” and went so far as to explain that his mistakes during the 1930s had taught him that one must bravely stand up to “those who claim to take the law into their own hands, violate treaties and seek to change existing situations by their own will.”⁴⁴ In response, some among the Walloon social democrats stressed his lack of credibility as board member of a powerful American trust subsidiary: “We knew that Mr. Spaak was not neutral, but stood with the Americans, both in the Middle  Émile Vandervelde, Lettres et discours sur la Question juive et le sionisme. Écrits rassemblés et commentés par Daniel Dratwa (Brussels: Éditions Pro Museo Judaïco, 1987); Wim Geldof, “Camille Huysmans et le peuple juif. Une amitié pour la vie,” Bulletin trimestriel de la Fondation Auschwitz 82 (2004): 111– 134.  Berny, La Terre trop promise.  See Omer De Raeymaeker, België en de Israëlisch-Arabische Conflicten 1948 – 1978 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1979), 78 – 79.  Florence, Historical Archives of the European Union (HAEU), PHS-648 Israel: Letter from Alexis Goldschmidt to Paul-Henry Spaak, 12 June 1967, http://archives.eui.eu/files/ docu ments/29628.pdf.  Paul-Henri Spaak, “Je ne suis pas neutre,” Le Soir, 21 June 1967, 1– 2.

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East conflict and in Vietnam. We have always affirmed that Israel has the right to live with dignity, but that this right also exists for the Arabs of Palestine. We are not neutral either, but we stand at the side of the oppressed, whether they are Jews or Arabs.”⁴⁵ Such reactions further suggest that there existed among social democrats a fundamental division between the anticommunist zealots and those more primarily involved, often outside of traditional political arenas, in the defense of progressive values like peace, decolonization and antiracism (or indeed, in a nutshell, in the defense of the “oppressed”). It would be far-fetched to say that the latter had no problem working with communist activists in the defense of such values, but Belgium’s politics of protest in the first half of the 1960s show, in fact, that they often did. This was evidenced by the Fellaghas (the Algerian independence fighters) evading the French police and finding support from Social Democratic and Communist activists within the Belgian Jeanson network around 1960.⁴⁶ The latter’s motivation for helping Algerians, as many of them expressed, often related to their own quest for a people’s justice and stance against racism, in direct reference to the earlier resistance against Nazism.⁴⁷ Such values also were reflected in the Jewish intellectual Marcel Liebman’s insistence that Jews and Arabs could thrive together in a free Algeria, or in Rolin and Glinne’s pioneering efforts to enhance Belgium’s legislation against anti-Semitism, racism and xenophobia, in 1960 and 1966.⁴⁸ All of these activities were regularly reported on by the Movement against Racism and for Friendship between Peoples (MRAP), founded in Paris in 1949 and relayed in Brussels by left-wing Jews as

 “Comme si vous y étiez. Jordanie,” Combat, 29 June 1967, 2.  The Jeanson Network (Réseau Jeanson) was a group of French activists, led by Francis Jeanson, which operated in metropolitan France as a support group for the Front de Libération Nationale (FLN) during the Algerian War. Its activists remain known as the “porteurs de valises” who collected and transported funds and false papers for the Algerian Fellaghas. From 1970 onwards, Belgium served as a rear base for this network, which was more and more paralyzed by the French Sûreté. See Jean Doneux and Hugues Le Paige, Le Front du Nord (Brussels: Pol-His, 1992); André Mommen, “Serge Moureaux en de anderen in hun strijd voor de Algerijnse onafhankelijkheid,” Vlaams Marxistisch Tijdschrift 46/3 (2012): 83 – 89.  Doneux and Le Paige, Le Front du Nord.  “En Belgique,” Droit et Liberté, March 1961, 4; Léon Griner, “À l’appel de la Fédération de la Jeunesse Juive: Puissante manifestation à Bruxelles pour le châtiment d’Eichmann et de tous ses complices,” Droit et Liberté, January 1961, 10; “La première journée nationale antiraciste en Belgique,” Droit et Liberté, 15 Avril – 15 May 1966, 10; Documents of the Belgian Senate 99 (1959 – 1969) and 309/1 (1966 – 1967). Marcel Liebman (1929 – 1986) was a professor of Political Science at the Free University of Brussels (ULB). As a Jewish, non-affiliated Marxist intellectual, he both criticized Israel and advertised the Palestinians’ rights to self-determiation as early as the 1960s.

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of 1960.⁴⁹ And when the latter organized a gathering for Adolf Eichmann’s punishment, the same year, Blume joined Cudell on the stage: everybody applauded her demonstration that declared those who created the Nazi monster were essentially the same who had “rearmed Germany” and founded NATO after the war.⁵⁰ Yet another evidence of a pluralistic “entente” of progressive actors is found in the large front which supported the first anti-atomic marches of the decade, resulting in the nationwide 8 May Movement – a cluster of political, union, religious and family organizations among whose members Blume found it easy to recruit delegates for the Moscow International Congress for Peace and Disarmament of 1963.⁵¹ If the UBDP/BUVV had been the only organization capable of effective campaigning during the 1950s, it lost this monopoly at the start of the next decade.⁵² By then there were fresh opportunities to reach new circles. Naturally, ideological differences would make it difficult to achieve unity, but the early 1960s’ campaigns aroused Blume’s hopes that a wider peace front could consolidate in Belgium around increasingly federating issues, like disarmament, “European security” or the Vietnam War, featuring the same diversity as in the 8 May Movement. This peace front’s development, however, would be seriously hindered by the next Arab-Israeli war, which would emphasize strong divergences in the interpretation of the Middle East issue – especially when appraised through the commemoration of antifascism or resistance against the Nazis.

Peace front divided: Belgian reactions to the Six Day War In the Spring of 1966, Isabelle Blume traveled to Dar es Salaam for a conference on racial discrimination, colonialism, apartheid and the liberation movement of the African peoples. There she was struck by a moving depiction made by a young Palestinian of his people’s living conditions. Answering his invitation, Blume visited the refugee camps in Gaza for the first time on her way home,

 “Visite à nos amis belges,” Droit et Liberté, October 1960, 10.  Griner, “À l’appel de la Fédération de la Jeunesse Juive.”  Blume, Le mouvement de la paix: 137– 138; “Les mouvements de la paix en Belgique,” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 240/15 (1964): 25 – 28.  Bruno Coppieters, “Les relations entre les mouvements belge et sovie´tique pour la paix”, Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 1190 (1988/5): 9; Andrée Gérard, “La dynamique du mouvement de paix en Belgique francophone,” Courrier hebdomadaire du CRISP 1053 – 1054/28 (1984): 1– 68.

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with the help of PLO officials in Cairo. She would argue in a later account that she had seen nothing so upsetting since her visit to concentration camps in Germany after the war.⁵³ Overall, this episode recalls the interplay, in solidarity movements, of the Palestinian and anti-apartheid struggles as early as the second half of the 1960s, as also made clear in Charel Roemer’s chapter in this volume. Over the next five years, the WPC would press on these issues at conferences in Rome, Khartoum, Cairo and Brussels, which connected activists from the two paralleling networks and gradually brought the focus on the alleged “racist nature” of Zionism. At the time, however, the tired comparison to Nazi oppression backfired when the PLO Chairman Ahmad Shukeiri vowed to destroy the Jews of Israel in an infamous statement that greatly served Zionist propaganda in turn.⁵⁴ This suddenly made it more difficult for activists in formerly Nazioccupied Western Europe to appropriate the definition of “imperialism” which had been agreed on between the WPC and its Southern partners. In Belgium, for instance, the notion that Nasser and Shukeiri were the “new Nazis” became the cornerstone of a violent anticommunist campaign during the Arab-Israeli-Israeli war of June 1967. And to the communist notion that capitalist imperialism perpetuated Hitler’s fascism, the anticommunist campaign now answered with an antitotalitarian discourse equating both the Arab regimes and the USSR to the fallen Third Reich. Shared views on American imperialism, and criticism of Paul-Henri Spaak among the social democrats, could not prevent Blume’s local alliances from being seriously threatened in June 1967. Whether rational or not, fears that Jews would be “thrown into the sea” were genuine in Belgium on the eve of the Six Day War. And when the conflict broke out, large segments of the Belgian population readily joined the remarkable displays of solidarity coordinated by emblematic figures and organizations from the Jewish community.⁵⁵ But in this context, the debate was also hijacked by those who concurrently represented the conflict, often to the point of travesty, as yet another proxy-war between the two superpowers. Indeed, at the stands and in the newspapers, several prominent representatives of the governing coalition and the social democratic opposition indulged in dramatic statements of solidarity with Israel.

 CArCoB, IB, CMP 6, Lettres et rapports divers: “Rapport sur la visite aux camps palestiniens de Gaza,” c. 1966; Manuscrits 2: “Année 1966.”  Moshe Shemesh, “Did Shuqayri Call for ‘Throwing the Jews into the Sea’?,” Israel Studies 8/2 (2003): 70 – 81.  See Interview de David Susskind par Delphine Blaise, transcription non-littérale inédite par Catherine Massange (Brussels: Centre Audio-visuel de l’ULB, 1997): 60 – 62.

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At Spaak’s side, State Minister Théo Lefèvre as well as former and future Prime Minister Gaston Eyskens (both of them Christian democrats) spoke with one voice on this issue. Though they thus joined those among both the Jewish and gentile populations who sincerely feared the worst for the Israeli Jews, the rhetoric and public display of their involvement left no doubt as to their intended challenge to the communists. And when a ceasefire was finally agreed on in the UN Security Council, Lefèvre deplored publicly that the Radio Télévision Belge (RTB) had unjustly reported the “diplomatic defeat” of the USSR,⁵⁶ whereas his own statements generally amounted to a textbook case of anti-totalitarian phrasing. This was best illustrated in his appreciation that Israel “is a democratic state which is surrounded by totalitarian states that do nothing for their own populations,” and his assurances to the Zionist federation in Antwerp that “the free world will never allow Israel to be transformed into a concentration camp.”⁵⁷ A wide front of anticommunist veteran organizations also supported this campaign. After known representatives of the “Belgian Resistance” issued a manifesto of solidarity with the Jewish state, Brussels lawyer Alexis Goldschmidt’s Action Committee for Israel published a list of former SS officers reportedly serving in Nasser’s secret services and political police.⁵⁸ This was one of the many lists which Hubert Halin had provided through the 1960s. Himself a key player in anticommunist propaganda – and an occasional visitor of Israeli authorities – Halin chaired the International Union of Resistance and Deportation (UIRD), a Brussels-based organization claiming to represent 500,000 affiliates from fifteen different countries.⁵⁹ To face the general pro-Israel opinion as well as opportunistic attacks, the communist peace activists seemed now all the more isolated as the alliances they had made with other organizations were also threatened. In the passionate movement supporting Israel, they deplored, “the worst ultras and men whose

 “Commentaires malheureux du journal parlé de la RTB,” Le Soir, 8 June 1967, 7.  “À Anvers: MM. Merchiers, Anseele et Th. Lefèvre,” Le Soir, 1 June 1967, 5.  “Israël et la Résistance belge. Un manifeste de solidarité” and “Nazis en Israël,” Le Soir, 7 June 1967, 3, 6.  Ghent, Amsab-ISG, MAD/452.28: Néo-nazisme en Belgique: Une étude des experts de l’Union Internationale de la Résistance et de la Déportation (Brussels: UIRD, 1967); Léonard Seidenman, “Belgium. Community Relations,” American Jewish Year Book 65 (1964): 220. On Hubert Halin, see also Pieter Lagrou, The Legacy of Nazi Occupation: Patriotic Memory and National Recovery in Western Europe, 1945 – 1965 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 282– 285; Id., “Welk vaderland voor de vaderlandslievende verenigingen? Oorlogsslachtoffers en verzetsveteranen en de nationale kwestie, 1945 – 1958,” Bijdragen tot de eigentijdse geschiedenis 3 (1997): 152.

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good faith cannot be questioned were seen side by side,” and divided the front that had developed around security issues, against the Vietnam War, and the most recent military coup in Greece.⁶⁰

Fig. 23: “A demonstration of sympathy for Israel was held in Brussels.” A satirical journal of the Flemish nationalist right mocks the peace activists’ confusion in the face of the Middle East war. The sign reads “Johnson murderer Johnson help Israel!” to suggest a change of attitude from the progressive left vis-à-vis the president of the U.S. ‘t Pallieterke, 15 June 1967, 3.

It also remained unclear who the aggressor was in the Middle East conflict, unlike in Vietnam, where the balance of power was more evident. Blume’s close partners, with a little help from the ultras in the adverse camp, could very well be the ones to pass for the “fascists” this time. Preventing this required re-explaining how the conflict had started as well as systematically debunking Israel’s legitimizing theories of “casus belli” and “preventive war”. The special dossier which the WPC had ordered in 1966 would serve that purpose. When it was re-

 CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: Brochure of the International Institute for Peace (IIP) in Vienna, Un problème du Moyen-Orient: Conflit israélo-arabe. Documents du Conseil Mondiale de la Paix (c. 1967), 21.

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leased in late 1967, one would find – oddly mingling with the other pieces of Third World literature – the work of Belgian lawyer Jean Dubosch, UBDP’s secretary in Brussels, dissecting legal aspects of the conflict as well as reactions to the Six-Day War in Belgium.⁶¹ But for now, in the heat of pro-Israel demonstrations, the peace activists could but suffer the double blow before gathering the strength to deal with external attacks as well as the wider peace front’s internal crisis. Firstly, the peace militants stressed that anticommunism was the sole lifevision of those “à la Eyskens, Spaak and Lefèvre”. Had they not called for peace in the Middle East while remaining silent on the Vietnam War? Had they not capitalized on the Jews’ suffering at Nazi hands while remaining blind to racism in South Africa and Rhodesia or oppression under military dictatorships in Southern Europe?⁶² For Blume, there was no doubt that Israel had attacked, but this was no longer the priority issue: “I believe that the role of the Soviet Union in the ‘ceasefire’ must be highlighted in order to respond to the contemptuous campaign on the Soviet position,” she advised PCB member René Noël, emphasizing the need for a clear recognition of Israel’s borders and a solution, at long last, for the Palestinian refugees of 1948.⁶³ Secondly, the peace activists relativized the division among progressive organizations, striving to look at the future with optimism. It was stated that “the modern peace movement, which had its difficult beginnings in the iciest period of the Cold War, around 1949 – 1950, and which now thought it could see its strength and unity grow, [finds] itself at an important stage of its development with this new Palestinian crisis.”⁶⁴ It was also stated that, yes, some had been emotionally driven to join street protests alongside Eyskens, Spaak and Lefèvre; however, the peace activists insisted, many others had also restrained from this pro-Israel fervor. UBDP/BUVV members thus rejoiced that several institutions and organizations, including the socialist unions and the 8 May Movement, had issued sensible resolutions in the midst of the war.⁶⁵ Blume herself wrote to the AAPSO Secretary in Cairo, that the “pro-Israel hysteria” had not swept

 Ibid.  André De Smet, “Politiek en… moraal,” Vrede, July 1967, 1.  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: Note from Isabelle Blume to René Noël, c. June 1967.  Herman Balthazar, “De vredesbeweging en Israël,” Vrede, August-September 1967, 4.  Dubosch, Le dossier israélo-arabe (Brussels, c. 1967), 21; CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Conflit israéloarabe: Résolution du Conseil fédéral de l’UBDP sur le Moyen-Orient (Brussels, 16 June 1967).

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through all of the country, as Belgian workers and parliament, for instance, had not indulged it.⁶⁶ To be fair, such resolutions were narrow victories often reflecting their authors’ circumspection. The Belgian Senate indeed showed moderation during the conflict. This attitude heralded a rebalancing of Belgian external relations in favor of the Arab states whose demands, admittedly, had often been neglected.⁶⁷ Christian democrat Minister of Foreign Affairs Pierre Harmel, who would become instrumental to this new policy of equilibrium, also received a delegation from the 8 May Movement during the war.⁶⁸ Still, none of the calls for peace and dialogue, whether from the parliamentary institutions or civil organizations, fully endorsed the WPC’s interpretation of the events. The same was true for the socialist trade union (FGBT/ABVV) which was part of the International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU), along with Arab unions and the Histadrut, the only Israeli union and a historic pillar of the Zionist project in Palestine. Such promiscuity resulted in Belgian unionists struggling to find a middle-ground position, insisting once more that Israel could not be allowed to disappear but also that the Palestinian refugee problem should be settled at last. This was followed up by very little action other than the consensual, almost empty resolution of the FGBT/ABVV national bureau, which accounted for the visit from Histadrut delegates in September 1967.⁶⁹ In contrast with Spaak’s one-sided stance, however, a number of social democratic senators and MPs had expressed more nuanced positions. Each are all the more worthy of notice as nobody would have questioned their support to the Jews in Israel. Unlike in the case of Vietnam, LBDH observer Jules Wolf testified several times that, according to his field observations, Israel had not breached humanitarian law during the conflict.⁷⁰ Yet, he accepted the more

 CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Informations générales Caire 1969: Letter from Isabelle Blume to Youssef El Sebai, 28 June 1967.  About the parliamentary debates and resolutions during and following June 1967 and the new Belgian policy towards the Middle East, see De Raeymaeker, België en de Israëlisch-Arabische Conflicten; see also Brigitte Herremans, “Belgium and the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict. The Cautious Pursuit of a Just Peace,” Studia Diplomatica 66/4 (2013): 77– 94.  “Réactions en Belgique. M. Harmel a reçu le chargé d’affaires de la RAU et des représentants du ‘Mouvement du 8 mai’,” Le Soir, 7 June 1967, 6.  Amsab-ISG, FGTB/ABVV bureauverslagen en nota’s: Minutes of the Bureau meetings of 6 June and 19 September 1967.  “Me Jules Wolf de la Ligue belge des droits de l’homme: ‘Israël respecte scrupuleusement les conventions de Genève’,” Le Soir, 18 – 19 June 1967, 3; “Une confirmation de l’observateur de la Ligue des droits de l’homme,” Le Soir, 24 June 1967, 3.

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nuanced report another LBDH observer brought back later the same year.⁷¹ Henri Rolin, for his part, signed with Guy Cudell a call for peace and dialogue issued by Jewish antiracist activists. Blume readily circulated this call even though she found that it was not far-reaching enough on the question of Palestinian refugees. As president of the WPC, and out of consideration for her Arab partners, she personally could not sign it.⁷² One recalls that Guy Cudell and Ernest Glinne had long been fighting racism and xenophobia, especially in the context of Maghrebi workers flowing into the country during the 1960s. This is no doubt what ultimately drove them both to sign a manifesto in many ways more assertive than the previous call to peace: this new text had been outlined by the young publishers of Le Point, a New Left periodical, before it had been revised by Marcel Liebman as the war drew to a close.⁷³ While Glinne explained to the press that he merely intended to denounce the recent anti-Arab campaign, he did not necessarily approve of everything written in the said manifesto. Indeed, Liebman had deliberately chosen to stress the Israeli nation’s right to exist, rather than the Israeli state’s: underlying this choice of words was the author’s avowed criticism of Zionism and support for a binational state solution, with Jews and Muslims living as equal.⁷⁴ Whether or not all signatories shared Liebman’s opinions, Blume saw opportunity knocking: among them were moderate scholars, activists and public figures who were distressed by the inflammatory reactions to the war – justifiably – but there were also some the severest critics of Israel one could find outside of the UBDP/BUVV. She would have to work with them to rebuild support for the Arab cause in the years to come.

 Jean-Pierre Orban, Pierre Mertens. Le siècle pour mémoire (Brussels: Les Impressions Nouvelles, 2018): 153 – 158; Interview with Pierre Mertens, Brussels, 5 June 2017.  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: “Comité d’Initiative pour la Paix au Moyen-Orient,” 9 June 1967, and note from Isabelle Blume to René Noël, c. June 1967.  Interview with Hugues Le Paige, Brussels, 19 December 2017.  “Comme si vous y étiez: conflit israélo-arabe,” Combat, 13 June 1967, 2; “Un communiqué du comité belge pour Israël: Mise au point par le député Glinne concernant un manifeste,” Le Soir, 24 June 1967, 3. Letter of Marcel Liebman to Ralph Miliband, 5 June 1967, and letter of Miliband to Liebman, 2 July1967, in Gilbert Achcar, The Israeli Dilemma: A Debate between Two Left-Wing Jews: Letters between Marcel Liebman and Ralph Miliband (London: Merlin Press, 2006), 57, 65.

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The road to Cairo and advent of Al Fatah New efforts to shed a different light on the situation of the Middle East would deploy through International Conferences in Support of Arab Peoples, which the WPC sponsored in 1967 and 1969. The two conferences were designed to promote an agenda for an international diplomatic action against Israel, based on two main themes. The first was the theme of “peace”, which emphasized the USSR’s positive role in declaring a cease-fire and later adopting Security Council Resolution 242.⁷⁵ While the WPC supported UN decisions as peace instruments, Israel refused to implement them, which ridiculed the organization’s authority and thus endangered global peace.⁷⁶ Such arguments were also in line with the feeling that the imperialist forces were deploying a full-fledged attack on multiple fronts (what Khaled Mohieddin, in Geneva, had called the heterogeneous expressions of a no less “collective imperialism”).⁷⁷ This feeling now fed on both the Arab-Israeli war and the Colonels’ coup in Greece in 1967. In fact, there was little tangible proof that a connection existed between the two events. But in the communist discourse, the close timing of these events effectively linked the U.S.’s alleged support to colonial and oppressive regimes worldwide with the Israeli “threat” to global peace and European security.⁷⁸ The next year, Blume asserted at an anti-imperialist conference in Rome that the same dark forces had been at work both in Greece and in the Middle East.⁷⁹ Yet another item thus added up to the list of grievances against Israel.

 Adopted on 22 November 1967, Resolution 242 essentially called the belligerents to acknowledge each other’s sovereignty and integrity, while also calling Israel to withdraw “from territories occupied in the recent conflict.”  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, IIe Conférence Mondiale de Soutien aux Peuples Arabes: “Lettre d’invitation à la Réunion Internationale Préparatoire de la IIe Conférence Mondiale de Soutien aux Peuples Arabes,” Lahti, 18 – 19 November 1968.  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: Brochure of the International Institute for Peace (IIP) in Vienna, Un problème du Moyen-Orient: Conflit israélo-arabe. Documents du Conseil Mondiale de la Paix (c. 1967), 37.  About the wide range of issues raised by Communist campaigns of solidarity with Greece and, more specifically, Blume’s visit there in January 1968, see Kim Christiaens, “‘Communists are no Beasts:’ European Solidarity Campaigns on Behalf of Democracy and Human Rights in Greece and East-West Détente in the 1960s and Early 1970s,” Contemporary European History 26/4 (2017): 621– 646.  Blume, Le mouvement de la paix: 169 – 170; CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: Conférence des forces progressistes et anti-impérialistes des pays de la Méditerranée, Rome, 17 March 1968. In this document, see the Greek delegate’s address in particular.

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The second theme was that of “justice”. It stressed the need for a fair settlement of the pressing Palestinian refugee issue. Here, the UBDP/BUVV’s position seemed carefully balanced. On the one hand, Blume’s empathy for the Palestinians’ plight and their national claims was real: “We owe [underaged refugees] bread, education and a homeland,” she wrote in an international plea to pressure governments into increasing their contributions to the UNRWA,⁸⁰ and to collect food and winter supplies, as was already done by Entr’Aide Socialiste and Caritas Catholica in Belgium.⁸¹ On the other hand, the organization’s communiqués sternly condemned Arab and Palestinian calls to armed struggle.⁸² One hypothesis is that, after the Arabs’ crushing defeat, Blume’s entourage still saw the Palestinian guerrilla merely as an Arab auxiliary corps and did not take seriously its ability to challenge Tsahal’s⁸³ military hegemony. In any case, they knew that guerilla forces could hardly count as a “peace” actor in the region. As such, these armed groups were not worth risking another blow – after Ahmad Shukeiri’s regrettable outburst –, especially since Western opinion had identified them as part of the legion that threatened Israeli Jews with extermination. Before long, the political rise of the Palestinian revolution on the international scene of events would yet again challenge these views. The second International Conference in Support of Arab Peoples was scheduled to convene in Cairo in January 1969. It was to be a landmark of international solidarity, bringing together delegates from different horizons, backgrounds and networks. In fact, the Peace Movement and the Arab regimes needed new international support after several disrupting events had harmed their overall credibility. By March 1968, following the anti-Semitic purges conducted in Poland under the cover of anti-Zionism, “accusations from the communist side that anti-Semitism was a West-German monopoly [had been] replaced with anticommunist accusations of anti-Semitic campaigns orchestrated in Cairo and Moscow.”⁸⁴ To make things worse, Warsaw Pact troops had then invaded Czechoslo-

 The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA) was created in 1949 following the first Arab-Israeli war to alleviate living conditions in refugee camps in the West Bank and the neighboring Arab countries.  CArCoB, IB, CMP 4, Présidence CMP: Written call from Isabelle Blume to support the UNRWA, c. 1968.  CArCoB, Jean Terfve (JT), 73/01: “Note sur la position du PCB sur les événement du MoyenOrient” and “Note de Dubosch pour la régionale de Bruxelles. Accord sur la résolution de l’ONU du 22/11/67,” 1967; IB, PO/MA, Conflit israélo-arabe: “Résolution du Conseil fédéral de l’UBDP sur le Moyen-Orient,” Brussels, 16 June 1967.  Tsahal is the modern Hebrew acronym for the Israel Defense Forces.  Pieter Lagrou, “Victims of Genocide and National Memory: Belgium, France and the Netherlands,” Past & Present 154 (1997): 219.

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vakia, ending the celebrated “Prague Spring” and undermining by the same token the credibility of the peace organizations with organic ties with the USSR. This Blume could not allow: she took it upon herself to condemn the invasion, which would cost her the WPC’s coordinating presidency in 1969.⁸⁵ Belgian activists did their part to ensure a large attendance at the conference in Cairo. Their success depended on reaching beyond the communist circles. Back in 1967, Liebman’s manifesto had served as the founding document of the Committee for Peace and Justice in the Middle East (CPJMO) advocating henceforth that “the acceptance of the Israeli entity by the Arab world in whose center it is located […] can only be the result and not the prerequisite of a process that involves a profound change in Israeli policy.”⁸⁶ The committee had been joined by the editors of Le Point and more seasoned anti-colonial activists: its secretary was Luc Somerhausen, a Marxist lawyer, early supporter of Congo’s independence, and the former leader (aka “Alex”) of the Belgian Jeanson network. Assisted by the UBDP/BUVV and Khaled Mohieddin – who visited them while touring Western Europe – the committee’s members started collecting signatures in support of the coming conference in Cairo.⁸⁷ Ernest Glinne added his name once more to the list. The impressive turnout far exceeded the most daring hopes of the Cairo conference’s organizers, as French journalist Eric Rouleau noted.⁸⁸ But in the end, rather than fostering unity, the event caused yet another commotion when Palestinian revolutionaries stole the show. Al Fatah was a Palestinian party whose armed component had gallantly fought Tsahal on the battlefield of Karameh in March 1968. Capitalizing on their sudden notoriety, the party’s representatives used their speaking time at the conference to reject Resolution 242 along with the diplomatic roadmap to “peace and justice”; instead, they called for replacing the Zionist state by a democratic and secular Palestinian state where Muslims, Christians and Jews could thrive together.⁸⁹ The revolutionary theory

 Gotovitch, “Isabelle Blume,” 26.  Seraing, IHOES, Périodiques: “La lutte pro-palestinienne en Belgique,” Fidayine (January 1970).  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Le Caire: II Conférence de Soutien aux Peuples Arabes: Letter of invitation to the conference from Rosy Holender (UBDP), 12 December 1968.  Éric Rouleau, “Un clivage semble se dessiner entre partisans et adversaires d’une solution pacifique,” Le Monde, 28 January 1969, www.lemonde.fr/archives.  Address by the Al-Fateh Delegation to the Second International Conference in Support of the Arab Peoples (Cairo, January 1969), www.freedomarchives.org/Documents /Finder/DOC12_ scans/12.address. by.al-fateh.1969.pdf.

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they thus expressed divided the conference attendees between two camps but also elevated Al Fatah to power within the PLO in the following months.⁹⁰ Blume herself had managed to bring a dozen delegates to the Cairo conference, though such accomplishments ended up being obscured by Al Fatah’s trashing of her plan for “peace and justice.” Still, it is worth noticing the presence of two members of the International Association of Democratic Lawyers (IADL) among the Belgian delegation. The first was Jean Salmon, a former UNWRA employee, and a rising specialist of international law at the Free University of Brussels (ULB). As chair of the legal committee of the conference, he spent hours with Al Fatah’s head delegate trying to insert the latter’s most progressive ideas into the conference’s final resolutions.⁹¹ Perhaps this is also why Liebman came back from the conference with the feeling that the situation had definitely improved. It was later shown that he had mistaken Al Fatah’s vision for the binational state that he had been advertising himself since the Algerian War.⁹² The second jurist was Paulette Pierson-Mathy, a recognized expert on the South African apartheid who would now become – under Blume’s auspice – a rising leader of solidarity with the African National Congress (ANC) in the early 1970s. This furthered the rapprochements initiated six years earlier in Dar es Salam.⁹³

 Éric Rouleau, “Les adversaires d’un règlement pacifique ont dominé la conférence de solidarité avec les peuples arabes,” Le Monde, 30 January 1969, www.lemonde.fr/archives. About this period, see chapter six of Gilbert Achcar, The Arabs and the Holocaust (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2010), 221– 243.  Interview with Jean Salmon, Brussels, 5 February 2016. The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA) was created in 1949 following the first Arab-Israeli war. Salmon worked there as Assistant Legal Counsellor from 1958 to 1961 after having graduated in Public International Law at the Law Faculty of Paris and won the Carnegie Endowment’s Prize for published work on International Organization in 1957.  Marcel Liebman, “Une victoire palestinienne,” Mai 3 (February 1969), www.institutliebman. be/archives/victoire%20palestinienne.pdf; Achcar, The Israeli Dilemma, 73.  Blume already knew Pierson-Mathy as the author of La politique raciale de la république d’Afrique du Sud (Brussels: Institut Royal des Relations Internationales, 1964), one of the few references on the Apartheid’s legal framework at the time. In Cairo, she convinced her to translate this expertise into active solidarity with the ANC. Interview with Paulette Pierson-Mathy, Brussels, 14 June 2018. Also see the work of Charel Roemer in chapter 9 of this volume.

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Beyond the Palestinian revolution: Blume’s legacy in the 1970s Palestinian head of delegation Nabeel Shaath made a strong impression on the Belgian delegates in Cairo, even though they did not yet grasp the full meaning of his speech. In the following months, Al Fatah’s progressive language of “democracy” and “secularism” drew more followers in the Western left, many of whom now saw the Palestinian guerrilla as embodying the trending concept of “new resistance.”⁹⁴ In Belgium, some in Isabelle Blume’s entourage were still undecided when others, like Luc Somerhausen, distanced themselves from the diplomatic solution to support the Palestinian armed revolution. Initiatives such as his, with the backing or interference of New Left groups, would later give rise to several Palestine committees. The social and cultural relevance of these committees as research objects is neither denied nor discussed in the present chapter.⁹⁵ Having officially ruled out armed struggle as a solution for the Middle East, the communist peace activists were in no immediate position to benefit from the positive representations that the Fedayeen (the Palestinian freedom fighters) enjoyed among the radical youth and Arab immigrants. This left them in the awkward position of supporting the Palestinian movement of liberation while rejecting its chosen modus operandi. Jean Dubosch later explained that this position had resulted from the original need to satisfy the demands of the “nonannexionist Israelis, the reasonable Palestinians, and the neighboring Arab states” – a good reflection of how the WPC, as meeting a place, had grown into a Tower of Babel. This, Dubosch added, made it very difficult for the supporters of the Peace Movement – who had been rightly underlining “the great seriousness of the situation in the Middle East” for years – to take “practical action in this area of the struggle for peace and against imperialism.”⁹⁶  About the notion of “new resistance” in the context of May 1968, see Henry Rousso, Le syndrome de Vichy de 1944 à nos jours (Paris: Seuil, 1987), 119. The term “résistants palestiniens” was notably coined in France on 27 March 1968: see Samir Kassir and Farouk Mardam-Bey, Itinéraires de Paris à Jérusalem. La France et le conflit israélo-arabe, tome II: 1958 – 1991 (Paris: Les livres de la Revue d’études Palestiniennes, 1993), 168; see also Alya Aglan, “Les associations de résistants et le conflit israélo-palestinien,” Matériaux pour l’histoire de notre temps 96/4 (2009): 17.  See Nieuwenhuys, “La cause palestinienne”; Nicolas Wollseifen, “Soutien belge à la cause palestinienne, 1967– 1976: une solidarité constructive” (MA thesis, Université de Liège, 1996).  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Moyen-Orient: “Note de Jean Dubosch sur la question palestinienne,” c. 1973.

