Modern state: an anarchist analysis. 9780920057018, 0920057012

Table of contents :
Preface

Chapter One: Our Capitalist State

Chapter Two: Liberalism, Anarchism and Individualism

Chapter Three: Anarchism as Revolutionary Socialism

Chapter Four: Bolshevism and Anarchsim in the Russian Revolution

Chapter Five: The Condition of Socialism

Citation preview

T H E M O D E R N S TAT E : A N A N A R C H I S T A N A LY S I S

T H E M O D E R N S TAT E : A N A N A R C H I S T A N A LY S I S

by J. Frank Harrison

BLACK

ROSE

BOOKS

Montreal

Copyright 1983® BLACK ROSE BOOKS LTD.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by means, electronic or mechanical, including photocop ying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the author or pub lisher, except for brief passages quoted by a reviewer in a newspaper or magazine. Black Rose Books No. L78 Hardcover—ISBN: 0-919619-19-3

Paperback—ISBN: 0-919619-17-7 Canadian Cataloj^uin^ in Publication Data Harrison, Frank

The Modern State: An anarchist analysis

ISBN 0-919619-19-8 (bound). ISBN 0-919619-17-7 (F)bk.). 1. State, The. 2. Anarchism and anarchists. I. Title.

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1.

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Cover design: Cliff Harper BLACK ROSE BOOKS 3981 boul. St. Laurent

Montreal, Quebec H2W 1Y5 Printed and bound in Quebec, Canada

For Ann-Marie Lisa Rachel

Contents Preface

Chapter One: Our Capitalist State 17 Chapter Two: Liberalism, Anarchism and

Individualism

34

I: The Liberal Lan^age of Politics 34 II: Consistent, radical, rational, individualism

44

III: The "Unique" Individual (Max Stirner)

55

Chapter Three: Anarchism as Revolutionary Socialism 75 I: Anarchism and the First International 75

II: Bakunin's Explanation of Revolution 83 III: Intellectuals, Authority and the State 103 Chapter Four: Bolshevism and Anarchism in

the

Russian

Revolution

123

I: The Character of the Russian Revolution 123 II: The Anarchist-Bolshevik "Debate" 131

III: The Spectrum of Anarchism 1917-1921

142

IV: The Continuing Soviet Concern with

"The

Left"

152

Chapter Five: The Condition of Socialism

171

I: Systemic Thought: Its Character and Consequences II: Other Options

171 180

III: Revolution and Reaction in Poland 194

Preface

This work directs its readers towards anarchist

argument as an appropriate means for understanding the character of the modern state, be that state liberal or socialist

in its ideology, be its economic system based upon private ownership or state ownership. As such, its conclusion is that the state cannot exist without contradicting the individual, promoting repression and exploitation through the creation and/or maintenance of elites within interlocking hierarchical structures. The modern state under both capitalist and communist regimes is seen to be an exaggerated example of this situation.

What is not to be found here is an attempt to provide an all-encompassing discussion or detailed history of anarchist theory and practice. Indeed, it would be my contention that anarchist theory is open-ended, thematic rather than system atic, identified by certain orientations and concerns rather than through the presentation of a special brand of metaphysics and rounded system of politics. Thedistinguishingmarkof the anarchist is found in the denial that the structures of political power, which we call the state, can ever be used as a vehicle for the removal of identifiable social ills; for the state, even a

revolutionary state, must inevitably reinforce principles and 13

practices of inequality and exploitation. Consequently, the

anarchist pursues change through means which are variously

described as anti-statist, anti-political, non-systemic, based upon the principle of individual and local autonomy, extraparliamentary, etc. No matter how committed to pacifism

(and many anarchists are), this approach to politics is inevitably revolutionary; for in every case it is the denial of state authority in principle, and therefore of any obligation to obey it. Finally, it is also a socialist argument (although some anarchists might argue that a strict egalitarianism will suffice, as distinct from some form of social ownership). It must be socialist because the power of property is too obvious an inhibition upon the scope of our actions, as well as exploitative, not to present itself as being a necessary target for destruction. As socialism, however, anarchism never loses

sight of the individual; and anarchism becomes the ongoing pursuit of a resolution of the tensions between individuals

involved in collective endeavours. Anarchist prescriptions are

concerned how this might best be done without the state. The development of the argument in the five chapters in this volume are generally concerned with the contemporary significance of traditional anarchist concerns. Having indi cated (in the first chapter) the unsatisfactory character of both conformist and critical arguments which are the everyday languageof politics in western industrial society (and Canada in particular), the second chapter proceeds to examine the character of individualism as it is found in liberal and

anarchist thought. It is suggested there that liberal theory, grounded in concepts of rights (from Locke) and utility (from Bentham) are narrow and incomplete. By contrast, the radical individualism of Godwin, and even of Max Stirner, were more comprehensive, consistent and perceptive of reality, looking to property and to ideas as sources of repression (in addition to politics, which was the prevalent concern of early liberal

thought). Chapter Three considers how anarchist concerns became part of mainstream socialist theory and practice, largely under the influence of Bakunin, during the third quarter of the nineteenth century. It is no exaggeration to say that the disputes between Marx and Bakunin within the framework of the First International, broached problems 14

which have been of central concern to socialists ever since. The

suggestion here, of course, is that the laurels should be given to Bakunin. The fourth chapter moves into the realms of revo lutionary practice, and considers the character and circum stances of the 1917 Russian revolution, and the role of both

anarchists and Bolsheviks in the situation. The variety of anarchist groups, their repression by the statist Bolsheviks, and the constant concern of Marxist-Leninists that the

anarchist virus will infect their domain, are there outlined.

The final chapter indicates that, in spite of the repression of anarchists, the concerns of their theoretical orientation are

persistent. Indeed, revolutionary situations always produce a reorganization by the people themselves, independently of, and in opposition to, the state. An examination of the Polish revolution of 1980-1982 is used to demonstrate this assertion.

Thus, although the vocabulary may change, and although few may continue to call themselves anarchists, the anarchist imperative, which is to reject the state, recurs. To the extent that the anarchist criticism of both capitalism and communism remains appropriate to the actual historical circumstances within which we find ourselves, anarchist

positions must attract attention and support. Faced with the modern bureaucratic state in both its capitalist and communist guise, it is difficult to imagine that this will not be the case.

15

CHAPTER ONE

Our Capitalist State*

Today, the capitalist state is a "welfare state," the term being generally used to designate that combination of economic and political factors which characterize industrialized and non-socialist states. Such a state is one in which an attempt is made to off-set the private problems of health, education and economic well-being which are produced by the "free market" economic system. The attempt to ameliorate the conditions of life is a response to the fact that the resources provided to individuals on the labour market (in wages and salaries) are inadequate to meet the money costs of medical care, the education of oneself and one's children, and the satisfaction of

material needs during periods of unemployment. These "goods" are purchased instead by the government, and distributed to

those who meet pre-determined administrative guidelines. Thus, the welfare state presents us with an altruistic image of itself. It is given to us as a political system which responds to the needs of its less fortunate members, as a society in which the "haves" are required to surrender some of their wealth to the "have-nots", as a state which directs some resources towards ends which, though desirable, would not be sought if the effective demand of private persons were the sole determinant of economic decisions. It is also a fundamentally 17

conservative image, for it affirms the established order of politics and society, ascribing virtue and necessity to the complicated bureaucratic pyramid of the state grown large,

as the boundaries of its presumed concerns and competence have expanded. The financing of the modern bureaucratic and welfare state has involved state control of an increasingly large proportion of the community's resources—through taxation, intervention, and even state-ownership. Those reactionaries, found in the Tory parties of both Canada and the United Kingdom, and in both main American parties, who call themselves "conservatives," and who would unburden the state of its economic holdings, are often concerned that

economic incompetence and political oppression are the in evitable by-product of this trend. They are right; but their cure is as bad, or worse, than the disease. When the Conservative

government of Britain sells off the state's controlling interest in a number of corporations^, as when the short-lived Conser vative government of Joe Clark spoke of unloading Petrocan, the goal is to replace state domination with the domination of private capital. The overpowering controls of the expanding state, which at times seems to have reached the limits of its

growth within the current fiscal arrangements of capitalism,^ is to be replaced by a reborn capitalism—according to the "conservatives." As such, they promote myths of free-market efficiency and automatic economic equilibrium which are the identifying marks of nineteenth-century liberalism (which is why they are better understood as reactionaries, looking backwards to some golden age of pre-interventionist economic freedom and harmony). Yet it would be wrong to think that the existence of the

welfare state in any way contradicts the principles and practice of liberal-capitalist eonomics. At the root of liberal economic systems I would suggest that there are three assumptions: First, it is accepted that the private ownership of capital is "normal," although not universal. Second, it is assumed that

economic decisions are best made by individuals on grounds of self-interest (i.e., directed towards profit for the producer, according to the randomly-determined whims of the con18

sumer). Third, it is thought that the state should limit economic intervention to that which is necessary for approx imating "equilibrium" (which is that mythical condition of full employment without either excessive inflation or a balance-ofpayments deficit). Even in the contemporary "mixed econ omies" of the industrialized western hemisphere, where many industries may be publicly owned, these assumptions still prevail. Moreover, by providing "necessary but unprofitable"

services (whether these be lighthouses or unemployment insurance) the modern capitalist state is merely operating in a sphere of legitimate government activity indicated by Adam Smith himself (somewhat extended to be sure). Furthermore, what is called "creeping socialism" by its right-wing de nouncers, and the "progress of social democracy" by parlia mentary socialists, is both directly and indirectly beneficial to capitalism. In this we can agree with the Marxists—that welfare measures contribute to the stability of capitalism, to the growth of capital (the accumulation function) and the general acceptability of the system by the population at large (the legitimation functions).^ So, if the capitalist state still exists (and some would deny it), then its form is the welfare state. Whether it was produced by the moral conscience of our governors, or was the frightened response of those same persons to the threat of violence from the proletariat, is b-relevant The kind-heartedness and/or calculating cynicism of the economic and political elite do not alter the fundamental character of the system. The problem is to understand how it operates, and to consider the consequences of its operation upon the cons ciousness and activity of those who live in it.

To its supporters, the welfare state is a result of parliamentary democracy in action, and the removal by political means of the unacceptable aspects of capitalism— while maintaining its dynamism. The welfare state is seen to

be entirely benign and an end in itself, a structure within which individuals can live fuller lives unbothered by the insecurities, ill-health and periodic unemployment associated with a developing capitalist state. This is the standard liberal viewpoint today, accepted by all parliamentary parties in Canada. Within this generous intellectual framework, how19

ever, there appears sometimes a concern over the so-called

'Svelfare-state mentality," which suggests that many of us prefer not to work, resting satisfied with a minimum income and free social services. In Canada, in the winter of 1978-1979,

the Liberal government at the federal level was pandering to this kind of Puritanical suspicion when it reduced family allowances and unemployment payments. Nevertheless, welfare benefits are not sufficiently high to encourage the development of a satisfied, economically-unproductive group. It is only in areas of the country like the Maritimes, or amongst the native peoples, that the very absence of work creates the necessity of being satisfied with that which is doled out by the

state. That is, unemployment is not something which people seek out, but something which they are forced to accept. The welfare state may contribute to this acceptance, but it is rarely regarded as preferable to employment. Thus, our predom inantly-liberal culture can rest satisfied in the "knowledge" that nobody starves, nobody threatens the system, and nobody gets too much for nothing.

Marxists have had much to say concerning the con temporary character of bourgeois society, and do well to remind us that the welfare state has merely salved—not

solved—the social and economic inadequacies of a capitalist system of production. Anyone would benefit from a consider

ation of Marx's critique of capitalism, with its insights concerning the nature of economic exploitation, unemploy ment, economic crises, etc. However, the fact remains that the

working class(es) have been sucked into the vortex of the liberal political culture—a fact which somewhat limits the political influence of those who would develop a revolutionary movement along classical Marxist lines. So what must be

done? How can Canadian Marxists achieve the desired unity of theory and practice which is the intellectual imperative of their milieu? Not very easily, and not very impressively. They must insist that an identifiable proletariat still exists (objec tively, "in itself if not "for itself," to use the Hegelian vernacular so fashionable with these pretentious dialecticians and would-be saviours of the toiling masses). Then their task becomes one of keeping the idea of socialism alive by means of propaganda. They maintain their politically-irrelevant orga20

nizations and search the horizon for red flags being raised by a proletariat in revolt (and to whom they wish to offer their leadership skills). They may call themselves communists (of whatever hue) or members of the school of "political economy" (those academic radicals who wear a Marxist badge on one lapel and Canadian chauvinism on the other). They all await the maturation of social and economic contradictions, the

crisis which will initiate sufficient structural and psychological disruption to permit a replacement of the current system —the welfare state. Meanwhile the working class, partially contented within the hedonistic dimension of Marcusean

"happy conciousness," and largely persuaded that socialism and/or communism are unquestionably evil, do little to satisfy the Marxists' (and my) fonder hopes. Few would deny that those who call themselves "social ists" (be they Marxists or not) are a minority in Canadian society, and that minority is regarded as being somehow "out of step" with the mainstream culture. "Socialist" is even a pejorative term, used polemically as a method of blurring all distinctions between different forms of socialism. The refor mism of the N.D.P. can even be associated with the Chinese

CommunistParty—which stupid rhetoric will be remembered by residents of British Columbia if they cast their minds back to the 1975 election. Given this, we should not be sur

prised by the fact that the New Democrats avoid the word,

"socialist," in their party name—for fear of being confused with communists and others by the politically-unsophisticated Canadian voter. Pandering to prevailing prejudice rather than struggling for fundamental change, they dumped the Waffle crowd, fearing that this "radical" wing might offend the voter. Thus, with Canadian parliamentary socialism, there is a lot of concern with parliament, and very little con cern with anything else—which is the understandable

response of the pragmatic political party to prevailing sentiments. As solid citizens. New Democrats can even aspire to the position of Governor-General, becoming as god

fearing, decent and boring as every other self-satisfied liberal democrat in their best of all possible welfare worlds. Neither the status qiio parties in their parliamentary 21

seclusion, nor the Marxist pedants in search of a constituency, properly acquaint us with a basic tendency of the welfare state —it produces the individual in isolation, the declassed citizen. With those same activities whereby it has moved towards protecting us "from the cradle to the grave" (that grand phrase associated with early British welfare legislation), the state has replaced many social relationships with its own allencompassing presence. For example, if we consider the wel fare state's "institutionalization of poverty," we can see this process in action. Poverty is the condition of people who lack the command over sufficient resources (usually money or "credit") to satisfy their (culturally-determined) needs. Such poverty, with the associated sense of deprivation, was the fertile soil for both revolutionary and reform movements dur ing the nineteenth century. Mutual poverty, a common sense of deprivation, produced cohesiveness amongst those who shared a common fate; and it was Marx's recognition of this that led him to predict the socialist revolution during a time of economic crisis. In more contemporary terminology—the expectations of the proletariat, diverging intolerably from actual satisfaction, would produce joint revolutionary action during a period of economic crisis and unemployment. Today, however, not only has the welfare state camouflaged wides pread and extreme poverty, but it has created a state monopoly of poverty. Poverty still exists, economic uncertainty and unemployment exist, but they are now extracted out of their social context, defused of the capacity to generate rebellion. Unemployment is no longer answered by public meet ings of an irascible and disappointed mob, rebellious and uni ted in its discontent, but by an interaction between the indi vidual and a bureaucrat in the action of applying for insurance. "Man the citizen" in the Hegelian sense of absolute subject

ivity — replaces "man the proletarian," for class identity, class been replaced by the immediate and dependent relationship between the worker and the state. The practical possibility of

discontent being expressed through a class identity, class ideology, and class action is defeated by the isolation of the individual both physically and intellectually. Thus, the insti tutionalization of poverty is also the individualization of pov erty in a society which has been deprived of an arena for the 22

development of revolutionary class identity. One might be tempted to see here the latest develop ment of the progressive embourgeoisement of capitalist society, a new aspect of those social developments which have made Gemeinschaft values of communal identity inappropriate. Bourgeois society began with individuals, cut adrift from their pre-industrial communities, and in need of new ideas to explain and direct lives disoriented by the social effects of industrialization. The liberal ideology developed by Bentham and the Mills (father and son) made a virtue of these circum stances, gave us an image of humanity freed from the intellec tual confines of tradition, and argued that rational individuals should calculate how best to achieve their personal happiness. We were provided with a theory which is the socio-political parallel to the economic individualism advocated earlier by Adam Smith. Whether the argument be political (as with Bentham's utilitarianism) or economic (as in Smith's Wealth of Nations), the pursuit of individual self-interest is presented as desirable for both the individual and the society, and condu cive to the maximization of their wealth and happiness. An economic system based upon private property, and a political system based upon representative democracy, became the intellectual cornerstones of a capitalist society which saw individuals as being responsible for their own fate. This is the classical liberal position of the nineteenth century which, as we shall see in the next chapter, contains theoretical elements of considerable radical value (when freed from the unneces sary and distorting association with statism® and capitalism). However, as presented by the champions of the "radical right" in the USA (such as Barry Goldwater or William F. Buckley, Jr.) by literati in the tradition of Ayn Rand, and some intellec

tuals who strangely identify themselves with the anarchist tradition,® it expresses regret for an age of capitalism which is dead and gone. As I suggested above, British and Canadian

Tories have at times fallen under its comfortable (for them) spell, and become its standard bearer; and it is a view which creeps into the editorial pages of our newspapers and maga zines (especially those published for businessmen). It is a bourgeois individualism which damns the power of govern ments, glorifies the "private sector," and is a thorough naive 23

and nostalgic ignorance, applicable only with tragic social consequences in the twentieth century. To attack the power of

the state, without at the same time attacking the power of

property, is nothing less than a self-interested promotion of exploitation which ignores the realities of the current social environments It ignores the pacifying role of the state, as well as its continuing position as the biggest business operating in capitalist society. In the USA and Britain, the proximity of tragedy and comedy became apparent as soon as their governments sought a partial "withdrawal" of the state from the economy. As if the turmoil and unemployment stimulated in Margaret Thatcher's Britain were a model rather than a warning, Ronald Reagan began his presidency with an attack upon such controls (e.g. ecological controls) which hindered the profiteering theories and practices of his backers. On the other hand, Reagan's militaristic spending spree has done nothing to reduce the power of the fascist tendencies inherent within the American political system. Meanwhile, in Canada, the federal govern ment was spending almost 20 billion dollars a year on health, education and social welfare by the end of the seventies. The high unemployment of the eighties is met by a Liberal government's rescue programme, and greater federal invol vement in the economic workings of society. With almost 400 federal corporations, and more than 100 crown corporations at the provincial level (irrespective of whichever party formed the government), the Canadian reality demonstrates the dated character of classical liberal economic theory. The state capi talist is with us and it is not possible to re-establish any pure

capitalist model, the historical existence of which is highly

debatable anyway. However, we do well to remember that it is still capitalism—exploitative, repressive, and now combining the bureaucratic and coercive mechanisms of the state machine

with the role of employer. The modern state, be it capitalist of socialist (i.e. Marxist-Leninist), is one with expanded authority and multip lied functions when compared with its counterpart during the first half of the century. More and more the state touches upon our lives at every turn, and in so doing seeks to persuade us 24

that it is in identification with the state that we can satisfy our moral and material needs. Communist-ruled states pursue the ideal of a "new socialist man," happily subservient to the party and its dictates, confident that the scientific and socialist van

guard of "the whole people" is doing a good job. Welfare states have broad-gauge political parties which, whatever they call themselves, seek a maximization of electoral support by offer ing such general platforms that they are all but identical— and the election becomes a beauty contest between party lead ers. Canadian politics, in the Anglo-Saxon parliamentary tradition, assumes that the opposition will be "loyal" and that there are no social conflicts so severe or overwhelming that they cannot be solved by creative political effort and com promise. This is the prevailing mood, to which is added the "continuity" and "stability" of a permanent civil service grown huge by the state's expanded interests. The general tendency is for the state to end up by filling completely the political space in the nation, leaving no other object with which the individual can identify in his daily life and activities. We are no longer to be members of classes, but citizens of nations, swamped by the structures of authority. The state monopoly of poverty indicated previously is but one aspect of this tendency towards a presentation of the state as the single synthesizing agency in society, the single variable of co-operation, the officially-promoted primary obligation which ought to be acknowledged by everyone.

It is, of course, the goal of those who hold positions in the state, office-holders large and small, that their populations accept the state authority willingly. Every political philo sopher who has considered political obligation has noted that

political systems are more stable when they are obeyed volun tarily. Consequently, all political systems make an effort to persuade us by means of education and propaganda that we should identify ourselves with them. Some states are more

conscientious in their attempts to educate their populations to the desirability of supporting their institutions and leaders. Revolutionary states, with a leadership which is conscious of

the need to remove old view-points, have sophisticated educa tional and re-educational programmes—and it is perhaps no accident that Pavlov found much support in Stalinist Russia. 2 5

Long-established systems, on the other hand, do not require

such deliberate nnethods, although we in Canada (for example)

are familiar with the marketing operation for Canadian nationalism which floods the media on and off—especially during the Quebec referendum concerning the possibility of the bureaucrats of that province establishing their own sover eign realm. Canada is not, however, unique as a society which must suffer the vulgarity of an officially-promoted national ism. It would be unique if it did not. Appealing to strange myths of cultural and/or racial uniqueness is the primitive and normal form of nationalism. Moreover, in spite of its primitiveness, it is still capable of generating a following—as Adolf Hitler, Enoch Powell, Pierre Trudeau and Rene Levesque all cleverly realized. We see a more sophisticated base for nationalism in the idealistic philosophy of Hegel and his philosophical dependants, and Gentile, the guru of Italian fascism under Mussolini, followed that model offering accolades to the state as the objective and rational synthesis of the individual and society, and thus deny ing all significance to the individual. With parliamentary socialists—like Eduard Bernstein in Germany and Ramsay MacDonald in Britain, class analysis was abandoned for the

pursuit of a broader "national" interest; and Sydney Webb was veritably infuriated when the British trade unions refused to accept the reduction in unemployment benefits recommended by the Labour government of which he was a member. In the

USSR we find the ideological shotgun marriage between proletarian internationalism and Soviet patriotism, and the Second World War was, of course. The Great Patriotic War.® And in the domains of a dying imperialism, we have had wars of national liberation since that war. Nationalism, it seems, has many colours; but the end product towards which it is

always directed is the subordination and total identification of the individual with the state. The goal of nationalism is to

make each and every one of us into sacrificial sheep who actually clamour to be put under the knife—in service to the state. Such heroics may only occur in those happy times of war; but the voluntary support for political authority, police,

and army, as necessary adjuncts to the perpetuation of social stability, is the cultural prerequisite and ideological norm of 2 6

all political systems. It is even fair to say that the logical end of all nationalism is fascism, which is the affirmation of the irrelevance of the individual except as a contributor to that abstraction, the national interest. This makes those who

accuse the modern Soviet leadership of fascism more sensible than they might at first appear. However, whatever their

form, reactionaries or revolutionaries, fascists or communists, and plain old liberal democrats, the nationalists remain with

us, telling us to grit our teeth in the face of adversity and to struggle for the promotion of the grand old cause—the state. But if nationalist sentiments persist as a feature of con temporary statism, does this not give the lie to the earlier assertion concerning the manner in which the welfare has

"individualized" society? Not at all. It is true that the logical end of nationalism is to remove all sense of autonomy and uniqueness from the consciousness of the citizen. However, this irfeo/ofirica/stowce operates within an individualized social structure. By giving to the sense or feeling of citizenship (i.e., belongingto the national state) a priority, nationalism can "fill the gap" in our political consciousness which has been encour aged by the fact of individualization. Seeking to deprive the individual of other loves, the jealous mistress of the state demands our entire social being. Citizenship is to be every thing to us and, even if the socialist critique retains its appro priateness as an explanation of the exploitation and repression around us, the socialist's vehicle of change, the industrial pro letariat, is splintered and tamed. Nowhere better than in Canada can this be seen; for here the frustrations generated by economic exploitation are directed into the competing nation alisms of the provinces—which may threaten the federalists' concept of state, but which do nothing to provide either criti cism or opposition to the debilitating characteristics of the social, economic and political condition. So what do we have? We are given, 1) a capitalist state in which the state itself is increasingly becoming the capitalist, 2) a Marxist critique of capitalism which grinds to a halt in the face of a declassed and individualized proletariat, 27

3) a liberal culture which affirms the legitimacy of private ownership of capital, however inappropriate, and 4) a "society of individuals" persuaded into an affirmation of their citizenship role by both their education and the absence of appropriate ideological alternatives. This is a depressing picture of individuals who are incapable of organizing themselves to find paths out of their multifaceted repression. Economically repressed, the modern employee operates as both producer and consumer in an eco nomic structure whose very purpose and manifest goal is the perpetuation of inequality and the authority of the owners and/or controllers of capital. Politically repressed, he/she is

faced with a system dominated by professional bureaucrats

and party men, the former lording it over their clientele, the latter promoting themselves under the myths of liberal demo cracy, and neither of them desirous or capable of altering the

conditions of their authority and pre-eminence. Ideologically

repressed, the citizens of the welfare state either reiterate the slogans of liberalism or allow a pseudo-synthetical national ism to persuade them that he/she is living in the best of all possible worlds. There are, however, cracks in this picture, which can

not always be hidden. For the state is a remote concept, and those who would ask us to love it are discovering that it is an

increasingly difficult product to market. Trudeau's repatria tion scheme is generally recognized as an attempt to reinforce the federal government at the "expense" of provincial admin istrations. When he stated that the "federal Parliament and

government" should be regarded by us as "the best guarantors

of security, progress and fulfillment,"® he was seeking to pro mote an abstraction with which few can now identify. And few Canadians mistake Liberal nationalism as anything more

than the propaganda of centralists who desire greater control of society than constitutional history has permitted. Of course, this does not mean that we should fall under the spell of any or

all of those provincial nationalisms which seek merely to bols ter up and promote the autonomy of local elites—who are obviously and frequently more corrupt and incompetent than their federal counterparts (especially if, like me, you live in the 28

Maritime region of Canada). Rather, we should note that

nationalism itself has lost some of its magic. As an ideological component in the voluntary acceptance of the statm quo it is proving itself to be inadequate, a myth too far removed from the experiences that characterize most of our lives. We are

indeed presented with the ideological crisis of the state, whose coercive features and whose alliance with capitalism can be seen more clearly once the mythical veil dissolves.

The ideological vacuum which is produced by the col

lapse of the statist or nationalist myth does not carry any guarantees. Its provincial form will fill the gap to the extent

that Albertans or Quebecois or Newfoundlanders can be per suaded that corporate capitalism and local bureaucrats some

how administer "their" resources for "their" benefit. On the

other hand, the character of individualized society described here is reflected in trends which lie in directions other than

that of the surrogate tribalism of provincial identity. One feature of this can be seen in the political indifference which is usually thought of as deserving only complete disapprobation;

that is, crime. On the correct understanding that cops are

corrupt, that law is selective, that over-policing produces rather than prevents crime, and that the biggest thieves of them all are governments and corporations, there is generated an indifference to legality and an unwillingness to cooperate with the police. To note this indifference and antipathy towards the legal forms of property and behaviour, and towards those who enforce them, is not necessarily to condone all aspects of it. It is mentioned here as an example of the breakdown of voluntary obedience and respect for the state and its agents. What Max Stirner recognized in 1844, in his much maligned and misunderstood Der Einzige une sein Eigentum, as "this popular rage for the moral," which "pro tects the police institution more than the government could in any way protect it,"'® seems to be less evident today. An indifference to the authority of laws, which are

obeyed only when it is convenient, is a practical result of the ideological crisis of the state. As early as 1793, William God win argued that "no government can subsist in a nation, the individuals of which shall merely abstain from tumultuous 2 9

resistance, while in their genuine sentiments they censure and despise its institution."^^ This assessment seems to be correct insofar as those who possess no respect for governments will act independently of them; and to be ignored is the beginning of the collapse of authority in the state. Laws which are

ignored and^r disobeyed by large factions of a population (not necessarily a majority) can only be randomly enforced against those unlucky enough to be caught. Consequently, prohibition never worked in either the USA or Canada; and consumption of alcohol actually increased. Attempts to legislate strikers back to work have little effect, especially when it is "unoffi cial" and backed by worker solidarity. Even in communist

regimes mass action pursued with indifference to legal prohi bitions demonstrates the intrinsic weakness of the organiza

tions of state, as pre-invasion Czechoslovakia demonstrated in 1968, and Poland in 1980. This is not to say that naked coercion

is totally ineffective, only that it requires an element of coop eration from its subjects if society is to be more than a prison

camp; and events in Northern Ireland seem to indicate that the inmates of prison-camp societies are capable of making control through a military regimen a rather tenuous pro position. The conclusion that we can arrive at is, therefore, that

the state is a more fragile structure than it at first seems, and that it is possible to consider alternatives to it. To the extent that alternatives are made actual, the state becomes less rele

vant or significant in our lives; and this is and can be done by the adoption of functional values and organizations which lie under the direct control of the participants themselves. This is a form of anarchist argument, and it is no accident that God win and Stirner have been referred to above. The following

chapter will be concerned with the individualist character of their arguments, examined in relation to central themes of liberal thought—with which they share many assumptions, but against which they prepare a critique of continuing signif icance. As anarchists (though neither of them subscribed to the term) they share the common prescriptive conclusion; that alternative social forms must be the creation of the partici

pants themselves, "from the bottom up" as Bakunin constantly reiterated. Proudhon presented the argument in the frame work of what he called, "mutualism." Bakunin put forward 3 0

the theory and practice of "federalism" as the organizational principle of the First International. Anarcho-syndicalists in

Europe and the USA at the turn of the century presented the

trade union movement as the alternative; and we have numer

ous historical examples of the effectiveness of this alternative, including the dynamism of the CNT in Spain today. The capacity of individuals to form alternatives is shown in the

formation of block committees and neighbourhood associa

tions, in the occupation of buildings by workers and by those simply looking for somewhere to live. The question of workers'

control is frequently raised during strikes and during the occupation of factories threatened with closure. Groups such OS the Omega organization are establishing a loose informa

tional network of international proportions, linking up a var iety of alternative societies which seek to operate along nonstatist lines.'2 Cooperatives of many kinds, from day-care operations and tenants' associations in urban situations to

production co-ops in the developing world, are further exam ples of non-capitalist, non-statist responses to the functional

requirements of particular situations. We do not need myths, we merely have to look at what is actually happening. It is not

Utopian to present the possibility of self-governing forms of socialism, which some would call anarchist, but which are

present in spite of the debilitating politics of state capitalism in both East and West, no matter what you choose to call them.

And in that context, the present work is an attempt to consider the continuing appropriateness of certain lines of anarchist argument, and to indicate what has made it distinctive from, and more consistent than, other explanations of the modern state. We shall see that, in the tension between the individual

on the one hand, and the community on the other, anarchist argument, whilst resisting the straightjacket of a dogmatic system of thought, has best presented the manner in which they might beneficially co-exist. Common concerns rather

that a common ideology is the linkage connecting various aspects of anarchist thought and the priority of the autonomous

individual has always been one such concern. That is why we turn to Godwin and Stirner, whose individualistic theories retain critical potency whatever the state form under which we are unfortunate enough to find ourselves.

31

References

1. Much of this article first appeared in the journal, Our GeneraVolume 14, Number 4, pp. 3-10.

2. As of July, 1982, the British government had separated telecom munications from the Post Office with promises to sell the major

ity share of this British Telecom, sold part of British Steel, sold

100 million shares in British Aerospace, sold the National

Freight Corporation, sold half of Cable and Wireless, sold all of Amersham International (a manufacturer of radioactive isotopes for medical use), and had disposed of many smaller holdings.

Perhaps most dramatic was the promise by Energy Minister, Nigel Lawson, tosell the British National Oil Company—with its massive interests in North Sea oil and gas. See Jeffrey Simpson,

The Globe and Mail, July 21,1982, page 4.

3. This is the argument developed by Fred Caloren, Michel Chossudovsky and Paul Gingrich in Is the Canadian Economy Closing Down? Black Rose Books, Montreal, 1978.

4. For those interested in a Marxist consideration of the Canadian

welfare state, you are referred to Leo Panitch (ed.). The Cana dian State: Political Economy and Political Poiver, University of Toronto Press, 1977.

5. We do not usually use this term in English, but I use it here, and throughout the text, to indicate that combination of coercion and ideology which is the basis of the state. In so doing, I follow

Michael Bakunin, who used it also to refer to Marx's advocacy of a transitional state form (i.e., the dictatorship of the proletariat), and to condemn it, in his Statism and Anarchy (published in 1873).

6. Typical of the "new libertarianism" is Jerome Tuccille's Radical Libeyiarianism, where he states that, "My own philosophical

convictions rest with capitalism—not the hybrid semi-fascist brand of state corporate capitalism that exists today, but genuinely competitive, unfettered, non-monopolistic free-market enterprise that can exist only in a totally free society." (See page 36). Around this is built a prescriptive structure for the decen tralization of socio-economic and political organizations. Its middle-class orientation is evident in the "drastic" recommenda tion that the middle class withhold tax revenues in order to overthrow the American government. I will not comment upon

the practicality of the suggestion. Jerome Tuccille, Radical Libertarianism, Harper & Row, New York, 1970. 7. More traditional conservatives such as the American, Peter Viereck, refer to the "neo-conservatism" of the radical right as an

argument "contrived by romantic nostalgia." Conserratism Revisited, 125 (1962 edition). Free Press, New York.

8. Whilst spending part of a sabbatical leave in Moscow, partici32

pant in a Canada-U.S.S.R. academic exchange scheme in 1976 (pre-Afghanistan invasion), my Sunday morning T.V. enter tainment was a three-hour glorification of the Soviet armed for

ces entitled, I Serre mij Country. Although more entertaining than the religious fundamentalism presented the North Ameri can viewers, it was no less a conservative affirmation of the state

system under whose auspices it was being presented. 9. Pierre Elliot Trudeau, A Time for Action, 12. Government of

Canada, 1978. Another example of taxpayers financing their own indoctrination.

10. Max Stirner, The Ego audhis Own, 241. Libertarian Book Club,

New York, 1963. Translation by Steven T. Byington. Edited by James J. Martin.

11. Willian Godwin, Enquiry Concerning Political Ju.stice, 125.

Oxford University Press, 1971. Edited by K. Codell Carter. 12. I am indebted to Fred Von Dreger of the University of Prince Edward Island for information concerning the Omega operation.

33

CHAPTER TWO

Liberalism, Anarchism and Individualism

I: The liberal language of politics In 1974,1 attended a conference on Yugoslavian Social ism organized by the International Centre of the University of Belgrade, and there experienced an interesting example of the inability of individuals from different milieux to commun icate. The Yugoslavians, who presented the main papers, were in the full flush of promoting their new constitution, explain ing the nature of federalism and workers' control as defined

and practised in their multi-national and socialist state. In response to one of the speaker's statements concerning the

decentralized character of much economic decision-making,

an American participant innocently enquired whether or not

Yugoslavian developments could be regarded as a trendsetting model for those who sought to "liberalize" the econo mies of other socialist (Marxist-Leninist) states. The audience was not rewarded with an answer to the question, but rather

with an angry discourse concerning the impossibility of regarding Yugoslavian developments as "liberal" in any may. The term "liberal" is one which is so loaded with capitalist

implications for the Marxist-Leninist (even a non-aligned

Yugoslavian) that it can never be used except in a pejorative manner as a general description of exploitative and presocialist industrial societies (such as the French, the British, the American). To call a socialist regime "liberal" is to suggest 34

that it is moving towards a restoration of bourgeois capital ism. Consequently, the American's polite enquiry was inter preted at least as a criticism, and possibly a threat, however

unintentional. The ideological contentof the word is too strong for it to be used as a general description of legitimate devel opments in a socialist state; and what for many westerners is a

term of approbation is, for the communist, inevitably quite the opposite.

By contrast, in 1979 I was a member of a group of Canadian academics attending a "briefing" in Brussels con cerning the relationship of Canada to both NATO and the European Community—the headquarters of which two organizations are, of course, in that city. At that time, the application for entry to the European Community of Greece, Spain and Portugal was under active consideration. We were

informed that these applications were being viewed most favourably because these states appeared to be moving swiftly

towards the establishment of "liberal democracies" within

their borders, and therefore might be granted the privilege of sharing in the rewards of the industrialized and non-com munist part of Europe. Whether viewed positively or negatively, it seems that

liberalism is automatically linked to the political practices and social norms of a post-feudal system of private property without responsibility. As opposed to feudal arguments, where property involved both social status and expectations concern ing the obligations of the owner, the liberal arguments of an emerging capitalism stressed the private character of posses sion. In the words of Locke, "Property... is for the benefit and

sole advantage of the proprietor Consequently, liberaldemocratic theory, as C.B. MacPherson has pointed out, has developed with the presupposition of a class-structured society—the class structure being founded upon the relation

ship of individuals to property.^ Private ownership of the means of production is assumed, and even sanctified, pro moted on the grounds that it is a natural right, or a defence

against tyranny, or the stimulus to economic efficiency. Lib eralism is, whether we like it or not, generally accepted as the political argument of capitalism, and continues to be either 35

praised or damned according to the polemical position of the discussant.

We must remember, however, that there are more criti

cal options available than the extremes outlined in the opening two paragraphs of this chapter. Soviet writers, as we shall see

in a later chapter, would heap all critics of their ideology and regime into one or two discrete piles of malicious and/or mis informed reactionaries;® and a simplistic dichotomy of the ideological world is frequently promoted by our masters in non-socialist states. The point to be made here is that, just as one can be a socialist without being a Marxist-Leninist, one can also present theoretical positions in common with the

liberals without falling into the quagmire of capitalism, in either its economic or political form. Indeed, that focus of liberal political thought, the rational individual, when examined by such thinkers as Wil liam Godwin, produced a commitment to neither property nor the state in any form whatsoever. We see that the marriage between capitalism and liberalism may well have occurred; but it was by no means a logical necessity. Arguments which have since been called anarchist are, in fact, far more consist ent than the concoctions of their "liberal" associates in the

realm of political enquiry. Simply put, liberal argument has as its goal the "free man". Such a person is viewed as an autonomous decision maker, uncoerced and unprejudiced, rejecting both divine and secular authority and looking to private reason as the source of moral choice and personal behaviour. All of this was reflected in the arguments of John Locke, whose Tioo Treatises of Civil Government is usually, and rightly, seen as an early statement of the liberal position, and whose motivation was to legitimize rebellion against the political arrogance of a papist monarch. Rejecting custom, asking his readers to "impartially survey the world,"'' he conjured up a pre-governmental state of nature against which we might measure the follies of estab lished authority. He saw mankind as naturally free, equal, rational, sociable, and undisputably capable of appreciating a law of nature:"... it is certain there is such a law, and that too as

intelligible and plain to a rational creature and studier of that 3 6

law as the positive laws of commonwealths, nay, possibly plai ner."^ Government came to be viewed as a mechanism pro duced by a social contract between individuals, and its pur pose was to enhance freedom® and secure the enjoyment of our possessions.With such a theory, as with all natural law the ory, revolution is legitimized under circumstances where the government behaves in contradiction to nature's rational and universal standard. And who shall judge when this moment has arrived?—The rational individual.®

Liberal argument, as an explicitly revolutionary argument, although clothed by Locke himself with much respectable garb,® provided the insurgent vocabulary for many of the participants of both the American and French Revolutions later in the eighteenth century. On the other hand, its limitation as a vehicle of thorough criticism in defence of its

original conception, the individual, is evident. Its aspiration, the protection and promotion of the individual, is seen to be accomplished by protecting us against arbitrary and over

bearing states. A strictly political argument, aiming its polemic at political institutions alone as factors inhibiting freedom of choice and behaviour,'® it turns a blind eye to economic repression. It assumes that unequal property is nat

ural, and that the legitimate function of political power is to

enforce that inequality. Thereafter, liberalism, which cer tainly sought to reduce the extent of state power, and even defined its powers with constitutional inhibitions and bills of

rights, never doubted the state's role as a protector of prop erty. Equality came to be defined as "equality of opportunity," or "equality before the law." The Americans established their

slave-owning republic which only those hypnotized by the sanctity of property could accept without a sense of comprom ise and contradiction with their fundamental view of human

kind. And even without slavery, if the right to property on unequal terms becomes so absolute as to extinguish all sense of

"natural equality," then all talk of individual autonomy becomes a farce. The property-owners do what they will, and the dependants do what they must. It is no surprise that Marx

came to regard liberalism as the quintessentially-bourgeois creed, faced with an obvious exploitation and inequality whose

beneficiaries, referring to Malthus, suggested that procrea37

tive incontinence was the origin of the condition of the poor. Yet we should note, perhaps, that those who would look

to John Locke for a persuasive justification of inequality are placing their hopes on a poor argunnent. Locke's own preindustrial view of property, as he imagined it to have origi nated in the state of nature, placed legitimacy of possession in

the combination of land and labour." According to this argu ment we have the right to that which we can use productively.

The end product of this position would seem to be an accep tance of a radical egalitarianism, given the relative equality of natural endowments between individuals of the same species. Indeed, such a position was later taken by Proudhon in his

discussion of the possibilities of a mutualist system amongst the peasantry of France, and it was the free contractual rela tionship between such "property-owning" individuals which was a central theme in his advocacy of an anarchist alternative to the state. Similarly, and under the acknowledged influence

of Proudhon, Benjamin Tucker looked to a society of individu als "no longer ... protected by their fellows in anything but personal occupancy and cultivation of land..."'^ Neither of these later thinkers used reference to the state of nature as the

foundation of their argument, but the unity of land and labour as the principle of possession is certainly reminiscent of Locke's argument, and they show that it is by no means inevit ably bourgeois. Only if inequality is granted does the state need to make its appearance as the protector of the mighty; and Locke did this by saying that "the invention of money, and the tacit agreement of men to put a value on it, introduced (by consent) larger possessions, and a right to them.''^^ For Locke, silence was taken for consent, and exploitation received the legitimacy granted by apathy; and because this occurred in the state of nature, no government should interfere with it. In taking such a position, Locke was acknowledging reality, and his position posed no threat to either the ruling aristocracy of his own time, or the captains of industry of a later era. The revolutionary potential of the "right to property" was sub sumed under the presumed inevitability and justice of its unequal distribution. Contemporary liberalism, as the prevalent system of political values in western societies, has continued to refer us 38

to the doctrine of rights supposedly possessed by the citizen, but has dispensed with the state of nature as its theoretical

foundation. Rights today are justified not by their origin, but by their consequences. Freedom of speech, freedom of assem bly, and the rest of that package so close to the heart of the

Canadian Prime Minister in 1982," are welcomed as a protec

tion against the arbitrary action of policemen and other

bureaucrats. For those enamoured of the pluralist model of liberal society, rights are seen to permit the organization of interest groups, the efficient communication of demands within the political realm, and the satisfactory resolution of tensions within society by appropriate political action. The origin of these rights is, however, government—the organized power of the sovereign state. Thereby, a positive law theory of rights has replaced the natural law theory discussed to this point. The great advocate of positive law theory, and the

thinker who provided much of the theoretical weaponry for the triumphant bourgeoisie of the nineteenth century, was Jeremy Bentham. He named his doctrine "utilitarianism." Its

initial purpose was critical, for Bentham was concerned that the laws and political structures of England had ceased to serve society. His bUe noire was the common law of England,

developed over centuries in the courts, and glorified in Wil

liam Blackstone's Commentaries on the Laws of England (the four volumes of which appeared between 1765 and 1769). Bentham argued that it was not tradition, but reason, which ought to be the basis of all law, the purpose of which was the promotion of public happiness. Government might do any thing that they wished to achieve this end, and in so doing they may perhaps act unwisely, but could never act unjustly—for law defines justice. There is nothing here to prevent the affir mation of the greatly-expanded structure and powers of the modern state (although that was hardly Bentham's purpose). Nor did Bentham ever question the normality of inequality of possessions. However, utilitarianism is very much a twoedged sword and can be used as an instrument of criticism

against both property and the state. My intent here is to exam ine the directions in which utilitarianism can lead us, and rescue from liberalism such elements as may be of continuing use to radical thought in general, and anarchism in particular. 39

Bentham began with a view of the individual which would at first appear to have little in common with that of the anarchist, particularly those such as Peter Kropotkin who have stressed the naturalness of cooperation in the human species. His was the view that the motivation for human action was (and ought to be) the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain—and that rational (and ethical) conduct for the indi vidual was the maximization of the former, and the minimiza tion of the latter. There is no altruism here, no human frater

nity, which is a product of law for him. On this basis he develops three central arguments: 1) Concerning the individual, having asserted that the sensuous and intellectual goal of all rational action is the

maximization of pleasure or happiness, Bentham provides a technique whereby self-interested hedonists can pursue that end: the felicific calculus. This system of calculating the quan tity of pain and pleasure which alternative courses of action might produce is not without its problems. Not only do we not have a measure for the variables indicated, but some pleasures may be regarded as qualitatively superior to others, irrespec tive of the quantity of happiness produced (as thought John Stuart Mill, though not BenthamV® Nevertheless, Bentham was denouncing unexamined habit and prejudice and saying that, however problematic, the closer that we, as rational individuals, can move towards an implementation of the prin ciple of utility in making private choices for the satisfaction of our desires, the further away we shall be from the inapprop

riate moralities of the past.'® It is not to be wondered that his followers were called philosophical radicals. 2) Concerning the character and purpose of law, Ben

tham encompasses everything under the general principle of the "greatest happiness of the greatest number."" To this end the governors of any state should overhaul their legal system, removing all laws which do not contribute to public happiness:

"... no sooner do the reasons cease to be satisfactory, or the state of the facts to have undergone such change as to call for a

change in the law, then an alteration in it, or abrogation of it, should take place accordingly."'® Moreover, because each per son knows best that which produces his or her happiness, a 40

maximum freedom of choice should be created—that is, there

should be fewer laws. The argument presents an ethical paral lel to the "invisible hand" theory of Adam Smith's economicsonly now it is the arithmetic total of private pleasures which is equated with the public good (as opposed to the arithmetic total of private wealths which produces the public wealth for Smith). Then, one might ask, why bother with government at all? For Bentham, because social harmony can never be expected to occur spontaneously either now or in the future:

"That the uncoerced and un-enlightened propensities and

powers of individuals are not adequate to this end without the control and guidance of the legislator is a matter of fact of which the evidence of history, the nature of man, and the existence of pol itical society are so many proofs."^® As we shall see below, not all utilitarians would agree. 3) Concerning the best form of government, Bentham was an advocate of representative democracy. In itself, the utilitarian argument given to this point favours no particular governmental form. Bentham was faced with the aristocratic government and minimally-representative House of Com

mons of his own time, and he was trying to persuade them to reform the law. But governments rarely respond to the wellintentioned advice of their critics, even when they have been trained in the law. In Bentham's time the ruling class had no interest in reforming the entire corpus of British law— certainly not when the French Revolution was decapitating and dispossessing their peer group across the English Chan nel. Faced with the "sinister interests" of the status quo Bentham turned into an advocate of parliamentary reform for the establishment of a representative democracy, which be regarded as an automatic mechanism for the achievement of

the utilitarian goal. A representative assembly of democratic ally-elected delegates would, he thought, pass such rules or laws as were desired by the majority of the electorate, thus guaranteeing the greatest happiness of the greatest number— each voter being viewed as a single unit of happiness to be weighed on the scales of politics. All of this sits nicely with the political realities of mod

ern liberalism, whose primary cultural myth is that govern41

ment is organized to follow the wishes and the interests of the bulk of the electorate. Critics of liberalism from both left and

right have found it equally appalling. Leo Strauss, that Chi cago Platonist casting around for a philosopher king, has seen the modern tendency to regard politics (and political science) as the measurement of mass opinion and desire to be an affir mation of "the victory of the gutter."2° That we live in an age in which "we see hardly more than the interplay of mass taste with high-grade but strictly speaking unprincipled efficien cy,is a Straussian position with which traditional conserva

tives like Peter Viereck agree. How else could he refer to us as a "morally illiterate culture of unhappy and untragic pleasureseekers?"22 Radicals too, like Herbert Marcuse, have regretted the absence of an aesthetic dimension in the dull fabric of

liberalism's "repressive tolerance," where all are free to pant after the titillating items of mass-production capitalism.^^ A secular society grounded very much in the needs (often called false) of the extended belly, concerned only with the instant satisfactions of an unimaginative sensualism, offends many. However, none of this need concern the Benthamite, for whom

private choice is absolute, no matter how vulgar. With a pessimistic view of human nature, Bentham asserted the value of the state as the absolute arbiter of human

behaviour, establishing an equilibrium between individuals who must be regarded as potential enemies in their competi tion for the means of existence and the satisfaction of their

desires. He thought that the state's laws should be fewer rather than greater in number; but it is important to recognize that there is nothing in the logic of utilitarianism which neces sarily reduces the power and activity of the state. Some have suggested that his arguments lead to the advocacy of a "New Leviathan.However, in itself, the utilitarian argument is void of necessary politial conclusions. Rather it is the intellec tual springboard which can launch advocates of social and political reorganization in many directions. Classical Ben

thamites may lust after a minimal form of state; but utilitar ianism has also been a rich source of argument in favour of

state intervention and expansion. Thus, in the latter part of the nineteenth century the Fabian socialists found much here to justify their advocacy of reform socialism. Representative 42

democracy would achieve the greatest happiness through a

state ownership of the means of production demanded by the

electorate. As Sydney Olivier argued in the Fabian Esays (1889),

Socialism appears as the offspring of Individual ism, as the outcome of the individualist struggle, and as the necessary condition for the approach to the Individualist idea.... Socialism is merely Indi vidualism rationalized, organized, clothed, and in

its right mind. Socialism is taking form in advanced societies and the social revolution must be brought to its formal accomplishment through the conscious action of innumerable individuals seeking an avenue

to rational and pleasant existence for themselves and for those whose happiness and freedom they desire as they do their own.^^

Like Bentham, representative democracy was the magic mechanism held up by the Fabians for the automatic resolu tion of social problems and removal of barriers to happiness of the mass of individuals in society. The all-powerful state is

becoming all-consuming under this conception, but beneficent. The optimism of utilitarians in relation to the state, socialist or otherwise, seems to have been so ill-founded that writers like Stuart Hampshire have taken it upon themselves to blame utilitarianism as the source of goal-oriented policies

which are capable of extensive cruelty and dehumanization: Persecutions, massacres, and wars have been coolly

justified by calculations of long-range benefit to mankind; and political pragmatists in the advanced countries, using cost benefit analyses prepared for them by gifted professors, continue to burn and destroy. The utilitarian habit of mind has brought with it a new abstract cruelty in politics, a dull, destructive political righteousness...

If Hampshire is correct, and his description of policy making in the modern state would seem to be a fair approxi mation of the facts, then utilitarianism has certainly been

turned on its head. It began as a statement of individual rebel43

lion against inappropriate restrictions upon the rational pur suit of happiness. However, to the extent that this is combined

with an acknowledgement of the absolute power of the state, it possessed its own nemesis as liberal argument. Does this then involve the necessary rejection of the utilitarian argument by those who reject the modern state? This is Hampshire's con clusion, and he directs our attention towards "a morality of ritual and manners" which lies at the root of classical conser

vatism. On the other hand, it is equally possible to hold to the theory of utility, and to deny the legitimacy of the state itself. This was done in a partial manner by John Stuart Mill in his essay On Liberty (1850), where he argued that there are cer

tain areas of human conduct which ought to be sacrosanct

against state intervention and control. In so doing, Mill rein troduced an emphasis upon individual rights against the state which Bentham had largely discarded. It was done in a tho

rough way by a contemporary of Bentham, Willian Godwin, who denied all legitimacy to the state in his Enquiry Cmcerning PoliticalJustice (1793). Entirely anti-political in its argu ment and conclusions, this utilitarian treatise remains as rad

ical in its relation to political reality as it was at the time of its first publication. Utilitarian in its assumptions, liberal in form, and anarchist in its conclusions, it demonstrates that

rational individualism is not the monopoly of either the bour geoisie or the parliamentary socialists.