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Fig. 24: A poster of the Palestine Committee of Leuven, which was the first Palestine committee in Belgium. It celebrates the emergence of the Palestinian guerrilla at the battle of Karameh in March 1968. The text underlines the unity of the tricontinental struggles against the “same enemy”. Mission of Palestine in Brussels, Archives Comité National Palestine (CNP), Activités 1.

Blume’s own setback in the WPC after the Prague events of 1968, and the movement’s gradual loss of influence in the solidarity networks of the early 1970s, certainly added to the “Palestinian crisis”. The WPC was facing additional challenges with its difficult conversion as a UN NGO while, incidentally, its members were seeking to overcome their internal divisions regarding the Palestinian revolution by focusing on the “racist” nature of the Zionist state – an increasing-

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ly unifying theme.⁹⁷ Strikingly enough, IPC members were now expressing how they regretted Blume’s leadership since, despite their mutual disagreements during her presidency, she had never made “Zionism” the central point of debate.⁹⁸ Such praises may come across as unexpected since the current discussions derived in a way from the rapprochements she had favored in her times. But in the end, perhaps it vouches for her ability, as coordinating president, to keep her Tower of Babel standing. Through this ability, she maintained contact between actors with more conflicted sensibilities than what is usually thought about anti-imperialist networks during the Cold War. She certainly demonstrated the same ability on the Belgian scene. Indeed, the fact that Blume could not prevent activists from joining the Palestinian revolution does not mean that she instantly lost her famous ability to bridge differences and leverage public opinion. The CPJMO thus kept releasing a newsletter under a publishing committee now reuniting anti-apartheid activist Paulette Pierson-Mathy with, among others, Marcel Liebman and RTB reporter Willy Estersohn.⁹⁹ Blume herself kept sending opinions to daily press organs. She was not always successful, but even when they turned her down, the press editors respectfully expressed their disagreement with how she had presented her views, and asked if she would consider submitting a different choice of words.¹⁰⁰ The least one can say is that Blume never backed away from her overall positions on how wrong Israeli policy had turned. This was evidenced in a text she only found the time to write in July 1970, whilst resting at the Bad-Elster sanatorium in the German Democratic Republic (where, in fact, she appeared to be working intensively, seeing the East German documentation on Israel’s imperialist nature she had sent there to her).¹⁰¹ She entitled her text, “Why did I defend unreservedly, and sometimes blindly, the cause of persecuted Jews.” In this response to the IPC, Blume explained why she had recently declared that applauding the Zionist state’s creation in 1948 had been a mistake. She recounted her

 About the WPC’s conversion into a UN NGO, see Günter Wernicke, “The Unity of Peace and Socialism? The World Peace Council on a Cold War Tightrope between the Peace Struggle and Intrasystemic Communist Conflicts,” Peace and Change 26/3 (2001): 332– 351.  CArCoB, IB, PO/Asie du Sud-Est: Aide-mémoire by the IPC about the forthcoming World Congress of Peace Forces in Moscow, 25 – 31 October 1973.  CArCoB, Paulette Pierson-Mathy (PPM), Palestine: Solidarité belge: Moyen-Orient Information 1 (Brussels, 1970). Note that Pierson-Mathy’s archives are being deposited just now at the CArCoB and that their labeling is temporary.  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Divers: Letter to Isabelle Blume from Jacques Guyaux, chief editor of Le Journal et Indépendance in Charleroi, 6 March 1970.  CArCoB, IB, Manuscrits 1: Manuscrit brochure sur Israël 1967; letter from Günter Posselt to Isabelle Blume, 9 July 1970.

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visit to Israel during its war of independence when she and her friends were nourishing “foolish dreams” and preparing to welcome there the children whom she had met in the liberated camps of Buchenwald and Bergen Belsen. “American imperialism,” by contrast, “had already made plans that were otherwise more realistic than ours and were beginning to make Israel its instrument in the Middle East.” While on the subject, she emphasized how she had been helping Jews as early as the 1920s and through a period when the Belgian Ministry of Foreign Affairs was allegedly befriending Hitler’s ambassador: “If I report this fact,” she added, “it is not to overwhelm P.-H. Spaak, but to explain to all those who showed enthusiastic attachment to Israel after the 1967 aggression, that they were following those who were not present at the truly difficult time to defend the persecuted Jews.”¹⁰² Yet, Blume’s criticism of her own enthusiasm in 1948 also implied the recognition that “at that moment Spaak [had been] wiser than all of us” – which she never admitted publicly.¹⁰³ It is not to say that Belgian peace activists entirely gave up on their projects for a progressive Israel. This is why Blume summoned, in her Bad Elster testimony, the generous declarations of the IPC’s founding members, and recalled what their vision for the new state had been initially. Likewise, UBDP/BUVV members discussed joining the World Peace Assembly of June 1969, in East Berlin, with a specific proposal: to convene a ground-breaking conference in Brussels with twenty delegates from the Arab countries and twenty from the “nonannexionist” Israeli left. Their purpose was to lay out the groundwork for peaceful coexistence. Entrepreneur Bernard “Dov” Liebermann, the Jewish patron of this idealistic project, even had a portion of the necessary funds ready. He was convinced that the success of such a conference would help the participants “improve the situation in their respective spheres, by increasing the prestige and influence of progressive and anti-reactionary movements against all chauvinist and leftist extremism.”¹⁰⁴ This specific project stalled and it was with increasing difficulty that Blume kept calling for a third conference for “Peace and Justice in the Middle East” to be held in Western Europe. In the end, after much discus-

 CArCoB, IB, Manuscrits 1: Brochure 1967, “Pourquoi je défendis, sans réserve et parfois aveuglément la cause des juifs persécutes?” (Bad-Elster, 1970).  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: Note from Isabelle Blume to René Noël, c. June 1967.  CArCoB, JT, 73/02: Letter from Bernard Liebermann to Rosy Hollender, 8 June 1969; Note to the UBDP/BUVV, “Projet d’une conférence israélo-arabe à Bruxelles pour une paix négociée au Moyen-Orient,” c. June 1969.

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sion, a conference on Palestine was organized in Bologna by Italian communists and social democrats, in May 1973.¹⁰⁵ Around the time of attending this final conference, Jean Dubosch initiated a critical reflection on the need for revising the Belgian peace activists’ initial stance. There had been good reasons for them to keep distances with the movement of solidarity with the Palestinian resistance, he conceded. Still, their resulting position was too impractical and did not serve them beyond the communist spheres of influence.¹⁰⁶ In fact, Dubosch’s own position had recently evolved after the left-wing Christian periodical La Revue Nouvelle had published a special issue on Palestinians.¹⁰⁷ A variety of intellectuals beyond the New Left had expressed their insights on the matter on this occasion. Among them were for instance: Jean Salmon and Paulette Pierson-Mathy who, since the Cairo conference, had often written and talked about the Palestinians’ right to selfdetermination; a handful of Marxist Jews who shared the worldview of an imperialist West perpetuating racist oppression, including in Israel; Palestinian intellectuals Naïm and Bichara Khader, two brothers with diplomas from the Catholic University of Leuven who advertised in Belgium their people’s reality with academic precision, etc. Such insights now provided Dubosch with the keys he had been lacking to appreciate that “the basic mistake […] is to balance in theory the national rights of Israelis and Palestinians (by sacrificing, in practice, the latter).” Indeed, the lawyer went on, this was leaving out that “Zionism, the only ideological foundation of the state of Israel, is a colonialist doctrine.” The same logic applied to the closing argument that “it is not more accurate to speak of national rights or the right to self-determination for Israelis than it is for the white people in South Africa or Rhodesia, or than it was for the million Pieds Noirs in Algeria. The situation is basically the same and […] the persecution of Jews in Europe does not change anything to this.”¹⁰⁸ Dubosch and Blume finally sponsored and helped found a new periodical, Situations Moyen-Orient: its numerous contributors included Trotskyist, antiracist, union and development aid actors. Between October 1973 (following the fourth Arab-Israeli war) and April 1974, they also convened with activists from the same networks at left-wing rallies, some of which harnessed public interest.

 Isabelle Blume, “En quête de la vérité,” Combat, 5 March 1970, 8 – 9; CArCoB, IB, PO/MA: International Conference for Peace and Justice in the Middle-East, Bologna, 11– 13 May 1967.  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Moyen-Orient: “Note de Jean Dubosch sur la question palestinienne,” c. 1973.  Les Palestiniens sans Palestine [Special Issue]. La Revue Nouvelle 57/4 (April 1974).  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Moyen-Orient: “Note de Jean Dubosch sur la question palestinienne,” c. 1973.

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Yet, here again, attempts to define the prerequisites of a “responsible solidarity” with the Palestinians partly reflected the participants’ perplexity in the face of internal disagreements within the PLO, after another Arab defeat against Israel.¹⁰⁹ Ideological tensions eased up when a majority at the PLO implicitly renounced part of the goals which Al Fatah had proclaimed in Cairo: this opened a path for a negotiated solution to the conflict, which was celebrated at the UN and effectively concluded the first act of the Palestinian national emancipation.¹¹⁰ The next year, the PLO officiously opened a liaison office in Brussels, backed by the newest Belgian-Palestinian Association (ABP), which now lobbied for the organization’s official recognition by the Belgian government. Journalist Robert Verdussen was among the few who recalled that the ABP – which is still active today – was initially founded in a meeting at Blume’s residence.¹¹¹ Most of the association’s founding members originated from the network sponsoring Situations Moyen-Orient, which included members of Dubosch’s UBDP/BUVV.¹¹² The same periodical, before it transformed into the ABP’s publication, paid a last tribute to Blume as she passed away (aged 82), praising her early empathy for the Palestinians’ plight, her capacity for self-criticism, and the ground she had thus covered since 1948. Her sponsoring of the periodical, the obituary’s author insisted, had been much more than just a “moral guarantee”.¹¹³ In a way, the association was ensuring continuity with both her anti-imperialist struggle and working method, while also closing the gap with the humanitarian and development cooperation organizations now increasingly taking the floor in solidarity movements.  “Situations Moyen-Orient,” Combat,10 May 1973, 2; Amsab-ISG, APL 288/424: “Meeting de soutien,” Situations Moyen-Orient 3 (October–November 1973): 19, and APL 288/309: “2e congrès du SRPPA,” Palestine SRPPA-Informations 6/19 (February – April 1974): 1; CArCoB, PPM, Palestine: Solidarité belge: Leaflet from the SRPPA, “Pour une solidarité responsable,” 27 April 1974.  See Arafat’s speech of 1974 before the UN General Assembly in “Palestine at the United Nations,” Journal of Palestine Studies (Winter 1975): 181– 192. His promise to “establish an independent national state on all liberated Palestinian territory” followed up on a ten-point program adopted on 8 June 1974, at the 12th Session of the Palestine National Council (PNC).  La Revue Nouvelle’s editor Jean Delfosse was instrumental in setting up the ABP, with material and financial aid from a Flemish far-left organization and the Libyan embassy. See Robert Verdussen, Naïm Khader: Prophète foudroyé du peuple palestinien (1939 – 1981) (Brussels: Le Cri, 2001): 149 – 150.  Among the founding members was Jack Houssa, a Communist militant whom Dubosch had asked to follow up on the Palestinian issue for the UBDP as of 1973. His archives have been deposited recently at the CArCoB and contain rare, first-hand information on the ABP’s inception.  CArCoB, PPM, Palestine: Solidarité belge: “La mort d’une amie: Isabelle Blume,” Situations Moyen-Orient 10 (April-May 1973): 13.

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Conclusion Communist agency played an important role in connecting different causes and, through arenas like the WPC, offered a gateway to the Global South. Isabelle Blume’s militant itinerary is evidence that the evolution of the Zionist state – which found itself “on the wrong side of history” during the high times of decolonization – was a central theme in such arenas. It became embedded in wider global struggles, first in reference to Congo and Algeria, then Greece and South Africa. The testimonies collected in the Arab countries and the contributions to humanitarian campaigns also show that the communist peace activists were far from merely acting as a Soviet fifth column. They were driven by the ongoing oppression in the Third World – which they compared, however rashly, to what they themselves had experienced during the preceding war, or even the 1930s. At the same time, solidarity with or against Israel entertained closer links with the competing discourses on the legacy of Nazi violence (notably against the Jews) than most Third World-related issues. This raised specific problems, as became evident when communist peace activists brought new accusations against Israel with antifascist references while, for many in the wider progressive left, the latter remained “a place of refuge for those who [had] survived Hitler’s massacres.”¹¹⁴ Anticommunist verbal attacks against the Arab and Soviet camps further encouraged divergences. But so did some of Isabelle Blume’s errors: her misplaced trust in Arab leaders like Ahmad Shukeiri, her apparent lack of empathy for the Israeli peace activists’ loyalty conflict and, lastly, her sometimes dogmatic insistence that the USSR was the one true promotor of “peace”. For all these reasons, the particular issue of the Middle East is one that divided the wider peace front Blume had hoped to see forming in Belgium from the early 1960s. The same difficulties might also explain why the communist camp focused on Vietnam, and why other causes such as Vietnam became fare more successful in mobilizing Belgian public opinion. Yet, Isabelle Blume remained personally involved in the Middle East issue and even managed to contribute relevantly to the Palestinian cause until her death in the mid-1970s. This achievement certainly vouches for her ability to play down passions and bridge differences (which in a way was consubstantial with her ability to look past unpleasant truths) as well as the overall respect she still enjoyed. Without a long-view social and intellectual history dimension, one might assume that support of the Zionist cause in the 1950s – 1960s was the absolute  CArCoB, IB, PO/MA, Israël: Letter from Jacob Majus to Isabelle Blume, 12 January 1967.

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norm in Western countries, while there might be fairly substantial arguments for a different interpretation. We know, of course, that Soviet support of the Zionists in 1947 was opportunistic, unnatural, and short-lived, but this does not exhaust the reasons why anti-imperialist activists in the West grew increasingly disenchanted with Israel. Looking at Blume’s life-long fight in defense of the persecuted against imperialism, as she described it herself, one finds that supporting Zionism in the late 1940s seemed a momentary lapse for some in the Belgian progressive left. In contrast, the 1960s and 1970s witnessed their return to a standpoint that was more culturally and politically consistent with their overall careers. The tradition Blume then returned to was not one of left-wing antiSemitism, which she had fiercely opposed in the interwar period. Instead, she tried to uphold her internationalist and antifascist beliefs in the context of changing alliances. The Middle East issue, in this respect, proved an enormous challenge.

Abbreviations ANC: LBDH: ABP: AAPSO: CArCoB: CPJMO: FGTB/ABVV: HAEU: IB: ICFTU: IHOES: IIP: IPC: JT: Mapam: MRAP: NATO: PCB/KPB: PLO: PO/MA:

African National Congress Ligue Belge pour la défense de Droits de l’Homme (Belgian League for the Defence of the Rights of Man) Association belgo-palestinienne (Belgian-Palestinian Association) Afro-Asian People’s Solidarity Organisation Centre des Archives Communistes de Belgique Comité pour la Paix et la Justice au Moyen-Orient (Committee for Peace and Justice in the Middle East) Fédération Générale du Travail de Belgique/Algemeen Belgisch Vakverbond (General Federation of Belgian Labor) Historical Archives of the European Union Archives Isabelle Blume International Confederation of Free Trade Unions Institut d’histoire ouvrière économique et sociale International Institute for Peace Israeli Peace Committee Archives Jean Terfve Israel’s United Workers Party Mouvement contre le racisme et pour l’amitié entre les peuples (Movement against Racism and for the Friendship between the Peoples North Atlantic Treaty Organization Parti communiste de Belgique/Kommunistische Partij van België (Belgian Communist Party) Palestinian Liberation Organization Proche-Orient et Monde Arabe (Near East and Arab World)

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PPM: PSB/BSP: SRPPA:

Archives Paulette Pierson-Mathy Parti socialiste belge/Belgische Socialistische Partij (Belgian Socialist Party) Solidarité avec la Résistance Palestinienne et les Peuples Arabes (Solidarity with the Palestinian Resistance and the Arab Peoples) Tsahal: Israel Defense Forces UBDP/BUVV: Union belge pour la défense de la paix/Belgische Unie voor de Verdediging van de Vrede (Belgian Union for the Defence of Peace) UIRD: Union Internationale de la Résistance et de la Déportation (International Union of Resistance and Deportation) UN: United Nations UNRWA: United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East UPJB: Union Progressiste des Juifs de Belgique (Union of Progressive Jews of Belgium) USSR: Union of Soviet Socialist Republics WPC/CMP: World Peace Council/Conseil mondial de la paix

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Peter van Dam

Chapter 11 Dutch Unions’ Solidarity with the Third World (1950s – 1970s) Reappraising Transnational Solidarity as an Entangled History of Globalization If the trade union movement and its members here in the Netherlands were truly solidary, they would introduce an additional charge to their membership fee, in order to support the trade union movement in developing countries. But that is impossible. The people don’t want to and the unions don’t dare introduce such an additional fee.¹

This plea for more far-reaching solidarity with the Global South addressed all the members of Dutch Catholic trade unions in 1972. Clearly, the editors of the Catholic trade union periodical which published this message were not satisfied with the extent of the solidarity of the union’s leadership and rank and file. Why did they think that appeals for radical solidarity with workers in the developing world were worthwhile? And why did their overtures fail to produce the desired results? From the 1950s through to the 1970s, the major Dutch trade unions attempted to mobilize their members in support of development aid projects for workers in the Global South. At first undertaken by the separate Catholic, Protestant, and social democratic trade union federations, these initiatives eventually converged in a joint attempt by the three main Dutch federations to foster support for assistance to workers in developing countries during the 1970s. Although radical union members were highly critical of the results, the attempts to mobilize union members in support of the Global South in fact highlight the remarkable revaluation of a global framework in the post-war Low Countries. International solidarity in the Low Countries has recently drawn renewed interest from historians. Trade unions stand quite awkwardly in this burgeoning field of transnational activism, however. They have often been contrasted with new social movements, which are commonly regarded as the cradle of transnational activism. Although trade unions have usually operated under the assumption of a joint cause that workers share across national borders, this transnational engagement has not usually been a primary concern in their

 Amsterdam, Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (IISG), L11/674: ONKERST. Gezamenlijke uitgave van de NKV bladen (1972). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-012

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actual operations. Moreover, the enthusiasm among officials and the rank and file for such issues has not been unequivocal. However, it is exactly this ambiguity which enables a better understanding of how transnational frames of reference are connected to the local and national in people’s daily lives. From the 1950s until the 1970s, transnational frames subjoined rather than supplanted other spatial markers of solidarity. Expanding the history of solidarity to include different spatial frames of reference, a broader range of social movements, and a longer time-frame, the history of transnational activism becomes relevant to a social history of globalization during the post-war era. This chapter first demonstrates how the concept of transnational solidarity provides a better understanding of the growing importance of a global perspective among trade unions during the 1950s and 1960s. Subsequently, it analyses the attempts at radicalizing the unions’ solidarity with the Third World within the three main Dutch trade unions. These attempts to foster solidarity among trade union members call into question the historiographical divisions between old and new social movements. The eventual failure to promote a more radical interpretation of solidarity within ranks of the trade unions during the 1970s forces us to rethink the ways in which the local, national, and transnational have been balanced. The chapter concludes by demonstrating how this history of transnational solidarity calls for an integration of the compartmentalized histories of civic activism and a reassessment of the ways in which a global framework has impacted postwar society.

Conceptualizing transnational activism: the roots of union solidarity The history of trade unions’ initiatives for solidarity across national borders cannot be properly understood within a framework which separates movements with a local or national focus from those with a transnational perspective. Whereas an obligation towards workers in other parts of the world was broadly acknowledged among trade union members, the extent of this obligation and its concrete consequences were apparently contested. An analysis of the attempts to promote radical solidarity with the Global South among trade union members has to account for the rise of a global framework next to local and national frames of reference in thinking about solidarity. Employing the notion of transnational solidarity, this chapter connects notions of international solidarity which were prevalent in the history of trade unions to the methodological concept of histoire croisée. According to this ap-

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proach, in each investigation, an observer assesses which spatial frameworks were relevant to the subject, and subsequently determines their relative weight and specific interpretation by historical actors.² It follows that perspectives beyond the local and the national do not have to be a dominant presence in order to be of significance. On the contrary, the successful integration of transnational and local perspectives with national histories requires us to view these frameworks not as mutually exclusive, but as entangled frameworks.³ The notion of transnational solidarity thus highlights how international solidarity became entangled with perspectives on local and national solidarity. Post-war initiatives for international solidarity were built on transnational relations which had been established during the nineteenth century, encompassing an astounding range of issues and groups especially since the second half of the nineteenth century. Corresponding to the expansion of the number of civic organizations and the range of their concerns on a local and national level, international cooperation around economic issues, labor, intellectual issues, religious views, and humanitarian and peace activism developed.⁴ Such cooperation was often closely entwined with the colonial networks which were developed not just by state officials, but also by religious organizations, trade unions, and political parties. These pre-war networks provided activists in the

 Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann, “Vergleich, Transfer, Verflechtung. Der Ansatz der ‘Histoire Croisée’ und die Herausforderung des Transnationalen,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 28 (2002): 628 – 629; Erik Swyngedouw, “Neither global nor local: ‘glocalization’ and the politics of scale,” in Spaces of Globalization: Reasserting the Power of the Local, ed. Kevin R. Cox (New York: Guilford Press, 1997), 137– 164; Charles Tilly, “Social movements and (all sorts of) other political interactions - local, national, and international - including identities,” Theory and Society: Renewal and Critique in Social Theory 27/4 (1998): 453 – 480; Saskia Sassen, “The many scales of the global: implications for theory and for politics,” in The Postcolonial and the Global, ed. Revathi Krishnaswamy and John C. Hawley (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008), 82– 93; Angelika Epple, “Lokalität und die Dimensionen des Globalen. Eine Frage der Relationen,” Historische Anthropologie 21/1 (2013): 4– 25.  I have explored the perspective of histoire croisée in “Vervlochten geschiedenis: Hoe histoire croisée de natiestaat bedwingt,” Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 125/1 (2012): 97– 109 and the consequences of the application of this perspective to the history of third world solidarity in “The puzzle of postcolonial entanglement: fair trade activism in the 1960s and 1970s,” in Politics of Entanglement in the Americas: Connecting Transnational Flows and Local Perspectives, ed. Lukas Rehm, Jochen Kemner and Olaf Kaltmeier (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2017), 115 – 128.  Francis Stewart Leland Lyons, Internationalism in Europe, 1815 – 1914 (Leyden: Sijthoff, 1963).

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Netherlands with the knowledge and contacts to recover and develop initiatives for transnational solidarity after the Second World War.⁵ The trade union movement had presented itself as an international movement from its very inception in the nineteenth century and had built up relations across national borders accordingly. Organizations such as the Socialist Internationals and the International Federation of Christian Trade Unions (IFCTU) played an important role in its history.⁶ After the Second World War, the Social Democrat Dutch Association of Trade Unions (NVV) joined the anticommunist International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU), whilst the Protestant National Federation of Christian Trade Unions (CNV) and the Catholic Workers’ Movement (KAB, Dutch Catholic Trade Union Federation (NKV) since 1964) rejoined the IFCTU, of which the KAB-official Jos Serrarens and his colleague Herman Amelink of the CNV were prominent officials.⁷ The CNV was also the most active member of the Protestant Workers International, which it promoted next to the IFCTU by strengthening international relations between Protestant union members and deploying its officials in countries such as Canada and New Guin-

 Marc Frey, “Control, legitimacy, and the securing of interests: European development policy in South-East Asia from the late colonial period to the early 1960s,” Contemporary European History 12/4 (2003): 395 – 412; Corinna R. Unger, “Histories of development and modernization: findings, reflections, future research,” H-Soz-Kult, 2010, http://www.hsozkult.de/literaturereview/id/ forschungsberichte-1130; D. J. B. Trim and Brendan Simms, “Towards a history of humanitarian intervention,” in Humanitarian Intervention: A History, ed. Brendan Simms and D. J. B. Trim (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 1– 24; Jone Bos and G. H. A. Prince, “Partners in ontwikkeling. De beginperiode van het (kerkelijke) particuliere ontwikkelingswerk,” in De geschiedenis van vijftig jaar ontwikkelingssamenwerking 1949 – 1999, ed. Jan Nekkers, Peter Malcontent and Peer Baneke (The Hague: Sdu Uitgevers, 1999), 163 – 182, 361– 362; J.J.P. Jong, “Onder ethisch insigne. De origine van de Nederlandse ontwikkelingssamenwerking,” in De geschiedenis van vijftig jaar ontwikkelingssamenwerking 1949 – 1999, ed. Jan Nekkers, Peter Malcontent and Peer Baneke (The Hague: Sdu Uitgevers, 1999), 61– 81, 351– 355; Jan A.B. Jongeneel, “Nederlandse kerkelijke en para-kerkelijke zending na 1945,” in Twee eeuwen Nederlandse zending 1797 – 1997. Twaalf opstellen, ed. Thomas van den End (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1997), 225 – 240.  Magaly Rodriguez Garciá, ed., Labour Internationalism: Different Times, Different Faces, special issue of Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 84/4 (2006); Geert Van Goethem, De Internationale van Amsterdam. De wereld van het Internationaal Vakverbond (IVV), 1913 – 1945 (Amsterdam: Universiteit van Amsterdam, 2001); Patrick Pasture, Histoire du syndicalisme chrétien international. La difficile recherche d’une troisième voie (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1999); Peter Waterman, Globalization, Social Movements & the New Internationalisms (London: Mansell, 1998), 15 – 44. Cf. Akira Iriye, Global Community: The Role of International Organizations in the Making of the Contemporary World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002).  Ernest Hueting, Frits de Jong Edz, and Rob Neij, Naar groter eenheid. De geschiedenis van het Nederlands Verbond van Vakverenigingen 1906 – 1981 (Amsterdam: Van Gennep, 1983), 218 – 225.

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ea – although to little avail.⁸ These international organizations were predominantly rooted in the West, but they developed a strong interest in the rapidly decolonizing Global South during the 1950s, competing for a foothold in countries in Asia, Africa and South-America among each other and with communist organizations. Similar to their Belgian colleagues, Dutch union officials were active participants in these international efforts.⁹ Although international activities did not dominate the work of the national unions, transnational relations indeed became a familiar topic within the organizations and their publications during the 1950s.¹⁰ Union officials like the NVVsecretary Jan van der Wouwen voiced a strong sense of obligation towards the socalled developing world. “The industrially developed countries have the duty to help the millions of inhabitants of the large parts of the world which have not benefited from the industrial revolution,” he noted in an internal memorandum in 1956, approvingly citing a resolution by the ICFTU.¹¹ That same year the annual general congress of his trade union federation adopted a resolution which stated that “the peoples of the world are increasingly constituting one international society, in which the wealth of each depends on the cooperation between and the stability of national economies.” Therefore, the resolution continued, it was “the joint duty of all peoples (…) to raise the standards of living in the underdeveloped areas in accordance with the international capacities of production available and to the decrease the disparity between these standards of living.” The resolution finally called on the federation to prioritize this issue in its internal and external communication.¹²

 Karst Dijkstra, Beweging in beweging. Het CNV na 1945 (Utrecht: Christelijk Nationaal Vakverbond in Nederland, 1979), 241– 258; Gerrit Pruim and R.E. van der Woude, “Van monddood naar mondigheid: 40 jaar CNV-Actie Kom Over en CNV-Internationaal,” in Grenzeloos christelijk-sociaal. Internationale activiteiten van de christelijke vakbeweging, ed. G.J. Schutte (Amsterdam: Aksant, 2009), 83 – 85.  Peter van Dam, Religion und Zivilgesellschaft: Christliche Traditionen in der niederländischen und deutschen Arbeiterbewegung (Münster: Waxmann, 2010), 187– 190.  Cf. IISG, NVV, internationale dienst, 102: Ontwikkelingssamenwerking (1949 – 1959), map ontwikkelingssamenwerking 1951– 1956: H. Oosterhuis, “Nota inzake de hulp aan de economisch minder ontwikkelde gebieden,” 8 November 1951; “Trade unionism in under-developed countries,” Labour News from Britain, 10 July 1952.  IISG, NVV, internationale dienst, 102: Ontwikkelingssamenwerking (1949 – 1959): J.G. van der Wouwe, “Hulp aan onder-ontwikkelde gebieden. Actie der internationale vakbeweging,” 6 November 1956.  Ibid.: “Tekst van de resolutie, aangekomen op het jubileumcongres van het NVV.”

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The unions’ focus on solidarity across national borders connected with a sentiment prevalent among the Dutch public at the time.¹³ For example, after help for the victims of a large flood in the southwest of the Netherlands had come from all over the world, the periodical Vrij Nederland appealed to its readers: now it was their turn to provide “help to a world which called for general solidarity.” According to Chief Editor Johan Winkler, the Dutch should take the lead in global politics by establishing international solidarity as a fixed item of the national budget.¹⁴ Such sentiments were especially widespread among supporters of the Labor Party, which had merged social democrat and leftist Christian groups in 1946. The renowned economist Jan Tinbergen and some of his close collaborators were influential members of the party. Tinbergen had taken up a professorship with the division for Balanced Economic Growth in Rotterdam, where he worked on the international coordination of economic policies in particular. He championed a specific version of socioeconomic modernization, which revolved around an international division of labor, in which each country would benefit from producing according to its economic strengths within a global economy coordinated by international institutions. This view became an important vantage point in the thinking about development in the Netherlands in the 1950s and 1960s.¹⁵ The interweaving of international solidarity and development points towards an important shift in the thinking about transnational solidarity in the postwar era. The process of decolonization within the context of the Cold War transformed the way in which the moral obligations towards distant others were perceived. This was already visible in the much-publicized manifesto by the newly founded peace movement De Derde Weg (‘The third way’), which appeared in 1952. Its predominantly left-leaning authors stated that the growing polarization between the East and the West set the world on a course to a third world war. Its members hoped that the decolonized states of the South would take the lead in overcoming this divide through independent policies and criticized the govern-

 Niek Pas, Aan de wieg van het nieuwe Nederland. Nederland en de Algerijnse oorlog 1954 – 1962 (Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 2008), 12.  Johan Winkler, “Nu Wij,” Vrij Nederland 13/28 (1953): 1.  Maarten Kuitenbrouwer, De ontdekking van de Derde Wereld. Beeldvorming en beleid in Nederland, 1950 – 1990 (The Hague: SDU, 1994), 15 – 18; Greetje Witte-Rang, Geen recht de moed te verliezen. Leven en werken van Dr. H. M. de Lange 1919 – 2001 (Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2008), 64– 65; Jan Tinbergen, The Design of Development (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1958); Id., Ontwikkelingsplannen (Zeist/Amsterdam: De Haan/J.M. Meulenhoff, 1967).