II: Consistent, Radical, Rational Individualism: Godwin Like Proudhon after him, Godwin desired justice. Equally, justice for him had nothing to do with the laws of the state, but rather with the free rational activity of the individ ual, A just act, which is a moral act, based upon a decision free from coercion and from prejudice, is directed towards private happiness. All of this is, however, more easily described than achieved in practice; for, in addition to being a utilitarian, Godwin was also something of a determinist, appearing at times as an eighteenth-century mentor of B.F. Skinner. We 44

live, he tells us, within the confines of "Necessity," a condition which is summarized thus:

In the life of every human being there is a chain of events, generated in the lapse of ages which pre ceded his birth, and going on in regular procession through the whole period of his existence, in conse quence of which it was impossible for him to act in any instance otherwise than he has acted.^^

We are conditioned by the environment into which we are thrust as children, and behave according to unreflective

habit and received prejudice rather than by rational choice. Such being the prevailing condition there can be no justice, for individuals are not responsible for their actions, do not make deliberate choices, and their actions are worthy of neither praise nor blame. There is no room here, however, for philo sopher kings or behaviour modifiers, no matter how effective they might be in altering social circumstances and, for exam ple, eliminating crime. As Gk)dwin's hero in his novel, Caleb Williams, argues when discussing the cultural aspects of the conquests of Alexander the Great: "Alexander did but employ the means that all politicians profess to use, as well as he. He dragooned men into wisdom, and cheated them into the pursuitof their own happiness."28 In this realm of necessity still, no matter how nice we might become, we would yet be nothing more than machines, not responsible for our actions. Godwin's goal was to discover the possibility of autonomous action, to compromise necessity: "We should remove ourselves to the furthest distance from the state of mere inanimate machines,

acted upon by causes of which they have no understanding. Moreover, he has a healthy scepticism concerning the possibil ity of any ruling group seeking to satisfy the needs of the ruled; "while we consign to them an unnatural monopoly, that they should rigidly consult for the good of the whole,"^" is most u n l i k e l y.

How then can we escape the realm of Necessity? For Godwin the answer lay in the capacity to reason, which regu lates action so as to maximize our pleasure and our happiness. In so doing we must recognize and question all the determi nants of opinion and of action which influence us in society, 45

adopting only those which aim at satisfying our proper inter est. He was also confident in the matter:

Show me in the clearest and most unambiguous manner that a certain mode of proceeding is most reasonable in itself or most conducive to my inter est, and I shall infallibly pursue that mode, as long as the views you suggested to me continue present to my mind. The conduct of human beings in every situation is governed by the judgements they make and the sensations that are communicated to them.^^

George Woodcock has suggested that "such extreme faith in the power of unaided reason is almost peculiar to Godwin's century."32 Godwin was not optimistic, however, that his recommendations would be widely followed. He called the bulk of the public "mere parrots,"^ and doubted "whether the human species will ever be emancipated from their present subjection and pupillage."^ What Godwin is saying is that, as private persons, we can make choices (which is reason's task) independently of received authority. In so doing we enter into the sphere of "voluntary action," which is the only circum stance in which we can claim to act justly. Justice is defined as "that impartial treatment of every man in matters that relate to his happiness,"^® and a just society would be one where all individuals act only in accordance with this subjective stand ard. As for the present, we can and we ought to act in a "voluntary" manner, which recommendation amounts to an

advocacy of radical nonconformity and a denial of all the institutions of social and political domination—as we shall now

see.

Concerning government and the laws which are made and maintained by coercion, Godwin has nothing but criti cism. In Caleb Williams, his story is one which aims at reveal ing the cruelty, vindictiveness and class character of the penal system. Moreover, to the extent that the principle of necessity operates in non-enlightened society, criminals are not responsible for their own actions, which are determined by the multiplicity of factors of socialization. Chief among these fac tors is the government itself, the state: 4 6

The true reason why the mass of mankind has so often been made the dupe of knaves, has been the mysterious and complicated nature of the social sys tem. Once annihilate the quackery of government,

and the most home-bred understanding might be strong enough to detect the articifes, of the state juggler that would mislead him.^

What are we to do? The moral imperative is to disobey the government whenever rational judgement deems it fit, recognizing that when we act in accordance with the law it is

either accidental or "prudent" (i.e., Godwin is not advocating that we invite police violence down upon our heads). The greater the number of people who behave in this manner, the less influential and capable will be the state to maintain and perpetuate itself. This would not be our present society with out the state, nor would it be chaos. It would be order without

authority, Anarchy (although (iodwin did not use the term

himself except in a pejorative manner). His argument con cerning the manner in which the rational pursuit of selfinterest conceived in hedonistic terms does not produce some thing like Hobbes described as the state of nature will be

considered shortly. First we must examine those inhibitions to

voluntary action which operate in conjunction with the state, and Godwin's judgement of them: education, the religious establishment, and property. Concerning education, (Godwin is critical of both its

style and its purpose as an instrument of the status quo: As long as parents and teachers in general shall fall under the established rule, it is clear that politics and modes of government will educate and infect us. They poison our minds, before we can resist, or

so much as suspect their malignity... they deprive us of our virility, and fit us for their despicable employment from the cradle.^' ...public education has always expended its ener gies in the support of prejudice; it teaches its pupils, not the fortitude that shall bring every proposition to the test, but the art of vindicating such tenets as may by chance be established.^ 4 7

Concerning religious establishments (and he was think ing of the established Church of England, although as a criti cism of the role of religious persons as agents of conformity it might apply to any religion), we read. The most malicious enemy of mankind, could not have invented a scheme, more destructive of their

true happiness, than that of hiring, at the expense of the state, a body of men, whose business it should seem to be, to dupe their contemporaries into the practice of virtue.^®

Concerning property in the means of production we are told that.

It is a system, in whatever manner established, by which one man enters into the faculty of disposing of

the produce of another man's industry. ...It is a gross imposition, that men are accustomed to put upon themselves, when they talk of the property be queathed to them by their ancestors. The property is produced by the daily labour of men who are now in existence. All that their ancestors bequeathed them, was a mouldy patent.'*® Very little indeed is employed to increase the happ

iness or conveniences of the poor... Those who, by fraud or force, have usurped the power of buying and selling the labour of the great mass of the com munity, are sufficiently disposed to take care that they should never do more than subsist.'*^

Moreover, in the inegalitarian system, avarice is the

prevalent attitude, and this distorts our judgement, prevent ing the attainment of happiness as we scramble after posses sions. So, politics, education, religion and property all operate together to prevent our escape from the emasculation of rea son, and the automatic and inconsiderate obedience to the

teacher (secular and divine), the owner, and the politician. The unmasking of the character of these institutions and roles was

the consequence of his definition of justice, and the prelimi

nary to an outline of other possibilities. As we shall now see, this alternative was not a complete system, a utopia, but 4 8

rather the advocacy of a different manner of individual

thought and behaviour which today we would perhaps call a cultural revolution.

As a utilitarian Godwin began, like Bentham, with the

rational individual who could (and ought) to make himself as happy as possible by making life pleasurable. Unlike Ben tham, who regarded justice as being defined by law, Godwin regarded justice as the content and product of voluntary action by happiness-seeking individuals. Justice, therefore, exists independently of the state, and in opposition to it. The rational individual will act, as often as is possible, as if the state did not exist. The questions which must be asked are: What form will revolutionary disobedience take? And what will be the consequences? In relation to the first of these ques tions, such was Godwin's distrust of political organization that he hesitated before the advocacy of any structured confronta tion with the state, reformist or revolutionary. Political par ties function according to a theory or creed with which its members identify, thereby resolving "all understanding into one common mass,"^2 and again denying that autonomous cho ice which characterizes his view of "voluntary action." Further, during revolutionary transformations of the state, success produces the need to repress the supporters of the old regime, and "we organize a government, tenfold more encroaching in its principles, and terrible in its proceedings."''^ He also was disturbed by violence, the experience of which tends to make us "unrelenting and inhuman;" though this is qualified with argument that, even in situations of social upheaval, most of us can sleep peacefully in our beds,^'' it might serve to shake us out of our intellectual lethargy,and we should "make a proper advantage of circumstances as they arise..."*® His pref erence, however, is the field of re-education, to create through rational persuasion a broad base of enlightened individuals, who through their very existence and activity eat away at the foundations of authority. Perceiving the dependence of authority upon the affirmation of the ruled, government per petuated by the "infantine and uninstructed confidence of the many,"^7 he argued that government could not persist without it.

But if government collapsed, would not a society of 4 9

pleasure-seeking individuals engender insecurity and chaos? On the contrary argued Godwin, there would be an "unforced concurrence of all in promoting the general welfare."""® For Godwin, self-interest and socially-beneficial behaviour were not opposites, but complementary. He affirms this position in his theory of pleasures. Unlike Bentham, but like J.S. Mill, Godwin asserted that pleasures (and the happiness resulting from them) differ not only in quantity, but also in quality. Intellectual pleasures are more satisfying than physical plea sures. Independence of thought, necessary for just behaviour, does not produce grasping individualism, but a concern for making proper judgement, an aspect of which is the "selfapprobation" which comes (with its pleasure) when we pro mote the welfare of others. Rational individualism is perhaps, in the last analysis, a critical tool which, for Godwin, is misun derstood if the social context of individual behaviour is not

constantly kept in mind. In Caleb Williams, having spent years either in jail or on the run from the forces of the law, the hero declares.

Solitude, separation, banishment. These are words often in the mouths of human beings; but few except myself have felt the full latitude of their meaning. The pride of philosophy has taught us to treat man as an individual. He is no such thing. He holds necessarily, indispensably, to his species. He is like those twin-births, that have two heads indeed, and

four hands; but, if you attempt to detach them from each other, they are inevitably subjected to misera ble and lingering destruction. Taking this analogy of Godwin's further, the problem

broached in his Enquiry is that the social head of the Siamese twin, now wearing a dogmatic mask of politics and of prop erty, has become so predominant that the individual side has lost consciousness, and is in need of revivification. The task is

to remove the mask, and restore health to the interdependent parts of the single organism. Stated in moral terms,"... the most desirable state of mankind, is that which maintains gen eral security, with the smallest encroachment upon individual independence."^ 50

Godwin's anarchist goal, for such it was, was to be the

end product of an incremental process of enlightenment whereby increasing numbers of individuals disregarded those external factors which inhibit their independance of thought

and their happiness. During this process the character of property must also change and, like the powers of govern ment, the power of property was to become a casualty of a cultural revolution. We have seen that Godwin regarded prop

erty as exploitative, contradicting human happiness and, therefore, the principle of justice as defined by him: "Justice is a principle which proposes to itself the production of the grea test sum of pleasure or happiness.''^! Self-interest and the public interest are contained together in this definition to the extent that (and Godwin put this as the conclusion of rational activity) we find contentment in voluntary cooperation with other like-minded individuals. Under such circumstances

property would not have to be attacked and destroyed, but

would become social in character because of the "revolution of

opinions." This is perhaps the most spectacular and unpersua-

sive claim of Godwin, and the reason why Woodcock regarded

his rationalism as inappropriate to out later era. That pleasureseeking egoists should follow the prescriptions of the Sermon on the Mount, and treat their possessions as a source of moral obligation towards the welfare of others (as the source of a higher kind of happiness), would seem to be a somewhat vain and speculative hope. Nonetheless, it does serve to remind us that a new social consciousness must precede profound changes in human relations. Political/iai as the basis for an alteration

of the character of property may change the beneficiary and the dominator, but will maintain exploitation and domination in its old form—as every so-called socialist state demon strates. Therefore, when Godwin states that, to the extent that we do not need the state neither do we need property, he is

arguing that progress towards the two goals (propertyless society and stateless society) must be concurrent, with each being conditional upon a restructured value system. Godwin, the propagandist rather than the barricadero, thought that an appeal to self-interest was as likely to affect such a change as anything; but he also recognized the power of established ideas and habitual behaviour. Like the liberals, he wanted to 51

promote human potential by removing inegalitarianism and repression, and he resorted to arguments with which the lib erals are familiar. However, as we have seen, he took these

arguments to their conclusion, and directed his polemic against political economy as well as political power; and he sought to do more than amend abuses by arguing for their complete elimination. Liberal society's practical deviations from its own ideo logical standards are the objects of those who would take a

Godwinian approach to politics; and it is for this reason that Engels refers to him as one of the "two great practical philo sophers of latest date" (the other being Bentham), and "almost exclusively the property of the proletariat."^2 Marx, on the other hand, was more circumspect than his colleague, recog nizing that the assumptions and argument of Godwin were

similar in style and content (though not conclusions) to the promotion of the bourgeoisie by Bentham and James Mill.^a However, Godwin's critical authority both then and today lies in the liberal predisposition and his consistency in keeping the individual to the fore. Consequently, he can approve of the relative advantages of democracy as a stimulus to our moral

independence (through participation), and argues that a citi zen of such a state will wish to preserve the advantages of it "when he looks upon the oppression and injustice that prevail in the countries around him..."^'' In the modern situation, those of us who find ourselves living in liberal democracies may well think of ourselves as abiding in a situation somewhat more preferable than those living in the various "socialist

democracies"—let alone more obvious forms of dictatorship in such areas as the South American continent. Nevertheless, we should always bear in mind the stricture of Godwin that,

"Representation... is not a remedy so excellent or complete, as should authorize us to rest in it, as the highest improvement of which the social order is capable.''^^ Things might be worse, but they could also be a lot better, and to rest satisfied with a

relative advantage is to accept the domination of teachers, employers and politicians who deny to us the capacity and opportunity to act autonomously.

Political power is necessarily oppressive, presuming and perpetuating the ignorance of the ruled, who are co52

ordinated in their behaviour as willing subjects with slogans of the nation and the state. Military dictatorships and parlia mentary regimes resort to the same tactics of intellectual obfuscation, called patriotism—as the Falkland Islands crisis in 1982 highlights. The vulgar promotion of ethereal abstrac tions to reinforce the very real power of neo-fascist fanatics, like Thatcher and Galtieri, is the kind of thing for which the ideas of Godwin remain a healthy antidote. Given the modern state, and modern techniques of persuasion, we should remind ourselves more often that "the wealth, prosperity and glory of the whole are unintelligible chimeras."^® Such a consistent and confident rational individualism

as Godwin's must posit the possibility of a spontaneous socia bility based upon either benevolence (altruism) or self-interest (egoism). As we have seen, Godwin seems to combine the two,

arguing that the pleasure obtained from social behaviour is of

the highest kind. Because of this he can argue that the state is not necessary for order. Is this a vain hope? Should we accept

more pessimistic interpretations of humanity, such as those of an Augustine or a Tom Hobbes? Received opinion in our politi cal culture, and my students reiterate it each academic year in courses concerning the possibility of political alternatives to

liberalism, is that the processes of peaceful social intercourse must break down in the absence of some form of coercive

conformity. Robbery, rape and criminal abandon are the necessary consequence of, for example, police strikes. In

answer to such claims one might offer two or three not entirely

disconnected points. First, if the argument is empirically true, the anti-social consequences of the absence of restraints are

better regarded as the consequence of the "necessities" of con temporary society (including its politics, its propaganda and its property). We see that it is the acquired habits of statist circumstances, not anarchy, which produces disruption in the absence of restraint. Second, it is not argued by Godwin that the state sould be terminated overnight, but as a consequence

of changed values and changed behaviour consequential upon the promotion of rational individualism in pursuit of happi ness. And whether it is a Godwin or a Marx writing, all propo nents of radical social change are perceptive of the need to

promote alternative "consciousness." Third, it can be argued 53

that whenever formal coercion disappears (as during a police strike), it demonstrates the possibility of spontaneous social behaviour, rather than the opposite. In June, 1981, the police force of Halifax, Nova Scotia, went on strike over a pay dis pute. The windows of a few banks (of course) and stores in a limited part of the downtown area were broken, and there

were a few incidents of looting (a store selling stereo equip ment took quite a beating). However, this was limited to the first couple of nights—after which life in Halifax went on pretty much as before. I was in the downtown area during the

first night of the strike, amused to see striking policeman

encouraging those same citizens whom they would normally harass to break windows—and thereby demonstrate their own dubious role as guardians of order. For the rest, the atmosphere was more festival than militant in the streets and the bars; and away from this central area life went on as usual. And why not? Most people live from week to week without ever

needing the coercive arm of the law, whose presence is more usually a source of discomfort than of satisfaction. Perhaps spontaneous social behaviour is already with us, but we are not

allowed to see it because of the barrage of statist propaganda.

Godwin can, therefore, be properly regarded as the organizer of a radical critique of liberalism, but using liberal

ism's own assumptions; and it is the recognition of this possi

bility which explains Rudolf Rocker's statement that, ...socialism vitalized by liberalism logically leads to the ideas of Godwin, Proudhon, Bakunin and their

successors...Socialism inspired by liberal ideas...

leads straight to anarchism, meaning by that, a social condition where man is no longer subject to the guardianship of a higher power and where all relations between him and his kind are self regu lated by mutual agreement.^'' Moreover, the Godwinian orientation persists in anar chist affirmation today. For example, Fred Woods worth pres ents a Godwinian vein when he says. When people do agree that government is unneeded, total withdrawal of support will render the govern ment impotent without resources and will signal 54

imminent collapse. As there is no anarchist society without anarchists, and as these are only created by rational discourse and understanding, these pro cesses ought to be encouraged and actively helped along by those who oppose government already.^ Rational individualism as the basis of human coopera tion, seeing non-state organizations developing from this interaction, remains very much a part of the theoretical and tactical equipment of anarchists today. Such organizations are the only ones, it seems, which can be regarded as tho roughly revolutionary. As Godwin noted, and as anarchists have insisted thereafter, revolutions which capture state power as the vehicle of change must end by perpetrating hierarchy in a new form. In the nature of the state, Thermidors are inevitable. Alternate structures of human relations,

produced and controlled by the participants themselves, are the single means for escaping from the authoritarian trap. They might end in failure, but they are the only way out; or, in the terminology of Godwin, they are the only way in which we can hope to behave with "justice".

Ill: The "Unique" Individual (Max Stirner) Godwin had referred to certain "chimeras," political ideas and ideals which distort our perception of social rela tions and lead us to sacrifice our own interest and happiness in the name of god, monarch, party or nation. As a rationalist he affirmed the power of ideas—their power when accepted uncritically as a determinant of subordination; and their power as a means of liberation from uncritical acceptance of domination. As a rationalist, he was pronouncing the auto

nomy of the individual, in effect saying, "I can judge, and before I undertake a commitment to anything, I must be per suaded, be given good reasons for it." It is a limited autonomy because, once persuaded, the rationalist will accept a common or shared position with others, thereby practically limiting autonomy. In Godwin's case, confident in the altruistic endproduct of rational self-interest, genial and benevolent in his view of human kind, this presented no problem. Nor was he 5 5

necessarily wrong in this confidence, as I suggested in the

previous section; and most anarchists after him have affirmed

our capacity for free cooperation as an alternative to the authoritarian direction of the state and of the controllers of

property (if these latter are not themselves the state bureau crats).

By contrast, the blacksheep of the anarchist fold, the one who seems to have offended most, the one who gave indi vidualism a bad name, was Max Stirner. When anti-social

persons call themselves anarchists, and make claims to no restraints upon their conduct, however anti-social and unkind, they are often regarded as uncooperative and offensive indi vidualists in the Stirner tradition. For did not Max Stirner

reject all morality, affirm an uncooperative and absolute ego ism of his "unique" individuality, and set the stage for that nihilistic affirmation that all (and anything) is permissible? Stirner's seems even to reject reason itself, as the starting

point which must inevitably lead us along an ideological route to the acceptance of "systems" of thought within which the individual has no significance. Yet, in spite of the obvious contrast with Godwin, his almost (but not entirely) total indif ference to what seems an obvious interdependance of individ uals in society, he had this in common with Godwin: he too

sought to tell us about the manner in which we have been intellectually seduced into a voluntary subordination to selfdenying ideas, and those who control them. It is for this reason that I here undertake a short reassessment of Stirner—in the

light of his critical perception concerning the capacity of sys tems of thought to lead us to a loss of perspective concerning those actions which are most likely to satisfy our needs and desires—without pretending to defend the entire body of his work.

Stirner's main work was Der Einzige unci sein Eigentum (The Ego and His Own). It was published in 1844 and was a product and part of the philosophical polemics of the Left Hegelians, their concern to radicalize the conservative conclu sions of Hegel's idealism, and their wish to promote liberal, and even socialist, goals in the divided Germany of their time. Ludwig Feuerbach became the meteor of their group, himself rejecting the argument that contemplation can produce abso56

lute truths and, calling himself a materialist, became the advocate of a moral reformation based upon a "human essence" found in us all. Karl Marx came under Feuerbach's

spell, but by the middle of the 1840s was consciously forming his rejection of Feuerbach—the details of which are found in The German Ideology, written with Engels in 1845. The bulk of this work, however, is taken up with a criticism of Stirner, whose own rejection of Feuerbach's humanism (and every thing else) had appeared in the previous year. Marx's conclu sions seem to have become the convenient basis for the casual

rejection of Stirner's arguments by later critics.^® Conse quently, a consideration of the central features, and apparent misunderstanding, of Marx's critique will form part of the discussion here.

Stirner, who deliberately and delightfully rejects all philosophical systems as the perpetrators of "spooks" which confuse and misdirect us, opens Dei' Einzige... with an ironic touch which is rarely acknowledged. To a readership grounded in the intricacies of the Hegelian dialectic, he offers a pseudoHegelian presentation of the development of mankind through a triad of boyhood, youth, and manhood. However, whilst Hegel, in such works as the Phenomenology of Mind, had pres ented human history as the progress of Reason towards Abso lute Knowledge or Spirit, Stirner, standing Hegel on his head after his own fashion, argues that history and philosophy find their end not in universal knowledge, but in egoism, with the "unique" individual. Consequently, with a humour that could not be missed by anyone versed in the Hegelian school of thought, Stirner writes,

The child was realistic, taken up with things of this world,... the youth was idealistic, inspired by thoughts, till he worked his way up to where he became man, the egoistic man, who deals with things and thoughts according to his heart's plea sure, and sets his personal interest above every thing.®") This affirmation of a selfish ego, combined with a fleshy emphasis upon the corporeal self, is a deliberate rejection of the Hegelian system of philosophical enquiry as inappropriate 57

to the anthropological reality in which we find ourselves. Marx's complaint that Stirner is a poor Hegelian philosopher is correct, but Stirner's intention never was to be regarded as such. It is more true to say that Stirner was attempting to show the irrelevance of all philosophy insofar as it invevitably pro duces ideesfixea which distort our choices and interests. Con sequently, Hegelian idealism, like Feuerbach's humanism, was for him but another form of thought whose product was the destruction of that which it was, in part, seeking to explain —that is, the individual. Indeed, the whole history of philo sophy becomes an expression of this process, including the arguments of the progressives in his contemporary intellec tual milieu. The "political liberals," those bourgeois demo crats who would eliminate feudal remnants and expand the franchise, dominate us with "the State." The "social liberals," Stirner's name for socialists, subordinate us to the idea of

"society." And the "humane liberals", who promote an atheis tic humanism in place of religion, ensure only that "God as Man becomes a prejudice,... anew faith."®i Stirner scoffs at all these representations. His recommendation becomes one of total negativity, an anti-intellectual and nihilistic denial of philosophy, leaving what he terms £'i(7ew/ieiY(own-ness or uni queness). In his own words, ...I am neither the champion of a thought nor the champion of thinking; for "I," from whom I start, am not a thought, nor do I consist in thinking.^^ The "Unique One,"... has no content whatever; it is indeterminateness itself. Content and determina

tion come to it through you. There is no development of the concept of the Unique. No philosophical sys tem can be built out of it, as it can out of Being, or Thinking, or the I. Rather with it, all development of the concept ceases.®^ This emphasis upon the immediate individual has been seen as the genesis of anarchism, existentialism, and nihil-

ism.*^^ It is also the point on which Marx concentrated his polemic against Stirner, as part of which he developed his own historical-materialist alternative. Stirner's refusal to subject the "egoist" to a common interest or ideology of a social class 58

seemed to be nothing less than a promotion of an inconsequen tial and petty-bourgeois individualism, and hence a mistaken argument for those with radical aspirations. Marx, however,

missed the point; but before saying why he did, let us look first at the content of Marx's criticism.