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ments in the West for setting a bad example to these countries by discouraging or even violently repressing their calls for independence.¹⁶ Around the same time, the Catholic pastor Simon Jelsma regularly drew a crowd for his speeches at the square in front of the High Court of Justice in The Hague. His speeches stressed the unity of mankind, which implied that the poverty of one person presented a responsibility for any of his fellow Christians. The duty of solidarity was thus not bound to national borders, but universal. To Jelsma, this was not just right in principle, but also in practice. For if poverty were allowed to persist, this global inequality would eventually cause a new global conflict which would also threaten the lives of those who were now wellto do.¹⁷ Regarding its political dimension this perspective was less radical than that of De Derde Weg. The call for the global as the dominant framework for solidarity was, however, at least as far-reaching. The group of activists which gathered around Jelsma initiated several organizations which would become standard-bearers of transnational solidarity in the 1950s and 1960s. In 1956, the Protestant minister Han Hugenholtz connected with them to found the National Organization for International Assistance (NOVIB). Hugenholtz’ initiative was inspired and facilitated by his participation in the international peace movement. The attempt to establish an organization which would muster public support for international aid was particularly inspired by attempts in Norway, where the staff-member of the United Nations Secretariat Aake Anker Ording had initiated the United Nations Appeal for Children fundraising campaign.¹⁸ Taking up a similar call for an ethos of global responsibility as Jelsma had promoted, the global outlook conveyed by NOVIB and its periodical Onze Wereld (‘Our World’) had remarkable resonance. In 1962, a survey among the Dutch population found that only 15 % of those questioned were categorically opposed to contributing to aid for developing countries. The same questionnaire underlined the fact that there were many reasons why people considered providing aid: compassion, concerns about international security and welfare, economic and political motives all figured among the reasons people gave for considering support.¹⁹

 Wiebe Bijl, “Verdwaald in niemandsland. Het morele idealisme van vredesbeweging ‘De Derde Weg’ 1951– 1965,” Skript 31/1 (2014): 234– 246.  Simon Jelsma, Bezit en vrijheid. Een reeks pleinpreken (Bussum: Brand, 1957).  Wouter van Dis, “Gideons bende of nationale instelling. De wisselwerking tussen de overheid, ngo’s en het Nederlandse ontwikkelingshulpbeleid - 1950 – 1976” (MA thesis, Universiteit van Amsterdam, 2014), 20 – 24.  Opinie-onderzoek inzake hulpverlening aan ontwikkelingslanden in opdracht van de Stichting Nederlandse Organisatie voor Internationale Bijstand (The Hague: Nederlandse Stichting voor

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NOVIB and similar organizations which promoted transnational solidarity through development aid in many regards were not new movements. Although development aid as such was a new issue, it was intimately connected to the older themes of peace, charity, humanitarianism, and internationalism. The activists who joined this organization were often introduced to them through the networks which had been built up around these older themes, presenting their understanding of transnational solidarity against that background. This connection to older themes and networks enhanced the acceptance of the new issue, but it also prefigured considerable tensions over motives and favored approaches for providing aid. In 1958, the CNV-official Anton Borstlap wrote an article for NOVIB-periodical Onze Wereld which reacted to the turmoil which surrounded NOVIB. Catholic pundits had presented the organization as a leftist enterprise which was a threat to Catholic missionary undertakings.²⁰ Borstlap argued that Christians could not ignore poverty in other parts of the world, referring to the Charter of the International Labour Organization: “Poverty, wherever in the world it exists, threatens the welfare of all.” In his view, therefore, one could never do enough: “every worker in the Netherlands, who still knows about the circumstances in which his grandfather lived and worked, will contribute to the international aid his trade union is providing, as well as support the NOVIB.”²¹ Transnational solidarity became increasingly politicized during the 1960s. Above all, this was the result of the emergence of a group of self-conscious Southern political leaders, who refused to align with the Cold War opposition between the East and the West.²² Instead, they insisted on foregrounding their own

Statistiek, 1962). On motives for providing development aid, see: Peter van Dam and Wouter van Dis, “Beyond the Merchant and theClergyman: Assessing Moral Claims about Development Cooperation,” Third World Quarterly 35/9 (2014): 1636 – 1655.  Hans Beerends and Marc Broere, De bewogen beweging: een halve eeuw mondiale solidariteit (Amsterdam: 2004), 34.  Anton Borstlap, “Een boodschap voor heel het volk,” Onze wereld (1958) April, 1.  Recent historiography on international solidarity has called attention to the direct and indirect influence of the South on the North: Quinn Slobodian, Foreign Front: Third World Politics in Sixties Germany (Durham: Duke University Press, 2012); Kim Christiaens, “States Going Transnational: Transnational State Civilian Networks and Socialist Cuba and Sandinista Nicaragua Solidarity Movements in Belgium (1960s–1980s),” Belgisch tijdschrift voor filologie en geschiedenis/ Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 89/3 – 4 (2011): 1277– 1306; Giuliano Garavini, After Empires: European Integration, Decolonization, and the Challenge from the Global South, 1957 – 1985 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).

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joint position as postcolonial countries in international politics.²³ These nonaligned countries effectively played out their new-found majority within the United Nations to demand an international conference on trade and development. At this stage, however, the limits of the bargaining power of the “Group of 77” which had demanded the conference painfully showed. Squaring off against the economic interests of Northern countries, the representatives of the Global South did not achieve tangible improvements during either the first United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) in 1964 or the second conference in 1968.²⁴ The rise of a self-conscious Third World nourished the hopes of radical activists, who anticipated their capacity to overcome the existing political balance of power and the Cold War stalemate between the capitalist West and the communist East.²⁵ More moderate activists were also inspired by the demands for a more just global economy voiced by Third World countries and set up a host of initiatives to aid these countries through direct financial support, political lobbying, and raising public awareness. These initiatives were embodied by organizations such as NOVIB, but also by trade unions, political parties, and religious organizations. Development cooperation thus became an important issue in the Netherlands during the 1960s. This was mirrored by the appointment of an undersecretary for development aid in 1963, followed by the appointment of a minister of development in 1965 in the Dutch national government. In summary, the threat of the global Cold War and concerns about global economic inequality fostered initiatives for international solidarity within Dutch civil society since the 1950s. Some of these attempts were of an explicitly political character, focusing on the possibilities of establishing a third way between capitalism and communism. Others were of a more moderate nature, addressing global inequality through collaboration with (former) colonies, emergency relief, development aid or solidarity with aggrieved individuals and groups. In practice, radical and moderate initiatives would often overlap, as would the carriers of

 Vijay Prashad, The Darker Nations: A People’s History of the Third World (New York: New Press, 2007), 31– 115; Mark Berger, “After the Third World? History, destiny and the fate of Third Worldism,” Third World Quarterly 25/1 (2004): 11– 23.  Sönke Kunkel, “Zwischen Globalisierung, internationalen Organisationen und ‘Global Governance’. Eine kurze Geschichte des Nord-Süd-Konflikts in den 1960er und 1970er Jahren,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 60/4 (2012): 555 – 577.  Robert Gildea, James Mark and Niek Pas, “European Radicals and the ‘Third World’: Imagined Solidarities and Radical Networks, 1958 – 73,” Cultural and Social History 8/4 (2011): 449 – 471.

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these initiatives, which could be found within existing organizations such as trade unions and churches as well as in newly established groups.

Between old and new social movements: radicalizing union solidarity²⁶ During the 1960s, a more radical interpretation of solidarity emerged in connection with the critiques of global politics voiced by representatives from the Global South. The need for more radical forms of solidarity also gained a foothold in many civic organizations which had initially adopted a moderate approach. Attempts to foster solidarity with the Global South could thus forge coalitions across old and new social movements. The historiographical opposition between old movements such as trade unions with a local or national focus and new social movements with a transnational outlook is thus called into question. As union members undertook to prioritize solidarity with the Global South within the ranks of their own organizations during the 1970s, the division between old and new social movements all but lost its significance. The combination of high expectations for global political reforms and few tangible results in the course of international negotiations nurtured the frustrations of representatives of the South as well as those of their activist supporters in the North. Many felt that the organizations concerned with international solidarity, which were mostly concerned with specific development projects, failed to grasp the immediacy of the issue and the need for far-reaching structural reforms. Within the labor movement, this critique was voiced by members of the Werkgroep voor een Maatschappij-Kritische Vakbeweging, which was established in 1970 and united members of the three trade union federations, although only the leadership of the NKV signaled any real interest.²⁷ The critics had close ties to other activist groups, such as the radical ecumenical campaigning organization Sjaloom, which encouraged union members to regard their organizations as vehicles for changing society at large:

 The material on the history of the Stichting Ontwikkelingssamenwerking Vakbeweging which is presented as part of this chapter has previously been presented in Dutch: Peter van Dam, “‘Een stukje ellende in uw eigen wereldje’: Solidariteit met de Derde Wereld in de Nederlandse vakbeweging,” in Onbehagen in de polder: Nederland in conflict sinds 1795, ed. Bram Mellink and Jouke Turpijn (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2014), 231– 252.  Special issue “Maatschappij-kritische vakbeweging,” Kosmoschrift (1971) 2; Hueting, de Jong Edz and Neij, Naar groter eenheid, 357– 359.

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Are there people within the trade union movement who realize that they have raised their members too nationalist and too focused on their own interests in the short run? Are there groups of people in the world of trade unions, who see a direct relation between large- and small-scale capitalism, between the global manipulations of large companies and the still unfair distribution of wealth and power in their own country?²⁸

The politicization of transnational solidarity also affected the trade unions, but evoked mixed reactions. Union officials stressed the importance of moderate attempts at improving development cooperation, whilst critical members championed the view that unions should strive for structural reforms at home and throughout the world. Whilst union members thus debated competing interpretations of transnational solidarity, the three large federations of Dutch trade unions slowly gravitated towards closer cooperation among themselves. This coalescence was fostered by the successful cooperation between unions with different religious and ideological backgrounds as well as by growing doubts about the purpose of independently organized Catholic and Protestant organizations. Joint programs of action by the three large federations were a first tangible result of their closer cooperation. In these programs, the unions presented their priorities to the national government. The first joint Program van actie in 1967 noted as a fourth priority that “from the viewpoint of solidarity (…) the West shall have to concern itself with the need in developing countries, which will demand sacrifices from all.” Next to increasing the state budget for development aid, the program also called for initiatives from private enterprises, whilst the unions promised to step up their own efforts to mobilize support. The program clearly mirrored the influence of the UNCTAD-negotiations, calling for international trade agreements to stabilize commodity prices and for the facilitation of the import of products from developing countries to the West.²⁹ The second UNCTAD-conference in New Delhi 1968 drew considerable public attention in the Netherlands. Its failure to reform the conditions of global trade in favor of the countries in the Global South led activists in the Netherlands to initiate the so-called “Cane Sugar Campaign”, which drew attention to the ways in which the policies of the European Economic Community withheld from developing countries a chance to sell their produce in Europe for a fair price.³⁰ In 1970, the Food and Agriculture Organization hosted a World Food Con-

 Piet Reckman, Kosmokomplot 70 (Voorburg: Interkerkelijk Vredes Beraad, 1970), §9.  Program van actie. Overlegorgaan N.V.V. – N.K.V. – C.N.V. (1967).  Peter van Dam, “In Search of the Citizen-Consumer: Fair Trade Activism in the Netherlands Since the 1960s,” BMGN - Low Countries Historical Review 132/3 (2017): 143 – 150.

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gress in The Hague, which saw predominantly youthful activists demand immediate action to some effect, forcing the Dutch officials hosting the conference to come up with concrete initiatives.³¹ The second joint program issued by the trade unions for the years 1971– 1975 reflected the influence of these national and international debates. The very first chapter was dedicated to development aid. In line with the recommendations which had been made for the United Nations’ Second Development Decade, the unions demanded that by the end of the 1970s, two percent of the national budget should be reserved for development aid. The program stated that development aid should be real aid, which could not oblige the recipients to spend their funds in donor countries. Attempts at the international coordination of the prices of commodities and raw materials should be supported, whilst the tariffs for raw materials and tropical products from the South should be lifted. Moreover, development aid should focus on social as well as economic issues.³² Amidst the many interpretations of transnational solidarity, solidarity with workers across the globe remained the point of departure for trade unions’ activities in the realm of development. This approach could count on remarkable support among union membership. For example, since 1960 many local activities supported trade unions in Latin America in the course of the Catholic unions’ yearly campaign “Wij en Zij” (‘Us and them’).³³ The CNV initiated a similar campaign since 1967 under the header “Kom Over” (‘Come Through’). Previously, it had campaigned for donations to support their activities in the former Dutch colony of New-Guinea as well as for development projects and the funding of the international Christian trade movement.³⁴ In a joint educational publication concerning “rich and poor countries” from 1970, the trade unions stated that the Dutch worker “feels solidary toward the millions who live elsewhere under circumstances which are comparable to or even worse than those experienced by workers in our own country in the nineteenth century.” This sense of global solidarity between workers should be translated into financial aid and sending young workers to provide assistance on the ground. Above all, the workers in developing countries should be supported to build up their own, vigorous trade unions.³⁵ Conspicuously absent in these activities were the highly politicized issues surrounding the Vietnam War and solidarity with socialist Cuba. The unions ap-

 “Jongeren drukken stempel op wereldvoedselcongres,” Amigoe die Curacao, 1 July 1970, 2.  IISG, Overlegorgaan, 53: Brochures, folder “Uitgegeven brochures”: Actieprogram 1971 – 1975.  Jan Peet, Katholieke arbeidersbeweging II: De KAB en het NKV in de maatschappelijke ontwikkeling van Nederland na 1945 (Baarn: Arbor, 1993), 300.  Pruim and Van der Woude, “Van monddood naar mondigheid,” 90 – 91.  IISG, Bro 309/14: Lesbrief Overlegorgaan 1970.

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parently avoided contentious Cold War politics, which had the potential to polarize members at the national level as well as relations within the international trade union federations.³⁶ The Dutch trade union federations decided to pursue more intensive forms of cooperation in 1971. They regarded development aid as an issue in which they could pioneer such cooperation. As a result, the Trade Union Foundation on Development Cooperation (SOSV) was founded as a joint enterprise.³⁷ In planning for the foundation, the trade unions had prioritized concrete development projects. Specifically, these projects should be concentrated in the Dutch overseas territories of Surinam and the Netherlands Antilles, because union leadership expected their members to have a strong feeling of solidarity towards workers in these countries.³⁸ Exploratory talks with government officials reaffirmed this approach. It transpired that if the unions would come up with a joint initiative to build up trade unions in these countries, they could make use of government funds for “social reconstruction”. This promise of funding was an important impulse for the realization of the SOSV.³⁹ As late as the 1960s, then, calls for development aid combined attempts to secure overseas influence in an age of decolonization, drew on the expertise of colonial administration, and attempted to mobilize a colonial sense of connection among the Dutch population.⁴⁰ In the years following its establishment, the initiatives devised by the SOSV shifted from projects related to (former) Dutch colonies towards activities which favored a more radical, postcolonial agenda. At first, the foundation deployed advisers in Surinam and the Netherlands Antilles and offered scholarships for labor officials from these countries. In an attempt to expand the geographical range of the SOSV, its director Piet Jeuken appealed to relations in the interna-

 Patrick Pasture, “A Century of International Trade Unionism,” International Review of Social History 47/2 (2002): 282– 285; Jan Jacob van Dijk and Paul Werkman, “Om de plaats van het CNV in de internationale arbeidersbeweging,” in Grenzeloos christelijk-sociaal. Internationale activiteiten van de christelijke vakbeweging, ed. G.J. Schutte (Amsterdam: Aksant, 2009), 36, 43.  My analysis of the cooperation between the Dutch unions draws on: Van Dam, Religion und Zivilgesellschaft, 268 – 285.  IISG, NVV, commissiearchief 1964– 1972, 727: Ontwikkelingshulp 1967– 1969: “Notitie inzake mogelijke opzet en financiering van een projekt door de Commissie Ontwikkelingshulp van het NVV,” 18 April 1969.  Ibid., 728: Ontwikkelingshulp 1970: “Nota betreffende institutionalisering van de hulpverlening van de Nederlandse Vakbeweging aan ontwikkelingslanden (met name Suriname, de Nederlandse Antillen en Indonesië).”  Frey, “Control, Legitimacy, and the Securing of Interests”; Esther Helena Arens, “‘Mission Interrupted?’ Die Diskussion über die Dekolonisierung in den Niederlanden,” Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 48 (2008): 133 – 154.

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tional labor movement to promote the possibility of using funds from the Netherlands for development projects. Jeuken and his staff envisaged a role as intermediary for such initiatives, mediating between the requests from developing countries and the different sources for funding in the Netherlands.⁴¹ The positioning of the SOSV as a project agency for union-related development initiatives reflected the rapid expansion of organizations in the field of development. Jeuken and his staff were careful not to enter into competition with other agencies, which had established themselves as key partners for the Dutch government in this area. As the most important of those, NOVIB had claimed a position as a development organization which was structurally co-financed with government funds alongside a Catholic and a Protestant agency, both of which had evolved from missionary organizations. In 1974, the trade unions would also be acknowledged as permanent participants in this co-financing scheme.⁴² The trade unions’ opportunities for receiving government funds for development-related projects mirror the increasing involvement of the Dutch state in the field of development. As the government funds for development policy rapidly increased during the 1960s, a large share of these funds was channeled through civic organizations which had established themselves within the field of international development. These included NOVIB, but also religious agencies which had a background in missionary activities.⁴³ This was a viable strategy because it allowed for the desired expansion of activities which government agencies were not themselves capable of implementing. Moreover, organizations such as NOVIB during the 1960s successfully presented themselves as experts in this field based on their involvement since at least the 1950s.⁴⁴ Next to the capability and legitimacy of civic organizations, a third motive for funding transpired during the early 1970s, as the Dutch government initiated

 IISG, Overlegorgaan, 56: SOSV: Kwartaalverslag van de Stichting Ontwikkelingssamenwerking Vakbeweging voor de periode 1 oktober 1972– 31 december 1972; Ibid.: Brochure “How to Use Dutch Official Development Aid for Trade Union Orojects in Developing Countries?”  Marc Dierikx, “Inleiding,” in Nederlandse ontwikkelingssamenwerking. Bronnenuitgave deel 4: 1973 – 1977, ed. Marc Dierikx (The Hague, 2005), xxiii.  Sjoerd Keulen, Monumenten van beleid. De wisselwerking tussen Nederlands rijksoverheidsbeleid, sociale wetenschappen en politieke cultuur, 1945 – 2002 (Hilversum: Verloren, 2014), 71– 122.  See Matthew Hilton, The Politics of Expertise: How NGOs Shaped Modern Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). The considerations on the relations between civic organizations and the government in the field of transnational relations build on: Peter van Dam, “Attracted and Repelled: Transnational Relations Between Civil Society and the State in the History of the Fair Trade Movement since the 1960s,” in The International Relations of the Netherlands, 1815 – 2000: A Small Nation on the Global Scene, ed. Ruud van Dijk et al. (Abingdon: Routledge, 2018), 183 – 200.

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the Dutch Development Strategy Commission (NCO). With this new body, the Dutch government responded to a recommendation by the United Nations, calling on its members among the “developed countries” to increase the involvement of their population with the issues of development. The NCO would coordinate and subsidize initiatives to promote awareness about development among the Dutch public. The government officials, consigned to install it, regarded the organization as a suitable instrument to moderate the increasingly politicized public opinion around the issue of development. By granting radical activists a limited number of positions within the commission, they intended to encapsulate radical groups within its structure. Through funding moderate initiatives, they hoped to promote the desired depoliticization. Therefore, except for the federation of world shops which represented recent attempts to promote fair trade with the South, long-established organizations were the desired collaborators for the commission.⁴⁵ As traditionally dependable partners, the trade unions presented themselves as suitable participants in the NCO-initiative. Moreover, a report commissioned by the NCO demonstrated that the knowledge about development issues was lowest among workers, whilst these also indicated little willingness to learn more about the subject. Internal discussions within the unions had also shown that many members were skeptical about the priority their organizations were granting to development.⁴⁶ As the effects of the economic recession in the wake of the oil crisis in 1973 made themselves felt in the Netherlands, these sentiments became more widespread.⁴⁷ This combination of an emphasis on raising awareness, the doubts about its importance among workers, and the availability of funding prompted the SOSV to engage with activities in the field of education. In 1973, the agency received NCO-funding to set up a program which would raise awareness about development issues among union members.⁴⁸ In the eyes of the SOSV-staff, their project did not aim to change the views of these members as much as it would increase their awareness for the global context of their own

 Keulen, Monumenten van Beleid, 106 – 117.  IISG, NVV, commissiearchief 1964– 1972, 729: Ontwikkelingshulp 1971– 1972: “Stichting Ontwikkelingssamenwerking Vakbeweging. Voorlichtings- en mentaliteitsbeïnvloedingsprojekt met betrekking tot de problematiek van de ontwikkelingssamenwerking.”  IISG, Bro 248/13: De plaats van de arbeid. Tweede discussienota (1973); IISG, 1990/4730: De plaats van de Arbeid. Verslag van de uitkomsten van een diskussieprojekt onder leden van NVV, NKV en CNV (1975).  Leon J. van Damme and Mari G.M. Smits, Voor de ontwikkeling van de Derde Wereld. Politici en ambtenaren over de Nederlandse ontwikkelingssamenwerking 1949 – 1989 (Amsterdam: Boom, 2009), 216 – 217.

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condition: “If the Dutch trade union movement wants to be able to (…) contribute to a solution of this issue, it will have to be able to count upon the awareness of its members of their own situation,” they noted in a brochure explaining the objectives of their project.⁴⁹ The educational project would evolve into the most important activity of the SOSV during the first half of the 1970s. Three new staff members were recruited to fulfil the paradoxical task of transforming the outlook of the union members in order for them to be able to address issues of global development “from below, in their own specific ways.” The project was divided into three phases. During the first, staff members and “key figures” would be targeted through courses and stimulated to set up local working groups. During the second phase, these groups would have to employ activities which would spread the awareness about development in broader circles. Finally, these working groups would achieve a state of independence, allowing them to formulate their own plans to raise awareness on an even larger scale.⁵⁰ The new staff members would support this process by hosting courses and supporting local groups with educational material. They energetically took to their task: by the end of 1973, 229 union members and 108 officials had participated in their courses, whilst they also regularly published a periodical to support the local groups.⁵¹ The SOSV also collaborated with broadcasting agencies to inform the public about transnational solidarity and point out concrete options for participation.⁵² The new focus on raising awareness and the employment of the three staff members introduced a more radical interpretation of solidarity in the work of the SOSV. This became apparent as the foundation published the booklet Ons soort mensen (‘Our kind of people’) by the well-known activist Piet Reckman of the aforementioned ecumenical campaigning group Sjaloom. Reckman presented an interpretation of transnational solidarity which revolved around a shared interest among workers across the globe. The publication took the exploitation of the Third World as a point of departure, stating that this was not a story about others. For, Reckman noted, “everyone knows about the shockingly unequal distribution of income, power, goods, and opportunities for advancement. While our world is becoming one and all borders are disappearing as a result of technology, trade, economy, and information, it becomes increasingly clear how

 IISG, Overlegorgaan, doos 56: SOSV: Folder Bewustwordingsprojekt Stichting Ontwikkelingssamenwerking Vakbeweging (November 1973).  Ibid.  IISG, Overlegorgaan, doos 56: SOSV: “Bewustwordingsprojekt. Verslag over de periode 1 september 1973 tot 1 april 1974.”  Ibid.: “Kort verslag ekstra D.B.-SOSV 21 mei 1974.”

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hopelessly divided that world is.” Reckman singled out multinational companies as those who were controlling developing countries and Western economies. This, however, also provided workers from different countries to join hands in fighting the power of these companies.⁵³ In accordance with this publication, the SOSV undertook attempts to bring issues of development closer to home. In 1974, it published an extensive study on the mining of bauxite in Surinam and the subsequent production of aluminium by the Shell-owned company Billiton. The author of the study, the economist Maarten van Klaveren, concurred with Reckman on the crucial importance of the power of multinational companies for understanding the stagnating development in the South. However, he took a more refined position on the way forward. Instead of a “crooked pseudo-Marxist reasoning”, Van Klaveren suggested working towards better monitoring of multinational companies, building up an international trade union movement which could confront their power, and bolstering the capacities of national governments in the South to deal with them.⁵⁴ Following up on this lead, local working groups attempted to connect the daily experiences of Dutch workers with those of workers in the South, by identifying ties between their own workplace and Southern companies. For example, a group of employees of the Dutch electronics company Philips in Stadskanaal managed to raise interest for the fate of Philips-employees in Colombia.⁵⁵ Publications about the multinational companies AKZO and Unilever also attempted to show their Dutch employees how their lives were connected to those of workers throughout the world, and how their employers were trying to pit workers in different countries against each other.⁵⁶ This strategy of singling out instances where the lives of people in the North and the South converged had been pioneered by like-minded activists in other contexts. After the unexpected success of the cane sugar campaign since 1968, many local campaign groups had set up so-called wereldwinkels (‘world shops’), which served as campaigning centers and as an outlet for literature

 Piet Reckman, Ons soort mensen. Over de derde wereld en de onze (Utrecht: Stichting Ontwikkelingssamenwerking Vakbeweging, 1973).  SOSV, Bauxiet, Billiton en Suriname. Over de derde wereld en de onze. Voorstudie voor ‘De buit is binnen’ (Utrecht, 1974).  IISG, Overlegorgaan, doos 53: Brochures: SOSV, Verslag Bewustwordingsprojekt 1 december 1974 – 1 april 1975 (Utrecht, mei 1975), “Bijlage agenda 4 juni 1975.” See also IISG, Bro 2141/5: N.N., Het zijn kollega’s en daar staan we voor! (n.p., 1975).  IISG, Bro 1371/8: AKZO: 3600 arbeidsplaatsen weg (Woerden, 1976); IISG, Bro 450/19: Unilever wordt de soep heter gegeten dan opgediend…??? (Woerden, n.d.).

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on and selected products from the South.⁵⁷ Hardly limiting themselves to selling, these groups played a pivotal role as local relays for a boycott campaign targeting coffee from Angola in 1972 and 1973. The boycott was initiated by the Angola Committee, which had forged a broad coalition of moderate and radical supporters through years of campaigning. For example, in trying to enlist the trade unions for their cause, the committee deliberately foregrounded a moderate view of the campaign. Through such strategic maneuvering and a clever media campaign, the activists eventually succeeded in banishing Angolan coffee from all Dutch supermarkets.⁵⁸ Similar boycott strategies were also applied to products from other countries with dubious political leadership, such as apples from Pinochet’s Chile and oranges from South Africa.⁵⁹ Attempts to bring issues of development home saw the spread of a more radical political perspective alongside more moderate views on solidarity, however. These views did not align with a distinction between old and new social movements. Among trade unionists, they by and large caused a division between moderate representatives of the CNV and their more radical counterparts from the other federations. “The question of development has evolved from an opposition between countries (poor countries versus rich countries) to an opposition between classes (proletariat against capital),” the CNV-periodical Evangelie & Maatschappij observed concisely.⁶⁰ This politicization strained the relationship between the trade union federations which were jointly supporting the SOSV. The Christian-democrat CNV in particular had always objected to adopting the perspective of class struggle, even though it gradually relinquished its reserved relationship towards the radical positions of Latin-American members of the Latin American Confederation of Workers (CLAT) as a result of personal encounters during visits from CNV-staff members to Latin America in the 1970s.⁶¹ Rejecting the perspective of a global class struggle as a dominant framework, the trade union leaders refused to employ the key to the hearts of Dutch union members the SOSV had thought to have discovered. Engaging

 These observations build on: Peter van Dam, “Moralizing Postcolonial Consumer Society: Fair Trade in the Netherlands, 1964– 1997,” International Review of Social History 61/2 (2016): 223 – 250.  Jos van Beurden and Chris Huinder, De vinger op de zere plek: Solidariteit met Zuidelijk Afrika 1961 – 1996 (Amsterdam: Babylon-De Geus, 1996).  Roeland Muskens, Aan de goede kant: Een geschiedenis van de Nederlandse anti-apartheidsbeweging 1960 – 1990 (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2014), 106 – 125.  C.H. Koetsier, “Bewustmaking voor ontwikkelingssamenwerking, met of zonder klassenstrijd,” Evangelie en Maatschappij 27/6 – 7 (1974): 123.  Pruim and Van der Woude, “Van monddood naar mondigheid,” 84– 85.

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Fig. 25: Protest against coffee from Angola which was sold by the supermarket Albert Heijn in Tilburg, 3 October 1973. Bert Verhoeff / Anefo / Nationaal Archief.

with Cold War politics, the SOSV-staff was often more radical than the leadership of all Dutch trade union federations. For instance, the union boards called on the foundation to stop publicizing the activities of the Second Bertrand Russell Tribunal, which had confronted injustices in Brazil, Chile, and Latin America since 1973, because they didn’t approve of the radical approach of the tribunal.⁶² A request to cooperate with groups protesting against the Vietnam War was also turned down by the federations, who pointed out that the trade unions had adopted a policy of not engaging in matters concerning the recognition of governments or states.⁶³ In this instance, the Cold War allegiance to the United States, which had also translated into strong relations between Western European and US trade unions, ostensibly overruled radical sympathies. The federations could not establish joint positions in every case, however. The issue of human rights violations in Chile in particular caused disagreements among their representatives. Human rights, then, did overrule divisions caused  IISG, Overlegorgaan, doos 56: SOSV: “Bewustwordingsprojekt. Verslag over de periode 1 september 1973 tot 1 april 1974.”  Ibid.: Th. Offermans (adjunct-secretaris overlegorgaan) aan de Stichting Ontwikkelingssamenwerking Vakbeweging, 18 maart 1975.

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Fig. 26: Representatives of the three Dutch trade union federations discuss possible actions after the escalation of the Vietnam War, 3 January 1973. Left to right: Jan Mertens (NKV), Jan Lanser (CNV), Adri de Boon (NVV). Rob C. Croes / Anefo / Nationaal Archief.

by the diverging international allegiances of the Dutch unions and the competing views of the role of Christian democracy.⁶⁴ For example, the NVV signaled a willingness to support the Chile Committee, which aimed at establishing a broad coalition, and to participate in a demonstration against the Pinochet-regime in 1973. The Catholic NKV stated that it did not reject these initiatives, but doubted whether trade unions should participate in such activities. CNV-representatives, however, were strictly against any involvement with campaigns directed at Chile. During the meeting where the issue was brought up, they were so displeased with the SOSV’s open support for the Chilean opposition, that they took to barely concealed threats: “The CNV is willing to take a clear responsibility for the SOSV, but this has to be made possible.”⁶⁵ This reluctance to engage in international

 Mariana Perry, “‘With a Little Help From my Friends’: The Dutch Solidarity Movement and the Chilean Struggle for Democracy,” European Review of Latin American and Caribbean Studies 101 (2016): 83 – 86.  IISG, Overlegorgaan, doos 54: Verslagen Bestuurscommissie Overlegorgaan: “Samenvatting van de 72e vergadering van de bestuurscommissie van het Overlegorgaan van 5 december 1973, gehouden bij het CNV.”

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politics did not result from a general rejection of radical politics among Christian union membership, as the popularity of radical Christian figureheads such as the Brazilian archbishop Dom Hélder Câmara and the Argentinian labor leader Emilio Maspéro demonstrated.⁶⁶ The friction around the course of the SOSV was reinforced by the increasingly strained relationship among the trade union federations. As negotiations about closer cooperation between the federations dredged on, it became clear that NVV and NKV wanted a much closer form of cooperation than the CNV was willing to accept. As they decided to bring about a new joint trade union organization without the CNV, the outlook for the SOSV became grim. In fact, the split between the federations offered the participants a way out of the conflict over the direction of the SOSV. While they agreed on the importance of transnational solidarity in principle, its interpretations diverged considerably. Moreover, the radical views which were formulated in the course of the educational work of the SOSV lacked support among the leadership of each of the federations. Therefore, as the cooperation between the federations came to an end as NKV and NVV merged into the Federation of the Dutch Trade Union Movement (FNV), the activities of the SOSV were integrated within the structure of the FNV and the CNV. Some members of the SOSV-staff continued their work as a “flying brigade” within the FNV, facilitating development projects abroad and educating union membership about related issues. In 1982, these activities were bundled in the foundation Wij en Zij (FNV Mondiaal since 1997). Within the CNV, the activities of the “CNV-actie Kom Over” were expanded as its new main vehicle for transnational solidarity.

Too little? The measure of transnational solidarity That’s what they call it, growing awareness of union members, of members of unions who want to do something about poverty and misery, which turn the world into a valley of tears. It should start at the bottom, according to the people in the middle, those on top, scholars and copycats of those scholars. It has to start at the grassroots level, according to the union. Of course this is an attempt to shift responsibility, for how can the grassroots level do that, if its immaturity is maintained?⁶⁷

 Jan Filius, Helder Camara in Nederland (Utrecht: A.W. Bruna & Zoon, 1971).  IISG, Bro 677/13 fol.: Op weg naar een multinationale vakbeweging (1975) 1 [ed. SOSV].

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The three staff members of the SOSV-educational project did not conceal their frustration in this retrospect about their work. The leadership of the unions had not adequately supported their work. Many union members had also disappointed them: “Most of them are members to support the union to hire people who can make sure they will have an even better income. There is not yet any solidarity to speak of.”⁶⁸ This disappointment with union officials and members points towards the diverging views of transnational solidarity. Many trade unionists had accepted a responsibility to come to the aid of workers in other countries, supporting them in building up their own union or assisting in concrete instances of need. The notion that the trade union movement was more than a national movement appears to have been widely accepted and in fact provided the conditions for the installation of the SOSV and its educational project. However, the youthful SOSV staff had a more radical vision of transnational solidarity in a postcolonial world. They regarded the issues which confronted workers across the world as essentially the same, either because all were joined in a common class struggle, or because all were faced by the global power of multinational companies. The disappointment voiced at the time by radical activists over a lack of solidarity should not obstruct the view of the widespread acceptance of a global framework as a relevant marker next to the local and the national in the postwar era. Rather than blaming the lack of appeal of radical positions on the alleged reluctance of trade union officials or the ignorance of the rank and file, it can be explained by regarding more the popular alternative visions of transnational solidarity. As the initiatives for international solidarity by trade unions demonstrate, the relative weight of a global frame of reference increased from the 1950s until the 1970s. However, its importance in relation to the local and national and the specific interpretation of the relations to people in other parts of the world were contested. From this perspective, transnational solidarity does not appear as an exceptional phenomenon which only concerned a handful of activists, but as a fundamental part of postwar social history. Such a perspective challenges historians of local and national history to take transnational perspectives seriously. Reversely, it requires historians of transnational activism to weight their findings in relation to local and national perspectives. This calls for a reassessment of the relevance of globalization in the history of social movements. The historiography on post-war social movements has been doubtful in its evaluation of the impact of globalization. Whilst its influence is generally acknowledged, globalization has apparently not displaced the essen-

 Ibid., 2.

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tial role local and national context play in the functioning of social movements. Even where transnational issues are at stake, national politics and national protest repertoires often continue to dominate the politics of contention.⁶⁹ In fact, many sociologists suspected an inverse relationship between the ability of social movements to organize transnationally and the process of economic and technological globalization: as economic capital and social networks became less bound to a specific location, social movements would have trouble reacting to them. However, the political process of globalization also created tangible institutions such as the World Trade Organization, which could serve as a common target for a geographically and politically dissimilar group of activists.⁷⁰ On the other hand, the embracing of a one world-perspective could also lead people to turn away from large-scale politics and focus on their immediate environment.⁷¹ An approach which accounts for the rise of the global in relation to the persistent influence of local and national perspectives connects the history of social movements to a broader social history of globalization. Debating the societal impact of globalization, David Held and Anthony MacGrew have discerned a skeptical and a globalist position. Skeptics do not judge globalization to be a new phenomenon which deserves special attention in post-war history, whereas globalists regard it as a process that has fundamentally transformed the history of the world.⁷² Applied specifically to the rise of a global frame of reference, the globalist interpretation has been elaborated by Robbie Robertson, who has argued that post-war globalization is different from earlier “waves” because it was accompanied by a conscious perception of the importance of a global perspective in the post-war period.⁷³ A more skeptical position has been voiced by Roland Robertson, who points out that awareness of a global framework has a long history.⁷⁴

 Charles Tilly, Contentious Performances (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 196 – 199.  Donatella della Porta et al., Globalization from Below: Transnational Activists and Protest Networks (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006), 12– 15.  David Kuchenbuch, “‘Eine Welt’: Globales Interdependenzbewusstsein und die Moralisierung des Alltags in den 1970er und 1980er Jahren,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 38/1 (2012): 174– 176.  David Held and Anthony G. MacGrew, eds., The Global Transformations Reader: An Introduction to the Globalization Debate (Cambridge: Polity, 2003), 2.  Robbie Robertson, The Three Waves of Globalization: A History of a Developing Global Consciousness (London: Zed Books, 2003).  Roland Robertson and David Inglis, “The Global ‘Animus’: In the Tracks of World Consciousness,” Globalizations 1/1 (2004): 38 – 49; Roland Robertson, “Global Connectivity and Global Consciousness,” The American Behavioral Scientist 55/10 (2011): 1336 – 1346.

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Moreover, he has developed the notion of “glocalization” to stress the importance of the local in lieu of the global.⁷⁵ The attempts at promoting transnational solidarity among trade union membership illustrate the need to regard social movements as “multi-level players”, which may react to events close-by or far away, build on local and national protest repertoires whilst also adapting new strategies from activists across the globe. They are therefore able to capitalize on political opportunities on a local, national, and transnational level.⁷⁶ International solidarity enabled and hampered cooperation between a host of different groups around issues of transnational solidarity. Because established organizations such as the trade unions had long integrated transnational solidarity into their activities, the concern for the development of the South could be connected to this tradition. This provided a platform for both moderate and more radical initiatives, which often coexisted within the framework of a single organization, such as the SOSV, which combined projects aimed at traditional intra-union solidarity with a more radical educational program. At first the connection to the trade unions enabled the latter project by providing it with an institutional framework and the trust needed to obtain funding. As the project got underway, however, the ties to the trade union movement eventually diluted the attempts to foster a radical interpretation of transnational solidarity among trade union members. The history of post-war initiatives in the field of transnational solidarity in the Netherlands points towards the remarkable rise and broad societal acceptance of a global perspective during this era. Thinking about its obligations towards people across the globe became common among the Dutch population during the 1950s. By the 1970s, it was as widespread as to foster the hopes of radical activists of mobilizing a considerable constituency. As the analysis of their attempts has shown, their failure should not be equated with a lack of acceptance of a global perspective. Instead, it leads towards a more nuanced approach to transnational solidarity. As Robertson’s notion of glocalization has indicated, next to the rise of a global perspective, people could retain or even reassert the importance of local and national perspectives. The need for solidarity with the Global South did not become accepted in a vacuum, but was balanced with notions of local and national solidarity. Even though activists’ at-

 Richard Giulianotti and Roland Robertson, “Glocalization, Globalization and Migration: The Case of Scottish Football Supporters in North America,” International Sociology: Journal of the International Sociological Association 21/2 (2006): 171– 198.  Dieter Rucht, “The Transnationalization of Social Movements: Trends, Causes, Problems,” in Social Movements in a Globalizing World, ed. Donatella Della Porta, Dieter Rucht and Hanspeter Kriesi (Houndmills: Macmillan, 1999), 206 – 222.

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tempts to elevate global solidarity into a dominant position by and large failed, many trade union members remained convinced of the salience of transnational solidarity.

Conclusion: rethinking transnational activism In conclusion, the attempts to promote transnational solidarity within the Dutch trade unions provide two important insights for the history of postwar civil society. First, they stress the need for an integration of the compartmentalized histories of civic activism and a reassessment of the ways in which a global framework has impacted postwar society. The history of the rise of transnational solidarity within trade unions demonstrates the viability of an integration of the historiography on Third World activism, development aid, and internationalism into a history of transnational civil society by relating international solidarity to other spatial frames of reference. Such an integration allows us to account for the longer history of civic initiatives to foster solidarity, the ways in which solidarity between the Global North and South was related to attempts to promote East-West relations, and initiatives focused on local or national solidarity. The recent hausse in literature on internationalism and activism across national borders⁷⁷, transnational issues, networks, and the circulation of knowledge across borders have drawn renewed attention. This has resulted in calls to expand the analysis of international solidarity beyond the late 1960s. It also produced an expansion of the range of actors involved to include radical church groups and the old left.⁷⁸ Until recently, Third World activism was predominantly

 Margaret E. Keck and Kathryn Sikkink, Activists beyond Borders: Advocacy Networks in International Politics (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998); Sidney Tarrow, The New Transnational Activism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); della Porta et al., Globalization from Below; Glenda Sluga, Internationalism in the Age of Nationalism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013); Mark Mazower, Governing the World: The History of an Idea (New York: Penguin Press, 2012).  Kim Christiaens, “Voorbij de 1968-historiografie?,” Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 128/3 (2015): 377– 406; Id., “Europe at the Crossroads of Three Worlds: Alternative Histories and Connections of European Solidarity with the Third World, 1950s–80s,” European Review of History / Revue européenne d’histoire 24/6 (2017): 932– 954; Gerd-Rainer Horn, The Spirit of ’68: Rebellion in Western Europe and North America, 1956 – 1976 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Id., The Spirit of Vatican II: Western European Progressive Catholicism in the Long Sixties (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Van Beurden and Huinder, De vinger op de zere plek; Erica Meijers, Blanke broeders, zwarte vreemden. De Nederlandse Hervormde Kerk, de Gereformeerde Kerken in

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studied as part of the history of “1968”, whereas development aid was studied as a compartment of the history of international relations.⁷⁹ The history of internationalism had focused mostly on Marxist internationalism.⁸⁰ Influenced by the transnational turn, historians have rediscovered the societal breadth and the temporal width of these phenomena, which had been a staple of older studies of internationalism.⁸¹ A focus on transnational solidarity furthers the expansion of the time-frame and the range of actors. In particular, it considers not just groups of radical activists. Instead, it calls attention to the many more moderate notions of international solidarity which circulated widely since the 1950s. Because international solidarity has not been their primary focus, the likes of churches and trade unions have often been neglected as crucial carriers of transnational allegiances. Second, then, the analysis of the Dutch unions’ transnational solidarity informs our understanding of the social history of globalization. This history demonstrates how a global perspective indeed gained considerable influence within trade unions during the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. However, rather than replacing the local and national, a global orientation became intertwined with these perspectives. Not only was the balance between local, national, and transnational perspectives constantly shifting, interpretations also competed. Although many people in the Netherlands agreed that solidarity with people far away was necessary, they did not agree about the extent of this solidarity or towards whom it

Nederland en de apartheid in Zuid-Afrika 1948 – 1972 (Hilversum: Verloren, 2008); Pas, Aan de wieg van het nieuwe Nederland.  Marc Hooghe, “Een bewegend doelwit. De sociologische en historische studie van (nieuwe) sociale bewegingen in Vlaanderen,” Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis 34/3 (2004): 331– 357; Bart Latré, Strijd & inkeer. De kerk- en maatschappijkritische beweging in Vlaanderen, 1958 – 1990 (Leuven: Universitaire Pers Leuven, 2011); Jan Nekkers, Peter Malcontent and Peer Baneke, De geschiedenis van vijftig jaar Nederlandse ontwikkelingssamenwerking 1949 – 1999 (The Hague: Sdu Uitgevers, 1999); Rimko van der Maar, Welterusten mijnheer de president. Nederland en de Vietnamoorlog 1965 – 1973 (Amsterdam: Boom, 2007); Peter Malcontent, “Nederland, België en de Derde Wereld,” in Nederland-België. De Belgisch-Nederlandse betrekkingen vanaf 1940, ed. Duco Hellema and Rik Coolsaet (Amsterdam: Boom, 2011), 201– 236; Luuk Wijmans, “De solidariteitsbeweging. Onverklaard maakt onbekend,” in Tussen verbeelding en macht. 25 jaar nieuwe sociale bewegingen in Nederland, ed. Jan Willem Duyvendak et al. (Amsterdam: SUA, 1992), 121– 140; a notable exception is Kuitenbrouwer, De ontdekking van de Derde Wereld.  Geert van Goethem, The Amsterdam International: The World of the International Federation of Trade Unions (IFTU), 1913 – 1945 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006).  Lyons, Internationalism in Europe, 1815 – 1914; Joseph S. Nye and Robert O. Keohane, “Transnational Relations and World Politics: An Introduction,” International Organization 25/3 (1971): 329 – 349. Examples of recent studies include: Christiaens, “States Going Transnational”; Gildea, Mark and Pas, “European Radicals and the ‘Third World.’”

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should be directed. For example, in instances where calls for international solidarity collided with Cold War politics, as in the case of solidarity with Vietnam and Cuba, it often proved impossible to maintain a coalition between moderate and radical groups. Not only have local and national perspectives impacted the global, the reverse is just as relevant. Seeing how global perspectives could facilitate and hamper cooperation between different groups of activists thus demonstrates the importance of a comprehensive transnational approach to civil society in the post-war period.

Abbreviations CNV: FNV:

Christelijk Nationaal Vakverbond (National Federation of Christian Trade Unions) Federatie Nederlandse Vakbeweging (Federation of the Dutch Trade Union Movement) ICFTU: International Confederation of Free Trade Unions IFCTU: International Federation of Christian Trade Unions IISG: Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis (International Institute of Social History, Amsterdam) KAB: Katholieke Arbeidersbeweging (Catholic Workers’ Movement) NCO: Nationale Commissie Ontwikkelingsstrategie (Dutch Development Strategy Commission) NKV: Nederlands Katholiek Vakverbond (Dutch Catholic Trade Union Federation) NOVIB: Nationale Organisatie voor Internationale Bijstand (National Organization for International Assistance) NVV: Nederlands Verbond van Vakverenigingen (Dutch Association of Trade Unions) SOSV: Stichting Ontwikkelingssamenwerking Vakbeweging (Trade Union Foundation on Development Cooperation) UNCTAD: United Nations Conference on Trade and Development

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Flemish and Dutch Engagements with Apartheid in South Africa The worldwide mobilization against apartheid in South Africa is commonly recognized as one of the most important displays of solidarity of the post-war era. Spearheaded by the (exiled) liberation movements and their allies in South Africa, the solidarity movement was so impressive because it involved an extremely diverse array of actors from more than 100 countries. The protagonists in the anti-apartheid struggle could count on the (political, moral, material…) support of civil society actors (solidarity and friendship committees, youth and student bodies, churches, trade unions…) and their umbrella structures (inter-church bodies, trade union internationals…) from across the globe. But in one way or another, state governments (from First, Second and Third World countries) and inter-governmental organizations (such as the UN and the EEC) made significant contributions as well. Enduring for more than three decades, the impact of this transnational wave of solidarity can still be felt in present-day struggles for social and environmental justice.¹ Apartheid was also an issue in the Low Countries. The Afrikaners were descendants of Dutch colonists whose confrontation with the British Empire gave birth to a white nationalist project favoring the “separate development” of the different racial and linguistic groups of South Africa. Protestant currents with distant roots in the Netherlands gave this system of racial discrimination and exploitation a theological justification. Partly because of these controversial connections, the Dutch mobilization against apartheid took place on a grand scale. Between the late 1950s and the early 1990s, solidarity organizations were able to involve hundreds of thousands of people in campaigns whose primary aims were

 David Black, “The Long and Winding Road: International Norms and Domestic Political Change in South Africa,” in The Power of Human Rights: International Norms and Domestic Change, ed. Thomas Risse, Stephen C. Ropp and Kathryn Sikkink (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 78 – 108; Håkan Thörn, Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006); South African Democracy Education Trust, The Road to Democracy in South Africa. Volume 3: International Solidarity (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008); Jean H. Quataert, Advocating Dignity: Human Rights Mobilizations in Global Politics (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2009). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-013

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to isolate South Africa and to collect support for the liberation movements and other participants in the struggle.² During the past 25 years, Dutch anti-apartheid activism has aroused a fair amount of academic interest. As a result, the movement has been studied from multiple angles.³ Unfortunately, the same thing cannot be said about the solidarity movement in Belgium. Only in recent years scholars began to give this phenomenon its due attention.⁴ One reason of the longstanding paucity of research on Belgian anti-apartheid was the relatively small size of the movement. Sociologists and historians interested in “new social movements” focused debates on the really big demonstrations (like the anti-missile protests of the 1980s) or the Third World movement in general.⁵ Another complicating factor relates to the linguistic split within the movement, its lifespan running almost completely parallel to Belgium’s transition from unitary into a federal state (1970 – 1993). Although there were some bilingual initiatives within church circles, most solidarity organizations were geared towards either the Dutchspeaking (Flanders) or the French-speaking (Brussels and Wallonia) parts of the country. In this article, a comparison is made between the anti-apartheid movement in the north of Belgium (Flanders) and its larger cousin the Netherlands. In terms of method, the bulk of the investigation relies on primary written sources (minutes, letters, pamphlets, brochures…) located in various Flemish archives. In order to complete the comparative exercise, it relies on a host of secondary sources, especially works by (Dutch and South African) authors which provide a synthetic picture of the Dutch case. In this recent literature, feelings of guilt and related desires for moral redemption are seen as major characteristics of the solidarity movement in the Netherlands. Given the Protestant legacy in Dutch society, it is argued that many Dutch people were profoundly troubled by their country’s (colonial) past. As a result, apartheid developed into a nation-wide issue, forcing almost every person to take sides. Allegedly, the predominantly  Roeland Muskens, Aan de goede kant: biografie van de Nederlandse anti-apartheidsbeweging 1960 – 1990 (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2014).  For an overview, see Sietse Bosgra, “From Jan van Riebeeck to Solidarity with the Struggle: The Netherlands, South Africa and Apartheid,” in The Road to Democracy in South Africa, 533 – 621.  Wouter Goedertier, “The Ambiguity of Solidarity: Belgium and the Global Struggle against Apartheid” (PhD diss., KU Leuven, 2015); Charel Roemer, elsewhere in this volume.  Staf Hellemans and Marc Hooghe, Van mei ’68 tot Hand in Hand: Nieuwe sociale bewegingen in België, 1965 – 1995 (Leuven: Garant, 1995); Patrick Develtere, “De derdewereldbeweging: nieuwe sociale beweging en Netwerkbeweging,” Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Nieuwste Geschiedenis 34/3 (2004): 421– 443.

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Catholic Belgians adopted a more relaxed stance on post-colonial matters. In addition, linguistic struggles and the salience of Flemish nationalism generated an unusual amount of sympathy for South African whites. In the late 1970s and the early 1980s, anti-apartheid groups in Flanders were therefore confronted with a substantial pro-apartheid movement, which was perhaps the largest in all of Western Europe.⁶ The present account does not necessarily seek to invalidate this culturalist explanation. It does, however, make a few observations which remind readers that the alleged cultural differences between countries are always the result of a multitude of struggles: struggles over representation, struggles for power, struggles for freedom.⁷ It is the disciplinary activity of academics or the hegemonic projects of political actors which give these characterizations their “matter-offact” quality. While many Dutch activists were motivated by feelings of guilt, such issues were not absent in Flemish anti-apartheid circles. Indeed, the question of guilt was one of many domains in which the Dutch solidarity movement exercised a strong influence on its Belgian counterpart. In terms of their overall strategy, ideology and action forms, the Flemish initiatives also bore the mark of Dutch examples. So, although the comparative approach can reveal important differences between Flanders and the Netherlands, we should not forget that both countries were part of larger fields of interaction that included the Benelux region, the process of (Western) European integration and the Cold War world order. In this tumultuous global context, the Afrikaner-dominated regime in South Africa was considered a stabilizing factor by many agencies on the right of the political spectrum. It was the geopolitical offensive led by US President Ronald Reagan and British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher which emboldened pro-Afrikaner voices in Flanders to launch a concerted media campaign. In response, anti-apartheid organizations and their political allies did everything in their power to prove that being Flemish did not necessitate an endorsement of “separate development” in South Africa. As this research shows, Flanders offers a fascinating case of a struggle for hegemony in which opposing camps fought tooth and nail to define the relationship between apartheid and the national identity.

 Isabelle Delvaux, Ces Belges qui ont soutenu l’apartheid. Organisations, réseaux et discours (Brussels: P.I.E.-Peter Lang S.A, 2014).  James Tully, Public Philosophy in a New Key, Volume I: Democracy and Civic Freedom (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008).

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Comparing anti-apartheid in Flanders and the Netherlands The Swedish sociologist Håkan Thörn argues that national anti-apartheid organizations in Western Europe tended to build on the historical legacies bequeathed by older generations of social movements. The British Anti-Apartheid Movement (AAM), for example, took great care to develop an “image of respectability” that connected with the country’s liberal-humanitarian traditions. The Swedish solidarity movement, by contrast, was strongly influenced by the anti-elitist and puritan values of the Free Church, temperance and workers’ movements.⁸ In the Netherlands, the contours of the movement also reflected the national political traditions. During much of the twentieth century, Dutch attitudes towards South Africa remained ambivalent. While the two Anglo-Boer wars aroused a great deal of public sympathy for the plight of the Boers, the Afrikaners were often regarded as the unrefined and less enlightened cousins of the Dutch. Especially after the Second World War, ideas of racial superiority were viewed with increasing suspicion. At the same time, South Africa’s wartime record and the onset of the Cold War stimulated the maintenance of friendly relations between both countries. After the independence of Indonesia, moreover, South Africa was seen as a destination for Dutch exports and emigrants. In 1952, 300 years after the arrival of the first settlers in the Cape, both governments signed a cultural agreement which underlined the ethnic ties between the Dutch and Afrikaner peoples. In the 1960s, the Dutch stance on South Africa became more critical. Seeking good relations with the newly-independent countries in Africa and Asia, the Dutch government began to voice its disapproval of apartheid. In 1965, it began donating funds to (peaceful) anti-apartheid organizations like the International Defence and Aid Fund (IDAF), a decision which provoked angry reactions from Dutch immigrants in South Africa. Seeking some kind of middle ground, the Dutch government instigated an official policy of “dialogue” with Pretoria. While its criticism gained in strength, isolating the regime through sanctions was not seriously considered. Despite tensions between the two governments, commercial relations flourished as never before.

 Thörn, Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society, 86 – 90; See also Rob Skinner, The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid: Liberal Humanitarians and Transnational Activists in Britain and the United States, c.1919 – 64 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010).

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Given the initial ambivalence of public attitudes towards South Africa, the first Dutch anti-apartheid organization adopted a very moderate profile. Founded in 1957, the Committee South Africa (CZA) was a peace-loving initiative in which all political currents (except for the communists) were represented. In addition to lobbying the Dutch and South African governments, the CZA collected money to relieve the suffering of South African blacks. A Dutch section of IDAF (DAFN) was set up with this specific aim. While its fundraising activities were successful, CZA was unable to adapt to the new political realities of the black liberation struggle, particularly its turn towards violence. The refusal of the CZA leadership to consider new methods of protest also alienated the younger generation of anti-apartheid activists.⁹ In the late 1960 and early 1970s, the Netherlands was in the midst of a “cultural revolution” that had important political consequences. Raised with the prosperity of the post-war period, many youngsters cherished dreams of a better world in which peace, justice and personal freedom were core values. People began to draw different lessons from what they saw as a succession of “three wars”. Reports of war crimes perpetrated during the Second World War and the Indonesian War of Independence fostered a critical outlook on the interventionism of the Cold War, in which the West posed an obstacle to the aspirations of Third World countries like Algeria and Vietnam. In this radicalizing atmosphere, the Anti-Apartheid Movement Netherlands (AABN) was founded to replace the defunct CZA. Perceiving their efforts as a contribution to the anti-capitalist struggle, the activists of the AABN advocated the total boycott of South Africa, in accordance with the wishes of the African National Congress (ANC). Established with similar intent, Boycot Outspan Actie (BOA) drew attention by its highly mediatized protests against the consumption of South African fruit.¹⁰ Meanwhile, two other anti-apartheid organizations had seen the light of day. The Werkgroep Kairos was composed of Christian activists who were particularly active in campaigns for disinvestment (focused on banks and Royal Dutch Shell) and the imposition of an oil embargo on South Africa. A group of left-leaning socialists were the driving force behind the Angola Committee. Building up a network of local support groups, the Angola Comité aimed for the liberation of the entire Southern African region. After the independence of Angola and Mozambique, its name was changed to Committee Southern Africa (KZA). Apart from its boycott campaigns against Dutch firms, the KZA gained notoriety for its fundrais-

 Bosgra, “From Jan van Riebeeck to solidarity with the struggle,” 533 – 543.  Ibid., 544– 546.

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ing drives, organized at the behest of liberation movements like the ANC.¹¹ In sum, the Netherlands was home to a field of activism that diverged sharply from the one in Britain. The failure of the CZA gave way to a “typically Dutch”, quasi-pillarized landscape in which the AABN was dominated by communists, the KZA focused on the social democratic PvdA and the Werkgroep Kairos tried to lobby the Christian democratic CDA.¹² In Flanders, adaptation to local circumstances was equally imperative. A particularly difficult challenge was posed by the feelings of kinship between the Flemish and the Afrikaner peoples. The recognition of linguistic and ethnic links between both nations dates back to the nineteenth century. Especially during the Second Anglo-Boer War (1899 – 1902) the north of Belgium experienced a wave of popular sympathy for the Boers, the so-called Boerensympathie. Flemish activists from different political backgrounds expressed support for their Afrikaner “tribal brethren,” in whose fight against British imperialism they perceived parallels with their own struggle against Francophone domination.¹³ After the war, this interaction led to the development of regular cultural, economic and diplomatic ties with Afrikaans-speaking South Africa. Radical Flemish nationalists openly sympathized with apartheid, but also within the Flemish establishment there was a lot of understanding for the policies of “separate development”. Popular support for the Afrikaner people was mobilized through mass cultural organizations like the Christian democratic Davidsfonds. In 1954, Belgium signed a cultural agreement with South Africa. It sought to promote the “knowledge and understanding” of both the cultural activities and the “history and way of living” of the two countries. Since the exchange was only open to officially “selected groups” and “accepted persons”, adversaries came to see the agreement as a “subsidized platform for apartheid propaganda”.¹⁴ Foreign policy was a matter of large consensus in Belgian politics. Given their strongly Atlanticist orientation, foreign ministers were inclined to adopt a conservative stance on South Africa. Before 1960, the apartheid policies were regarded as an entirely domestic issue of the latter. When the Sharpeville massacre and decolonization rendered this position diplomatically unacceptable, Belgium began voting in favor of UN resolutions that condemned apartheid as a violation

 Ibid., 546 – 554.  Muskens, Aan de goede kant, 20.  Jan-M. Goris, Vlaanderen en de Anglo-Boerenoorlog, 1899 – 1902 (Antwerp: Provinciebestuur Antwerpen, 1999).  Jan Vanheukelom, “Hoera vir die Boer hoera! Pro- and Anti-Apartheid Struggles in Flanders and Belgium,” in The Road to Democracy, 657– 658; Leuven, University Archives KU Leuven, AKZA Archive, 131: Pamphlet, 15 September 1977.

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of human rights. As a rule, however, its representatives abstained or voted against UN resolutions that sought to isolate South Africa through diplomatic or economic sanctions. While making public statements of disapproval, the Belgian government did everything to maintain normal diplomatic, trade and financial relations with the country. Officially, it pursued a policy of “dialogue”, favoring “moderate solutions” to South Africa’s racial problems. Meanwhile, Belgianowned capital flowed to the country as loans or investments, while diamonds, coal and fruit were among the South African items reaching Belgium by air and sea.¹⁵ In this context of overall acceptance, sustained mobilization against apartheid started relatively late. The first Belgian solidarity organization, the Brussels-based Committee against Colonialism and Apartheid (CCCA) was founded in January 1969. This was some ten years after the liberation movements had made their initial call for an international boycott of South Africa. The mainly French-speaking CCCA cherished the twin goal of supporting national liberation struggles and of effecting a change in Belgian foreign policy regarding the Southern African region.¹⁶ The first Flemish initiatives were launched in the early 1970s. From the outset, the existing Dutch organizations were a huge source of inspiration to their Flemish counterparts. In 1974, the South African exile Maurice Mthombeni started a Flemish version of BOA, the successful Dutch anti-apartheid organization which made its name in the fruit boycott. In January 1972, a group of Leuven students was influenced by the Dutch Angola Committee when they founded an organization to protest against Portuguese colonialism. With the independence of the Portuguese colonies in 1975, this Flemish Angola Committee (VAK) changed its name to Action Committee Southern Africa (AKZA). This happened around the same time as the Dutch Angola Committee was renamed to KZA, indicating a shift in its attention to the larger Southern African region and to South Africa in particular.¹⁷ AKZA was an offshoot of the radicalizing Catholic and Flemish student movement of the late 1960s and early 1970s. Throughout the 1970s, it had structural and financial ties with Wereldscholen-CVA, an organization that sought to criticize and reinvent a tradition of popular education originating in the Christi-

 Paulette Pierson-Mathy, “The Anti-Apartheid Struggle in Belgium as Perceived by the Comité Contre le Colonialisme et l’Apartheid,” in The Road to Democracy, 640 – 653.  Ibid., 654– 657.  Vanheukelom, “Hoera vir die Boer hoera!,” 658 – 661.

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an workers’ movement (ACW) and cultural networks such as the Davidsfonds. ¹⁸ Like many other organizations that emerged from the anti-authoritarian student movement, AKZA took a strong interest in the Third World. Inspired by the aura of left-wing liberation movements, its political ideal was a grassroots democratic socialism. Just like the Dutch KZA, the committee adhered to an informal organizational structure. Decisions were taken in weekly staff meetings and a secretary oversaw the continuity of the activities. However, while the KZA early on learned the value of action oriented towards the political center,¹⁹ AKZA maintained its radical profile throughout the 1970s. As in the early days of the Dutch AABN, Marxist analyses fueled sympathies for the working class wing of the ANC.²⁰ In the 1970s, the Flemish anti-apartheid movement was rather small, especially when compared to the mobilization in the Netherlands. In 1975, AKZA and its Flemish allies (which included the Oxfam Third World shops) raised about 1 million Belgian Francs (24 789 euros) for the MPLA in Angola, which was then struggling against a South African invasion.²¹ This amount was dwarfed by the €0.5 million donated by the Dutch public. Extremely adept at public fundraising, the Dutch KZA could allegedly draw on the financial support of 40,000 regular donors.²² Also in 1975, the Flemish BOA and AKZA organized a national gathering in Mechelen, which reached about 1,000 people. Special guests at this meeting were ANC representative for Western Europe Reg September and the South African writer Breyten Breytenbach.²³ 1977 was a first peak in the Flemish mobilization against apartheid. With the aim of fostering “unity between all democratic forces from the Flemish, Christian and socialist currents,” the left-leaning Daens-Aktiefonds gathered a temporary coalition of eminent persons and civil society groups

 Wouter Goedertier, “Erst radikal, dann liberal? Die belgische Anti-Apartheid-Bewegung in den 1980er Jahren,” in ‘All we ever wanted …’: eine Kulturgeschichte europäischer Protestbewegungen der 1980er Jahre, ed. Hanno Balz and Jan-Henrik Friedrichs (Berlin: Dietz, 2012), 214– 230; Id., “The Ambiguity of Solidarity,” 155 – 211.  Bosgra, “From Jan van Riebeeck to solidarity with the struggle,” 533 – 621.  In September 1975, AKZA was able to send 858 British pounds to the South African Congress of Trade Unions (SACTU), a politically-oriented trade union federation closely tied to the ANC. These funds were transferred with the help of the ANC office in London. See AKZA Archive, 131: Letter to the ANC, 4 September 1975, and SACTU letter to AKZA, 11 November 1975.  AKZA Archive, 131: Letter to the ANC, 4 September 1975; 132: Letter to Sabam, 30 November 1975; “30 jaar Oxfam-wereldwinkels: de eerste 25 jaar,” WeeWeeKrant, January 2001.  Bosgra, “From Jan van Riebeeck to solidarity with the struggle,” 548 – 549, 559.  AKZA Archive, 131: Perskonferentie Anti-Apartheidsweek, 17– 22 February 1975.

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Fig. 27: Announcement of the Flemish Anti-Apartheid Union against the sale of fruit from South Africa. The slogan reads “Will you sell this to 2 million customers? GB [Grand Bazar, a Belgian supermarket chain], say no to fruit from South Africa.” KADOC-KU Leuven, ACW Koepel van Christelijke Werknemersorganisaties, 002145232.

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around a minimum program. In February that year, some 5,000 people demonstrated in the streets of Antwerp.²⁴ In the 1980s, the Flemish anti-apartheid movement underwent profound changes. Increasingly reliant on financial assistance by the government and more professional development agencies (like Socialistische Solidariteit and Broedelijk Delen), AKZA began to moderate its political profile.²⁵ With the decline of BOA, the committee remained the only Flemish organization that was engaged with Southern Africa on a permanent basis. Moreover, its ability to reach a broader public was boosted by the political situation in South Africa. In 1983, hundreds of civilian associations from the different South African communities launched the United Democratic Front (UDF) to protest Prime Minster P.W. Botha’s half-hearted constitutional reforms. It was the beginning of a cycle of popular unrest and state repression that culminated in the declaration of a state of emergency across the country. Reports of bloodshed broadcasted by the international media were a strong catalyst for anti-apartheid protests. In September 1985, AKZA assembled the Flemish Anti-Apartheid Coordination (VAAK), a coalition of Flemish organizations against apartheid. Influenced by the large Flemish peace mobilizations against nuclear weapons, VAAK adopted a moderate stance that focused campaigning on a limited number of topics. The coalition consisted of 18 founding organizations, more than 50 supporting organizations and 14 local committees which took decisions by democratic consensus.²⁶ The first national campaign run by VAAK was “Does your money support apartheid?”. It was inspired by the Dutch campaign to terminate the sale of Krugerrand gold coins. According to the KZA, this was an attainable objective with great potential to revitalize local anti-apartheid activism.²⁷ In Flanders, local groups embraced the cause with equal enthusiasm. In the spring of 1987, VAAK launched “Don’t reap the fruits of apartheid,” an initiative that was again modelled on a Dutch campaign. Very important to the fruit campaign was Oxfam Wereldwinkels, whose network of Third World shops gave the boycott a lot of visibility. In March 1989 VAAK campaigned for the minimum program which had been proclaimed earlier by South African church leaders. No less than 70 organizations demanded that the Belgian government would commit it-

 “Apartheid… En de Kerken?,” Kering 2/3 (1977): 5 – 7; AKZA Archive, 132: Jabula in Vlaanderen, February/March 1978.  Goedertier, “Erst radikal, dann liberal?”  Id., “The ambiguity of solidarity,” 339 – 341.  Bosgra, “From Jan van Riebeeck to solidarity with the struggle,” 585.