Marx's central point in that part of The Getman Ideol

ogy entitled, "Saint Max," is that Stirner is an unconscious servant of German idealism, and through it a servant of the German bourgeoisie. He is portrayed as a Sancho Panza of a

philosophical Quixotism which, with its head in the clouds, wastes its time tilting at windmills whilst having no impact

upon reality. Marx refers to "our simple-minded Sancho,"®^

who "actually believes in the domination of abstract ideas of ideology in the modern world; he believes that in his struggle against 'predicates,' against conceptions, he is no longer attacking an illusion, but the real forces that rule the world."®® Stirner is condemned for being an inadequate sociologist, for concentrating upon theaspectof intellectual repression "instead of explaining it from the empirical conditions and showing how definite relations of industry and commerce are necessar ily connected with a definite form of society, hence, with a definite form of State and hence, with a definite form of reli

gious consciousness."®^ Consequently, Marx argues that Stirner gives us an unreal or ahistorical image of the individual, an unreal concept of morality and religion, and an unreal concept of the state—none of which are independent variables, but only operate and can only be examined as aspects of "definite conditions predom inant at a certain stage of production and... the way of satisfying needs determined by them..."®® Marx concludes, therefore, that we must concentrate upon socio economic factors which, at a certain stage of historical devel opment, make a proletarian-induced communism necessary. Stirner, by contrast, is regarded as being indifferent to reality. The problem with Marx's criticism is that, by emphas izing the dependent and determined character of ideas, he relegates ideas to a position of relative unimportance. Stirner, on the other hand, by emphasizing beliefs and ideas as the essential conditioning agent of our behaviour and environ59

ment, gives to ideas an overly-exclusive authority of their own. In effect, both thinkers were suffering from what we might

term analytical tunnel vision. With their viewpoints and con cerns narrowed down to a single cause for perceived repres sion of all kinds—economic for Marx, cultural/intellectual for Stirner—they were both right, and both wrong. Repression

and exploitation cannot be reduced to fundamental economic variables, as was done by Marx in The German Ideology, but must be found in other spheres as well. Culture (values and

beliefs) can create a hierarchy of its own, as religious move ments inevitably demonstrate—the mass suicide of the fol lowers of the Reverend Jimmy Jones merely being a more recent and dramatic example. Political hierarchy is equally autonomous in its capacity for control, which none can doubt

when we look to the political control of economic and intellec tual directions in the so-called socialist states. All must be

considered. So, if Marx was right in his indication of Stirner's

ignorance of socio-economic phenomena, he was also wrong in discounting what Stirner had to offer concerning the way in which beliefs function as a source of authority. Today we

recognize that, through what political scientists call the "socialization process," and through outright manipulation of information and propaganda, vast numbers of persons embrace beliefs that allow others to dominate them. Stirner's concern

was to elaborate upon the character of this imprisonment by one's own beliefs, and it monopolized his interests to the same extent that the nature of economic variables of exploitation and derived authority monopolized Marx's. But what has been termed Stirner's "tunnel vision" does not make his comments

upon that aspect of power relations in human societies any less important. It may have been an incomplete discussion of the problem, but Marx's critique if off the point insofar as he was speaking a different language of politics; or, alternatively, discounting Stirner's fixation with cultural repression with an overemphasis upon a fixation of his own. What Stirner correctly saw was that ideology, like reli gion, always possesses a potential for repression, for forming the basis of a movement in which conformity is the standard and the individual is nothing—and to which we consciously

sacrifice our interests in the name of speculative abstractions. 60

His refusal to accept grand concepts was an explicit warning and defence against such tendencies. His egoism is a rejection of the self-righteous dictatorship of ideologues whose revolu tionary rhetoric masks the reality of reaction. Stirner's tru ism, that "moral faith is as fanatical as religious faith,"®'' in the hands of anarchists of all kinds, has been used to remind Marxists that, by making a fetish out of an imagined objectiv ity, they deprive individuals of all value and sacrifice them to the grand design. This was the position taken by Bakunin

against Marx who, whilst accusing the Russian of being a Stirnerite, was condemned for being the author of a new pri esthood of scientific socialists who sought to dominate the masses with a new metaphysics, called science (see Chapter Three below). We should not think, however, that Stirner's concern

with what we would today call "ideological domination" led

him entirely to discount politics and the state as a very consid erable variable in the control of our behaviour (and autonom ous of economic structures to boot). When he discusses the state Stirner stresses that it is a structure of repression which

must be discussed independently of economic arrangements within any given society—a position quite the opposite to that

which was being developed by Marx. Stirner recognizes that the state operates as a repressive force to guarantee property, but he also argues that the state has priority over economic arrangements in any society. One must not see a simple dependence of the state upon a dominant economic class, for the state is not, as Marx was to argue in The Communiat Manift'Hto, merely a committee for handling the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie. On the contrary, Stirner

insists that the state stands above and in control of property, "and everything possessible in State domain, belongs to the State, and is only a fief of the individual.™ There is no simple presumption that, as Engels put it, "with the introduction of the socialist order of society the state will dissolve of itself and disappear."'' As culture might dominate in its own right, so might politics—Stirner insisting that politics alwatja domi nates economics. His uncompromising emphasis upon the priority of politics is highly debatable, especially in an age when multinational corporations operate budgets larger than 61

many of the smaller modern states. However, better than Marx and his followers did Stirner recognize the repressive power of bureaucratic organization, a power which must per sist as long as people put their faith in the state. When describing the State, Stirner indicated that coer cion is its central feature, and that all public servants possess the character of the policeman: "to the police belong soldiers, officials of all kinds, those of justice, education, etc. — in short, the whole 'machinery of state'."^^ Those revolutionaries who wish to capture the state, or create it anew, must inevitably build the structure of a new despotism. Far from seeing the state simply as an "idea," which would disappear if it were intellectualy rejected (as Marx accused), Stirner was most cognizant of the practical nature of political authority in all of iUi fantui. So, when he suggested means for ridding ourselves of oppression, he pointed to non-statist possibilities (his "union of egoists" which will be discussed shortly). Meanwhile, he reiterated that, "every state is despotism, be the despot one or many..."'^ Marx might have argued that this is "the pettybourgeois German idea of the omnipotence of the state. Nevertheless, it is worthy of reconsideration in the light of twentieth-century political developments, and the emergence of the political leviathan in every kind of ideological form. And was it not Marx who was hypnotized by the idea of the state (supposedly transitional); himself infected by the "German" disease, if we are to believe Bakunin?

It would be wrong, however, to treat Stirner as an apos tle of freedom or liberty, as one might properly regard other anarchists like Godwin and Bakunin. Stirner's distrust of

speculation produced a distrust of all such grand concepts, and he specifically tells us that Eigenheit or uniqueness is not freedom—a concept which was too closely associated for him with the liberal reformers of his contemporary Germany. Insistently sceptical of prescriptive generalities, and clinging only to his affirmation of the individual ego, with what seems to be a calculated desire to shock, and what is certainly a rejection of utopianism, Stirner tells us that we should seek power and property rather than freedom. This makes him at times sound like a modern-day Thrasymachus who, in Plato's 62

Republic, argued that justice was the will of the strongest

individual. Such a conclusion was not, however, Stirner's pur pose. The power which he indicated was not political power,

nor property a right to unlimited possessions guaranteed by

law. In Stirner's scheme, power and property would of neces sity be limited by the capacity of the individuals to have con trol over their personal lives—to be autonomous. When he

says, "My power is my property,'"^® he is describing the possi bility of individuals to act according to their own precepts,

uninhibited by concerns for morality and law; and without

legal coercion or mystical supports, property will lose its meaning as a basis of inequality and exploitation. The means advocated, as we shall see, is a cultural revolution to displace accepted values of legally-guaranteed property which, lack ing respect, will lose its security.

As for freedom, that admirable and emotive concept of anarchist argument, Stirner warns us against it as either a

humanist "spook" or a rank impossibility; in each case direct ing our attention away from the productive possibilities of an active egoism, of "ownness:"

What a difference between freedom and ownness....

"Freedom lives only in the realm of dreams." Own ness, on the contrary, is my whole being and exist ence, it is I myself. I am free from what I am rid of, owner of what I have in my power or what I control. My own I am at all times and under all circumstancs, if I know how to have myself and do not throw myself away on others. To be free is some thing that I cannot truly ivill, because I cannot make it, cannot create it: I can only wish it and— aspire toward it, for it remains an ideal, a spook.'® He concedes that the egoist is free from intellectual

inhibition, and even calls him ^'originally free, because he recognizes nothing but himself.However, as we have seen,

he does not make freedom a political goal, or attempt a social definition of the term as had been done earlier by Rousseau

and Hegel, and as Marx himself attempted to do. In their hands the concept had been deprived of any meaning other than as a symbol of conformity to the organized will of the 63

state. Stirner was not prepared to fall into the trap of recom mending that some be forced to be free within the framework of a new political dogmatism. Clinging rigidly to his rejection of rational prescription, and fearful of the consequences of doctrinal commitment, he preferred to dump the concept

completely rather than accept it with these implications. We are left with the unattractive and unreal image of the individ ual in isolation, in immediacy, desolate of human identifica tion or concern for anyone but the self. Yet even in this situa

tion he has something important to say when he asserts that freedom is something achieved when you get "rid of inhibi tions to autonomous action. Those who hanker after freedom

from some particular inhibition (demanding freedom of reli gion, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, etc.), may well be satisfied. However, that which is granted from above

by political power over us, that which is not taken for ourselves by our own actions, is merely a confirmation of continued

domination. In Stirner's words, "the man who is set free is

nothing but a freed man, a libertinus, a dog dragging a piece of chain with him: he is an unfree man in the garment of free

dom, like the ass in the lion's skin."'® In less poetic phraseology: what is given by the state is dependent upon it, and subordi nate to it. In Canada, the existence, and implementation on a massive national scale in 1970, of the War Measures Act, gives truth to Stirner's reflection. In neo-colonial Africa, in a some

what different context, Frantz Fanon expressed the same

principle (in The Wretched of the Earth): for independence to mean anything, it must be taken by act of revolution, not given as a gift by the mother country, which will do nothing to enable the inhabitants to establish an alternative to the psychology of

dependence and subordination. Lest Stirner's argument be distorted, however, let us remember that Fanon advocated a

revolutionary nationalism which, although possessing ele ments of political decentralization, was hardly anarchist in its goals. What then is the nature of the behaviour which should

be pursued by the egoist? Stirner tells us that it is only by being a criminal that we can deny the state, and that we should feel no obligation to acknowledge any law at all. Stated with what amounts to an offensive amorality at times, Stirner's 64

purpose was to contrast moral (or amoral) autonomy with the condition of dependence upon the coercive standards of laws formulated and executed by others. Saying, "I get around the laws of a people, till I have gathered strength to overthrow them/"^» Stirner promotes a criminal mentality. Godwin, it will be remembered, had said that he would obey the law when it was convenient, or when it "accidentally" demanded what his own calculations also prescribed. The state, illegitimate

always, never has claims upon our obedience. Stirner put the

same argument, and then took it further than Godwin. For, not accepting any standard of justice (as did Godwin), he argued that all laws might be ignored irrespective of their content—which is the step into nihilism and the "everything is permitted" mentality. Such totally negative subjectivity would seem to take Stirner beyond the point where his argument can be of use to the social critic. He seems to have brought us to an advocacy of the kind of anti-social being like the thuggish anti-hero of Anthony

Burgess's novel. The Clockivork Ch'ange, which could hardly be called constructive. And this is the usual view of Stirner's

argument. Stirner, however, had more to say; for in the pro

motion of egoism on a mass scale Stirner thought that the disruption of the state and the development of social alterna tives might result. The key terms here are "insurrection" and the "union(s) of egoists" {Verein). Stirner envisages a broadening of the base of egoism, with an increasing number of persons acting according to the position given by himself. To the extent that this occurs, two consequences are forseeable. First, the authority and influ ence of the state will be reduced and, possibly, become totally void of content as voluntary compliance to its rules dissolves. Second, as egoism becomes the norm, there will be fewer polit ical and ethical restrictions upon the choices of conduct. Ego ism en masse becomes Stirner's tactic; and in order to distin

guish it from the authoritarian implications associated with politicial revolutions, he chooses the term, "insurrection," to describe it:

Revolution and insurrection must not be looked upon as synonymous. The former consists in an 65

overturning of conditions, of the established condi tion or status, the State or society, and is accord ingly a political or social act; the latter has indeed for its unavoidable consequence a transformation of circumstances, yet does not start from it but from men's discontent with themselves, is not an armed

uprising, but a rising of individuals, a getting up, without regard to the arrangements that spring from it... It is not a fight against the established, since, if it prospers, the established collapses of iself...®"

Here we see that Stirner, like Godwin before him, was an advocate of a cultural revolution (as opposed to a political one), with the view that deligitimization and disobedience can form the basis of a destruction of the state. It is explicitly non-Utopian, not thinking of "the arrangements that spring from it." Eigenheit, however, is seen to remain a central fea

ture of a developing irrelevance of the "established," which cannot function effectively in the face of mass disobedience. Part of this is also the destruction of property in the legal sense

(i.e., those resources which are possessed and protected by a combination of our respect and the judicial procedures of the state). Stirner asserts that, "if men reach the point of losing

respect for property, every one will have property,which is an argument against inequalities of ownership reminiscent of the basic Lockean view outlined in the first section of this

chapter. "To me," says Stirner, "belongs only as much as I am competent for, or have within my competence."®^ This is not, however, the starting point for a theory of state, viewed as the

creation of contracting parties of property holders. Instead, it is a radical stance which denies all political obligation to the state or to the structure of property holdings which it protects. It is the existential condition of disobedience, of insurrection.

"The true man," he writes, "does not lie in the future, an object of longing, but lies, existent and real, in the present."®^ How could such extreme individualism produce any

thing but mutual destructiveness, the Hobbesian "war of all against all"? Extreme individualism may well make the state inoperative, but would it not at the same time destroy the 66

things of value in hunnan relations—such as cooperation for

satisfying common needs, the enjoyments of friendship, the security of playing a productive role in a community? In show

ing one method for denying the "established," is not Stirner marooning the egoist in an ocean of indifference and aliena tion which no sane person could desire? Perhaps. Yet we must not ignore Stirner's advocacy of a "union of egoists," which was perceived as a functional alliance between individuals for the

satisfaction of their common needs (and which always carried

the proviso that obligation to any such alliance disappears as soon as any member perceives it as no longer advantageous). This mutually-satisfying combination of egoists is seen by Stirner as both inevitable and essential, yet not contradicting the priority of the individual: In this combination I see nothing whatever but a

multiplication of my force, and I retain it only so long as it is my force. But thus it is a—union. ...Only

in the union can you assert yourself as unique, because the union does not possess you, but you

possess it or make it of use to you.^ This is both an insurrectionary force and a social alter native, non-statist in both its tactics and goals. To the extent

that the legitimizing myths and moralities which reinforce political authority are denied, the state and its officers will be unable to function. "If I leave the established, it is dead and

passes into decay.This must require a wide-spread denial of

state's values, a mass willingness to disobey its laws, and a

multiple refusal to cooperate in our own mental and physical subordination. However, whilst the "popular rage for the

moral protects the police institution more than government could in any way protect it,"®® whilst political culture and political socialization produce voluntary conformity, the col lapse of the state cannot occur. In the last analysis, no matter how unattractive and unproductive extreme individualism like Stirner's may seem, his use of it to clarify the repressive character of ideology and of the state, and to direct our attention towards non-statist social alternatives, all retain importance. My purpose in this section has not been to present Stirner's ideas as a complete 67

system ready for adoption in any particular socio-economic situation, but rather to reiterate that we ignore individualism at our own cost. Before Marxists captured state power, Stirner's interpretations might be rejected easily as a rem nant of bourgeois individualism, as irrelevant concerns which would lose their significance in a proletarian revolution and its aftermath. Socialists today, however, cannot be so casual in their consideration of the autonomous authority of culture and the state. From fundamentalist religious concepts to views that "the people" rule through democratic representation (as is claimed by the leaders of both capitalist and communist systems), the apparently-ludicrous proves to be the way in which many, even most, people come to terms with reality. The modern propagandists of nationalism presume and perpetu ate the view that our voluntary (and preferably enthusiastic) identification with political, police and military authority is a moral obligation. In this bureaucratic era of mass communi cations, individualistic concerns are by no means simply bourgeois concerns but, rather, they are a necessary part of any radical critique of the human condition. When we use the word, socialism, we are of course moving beyond the individu alism discussed in this chapter—whatever its cooperative aspects, pragmatic (as with Stirner) or benevolent (as with Godwin). Anarchism a form of socialist argument has, how ever, always retained a consideration for the concerns of God win and Stirner, using the individualist argument against revolutionary organizations as much as against established state forms. The absence of an organizational imperative in individualist argument, the assumption that individualists would spontaneously develop new social forms in meeting and solving common problems, and that the state would automati cally disappear as its structures and functions were replaced from below, gave way to organizational concerns. Bakuninism became the theoretical core of anarchism in the nineteenth

century, and Godwin's and Stirner's books became relics of a less sophisticated period of political argument. However, the unbudging anti-state viewpoint of the individualists, their concern that revolutionary elites not be allowed to emerge, their recognition that dogmatically-asserted abstractions deny individual autonomy and distort revolutionary goals, their 6 8

assertion that alternate social forms must be created by the

participants and not by administrative fiat—all of these retained importance, and were the subjects over which Marx and Bakunin were to dispute within the framework of the First International, as we shall now see.

References

1. John Locke, Two Treatise of Civil Gorernment {1690), First Trea

tise, paragraph 92 (hereafter I, 92). Quotations are here taken

from the Everyman edition (London, 1966). 2. Such is the central argument of C.B. MacPherson's The Life and Times of Liberal Democracy (Oxford University Press, 1977). 3. See Chapter Four of this work for a discussion in detail. 4. Locke, op cit, I, 58. 5. Ibid., II, 13. 6. Ibid, II, 57.

7. Ibid, II, 95. Although Locke frequently appears to be speaking only of "real property," he does add in paragraph 173 of the Second Treatise: "By property I must be understood here, as in

other places, to mean that property which men have in their persons as well as goods." 8. Ibid. II, 168.

9. For example, in paragraph 205 of the Second Treatise Locke states, "The inconveniency of some particular mischiefs that may happen sometimes when a heady prince comes to the throne are

well recompensed by the peace of the public and security of the

government in the person of the chief magistrate, thus set out of the reach of danger; it being safer for the body that some few private men should be sometimes in danger to suffer than that the head of the republic should be easily and upon slight occasions exposed." 10. In the eighteenth century this included, of course, the established church.

11. See Locke's Second Treatise, II, 31.

12. Benjamin R. Tucker, Individual LibeHy, 11. The Revisionist Press, New York, 1972. From "State Socialism and Anarchism" (1886).

13. Locke, J. opus cit, II, 36. 14. A note for non-Canadian readers. In April, 1982, by Act of Parli ament of the United Kingdom, the Canadian state, self-governing since 1867, came to possess the legal power to amend its funda mental law concerningthestructure and operation of its political 69

institutions. Included in the document, The Canada Act, is a bill of rights (now called "entrenched"), remarkably similar in sub stance to those amendments to the Constitution of the USA which

are referred to as the American Bill of Rights. 15. In Mill's own words: "Few creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower animals, for the promise of the fullest allowance of the beast's pleasures; no intelligent human being would consent to be a fool... It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied

than a fool satisfied." From "Utilitarianism" (1863). John Stuart Mill, Utilitarianifim, LibeHij and Representative Government,

8-9 J.M. Dent, London, 1948.

16. Bentham's words were, "It is not to be expected that this process should be strictly pursued previously to every moral judgement, or to every legislative or judicial operation. It may, however, be always kept in view: and as near as the process actually pursued on these occasions approaches to it, so near will such process approach to the character of an exact one." Jeremy Bentham, "A FragmentonGovernment"and AnIntrodnctiontothePrinciples of Morals and Legislation" 153. Basil Blackwell, Oxford, 1967. 17. "...the art of legislation (which may be considered as one branch

of the science of jurisprudence) teaches how a multitude of men, composing a community, may be disposed to pursue that course which upon the whole is the most conducive to the happiness of the whole community, by means of motives to be applied by the legislator." Ibid, 423. 18. Jeremy Bentham, The Handbook of Political Fallacies, 66. Harper and Brothers, New York, 1962.

19. Quoted by D.J. Manning, The Mind of Jeremy Bentham, 21. Longmans, London, 1968. From a manuscript at the University College, London.

20. "By teaching the quality of all values, by denying that there are things which are intrinsically high and others which are intrin sically low as well as by denying that there is an essential differ ence between men and brutes, it unwittingly contributes to the victory of the gutter." Loe Strauss, Liberalism A ncient and Mod ern, 222. Basic Books, New York, 1968. 21. Ihid., 23.

22. Peter Viereck, Conserrati.sm Reriaited, 49. The Free Press, New York, 1965.

23. A central theme of what is perhaps his best-known work. One Dimensional Man.

24. Manning, op cit, Chapter XVI. 25. Fabian Essatfs, 138. Allen & Unwin, London, 1962. 26. Stuart Hampshire, "Morality and Pessimism," YorkRevietv of Books, January 25,1973. 70

27. William Godwin, Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, 168. Edited by K. Kodell Carter, Oxford University Press, 1971. 28. William Godwin, Caleb WiUians, 119. New English Library, London, 1975.

29. Godwin, Enquiry, 46. 30. Ibid., 209. 31. Ibid., 35.

32. George Woodcock, Anarchism, 74. Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 1963.

33. Godwin, Enquiry, 132. 34. Ibid., 125. 35. Ibid., 69. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid.,

220. 37. 236. 227. 283-284. 284. 140. 136-37. 263. 264. 139. 125. 125.

49. Godwin, Caleb Willian>(, 296. 50. Godwin, Enquiry, 14. 51. Ibid., 14.

52. Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, Collected Worka, IV, 528 International Publishers, New York, 1975. From "The Condition

of the WorkingClass in England" (1846). Engels thought that Bentham was also of use to the socialist cause, and the potential of his utilitarian argument as a support for state socialism has been seen in the present chapter. 53. Ibid., 412. From The German Ideoloqy.

54. Godwin, Enquiry, 203. 55. Ibid., 205. 56. Ibid., 212.

57. Rudolf Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 238. Rocker Publica tions Committee, Los Angeles, 1938. 58. Fred Woodworth, "Anarchism," in Reinventing Anarchy (edited by Howard J. Erlich et al.), 40-41. London, 1979. 71

59. The following more contemporary statements differ little from

the conclusions of Marx concerning Stirner: "Stirner's thought reveals that painstaking and tough sensitiveness to what belongs solely and exclusively to the individual which is generally asso ciated with the peasant proprietor or shopkeeper," argued Syd ney Hook {From Hegel to Marx, 183-84, Michigan University Press, 1966). Anthony D'Agostino writes, "Stirner's 'negation of the state was, therefore, merely a rejection of reason of state... He confused the attack on the ideology with an attack on the state itself." {Marxism and tlie Ruaaian Anarchhta, 26-27, Germinal Press, San Francisco, 1977). See also John P. Clark's statement

that, "Stirner... erroneously abstracts the ego from its origins as a social creation, and its ongoing relationship of interdependence with society and nature." {Max Stirner's Egoism, 97, Freedom Press, London, 1976). And Paul Thomas, in "Karl Marx and Max Stirner," states that, "A reality such as the state cannot be abro gated by revealing at the level of comciomneHtt its unsound character—altough this is exactly what Stirner believed."

{Political Theory, HI, 2, 162, Sage Publications, Beverly Hills, 1975).

60. Max Stirner, The Ego and His Own, 14. Libertarian Book Club, New York, 1963, (edited by James J. Martin). Translation of Der

Einzige und sein Eigentum by Stephen T. Byington. 61. Ibid., 443.

62. Ibid., 147.

63. The Philosophical Forum, Vol. VIII, nos. 2-4, p. 67. (Boston Uni versity, 1978). This issue of the journal is subtitled, "Feuerbach, Marx and the Left Hegelians." The quotation is taken from

Stirner's response to criticisms of his book under the title, "Stirner's Critics."

64. Ibid., 1, in the "Editorial Note" by Marx W. Wartofsky and Hans Martin Sass.

65. Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, The German Ideology, 476. Lawrence and Wishart, London, 1965. The section entitled, "Saint Max", is entirely Marx's product. 66. Ibid., 256. 67. Ibid., 161. 68. Ibid., 475-476.

69. Stirner, The Ego and His Own, 46. 70. Ibid., 115.

71. Engels's letter to A. Bebel, dated London, March 18-28,1875. See Marx, Engels & Lenin, Anarchism and Anarcho-Syndicalism, 153. International Publishers, New York 1976.

72. Stirner, op cif., 115. 73. Ibid., 196.

7 2

74. The German Ideology, op cit., 389. 75. Stirner, op cit, 184. 76. Ibid., 157. 77. Ibid., 164. 78. Ibid., 168.

79. Ibid., 165-166. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86.

Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid., Ibid.,

316. 258. 267. 327. 311-312 316. 214.