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self to the introduction of five minimal sanctions, with or without the EEC support.²⁸ While Flemish anti-apartheid activism experienced a peak in the mid-to-late 1980s, it remained small when compared to the Dutch movement. The Flemish capacity for physical mobilization was limited to a few thousand people at a time. In June 1984, a hastily called demonstration against Botha’s visit to Brussels gathered about 1,000 people.²⁹ In the context of the VAAK banking campaign, more than 10,000 account holders signed a petition to terminate financial links with apartheid.³⁰ In comparison, Dutch anti-apartheid organizations collected congratulation messages from 150,000 people on the occasion of Nelson Mandela’s 70th birthday in 1988.³¹ Around that time, VAAK organized what it called “the largest decentralized anti-apartheid campaign ever […] in Flanders.” The protest took place in front of 130 retail stores, distributing almost 300,000 consumer guides and leaflets to customers.³² An attempt to mimic the Mandela concert at Wembley and the 50,000-strong Amsterdam demonstration of 1988 were less successful. The Beat Apartheid concert held in Turnhout in September 1989 was a financial failure, forcing the VAAK member organizations to share in the losses.³³ The circulation of Amandla, the joint publication of AKZA, BOA, and its Dutch counterparts (KZA, BOA and Kairos) gives an impression of their constituencies. In the Netherlands, this group was much larger: more than 15,000 subscribers compared to 500 in Flanders.³⁴ Even if the larger population of the Netherlands (14.9 million Dutch and almost 6 million Flemings at the end of the 1980s) is taken into account, the overall picture is clear. The anti-apartheid movement in the Netherlands was far more extensive than the one in Flanders. Relative to population, the core of the Dutch movement was more than 12 times bigger. Dutch capacities for on the spot mobilization were about 4 times larger. Finally, by every available measure, the Dutch financial contributions to South African struggle were far in excess of Flemish support.

 AKZA Archive, 20: “Minimumprogramma Vlaamse Anti-Apartheids-Koördinatie,” 1989.  “Botha niet welkom in Brussel,” De Standaard, 6 June 1984.  AKZA Archive, 201– 204: Aktiviteitenverslag werkingsjaar 1987.  Bosgra, “From Jan van Riebeeck to solidarity with the struggle,” 553.  AKZA Archive, 100: Aktiviteitenverslag VAAK.  AKZA Archive, 113 – 114: Minutes meeting, 27 September 1989.  Bosgra, “From Jan van Riebeeck to Solidarity with the Struggle,” 552; AKZA Archive, 6: Evaluatie promotie Amandla, 1989.

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Fig. 28: In Flanders, the main trade unions and a dozen militant organizations jointly celebrate the International Year Against Apartheid, from 21 March 1978 to 20 March 1979. KADOC-KU Leuven, ACW Koepel van Christelijke Werknemersorganisaties, 001826553.

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Cultural perspectives and their limitations According to some scholars, the disparities in scale between the Flemish and Dutch anti-apartheid movements can be explained with reference to the cultural differences between Flanders and the Netherlands. The South African historian Otto Terblanche highlights five such differences and their consequences for bilateral relations with South Africa. First of all, Terblanche underlines the profound theological influences of Dutch Protestantism on South Africa. As a result, critical theologians in the Netherlands rejected apartheid with particular vehemence. According to Terblanche, such theological links were virtually absent in the predominantly Roman Catholic Flanders. Second, Terblanche argues that in the 1960s and 1970s, the Dutch sought to act as the “moral conscience” of the world. Action groups saw South Africa as a “negative mirror image” of their own country. Flanders, on the other hand, lacked this guilt-driven moralistic world-view. These differences in attitude were the fruit of divergent historical experiences and their impact on the national memory. Third, Terblanche maintains, the Netherlands was burdened by guilt because the Dutch authorities played such an active role in the deportation of Jews during the Second World War. 71 percent of the Jews in the Netherlands were killed. In Belgium, that figure was 41 percent. Fourth, Terblanche states that colonial experiences were different in both countries. The Belgian colonial adventure was short-lived and after independence, Congo was not perceived as a moral problem. By contrast, the decolonization of Indonesia was a trauma which caused the Dutch government to break more sharply with racism and apartheid. Finally, Terblanche argues the Flemish were more inclined to preserve links with South Africa because they identified the trajectory of the Afrikaners with their own struggle for cultural and political emancipation. In the Netherlands, the Dutch language was never under threat. As a result, the Afrikaners could easily slide into disfavor. To state his case, Terblanche leans on arguments made by Dutch liberal-conservative politicians Frits Bolkestein and Derk Jan Eppink. According to Eppink, the left-wing government under Prime Minister Joop den Uyl (1973 – 1977) was particularly keen to make human rights the cornerstone of its foreign policy. Bolkestein maintains that “morality is so deeply embedded in the Dutch national character that even left-wing politicians could be described as ‘Calvinists without Calvin’.” Secular groups conduct politics with all the dogmatism and selfrighteousness of a puritan preacher. That is why the Dutch encounter with apartheid had the trappings of a “church struggle”. For the Dutch, South Africa epitomized the clash between good and evil. Terblanche maintains that Catholic

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Flanders had a more flexible take on morality. South of the border, there is a strong tendency towards “pragmatic manoeuvring”. Since the Flemings lacked the Dutch pedantry and “moral arrogance”, the Flemish anti-apartheid movement operated on a far smaller scale.³⁵ Terblanche’s cultural perspective is broadly consistent with the latest scholarly research on the Dutch anti-apartheid movement. The Dutch historian Roeland Muskens ties the growth of solidarity activism in his country to a renewal of interest in the Second World War in the mid-1970s. For those Dutch who felt their forebears had been insufficiently inclined to resist the Nazis, anti-apartheid protests were seen as “repechage” (herkansing). It was a renewal of the resistance, a kind of “modern iconoclasm” directed against all domestic signs of collaboration with apartheid. This emotional substrate left little room for nuance in public discussions, as activists were absolutely determined to stand “on the good side”.³⁶ Like Bolkestein, the reputable historian J.C.H. Blom detects the Dutch disposition towards guilt even further back in time. Around the turn of the twentieth century, the Dutch already aspired towards moral excellence in international affairs. The Kingdom of the Netherlands liked to present itself as a Gidsland, an exemplary nation where policy was based on moral considerations instead of power and self-interest. According to Blom, such pursuits offered compensation for the country’s relatively insignificant position in the realm of international politics. The Dutch colony in the East Indies was one of the few reminders of a glorious past. But even there, the Dutch followed an “ethical policy”. Largescale educational efforts to “uplift” the native population meant to pay off a “debt of honor” the government felt it had incurred at a previous stage of harsh colonial exploitation.³⁷ The overall consensus about guilt and moral conscience as underlying factors of Dutch solidarity raises a fundamental question. Are the Afrikaner and Dutch thinkers also right about Flanders? Should we agree with Terblanche that the Flemish are less uptight about international issues? Is Eppink basically correct when he states that in Catholic Flanders, ties with South Africa were “never an emotional subject”, that the Flemings “never felt guilt”?³⁸ Perhaps

 Otto Terblanche, “Die verskille tussen Nederland en Vlaandere ten opsigte van Suid-Afrika tydens die apartheidsjare: ’n Ontleding,” Tydskrif vir Geesteswetenskappe 50/4 (December 2010): 447– 466.  Muskens, Aan de goede kant, 643.  J.C.H. Blom, “Nederland sinds 1830,” in Geschiedenis van de Nederlanden, ed. J.C.H. Blom and E. Lamberts (Baarn: HB uitgevers, 2004), 338 – 340.  “Zuid-Afrika: schuld en boete. De Klerk: reis komt te vroeg,” NRC Handelsblad, 21 April 1990.

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the latter assertion is merely meant as a provocation, as a means to exaggerate the very real differences that existed between Flanders and the Netherlands. In any case, it should be acknowledged that there are at least some Flemish sources in which feelings of guilt, or at least statements about guilt, can be found. In the mid-1970s, an AKZA brochure on the boycott of Belgian banks made the following remarks: when we turn our eyes to South Africa, we have to realize that we are simultaneously looking in a mirror. We have to be well aware that also in our country, and often in our own heart racism is far from banned. We have to realize that the society of which we are part is globally constructed in a way that strongly resembles South Africa: a rich, heavily armed and powerful minority profits from the exploitation of the overwhelming majority.³⁹

I should mention the Leuven activists did not write this message all by themselves. It was paraphrased from a booklet written by a Dutch journalist with ties to left-leaning Protestant circles.⁴⁰ More importantly, however, is the way in which AKZA tried to appeal to the reader’s moral conscience. What troubled the socialist-minded activists of AKZA was not so much the history of their own country, but the structural inequities of the capitalist world economy. Western consumers could feel guilty for their involvement in a system thriving on inequality and the exploitation of cheap labor. Another reference to guilt can be found in a booklet written by members of the Belgian Commission for Justice and Peace. Once again, the authors linked individual morality to socio-economic problems. Through the consumption of gold, diamonds and uranium, the affluence of Western societies was connected to the exploitation of black people under apartheid. “Guilt feelings,” they stressed, were “not […] the exclusive prerogative of the former colonial powers in South Africa.” They played “a role in the whole of Western society.” This statement is important because it attributed a universal dimension to the issue of guilt. Economic relations with South Africa were not just a Dutch problem or a Belgian problem. It was something all people in the West had to be concerned about. It is curious that Terblanche does not list anxiety about global inequality among his theses on Dutch solidarity. Maybe his overwhelming urge to domesticate anti-apartheid protests leads him to overlook this crucial source of guilt.

 Geen geld voor apartheid! Belgische banken en Zuid-Afrika, Wereldwinkelschrift 8 (Leuven: Kritak, 1976).  Robert van Waesberge, Apartheid, hebben wij er part aan? Gedachtennotities van zwarte Zuidafrikanen over zichzelf, over ons en over onze investeringen (Driebergen: Centrale voor Vormingswerk, 1974).

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Terblanche’s contention that Catholic Flemings lacked a religious connection to South Africa should also be qualified. Walter Aelvoet, a Flemish missionary of the White Fathers, wrote specifically about the Catholic dimension of the struggle in a discussion paper. For a very long time, he argued, all the churches of South Africa had done little to prevent the segregation of religious practices. For their preference of “Babylon over the Pentecost,” even the Catholics had to “admit guilt”. Because they had compromised the “purity of the Gospel,” the churches had strong reasons to participate in the fight against apartheid. The Catholic Church had a special responsibility, since Catholics constituted the largest denomination in South Africa. In Flanders, progressive believers had an additional reason to get involved: “probably nowhere in the world there is a stronger lobby in favor of our ‘tribal brethren’.” It was they, Aelvoet stressed, who imperiled the credibility of the Flemish Church.⁴¹ Documents like Aelvoet’s paper underline the danger of generalizations based on a limited number of cases. It might be true, as Terblanche argues, that many Flemish Catholics were reluctant to witness the end of white supremacy in South Africa. For other Catholics, however, the existence of a strong lobby for Afrikaner nationalism was precisely one more reason to commit to the antiapartheid movement. Eppink’s concept of “church struggle”, therefore, was not as foreign to Flanders as he thinks. The real problem with his perspective is that assessments in terms of guilt and moral conscience never constitute a neutral framework. As illustrated in the next section, pro-Afrikaner lobbyists were using a similar kind of argumentation to discredit the actions of the anti-apartheid movement. Social scientists have long debated the supposed non-rational or rational grounds of collective action.⁴² It makes sense to recognize both. However, when broaching the tantalizing topic of guilt, scholars should at least acknowledge they are entering a political minefield. That brings us to Terblanche’s third and fourth thesis, on the Dutch activists’ troubled memories of the Second World War and decolonization. On this topic, none of the examined Flemish sources make explicit references to guilt. It would be wrong, however, to conclude that the World War or Belgian colonialism were not emotional themes for the Flemish activists. Once again, it is important to situate their outlook within a wider political context. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Vietnam was the focal point of anti-war protests in the West. In the

 AKZA Archive, 113: Hoe staan we als kristenen t.a.v. het Zuidafrikaans probleem, 29 December 1986.  Nick Crossley, Making Sense of Social Movements (Buckingham-Philadelphia: Open University Press, 2002).

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eyes of many protesters, the systematic deployment of violence by the US military-industrial complex was cut from the same cloth as the Nazi extermination machinery.⁴³ A similar “fascism” was rearing its ugly head in Southern Africa, where European NATO members were accused of starting “their own Vietnam” in defense of Western economic interests. In 1975, when the Zairese president Mobutu Sese Seko got involved in the Angolan civil war, the Dutch KZA reacted fiercely. It did not want to see “black fascism” replacing the defeated “Portuguese fascism”. In Flanders, AZKA joined a coalition of peace groups, youth organizations, left-wing political currents and Third World solidarity committees to protest against a visit of Prime Minster Leo Tindemans to Zaire. In an open letter, the dictator Mobuto was held responsible for gross violations of human rights and elementary freedoms in the former Belgian colony.⁴⁴ Clearly, the anti-fascist rhetoric of Dutch and Flemish solidarity groups should be understood against the background of the struggles waged by liberation movements at a late stage of decolonization. In the activists’ opinion, the fight against “imperialism” or “neo-colonialism” in Africa was a continuation of the struggle against fascism that had started in the 1930s. In their public expressions, the Second World War was not so much a cause for guilt, but a central episode in a long story of “liberation”.⁴⁵ Having made these observations, one might still agree with Terblanche that apartheid, Mobuto and Africa in general were not priority issues in the eyes of most Flemings. Solidarity activists had to swim against the tide until the mid-1980s, when the Flemish public began to show a greater interest in their message. Throughout this period, however, they refused to believe that the character of the Flemish people was set in stone. According to Terblanche, the alleged similarities between the Flemish struggle for emancipation and the Afrikaner designs for ethnic preservation gave the latter a more favorable reputation in Flanders. As argued below, however, the Flemish identity was a point of contention between anti-apartheid activists and their pro-Afrikaner adversaries. While both camps believed their actions were validated by the history of Flemish emancipation, they had different conceptions of what this struggle was ultimately about.

 Kees van der Pijl, Transnational Classes and International Relations (London-New York: Routledge, 1998), 156.  AKZA Archive, 131: De NATO moordt verder in het Europese Vietnam, 15 March 1973; Mobutu, handen af van Angola, June 1975; Open brief aan de heer Leo Tindemans, 22 September 1975.  AKZA Archive, 131: Steun aan bevrijdingsbewegingen, 1974.

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Rival conceptions of Flemish nationhood and foreign relations The anti-apartheid organizations of Flanders and the Netherlands constituted a social movement that was primarily concerned with the foreign relations between their countries and the Southern African region. Once a frontier zone of the British Empire, this region was undergoing a process of political reconstitution that was shaped by the desires of its constituent peoples, but also by the geopolitical designs of the reigning superpowers (the USA and the Soviet Union). Although their activities were firmly rooted in their own civil societies, the anti-apartheid organizations of the Low Countries intervened in this process by lending recognition to the claims of Southern African movements struggling against colonial rule and racial oppression. To achieve their political goals, these movements appealed to two constitutional principles that were considered universal in the context of the post-war world order: the right of peoples to self-determination and the equality of individual citizens.⁴⁶ In South Africa, the right to self-determination was expressed in the demand of the liberation movements to be acknowledged as the authentic representatives of the overwhelming majority of the people. Desires for individual equality were couched in terms of civil and human rights, a deliberate move to attract international attention.⁴⁷ Self-determination and individual equality are not intrinsically universal principles. They are recognized as such because of their involvement in complex operations of hegemony. Following the Argentinian sociologist Ernesto Laclau, we speak of hegemony when a particular identity comes to embody an unachievable fullness. In other words, its universality is located in its ability to signify that which is negated in a specific social situation. In every society there will be demands that are unfulfilled. In a hegemonic operation, such unfulfilled demands are articulated into an equivalential chain. Partially surrendering their particularity, they constitute a broader social subjectivity ‒ a historical actor we can identify as a “people” or “movement”. What ultimately holds such a people together is the emotional appeal generated by the universal signifier. Principles such as self-determination or democracy thus function as empty signifiers. Alluding to the existence of a totality, they have practically no meaning of their

 James Tully, Strange Multiplicity: Constitutionalism in an Age of Diversity (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 15.  P. Eric Louw, The Rise, Fall, and Legacy of Apartheid (Westport: Praeger Publishers, 2004), 149.

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own. Their actual contents is almost completely determined by the range of social demands they articulate. In Laclau’s words, the particularity of the universal “comes to signify something quite different from itself: the total chain of equivalential demands.”⁴⁸ The complex tension between the universal and the particular was also present in the public appeals of Flemish solidarity groups. During the 1970s campaign against the Belgian cultural agreement with South Africa, AKZA made references to the UN Charter, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the principle of human dignity.⁴⁹ At the same time, pamphlets exclaimed that the self-determination of peoples could scarcely be realized in a capitalist context. “True solidarity” meant insight into the exploitation of working people on a world scale and participation in mass struggle was deemed the key to social change.⁵⁰ In Christian circles, the Leuven committee invoked the authority of the World Council of Churches (WCC), which in 1968 made a call for disinvestment and the termination of trade relations with South Africa. If it was really Christian, activists argued, the Davidsfonds had to cease organizing “propaganda meetings” for the apartheid regime. If Catholic bodies like the Davidsfonds or the Leuven University felt the appeals of the Protestant WCC were not addressed to them, they were stuck in “pre-conciliar thinking”. But even then, they could not ignore the papal encyclicals or the resolutions of the Commission for Justice and Peace that condemned racially discriminatory legislation. The Belgian Catholic Church was urged to translate these statements into concrete actions.⁵¹ Despite its distant ties to the Catholic and Flemish (student) movement, AKZA was not a religious group. The Leuven activists liked to see themselves as “independent”, which meant they could maintain contacts with nearly all of the political currents in Flanders. The committee had favorable relations with the smaller communist and green parties. The social democratic SP was a natural ally, although in proper New Left fashion, the committee described its relationship with the party as a “long march through the institutions”.⁵² The solidarity movement was also supported by the progressive wing of the Flemish nationalist VU. But the Christian democratic CVP remained the largest party in Flanders and for this reason, AKZA tried to strengthen its Christian connections. Another factor behind the rapprochement between secular and religious forces within the Flemish anti-apartheid movement was the growing importance     

Ernesto Laclau, On Populist Reason (London: Verso, 2005), 95. AKZA Archive, 132: Letter to the Minister of Dutch Culture, 27 September 1977. AKZA Archive, 131: Solidariteit met de bevrijdingsbewegingen in Zuidelijk Afrika, 1974. AKZA Archive, 131: Pamphlets, 8 October 1973 and 11 October 1973. AKZA Archive, 113 – 114: Letter, 8 June 1989.

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of both the Protestant and Catholic Churches to the South African opposition. In May 1986, the bishops of Southern Africa wrote a pastoral letter in which they recognized economic sanctions as a legitimate means to put an end to apartheid. In response, AKZA and members from Christian organizations established the Christian Work Group Southern Africa (CWZA). The creation of a new anti-apartheid group, it was believed, would not work to the disadvantage of existing initiatives (such as VAAK). Here the Netherlands provided a good example of a multiplicity of organizations, each having its own specialties. The Dutch Werkgroep Kairos would also function as a source of documentation for the CWZA. One eagerly anticipated advantage of having a specifically Christian anti-apartheid body was easier access to Christian democratic media.⁵³ Analyzing the “popular” or social movement identity constructed by AKZA and its allies, we can see that they tried to hegemonize empty signifiers (self-determination, human rights, Christian social thought) in a predominantly leftwing fashion. A range of social demands (termination of the cultural agreement, economic sanctions, economic democracy…) was presented as a universally valid approach to the foreign relations between Belgium/Flanders and Southern Africa. Given the centrality of self-determination, the anti-apartheid movement also sought to appropriate the Flemish emancipation struggle. The latter had to progress beyond linguistic nationalism (taalflamingantisme). The Davidsfonds was therefore applauded for its willingness to take the struggle into a social direction, for those in Flanders who were discriminated by “social and economic structures”. The Flemish cultural network still had to realize, however, that black South Africans were dealing with the same problem. Within the overall framework of social and economic democratization, cultural institutions had a “specific mission” to fulfil. That’s why solidarity groups responded with such anger when, in 1973, the Leuven University appointed a cultural attaché of the South African embassy as a guest lecturer. The assignment, they argued, was in conflict with the “humanist principles” of the university. In its official doctrine, the South African government had indeed rejected not just “communism and liberalism”, but humanism as well. By framing their opposition in such a clever way, solidarity groups could present the apartheid regime as a direct attack on the students’ identity. It was a fact, moreover, that many anti-apartheid activists

 AKZA Archive, 113 – 114: Christelijke Werkgroep Zuidelijk Afrika (CWZA); “Zuid-Afrika: verkiezingen en sancties,” De Standaard, 6 April 1987.

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had a background in the humanities and the social sciences, which may explain their devotion to humanist values.⁵⁴ In the year 1976, apartheid South Africa suffered a serious setback when its retreat from Angola precipitated the Soweto uprising.⁵⁵ As the ensuing repression further damaged the international reputation of the regime, Pretoria’s apparent weakness was a source of major disagreement within Western elite circles. Around that time, the Trilateral Commission (TC ‒ an influential transnational planning body) inspired US President Jimmy Carter to launch his human rights diplomacy. Even if Carter’s policies were primarily directed against Third World governments that threatened the Western hold on the world economy, authoritarian allies such as Chile and South Africa were caught in the line of fire. In the perspective of the TC, the South African government had to initiate liberal reforms and achieve some sort of settlement with opposition forces. Carter’s alteration of course towards South Africa was symbolized by the 1977 UN arms embargo. In the Pentagon and the military-industrial complex, however, conservative elements resisted this strategy. Instead, they proposed more authoritarian measures to defend the apartheid regime against “communist” aggression.⁵⁶ These divisions within the Western bloc were present in Belgian politics as well. In 1977, the Francophone socialist Henri Simonet became minister of foreign affairs. As a member of the TC, Simonet was a proponent of the Carter line towards South Africa.⁵⁷ Solidarity groups stood to benefit from his denunciation of institutionalized racism at the World Conference for Action against Apartheid, held in Lagos in August 1977.⁵⁸ The cultural agreement with South Africa was finally suspended in December 1977. For the Flemish anti-apartheid movement, this was a favorable development, leading the Daens-Aktiefonds to conclude that “our Flemish people ‒ whatever its religious or philosophical differences ‒ is in overwhelming majority attached to democracy, freedom, human equality, social justice and progress.”⁵⁹ Even if these victories were largely sym-

 AKZA Archive, 131: Letter of Germania students to the Leuven University authorities, 22 Oct. 1973; AKZA Archive, 131: Presentation of CVA speakers, 1974– 1975.  Adrian Guelke, Rethinking the Rise and Fall of Apartheid: South Africa and World Politics (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 127.  Kees van der Pijl, Global Rivalries: From the Cold War to Iraq (London-Ann Arbor: Pluto Press, 2006), 94– 96, 138 – 157, 199 – 202.  Holly Sklar and Ros Everdell, “Who’s Who on the Trilateral Commission,” in Trilateralism. The Trilateral Commission and Elite Planning for World Management, ed. Holly Sklar (Boston: South End Press, 1980), 93.  In April 1978, Simonet even lent support to an international anti-apartheid seminar, organized in Brussels by the CCCA. See Pierson-Mathy, “The Anti-Apartheid Struggle in Belgium.”  AKZA Archive, 132: Vlaanderen tegen Apartheid, 1978.

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bolic, they alarmed the conservative sections of the Belgian establishment. Especially in Flanders, a countermove was to be expected. In September 1977, shortly after the death of Black Consciousness leader Steve Biko, 142 members of the Flemish elite formed Protea, a lobby group which sought to provide more “objective information” about South Africa. Among these notables willing to speak out in favor of South African policies were 46 members of parliament from the Christian democratic, liberal and Flemish nationalist parties, leading businessmen, members of the cultural establishment and a selection of high-ranking government officials, court magistrates, and officers from the Gendarmerie (Rijkswacht) and the Belgian Army. At its peak in the early 1980s, Protea had about 5,000 members.⁶⁰ Professor, businessman and former Christian democratic minister André Vlerick was the first president of Protea. In October 1979, he was a guest speaker at the general meeting of the Belgian Commission for Justice and Peace. In his presentation, the Protea chairman voiced his distrust of moral universalism. Throughout history, he argued, Europe had “always acted out of self-interest”. But now, all of a sudden, Europeans were “evoking principles, principles of humanity, etc.” that were applied to situations of which they knew nothing about. For Europe’s sake, it was better to learn a few things from the South African situation. In Belgium, “parallel development” was the way forward, to resolve the conflict between Flemings and Walloons, but also to address the problem of foreign “guest workers” living in Flemish cities.⁶¹ According to Protea’s Vice-President Wim Jorissen, the proponents of Carter’s policies were hypocrites. In order to mask the West’s own weaknesses, they were happy to turn the Afrikaners into a “scapegoat”. Spellbound by the “fairy tale of white guilt” and afflicted by the “Vietnam syndrome”, they lacked the necessary will to fight against Soviet penetration.⁶² Protea’s impassioned defense of apartheid was buttressed by pro-business attitudes, nationalism and a militant anti-communism. This potent ideological mixture also had supporters in other Western European countries. Protea maintained good contacts with the Dutch South African Work Community (NZAW) in the Netherlands, the German South African Society (DSG) in Germany, and the Association of the French-African Community (ACPA) in France. Together, these organizations formed Eurosa, the union of European associations for  Walter Pauli, “De leden van Protea,” Knack, 10 July 2013; Jeremi Van den Berghe, “Protea: De Zuid-Afrikaanse lobby in Vlaanderen” (master diss., KU Leuven, 2011).  Leuven, KADOC, Archive of Caritas Catholica Belgica, 632: Report of the meeting, 18 October 1979.  Wim Jorissen, Zondebok Zuid-Afrika: een positieve balans (Tielt: Lannoo, 1980).

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Southern Africa. Through its honorary president, the former French Prime Minister Antoine Pinay, Eurosa was linked to all kinds of respectable and less respectable circles: influential politicians, intelligence services, conservative Catholics, the American New Right and terrorist organizations in Italy.⁶³ The tensions between these various forces also expressed themselves within Eurosa. In the early 1980s, “moderate” members of Protea and the NZAW resisted the attempts of a Franco-German axis to turn Eurosa into a “real Right-Wing organization”. In a letter to his Flemish friend André Vlerick, NZAW leader Willem Veenhoven likened the spirit of these engagements to military confrontations. In his opinion, the French and Germans premediated a “foolhardy attack on trilateralism”, a strategy which alienated Eurosa “from the politicians of the center and the center-right”. It was precisely this group he sought “to guide towards a more nuanced stance on South Africa”.⁶⁴ After 1981, Veenhoven’s “more nuanced stance” was basically realized in US President Ronald Reagan’s policy of “constructive engagement”, which allowed Pretoria to reconstruct the apartheid system. The essence of Prime Minister P.W. Botha’s reform drive was economic renewal and the co-optation of a segment of the black opposition. At the same time, a powerful security apparatus was set up to minimize the impact of the growing unrest that inevitably ensued. In the wider Southern African theater, Botha pursued the strategy of “low intensity warfare” in order to destabilize the left-wing regimes of Angola and Mozambique. By the mid-1980s, however, reform apartheid had run its course. Escalating protests and state terror threatened to make South Africa ungovernable. Sensing that “constructive engagement” had failed, Western countries hardened their stance on South Africa. In October 1986, the US Congress adopted the Comprehensive Anti-Apartheid Act, overriding President Reagan’s veto. Around the same time, the EEC adopted a limited package of “restrictive measures”, raising the pressure on the National Party (NP) to start a dialogue with the ANC.⁶⁵ On the right of Flemish politics, the champions of Pretoria had some difficulties adjusting to this situation. In the early 1980s, Protea had endorsed Botha’s reforms. By the time the South African prime minister began to question

 Van der Pijl, Global Rivalries, 157– 167; Giles Scott-Smith, Western Anti-Communism and the Interdoc Network: Cold War Internationale (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Jeffrey M. Bale, The Darkest Sides of Politics: Postwar Fascism, Covert Operations, and Terrorism (London-New York: Routledge, 2017).  KADOC, Archive of André Vlerick, 9.1.2.11: Letter to André Vlerick, 18 June 1982.  Martin Holland, The European Community and South Africa: European Political Co-operation under Strain (London: Pinter, 1988).

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hallmarks of apartheid such as “influx control”, most Protea members chose to stay in his camp. A radical fringe, however, believed the NP was conceding far too much. Especially among the younger generation of Flemish nationalists there was a great reluctance to forsake the idealized picture of apartheid.⁶⁶ In 1987, these tensions led to a split within Protea’s student association, when all local sections (expect the one in Leuven) decided to sever ties with their parent organization. In some places, the anger of radicals was vented towards the antiapartheid movement. In Antwerp, members of the Flemish nationalist Vlaams Blok held (police-sanctioned) demonstrations, while in Kortrijk, an unidentified group of 15 right-wing extremists resorted to violence to disrupt a public gathering of 30 anti-apartheid activists.⁶⁷ Despite the confusion, Protea kept up its support of the NP. Until its dissolution in 1992, the lobby group continued to question both the value of economic sanctions and the good intentions of the ANC.⁶⁸ This stance on Belgian-South African relations was the exact opposite of the one held by AKZA and its allies. Evidently, the anti-apartheid movement and pro-Afrikaner lobbyists were locked in a hegemonic struggle to define the nature of the Flemish people and its place in the world. Protea defined the Flemish identity primarily in ethno-nationalist terms. In Vlerick’s perspective, both the Flemish and the Afrikaners had the right to pursue their political, economic and cultural interests without foreign interference. The anti-apartheid groups, by contrast, championed a radically democratic idea of nationhood. Emancipation was about more than language or selfinterest. The people had to liberate themselves from the discrimination inherent in the socio-economic structures that stretched across national borders. Activists in Flanders and the black majority in South Africa fought the same struggle for a more equitable social order. In short, history did not predetermine the Flemish engagements with South Africa. Apartheid was an issue that cut across religious, linguistic and party divisions.

Conclusion In the 1970s and 1980s, the anti-apartheid movement in the Netherlands was much larger than the one in Flanders. Precisely because of its advanced development in the realm of solidarity, the Netherlands were indeed a kind of gidsland

 “Ons fruit groeit aan Zuidafrikaanse bomen,” De Morgen, 23 April 1987.  AKZA Archive, 32: Minutes meeting, 29 April 1987.  Van den Berghe, Protea.

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for Flanders. The names of Flemish solidarity organizations, their ideologies and public rhetoric, their strategies and forms of action were often inspired by Dutch examples. It can also be concluded that, at least within the orbit of the antiapartheid movement, the similarities between the Netherlands and Flanders were more prominent than their differences. All the aspects of anti-apartheid protests that are sometimes branded as typically Dutch were present in Flanders as well. Like their Dutch equivalents, Flemish anti-apartheid activists 1) felt a religious connection with South Africa, 2) made expressions of guilt (especially with regard to global inequality) 3) were sensitive about fascism and 4) were conscious about their country’s colonial past. At the same time, the anti-apartheid groups of Flanders should not be seen as Dutch implants in a largely inhospitable environment. They were expressly local nodes in a transnational network of solidarity. From its inception in the early 1970s, the movement was rooted in the history of Belgian and Flemish social struggles. Organizations like AKZA and the Daens-Aktiefonds had genuine ties to the Flemish drive for popular emancipation. One specific reason for getting involved in anti-apartheid actions was the existence of considerable proapartheid sentiments among conservative sections of the Flemish population. Protea was a formidable adversary with excellent political and financial connections. In the early 1980s, it looked like pro-Afrikaner lobbying had an impact on the outlook of the Belgian government. After 1985, however, the efforts of Protea were largely overtaken by the course of South African events. Through frequent media reports on violence and repression, a majority in Flanders became convinced that there was indeed something untenable about the South African political system. Solidarity groups benefited from this situation, even if their campaigns never reached the level of exposure attained by their Dutch counterparts.

Abbreviations AABN: ACPA: ACW: AKZA: ANC: BOA: CCCA: CVP: CWZA:

Anti-apartheidsbeweging Nederland (Anti-Apartheid Movement Netherlands) Association de la Communauté Franco-Africaine (Association of the French-African Community) Algemeen Christelijk Werknemersverbond (Confederation of Christian Employees) Aktiekomitee Zuidelijk Afrika (Action Committee Southern Africa) African National Congress Boycot Outspan Actie Comité Contre le Colonialisme et l’Apartheid (Committee Against Colonialism and Apartheid) Christelijke Volkspartij (Christian People’s Party) Christelijke Werkgroep Zuidelijk Afrika (Christian Work Group Southern Africa)

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CZA: DSG: IDAF: KZA: MPLA:

Comité Zuid Afrika (Committee South Africa) Deutsch-Südafrikanische Gesellschaft (German South African Society) International Defence and Aid Fund Komitee Zuidelijk Afrika (Committee Southern Africa) Movimento Popular de Libertação de Angola (People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola) NP: National Party NZAW: Nederlands Zuid-Afrikaanse Werkgemeenschap (Dutch South African Work Community) SACTU: South African Congress of Trade Unions UDF: United Democratic Front TC: Trilateral Commission VAAK: Vlaamse Anti-ApartheidsKoördinatie (Flemish Anti-Apartheid Coordination) VAK: Vlaams Angola Komitee (Flemish Angola Committee) VU: Volksunie (People’s Union) WCC: World Council of Churches

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Guelke, Adrian. Rethinking the Rise and Fall of Apartheid: South Africa and World Politics. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Hellemans, Staf, and Marc Hooghe. Van mei ’68 tot Hand in Hand: Nieuwe sociale bewegingen in België, 1965 – 1995. Leuven: Garant, 1995. Holland, Martin. The European Community and South Africa: European political co-operation under strain. London: Pinter, 1988. Jorissen, Wim. Zondebok Zuid-Afrika: een positieve balans. Tielt: Lannoo, 1980. Laclau, Ernesto. On Populist Reason. London: Verso, 2005. Louw, P. Eric. The Rise, Fall, and Legacy of Apartheid. Westport: Praeger Publishers, 2004. Muskens, Roeland. Aan de goede kant: biografie van de Nederlandse anti-apartheidsbeweging 1960 – 1990. Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2014. Pierson-Mathy, Paulette. “The Anti-Apartheid Struggle in Belgium as Perceived by the Comité Contre le Colonialisme et l’Apartheid.” In South African Democracy Education Trust. The Road to Democracy. Volume 3: International Solidarity, 640 – 657. Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008. Pijl, Kees van der. Transnational Classes and International Relations. London-New York: Routledge, 1998. Pijl, Kees van der. Global Rivalries: From the Cold War to Iraq. London-Ann Arbor: Pluto Press, 2006. Quataert, Jean H. Advocating Dignity: Human Rights Mobilizations in Global Politics. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2009. Scott-Smith, Giles. Western Anti-Communism and the Interdoc Network: Cold War Internationale. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Skinner, Rob. The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid: Liberal Humanitarians and Transnational Activists in Britain and the United States, c.1919 – 64. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Sklar, Holly, and Ros Everdell. “Who’s Who on the Trilateral Commission.” In Trilateralism. The Trilateral Commission and Elite Planning for World Management, edited by Holly Sklar, 90 – 131. Boston: South End Press, 1980. South African Democracy Education Trust. The Road to Democracy in South Africa. Volume 3: International Solidarity. Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008. Terblanche, Otto. “Die verskille tussen Nederland en Vlaandere ten opsigte van Suid-Afrika tydens die apartheidsjare: ’n Ontleding.” Tydskrif vir Geesteswetenskappe 50/4 (December 2010): 447 – 466. Thörn, Håkan. Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. Tully, James. Strange Multiplicity: Constitutionalism in an Age of Diversity. Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University press, 1995. Tully, James. Public Philosophy in a New Key. Volume I: Democracy and Civic Freedom. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Van den Berghe, Jeremi. “Protea: De Zuid-Afrikaanse lobby in Vlaanderen.” Master diss., KU Leuven, 2011. Vanheukelom, Jan. “Hoera vir die Boer hoera! Pro- and anti-apartheid struggles in Flanders and Belgium.” In South African Democracy Education Trust. The Road to Democracy in South Africa. Volume 3: International Solidarity, 657 – 666. Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008.

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Waesberge, Robert van. Apartheid, hebben wij er part aan? Gedachtennotities van zwarte Zuidafrikanen over zichzelf, over ons en over onze investeringen. Driebergen: Centrale voor Vormingswerk vanwege de Ned. herv. kerk, 1974.

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Chapter 13 Solidarity or Indifference? Polish Migrants in Belgium and Solidarność Migrants are often put forward as pioneers of transnational solidarity movements and instigators of social mobilization in support of crises in their homeland. This is not surprising. On the one hand, it seems to be confirmed by the facts. The mobilization for Chile significantly relied on the agency of exiles, from the Christian democrat Manuel Bustos to the communist Luis Corvalán.¹ Polish solidarity with Solidarność involved many Poles who cherished their ethnic origins in an age when Poland made headlines as a freedom loving country.² On the other hand, this view also results from excessive scholarly attention. Exiles and political activists were for a long time the only migrants historians studied, and even over the past decades remain an important group within migration history. Historians from other fields, such as Cold War history, also increasingly turn to migrants as a factor in social mobilization and political activism.³ However, this attention to an elite group of migrants may blind us to the masses and create a distorted image, suggesting that the commitment of individual migrants was automatically shared by the entire diaspora. This chapter will have a closer look at the involvement of migrants in solidarity movements. How many of them actually joined campaigns? Did they belong to old migration groups that had earlier settled in their host country, or had most of them just arrived? Did they only voice concerns at particular moments, for instance when crises came to a head, or did they develop a more long-lasting solidarity? Could they capitalize on organizational structures and networks to facilitate campaigns? Did they have particular focuses, such as political assistance to the op-

 Kim Christiaens, Magaly Rodríguez García and Idesbald Goddeeris, “A Global Perspective on the European Mobilization for Chile (1970s – 1980s),” in European Solidarity with Chile, 1970s– 1980s, ed. Kim Christiaens et al. (Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 2014), 7– 48.  Idesbald Goddeeris, ed., Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982 (Lanham: Lexington, 2010).  See, for instance, Quinn Slobodian, Foreign Front: Third World Politics in Sixties West Germany (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2012) about African and Asian students in West Germany opposing the regimes in their homelands, and Wendy Pojmann, ed., Migration and Activism in Europe since 1945 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008) about immigrants’ political activism in their “host country”. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-014

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position, humanitarian aid for the home country, or the relief of newly arrived migrants? These questions will be answered by exploring the case of Polish migrants in Belgium. The Polish crisis dominated the headlines in the early 1980s. Strikes in the summer of 1980 led to the foundation of the independent trade union Solidarność, which grew into a mass movement and raised much concern within the Warsaw Pact. In December 1981, the Polish Prime Minister, General Wojciech Jaruzelski, proclaimed martial law and banned Solidarność. However, he did not succeed in crushing the organization and both in the Polish underground and abroad, Solidarność continued to gain significant support over the entire 1980s. The case of Belgium is key to understanding the history of Western solidarity with Solidarność. Indeed, this country was home to some of the most vocal supporters of the independent Polish trade union and hosted its Coordinating Office Abroad from the summer of 1982 onwards.⁴ Belgium had an important Polish migrant community, that was compiled of different groups: roughly 30,000 economic migrants (miners and their families) from the 1920s and 1930s, and about 15,000 displaced persons from the years immediately following the Second World War.⁵ This community has long been considered one of the reasons for Belgium’s great solidarity with Poland.⁶ This chapter will challenge this conclusion by a more detailed inquiry. It will not compare the Belgian case with other countries: the research on Polish migration in the 1980s is still in its infancy and has not profoundly examined the entire diaspora’s political commitment (and only focused on the main players, which may distort the general overview). However, one may assume that this chapter’s conclusions will also apply to other countries. The chapter consists of three parts. First, it will discuss the different Polish migrants’ solidarity committees that arose in reaction to the Polish crisis of December 1981. Then, it will examine the commitment of existing migrants’ organizations, more particularly the Polish Catholic Mission and the Polish sections in the Belgian trade unions. Finally, the chapter will inquire into the attitudes of other Polish associations and individuals. All of this will allow an inquiry into broader questions, like the role of space, the migrants’ position within Belgian

 Idesbald Goddeeris, “Belgium: the Christian emphasis,” in Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982, ed. Idesbald Goddeeris (Lanham: Lexington, 2010), 243 – 267.  Idesbald Goddeeris, De Poolse migratie in België 1945 – 1950: politieke mobilisatie en sociale differentiatie (Amsterdam: Aksant, 2005) and Id., Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach po II wojnie światowej (Warsaw: Semper, 2005).  See, inter alia, my own contribution Goddeeris, “Belgium: the Christian Emphasis.”

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social movements, as well as these movements’ commitment towards Solidarność. The chapter is based on a wide array of sources, such as archives of Polish migrants associations, Belgian trade unions, the Polish secret service, migrant periodicals, and interviews.

Solidarność committees in Belgium The proclamation of martial law by General Wojciech Jaruzelski on 13 December 1981 triggered Polish migrants in Belgium to establish different solidarity committees. In total, there were five organizations, distinguishing themselves on ideology and membership. The Action Committee Solidarność Belgium (Komitet Działania Solidarność Belgia) was an initiative of the most active members of the old migration.⁷ Stanisław Kozanecki was the president of the Main Committee of Free Poles in Belgium (NKWP), the umbrella of so-called independent, i. e. anticommunist organizations in Belgium.⁸ Jan Kułakowski was the secretary general of the World Confederation of Labour (WCL), the former Christian but by then secularized international trade union confederation. Franciszek Gałązka and the further unknown J. Zawiewski were involved in associations with a Christian profile, such as the Christian Union of Free Poles in Belgium (ChZWPwB) and the Polish section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC. Michał Kuczkiewicz was the initiator of Forum, an organization that identified with KOR (the Workers’ Defense Committee that had been founded in 1976) and in the autumn of 1980 had organized a fund-raising for the Polish strikers.⁹ Władysław Dehnel was the leading figure of the Polish Socialist Party (PPS) and was also actively involved in the Polish War Veteran Organization (SPK). The Action Committee was assisted by the Christian trade union ACV/CSC: a first leaflet with a text “coming from reliable sources in Poland and having been edited on 24 December 1981” was signed by the Action Committee under the “provisional address of the Polish Section CSC, rue de la Loi 121, Brussels,” close to both Belgian and European institutions.¹⁰ However, it was also connected to the SPK: its bulletin’s editorial

 IPN BU 2602/22195 (s. 93 – 97), 57: Notatka informacyjna dotycząca działalności Solidarności, z 13 grudnia 1981 r.  Idesbald Goddeeris, “Exilpolitik of identiteitsvorming? Manifestaties van Poolse ballingen in België, 1950 – 1980,” Tijdschrift voor sociale geschiedenis 29/3 (2003): 281– 300.  M. Kuczkiewicz, “Komunikat Belgijskiego komitetu pomocy robotnikom,” Kultura 398/11 (1980): 87.  IPN BU 2602/22195, 65 – 66.

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board was based in the rue Campenhout 39 in Brussels, which was the seat of the Brussels SPK circle.¹¹ This address was also shared by the Dom Polski, an unofficial meeting place of Polish war veterans and other postwar exiles, and the place where one could leave packages of humanitarian aid to be sent to Poland.¹² In other words, the Action Committee was an organization set up by activists from several existing Polish diaspora organizations who aspired to join forces. It had two major objectives. First, it wanted to establish an information service for everybody who was sending humanitarian aid to Poland.¹³ Second, it published a Contact Bulletin (Bulletin de Liaison), which gathered clippings from Belgian (especially French-language) press on Poland. However, it did not gain a central position in the solidarity with Solidarność and disappears from the scope after a year (and a dozen issues of the bulletin).¹⁴ Another organization, the Committee Solidarity with Solidarność (Komitet Solidarność z Solidarnością), left even fewer tracks, almost solely in documents made by Polish officials – either diplomats or secret agents – in Belgium.¹⁵ It had a more left-wing profile,¹⁶ and was closely connected with two other leftwing organizations: the Comité du 22 Mars and the 1 May Committee for the Democratic Freedoms and the Rights of Workers in Eastern Europe.¹⁷ In the sources available, there is very little information about the former committee, so one is left to assume that it was linked to the Imprimerie du 22 mars, a meeting place for alternative journalism and the publisher, from 1975 to 2005, of Alternative libertaire. ¹⁸ The latter committee had been established in 1978,¹⁹ consisted of some

 Mentioned in IPN BU 003171/53/2, 79: Wykaz instytucji i organizacji polonijnych w Belgii (szczegółowo) i na świecie.  Solidarność. Bulletin de liaison Comité d’action Solidarność Belgique. Verbindingsblad van het aktiecomité Solidarność België 11 (11.1982).  IPN BU 2602/22195, 75 – 78: Undated survey attempting to gather all the information.  Solidarność. Bulletin de liaison. Four issues have been retrieved: 5 (14 April 1982), 11 (11.1982), 12 (12.1982) in the PLL and 13 (2.1983) at IISH, Minkiewicz Papers, Box 73.  E. g. IPN BU 2602/22195 (s. 93 – 97) and AMSZ (DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia): Notatka … [op. cit.], 19 October 1982.  Interview with Bolesław Mikołajczak, 28 August 2006. Mikołajczak, who was connected to the Grupa Delegatów and the Biuro Informacyjne, died in Brussels in November 2011.  IPN BU 003171/51/2: Plan pracy rezydentury w Brukseli w okresie październik 1982– 1983 włącznie, 3.  Ghent, Amsab-ISG, Agence de Presse Libération-Belgique, 786: Letter from Jean-Pierre Braine (directeur Maison des jeunes de Forest) to the Imprimerie of 22 March, 22 October 1977. Thanks to Charel Roemer for the reference.  D’ici – d’est. Bulletin du Comité du 1er mai pour les libertés démocratiques et les droits des travailleurs dans les pays de l’Est 18/19 (February 1983): 2 (issue kept at IISH, Minkiewicz, 74).

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authoritative Belgian left-wingers including Ernest Glinne and Ernest Mandel,²⁰ and was led by Elie Gross (the later president of the Belgian Union of Progressive Jews).²¹ It also issued a bulletin, D’ici – d’est, which relayed articles from journals such as L’Alternative and bore similarities with the British periodical Labour Focus on Eastern Europe, for instance due to the references to Edmund Baluka.²² From the very beginning, the 1 May Committee identified with the Polish strikers: already on 29 August 1980, it called for a rally. In the autumn of 1982, it tried to coordinate the international protest campaign of 10 November and led at least three preparatory meetings with other organizations.²³ And on 19 March 1983, the 1 May Committee organized a forum on political repression in Poland, along with the Action Committee Solidarność Belgium and the Groupe d’action pour les prisonniers polonais, and in collaboration with the Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad, Amnesty International and L’Alternative. ²⁴ However, the Committee Solidarity with Solidarność does not show up in other sources (apart from a local branch from Liège in the autumn of 1982), which suggests that it was not very active. Next to establishing new committees, the previously established Polish migrants also offered assistance to their newly arrived compatriots, who further engaged in politics. The Group of Solidarność National Congress Delegates Abroad (Grupa Delegatów Krajowego Zjazdu NSZZ Solidarność za Granicą) had its first provisional address at the rue Van Aa 100 in Brussels, which was the domicile of Bolesław Mikołajczak (who had earlier settled in Belgium and was active within the Polish section of the CSC).²⁵ The Grupa Delegatów had been founded in Paris on 24 February 1982 and consisted of about a dozen former participants to the Solidarność congress of September and October 1981.²⁶ It was a provision-

 Leuven, KADOC, Jef Houthuys Papers, D223: Call by the 1 May Committee, 29 August 1980.  See for instance Elie Gross, “La paille et la poutre,” Le Soir, 17 October 2001.  KADOC, Jef Houthuys Papers, D223: Invitation to a Poland Meeting on 26 May 1982, organized by the CBCICR, featuring Françoise Baluka, the wife of the imprisoned Edmund Baluka. Edmund Baluka was the head of the Szczecin strikers’ committee in 1970, who went into exile, and in the late 1970s was part of the editorial board of Labour Focus on Eastern Europe. A Socialist Defence Bulletin on Eastern Europe and the USSR. See an interview in 1/2 (May – June 1977).  KADOC, Jef Houthuys Papers, D223: Call by the 1 May Committee, 29 August 1980 and letters by Elie Gross from 17 and 26 October 1982.  KADOC, ACV Archive, D31: Invitation letter from 23 February 1983.  Mikołajczak’s name occurs in AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: Działajmy solidarnie tu i tam. Sekcja Polska Chrześcijańskich Związków Zawodowych CSC-ACV. Program 1983 – 84: sprawozdanie z zebrania w Ter-Nood (Overijse); Solidarność i Wytrwałość 3 (23 April 1982) and 4 (5 May 1982).  Biuletyn Informacyjny 9 (7 March 1982).

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al organization that expected “to receive from Poland in the near future concrete instructions and decisions concerning the form and content of activity of the representatives of NSZZ Solidarność in the West.” The Grupa Delegatów issued its own periodical in Brussels, Solidarność i Wytrwałość (Solidarity and Endurance), and its members participated, inter alia, in the IV Congress of the ETUC (The Hague, Netherlands, 19 – 23 April 1982), the 68th Session of the ILO (Geneva, Switzerland, 2– 23 June 1982), and the convention of the Confederation of National Unions (CSN) (Québec, Canada, 23 – 29 May 1982). In the summer of 1982, the Grupa was absorbed by the Biuro Koordynacyjne. ²⁷ The Solidarność Information Office (Biuro Informacyjne) was a similar organization. It was set up by Solidarność activists who found themselves in Brussels when Jaruzelski proclaimed martial law and were not able or willing to return to Poland: Krystyna Ruchniewicz (one of the members of the Grupa Delegatów), Józef Przybylski (one of the signers of the Gdańsk Agreement of August 1980) and Bolesław Mikołajczak (who hosted the Grupa Delegatów).²⁸ It was aided by the old emigration, more particularly the ACV/CSC: its seat was at the latter’s offices in rue de la Loi 121. In the first half of 1982, it published thirty issues of a Biuletyn Informacyjny, which mainly consisted of press articles and letters from Poland, along with their own activity reports and speeches.²⁹ In this way, it tried to provide firsthand information about Poland. Krystyna Ruchniewicz also acted elsewhere as a spokesman of Solidarność, for instance in an interview in the Flemish intellectual weekly Knack. ³⁰ At the beginning of 1983, she had a conflict with Jerzy Milewski from the Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad and after a couple of months moved to Australia.³¹ The Information Office (Biuro Informacyjne) was indeed absorbed in July 1982 by the Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad (Biuro Koordynacyjne

 Solidarność i Wytrwałość 3 (23 April 1982), 4 (5 May 1982), 5 (30 June 1982) and 6 (6 August 1982), all kept at the PLL, and mainly holding declarations, calls, and speeches delivered at conferences.  IPN BU 2602/22195 (s. 96) and AMSZ (DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia): Notatka … [op. cit.], 19 October 1982, 4.  The IISH in Amsterdam has all issues between 1 (3 January 1982) and 30 (18 July 1982), apart from 23, 24, 26, and 27. The PLL has a complete collection from 9 (7 March 1982) until 30 (18 July 1982).  KADOC, Jan Germeys Papers, 5.  IPN BU MSW II 800: Struktura, organizacje i wydawnictwa emigracji prosolidarnościowej na Zachodzie [druga połowa 1986 r.]; IPN BU 01305/190 (Biblioteka b. MSW, Biuro “C”): Marek Zieliński, Struktury emigracyjne b. NSZZ Solidarność 1981– 1984 (Warsaw: Akademia Spraw Wewnętrznych, 1985), 17 and 26; IPN BU 01820/49, tom 3, 107 ff.: Interrogation of Andrzej Zając; IPN BU 01820/49, tom 11, 227– 230: Milewski do ‘drogi tkk’, Brussels, 7 May 1983.

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Fig. 29: Solidarność activist Krystyna Ruchniewicz in Brussels. © Photo News / Knack, 1 September 1982, 24.

NSZZ Solidarność za Granicą). The latter was set up after some of the leaders of the Polish underground created the Temporary Coordinating Commission (TKK) on 22 April 1982 and commissioned their compatriots abroad to organize a single body to act as a representative in the West. It was founded during a meeting in Oslo and was headed by Jerzy Milewski, as TKK member Bogdan Lis had ordered in a letter dated 8 May 1982. Over the following years, the Biuro Koordynacyjne lobbied Western organizations, governments and institutions such as the United Nations Commission on Human and Civil Rights (UNHCR) and the ILO, for financial aid and political support.³² The Biuro Koordynacyjne operated at the international level but was based in Brussels. One of the major reasons for this was the fact that the Belgian capital was the seat of many international institutions, first and foremost the two noncommunist international trade union federations ICFTU and WCL. The latter was led by Jan Kułakowski, who was born in Poland, moved to Belgium immediately

 Idesbald Goddeeris, “Lobbying Allies? The NSZZ Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad, 1982– 1989,” Journal of Cold War Studies 13/3 (2011): 83 – 125.

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after the Second World War and started a successful career in international Christian trade unionism in the 1950s. In the summer of 1980, Kułakowski was cautious about the rise of Solidarność,³³ but very quickly took up a key role in the international support. In November 1980, he organized the first foreign travel of a Solidarność delegation. Likewise, in December 1981, he set up a first meeting of Solidarność exiles in Zürich and also encouraged the Christian trade union ACV/CSC, the Belgian member organization of the WCL, to explicitly ally with Solidarność.³⁴ Kułakowski’s influence may very well have extended beyond the Action Committee of which he was a part. The fact that Ruchniewicz specifically praised him during her speech for the CSN in Québec is one indication that Kułakowski was a central figure for most Solidarność committees in Brussels.³⁵ The case of Kułakowski, in other words, epitomizes the commitment of migrants in transnational solidarity campaigning. Historians have thus ascribed him such a central role, although recent research suggests that his relationship with Solidarność was much more troubled.³⁶

Existing migrant organizations’ solidarity Next to these newly established solidarity committees, existing migrants’ associations also engaged with Solidarność. Two of them especially came to the foreground: the Polish Catholic Mission and the Polish section of the Christian democratic trade union ACV/CSC. Both of them participated in solidarity campaigns,

 AMSZ, D IV 43/84 w 1 Belgia 1980: Belgijskie oceny wydarzeń w Polsce, s.d., 2; Patrick Pasture, “Jan Kułakowski. From exile to international trade union leader and diplomat,” in Intégration ou représentation? Les exilés polonais en Belgique et la construction européenne. Integration or representation? Polish Exiles in Belgium and the European Construction, ed. Michel Dumoulin and Idesbald Goddeeris (Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2005), 111– 113.  Idesbald Goddeeris, “Ministerstwo Spraw Zagranicznych ‘Solidarności’: Biuro Koordynacyjne NSZZ ‘Solidarność’, 1982– 1989, część 1,” Pamięć i Sprawiedliwość 10/2 (2006): 315; KADOC, ACW Archive, Willy D’havé Papers, Wereldsolidariteit, 18.3: Note concernant l’action Solidarność à l’étranger et spécialement en Belgique, Jan Kułakowski to Jef Houthuys, Brussels, 30 December 1981.  Solidarność i Wytrwałość 5 (30 June 1982): 6.  Compare Patryk Pleskot, Kłopotliwa panna “S”. Postawy polityczne Zachodu wobec “Solidarności” na tle stosunków z PRL (1980 – 1989) (Warsaw: IPN, 2013), 281 to Kim Christiaens, “The ICFTU and the WCL: The International Coordination of Solidarity,” in: Solidarity with Solidarity, ed. Goddeeris, 105. Christiaens is further elaborating on this for a volume on Christian Democratic reactions to 1989.

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albeit in a different way, the former organizing the relief of newly arrived migrants and the latter focusing on humanitarian and political aid to Poland. In the early 1980s, tens of thousands of Poles made use of the political crisis to leave their fatherland. Thousands of them settled in Belgium. Polish officials in Brussels in December 1981 estimated their number at 5,000,³⁷ and in May 1989 wrote that 6,000 to 8,000 Poles had moved to the country over the entire decade.³⁸ This comes quite close to the estimate of the Polish section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC, which at a meeting in June 1983 spoke of 7,000 new Polish migrants in 1980 – 1983.³⁹ Official statistics are a little more minimalistic, counting about 5,000 Polish migrants in the 1980s,⁴⁰ but they only considered officially registered Poles.⁴¹ The Polish Catholic Mission in Brussels, an institution that had been established by the Polish episcopacy to help Polish migrants in Belgium and that coordinated a handful of Polish priests, took care of these newly arrived migrants. It organized free French language courses and provided social, medical, and judicial assistance.⁴² Its journal Nasza Wspólnota regularly covered the topic. The way in which it described the newly arrived Polish immigrants shows that it had very particular reasons to aid them and was first and foremost inspired by moral and Catholic values. The Mission complained about the “spiritual shortcomings” of this predominantly young emigration, observing cases of theft, drunkenness, violation of public order, unreported employment, psychological problems, illegal (or prenuptial) relationships, and one-parent-families. And it wanted to unite the Polish migration under a national and Catholic banner. It denounced the complexity of the emigration and aspired to breathe new life by means of Polish

 IPN BU 2602/22195, 38: Sytuacja Polaków pracujących zarobkowo w Belgii. The note was compiled by a Polish intelligence agent, discussed at a meeting of Polish consulate and embassy staff in Brussels, and sent to the Central in Warsaw, which noted that it received a copy on 4 December 1981.  IPN BU 003171/53/2 (Kryptonim Pilica, J-16454), 131– 132: Szyfrogram nr. 4625 z 11 May 1989.  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: Działajmy …[op. cit.], 1983 – 84.  Statistisch jaarboek van België. Annuaire statistique de la Belgique 103 (1983) – 111 (1991).  For a more thorough discussion of these numbers: Idesbald Goddeeris, “Polska migracja w Belgii i inicjatywy solidarnościowe w latach osiemdziesiątych,” in Za naszą i waszą Solidarność. Inicjatywy solidarnościowe z udziałem Polonii podejmowane na świecie (1980 – 1989), t. 2: Państwa europejskie, ed. Patryk Pleskot (Warsaw: IPN 2018), 218 – 257. More general about Polish emigration in the 1980s: Dariusz Stola, Kraj bez wyjścia. Migracje z Polski 1949 – 1989 (Warsaw: IPN & PAN ISP, 2010) (page 357 on Belgium).  Wiesława Eder, “Belgia,” in Akcja niepodległościowa na terenie międzynarodowym 1945 – 1990. Materiały do dziejów polskiego uchodźstwa niepodległościowego 1945 – 1990, Tom IV, ed. Tomasz Piesakowski (London: Polskie Towarzystwo naukowe na obczyźnie, 1999), 290.

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education and emigration ministry – fields in which it had been active since its foundation in the late 1920s.⁴³ Importantly, the Mission’s engagement with the Solidarność emigrants was not entirely politically motivated, at least not on the surface. On the contrary, Polish officials in Belgium wrote that “the Polish Catholic Mission and its subdued clergy and Catholic migration associations have a very reserved attitude towards Solidarność and even circulate, via its confidential people, that Solidarność is dominated by Trotskyists and acts against Poland’s interest.”⁴⁴ This is perhaps an exaggeration, but it is true that the Mission was divided on this issue. Some of the priests, including the then rectors Henryk Repka (who died in the spring of 1981)⁴⁵ and his successor Fr. Kurzawa, were described as radically anti-communist. Other priests, however, collaborated with the Polish consulate in Brussels. The latter even wrote that “we have a permanent contact with the Polish Catholic Mission. The Brussels based priest Stanisław Dziura informs us daily about its problems. […] It is not excluded that the Mission may become a kind of cultural center, provided with Polish media and facilitating contacts with the consulate.” Other priests as well, for instance E. Adamczyk (Luxemburg) and Ryszard Sztylka (Charleroi), had “close contacts” with the Polish consulate. Even Szczepan Strojwąs, the first director of Pro Migrantibus, an office for migrants that the Belgian episcopacy had just created and an active participant in meetings of the Polish Section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC,⁴⁶ is mentioned in this context.⁴⁷ Whatever the motivations, the Polish Catholic Mission displayed much more commitment to the Solidarność emigration than any other organization. The Polish section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC was far less concerned with the newly arrived migrants. The section phrased the “continuation of the struggle in defense of the Polish emigration in solidarity with all migrants irrespective of nationality, race and religion” as one of its priorities,⁴⁸ but it did not put these words into practice. Its journal Praca in 1980 and 1981 dedicated only one article  Nasza Wspólnota. Biuletyn Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Brukseli 12 (1981): 4 and 5 (1982): 4.  IPN BU 2602/22195 (s. 93 – 97) and AMSZ (DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia): Notatka … [op. cit.], 19 October 1982.  Nowiny Brukselskie 10/108 (April 1981).  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: Działajmy … [op. cit.], 1983 – 84. The organization still exists today: http://www.promigrantibus.be/.  IPN BU 2602/22195, 19: Ocena form, metod i możliwości kierunków działania przeciwko Polsce – w najbliższym czasie jak i perspektywie – antykomunistycznych ośrodków dywersyjno-propagandowych w Belgii, 27 February 1981; 39 – 40: Sytuacja … [op. cit.], 2 and 44– 45: Stan … [op. cit.], 1 September 1981.  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: Działajmy … [op. cit.], 1983 – 84.

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to this new group.⁴⁹ Still in March 1983, the trade unionists in a report talked in the conditional tense (“należałoby”) about collaboration with the Polish Catholic Mission, the SPK and the NKWP. Rather than taking care of the newly arrived migrants, they in the first place “proposed to complement exit visas to people leaving for Belgium with information leaflets about the current economic situation in Belgium and the difficulties that candidate migrants meet.”⁵⁰ This was not at odds with the ACV/CSC’s official standpoint. The Christian trade union initially felt strongly about ethnic and cultural diversity, but increasingly perceived this as “problematic” and followed the socialist union on the path towards the assimilation model.⁵¹ In other words, the Polish section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC wanted to keep Poles in Poland rather than to help them settle in Belgium. In the following years, it indeed directed most of its energy to relief for Poland. Its meeting programs and activity reports write about funding campaigns, aid transports, and visits to and from Solidarność activists, but only once in a while make mention of the new refugees. In October 1985, for instance, the Polish section considered setting up an information and social aid center for “the Poles and refugees from Brussels and the provinces.”⁵² However, this was not realized. The Polish section went into a crisis and permanently talked about a shift of responsibilities to the regional departments, of the need to revitalize or to rejuvenate itself,⁵³ and of the necessity to re-initiate the journal Praca. But it did not think of addressing or including the newly arrived Polish immigrants. The ACV/CSC and its umbrella organization ACW/MOC did not put the newly arrived migrants very high on the agenda either. Neither its archival boxes on Poland nor its documents on migration issues contain references to Polish immigrants. This contrasts with the great deal of solidarity shown towards Solidarność in Poland. Over the 1980s, the Christian trade union ACV/CSC lobbied international organizations, supported the Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad,

 Praca ceased to exist at the end of 1981. There was another journal, Flash. Informatieblad van de Poolse afdeling ACV, but I only retrieved three issues from 1985 (KADOC, Jan Germeys Papers, 5). By the way, the WCL had a journal with the same name Flash.  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: Działajmy … [op. cit.]: sprawozdanie z zebrania w Ter-Nood (Overijse) 18 – 19 marca 1983, 18 marca godz. 21.00.  Eva Schandevyl, “Identity, Migration and Diversity in Belgian Trade Unions,” National Identities 12/4 (2010): 357.  KADOC, Robert D’Hondt Papers, D50: “Section Polonaise. Activités pour l’année sociale 1985 – 1986,” in “Service des travailleurs migrants de la CSC. Plan de travail des sections nationales. Annexe à la note du STM du 08 Octobre 1985.”  The concern to include the youth was already very dominant in the early 1980s. See for instance Praca (1980) 6, (1981) 4 and (1981) 6.