73

CHAPTER

THREE

Anarchism as Revolutionary Socialism^

I: Anarchism and the First International The International Workingmen's Association (I.W.A.) was established in London in 1864, and the General Council of

that body was to reside in London until its de facto collapse in 1872, following an irreparable split between "Bakuninists" and "Marxists" at The Hague Congress. At its most mundane level, the conflict between Marx and Bakunin can be seen in

terms of a personal struggle between two powerful personali ties, each attempting to impose his leadership on the organiza tion; and each did accuse the other of Caesarism. The conflict

of personalities, however, reflected a bitter dispute concern ing the nature and relationship of revolutionary organization

and revolutionary goals. In the words of Kropotkin (who,

incidentally, was not a great admirer of Bakunin's writings, seeing him rather as an inspirational activist), the real differ ence was between the principles of centralization (advocated by Marx) and federalism (advocated by Bakunin): T h e c o n fl i c t b e t w e e n t h e M a r x i s t s a n d t h e B a k u -

nists (sic) was not a personal affair. It was the neces sary conflict between the principles of federalism and those of centralization, the free commune and

the state's paternal rule, the free action of the masses of the people and the betterment of existing 75

capitalist conditions through legislation,—a con flict between the Latin spirit and the German Geist, which, after the defeat of France on the battlefield, claimed supremacy in science, politics, philosophy, and in socialism too, representing its own concep tion of socialism as "scientific," while all other interpretations it described as "utopian."^

The conflict between the two general principles was referred to, by Bakunin and his associates, as the conflict between two trends in the International. Marx and his follow

ers, on the other hand, saw it as an unwarranted attack upon the authority of the General Council of the LW.A. Marx, as member, regular attender, and intellectual pre-eminence of

the General Council, saw in Bakunin the disseminator of heretical and schismatic ideas and actions which threatened

the young International movement's coherence and direction. Where Bakunin is mentioned in the minutes and documents of

the General Council, it is in terms of the Russian's unwilling ness to conform to the general policy. Marx, himself, repres ented the "Russian section" of the International on the General

Council from March, 1870 (supported by a group of Russian exiles that "does not agree with Bakunin").^ Bakunin was a "Johnny-come-lately," appealing to the semi-and-non-proletarian social elements of southern Europe— as opposed to the supposedly vigorous and united proletariat of the more urban and industrialized northern Europe. This was Marx's opinion, and Marx's argument. And he managed to force his opinion upon the official documents of the Interna tional in 1872, at the same time having the satisfaction of seeing Bakunin and his leading supporter, James Guillaume, expelled from the movement. This outcome of The Hague Congress was, however, nothing more than a Pyrrhic victory for Marx. Combined with a general reaction in Europe follow ing the creation of an imperial Germany after the FrancoPrussian War of 1870 (and the bloody repression of the Paris

Commune in 1871 by the new French republic which replaced a defeated Second Empire of Napoleon III), the nationallyinsular and reformist-parliamentary socialism, later known as "revisionism," became the European norm. By having the radical wing of the International ejected, Marx unwittingly 76

contributed to the reinforcement of a non-revolutionary and conformist style of political activity which reinforced the sta tus QUO. Those who called themselves Marxists thereafter, as Kropotkin said, sought "the betterment of existing capitalist conditions through legislation." However, even when the "revolutionary" side of Marxism was revived, its statist orien tation was to prove equally debilitating. Centralist, hierarchi cal and authoritarian in both style and content, the Marxist trend in the I.W.A. was a model for both reformist and revolu

tionary advocates of the system of scientific socialism then and n o w .

Anarchist socialism and state socialism were the two

trends in the I.W.A., expressed simplistically as a conflict between Bakunin and Marx, who were the central personali ties of the issues at hand. Their general goals were the same: the destruction of property, exploitation, and the state. Their differences lay in the question of tactics. Bakunin advocated the concurrent destruction of property and the state. Marx advocated the immediate destruction of bourgeois property and the creation of a transitional proletarian state. Each regarded the other's tactics as ineffective in practice. How ever, Marx had the organizational advantage as a founder and leading figure in the I.W.A. hierarchy; and this made Bakunin the critic and disruptive influence in the organization. As

critic, living in Switzerland and Italy, Bakunin came to des pise Marx for what he regarded as a Germanic authoritarian ism, reflected in his pursuit of control of the I.W.A. through his position on the General Council, his acceptance of the state as a vehicle of change (both reformist and revolutionary), and his insistence upon a common ideological position for socialists wherever they might be. As a Russian, he was also cognizant of Marx's own limited perspective. We should remember that, after an initial sympathy for the narodniki those Russian populists who (realisitically or not) pursued a peasant social ism (avoiding a bourgeois stage of economic development), Marx came to support his own Russian disciples. The Russian Marxists, following their "father," Plekhanov, argued the "Orthodox Marxist" position that Russian capitalism must develop before one could think of socialist alternatives; and the socialist revolution was put off until some vague future date 77

when an industrial proletariat had developed and matured. As a Russian, Bakunin saw a much more profound revolution ary potential in pre-industrial societies, in the exploited mass of the peasantry (still the most populous class in nineteenthcentury Europe), than was ever seen by Marx. Mikhail Alexandrovich Bakunin left Tsarist Russia in

the late 1830s, studied in Berlin (the centre of Hegelian philo sophy), published revolutionary pamphlets, moved to Paris and met the radical intelligentsia of the time (including Marx, whose social analyses he admired), involved himself across

Europe in the disruptions of 1848, was deported to Tsarist Russia and imprisoned in the Peter and Paul fortress in St.

Petersburg, was exiled to Siberia, escaped to Europe in 1861,

and thereafter developed an anarchist-socialist orientation

both in his arguments and activities.^ Influential as a propa gandist particularly in Switzerland, Italy and Spain, he moved towards the I.W.A. in the late sixties, seeing in that organization the revolutionary capacity which had been lack

ing in the League of Peace and Freedom—that temporary conglomeration of various progressive forces with which Bakunin was associated, and within which he first formed his

anarchist ^//iance/or Socialist Democracy. Upon joining the International in 1868, Bakunin began to promote what he regarded as the necessary programmatic and organizational changes for a successful revolution which was authentically socialist. Thei4//?a«cewasmaintained asaco-ordinatingbody for those who sympathized with the anarchist position which, Bakunin hoped, would become the general position of the I.W.A. To the extent that he was successful, the I.W.A. would

change its character, involving: 1) Local autonomy of the "sec

tions" as a principle of revolutionary initiative—Bakunin asserting that revolutions develop not through a centralized plan and single ideology, but through each local association maximizing its position according to its own decisions and initiatives. 2) Local autonomy as an immmediate revolution ary goal, which is only possible through the immediate des

truction of the state—rejecting "politics" as a strategy of change, including Marx's "transitional" dictatorship of the proletariat. 3) An acknowledgement of the capacity of the peasantry to pursue revolutionary and socialist goals— 78

Bakunin's familiarity with Russian and southern European societies leading him to oppose Marx's conclusion that pea sants are condemned to the "idiocy of rural life." 4) The avoi

dance of intellectual elitism, pounded in the presumption that an objective and scientific truth was accessible to the

initiates of a "scientific socialism," and that those in possession

of the doctrine had the right and responsibility to direct the action of the unfortunately uninformed. Marx correctly saw this as an attack upon the authority of the General Council's authority. The decentralized I.W.A.

advocated by Bakunin would make it little more than a clear ing house for information, a central post box for the move ment, and certainly something less than that granted to it by the following Articles of I.W.A. organization: Art. 2—The General Council is bound to execute

the Congress Resolutions, and to take care that in every country the principles and the General Rules and Regulation of the International are strictly observed.

Art. 6—The General Council has also the right to

suspend Branches, Sections, Federal Councils or committees, and federations of the International till the meeting of the next Congress.®

Bakunin's goal, that the I.W.A. become an anarchist society in embryo, establishing the identify of means and ends, could not exist whilst these articles might be implemented; and it was for this reason that they were discussed and con

firmed at The Hague Congress as a preliminary to the specific attack upon Bakunin (who was not attending) and his suppor ters. The Congress, organized specifically to oust the Bakuninists from the International, had been planned and orches trated as an attack on Bakunin for months. The sixty-five

delegates were predominantly supporters of Marx. An antiBakunin New Madrid Federation of the I.W.A. was recog

nized by the General Council in August, in which month it was also declared that "there does not exist an Italian Federation

of the International Workingmen's Association,"® established

previously by Bakunin's supporters at a conference in Rimini. In each case, the co-ordinator of these moves was Engels, the 79

Secretary on the General Council for both Spain and Italy. And earlier in 1872, Marx had written and had accepted as General Council policy an attack upon the Alliance and its policies. The contrast between the two approaches is clear:

All socialists see anarchy as the following pro gramme: once the aim of the proletarian movement, i.e., abolition of classes, is attained, the power of the State, which serves to keep the great majority of producers in bondage to a very small exploiter minority, disappears, and, the functions of govern ment become simple administrative functions. The Alliance draws an entirely different picture. It proclaims anarchy in proletarian ranks as the most infallible means of breaking the powerful concen tration of social and political forces in the hands of the exploiters. Under this pretext, it asks the Inter national, at a time when the old world is seeking a way of crushing it, to replace its organization with anarchy."^ Marx is saying, in effect, that the goals are the same, but

the path for achieving them is different. To ensure the pre dominance of his own view, the consummation of The Hague

Congress was the acceptance of a lengthy and distorted report on Bakunin's activities and actions, presented by the Russian supporter of Marx, N.I. Utin, and the expulsion of Bakunin from the I.W.A. on September 7,1872. The actions of Marx and his supporters, combined with a resolution to transfer the headquarters of the I.W.A. (i.e., the seat of the General Council) to New-York, were the death knell of the First International. In effect, the insistence upon organ izational centralism created an intensification of factionalism, the less-industrialized societies of Spain and Italy being par ticularly attracted to Bakunin's alternative. For Marx had

affirmed in 1870, and had adopted as part of the General Council's view, the following statement:

Although revolutionary in itiativeyfxW probably come

from France, England alone can serve as the lever

for a serious economic revolution. It is the only coun try where there are no more peasants and where 80

land property is concentrated in few hands. It is the only country where the capitalist form... embraces virtually the whole population. ...The General Council, now being in the happij position of having its hand dii^ectly on this great lever of proletarian revolution, what folly, we might say even what a crime, to let this lever fall into purely English hands.

The English have all the material necessity for the social revolution. What they lack is the spirit of

generalization and revolutionary fervour. Only the

General Council can provide them with this, can thus accelerate the truly revolutionary movement here, and in consequence, everywhere.® Given this, it is little wonder that Bakunin saw Marx as

an arrogant authoritarian, and no more surprising that the Swiss, Italians and Spanish were drawn to the Bakuninist position. Marx had early consigned all non-proletarian classes to relative unimportance in the production of socialist con sciousness and socialist revolution—in his words, it being a

question of *hvhat tfie proletariat is, and what, consequent on that being, it will be compelled to do,"® formulated in the 1840s. Now he was adding to that by saying that only the proletariat of the most advanced capitalist society could guide an interna tionalist socialist revolution; and then only if it was fortunate

enough to follow the guiding hand of the little band of direc tors who made up the General Council of the International. The Marxian position created organizational hierarchy (under the General Council), regional hierarchy (under the vanguard of the British proletariat), and class hierarchy (the freedom of non-proletarians being dependent upon the successes of the proletariat). And, to add injury to insult, Marx's manipulation of I.W.A. procedures so as to remove physically from that body the symbol of alternative revolutionary forms, Bakunin, seemed to demonstrate an uncompromising and monopolis

tic view towards theoretical and organizational questions. A

good model for later authoritarians, maybe, but unattractive to all but the leaders of "advanced" proletariats; and, ironi

cally enough, Marx rapidly became irrelevant to this latter 81

group also. The British proletariat, lauded lynch-pin of inter national socialism, never did take the historical route given to it by Marx, its energies being channelled into unionization and parliamentary politics. The German Social Democratic Party, after long paying lip-service to Marx, went the same route. The truth was, whatever his brilliance as an analyst of bour geois economics and its exploitative developments (acknowl edged also by Bakunin), the Marxist revolutionary argument was unattractive and inappropriate to the aspirations of indi viduals and classes in modern society. Too authoritarian for industrialized societies, and too condescending (as well as authoritatian) for the less industrialized, it had to wait for a new constituency—the intellectuals who sought to capture political power within the less developed areas of the crum bling empires of the twentieth century.

Meanwhile, the actual stimulus and progress of revolu

tions has never followed the strict and structured pattern presented by Marx in his more imaginative moments. Indus

trial proletariats of mature industrial societies have made

their actions approximate the role prescribed by the Marxian model only under the threat of a bayonet. General Councils (now the Politburos of Central Committees of Communist

Party Congresses) have sought to be the guiding hand of "revo

lutions from above," stifling popular initiative, distrusting spontaneity, distrusting everything beyond their coercive con trol. Where revolutions have occurred, as was most often the

case, in societies with a minimal amount of industrial develop

ment—the peripheral economies which, as we have seen, were

given a secondary and subordinate role in Marx's grand strategy—the revolutionary energy came from forces to

which Bakunin had looked, especially the peasantry. The tragedy is that, under the leadership of Marxists, underdevel

opment became a further justification for political authority and political elitism, reducing effective political participa tion, by the self-proclaimed scientists and saviours of the nation. The authentic forces of revolution have been misun

derstood, distorted by the state socialist vocabulary of politics and its political presumption—a presumption which denies the capacity of judgement in social matters to all but the initiates of so-called "scientific" socialism. We shall return to 82

these questions again. Now, however, we shall consider the nature and value of Bakunin's alternative in more detail, and

examine his warning against the kind of statist revolutionry politics which, for him, was so evident in the Marxian revolu

tionary model. For Bakunin introduced into socialist theory a consideration of themes which have proved to be of persisting importance for those interested in an accurate assessment of the circumstances, potential and direction of revolutions in modern times.

II: Bakunin's explanation of revolution In his essay, What is Oblmnovshchina? (1859), Nikolai Dodrolyubov drew the attention of the Russian public to the absence of any precise formula for restructuring Russian society, and to the futility of the arguments and actions of those who posed as social prophets with an answer to her social problems. Dobrolyubov did this by means of a fable concern

ing the attempt of a group of people to find a path through a dense forest. The leaders climb high trees in order to look for a road and, not seeing one, remain seated above the crowd, their

ideas and interests having neither meaning nor importance for the people on the ground. Others aspire to join them in the trees, and with the same consequences. Gradually ignored, they are finally destroyed when the remaining travellers begin to cut down the trees and to build themselves a road

through the forest. They protest that "we may be killed and... with us will perish those beautiful ideas, those lofty senti ments, those human strivings, that fervour, that love for every thing that is beautiful and noble."^® But the unsophisticated wayfarers carry on with their immediate task indifferent to the claims made by their would-be prophets.

Dobrolyubov's tale directs our attention to many aspects

of the revolutionary populist tradition of nineteenth-century Russia: the distrust of "the educated and smooth-tongued dro

nes"" who, as leaders, stand separate from the masses in both

their social position and values; faith in the narod, the people, whose fundamental virtue and creative energy is capable of 83

establishing a new social order without the help of philo sophers; a disinterest in the detail of future revolutionary society; an anti-intellectualism expressed in a scepticism towards social theories and in a faith in the spontaneous activ ity of the narod] and a willingness to submit the future to the people—stirred into revolutionary activity by the practical problems facing them in their daily lives. As he was to write in his review of stories concerning the Russian common people, ... the life of the common people provides immea surably more guarantees for proper and sound development than the life of a little lady or a little gentleman. Among the former needs are simpler, the goal is nearer and more definite, and the very mode of reasoning is less distorted.^^ We think it is possible to draw only one conclusion: the people are not stagnating, have not become degraded, the source of life has not dried up among them; but the strength which lives in them, finding no free and proper outlet, is compelled to force an unnatural way for itself and manifest itself instinc tively, noisily, overwhelmingly, often in away fatal to itself. ...But unfortunately, it is still necessary to

convince many that the people possess this stren^h,

and that the bad or good direction it takes depends upon the circumstances of the poeple's lives and not upon the alleged fact that the masses of our people belong to some special breed which is capable only of apathy or of brutality. This confidence in the vitality of a pre-industrial, lar gely illiterate, simple peasantry (which made up the bulk of the population of Tsarist Russia even to 1917), was the corner stone of Russian populism; and the revolutionary socialism of Michael Bakunin shared much of its universalism.

Bakunin brought to the developing European socialist movement, which increasingly identified itself with the organized industrial proletariat of urban environments, a concern for the sources of rebellion which lay beyond the proletariat. This was not to abandon the proletariat, or to suggest that this new class, still a minority in all European 84

countries excepting England, could not perfornn a revolution ary role. Rather, it was an insistence that the salvation of humanity was not the monopoly of that class. His knowledge of Russia, and his experience of the 1848 revolutions throughout Europe, gave him an optimism concerning the radical and socialist potential of both the peasantry and the lumpenproletariat. Students of Marx will remember that he regarded the latter class as social scum, and the former as condemned to

the idiocy of rural life (the isolated and illiterate individualism of agricultural labour). Bakunin, when he turned to these classes as equal partners, became the champion of a broader perception of revolution than that being promoted by Marx,

and one which was to damn him as a heretic to the advocates of

scientific socialism as promoted and envisioned by Marx. And in his vigorous response to the opposition of Marx, Bakunin became the catalyst for those who would not accept either the organizational discipline or the theoretical constrictions of the Marxian approach.

Bakunin's "heresy" is apparent in such statements as the following:

By the flower of the proletariat I mean precisely that eternal "meat" for governments, the great rab

ble of the people ordinarily designated by Messrs. Marx and Engels by the phrase at once picturesque and contemptuous of "lumpen proletariat", the "riff-raff, that rabble which, being very nearly

unpolluted by all bourgeois civilization carries in its heart, in its aspirations, in all necessities and the

miseries of its collective position, all the germs of the Socialism of the future, and which alone is pow

erful enough today to inaugurate the Social Revolu tion and bring it to triumph."

We must recognize here an element of the rhetorical

gesture, an accolade to non-proletarians in the face of Marx's

exclusive dependence on the proletariat. Therefore, one must stress that Bakunin is best understood as a theorist and an

activist who sought to broaden the base of his contemporary international revolutionary movement by emphasizing the 8 5

need for a united class front of all exploited personsindustrial, agricultural, and even lumpen.

It is true that, at times, Bakunin even seems to prefer the non-industrial classes as the vanguard element in revolu

tion. We have just seen him referring to the lumpen-proletariat as possessed of "all the germs of the Socialism of the future." Nor was this a passing fancy. In his final piece, entitled Statinm and Anarchy, written after the Paris Commune (1871) and the split in the I.W.A. following The Hague Congress (1872), Bakunin argued that a peasant revolution "is anarchic by nature and leads directly to the destruction of the state."'® At the same time, looking at Italy, he provided the following unique and perceptive insight into the character, strength, and weakness of revolutionary forces. To begin, he describes the "proletariat" of Italy as consisting of "between two and three millions of city-dwellers, factory workers and small craftsmen, and nearly twenty millions of landless peasants." Then he presents the following fascinating statement, and (as was so often the case with Bakunin) strikes to the very heart of the revolutionary problem as a tactical choice and historic opportunity in the circumstances of the time: Yes, perhaps nowhere is the social revolution closer than in Italy... There does not exist in italy (as there does in many other European countries) a special workers stratum, partially privileged because of higher pay, boasting some degree of literate educa tion, and so saturated with bourgeois principles, strivings and vanity that the working people belonging to it distinguish themselves from bour geois persons only in their situation, and in no way in their orientation. Italy is dominated by that mis

erable proletariat (lumpenproletariat) to which Messrs. Marx and Engels, and following them a whole school of Social Democrats in Germany, refer

with profound scorn—but completely in vain. ... as a result of the lumpenproletariat in organization of the Association took the

decisive predominance of the Italy, the propaganda and International Workingmen's most passionate and purely

86

popular form; and as a result of this (that is, not being limited to the cities) it immediately seized upon the rural population, Bakunin is warning us against social tendencies which,

though not inevitable, occur with an undesirable frequency. One factor is the capacity of the urban factory worker, rela tively well-paid and surrounded by bourgeois propaganda, to identify with the status quo. In various circumstances this has led to arguments, seriously stated by the likes of Daniel Bell in

the late 1950s, that we have reached an end of ideology, and that a fundamental consensus coordinates the demands and

the passions of populations in modern technological society. Others, like Fidel Castro and Che Guevara, came to the con clusion that cities are the graveyard of revolutionaries. Another

factor is the revolutionary capacity of the peasantry, whose support has of necessity been sought by successful revolution ary leaders in the twentieth century—from Lenin to Mao to

Jomo Kenyatta. Gaining peasant support was frequently done cynically, and the manipulation and domination of the peasan

try by the revolutionary Soviet state is undeniable in both its

authoritarianism and cruelty, peasants being effectively non-

persons and non-citizens until the 1960s. But the dynamism of peasant uprising, violence and demands has been more than an aspect of revolutions in the modern historical period. They have been the crucial factor. For the fact of the matter is that

revolution as imagined by Marx has never developed any where, the dictatorship of the proletariat being still-born in theory and practice—wanted neither by the industrial prolet

ariat nor the proletariat of less-urban or less-industrialized

situations. Another factor is the lumpenproletariat, the group or class of non-integrated workers in the industrial social structure, the part-timers, the hangers-on, the folk who live from hand to mouth providing a semi-skilled service, occa sional work, and possessing no class identity. These, according to Frantz Fanon, are the rats gnawing at the foundations of

the colonial state (writing of French-Algeria in the 1950s). In each of these cases, rightly or wrongly, Bakunin drew atten tion to concerns which have been of on-going interest—the possibility of a non-revolutionary proletariat, of a revolution ary peasantry, of disruptive lumpenproletarian elements. 87

There can be absolutely no doubt that these exist. The debate is over the question of whether or not peasants and lumpenproletarians can aspire to socialist goals. Marx's answer can be summarized as "No. They lack the environmental determi nants to establish the appropriate patterns of thought and behaviour." Bakunin's answer was, "Damn right. Everybody c a n .

Bakunin came to be condemned by Marxists as an

unscientific and disruptive adventurer who failed to appre ciate the preconditions for the creation of a socialist society. Bakunin's unashamed appeal to both peasantry and lumpenproletariat as not only revolutionary, but also socialist, was regarded by the proponents of historical materialism both as hopelessly romantic and as a threat to the success of the only class capable of establishing a society based upon the negation of private property—the proletariat. Arguing that "a revolu tion is possible only where, together with capitalist produc tion, the industrial proletariat occupies at least an important place within the population,"" Marx and his followers saw Bakunin as representing and promoting a view of social revo lution diametrically opposed to their own, one based upon "the ivill, and not the economic conditions."^® Plekhanov, his fellow Russian, condemned Bakunin's supporters for their "complete inability ... to understand the meaning and character of the impending working-class revolution;"^® and Lenin, whom Plekhanov was later to condemn as possessing too many Bakunist views,20 argued that, "the philosophy of the anarchists is bourgeois philosophy turned inside out. Their individualistic

theories and their individualistic ideal are the very opposite of socialism."2i Perhaps the Marxist position was best summar

ized by that victim of Stalinism, the Muscovite, Bukharin, who summed it all up as follows:"... in the proletariat, revolution ary communism; in the peasantry, a property ideology; in the lumpenproletariat, a vacillating and hysterical anarchism."^^) Yet, in spite of the real animosity between Bakunin and Marx, and the fact that there are real differences between "historical materialism" and the Bakuninist theories of polit ics, we would be wrong to conclude that Bakunin rejected

Marx's analysis of the social-revolutionary situation of indus88

trial Europe. Bakunin was impressed by Marx's economic analysis of bourgeois society and its explanation of the causes of conflict therein, callingZ)as/Capito/a"magnificentwork."23 What Bakunin was not prepared to accept was the apparent restrictiveness of the Marxian revolutionary programme. He was a theorist and activist who sought to broaden the base of the contemporary international revolutionary movement by emphasizing the need for a unity with the exploited classes of the as yet non-industrial societies (e.g., Russian, Spanish, Ital ian). In this context, it has already been argued that Bakunin must not be thought to reject the revolutionary role of the industrial proletariat. The unified power of all oppressed

classes, directed against economic, intellectual and political oppression, was the vision of international revolution which captured Bakunin's imagination; and it was this prescription for which he was forced to provide theoretical justification (in much the same way that advocates of revolution in the colon ialist and neo-colonialist societies of the twentieth century have had to explain how socialism is a non-utopian, practical goal in what, for more orthodox Marxists, are particularly unsuitable conditions). For his argument to be satisfactory, Bakunin had to provide explanations for such questions as, a) if he called himself a "materialist," as he did, how could be justify the view that individuals in widely different environments could be motivated towards a common goal of socialist revolution—that is, to be capable at the very least of developing socialist consciousness? b) what had to be done in order to co-ordinate the revo lutionary potential of the oppressed classes? Shto Delati as both Chernyshevsky and Lenin asked. c) what will be the main features of the first stages of a revolutionary society, and where in the current society can one find a basis for an alternative social structure?

When he called himself a "materialist," Bakunin was

adopting a theoretical position which involved first and fore most a rejection of German idealism as a satisfactory explana tion of human history and society. The mind, its reasoning ability, and the knowledge which we suppose ourselves to possess are instead regarded as part of "the hierarchy of real 8 9

entities, beginning with the most simple organic bodies and ending with the structure and functioning of the brain of the greatest genius," which are themselves part of "that totality of the real world which we call matter As such, knowledge and/or beliefs are seen to be produced by the interaction between the individual and the total physical environment of which he is part. We do not choose what we shall know or believe, but rather have it "accidentally" imposed by the com bination of events that make up our total experience. In Bakunin's words,

...just as the body of the individual, with all of his instinctive faculties and predispositions, is nothing but the result of all the general and particular causes that have determined its particular organi zation, so, what we improperly call the soul—his intellectual and moral capacities—is the direct product or rather the natural immediate expression of this very organization, and especially of the degree of organic development reached by the brain as a result of the concurrence of the total ity of causes independent of his will.^s Given this, then, to the extent that socialist ideas develop in the individual's consciousness, such ideas must be regarded as a consequence of certain kinds of human expe rience. The task of the socialist thinker becomes that of discov

ering those circumstances which generate on a mass scale the values and norms appropriate to a propertyless society in which cooperation replaces coercion as the prime determinant of relationships between individuals. None of this was new, and it is not unfair to say that Bakunin shared much of Marx's orientation when asserting

his materialist position. Like Marx, Bakunin had spent time at the University of Berlin, and had been influenced there by the Young Hegelian movement and, particularly, by Feuerbach. Feuerbach had argued that Hegel's idealism performed the same function as religion by alienating our ethical nature in intellectual concepts which, like the Christian heaven, indi cate an unrealized existential possibility. Rejecting the role assigned to reason by the Hegelians, Feuerbach asserted that, 9 0

"Only through the senses, and not through thought for itself, is an object given in a true sense/'^s Reason was regarded as the servant of the passions which, if allowed to determine our actions and goals, would make the natural condition a truly human condition, an expression of the human essence. "In love and feeling generally, every man confesses the truth of the new philosophy ...it only affirms in reason what every man— the real man—professes in his heart,which is that "the essence of man is contained only in the community and unity of man with man."28 This sensuous and humanist conclusion

found unabashed and euthusiastic support from both Marx and Bakunin.

Marx, of course, was consciously to move away from the general concept of Man and to concentrate upon historical man, who both alters and is altered by his environment: "men, developing their material production and their material intercourse, alter, along with their real existence, their think ing and the products of their thinking."29 The consequence of this is the view that values (attitudes, ideologies) are histori cally conditioned, that a social(ist) condition is seen to be posited by material conditions which interact with the con sciousness of a particular class in a specific historical situa tion, and that socialism is to be the creation of the industrial

proletariat in an industrial-capitalist society. Socialist ideas and values are the revolutionary ideology of the industrial proletariat, appropriate to the condition of that proletariat, expressing the needs of that proletariat. The universalism of Feuerbach's theory of liberation is retained only incidentally as a by-product of the proletariat's actions—as an incidental rather than as a conscious goal of the proletariat:—for "it cannot abolish the conditions of its own life without abolishing

aU the inhuman conditions of life in society today which are summed up in its own situation."-^") Bakunin viewed this emphasis on the proletariat as the abandonment of the revolution. He realized that Marx had

contributed greatly to our understanding of history and, speaking with admiration of Marx's critique of Proudhon,^' declared that, "Marx, in opposition to him (Proudhon), voiced a n d d e m o n s t r a t e d t h a t u n d o u b t e d t r u t h w h i c h i s c o n fi r m e d 91

by all past and present history of human society, peoples and states: that economic fact always precedes and has preceded

legal and political right."^^ Nevertheless, it was also Bakunin's opinion that Marx had incorporated a doctrinaire dedica tion to asingle all-pervading view of history which sees human liberation as exclusively dependent upon the condition of the industrial proletariat in bourgeois-capitalist society. In con trast, Bakunin was to claim that any revolutionary situation presents a multitude of possibilities, one of which is always the possibility of "social revolution: (implying non-political or anti-state tactics and a communitarian or socialist ethic), what

ever the prevailing mode of production. It would appear that Bakunin remained firmly committed to Feuerbach's universalism—where all are seen to possess the capacity to liberate themselves. Bakunin looks, therefore, to the human

character rather than the proletarian character, arguing that, wherever we might find the individual, "human character, amid the most monstrous deviations, still exists in him, in a

very real manner, as a possibility, always present ivith h im so

long as he lives, and sotnehow he may becmne aware of his humanity if only a radical change is effected in the social condi

tions which mxide him what he is. Assured by this, it is little

wonder that Bakunin was so persistently confident, the quin tessential revolutionary optimist, chasing down social distur bances wherever they might occur, always on the revolution ary spot—even as late as 1874 when, sixty-years-old and sick, he was present at an abortive uprising in Bologna. It also accounts for his apocalyptic turn of phrase, first seen in 1842, when, under the pseudonym, Jules Elysard, he had pro claimed that the "urge to destroy is the creative urge." The sentiments of this first written statement were reiterated in his last: "There can not be a revolution without large-scale and

passionate destruction—a destruction of deliverance and of creation: for it is mainly out of this that new worlds are born and grow."34 Violent disruption of the status ifuo might always and everywhere give rise to a radical restructuring of society and the predominance of social values as people are forced to

reassess their situations. The job of the revolutionary is to create situations in which reassessment is required (as we shall see below). 92

What, however, remains of Bakunin's materialism if, as seems to be the case, he denied the historical materialism of Marx? The answer can best be seen if we view it from two

positions—existentially and epistemologically. Existentially,

Bakunin asserts that there is a "law of sociability—which binds all men together, as each of us can verify daily, both on himself and on all men whom he knows."^® In satisfying our needs we are constantly in cooperation with those around us,

from both natural instinct and the pragmatic necessity of mutual interest. This was the principle developed into a com plete anthropology in Kropotkin's Mutual A id at a later date. It is a physical and sociological fact of human existence, not

recent, but perpetual, part of our very being. In spite of the reality of coercive relationships derived from property and the state, much of human existence still functions upon the mutu al ist principle. The anarchist assertion is that all human exist

ence might operate according to such principles of voluntary cooperation, and that any aspect of experience which falls short of that goal must be regarded as a distortion of the human character. Another Russian, Alexander Berkman, put the point as simply and persuasively as this: Man is a social being: he cannot exist alone; he lives in communities or societies. Mutual need and com

mon interests result in certain arrangements to afford us security and comfort. Such co-working is free, voluntary; it needs no compulsion by any government. ...All through life you will find that the needs and inclinations of people make for associa tion, for mutual protection and help. That is the difference between managing things and governingmen; between doing something from free choice and being compelled, between anarchism and gov ernment, because anarchism means voluntary cooperation instead of forced participation. It means harmony and order instead of interference and d i s o r d e r.

Berkman, like Bakunin before him, and like most other

anarchists everywhere, is asserting that mutualism is an intrinsic aspectof the human condition, and that it will always 93

be recognizable where human beings are found. What is necessary is that it should be given more room to develop and to grow, for the realization of what Bakunin called, "the tho roughly human ideal that is to be found under more or less obvious forms, in the instincts, the aspirations of the people and under the religious symbols of all epochs, because it is inherent in the human race, the most social of all the races of

animals on earth."^^ Existentially, therefore, Bakunin was saying that the social condition of anarchism is an aspect of our biological circumstances and experiences—often alienated

into abstract concepts (as Feuerbach had demonstrated), but an intrinsic aspect of the material universe and our part within it.

When we consider what I have called Bakunin's epistemological materialism, we turn to his views concerning the

origin and function of knowledge. Knowledge for Bakunin is acquired information about the physical world, nature, and our place within it. Knowledge allows us to satisfy our wants within the environment, and is called "science" when it suc cessfully achieves this end. Bakunin was an enthusiastic advo cate of scientific knowledge as the appropriate tool to enable individuals and communities to satisfy their needs, appreciat

ing what Bakunin calls the "laws of nature" (which are the laws of the physical universe), and knowing them to be the single and sole truth available to the human mind and imagi nation. Science replaces religion and philosophy, which have

always and inevitably been a distortion of our interests and a manipulative tool of social domination. Scientific knowledge, the only legitimate knowledge, and the single means through which we might make proper decisions concerning our best interests, becomes the avenue out of unreasonable judgement and action. It is also the means to freedom from the determi nistic dead-end and destruction of free will which seemed to be

implied when Bakunin argued that our intellectual capacities are "a result of the concurrence of the totality of causes inde

pendent of (our) will" (see reference 25 above). Scientific knowledge becomes the very foundation of freedom, freeing us from dependence upon philosophy/religion on the one hand, and from the contingencies and accidental misfortunes of nature on the other. Science allows autonomous decision94

making and planned action, and is the safeguard against an apathetic acceptance of received opinion, a means of grasping control of our own lives—rejecting fatalism and, understand

ing nature, taking proper advantage of it. As Bakunin put it: Once man acquired knowledge of these laws goveringall beings, himself included, he learns to foresee certain phenomena enabling him to forestall their

effects and safeguard himself against unwelcome and harmful consequences.^®

...man rises above the immediate pressure of his external world, and then, becoming in turn a crea tor, henceforth obeying only his own ideas, he more or less transforms the latter in accordance with his progressive needs...^

It is in this context that Bakunin can argue that "mate rialism denies free will and ends in the establishment of liber

ty,and that "liberty rests in absolute submission to the omnipotence of Nature."''^ It is here that the existential and epistemological elements of his materialism come together

and are entirely complementary. Scientific knowledge of nature, in concepts derived and affirmed in empirical enquiry, in the study of the material world, will affirm the biological and sociological orientation of the species towards cooperative forms of behaviour. Private property and exploitation will be seen, felt, and demonstrated to be an aberration of human

behaviour. When Bakunin called himself a materialist, it was towards this conclusion that his argument was always directed. Later thinkers, like Elis6e Reclus''^ and Peter Kropotkin, sought to put greater empirical content in the theory—but the inspiration was Bakunin's; and it is for this reason that G.P. Maximoff was to insist upon calling Bakunin's theories, "scientific anarchism."''^

Scientific knowledge, as secular knowledge, derived

from experience and open to demonstration, to empirical proof, could free us from mystical forms of knowledge, which are not only inefficient, but make us depend upon their promo ters and interpreters, their priests. The problem for Bakunin, and it was a problem which he recognized and made central to his writings—for he was convinced that Marx's ignorance of 95

the problem threatened the whole social revolution—was that science itself might become a form of domination, a basis for hierarchy. For, to propose objective knowledge, knowledge which is a just reflection of reality and an efficient guide to our actions both individually and collectively, might lead one to ask the question: Are we not justified in forcing others to act as if they also possessed that knowledge on those occasions where their ignorance produces either indifference or opposition to our goals? Bakunin's reply is consistently negative when he deals with this question. In so doing Bakunin also provides us with a discussion concerning the character and function of revolutionary tactics and the role of revolutionary leaders, answering thereby the second question put above—Shto delati What is to be done?

"The mission of science is, by observation of the general

relations of passing and real facts, to establish the general laws inherent in the development of the phenomena of the

physical and social world."^^ By establishing descriptive pre

cision, science permits us more efficiently to satisfy our needs. However, these needs are individual needs, and can not be defined for us by others. All that we can demand of science is that it show to us ^^the general conditions necessary to the real emancipation of the individuals living in society.To suggest that scientific knowledge can provide a justification for forc ing society into a pre-conceived mould is to misinterpret this function of science. To explain this limitation Bakunin refers us to the fundamental materialist position that all thought is a

predicate of the physical interaction between ourselves and

the environment. Ideas (scientific or other) can explain and aid us in achieving our needs and desires, but those subjective needs and desires precede and determine the "truth" of our ideas. Ideas are true for us insofar as they are useful in allow

ing us to satisfy our needs—and only so far. For Bakunin, reason and science become servants of the passions or instincts;

and the character of this process is described as follows: ...Woe to humanity if at any time thought becomes the source and sole guide of life, if science and learn

ing become the controllers of society. Life would dry up and human society would turn into an illiterate 96

and servile herd. The rule of life by science could have no other result than that of making all human ity stupid. We, the revolutionary anarchists,... assert that nat ural and social life always precedes thought which is only one of its functions, and of which it will never

be a result. We assert that social life develops from its own inexhaustible depths in accordance with various facts, and not in accordance with abstract

thoughts; and that the latter are always produced by it, and never produce it, being merely milestones showing the direction and various phases of its

independent and self-engendered development. In accordance with such aconvinction, we... believe that the popular masses at present have in their historically developed instincts, which are their conscious and subconscious strivings, all of the ele ments of the future normal organization. We look for this ideal in the people themselves.''® Revolutions can not be planned by an intellectual elite, for such planning involves the removal of ideas from their

subjective and functional context and the creation of a system of abstract generalities which in their application produce the same consequences that religion and idealism earlier had pro

duced. They justify the authority of a wisdom-possessing elite whilst at the same time directing the attention of the ruled away from their real and immediate interests, which are unrecognized because of a conceptual distortion of experience,

Bakunin places together in the same bag, "metaphysicians," "idealists," "positivists," "Marxists," "scientific socialists" and "doctrinaire revolutionaries." He distrusts and rejects all

claim to political leadership based upon knowledge as intellec tually illegitimate in origin, and destined to become a ratio nale for exploitation. Thus, Bakunin appears to reject science, in spite of his proclamations in its favour as a means of liberation. And it is certainly not necessary for the initiation and progress of a social revolution:"... better an absence of light than a false and feeble light, kindled only to mislead those who follow it."^^ Like 9 7

the travellers in Dobrolyubov's fable, the masses must leave their former leaders with their theories and start to alter the

conditions of their own existence by attacking immediate

problems which they see before them. Bakunin is perfectly happy to depend upon "their historically developed instincts" as the grounds for action, and to glory in a revolution which lacks what we would today call an ideology. It is in this context that Bakunin can and has been called a nihilist, by which I here mean that extreme form of scepticism which denies that certain knowledge can be found, and produces a refusal to conform to any established norms if they are seen to inhibit the

pursuit of direct action against established political and eco nomic structures (revulsion for which is taken to be the stimu lus for such action). The position is not necessarily in opposi tion to Bakunin's "materialism," which can produce the conclusion that all ethical knowledge is historically deter mined and need not be taken into account by the revolutionary, for whom nothing is sacred. In taking this position, however, Bakunin shows an infinite confidence in the capacity of human

beings, individually and in groups, to produce solutions to the social problems (of which their frustration is a product) in the ferment of revolutionary action. His confidence is based on a belief in the instinctive sociability of men, and on the view that when individuals seek to satisfy their needs in economic pro

duction they soon come to realize the advantages of co operation—and the pessimistic or Hobbesian view is rejected as "a fraud, a political lie, born of the theological lie which invented the doctrine of original sin in order to dishonour man

and destroy his self-respect."''® In revolution, the intellectual rehabilitation of the dehumanized individual will occur as he

participates in the revolution of the masses (all oppressed classes).''® In the meantime one need not be overly sensitive about the coherence of one's theory:

Let us talk less about revolution and do a great deal more. Let others concern themselves with the theo

retical development of the principles of the Social Revolution, while we content ourselves with spread ing these principles everywhere, incarnating them into facUi.'^ 9 8

The important thing is to get the destruction of the old society under way, and the rest will look after itself. Social disturbance, individual or group violence, even civil war, were

all recognized by Bakunin as opening up possibilities for "the awakening of popular initiative." Civil war breaks through

the brutalizing monotony of men's daily existence, and arrests that mechanistic routine which robs them of creative

thought..."51 Bakunin thus contributes to the so-called theories of "creative violence."

The idea that participation in revolutionary violence can produce moral and social regeneration of course became the central feature of Georges Sorel's arguments in favour of anarcho-syndicalism: "It is to violence that Socialism owes those high ethical values by means of which it brings salvation to the modern world;"®^ and Sorel was also to reject the need

for scientific argument and coherent theory. A similar posi tion was taken by the Fascists; and Mussolini argued that "the fundamentals of doctrine were cast during the years of con flict."^ More recently, Frantz Fanon has been identified with this position, and, through him, the Black Panthers in the USA. Paul Avrich has argued that Fanon "occasionally reads as though lifted straight out of Bakunin's collected works."®^ And lest Marxists become too self-satisfied in their rejection of this unscientific, chiliastic and perhaps pseudo-Fascist ele ment in the writings of Marx's rival, we should perhaps also refer to the following statement from The German Ideology: Both for the production on a mass scale of this com munist consciousness ... the alteration of men on a

mass scale is necessary, an alteration which can

only take place in a practical movement, a revolu tion-, this revolution is necessary, therefore, not only because the ruling class cannot be over-thrown in any other way, but also because the class overthrow ing it can only in a revolution succeed in ridding itself of all the muck of ages and become fitted to found society anew.^^ In this statement by Marx and Engels there lies a recognition that established modes of behaviour, values and culture influence all the members of a society, and that their 99

abandonment will only be completed with the creation of an environment in which they no longer possess any utility. That new environment has yet to be created and the new values or consciousness can never be fully formulated prior to the crea tion of the circumstances to which they are appropriate. In creating a socialist society men will also create a socialist consciousness. As part of this process it is understood that those who make revolution will also take power for themselves and become experienced in wielding that power, thus creating a situation in which the new socialist ethic will be a product of the dynamics of getting and keeping control of the socio economic environment by the producers themselves. Both Marx and Bakunin shared this view that revolution would be

the school for the masses who, through experience, would learn to rule themselves—a view which has nothing to do with the Fascist's demagogic opportunism whereby a self-styled elite create a power vacuum into which they would ensconce themselves.

Bakunin, however, was much less enamoured than Marx of any theoretical requirement that he or other revolu tionaries should make an objective assessment of the forces involved in social revolutionary situations. For Bakunin, human society was bursting at the seams with a social poten tial which would surge forward almost spontaneously, if only the masses could be made sufficiently angry and self-interested to begin to attack the institutions of intellectual, economic and political oppression. Therefore, when considering the revolu tionary process, he did not seek to establish a well-coordinated international revolutionary organization which could com bine the various revolutionary forces under a single pro gramme and leadership. It was Marx's attempt to do just that which broughton Bakunin's most violent criticism of him. For Bakunin, a revolutionary organization should not seek to cap ture political power, which goal, if achieved, would only recreate in a new form the age-old structures of repression— as he predicted would be the inevitable outcome of a revolution carried through according to the principles advocated by Marx. A revolutionary organization was to act as a propagandist—not seeking to establish a "correct" revolu tionary line, but rather using any means necessary to stir 100

different sectors of the population towards independent action against individuals and organizations which are identifiable agents of oppression. If we keep this in mind we shall be better able to understand that apparent contradiction in Bakunin's thought between his desire for a decentralized International Workingmen's Association in which all the sections were autonomous and, on the other hand, his fascination with con spiratorial revolutionary organizations. In relation to the former, Bakunin argued that the International should be an embryonic reflection of the future, stateless organization of society. In relation to the latter, he recognized the importance of propaganda in the revolutionary process and argued that a small group of committed propagandists could both stimulate and co-ordinate revolutionary upheaval—but without estab lishing a powerful political organization after the manner of Marx and his followers.

When discussing the role of a revolutionary organiza tion Bakunin is, therefore, an advocate only of limited sponta neity. He recognized that established values and modes of behaviour strongly inhibited revolutionary action. The "revo lutionary temper of the working masses," in spite of centuriesold discontent, rarely came to anything: Why don't they revolt? Is it because they are satis fied with their lot? Of course not. They do not revolt because they have no adequate perception of their rights nor any confidence in their powers; and lack ing both, they became helpless and endured slavery for centuries. How can these revolutionary qualities be acquired by the masses?^ Propaganda becomes the means of stirring both indus trial proletariat and peasantry into action. Arguing that "the

great mass of workers ... is socialistic ivithout knowing it, Bakunin looks to the provision of an appropriately revolution ary theory. Not without a degree of Machiavellianism, he

recognizes that one must be less than honest with "ignorant workers whose minds are poisoned by the demoralizing doc trines and propaganda of the State;"^® however, as we have

already seen, Bakunin was sceptical of the possibility of devel oping a single orthodox doctrine, and sought only to stimulate 101

the creation of a situation in which the workers might "learn theory through practice." It was this element to which G. D. H. Cole referred when he stated that, "Bakunin put his faith in the spontaneous action of individual workers and of such primary groups as their natural instincts for social co operation would induce them to form as the need arose."®® With the need for a propagandizing stimulus to popular revolt, Bakunin's arguments and explanations are complete. Questions concerning the nature of an alternate society are left in the hands of the revolutionary masses. Utopian visions were for Bakunin, as for Marx, of no immediate concern, and his

descriptions of future socialist possibilities rarely go beyond the prescription that society be reorganized "from the bottom up." His concern was not to describe the future, but to emphas ize the need for avoiding the generation of new political struc tures which would inhibit and destroy the devolution of power which revolutions always exhibit prior to any Thermidorian reaction. To achieve this, he asks his revolutionary conspirator to halt before the institutionalization of the revolution whilst

at the same time attacking all others who would become politi cal commissars. He wants, therefore, an organization of "men neither vain nor ambitious, but capable of serving as interme diaries between the revolutionary idea and the instincts of the people."®® These midwives of revolution will leave the child to its own devices immediately following the delivery. As to the child itself, the social revolution, its initial movements will be as follows: it will,

— destroy the state; — end enforced payment of debts; — end taxes;

— dissolve state structures of every kind (army, magistrature, bureaucracy, police, and clergy); — abolish and destroy all title deeds to property; — confiscate productive capital for the benefit of workers' associations; — confiscate luxuriant wealth;

— establish communal self-rule, with society organ102

ized as a free federation of communes (probably following the

example of a main urban centre); — propagandize (especially amongst the peasants) for the formation of associations of producers. All of this was included in his Programme and Objec tives of the International Brotherhood, written in 1869 for an

organization which, as James Guillaume admitted, was never much more than "a kind of dream indulged in with delight.""

It is interesting to note that the peasants are seen as followers of urban initiatives, a stimulus from the capital.

This would particularly be the case in Germany and France, but not in Slavic countries, or in Italy and Spain where "they are spontaneously inclined to be socialistic and revolutionary."®^ There is no hint, however, that the peasants are in any way less capable or less progressive, whose capacity to "establish and organize anarchy through the whole coun tryside" is never doubted.®^ It is they in the country, and the

workers in the towns, who will define the details of a property-

less society of communes as the practical, natural, spontane ous and functionnally-efficient response to an environment

freed from the apparatus of the state. That is Bakunin's answer to the third of the questions posed earlier in this section (i.e., concerning the origin and character of alternate social structures).

Ill: Intellectuals, Authority and the State We have seen that Bakunin placed responsibility for the direction and goals of an anarchist revolution in the hands of the untutored masses. So confident was he that a free federa tion of individuals and communes was intrinsic and inaliena

ble to the human personality and human behaviour if it were only possible to displace distorting inhibitions, particularly the state, he would countenance no barrier to the immediate realization of the stateless goal. However, there was a further pressing reason for insisting upon a populist advocacy of the spontaneous and creative capacity of the people themselves, and that was his perception into the character of revolutionary 103

movements and the role that intellectuals play within them as leaders. For Bakunin, intellectuals seem to be almost inevita bly driven towards reactionary political positions, always driven to adopt authoritarian roles for themselves, intellectu ally incapable of imagining an environment in which everyone is free and equal—even those who are undeniably less sophis ticated than themselves. Therefore, to conclude this chapter, a few words about Bakunin's views concerning the intellectual and the state will provide a better understanding of his rejec tion of Marxism as a theory and practice of revolutionary organization. We can also see something more of what Noam Chomsky once called "the only non-trivial prediction in the social sciences that ever came true:" that a revolutionary

Marxist party would, if victorious, create a system of author itarian hierarchy more complete than anything known befo re.®^ We can also note that, in the last analysis, Bakunin was not anti-intellectual, but was concerned that the intellectual, as revolutionary, accept a specific role and style of action which is historically original and behaviourally unique for that class of persons. An intellectual is a person who possesses what is sup

posed to be, and is generaly believed to be, knowledge which is special in character. As such, it is not common knowledge, shared by all members of the society, but the characteristic of

a particular kind of person who is set off from the rest of the community and made unique. As a unique group in society, intellectuals are often thought to possess special powers which are connected to their knowledge. Their advice is sought in order to enable others to overcome the vagaries and hardships of the world. Sought after for his knowledge, the intellectual can therefore use that knowledge as a source of both income and power, as the supplicants offer their goods and obedience in exchange for advice. The first intellectuals were the witchdoctors and sha

mans of earlier cultures which, believing that invisible and

magic forces had a direct and continuing influence of the lives

of individuals, sought either to counteract or to recruit those forces by acting in accordance with the prescriptions of the man or woman with the unique kind of wisdom concerning them. At a later date the same role is taken by the priests of 104

various religions, and they have continued to perform it down to the present. Whether it was the priest of an ancient Roman

temple ripping out the entrails of a sheep to foretell the chan ces of military victory, or the modern head of the Church of Rome pontificating on the illegitimacy of condoms and the

termination of pregnancy, they each make claim upon access to the logos, which is a truth beyond the ken of ordinary mor

tals. Acceptance upon faith of the reality and limited appreci ation of this mystical knowledge (limited to the priesthood, or even a portion of it) produced immense manipulative power. Religious leaders, in extending the boundaries of their pecul

iar faiths may well see themselves as saving the souls of infid els, but they would have to be immensely naive not to recognize

also that their temporal influence benefits also from the quan titative increase in the body of the faithful. Political leaders have certainly recognized it, and the marriage of political

power and religion can be found in the most simple tribal

societies where the chief and the head priest are frequently the same individual. Such was also the purpose and motivation of Henry VIII when the Church of England was declared auto nomous of the Church of Rome, with himself as its head—an

office held since by every monarch of that country, with those who sought to renounce it being removed by parties interested in its maintenance. The unity of political-coercive and religiointellectual control in the symbol of the monarch were long regarded crucial to stability, and is important for that reason alone—irrespective of the marital passions of Henry, or his desire to lay hands upon the wealth of the monasteries.®^ Despite the development of a non-theological form of knowledge, which took to itself the title of "science", and sought the elaboration of truths founded in empirical data alone, the manipulative power of religious knowledge per sisted. Given this, there is a tendency in anarchist thought, and this is certainly true of Bakunin's writings, to contrast religion and science, denying the former whilst affirming the latter. Concerning the scientist, Bakunin tells us that "he rejects the system of revelations and the theologians' faith in the abs^ur'd because it absurd; and he no longer wishes to be imposed on by the despotism of priests nor the butchers of the Inquisition ...Thus emergingfrom theology and metaphysics, man first of 105

all seeks a truly scientific method which above all gives him complete certitude about the reality of the things on which he

reasons."®® Yet the scientists themselves are by no means the automatic and assumed leaders and liberators of the masses.

To the extent that their knowledge is exclusive, they will be able to use it in exactly the same way as the theological intel lectuals of an earlier and less sophisticated era. The knowl edge will be jealously guarded as the monopoly of associations

and institutes, used as a property to be sold to the highest bidder. Science thus becomes the foundation of an elite of

intellectuals in both the physical and the social sciences, a new foundation for inequality. In addition, intellectuals in both the physical and social sciences wil find their status and privilege in association with the structures of authority which are the political state. It would be wrong, however, to think of the intellectual elite of the various spheres of knowledge as lord ing it over a subservient flock of passive and ignorant dunces.

They are, for the most part, a parasitical group who have prostituted their skills to the state. Nietzsche was close to the truth when, in Beyond Good and Evil, he describes what he terms, "the objective man," as "an instrument, a costly, easily injured, measuring instrument and mirroring apparatus...

that must wait for some kind of content and frame to 'shape' itself thereto..."®' Intellectuals on this understanding, as scientists, are the amoral and indeterminate servants of oth

ers, to whose will they are subordinate. Dependent upon the Htatiia quo, they are also defenders of it whilst being subordi nate to it.