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sent about 800 tons of food, clothes, and medicines to Poland, aided holiday camps for the children of victims of repression, gave financial and judicial assistance to imprisoned militants, provided financial and material assistance to the clandestine press and the underground structures of Solidarność, concluded several bilateral agreements with regional branches of Solidarność, inter alia in Lublin and Stalowa Wola, invited a considerable number of Polish unionists for training to Belgium, and spread information about Solidarność across Poland and Belgium.⁵⁴ For all these reasons, the ACV/CSC was called the greatest thriving force of Belgian solidarity with Poland.⁵⁵ In an earlier article I elaborated upon several reasons for this commitment, such as sincere sympathy and the instrumental value of Solidarność for the ACV/CSC’s ideology and political position.⁵⁶ It seems that there is one more explanation and that the massive solidarity campaign with Poland may also have served as a compensation for the neglect of newly arrived Polish migrants. This goes even further. Another explanation given in that earlier published study, the presence of Polish migrants, is a weaker argument than it first appeared. It is true that many acts of support were initiated and coordinated by Belgians of Polish origin or with a Polish partner.⁵⁷ For them, this solidarity was a way to boost their Polish identity. However, it is also true that many more members of the “old migration” remained on the sidelines and that there was a greater number of Belgians mobilizing for Solidarność. An undated leaflet of the Solidair met Solidarność campaign of ACV Limburg (a Belgian province with a high number of Polish migrants) lists fourteen Belgian members, eight Polish and four other migrants.⁵⁸ Two of the same organization’s activity reports from the early 1980s also show that most of its active members were Belgians without Polish roots.⁵⁹ The socialist trade union ABVV/FGTB was far less active. It had always been less important for the Polish migration than the Christian trade union,⁶⁰ and also

 KADOC, Jef Houthuys Papers, D223: Overview “Onze solidariteit met Solidarność en met het Poolse volk,” Brussels, 17 May 1989.  IPN BU 2602/22195 (s. 96) and AMSZ (DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia): Notatka … [op. cit.], 19 October 1982.  More about these motives in Goddeeris, “Belgium: The Christian Emphasis.”  Ibid., 259.  KADOC, ACV Archive, D32. The Poles: Bisiorek, Drozdzyniak, Jakubowska, Kalebka, Kozikowska, Lukaszczyk, Michalska, Nowicki; the other migrants: Canini, Canini (both Italian), Halaburda (Ukrainian), and Grbic (Yugoslavian).  KADOC, ACW Limburg Archive, D252: Meetings reports from 25 October and 17 November 1982.  Goddeeris, De Poolse migratie, 163 – 175 and Id., Polonia belgijska, 135– 145.

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Fig. 30: Detail from the cover of a brochure by the Limburg section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC about “solidarity with Solidarność.” KADOC-KU Leuven, Folder Limburg, BE/942855/ 929/32.

in the 1980s, it did not put Solidarność very high on the agenda.⁶¹ Moreover, the position of the Polish socialists within the Belgian trade union, which had always been weaker than that of their compatriots within the ACV/CSC, was further declining.⁶² Their periodical Głos Pracy had ceased to appear in 1979,⁶³ and their decade-long foreman Władysław Dehnel died in June 1986 after a long and serious illness.⁶⁴

 Id., “Belgium: The Christian emphasis,” 247 and 256 – 258.  Id., De Poolse migratie, 168 – 175 and Id., Polonia belgijska, 140 – 145.  Głos Pracy was from its foundation the Miesięcznik Robotników Polskich zrzeszonych w C.G.T. Force ouvrière (the French socialist trade union), but in 1975 had a special Belgian edition: Miesięcznik Robotników Polskich ABVV-FGTB. The BPP, PLL, and BDIC have issues until 1979.  Polska Partia Socjalistyczna w Belgii. Periodyk 7/39 (1986/4) (August 1986): 12.

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The old migration’s indifference Apart from the Polish Catholic Mission and the Polish section of the ACV/CSC, other Polish migration organizations engaged only to a very limited extent with Solidarność. Polish officials in Belgium who closely followed migrants’ reaction to the events in Poland summarized the first weeks following martial law as follows: Groups of the hostile migrants, supported by centers of anticommunist diversion, tried to organize actions against People’s Poland. Solidarność’s major protectors in this era were the Main Committee of Free Poles in Belgium (NKWP), the Polish War Veteran Organization (SPK), and the Polish section of the Christian trade unions. […] However, after a first period of spontaneous support for Solidarność from Polish migration organizations, one now observes a certain decrease of enthusiasm, and even occasional criticism of Solidarność. […] The activities of Solidarność have never received much support and recognition among the broader circles of the Polish migration in Belgium. There are sporadic cases of support of Solidarność, but these are rare and meaningless examples.⁶⁵

Several bulletins and journals of Polish migrant organizations in Belgium confirm this view. Especially the oldest periodicals, edited by Poles who settled in Belgium immediately after the Second World War, paid strikingly little attention to the events in Poland. Nowiny Brukselskie and Polak w Belgii once in a while published an article on Solidarność or on the murder of Jerzy Popiełuszko (a priest and champion of Solidarność who was kidnapped and murdered by the Polish secret service in 1984), but at the same time eclipsed them with a much greater focus on organizational issues and celebrations of the past. In September 1980, they noted that – in spite of 1939 – many great Polish victories were won in the month of September, such as the ones of Chodkiewicz in 1612 [sic], Sobieski in 1683, and Maczek in 1944. In October 1980, they elaborated on Prince Józef Poniatowski’s visits to Brussels in the late eighteenth century. In November 1980, they laid a wreath on the tomb of the Polish musician Henryk Wieniawski who had died one hundred years before. And in January 1982, they explained that the Belgian firearms manufacturer FN exported guns to Polish insurrectionists in 1863 – 1864 and produced the revolver with which John Paul II had been shot in May 1981.⁶⁶ All of this drowned out the current events in Poland.  Notatka informacyjna dotycząca działalności Solidarności (Brussels, 19 October 1982), 1. The document is kept at both IPN BU 2602/22195 (s. 93 – 97) and AMSZ (DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia).  Nowiny Brukselskie was edited by Edward Pomorski and has two subtitles: initially the Biuletyn Oddziału ZP [Związku Polaków] (e. g. in 8/91– 92 (November–December 1979)), and later the Bulletin de l’Union de Polonais de Belgique – Biuletyn Związku Polaków w Belgii (e. g. in Novem-

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At the end of 1981, this neglect of the Polish crisis also struck the Poles in London. They had set up the Solidarity with Poland Campaign and wanted to initiate something similar to Belgium. However, repeated failures made them lose hope: We sent appropriate materials to Mr. Pomorski. Until now we have not received any news from one or another initiative into this direction in Belgium. I don’t know if Mr. Pomorski has the right contacts with distinguished personalities in order to undertake something concrete. If it works to organize something in Belgium, I will not refrain from informing you, but maybe you can already suggest names of Belgians who would be ready to support such an action.⁶⁷

There also were other periodicals that conspicuously ignored the Polish crisis. Vlaams-Poolse Tijdingen was the journal of the Flemish-Polish Cultural Association (Flamandzko-Polskie Towarzystwo Kulturalne), centered around the Ghent professor of Slavic studies Frans Vyncke. Every year, four issues appeared with articles, predominantly by Flemish authors but also by Polish ones, on Polish literature, history, culture, and the contacts between Poland and the Southern Netherlands. None of the issues’ tables of contents from the early 1980s refer to what was happening in Poland at that time.⁶⁸ This is not surprising: although the association had no explicit links with the Belgian Left or with the friendship associations of the Belgian Communist Party,⁶⁹ Frans Vyncke was sympathetic to anarchism and experimentalism and other Slavists did have a communist background.⁷⁰ Solidarność was not covered either in Polonica w historiografii współczesnej, a periodical of bibliographical references on Polish history compiled in

ber–December 1981). Polak w Belgii was the Biuletyn Związku Polaków w Belgii and was edited by Edward’s wife Jadwiga Pomorska (e. g. in July 1974) and, after her death in 1979, by their daughter Alina (e. g. in September 1979). The PISM archives have a lot of issues from the 1970s and the 1980s, see boxes 1390 (Korespondencja z Belgią, 1972– 1974), 1273 (Korespondencja z Belgią, 1975 – 1983), and 1597 (Korespondencja z Belgią, 1985 – 1990).  PISM, 1273: Solidarity with Poland Campaign to Mr. and Mrs. Lebelt, 8 October 1981.  Vlaams-Poolse Tijdingen 3 – 4 (1980) – 4 (1986). The single one exception is a report of a lecture by Vyncke entitled “Poland Today”, 1 (1981): 38 – 40. More information about the Towarzystwa Przyjaźni in IPN BU 2602/22195, 35: Analiza … [op. cit.], 25 April 1979, 5 and 48 – 49: Stan … [op. cit.], 1 September 1981.  See Hélène Oger, “Les Amitiés Belgo-Polonaises. Analyse de la revue éditée entre 1952 et 1959 par l’ASBL éponyme” (MA thesis, Université catholique de Louvain, 2011).  Renold Huwel, “Prof. em. Hugo Benoy: een portret,” in Rusland-België 1900 – 2000: honderd jaar liefde-haat, ed. Emmanuel Waegemans (Antwerp: Benerus, 2000), 13 – 42.

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Brussels by ks. Henryk Fros between 1983 and 1993,⁷¹ nor in Nasz Głos – Kwartalnik kulturalno-społeczny Polonii belgijskiej which was edited by Jerzy Kępa from Genk and Anna Nevers-Kos from Grez-Doiceau. The latter mostly consisted of articles on Polish history (e. g. the fiftieth anniversary of Karol Szymanowski’s death, the 120th anniversary of Maria Curie-Skłodowska’s birth, the Hevelius year on the occasion of the third centenary of his death, the centenary of Leon Schiller’s birth) and on the old Polish migration (e. g. visit of Polish folklore associations, Polish weeks in Bastogne and Tielt). If it paid attention to events in Poland, it was to very selective topics (e. g. visits of the pope and of Foreign Minister Leo Tindemans to Poland).⁷² Finally, Rodzina polska we Flandrii only featured articles on religious issues and war veterans’ activities.⁷³ Of course, we were not able to retrieve all of these journals’ issues. Some of the periodicals were even not found. For instance, no copies of Nasze Informacje, the bulletin of the NKWP were located.⁷⁴ Yet, another report from Polish officials in Belgium suggest that this umbrella organization was not very active, in spite of its president’s Kozanecki involvement in the Action Committee Solidarność Belgium. In February 1981, they wrote: The NKWP keeps a seemingly reserved attitude towards the events in Poland, in order to avoid the reproach that it sharpens the conflict. Kozanecki himself from time to time appears in the periodical Narodowiec (published in France) and circulated public letters with an anti-Soviet stance, making use of the alleged possibility of a Soviet intervention in Poland. In its scheduled anticommunist activities (meetings, cultural events) the NKWP does not oppose individual travels to Poland and is decisively against all collective manifestations. It is worth noting that we so far have not observed contacts between the NKWP and dissidents in our country.⁷⁵

After the introduction of martial law, the new NKWP president Bohdan Mrozowski, would even have opposed Solidarność. According to Polish officials, he “in the bulletins of this organization critically expressed himself about Solidarność in Belgium.”⁷⁶

 The BPP has the most extensive collections: 1/1– 2 and 1/4 (1983); 2/1 (1984); 3/1 and 3/3 – 4 (1985); 4/2 and 4/4 (1986); 5/2– 3 (1987); 6/1– 4 (1990); 7/1– 4 (1991). The PLL has two issues: 8/ 3 – 4 (1992) and 9/1– 2 (1993).  One issue in the PLL: 9/26 (1987).  Rodzina polska we Flandrii. Biuletyn polskiej misji katolickiej Antwerpia - St. Niklaas - Gandawa was published by ks. Lech Lewandowski in Antwerp. The PLL has one issue: 1 (1982).  Mentioned in IPN BU 003171/53/2, 79: Wykaz instytucji… [op. cit.].  IPN BU 2602/22195, 17: Ocena form… [op. cit.], 27 February 1981.  IPN BU 2602/22195 (s. 93 – 97) and AMSZ (DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia): Notatka … [op. cit.], 19 October 1982.

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The member organizations of the NKWP did not show much involvement with Solidarność either. The NKWP grouped several organizations of “independent” (i. e. anti-communist) ideology, including Belgian branches of the political parties PSL, PPS, and SP, the earlier mentioned SPK, the Christian organizations KSMP and MK, and the school organization PMS. However, most of these organizations were rather small. Moreover, if they identified with Solidarność, they did so in a very specific way and actually projected their own ideology on the events in Poland. The PSL is a good example of this. On the one hand, it had only a handful of members in Belgium, such as Hanna Chorążyna and Józef Rzemieniewski. On the other hand, its periodical Wieści, published in Brussels, only highlighted events in Poland that fitted its own framework: a “Farmers’ call to the striking workers” (20 July 1980) in October 1980, articles on the interwar peasant leader Wincenty Witos and the history of his movement in January 1981, a discussion of Solidarność Wiejska (Rural Solidarity) in June 1981, and an extensive history of the People’s Party in December 1981 on the occasion of the 15th anniversary of the death of Stanisław Mikołajczyk on 13 December [sic] 1966.⁷⁷ Chorążyna also published in the Polska Partia Socjalistyczna w Belgii. Periodyk and pointed at the need to support the traditional Polish opposition: “To the extent that the trade union movement in the West will certainly continue to give material support to Solidarność, to that extent the actions of the non-official opposition cannot count on any support from the West apart from the Poles in the emigration.”⁷⁸ Just as the PSL, the PPS in Belgium followed the events in Poland through its own, very particular lens. In the autumn of 1981, it bought “packages, that will be sent to meritorious socialist activists of advanced years, who find themselves in a difficult material situation,” in 1982 it mainly covered solidarity activities of the socialist trade union federations ABVV/FGTB and ICFTU, and all over these years it paid much attention to its history and to organizational issues (e. g. the “unification meeting of three socialist migration groups on the 90th anniversary of the creation of the PPS” in Brussels on 6 and 7 November 1982 and the “12th Congress of the PPS in Belgium” on 16 October 1983).⁷⁹ However, the PPS had a broader scope than the PSL. It unconditionally condemned the martial law, recognized the Biuro Koordynacyjne – undoubtedly inspired by

 Wieści. Polskie Stronnictwo Ludowe 4/14 (October 1980): 18 – 25; 5/15 (January 1981); 5/17 (6/1981): 19 – 23; 5/19 (December 1981): 1– 25 [sic, almost the entire issue of 36 pages].  Polska Partia Socjalistyczna w Belgii. Periodyk 1981/5 (October 1981): 6 – 7.  Ibid. 1981/5 (October 1981): 6 – 7; 1982/6 (December 1982): 4 and 7– 9; 4/23 (6) (December 1983): 1– 3.

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the ICFTU – and also participated in a demonstration that was organized by the Limburg section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC.⁸⁰ Many other organizations did not belong to the NKWP and were more open to collaboration with the regime. In a document dating from 1 September 1981, a Polish official elaborated on the Central National Council (CRN) in Belgium, the pro-communist umbrella organization that had been founded immediately after the Second World War,⁸¹ and thus the opponent of the NKWP. He mentioned many organizations with whom the Consulate collaborated, mostly local ones, for instance dealing with culture, folklore, or education. Of course, one may wonder to what extent this was correct: it could have been wishful thinking. The list even included the Polish Section of the Christian trade union. Still, one cannot summarily dismiss this document as propaganda. Some Polish members of the Christian trade union indeed collaborated with the regime in Poland.⁸² Many of the other listed activists, such as Bolesław Krajewski, Jan Jarczyński, Stanisława i Jerzy Czerwcowie, Jan Szala, Włodzimierz Kuc, Ryszard Krakowiński, and Stanisław Ciołek, do not occur in sources on solidarity with Solidarność, and others, such as Jerzy Kempa (i. e. the earlier mentioned Kępa), were explicitly indifferent to what happened in Poland. Last but not least, the note deals with a split within the Polish diaspora. Some organizations did indeed break with the CRN. Importantly, they did not do so for political reasons, but for “statutory and personal ones”. While Solidarność was reaching its apogee and the influx of new Polish migrants was rising to unseen heights, the bulk of Polish organizations in Belgium were discussing their mutual relations and positions.⁸³ The same goes for individuals. The report lists a number of “valuable units”, with whom the consulate was in direct contact: “artists (Joanna Bruzdowicz, M.C. Werchowska, Elżbieta Dedek, Hieronim Charles Szymkowicz), cultural activists (Michel Zaleski), university professors (Gamski, Wielki, Pankowski, Breneisen), medical doctors (Kowalski, Butremans), architects (Czyż, Grochowski, Krawczyk, Brodzki) and a numerous bunch of traders and industrialists.” These persons somehow slipped into oblivion. Historians have so far only paid attention to those intellectuals who fiercely opposed the communist regime,

 Ibid. 1982/4 (August 1982): 6; 1982/6 (December 1982): 5 – 6.  Goddeeris, De Poolse migratie, 61 and Id., Polonia belgijska, 54.  A first official trip to Poland after the amnesty (from 30 August until 13 September 1983) even looked like an agreement with the Polish authorities’ new line. The delegation was invited by Janusz Zabłocki, was hosted by labor minister Stanisław Ciosek and did not meet Wałęsa. See more: Goddeeris, “Belgium: the Christian emphasis,” 254.  IPN BU 2602/22195, 41– 44: Stan … [op. cit.], 1 September 1981.

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such as the journalists Henryk Kurta and Leopold Unger, or the Leuven professor Wojciech Skalmowski.⁸⁴ However, they were a minority. Having said that, one should not underestimate the pride and national identification that the rise of Solidarność caused among numerous Polish migrants, or the general hostility to the Polish People’s Republic that followed after the proclamation of martial law. However, in the following year, these emotions quickly simmered down while also being counterbalanced by other factors, such as the desire to keep contact with their relatives in the homeland and thus, necessarily, with the communist authorities.

The new migration’s indifference The newly arriving emigration of the 1980s was also not very committed to Solidarność. Apart from the handful of Solidarność activists engaging in the Grupa Delegatów, the Biuro Informacyjne and eventually the Biuro Koordynacyjne, they were not well organized. The Solidarność migrants did not produce their own journals. The only exception may be Wici, the monthly of the Polonijny Ośrodek Kulturalno-Rozrywkowy “Skarbek”, that was established in the rue de Quatrecht 17– 19 in Brussels on 23 July 1983. The center offered services typical of a migrant association: a café, a bookshop, a reading room, performances, exhibitions, etc. Two elements suggest that it explicitly targeted newly arrived Poles: it organized a writing competition for an essay on “My first years within the emigration” and it advertised aid to Poland.⁸⁵ Yet, we did not find more information about this periodical or this center. Strikingly, many of these new migrants did not consider themselves political refugees. Over the entire 1980s, only 2,000 Polish migrants in Belgium applied

 Aagje Weynants and Idesbald Goddeeris, “Leopold Unger alias ‘Brukselczyk’: specialist of the European integration in the Paris monthly Kultura?,” in Integration or Representation? Polish Exiles in Belgium and the European Construction, ed. Michel Dumoulin and Idesbald Goddeeris (Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2005), 141– 154; Katrien Goetelen, “Journalistiek tussen Polen en België. Henryk Kurta (1935 – 1993)” (MA thesis, KU Leuven, 2004); Idesbald Goddeeris, “Kultura and Belgium (1947– 2000). With particular attention to Maciej Bronski,” in For East is East: Liber Amicorum Wojciech Skalmowski, ed. Tatjana Soldatjenkova and Emmanuel Waegemans (Louvain: Peeters, 2003), 45 – 73.  Wici 1/1 (September 1983). I found only one issue, in the PLL, which also casts doubt if the center existed for a long time. The issue mentions only one name: the further unknown Janusz Maczużak of the firma Vanda.

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for asylum.⁸⁶ In other words, less than half of the officially registered Polish immigrants and only a third or even a quarter of the total estimated number of newly arrived Polish migrants were asylum seekers. The rest has often been associated with the tradition of Polish political emigration, but as a matter of fact was much closer to the labor migration of the interwar period and the post-1989 years. They did not identify with Solidarność and only made use of the Polish crisis to leave their fatherland and start a new life abroad.⁸⁷ The Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad did not collaborate with the Polish migration either. Polish officials had several explanations for this: The local Polish migration has huge reservations about the Coordinating Office. This is caused by existing internal divisions, different political orientations, diverging generational mentalities, and a certain distrust of the Office’s activities. A small group of activists who for years displayed anti-communist hostility have centered around Milewski. The support which the Office received from the international trade union confederations, the ease with which it obtained foreign funding, Milewski’s high living standard, and the Office’s orientation towards collaboration with foreign centers and the Solidarność underground, were elements which frightened diaspora activists, even in circles of die-hards. For these reasons, the fund-raising which had initially been very promising, decreased significantly.⁸⁸

Their analysis was not entirely correct. On the one hand, some assertions were unsubstantiated: for instance, Milewski had little wealth, however often he traveled. On the other hand, such considerations were also missing the general explanation (whereas it should have been obvious from a Marxist perspective): there was a profound difference in social background between the Biuro Koordynacyjne members (Milewski was an engineer, Pilarska a biologist) and many Polonia activists (who were workers). The Polish section of the Christian trade union ACV/CSC, during a discussion of “Solidarność units in different European countries” in March 1983, literally emphasized the “lack of unionists and the danger of being dominated by other milieus (intellectuals) without labor and union traditions.”⁸⁹ Perhaps, these Polish unionists felt bypassed, since the Biuro Koordynacyjne represented Poland at the National Commission Poland-Solidarność, an interna UNHCR, File “Statistiques Europe et Amérique du Nord. 121.1” and File “Statistiques de la délégation. Divers. Belgique. 120”: “Statistiques de 1977 à 1987 - bref aperçu [pour Monsieur Moussalli]”, 10 October 1988, 9.  More about this group in Goddeeris, “Polska migracja.”  AMSZ, D IV 45/86 w 1 Belgia 1983: Reakcje na działalność Biura Koordynacyjnego “Solidarności” w Brukseli, 5.  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: Działajmy … [op. cit.], 1983 – 84, sprawozdanie z zebrania w TerNood (Overijse) 18 – 19 marca 1983, 19 marca godz. 9.30.

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tional umbrella organization of Christian social organizations. Milewski “and a Solidarność activist coming from Poland” attended the meeting of 26 January 1983; Bohdan Cywiński and Henryk Jagiełło the one of 15 January 1986.⁹⁰ Their socialist counterparts within the ABVV/FGTB and the PPS also perceived this as a threat. It even caused a conflict in 1985 when Joanna Pilarska said in an interview with Radio Free Europe that “the Poles in Belgium are not interested in the Solidarność Coordinating Office in Brussels.” The PPS was indignant and concluded that “those various radio conversations of the Coordinating Office’s members do not very much serve the Polish cause.”⁹¹ Only later did they straighten things out. In the second half of the 1980s, Jerzy Milewski even attended some events of the local Polonia, such as the anniversary of the Constitution of 3 May [1791], the end of the Second World War, the celebration of Mother’s Day, organized by the Polska Misja Katolicka and the NKWP on 9 May 1987, and the “Extraordinary Meeting of the (Independent) Polish Socialist Party Abroad” on 30 January 1988.⁹² Yet, the Biuro Koordynacyjne could not bridge the gap. Already in September 1983, the consul general of the Polish People’s Republic in Brussels noted: “The effects of Solidarność on the Polish circles in Belgium have never been important, and even today the extraordinary occasions and calls, relayed by the radio, the TV and the local press, are not capable of mobilizing the Polish diaspora to join the activities initiated by the Coordinating Office.”⁹³ Only in December 1981 did demonstrations for Poland attract a significant turnout, e. g. 1,000 in Charleroi and 2,000 in Brussels.⁹⁴ A rally in Hasselt on 13 December 1982 mobilized 1,000 people.⁹⁵ Later, such meetings only appealed to “some dozens” of people, such as those on 31 August 1983,⁹⁶ or on 13 December

 KADOC, ACV Archive, D32. The National Commission Poland-Solidarność (its French name in 1983: Groupe de Travail Aide Future à Solidarność Pologne; its Dutch name in 1986: Nationale Commissie Polen-Solidarność) coordinated the activities of the trade union ACV/CSC, the employee organization ACW/MOC, and the development aid NGO WS-SM. Tadek Oruba also attended both meetings as one of the ACV/CSC representatives. The Coordinating Office was not represented at the meeting of 13 October 1988: KADOC, ACW Archive, Luc Delanghe Papers, 220.1 (Poland).  Polska Partia Socjalistyczna w Belgii. Periodyk 6/31 (April 1985): 4.  Ibid. 8/41 (January 1987): 8 and 9/45 (March–April 1988): 2.  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: List od Edmunda Szotta, konsula generalnego PRL do MSZ w Warszawie, Bruksela, 20 September 1983.  Goddeeris, “Belgium: The Christian Emphasis,” 247.  Polska Partia Socjalistyczna w Belgii. Periodyk 1982/6 (December 1982): 6.  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: List od Edmunda Szotta, konsula generalnego PRL do MSZ w Warszawie, Bruksela, 20 September 1983. About the action to rename the rue des Francs near the

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1984 in front of the Polish embassy.⁹⁷ The Polish diaspora clearly turned its back towards its politically active compatriots. And even the latter group should not be exaggerated. When the 1 May Committee president Elie Gross and other activists prepared for the demonstrations in the autumn of 1981, they met at a brasserie in Brussels.⁹⁸ And when the Polish section of the Christian trade union in January 1981 organized a meeting day and invited all the militants and leaders of the ACV/CSC along with their partners, it expected only fifty attendees.⁹⁹ At the end of the day, these intimate venues and poor turnouts perhaps reveal the real dimension of most of the Polish diaspora’s solidarity with Solidarność.

Conclusion All in all, it is clear that the bulk of Polish migrants did not engage with Solidarność. Our general image of the period is distorted by the handful of Solidarność activists who continued their struggle abroad after the proclamation of martial law in December 1981. These militants engaged in a number of committees, such as the Action Committee Solidarność Belgium, the Committee Solidarity with Solidarność, the Group of Solidarność National Congress Delegates Abroad, the Solidarność Information Office, and last but not least the Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad, which represented the banned trade union in the international world. These organizations informed the Belgian society about the events in Poland, lobbied foreign and international policy-makers, and/or launched relief campaigns. Yet, their scale should not be overestimated. Their meetings took place in private houses or in Belgian institutions’ headquarters (often the ACV/CSC) and did not attract large numbers of participants. The rest of the Poles were much more passive and indifferent. Over the decade, thousands of Poles immigrated to Belgium: 7,000 according to the ACV/CSC in 1983, 6,000 to 8,000 according to Polish officials in 1989. However, most of them came to work and either returned, traveled further or disappeared into anonymity. They did not organize themselves and have left few sources. Official statistics have much lower numbers: the Belgian statistical Yearbook counted about

Polish embassy the rue Solidarité, see Le Soir, 3 January 1982 and Le Peuple, 2 January 1982 (also in IPN BU 2602/22195, 71– 72).  AMSZ, DK 31/87 w 35 Belgia: Notatka dot. niektórych aspektów działania t.zw. Biura Koordynacyjnego NSZZ Solidarność za Granicą (s.d., po 14 December 1984, p. 6).  KADOC, Jef Houthuys Papers, D223: Letter by Elie Gross from 26 October 1982.  KADOC, Robert D’hondt Papers, D50: Letter from T Oruba from 19 January 1981.

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4,000 Polish immigrants in the 1980s, and the UNHCR registered only about 2,000 asylum seekers. Polish migrants who had settled in Belgium in the decades before 1980 did not display much engagement either. Only in the first weeks after 13 December 1981 were there significant displays of emotion, but those quickly lost intensity over the following months. As for the anti-communist associations, they were more concerned about Polish history or about organizational issues than about what was going on in Poland. Many other migrant organizations simply focused on culture or folklore while keeping contact with the Polish consulate in Brussels. And the great majority of Polish migrants did not participate in any association at all. At the end of the day, only two organizations from the old migration actively committed to Solidarność. The Polish Catholic Mission focused on the newly arriving migrants to make sure they upheld their Christian values. The Christian trade union ACV/CSC did not bother with them and actually opposed migrants’ black work or lower payments, since this could weaken its members’ position. This why it favored international solidarity with the activists in Poland instead. This is not surprising, since Belgian society went through an economic crisis and a period of transition. The 1980s were no longer the 1950s, when Catholicism and anticommunism had mobilized a great deal of Belgians for Hungarian refugees (also because, contrary to Poland in the 1980s, direct relief to Hungary was not possible).¹⁰⁰ But although there were more and more issues of racism towards immigrants in the 1980s (e. g. the Schaarbeek Mayor Roger Nols, the overall opposition to Jean Gol’s restrictive legislation on the foreigners’ status), the 1980s were not yet the 1990s either, when the rise of racism and the extreme right stirred new initiatives in defense of migration, such as the Hand in Hand and Objektief 479.917 (also because immigration increased significantly after the end of the Cold War). As a matter of fact, Belgian humanitarian aid to Poland mostly resembled the transnational commitment beginning in the late 1960s, for instance with Vietnam, Chile, Central America, or anti-apartheid.¹⁰¹ It was oriented to Polish activists in Poland, not to Polish migrants in Belgium.

 Frank Caestecker, “Vluchtelingen uit Hongarije in 1956. Het Belgische verhaal,” Brood en Rozen 2016/4: 20 – 37.  Kim Christiaens, “From the East to the South, and Back? International Solidarity Movements in Belgium and New Histories of the Cold War, 1950s–1970s,” Dutch Crossing 39/3 (2015): 33 – 50; Kim Christiaens and Idesbald Goddeeris, “Beyond Western European Idealism: A Comparative Perspective on the Transnational Scope of Belgian Solidarity Movements with Nicaragua, Poland and South Africa in the 1980s,” Journal of Contemporary History 50/3 (2015): 632– 655.

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Belgian solidarity with Solidarność was very outspoken, and this may have been a compensation for the apathy towards the newly arrived Polish migrants (or may have been allowed because of their limited numbers). At least this is what can be inferred from examples in the neighboring countries. France did not have great numbers of Polish immigrants yet also stood on the barricades when it came to solidarity with Solidarność. The Federal Republic of Germany, in contrast, had many more migrants and was much more discreet in its support of Solidarność. Of course, there certainly are many reasons accounting for this inversely proportioned relation,¹⁰² but one may argue either that migrant numbers eventually did not have a decisive impact or, if they did, that migration had a disruptive effect on solidarity. The greater the migration wave, the greater the disturbance and the lower the commitment to the Polish crisis. Belgium was clearly a country that had fewer migrants and displayed higher levels of solidarity.

Abbreviations ABVV/FGTB: Algemeen Belgisch Vakverbond/Fédération générale du travail de Belgique (General Federation of Belgian Labor) ACV/CSC: Algemeen Christelijk Vakverbond/Confédération des syndicats chrétiens (Confederation of Christian Trade Unions) ACW: Algemeen Christelijk Werknemersverbond (Confederation of Christian Employees) Amsab-ISG: Amsab-Institute for Social History (Ghent) AMSZ: Archiwum Ministerstwa Spraw Zagranicznych (Foreign Ministry’s Archive, Warsaw) BPP: Biblioteka Polska (Polish Library, Paris) BDIC: Bibliothèque de documentation internationale contemporaine (La contemporaine) (Paris, Nanterre) CBCICR: Coordination belge de la campagne internationale contre la répression (Belgian Coordination of the International Campaign Against Repression) ChZWPwB: Chrześcijańskie Zjednoczenie Wolnych Polaków w Belgii (Christian Union of Free Poles in Belgium) CRN: Centrala Rada Narodowa (Central National Council) CSN: Confédération des syndicats nationaux (Confederation of National Trade Unions, Canada)

 Idesbald Goddeeris, “Introduction: Solidarity, Ideology, Instrumentality, and Other Issues,” in: Solidarity with Solidarity, ed. Goddeeris, 1– 18; Natalie Bégin, “Kontakte zwischen Gewerkschaften in Ost und West. Die Auswirkungen von Solidarność in Deutschland und Frankreich. Ein Vergleich,” Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 45 (2005): 293 – 324.