That the science in which he placed so much hope was typically used for reactionary rather than revolutionary pur poses, and that the scientists' special skills were purchased for both profit and pacification by the state and by industry, was not unnoticed by Bakunin: "Just as in the days of old the representatives of divine reason and authority—the Church and the priests—too obviously allied themselves with the eco nomic exploitation of the masses," he argued, "...so now have the representatives of man's reason and authority, the State, the learned societies, and the enlightened classes—too obviously identified themselves with the business of cruel and iniquitous exploitation to retain the slightest moral force or any prestige 106

whatever."®^ As such, intellectuals are seen largely as the lackeys of established authority, serving the needs of political and economic power in exchange for status and security. This condition, however, was a product of the distortion of the scientist rather than a function of science itself, in which Bakunin retained his confidence. Science itself, particularly social science, could be used to lay bare the character of power and exploitation—and the dissemination of such knowledge might then stir exploited classes into revolutionary action. It was this which was seen by Bakunin as the propagandizing role of such members of the intelligentsia who became partici pants in movements for social change, as discussed in the previous section of this chapter. On the other hand, it does not seem that Bakunin

regarded the radicalization of a portion of the intelligentsia as a product of science (social or other). The goal of anarchist socialism is not desirable or necessary because it has been proven by scientific experiment and demonstration, nor does that goal depend upon it. The "equality, solidarity, and frater nity of mankind," which is the summary statement of the anarchist goal, is, as we have seen, regarded by Bakunin as a permanent aspect of the human condition, an imminent possi bility at all times. Intellectuals, in their modern scientific shape, however much they might contribute to a more popular understanding of the radical alternative, are the servant rather than the determinant of the alternative. Science con

ceptualizes, organizes information, makes precise statements, indicates the relationship between means and ends, but does not discover or deduce those ends.

The universal egalitarian ism of the anarchist ideal, linked with that populist sympathy typical of the Russian nineteenth-century intelligentsia,®^ rejects the need for lead ership towards revolutionary goals, the need for any overarchingtheory which all socialists must acknowledge, and the description of the specifics of social alternatives. The task of the radical intellectual was to generate class conflict by prop agandizing the circumstances of state, economic, and intellec tual oppression; and not to form leadership structures and authoritarian organizations which will simply reproduce hie107

rarchy and inequality in new forms. Bakunin, the admirer of science and scientists in their capacity to provide the means of solving problems and satisfying human desires, was also tell ing them that they possessed no special rights to guide the actions of others towards a social condition that can and must

be defined and established by anybody and everybody. At times Bakunin strikes a remarkably modern note concerning the capacity of a "scientific approach" (as we would say) to dehumanize the subjects who are the raw mate rial of its investigation. He complained that social science was concerned only with "individuals in general," the flesh and blood actualities of life disappearing in statistical abstrac tions. Consequently, it is capable of treating persons "almost as it treats rabbits. Or rather ... its licenced representatives ... yielding to the pernicious influence which privilege inevitably exercises upon men, would fleece other men in the name of science."^® It seemed to him that Marx had taken exactly this stance. Consequently, Bakunin regarded Marx's revolution ary model as too abstract, too "metaphysical," which adjective was used to describe all of those persons, ...who by any means... have created for themselves an ideal organization into which, like a new Pro crustes, they wish to force future generations at any cost; all those who do not view thought and science as one of the necessary phenomenon of natural and social life, and judge this poor life in such a way that they see in it the practical appearance of their own thought and their own always imperfect science.'^^ Procrustes, the mythical Greek king who had chopped off or, if they needed stretching, dislocated the limbs of tra vellers unfortunate enough to seek a night's rest in his spare bed, was the nice analogy to which Bakunin draws our atten tion in his judgement of Marx. He viewed Marx as the kind of revolutionary intellectual who was attempting to reproduce elitist authoritarianism in government controlled by the likes of himself. For him, Marx hid behind such phrases as the democratic "dictatorship of the proletariat" as a "transitional phase" towards communism with a "withering away of the state," all of which was a theoretical sham. He thought that 108

Marx was empirically wrong to see the proletariat as the single and only class capable of socialist revolution, that the

pursuit of any transitionl state form inevitably must lead to new despotic forms, and that the emphasis upon scientific objectivity would make Marx's proletarian state the rule of an intellectual elite. After the debacle of The Hague Congress,

Bakunin presented his summation of Marx's faults in no uncertain terms:

In our opinion, having once controlled the state, it is necessary to destroy it immediately as the eternal

prison of the masses. According to Mr. Marx's the ory, the people not only must not immediately des troy it but, on the contrary, must fortify and streng then it and, in this form, hand it over to the complete control of their benefactors, guardians and teachers—the bosses of the communist party; in a word, to Mr. Marx and his friends, who will proceed

to emancipate the people in their own way. They would concentrate the reins of government into

strong hands, for an ignorant people needs firm guidance; they would create a single state bank which would concentrate in their hands all of the

commercial, industrial and even scientific produc tion; and they would divide the popular masses into

two great armies, industrial and agricultural, under the direct command of state engineers who would

make up a new privileged, scientific-political stratum.'^2

To suggest that the leaders of the revolutionary party, the intellectual elite who will scientifically plan the direction of things, can represent the masses, is ludicrous: By popular government they mean rule of the people by means of asmall number of representatives elected by the people. The general and universal election of the so called popular representatives and rulers of the state — the last word of the Marxist and democratic schools — is the lie behind which

rests the despotism of a ruling minority, all the 109

worse because it appears to be the expression of the imaginary popular will. ...these representatives will be passionately convinced, as well as educated, socialists. The terms,

educated socialists, and scientific socialism, which are encountered continuously in the writings of the Lassalleans and Marxists, themselves demonstrate

that the alleged popular state will be nothing more than the very despotic rule of the popular masses by a new and numerically small aristocracy of real or imagined scholars. The people have not been educated and will, therefore, be freed entirely from the cares of government, and placed entirely into the governed herd. A fine liberation.^^) These are Bakunin's mature conclusions concerning the practical consequences of Marx's organizational tactics and revolutionary goals, in opposition to which he proposed "the free organization of the working masses from bottom to top,"^'^ local autonomy and the free association of local groupings (or communes) being the organizational guarantee against a centralist authoritarianism which he viewed as being inextricably bound up with the Marxian revolutionary model. That anarchist option has never been realized fully in practice; and the presumption that it could compete with an organized reaction may be impractically optimistic. Nevertheless, the critique of scientific knowledge (real or presumed) as the potential dogma of a new priesthood of a secular religion of state remains valuable in itself. Hypnotized by his own model, Marx failed to see how the elegance of his concepts distorted the actualities of a liberatory revolution.'^® Marx, of course,

was never presented with the opportunity to lead, or to gain the benefits of, a revolution organized by persons of his mentality and conclusions. However, it is not unfair to say that

the necessarily-authoritarian implications of his position did emerge in the process of the so-called socialist revolutions of the twentieth century, and the Bakuninist might be forgiven for saying, "We told you so." Scientific socialism has come to be with the elitist and conformist authoritarianism of states like

the Soviet Union and Poland, where the explicit cultural goal 11 0

is that all human activity and thought should conform with the official image of reality. The party possesses the "imagined" truth, and self-righteously coerces any who would disagree. In so doing they have at times distorted the science which they worship, and promoted charlatans like Lysenko, whose activities retarded the growth of Soviet genetics for many years. Meanwhile, any who disagree with the official line are t h o u g h t t o b e a n t i - r a t i o n a l a n d u n s c i e n t i fi c , the causes of which being grounded in ignorance sometimes, insanity sometimes, and sometimes in downright anti-Soviet reaction; and the persuasion of the insane asylum and the

prison camp follows swiftly upon the failure of re-education for the modern heretics of the dogma of socialist science.

What then is the proper role for the intellectual as a revolutionary? Advocacy, propaganda, elaboration and advice—both during and after the concurrent destruction of both property and the state—and thus helping to organize society "from the bottom up." "Our popular task," wrote Bakunin, "consists solely in the realization of the popular

ideal, possibly correcting it (in accordance with the people's wishes), and directing it along a better and faster route

towards its goal.'"^® For themselves, the self-conceived "intellectual proletariat" must draw back from the temptation to promote themselves as an alternative ruling group by being "steeped with a conscious passion of the revolutionary task."" They do not give orders, but directions. They do not discover

the truths of socialism, but make the workers (peasants and

proletariat) conscious of their own natural sympathy and interest in a socialist and stateless alternative. On the other

side, the intellectuals themselves must lose their mystique and the voluntary, even docile, obedience which they get from the non-intellectual. The latter must come to realize that "a

scientific scholar is neither capable of instructing the people nor ever capable of defining for himself how the people will live, and want to live, on the day after the social revolution,"'^® And as for certain valuable specialities, whether they be those of the medic or of the engineer, the guarantee against intellectual elitism and regenerated privilege must be the

absence of structures to promote them—leaving all free to 111

accept or reject the intellectual's recommendations as they see fi t .

Babeuf, criticizing the halted development of the French Revolution after 1789, had argued that education was a form of property which, like all property, must be shared equally by all. Bakunin was also an egalitarian, and looked to an increase in the general possession of scientific knowledge as a means for both independence of thought and an expanded capability of individuals organized in various collective ventures—not, like Babeufs, under the guidance of the state. Bakunin, however, acknowledged that there must be certain specialties, some of which are elitist occupations when measured by any standards of property, power and influence in pre-revolutionary society. To the degree that these specialties continue to be required, intellectuals will continue to exist as scientific specialists, but deprived of privileged status and rewards, not organized into special associations of group interest, but rather operating as individuals in the egalitarian culture of anarchist solidarity—which is the acknowledgement of a common human condition within which all are equally dependent upon the cooperative interaction of individuals whose activities are the source of all our satisfaction, mental or physical. Anarchy, as the appropriate organization for the actual condition of human society, according to Bakunin, must seek to promote science and scientists, the intellect and intellectuals, to the extent that they contribute to the cooperative endeavours of free associations of common interest.

That was for the future. The present arrangement of intellectuals in the state was primarily one of intellectual prostitution, with academic and scientific establishments serving the state. This is normal in statist environments, and Bakunin would not have been surprised at the condemnatory description of the contemporary Soviet intelligentsia provided by the dissident, Andrei Amalrik, in Will the Soviet Union Survive until 198Jf1 Generally speaking, in the USSR, a member of the intelligentsia is anyone with a higher education in either the arts or the sciences. As a group, we are told, it is relatively privileged, "practices a cult of its own impotence," and has interests linked closely to the state. As a force for 11 2

change, in what Amalrik identified as a "Democratic Move ment,"

...the vast majority of this class is so mediocre, its ways of thinking are so much that of the government employee, and its intellectually most independent members are so passive that the success of a Demo cratic Movement based on it seems to me to be

gravely in doubt.™ But we do not have to look at Marxist-Leninist states to

see the conformist role of this group (which Amalrik calls a class). In Canada and USA its members are financed and funded as they are recruited into the interlinked bureaucracies of the state and of corporate capitalism. At the peak of the pyramid they become the highly-visible advisors of American Presidents, their pandering viewpoints adding a spurious legitimacy to the political rhetoric of nuclear militarism. In Canada, every minister recruits the bright young people that make up a personal staff, and beneath them the state bureaucracy is full of university graduates being rewarded for their sycophancy and service. The reproduction of "mental workers" as state servants is as much an aspect of welfarestate capitalism as it is of state socialism. The radical intellec tual milieu is but a drop in the bucket of game-playing benefi ciaries, placeman and civil servants. Revolutions may have had their intellectuals, but intellectuals are rarely revolu tionaries—a fact with which Bakunin was familiar, and in

consequence of which, like Amalrik a century later, he looked lower down the social ladder for the revolutionary disorienta tion and destruction of established social orders. The weakness of Bakunin's position is that he, like all

anarchists, appears to leave the door open for counter-revolution because of an unwillingness to accept organizational mea sures for combatting those who wou Id universal ize their views concerning the Good. But to accept non-voluntary organiza tion, which is what victory in unstable social situations seems sometimes to demand (as when Trotsky reorganized the Red Army), creates the very situation which the anarchist seeks to avoid. Faced with a scepticism grounded in the failure of anarchism in revolutionary situations to compete successfully 11 3

against the authoritarians or both left and right, anarchism can appear to be a radical extreme with unrealistic goals. The reply must be, however, that eren if all of this is true, the analysis which we have examined and elaborated upon in this chapter still draws our attention to a primary goal of all socialist philosophy, which is that the workers themselves shall take over the direct and immediate control of their own

social and economic situation. Anarchism, as socialism, asserts moreover that unless this is pursued as the foremost goal of socialist revolution the rest must remain unsatisfactory. In the last analysis, perhaps anarchism is best considered not as a distinct political philosophy or ideology, but as a body of social ist writings which concentrates upon revealing to us the bar riers to each individual's intellectual and physical satisfac tion. It is an adjunct to socialist theory which formulates its arguments not only from the standpoint of the oppressed class, but also from the standpoint of the oppressed individual. When Bakunin undertook this task he noted the arrogance of those who, on the grounds that they possess objective or scien tific knowledge, provide themselves with a justification for forcing others into their Procrustean bed. To force individuals to follow paths not of their own choosing, even "for their own good," was to deny to them their humanity. Science, as a servant of humanity, shou Id not be permitted to perform after this manner, and Bakunin was prepared to reject its advan tages rather than accept such an argument. The so-called "scientific socialists" would need to create a bureaucracy to implement their programmes; and Bakunin saw that bureau crats in the employ of the state possess an authority which is quite independent of the particulars of property ownership in the society, and pointed to the newly-imperial Germany and Tsarist Russia to demonstrate the case. At the time in which he

was writing, such a distrust of science (and here Bakunin was referring particularly to social science) and scepticism con cerning the causal relationship between property and political power were more easily rejected than they can be today. At the present time, these conclusions are almost presuppositions of enlightened opinion. As Lenin was quick to point out, anarchism has much in common with those "left-wing" communists who would reduce 11 4

the importance of the revolutionary party and expand the role of the masses in the directingof social and economic organiza

tions. Lenin argued that in Russian conditions this position would cause a degeneration of the socialist character of the revolution; for the peasantry "encircle the proletariat on every

side with a petty-bourgeois atmosphere, which permeates and corrupts the proletariat and causes constant relapses among

the proletariat into petty-bourgeois spinelessness, disunity, individualism..."^" The fundamental position of Bolshevism

was one of antagonism towards the peasants, and from that time on Marxist-Leninist theoreticians have had to stretch

their dialectical imaginations in order to justify "socialist revolutions" which have occurred predominantly in the under

developed parts of the world. Adam Ulam has even gone so far as to argue that Marxism appeals to anti-industrial senti ments (which he calls "anarchist").®' However, I think it would be more correct to argue not that Marxism appeals to antiindustrial sentiments, but that it has been forced to recognize

a broader revolutionary base which could accomodate itself to socialist propaganda as an appropriate explanation and guide. In so doing, Marxist thought has moved towards Bakunin. This is not to say that Lenin's emphasis upon the political

superiority of the party has lost any of its original elitist impli

cations although even on this issue events in China after 1966 seem to indicate a willingness by some Marxist-Leninists to place greater dependence upon the masses (even if the army is on the sidelines to stop things getting out of hand). Generally speaking, Marxists have not been willing to initiate that with drawal from political power which was undertaken, for example, by the Makhnovists in the Ukraine between 1917 and 1921.8^

By popularizing a critical attitude to all forms of authority, Bakunin contributed to the polemic of the radical "left" against the ever-present tendency of socialist revolu tionaries to lose sight of everything other than the problems of power. Bakunin also gave voice to the dangers of what today we call reification—regarding ideas as fundamentally "true," and concentrating upon these to the exclusion and distortion of the reality of the individual existence to which they are sup posed to refer. He informs us that ideas are abstractions which 11 5

can become a barrier to a respect for individuals with their subjective problems and needs, a perversion of reality which precludes the possibility of improving the human condition. Insofar as this position is borne out by historical developments in the twentieth century, it can be argued that it is the approach of anarchists like Bakunin that remains the only radical alternative now available. As Herbert Read stated:

Socialism is dynamic: it is a movement of society in a definite direction and it is the direction that mat

ters most. In our conception of socialism, are we moving towards centralization, concentration, dep ersonalization; or are we moving towards individu alization, independence, and freedom? It seems to me that there can be no possible doubt as to which direction is the more desirable; and I am afraid

that, at the moment, everywhere in the world we are moving in the wrong direction.^ Bakunin had presented the same options in the 1860s and 1870s, and they are alternatives which present themselves in all revolutionary situations. That we are moving, as Read suggested, "in the wrong direction," has much to do with the success of that of that derivative of Marxist thought which came to be called Marxism-Leninism, or simply Bolshevism. Consequently, it is to the relationship between anarchism and Bolshevism in the circumstances of the 1917 revolution that we shall now turn.

References 1. Some parts of this chapter originally appeared in an article entitled, "Bakunin's Theory of Revolution," Our Generation, Volume XI, Number 4.

2. Peter Kropotkin, Memoirs of a Revolutionist, 386. Grove Press, New York, 1970.

3. The General Council of the First International: Minutes IHdH1870, 220. Progress Publishers, Moscow, 1974. 4. The best biography of Bakunin in the English language is still E.H. Carr's, Michael Bakunin, published originally in 1937. 5. The Hague Con(jress of the First International (September 2-7, 1872):Minuteji andDocumenhi, 70. Progress Publishers, Moscow, 1976. 11 6

6. Ttw General Council of the First International: Minutes tH711872, 451. Progress Publishers, Moscow, no date. 7. Marx and Engels, "Fictitious Splits in the International," Ibid, 407.

8. The General Council of the First International: Minutes 1H6H1870, 401-402. Op. cit 9. K. Marx and F. Engels, The Holy Family, 53. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, 1956. 10. N. A. Dobrolyubov, Selected Philosophical Writings, 204. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, 1956, 11. Ibid., 205. 12. Ibid., 492. 13. Ibid., 542.

14. M.A. Bakunin, Marxism, Freedom, and the State, 48 (edited by K.J. Kenafick), Freedom Press, London, 1950. 15. M.A. Bakunin, Statism and Anarchy, 213 (edited by J.F. Harri son), Revisionist Press, New York, 1976. 16. Ibid., 9.

17. K. Marx, F. Engels, V.I. Lenin, selected writings forming.4«archismandAnarcho-SyndicalUm, 148. International Publishers, New York, 1972. From Marx's "Conspectus of Bakunin's Book, 'State and Anarchy,"' (1874-1875). 18. Ibid., 149.

19. G. Plekhanov, Selected Philosophical Works, 372. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, no date. From Our Differences. 20. Plekhanov wrote that, "Lenin, Trotsky, and others, who for twenty years went with the Marxists, essentially became Narodniks after the February Revolution. 'They are acting according to

the pro^ammes of L. 'Tikhomirov and are following the advice of

Bakunin, who found that the revolution must rely not on the organized workers, who are infected with statism, but on the nonconscious masses, the criminal element, etc." Quoted by Samuel H. Baron, Plekhanov: the Father of Russian Marriam, 358. Routledge and Kegan Paul, London, 1963. 21. Anarchism and Anarcho-Syndicalism, 205. From Lenin's "Socialism and Anarchism," (1905). 22. Nikolai Bukharin, Historical Materialism, 289-290. University of Michigan Press, 1969. 23. G.P. Maximoff (ed.). The Political Philosophy of Bakunin, 187. Free Press, New York, 1964. From Bakunin's Philosophical Considerations

24. Ibid., 67. From Bakunin'sA Member ofthe International answers Mazzini.

11 7

25. Ihid., 148. From Bakunin's Federalism, Soeialiam ami Auti-

Tlieolofjism. 26. Ludwig Feuerbach, Friiieiples of the FhHonophij of the Future (trans. Manfred H. Vogel), 5. (Section 32). Bobbs-Merrill, New York. 1966.

27. Ihid., 53. (Section 34). 28. Ihid., 71. (Section 59). 29. K. Marx and F. Engels, The German Ideology, 38. Lawrence and Wishart, London, 1965.

30. The Ho!!/ Family, op. cit., 52. 31. Marx had published The Forertif of FhHosophij: Answer to the ''Fhilosophif of Foredjf" of M. Frondhou in 1847. 32. Bakunin, Statism and Anarehif, op. cit., 206. 33. Maximoff, op. cit., 147. From Bakunin's The Knonto-Germanic Empire and the Social Rerohdion. 34. Bakunin, Statism and Anarchy, 41. 35. M.A. Bakunin, God and the State, 43. Dover Publications, New York, 1970.

36. Alexander Berkman, The ABC of Anarchism, 15-16. Freedom Press, London, 1964.

37. Bakunin, Mar.rism, Freedom and the State, op. cit, 21-22. 38. Maximoff, op. cit., 90. From Bakunin's Fhilosophical Considera tions.

39. Ibid., 94. From Bakunin's Federalism, Socialism and Anti-

Theolofp'sm. Compare also with Engel's statement in Socialism: Utopian and Scientific: "Active social forces work exactly like natural forces: blindly, forcibly, destructively, so long as we do not understand them and reckon with them. But when once we

understand them... it depends only upon ourselves to subject them more and more to our will, and by means of them to subject them more and more to our will, and by means of them to reach our own ends." K. Marx and F. Engels, Selected Works, II, 149. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, 1962. 40. Maximoff, op. cit., 64. From Bakunin's Circniar Letter to My Friends in Italy. 41. Ihid., 96. From Bakunin's Fhilosophical Consideration.^. 42. In her splendid biography and assessment of Elis^ Reclus, The Anarchi.st Way to Social ism (Croom Helm, London, 1979), Marie Fleming has suggested that an overemphasis upon Bakunin has led to "a failure to see the importance of the 'scientific' direction which was introduced by Bakunin's spiritual descendants." (p. 22). My argument here, to the contrary, is that scientists like Reclus and Kropotkin gave body to the argument elaborated by Bakunin. There is consistency rather than contrast, continuity r a t h e r t h a n c o n fl i c t .

11 8

43. The full titleofMaximoffseditionofBakunin's writings referred

to in this chapter is. The Political Philonophi/ of Bakuniu: Scieutific Anarchism. 44. Bakunin, God and the State, op. cit., 55. 45. Ihid., 61.

46. Bakunin, Stat ism and Anarchism, op. dt., 196-197. 47. Bakunin, God and the State, op. cit., 64.

48. Sam Dolgoff (ed.), Bakunin on Anarchy, 270. Black Rose Books, Montreal, 1980. From Bakunin's The Paris Commune and the Idea of the State.

49. At times Bakunin appears to be unhappy uuth the traditional

socialist class a nalysis because of the impl ication that other cla.'ises are to hare their interests subordinated to those of the industrial

proletariat: "We rerolutionary anarchists whosincerely want full popular emancipation riew with repugnance... the designation of the preoletariot as a class and not a mass." Ibid., 280. From an unfinished letter intended for the editors of La Liberie.

50. Ibid., 195. From Bakunin's Letters to a Frenchman on the Present Crisis.

51. Ibid., 205.

52. Georges Sorel, Reflections on Violence, 249. Collier Books, New York. 1967.

53. Benito Mussolini, The Political and Social Doctrine of Fascism, 10. The Hogarth Press, London, 1933. 54. Paul Avrich, "Preface" to Dolgoffs 1972 edition of Bakunin on Anarchy, XV. New York, 1972. 55. Marx and Engels, The German Ideology, op. cit., 86.

56. Dolgoff (ed.), op. cit., 209 From Bakunin's Letters to n Frenchman on the Present Crisis.

57. Ibid., 166. From an article in L'^galite (1869). 58. Ibid., 165.

59. G.D.H. Cole, 5o('/o7/,s^ Thought: Mar.vism and Anarchism, 18501H9(), 222. MacMillan, London, 1957. 60. Dolgoff, op. cit, 155. From Bakunin's Program of the International Brotherhood.

61. Ibid., 148. Quoted by Sam Dolgoff. 62. Ibid., 208. From Bakunin's Letters to a Frenchman in the Current

Crisis. Three years earlier, in 1867, Bakunin had also stated concerning the progress of socialism that, it belongs "to the people—in the West, to the workers in the factories: in our coun try, in Russia, in Poland, and in most of the Slav countries, to the peasants." Ibid., 124. From Bakunin's Federalism, Socialism, and A nti-Theologism.

63. Ibid., 204. 11 9

64. This statement was put humorously to his audience at the An. Arclioti conference on "The Intellectual and the State," held in

Montreal during the first week of June, 1982. 65. Bakunin wrote, "Is it not remarkable to find so close a correspon dence between theology, that science of the Church, and politics, that Science of the State; to find this concurrence of two orders of

ideas and of realities, outwardly so opposed, nevertheless holding the same convictions: that human I ihcrtif niuM hcdentroijed if men are to he moral, if thetf are to he tranaformed into mints (for the Chnreh) or into ritlnomf eitizens (for the State)? Yet we are not at all surprised by the peculiar harmony, since we are convinced... that politics and theology are two sisters issuing from the same source and pursuing the same ends under different names; and that every state is a terrestrial church, just as every church, with its own heaven, the dwelling place of the blessed: of the immortal God, is a celestial state." Same Dolgoff (ed.), op. eit., 138-139. From BBkunin's Federali.sm, Soeialiam and Anti-Theolofji.sm. 66. Maximoff, op. eit„ 72. From Bakunin's Philosophical Com^ideration.H.

67. F. Nietz.^ehe, Beyond Good and Eril, 142. London, 1914. (Trans lated by Helen Zimmern). 68. Maximoff, op. cit., 252. From Bakunin's The Knouto-Germanic Empire and the Social Rerolution. 69. The Russian term, intelligentsia, is used here synonymously with the English term, intellectual. This I regard as legitimate insofar as my definition of the term, intellectual, has been deliberately broad—encompassing all those who are perceived as possessing some kind of uncommon knowledge (real or imagined), and pos sess influence in consequence. The term, intelligentisia, usually refers to all those who have completed some form of higher education in any field or specialty. In the USSR today, they are regarded as a stratum of the working class, and are divided into a) technical intelligentsia, and b) creative intelligentsia. The former are typically engineers, the latter those involved in 1 iterature and the arts.