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ETUC: ICFTU: IISH: ILO: IPN: KADOC: KOR: KSMP: MK: MOC: NKWP: NSZZ: PISM: PLL: PMS: PPS: PSL: SM: SP: SPK: TKK: UNHCR: WCL: WS:

395

European Trade Union Confederation International Confederation of Free Trade Unions International Institute of Social History (Amsterdam) International Labour Organization Instytut Pamięci Narodowej (Institute of National Remembrance, Warsaw) Documentation and Research Centre on Religion, Culture and Society at KU Leuven (Leuven) Komitet Obrony Robotników (Workers’ Defense Committee) Katolickie Stowarzyszenie Młodzieży Polskiej (Catholic Association of Polish Youth) Mężowie Katoliccy (Catholic Men) Mouvement ouvrier chrétien (Confederation of Christian Employees) Naczelny Komitet Wolnych Polaków w Belgii (Main Committee of Free Poles in Belgium) Niezależny Samorządny Związek Zawodowy (Independent Self-governing Labor Union) Polish Institute and Sikorski Museum (London) Polish Library (London) Polska Macierz Szkolna Polska Partia Socjalistyczna (Polish Socialist Party) Polskie Stronnictwo Ludowe (Polish People’s Party) Solidarité mondiale (World Solidarity) Stronnictwo Pracy (Labor Party [Christian democratic]) Stowarzyszenie Polskich Kombatantów (Polish War Veteran Organization) Tymczasowa Komisja Koordynacyjna (Temporary Coordinating Commission) United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees World Confederation of Labor Wereldsolidariteit (World Solidarity)

Bibliography Printed sources Biuletyn Informacyjny. Biuro Koordynacyjne NSZZ Solidarność, 1982 – 1989. D’ici – d’est. Bulletin du Comité du 1er mai pour les libertés démocratiques et les droits des travailleurs dans les pays de l’Est, 1982. Flash. Informatieblad van de Poolse afdeling ACV, 1985. Głos Pracy. Miesięcznik Robotników Polskich zrzeszonych w C.G.T. Force ouvrière / Miesięcznik Robotników Polskich ABVV-FGTB, 1975 – 1979. Nasz Głos – Kwartalnik kulturalno-społeczny Polonii belgijskiej, 1983 – 1993. Nasza Wspólnota. Biuletyn Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Brukseli, 1981 – 1982. Nowiny Brukselskie, 1981. Nowiny Brukselskie. Biuletyn Oddziału ZP [Związku Polaków] / Bulletin de l’Union de Polonais de Belgique - Biuletyn Związku Polaków w Belgii, 1979 – 1982. Polak w Belgii. Biuletyn Związku Polaków w Belgii, 1979 – 1982.

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Polonica w historiografii współczesnej, 1983 – 1993. Polska Partia Socjalistyczna w Belgii. Periodyk, 1981 – 1988. Praca, 1980 – 1981. Rodzina polska we Flandrii. Biuletyn polskiej misji katolickiej Antwerpia - St. Niklaas Gandawa, 1982. Solidarność i Wytrwałość, 1982. Solidarność. Bulletin de liaison Comité d’action Solidarność Belgique. Verbindingsblad van het aktiecomité Solidarność België, 1982 – 1983. Statistisch jaarboek van België. Annuaire statistique de la Belgique 103 (1983) – 111 (1991). Vlaams-Poolse Tijdingen, 1980 – 1986. Wici, 1983. Wieści. Polskie Stronnictwo Ludowe, 1980 – 1981.

Literature Bégin, Natalie. “Kontakte zwischen Gewerkschaften in Ost und West. Die Auswirkungen von Solidarność in Deutschland und Frankreich. Ein Vergleich.” Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 45 (2005): 293 – 324. Caestecker, Frank. “Vluchtelingen uit Hongarije in 1956. Het Belgische verhaal.” Brood en Rozen (2016) 4: 20 – 37. Christiaens, Kim. “The ICFTU and the WCL: The International Coordination of Solidarity.” In Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982, edited by Idesbald Goddeeris, 101 – 127. Lanham: Lexington, 2010. Christiaens, Kim. “From the East to the South, and Back? International Solidarity Movements in Belgium and New Histories of the Cold War, 1950s–1970s.” Dutch Crossing 39/3 (2015): 33 – 50. Christiaens, Kim and Idesbald Goddeeris. “Beyond Western European Idealism: A Comparative Perspective on the Transnational Scope of Belgian Solidarity Movements with Nicaragua, Poland and South Africa in the 1980s.” Journal of Contemporary History 50/3 (2015): 632 – 655. Christiaens, Kim, Magaly Rodríguez García and Idesbald Goddeeris. “A Global Perspective on the European Mobilization for Chile (1970s–1980s).” In European Solidarity with Chile, 1970s–1980s, edited by Kim Christiaens, Magaly Rodríguez García, and Idesbald Goddeeris, 7 – 48. Frankfurt-am-Main: Peter Lang, 2014. Eder, Wiesława. “Belgia.” In Akcja niepodległościowa na terenie międzynarodowym 1945 – 1990. Materiały do dziejów polskiego uchodźstwa niepodległościowego 1945 – 1990, Tom IV, edited by Tomasz Piesakowski, 280 – 296. London: Polskie Towarzystwo Naukowe na Obczyźnie, 1999. Goddeeris, Idesbald. “Exilpolitik of identiteitsvorming? Manifestaties van Poolse ballingen in België, 1950 – 1980.” Tijdschrift voor sociale geschiedenis 29/3 (2003): 281 – 300. Goddeeris, Idesbald. “Kultura and Belgium (1947 – 2000). With Particular Attention to Maciej Bronski.” In For East is East: Liber Amicorum Wojciech Skalmowski, edited by Tatjana Soldatjenkova and Emmanuel Waegemans, 45 – 73. Louvain: Peeters, 2003. Goddeeris, Idesbald. De Poolse migratie in België 1945 – 1950: politieke mobilisatie en sociale differentiatie. Amsterdam: Aksant, 2005.

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Goddeeris, Idesbald. Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach po II wojnie światowej. Warsaw: Semper, 2005. Goddeeris, Idesbald. “Ministerstwo Spraw Zagranicznych ‘Solidarności’: Biuro Koordynacyjne NSZZ ‘Solidarność’, 1982 – 1989, część 1.” Pamięć i Sprawiedliwość 10/2 (2006): 315 – 347. Goddeeris, Idesbald. “Belgium: The Christian Emphasis.” In Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982, edited by Idesbald Goddeeris, 243 – 267. Lanham: Lexington, 2010. Goddeeris, Idesbald. “Introduction: Solidarity, Ideology, Instrumentality, and Other Issues.” In Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982, edited by Idesbald Goddeeris, 1 – 18. Lanham: Lexington, 2010. Goddeeris, Idesbald, ed. Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European Trade Unions and the Polish Crisis, 1980 – 1982. Lanham: Lexington, 2010. Goddeeris, Idesbald. “Lobbying allies? The NSZZ Solidarność Coordinating Office Abroad, 1982 – 1989.” Journal of Cold War Studies 13/3 (2011): 83 – 125. Goddeeris, Idesbald. “Polska migracja w Belgii i inicjatywy solidarnościowe w latach osiemdziesiątych.” In Za naszą i waszą Solidarność. Inicjatywy solidarnościowe z udziałem Polonii podejmowane na świecie (1980 – 1989), t. 2: Państwa europejskie, edited by Patryk Pleskot, 218 – 257. Warsaw: IPN, 2018. Goetelen, Katrien. “Journalistiek tussen Polen en België. Henryk Kurta (1935 – 1993).” MA thesis, KU Leuven, 2004. Gross, Elie. “La paille et la poutre.” Le Soir, 17 October 2001. Huwel, Renold. “Prof. em. Hugo Benoy: een portret.” In Rusland-België 1900 – 2000: honderd jaar liefde-haat, edited by Emmanuel Waegemans, 13 – 42. Antwerp: Benerus, 2000. Kuczkiewicz, M. “Komunikat Belgijskiego komitetu pomocy robotnikom.” Kultura 398/11 (1980): 87. Oger, Hélène. “Les Amitiés Belgo-Polonaises. Analyse de la revue éditée entre 1952 et 1959 par l’ASBL éponyme.” MA thesis, Université catholique de Louvain, 2011. Pasture, Patrick. “Jan Kułakowski. From Exile to International Trade Union Leader and Diplomat.” In Intégration ou représentation? Les exilés polonais en Belgique et la construction européenne. Integration or representation? Polish exiles in Belgium and the European Construction, edited by Michel Dumoulin and Idesbald Goddeeris, 99 – 120. Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2005. Pleskot, Patryk. Kłopotliwa panna “S”. Postawy polityczne Zachodu wobec “Solidarności” na tle stosunków z PRL (1980 – 1989). Warsaw: IPN, 2013. Pojmann, Wendy, ed. Migration and Activism in Europe since 1945. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008. Schandevyl, Eva. “Identity, Migration and Diversity in Belgian Trade Unions.” National Identities 12/4 (2010): 351 – 364. Slobodian, Quinn. Foreign Front: Third World Politics in Sixties West Germany. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2012. Stola, Dariusz. Kraj bez wyjścia. Migracje z Polski 1949 – 1989. Warsaw: IPN & PAN ISP, 2010. Weynants, Aagje, and Idesbald Goddeeris. “Leopold Unger alias ‘Brukselczyk’: Specialist of the European Integration in the Paris Monthly Kultura?” In Integration or Representation? Polish Exiles in Belgium and the European Construction, edited by Michel Dumoulin and Idesbald Goddeeris, 141 – 154. Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia Bruylant, 2005.

About the authors The Editors Kim Christiaens is a Professor of contemporary history and the Director of KADOC, Documentation and Research Centre on Religion, Culture and Society at KU Leuven. His research deals with transnational activism, international solidarity and global approaches to European history in the twentieth century, with a special focus on the Cold War and social movements. He has been co-editor of European Solidarity with Chile, 1970s-1980s (Lang, 2014) and Entangled Transitions. Between Eastern and Southern Europe, 1960s-2000s (Cambridge University Press, 2017). John Nieuwenhuys is a PhD candidate in contemporary history and a member of the Observatory of Arab and Muslim Worlds (OMAM) at the Free University of Brussels (ULB). His research focuses on the Palestinian cause as a source of mobilization and conflict in Belgium and has received support from the FRESH specialized fund of the F.R.S.-FNRS. Charel Roemer is a PhD candidate and teaching assistant in contemporary history at the Free University of Brussels (ULB). International solidarity, pacifism, as well as social and political mobilizations in the North and South are his central research interests.

The Authors Eleni Braat is an Associate Professor in International History at Utrecht University, the Netherlands. Her research interests focus on history of intelligence and state secrecy, and related political tensions during the 20th century, from an internationally comparative perspective. Jos Claeys is a historian at KADOC, Documentation and Research Centre on Religion, Culture and Society at KU Leuven. He is preparing a PhD on the transnational contacts between Western social movements and Central- and Eastern Europe after 1989 – 1991. Wim de Jong is a Postdoctoral Researcher at Open University, The Netherlands. He specializes in discourses of citizenship, democracy and education. He has published on history of civic education, social movements, public opinion, and social engineering by philanthropic organizations in the Netherlands and the United States. Currently he studies moral engineering in urban contexts. Víctor Fernández Soriano is currently a research associate of the Centre for Contemporary and Digital History (C2DH) at the University of Luxembourg. He obtained his PhD at the Free University of Brussels (ULB). His works deal with international human rights, transnational activism and Southern Europe in the long 1970s. He is the author of the book Le fusil et l’olivi-

400

About the authors

er: Les droits de l’Homme en Europe face aux dictatures méditerranéennes (1949 – 1977) (Éditions de l’Université de Bruxelles, 2015). Lonneke Geerlings is an interdisciplinary historian, biographer, and organizer. In May 2020 she defended her PhD thesis at the Vrije Universiteit in Amsterdam. Her PhD research focused on the transnational life of Rosey E. Pool (1905 – 1971) – Dutch Jewish translator, educator and anthologist of African American poetry. She has been a Postgraduate Fellow at the Eccles Centre/British Library at the British Library in London (2015), a Fellow at EHRI (European Holocaust Research Infrastructure) at the Bundesarchiv in Berlin (2017), and a guest researcher at the Dutch Institute for Sound and Vision in Hilversum, the Netherlands (2019). Idesbald Goddeeris is a slavist and historian and teaches, inter alia, migration history and (post)colonial history at KU Leuven. He has published extensively on the Cold War and currently works on missionaries in a postcolonial context, particularly in India and Congo. He edited Solidarity with Solidarity: Western European trade unions and the Polish crisis, 1980 – 1982 (Lexington, 2010, pb 2013). Wouter Goedertier studied political science at Ghent University. In 2015, he successfully defended his doctoral dissertation at KU Leuven on the history of Belgian anti-apartheid initiatives and their transnational connections. In addition to his research, he has been an active campaigner, working for organizations such as Médecins Sans Frontières and the European Transport Workers’ Federation. Nicolas Lépine is an Adjunct Professor at Lakehead and Ottawa universities in Canada. He specializes in international organizations and transnational solidarity. His recent interest focuses on tensions between nationalisms, internationalism and translocalisms. Wouter Linmans is a PhD candidate at the Leiden University Institute for History, where he is active in the Dutch History section. He is interested in the cultural history of war and (political) violence in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. His doctoral research specifically deals with Dutch memories of the First World War. Peter van Dam is a Senior Lecturer in History at the University of Amsterdam. His research explores how citizens have translated their concerns into initiatives to shape their societies particularly around the topics of religion, the global market, and consumption. Rimko van der Maar is an Assistant Professor History of International Relations at the University of Amsterdam. He specializes in the history of Dutch diplomacy and foreign relations, in particular during the Cold War era, and Third World War solidarity movements during the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. He wrote his PhD dissertation on the Netherlands and the Vietnam War (Utrecht University 2007).

Index of Persons Adamczyk, E. 382 Adler, Friedrich 78, 83, 85, 89, 99, 102 Aelvoet, Walter 360 Albert I 76 Alfrink (Cardinal) 168 Allen, Samuel > Paul Vesey 131 Altena, Bert 75 Alvarez del Vayo, Julio 84, 86 Amelink, Herman 316 Amsberg, Claus von 188 Andersen, Bo Dan 219, 221 Andrade, Joaquim de 257, 264 Andrade, Mário Pinto de 256 – 258 Anema, A. 61, 64 Anseele, Édouard 87, 100, 292 Arafat, Yasser 306 Asúa, Luis Jiménez de 82 Axen, Hermann 167 Azorín, Francisco 90 Baalen, Kees van 233 – 235 Baars, Theo 38 Bakunin, Mikhail 33 Baldwin, James 120 Baluka, Edmund 377 Bantman, Constance 75 Baraka, Amiri 130 Baringhorst, Sigrid 29 Barka, Mehdi Ben 244, 284 Battek, Rudolf 171 Baudouin (King) 147 Beeckman, Jeanne (Jeanne Vandervelde) 139 Benthem van den Bergh, Godfried van 191 Bernal, John D. 285 Berryer, Joseph 85 Biko, Steve 366 Blom, J.C.H. 28, 358 Blum, Léon 78 – 82, 91 Blume, Isabelle 14, 80, 91, 98, 100 – 102, 104 – 105, 107 – 108, 139, 144 – 145, 165, 247 – 251, 255 – 256, 261, 263, 277 –

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110639346-016

284, 287 – 288, 290, 294 – 300, 303 – 308 Bob, Clifford 14 Bodyonny, Semyon 36 Boeke, Kees 227, 232 Boetes, Otto 192 – 194, 203 Boetes-Ridder, Lia 193 Bolanos, Antonio 82, 98 Bolkestein, Frits 357 Bolz, Lothar 167 Bonset, Helge 221, 223, 228, 230, 234 Bontemps, Arna 124 Boon, Adri de 332 Borstlap, Anton 320 Bosgra, Sietse 14, 188, 191, 346, 349, 352, 354 Botha, P.W. 354, 367 Bourron, Paul 196 Braine, Jean-Pierre 376 Braskén, Kasper 28 Breman, Paul 125 Breneisen 390 Breytenbach, Breyten 352 Briand, Aristide 61 Brodzki, Constantin 390 Brommert, Johannes 35 Brubaker, Roger 75 Brunfaut, Fernand 78 Bruzdowicz, Joanna 390 Buber, Martin 7, 31 Bukovsky, Vladimir 232 Bulganin, Nikolai 163 Buset, Max 80, 86, 91, 94, 96, 100, 107 Bustos, Manuel 373 Butremans 390 Caballero, Largo 87, 99, 101 Cabral, Amilcar 244, 256, 258 Calis, Piet 217 Câmara, Hélder 333 Carmiggelt, Simon 121 Carroll, Vinnette 119, 125 Carter, Jimmy 365

402

Index of Persons

Ceadel, Martin 54 Ceausescu, Nicolae 176 Chamberlain, Neville 93 Chandra, Romesh 249 Chauvier, Jean-Marie 170, 278 Chissano, Joaquim 259 Chorążyna, Hanna 389 Ciołek, Stanisław 390 Ciosek, Stanislaw 172, 390 Clavin, Patricia 1, 27, 74 Cleaver, Eldridge 224 Clifford, James 121 Coeckelberghs, Ralph 266, 268 Connor, Edric 119 Constandse, Anton 33 Cools, André 152, 260 Corvalán, Luis 373 Couteau, Marcel 262 Crenshaw, Kimberlé 115 Crespy-Duclos, Robert 102 Croes, Rob C. 332 Crow, Jim 121, 128 Cudell, Guy 285, 290, 296 Cullen, Countee 116, 127 Cuney, Waring 127 Curie-Skłodowska, Maria 388 Cywiński, Bohdan 393 Czerwcowie, Stanisława/Jerzy 390 Czyż, Georges 390 Dalton 227 Dankaart, Co 199, 203 Danner, Margaret 126, 130 Davis, Angela 7 De Block, August 81 – 83, 87, 91, 94, 96, 101 – 103 de Borchgrave, Jacques 85 – 88 de Brouckère, Louis 78, 90, 94, 98 De Clercq, Gustave (Staf) 81 De Coninck, Albert 161, 170 de Gaulle, Charles 184, 196 De Man, Hendrik/Henri 73, 77, 79, 86, 92, 95, 101, 287 Decuyper, Hervé 174 Dedek, Elżbieta 390 Degrelle, Léon 81 Dehnel, Władysław 375, 385

Dehousse, Fernand 140, 144 Delbos, Yvon 84 Delcoigne, George 93 Delfgaauw, Bernard 201 Delfosse, Jean 306 Delors, Jacques 175 Delvigne, Isy 81 Delvigne, Jean 78 – 83, 96, 99, 101 – 103 Demuyter, Ernest 162 Derksen, Steven 226 – 228 Deutsch, Julius 25, 31, 33, 44, 90, 210, 370 Dewey, John 222 Domela Nieuwenhuis, Ferdinand 38 Dos Santos, Marcelino 257 Dreyfus, Alfred 138 Du Bois, W.E.B. (William Edward Burghardt) 113, 119, 122 Du Perron, Edgar 36 Dubosch, Jean 294, 298, 301, 305 Dullemen, Maarten van 188, 191, 195, 200 Dutschke, Rudi 201 Dziura, Stanisław 382 Eden, Anthony 84, 91 Eichmann, Adolf 289 Einstein, Albert 7, 31 Elias, Ton 226, 235 Eppink, Derk Jan 357, 360 Estersohn, Willy 303 Evans, Mari 117, 126 Evers, Robert 85 Eyskens, Gaston 292, 294 Eyskens, Mark 175 Fall, Bernard 76, 172, 191, 362, 365 Farge, Yves 280 Farouk (King) 282, 301 Ferrer, Francisco 146 Feuchtwanger, Lion 31 Fields, Julia 113, 126 – 128 Finet, Paul 100 Fonda, Jane 207 Franco, Francisco 74, 76, 81, 85, 91, 93 – 97, 100, 104, 135, 139 – 141, 143 – 153, 367, 369

Index of Persons

Frank, Anne Fros, Henryk

7, 116, 129, 159, 395 388

Gailly, Arthur 94, 106 Galand, Pierre 170, 279 Gałązka, Franciszek 375 Gamski, Kazimierz 390 Gans, Jacques 36, 277 Gayetot, Jean 250, 254, 260 George, Heinrich 30, 33, 82, 173, 252 Glinne, Ernest 253, 262, 285, 289, 296, 299, 377 Godin, Jean 251 Goedemoed, S. 217 Goedertier, Wouter 9, 244, 246, 249, 252, 255, 265, 272, 345, 352, 354 Gol, Jean 395 Goldschmidt, Alexis 288, 292 González, Felipe 150 Goor, Raymond 164 – 168 Gorki, Maxim 38 Gorter, Herman 41 Graham, Shane 114, 120, 126 Graham, Shirley 122 Grégoire, Isabelle > Isabelle Blume 139, 247, 279 Grimau, Julián 146 Grochowski, Casimir 390 Groenink, Fred 206 Gross, Elie 377, 394 Guevara, Ernesto “Che” 7, 25, 244 Gunsburg, Jeffery 76 Haas, Jaap de 205 – 207 Habermas, Jürgen 52, 69 Halin, Hubert 292 Hansen, Søren 219, 221, 228 Harmel, Pierre 257, 295 Hayden, Robert 122, 130 Hayden, Tom 193 Heath, Gordon 113, 119, 123 Heijn, Albert 12, 331 Held, David 333, 335 Helmreich, Jonathan 76, 84 Henry, Emile 33, 288, 300 Heß 31 Hevelius 388

403

Hill, Mozell 122, 249 Hitler, Adolf 44, 75, 78, 91, 93, 229, 280, 284, 286, 291, 304, 307 Hoeneveld, Herman 196 Hofland, Henk 238 Hofman, Tine 194, 203 Hölz, Max 6, 7, 25 – 45 Hölz, Traute 42 Hoornaert, Paul 97 Hornung, Ernest William 32 Hougardy, Norbert 162 Houssa, Jack 306 Houtart, François 164, 166, 250, 254 – 258, 260, 264, 269 Houthuys, Jef 171, 174, 254, 377, 380, 384, 394 Huerta, Antonio 83, 98 Hugenholtz, Han 54, 319 Hughes, Langston 113, 119, 122 – 124, 126 – 129 Husák, Gustav 171 Huvenne, Stéphane 142, 144 – 146, 148 Huwé, Danny 175 Huysmans, Camille 78, 86 – 88, 98, 100, 287, 288 Huysmans, Marthe 101 Hyman, Earle 113, 123 Iriye, Akira 1, 3, 74, 316 Isenburg, Ursel (Isa) 117, 119, 123 Jackman, Harold 122 Jacquemotte, Joseph 80 Jagiełło, Henryk 393 Janssen, Daniel 63, 234, 262 Janssen Perio, Evert M. 230, 235 Jarczyński, Jan 390 Jaruzelski, Wojciech 374, 378 Jasper, James 218 Jeanson, Francis 289, 299 Jelsma, Simon 319 Jensen, Jesper 219, 221, 228 Jeuken, Piet 325 John Paul II 386 Johnson, Lyndon 187, 189, 193, 198, 200, 203, 207, 293 Joliot-Curie, Frédéric 281, 285

404

Index of Persons

Jones, Claudia 119 Jong, Loe de 11, 17, 32, 65, 147, 188, 201, 217, 231, 316, 322 Jorissen, Wim 366 Juan Carlos I 153 Kaiser, Daniel 259 Kellogg, Frank 61 Kępa, Jerzy 388, 390 Kesteloot, Chantal 141 Kéthly, Anna 169, 171 Kevers, Jean 262 Khader, Bichara 305 Khader, Naïm 305, 306 Kiebooms, Louis 139 Kilpatrick, William Hearst 223 King, Martin Luther 30, 74, 76, 84, 93, 147, 153, 175, 198, 282 Kisch, Egon Erwin 31 Klaveren, Maarten van 329 Klutz, René 254, 260, 269 Kogan, Leonid 168 Kowalski 390 Kozanecki, Stanisław 375, 388 Krajewski, Bolesław 390 Krakowiński, Ryszard 390 Krawczyk 390 Kropotkin, Peter 33 Kuc, Włodzimierz 390 Kuczkiewicz, Michał 375 Kułakowski, Jan 172, 375, 380 Kurta, Henryk 391 Kurzawa, Franciszek 382 Laclau, Ernesto 362 LaGrone, Oliver 125 Laine, Cleo 119 Lambiliotte, Maurice 166 Lamoneda, Ramón 89, 94, 99 Landman 199 Langeveld, Willem 227, 235 Lanser, Jan 332 Le Grève, Pierre 139, 144, 149, 170 Lee, Kenneth 192 Lefèvre, Théo 292, 294 Lenin, Vladimir 29, 32, 38, 44, 164, 171 Leopold III 74, 76 – 78

Liebermann, Bernard “Dov” 304 Liebknecht, Karl 32, 38, 42, 44 Liebman, Marcel 77, 170, 286, 289, 296, 299, 303 Ligt, Bart de 54 Lindemans, Ignaas 167 Lis, Bogdan 379 Lombroso, Cesare 32 Lorca, García 143 – 145, 153 Lorde, Audre 125, 130 Luns, Joseph 183, 189, 195, 199, 207 Luxemburg, Rosa 32, 38, 40, 42, 45, 382 MacGrew, Anthony 335 Malatesta, Errico 33 Malraux, André 146 Mandel, Ernest 170, 377 Mandela, Nelson 7, 260, 355 Mandere, Henri van der 66 Mann, Thomas 7, 31 Mansholt, Sicco 263 Marteaux, Albert 101 – 103 Martens, Wilfried 95, 175 Martou, François 167 Marullo, Sam 51 Marx, Erica 10, 125 Maspéro, Emilio 333 Matteotti, Giacomo 96 – 98, 106 Mertens, Corneille 83, 86, 92 Mertens, Jan 332 Meurrens, Marc 250, 266 Meyer, David 51 Mikołajczak, Bolesław 376 – 378 Mikołajczyk, Stanisław 389 Milewski, Jerzy 378, 392 Mobutu Sese Seko 361 Modisane, Bloke 113, 120, 128 Mohieddin, Khaled 282, 284, 297, 299 Montfort, Clarence 195 Mora y Aragón, Fabiola de 147 Mosse, George 30, 32, 36, 39 Moyn, Samuel 138, 149 Mrozowski, Bohdan 388 Mthombeni, Maurice 351 Mulisch, Harry 121, 188 Murphy, Beatrice 124

Index of Persons

Muskens, Roeland 121, 330, 346, 350, 358 Mussolini, Benito 75, 91, 97, 108 Nagy, Imre 169 Nak, Piet 14, 197 – 199 Nasser, Gamal Abdel 281, 291 Negrin, Juan 91, 93, 101 Nehru, Jawaharlal 282 Nenni, Pietro 82, 98 Neto, Agostinho 257 – 260, 264, 269 Neto, António Alberto 259 Neuman, Robert 101 Nevers-Kos, Anna 388 Nixon, Richard M. 203, 207 Noël, René 50, 250, 294, 296, 304 Nols, Roger 395 Nujoma, Sam 259, 261, 264 Offermans, Paul 232, 235, 331 Oosterman, Marja 220 Ording, Aake Anker 319 Oskamp, Anton 221 – 223, 227 – 234 Oudegeest Jr, J. 64 Padmore, George 119 Pankowski, Marian 390 Pannekoek, Anton 33 Parkes, Frank 113, 128 Paul VI 168, 258 Pelikán, Jiři 170 Pels, Alice 89, 105 Petry, Ann 120 Pierlot, Hubert 81, 95 Pierson, Paul-Louis 251, 262 Pierson-Mathy, Paulette 246, 250, 253, 257, 260, 262 – 264, 266, 268, 272, 300, 303, 305, 308, 351, 365 Pilarska, Joanna 392 Pinay, Antoine 367 Pinochet, Augusto 208, 330, 332 Polak, Carel 201, 203, 223, 386 Pomorska, Jadwiga 387 Pomorska, Alina 387 Pomorski, Edward 386, 387 Poniatowski, Józef 386 Pool, Rosey E. 10, 113 – 131 Popiełuszko, Jerzy 386

405

Pratt, Mary Louise 113 Prieto, Indalecio 99 Przybylski, Józef 378 Puig Antich, Salvador 146 Rahman, Ali Adbel 249 Ramey, Lauri 131 Randall, Dudley 1, 117, 125, 129 – 131 Rassart, Hubert 162 Reagan, Ronald 347, 367 Reckman, Piet 323, 328 Regtien, Ton 184, 188, 191, 196, 200, 203 Reimann, Aribert 277 Relecom, Xavier 80 Repka, Henryk 382 Resha, Robert 249 Reve, Gerard van het 35 Reve, Karel van het 35 Rhijn, Nick van 205 Riethof, Huib 188 Riffaud, Madeleine 188 Rios, Fernando de los 82, 101 Rive, Richard 127 löschen Robertson, Robbie 335 Robertson, Roland 335 löschen, 336 Robeson, Essie/Paul 119 Roland Holst, Henriette 41 Rolin, Henri 78, 80, 91, 93, 98, 107, 140, 144, 285, 288, 296 Röling, Bert 226, 228 Rost, Nico 40 – 42 Rouleau, Eric 299 Rousseaux, René 262 Ruchniewicz, Krystyna 378 – 380 Ruiz-Funes, Mariano 94 Russell, Bertrand 200, 331 Rzemieniewski, Józef 389 Sacco, Nicola 7 Sahnoun, Mohamed 249 Salmon, Jean 93, 300, 305 Salter, Arthur 58 Sánchez, Maria-José 142 Schevenels, Walter 89, 96, 100 – 103, 105 Scheyven, Raymond 167 Schiller, Leon 388 Schulte Nordholt, Jan Willem 117

406

Index of Persons

Sebai, Youssef El 249, 295 Senghor, Léopold 120 September, Reg 25, 44, 83, 93, 99, 101, 122, 140, 146, 149 – 153, 167, 170, 190, 193, 199, 207, 221, 229, 233, 257, 269, 287, 294, 350, 352, 354, 361, 363, 366, 377, 379, 382, 386, 390, 393 Serrarens, Jos 316 Shaath, Nabeel 301 Shukeiri, Ahmad 284, 291, 298, 307 Simonet, Henri 365 Skalmowski, Wojciech 391 Slánský, Rudolf 282 Sluga, Glenda 1, 74, 337 Snodgrass, William 126 Soares, Mario 264 Somerhausen, Luc 82, 98, 299, 301 Sorel, George 33 Spaak, Paul-Henri 73, 77 – 80, 82, 84 – 87, 90, 92 – 96, 101, 105 – 108, 160, 166, 280, 286 – 288, 291, 294, 304 Spingarn, Arthur 113, 119, 122, 124, 129 Spinoy, Antoon 103 Stalin, Joseph 244, 286 Stein, Gertrude 49, 123 Stolz, Georges 103 Straaten, Werenfried van 162, 164 Strojwąs, Szczepan 382 Suenens, Leo 168, 257, 260 Swomley, John 192, 287 Szala, Jan 390 Sztylka, Ryszard 382 Szymanowski, Karol 388 Szymkowicz, Hieronim Charles 390 Tambo, Olivier 269 Terblanche, Otto 246, 357 – 361 Terfve, Jean 166, 298, 308 Thälmann, Ernst 43 Thatcher, Margaret 347 Thieu, Nguyen Van 224 Thörn, Håkan 2, 245, 252, 345, 348 Tilly, Charles 2, 185, 195, 315, 335 Tinbergen, Jan 318 Tindemans, Leo 361, 388 Todts, Herman 140 Toklas, Alice B. 123

Tomás, Pascual 87 Trotsky, Leon 36 Uhl, Peter 170 Ulbricht, Walter 166 Unger, Leopold 316, 391 Uyl, Joop den 208, 357 Van Acker, Achiel 4, 163 Van den Bossch, Eugène 85 Van Dong, Pham 193, 206 Van Eynde, Jos 260 Van Halteren, Pierre 150 Van Langenhove, Fernand 77 Van Loc, Le 205 Van Overstraeten, Raoul 77 Van Roosbroeck, Joseph 90 Van Zeeland, Paul 74, 76 – 80, 86 Van Zuylen, Pierre 77 Vandervelde, Émile 73 – 74, 76, 78, 80, 83 – 86, 88 – 89, 92, 94 – 96, 100, 101, 103, 139, 287 – 288 Vandervelde, Jeanne 95, 103, 139, 143 – 144 Vanzetti, Bartolomeo 7 Veenhoven, Willem 367 Verdussen, Robert 306 Vesey, Paul 131 Vlerick, André 366 – 368 Vulpius, Christian August 32 Vyncke, Frans 387 Wałęsa, Lech 7, 172, 175, 177, 390 Walrond, Eric 125 Walter, Scott 50, 120, 130, 237, 366 Wauters, Arthur 82, 101 Weinstadt, Pierre 171 Welch, Elisabeth 119 Werchowska, Marie -Claire 390 Westmoreland, William 200 Weverbergh, Julien 175 Whitehouse, Mary 231 Wielki, Czesław 390 Wieniawski, Henryk 386 Winkler, Johan 318 Witos, Wincenty 389

Index of Persons

Wolf, Jules 139, 143 – 145, 149, 153, 166, 285, 295 Wolkers, Jan 121, 189 Wouwen, Jan van der 317

Zabłocki, Janusz 390 Zaleski, Michel 390 Zawiewski, J. 375 Zille, Heinrich 31

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