70. Bakunin, God and the State, op. cit., 58-59. 71. Bakunin, Statism^ and Anarchij, op. cit, 194. 72. 73. 74. 75.

Ibid., 263-264. Ibid., 259-260. Ibid., 261. Bakunin at times seems to have blamed Marx for what Alasdair

Maclntyre has more recently condemned the Marxists: "Origi nally a negative, sceptical, and subversive doctrine in liberal society, Marxism acquired, as it became doctrine, precisely that kind of attachment to its own categories which it had already diagnosed in liberal theory as one of the sources of liberalism's 120

inability to view society except through the distorting lenses of its own categories." Marxism and Chi'istianity, 102. Harmondsworth, 1971.

76. Bakunin, op. ciL, 306. 77. Ibid., 315. 78. Ibid., 291.

79. A. Amalrik, Will the Soviet Union Survive Until 19841,21. New York, 1971.

80. V.I. Lenin, Selected Works, III, 395. From "Left-Wing"Commu nism, an Infantile Disorder. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, 1961.

81. See Adani Ulam, "Socialism and Utopia," in Utopias and Uto pian Thought (ed., Frank E. Manuel), Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1966.

82. The populations living in those areas liberated by Makhno's Revolutionary Insurrectionary Army were told that, "This army does not serve any political party, any power, any dictatorship... It is up to the workers and peasants themselves to act, to organize themselves, to reach mutual understanding in all fields of their lives, in so far as they desire it, and in what way they may think right." Voline, The Unknown Revolution, 158. Freedom Press, London, 1955. Voline (V.M. Eichenbaum) also describes the creation of free communes in the liberated areas, arguing that "the ideas and activities of the Makhnovist peasants were similar in all respects to those of the Kronstadt rebels of 1921." Ibid., 107. The complete translation of Voline's book is today available from Black Rose Books, Montreal.

83. Herbert Read, Anarchy and Order, 103. Beacon Press, Boston, 1971.

121

CHAPTER FOUR Bolshevism and Anarchism in the Russian Revolution

I: The Character of the Russian Revolution During the period of Tsarist Russia's involvennent in the First World War, that "prison house of nations" gradually but progressively lost both the symbolic and actual capability to maintain its existence as a state. It was a losing war for the Russian empire, and jingoistic slogans lost their vitality in the face of German and Austrian successes in the western realms

of the semi-feudal regime. The material deprivation caused by the channelling of resources into the production of war mate riel was combined with an alienation of various segments of the population from the existing socio-political reality. Fewer and fewer people were prepared to sacrifice anything for the incompetent ruler, his corrupt bureaucracy, and his German wife. Russia's allies might be fighting for democracy, but for what was the average Russian (or other resident of the empire—Cossack, Pole, Finn, Latvian, Ukrainian, etc.) fight ing? Low morale in the army, made up primarily of peasants, eventually led to disobedience and desertion, the shooting of officers, an unwillingness to fight, a desire to destroy the figures and institutions of authority, a revolutionary mental ity. Dissatisfaction amongst the urban proletariat produced strikes and protests, and the eventual alliance between soldi ers and workers in opposition to the Tsarist elite—the bureau123

cracy, aristocracy and officer class—and the affluent bour

geoisie of the towns. The vast majority of the population, the peasantry, only freed from serfdom in 1861, sensed the col lapse of authority and began to move in onto the land of the aristocrats, the attraction of which situation only encouraged more dissatisfaction and desertion from the military ranks— the conscript wanted to be where the action was back home on the farm. Consequently, when Tsarism collapsed, it was the

collapse and disappearance of a capacity for rule because of an unwillingness to obey by such broad sectors of the population that the state became irrelevant. The Tsar abdicated in Feb

ruary, 1917—acknowledging the already-existing collapse of the state machine, not initiating it.

The period following this is normally regarded as that of the Provisional Governement, a cabinet chosen by the Duma, that token of a representative assembly which had

been permitted by the Tsarist regime after the disturbances of 1905. It is also referred to as the period of Dual Power, for the

Petrograd Soviet of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies, an amorphous body of approximately 2,800 persons, issued orders which its participants regarded as being of equal authority to the decrees of the Provisional Government. In truth, however,

there was no unified state power to speak of at all. It was a

period of total dislocation and devolution of authority, in

which situation each locality was left to organize and to pro mote its own structures of social organization. Soviets, that Russian word for "assemblies," but which carried since 1905

the implication of organization by the people themselves, sprang up everywhere and proceeded to organize the life of

their immediate environments. Sometimes they represented the interests of minority nationalities, frequently they were initiated by the rebellious soldiers (peasants in fact, brought

together by the exigencies of the war, and now using their unnatural combination against its inventors). The situation was, in many ways, similar to what Bakunin had envisioned

half-a-century before as characteristic of the first stages of anarchist reorganization. Of course, events never reflect exactly the details of an imaginative prediction, no matter

how well-grounded the latter is in a proper assessment of reality. What we do see, however, is a capacity and a willing124

ness of proletariat and peasantry to form their own political institutions. There was, as Bakunin had predicted,' some vio lence against persons—aristocrats were murdered by pea sants, deserting gangs of soldiers took what they needed as

they made their way home from the front, the wealthy in the

towns were manhandled and robbed. Underlying all of this, however, was a veritable dynamo of organizational activity as soviets were formed as organizations of self-government "from the bottom up." On reflection, knowing now the direction which events were to take under the influence of various political forces, it is

easy to conclude that the conquest of power by a centralizing group was necessary and inevitable. Such was the conclusion of Adam B. Ulam when he wrote, As events were to show, the fall of the Tsarist

regime left a vacuum that was to last until October; in the strict sense of the word Rmsia was to be left

without a central government and without a settled form of state organization.=^ Consequently, presuming that, somehow, a power must resume in a persisting political state, we are told that "the Bolsheviks did not seize power in this year of revolutions. They picked it up." The statist mentality, be it liberal-democratic or Marxist-Leninist, cannot imagine a restructuring of society except from the top down in the form of a reimposition of law by means of coercion. The liberal-democrat, Ulam, might regret the Leninist form of authoritarianism, but there is a hint of admiration when he speaks of "the enormous task they accomplished ... in conquering the very anarchy they had helped to create and in building out of the most anarchistic of the revolutions the most authoritarian state in the world."-'

Whilst differing with the authoritarian interpretation, the Leninist would agree with this viewpoint. It is a statist conclu sion that reorganization from the bottom up, which had begun and which was the predominant feature of the situation, was doomed to failure; and that to consider alternatives was futile

at best—and reactionary at worst. Too easily dismissing the masses, it tends to suggest that the Bolsheviks did only what was necessary in the situation, when it is more exact to say that 125

they distorted the situation by being themselves the worst reactionaries of them all (by establishing a degree of state control never seen before in history).

The Bolsheviks, that title applied inappropriately to the Leninist wing of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party after its 1903 Congress, were never the "bigger part" of the Russian party. Ideologically and organizationally they could not be, for the theory of party organization promoted by Lenin in What is to he Done'! (1902) insisted that a revolutionary party must be a disciplined and centralized party of profes sional revolutionaries distinct and separate from the proleta riat. The Menshevik wing of the party, with a more open theory of party membership, always had a broader appeal. However, the Mensheviks, as orthodox Marxists, could never

quite bring themselves to believe in the legitimacy of their own power in an underdeveloped Russia. Consequently, in the struggle to determine the direction of events, they had a ten dency to abdicate in favour of bourgeois economic develop ment in a bourgeois republic. On the other hand, this did not leave the field open to the Bolsheviks as the sole advocates of a social and socialist revolution in Russia. Closest to the minds of

the bulk of the population was the Socialist Revolutionary party, the intellectual descendants of the narodniki of the nineteenth century. It was the peasant party and, therefore, the majority party of Russia. The right wing of the party,

whose leader was (^hernow, was a promoter of land redistribu tion, peasant proprietorship, and encouragement of coopera tive production amongst the peasantry. The Left Socialist Revolutionaries, typified by Spiridonova, were more commu nist in their economic orientation, had been asociated with

terrorism and political assassination, participated briefly as part of the "soviet government" following the Bolshevik grab for power in October, 1917, and were eventually condemmed by Lenin as sharing the same petty-bourgeois mentality as the anarchists. In the struggle for political power over a revolu tionary Russian state, the Bolsheviks physically destroyed all of these party-political competitors, as well as the non-socialist Constitutional Democrats (or Kadets). In so doing, they des troyed a myth that brought many socialists to Russia during the revolutionary upheavals—the myth that, in spite of one's 126

specific ideological or party label, all socialists would work

together in the event of a socialist revolution. The myth was so persuasive that even anarchists like Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman returned to Russia from the U.S.A., to

offer their services to the new Soviet regime, in what proved to be a futile gesture valuable only as a negative lesson in Bol shevik ruling methods. Lenin and the Bolsheviks made it per fectly clear from the very start that those who were not with

them were their enemies. Lenin sought to take power for himself and his faction with the intellectual arrogance of the scientific and socialist head priest against whom Bakunin had

warned. They were also entirely statist. Faced with a postFebruary devolution of political power in a multiplicity of soviets through the geographic realm which had formerly been called Russia, the aim was to capture power in the capital and other main centres—and then impose Bolshevik disci

pline over as large an area as possible. Conceived as a first step in a world revolution, when the international and industrial

proletariat would given their support to the Bolshevik drive, it was in fact the centralist and statist policy of a party which

found it impossible to accept, or even to conceive of, any alter native socialist form than one which was based upon an elitist direction by those who had elected themselves as the most progressive elements of the proletariat.

"The Bolsheviks began their struggle to change the composition of the Soviets during the very first days of the

(February) Revolution."^ The tactic was to destroy, first, the authority of the Provisional government by replacing it entirely with that of the Soviets; and, second, to become the

predominant influence in the Petrograd and other major urban soviets as a basis for establishing Bolshevik control of Russia. The first part of the task, the affirmation of soviet

power, was the easiest insofar as it was the most popular. Bolshevik indentification with the project, which was also associated with an attack upon the old order of property (both landed and industrial), made them more popular as the period of Dual Power developed, for it seemed that the Bolsheviks were promoting here a system of self-management and selfadministration by the workers and peasants themselves— removing the last inhibition to full autonomy for the soviets 127

within a framework of a revolutionary transference of prop

erty to the workers (proletariat and peasantry) themselves. Lenin's State atid Revolution, completed in 1917, seemed to

confirm this impression. On August 31,1917, the Petrograd Soviet passed a motion in favour of a transference of power to workers and peasants. The Moscow Soviet affirmed this on September 5,1917, In each case, the initiators of the motion

were Bolsheviks; but this should not be taken as evidence of Bolshevik domination. Rather, they imitated the popular

mood, gave voice to prevailing sentiments. Indeed, prior to establishing political and coercive controls, the Bolsheviks

could produce a majority in but few Soviets.® Yet their advo cacy of soviet power was so unambiguously appropriate that we should not be surprised to hear that, "during the first half of September the decisions of the Petrograd and Moscow Soviets received the support of more than 80 Soviets," and that all were "in favour of the transfer of all power into the hands of

the workers and the poorest sections of the peasantry."® Power was in fact already in the hands of many of the soviets. Nor should we necessarily be surprised that 390 of the 649 dele

gates to the Second All-Russian Congress of Soviets expressed support for the Bolsheviks.'' The Bolsheviks appeared to be affirming the radical demands of the existing movement of state collapse and the redistribution of power and property which peasants and soldiers and proletariat alike were in the process of implementing. None of this, however, can justify the following official Soviet conclusion:

Soviet power's triumphal march across the country was, at the same time, a triumphal march of Bol

shevism. This triumph was the result of the dedi cated work of the Leninist Party ... In the struggle

for the proletarian dictatorship the Bolsheviks unmasked the bourgeois substance of the concilia

tory (with the capitalists) Menshevik and SocialistRevolutionary parties and the bourgeois national ists and achieved unity of will and action by the

proletarian and semi-proletarian masses.® Cause and effect are here reversed. Soviet power gave

the Bolsheviks a slogan; it was not their slogans which led the 128

populace on to establish soviet power. On the contrary, the Bolsheviks, under Lenin's harangue, chased after the masses,

voicing a radical position which was already in the process of being established, spontaneously, by the people thmselves in both their productive and military roles. The destruction of the authority of the Provisional government in October, 1917, and the affirmation of Soviet authority, was not difficult or unpopular. It was when they moved on to the next part of their programme—the reunification of Russia under their own suzerainty—that they ran into opposition on both the left and the right. The actions of the Bolsheviks in forming a government which claimed to represent and perform a vanguard role for the proletariat and poorest peasants was pretentious nonsense as well as a theoritical about-face. It was pretentious insofar as the new Council of People's Commissar (Sovnarkom) of which Lenin was the chairman had control of very little—only those areas where loyal Bolsheviks controlled the local soviets, which condition was rare. It was a theoretical about-face

insofar as the advocacy of soviet power was being abandoned to replace it with a body composed entirely of Lenin's party men (although the Left S.R.s formed a brief alliance shortly thereafter), theoretically responsible to the Central Executive Committee of the All-Russian Congress of Soviets, in practice responsible only to itself. Soviet government became, in fact, government by the Bolsheviks, renamed the Communist Party in March, 1918. Moreover, in its capacity as the new aspirant for a monopoly of state power, the Communist Party acted with brutal indifference to anything other than the needs of their own self-promotion. An arbitrary and inde pendent security police, the Clieka, had been placed under the guidance of the fanatic Pole, Dzerzhinsky, before the end of 1917. The incarceration and execution of those "objective

enemies" of the state, in fact any potential opponent, was its prime function. Also, in spite of all Lenin's talk of detroying the old state machine, the Bolsheviks initially established their government by taking over the old government offices and personnel lock, stock and barrel. With some resistance from the old bureaucracy, which was a further stimulus to the establishment of the state terror of the Cheka, "one by one the 129

commissariats were moved out to the 'ministries! and the two

apparatuses began to coalesce."'^ These obeyed their commis

sars if their members wanted to stay free, alive, and healthy. Meanwhile, Lenin's signature became sufficient to give any bureaucratic decision the force of law.'" The power of the soviets was everywhere eliminated, which occurrence has been seen as the end of the revolution. Thus, Arthur Lehning

has argued that the Soviets contained in themselves all that was significant in the Russsian revolution. Comparingthem to

the "quartiers" and "sections" of the commune of Paris during the French Revolution (1789-1794), just as their destruction

"signified the death of the revolution, so the abolition of the

Soviets and their transformation pure and simple into state

organs, proclaimed the end of the Russian Revolution and the beginning of the statist counter-revolution.''^^ The Russian Communist Party (Bolshevik)—RKP(b)— established a reorganized, not a new, state machine under Lenin and his cohorts. In the recruitment of persons into the

state bureaucracy, preference was given to Bolsheviks, for whom the principle of unquestioning obedience to the paHij apparotus was increasingly becoming a requirement for appointment. Trotsky, revealing an extreme authoritarian ism in his position of Commissar of War, reintroduced disci pline into a new Red Army—shooting the disobedient, in nice contrast with the election of officers practised earlier. Facto

ries were placed under the control of their former owners and managers, these "specialists" subordinate to, but supported by, a political commissar. In sum, in the battle for a statist victory, the dictatorship of the proletariat as a class soon showed itself to be the dictatorship of the Bolsheviks through a revived state machine—a machine which had collapsed, and which the Bolsheviks were anxious to rebuild in their own

image. Within the areas which they initially controlled, the reborn state regime denied legitimacy to any person, group,

party, and class that did not accept Bolshevik powers unquestioningly. Beyond that area, the Bolsheviks fought a civil war against not only the White Armies of the reactionary and anti-soviet (i.e., anti-popular rather than anti-Bolshevik) gen

erals, but against any organization which rejected their abso lute authority. Their political—military victory by 1921 was 130

characterized everywhere by the subordination of soviets and workers' councils in town and in country to the dictatorship of party men. To achieve Bolshevik hegemony over as large an area as possible, justifying it on grounds of a pseudointernational proletarian consciousness, they killed or incar cerated anyone who got in their way. Solzhenitsyn's Gulcuj Archipelago adds nothing but horrendous colour to what eve ryone already knew: the Bolsheviks physically eliminated everyone who might distract them from their struggle for a monopoly of power, including any force on the political "left" that was not prepared to bend it knee to their flag. This, of course, included the anarchists of the Russian revolution, to

whom we remain indebted not only for a radical critique of Bolshevism, but also as a statement of aspects and alternatives which the revolutionary situation produced before its denouement under the distorting hand of the Leninists.

II: The Anarchist-Bolshevik "Debate" The revolution in Russia thus provided the world with an example of the poaaibility of the destruction of economic exploitation and the creation of a socialist society. However, the oft-stated anarchist prediction, that the centralization of political power under a party claiming to represent the dicta torship of the proletariat must inevitably produce a perpetua tion of political and economic exploitation, also proved to be true. The analysis of the process became the polemical task of Russian anarchists like V.M. Eichenbaum (1882-1945), who wrote under the pseudonym, Voline, and Alexander Berkman (1870-1936). Books like the Unknown Revolution (Voline) and The Rmnian Tragedy (Berkman) remain perfect examples of the disillusion and disgust which characterized the response of anarchists and other radicals to the early authoritarianism

of the Bolsheviks. Attacking that state's theoretical and histor ical foundations, the critique was appropriate both then and now. Consequently, the initiators of the critique were damned and destroyed by the new state power, which attacked and eliminated the representatives, the organizations, and the publications of the Russian anarchists between 1918 and 1921. 131

The argument used by the Communists, then and now, is that no matter how progressive were anarchists prior to the October Revolution, later they showed themselves to be left-

wing opportunists whose activities benefited the counter

revolution. "The counter-revolutionary essence of anarchism

showed itself with the foundation of the Soviet state," we are

told by one standard historical work.^^xhe general conclusion concerning anarchism in Russia is presented by Soviet theor ists as follows:

For us anarchism long since ceased to be an enigma. For us anarchism long since ceased to be "a syn onym of brotherly love," "a celebration {tor^zhestvo) of freedom and justice." For us anarchism is a sym bol which destroys the unity (razobshchaet) of the working masses in the struggle with capital, which weakens their strength and contributes to the vic tory of the bourgeoisie in the class struggle with the

proletariat. For us anarchism is "a symbol of fra

tricidal struggle," "the debauchery of unbridled

passion and arbitrariness," the tool of the bourgeoi sie and its representatives...

With these words V.V. Komin condemns anarchism to

the garbage heap of history as a left-wing movement which, along with the Left Socialist Revolutionaries, failed to appre ciate the necessities of action in the historical events which led

up to the establishment of a communist-dominated, so-called soviet, state.

Yet, in spite of the political victory of Bolshevism, those who articulate the Marxist-Leninist theory of state continue to be concerned with anarchist criticisms of the early years of

Bolshevik power. Simply stated, the reason for the continued concern with anarchism is as follows: First, by denying the claim that Marxism-Leninism is a "single, integral science of the objective laws of social development, socialist revolution,

dictatorship of the working class and of the objective laws of the construction and development of socialist society,anar

chists deny the necessity of the USSR's state form. Second, by presenting socialism as a radical theory and practice which contradicts the Leninist orthodoxy, anarchist ideas provide 132

an alternative road and objective for socialist revolution—one which is entirely incompatible with the statist boundaries which inhibit the imagination and actions of all MarxistLeninist rulers, be they Dubcek or Tito, Deng Xiaoping or Brezhnev. In relation to the U.S.S.R., anarchist ideas work

against the attempt of the Communist party of the Soviet Union (C.P.S.U.) to monopolize the international revolution ary movement for its own chauvinistic goals. Suggesting that Marxist-Leninists were wrong from the start, both theoreti cally and in their state-building activities, anarchist criticism denies the very legitimacy of the Soviet regime, which seeks to justify itself by referring to the events of the post-October period. Moreover, as one Soviet author despairingly admits, The ideas of "neo-Bakuninism," like the ideas of the

"Left Communists," "Makhno, "The Workers' Oppo sition," the leaders of the counter-revolutionary Kronstadt revolt—all of these provide contempor ary, nihilist, left-wing radicalism with idological support and historical precedent. Like ghosts from the past, the anti-authoritarian images of anarchist writers continue to threaten the Soviet regime.

And even though Mr. Suslov and his heirs denounce the bour geois character of left opportunism (including anarchism),

anarchist descriptions of the actualities and potential of the

Russian revolution stand in stark and critical contrast to what

the Bolsheviks made of it. From the anarchist perspective, the Bolshevik handling of the Russian revolution from 1917 to the present becomes an example of what not to do if societies are ever to liberate themselves from repressive systems of eco nomics, politics and political ideas. In this context, when we consider the writings of Voline and Alexander Berkman, we find there analyses of the Bol shevik revolution which deny the very basics of Soviet theory and practice. The rationale behind the modern Soviet state suffers the criticism of revolutionary socialists who personally experienced the burgeoning power of the R.K.P. (b) as it dem onstrated its inability to provide practical alternatives to the traditional structures of politics. The myths of the Soviet state begin to crumble in the face of these polemics, and the viability 133

of the anarchist critique of the inevitably-oppressive modern state reaffirms itself. In an editorial of February 13,1918, in the anarcho-syndicalist Golos Trnida, we find the following summary criticism: Anarchkm k not only an idea; it is, before anything else alffo a method, a means of struggling for the emancipation of man. And, from this point of view, we maintain clearly, categorically, that the "Social ist" way (that of authoritarian and statist Socialism) cannot achieve the goals of the Social Revolution, cannot lead us to Socialism. Only the Anarchist method is capable of solving that problem. The essential thesis of Anarchism as a method of

struggle, as a way toward true Socialism, is just this: It is impossible to get to Anarchism and to freedom in general "through Socialism" or "after Socialism." It is not "through" Socialism that we may reach it. One cannot achieve Anarchism in any waij except by going straight to the goal, by the direct Anarchist roaxL Otherwise one never will arrive.

It impossible to achieve freedom by means of State Social

Freedom from exploitation can never be granted from above by legislative fiat, but must be grasped from below by the workers themselves (peasants and proletariat). Autonom ous social and economic organizations must make their own decisions concerning every aspect of their operations—and those organizations must be controlled directly and in the most uncompromising manner by the workers themselves. The Leninists' insistence upon introducing socialism in a centralized and statist form—from above—and their basic

distrust of the thousands of social and economic organizations which were activated by the Russian revolutionary process, "led them to incredible depths of infamy and barbarism." In the words of Berkman,

...The central government is the depository of all knowledge and wisdom. It will do everything. The

sole duty of the citizen is obedience. The will of the State is supreme. 134

Stripped of fine phrases, intended mostly for West ern consumption, this was and is the practical atti tude of the Bolshevik government.!^ The "fine phrases" in praise of Bolshevism are not here being condemned by an advocate of bourgeois democracy, but by a sympathizer of the revolution who, after at first being willing to work and cooperate with the Bolsheviks, was driven into opposition by what he could only interpret as a Bolshevik counter-revolution. It was because anarchists refused to accept the new elitist state order, founded on the imaginary superior consciousness the "scientific socialists," that the Cheka moved

againstthem—for the first time on the night of April 12,1918. Bolshevism's "fine phrases" required the coercive arm of a political police force in order to be fully effective, and amongst the first victims of the latter were the overly-critical anarchists. Every state has its myths, deliberatly propagated through its communications systems, aiming at popular affir mation of political structures and a reduction of the role of coercion in the perpetuation of the particular system. We are all "taught" to identify with the state through recognition of its heroes (sporting, historical or other), participation in its elec tions, and a general belief in the pomp, patriotism and preju dices that surround the jurisdiction under which we find our selves. Political scientists refer to the perpetration of statist myths as "political socialization," and the end product as "pol itical culture," which ensures the "legitimation" of the politi cal system. In order words, there is a dissemination through out society of an officially-condoned world-view which encourages a sense of identity between the individual and the state, and which produces a voluntary subordination of the citizen to the prevailing order and institutions of politics. Political myths find their content in historical facts which are selectively chosen and interpreted to demonstrate the justness and propriety of one's own contemporaneous political situa tion. In the Soviet case the events of the period 1917-1921 form an integral element of the official mirorozrennie or worldview. Soviet ideologists and historians optimistically state that the U.S.S.R. is the best possible of states because of the continuous and proper application of the principles of scien135

tific socialism ever since the creation of the Bolshevik faction

in 1903. During the early founding years of the Soviet state, the cornerstones of the modern U.S.S.R. were created under

the personal leadership of Lenin (on whose unending virtues and brilliance the myth is particularly nauseous). Within this framework the mythical and state-affirming view of the Rus sian revolution makes three main claims:

First, we are told that, "only the Bolshevik Party, under the leadership of V.I. Lenin, took a genuinely revolutionary

position, directing the intense work of explaining to the masses the real goals of the revolution, pointing out the road to final victory."'® Second, it is argued that, even though the Bolsheviks did not command a majority of support (even in the soviets) in 1917, they had the support of the most advanced sections of the populace (i.e., the industrial proletariat). The argument is that, "by the autumn of 1917 the Bolsheviks had won over the working class and prepared it for the decisive battle against the bourgeoisie, for the victory of the socialist revolution. During the following years, the rest of the exploited popula tion (that 85% which was rural and peasant) gradually came to support them also—or so it is argued. Third, we are told that the centralized and disciplined military, economic and political structures were not only "scientifically" necessary for both revolutionary success and socialist construction, but were implemented without coercion except against real counter-revolutionaries: Heading up the construction of the first workers' and peasants' state, the creation of a new apparatus of power, the realization of a socialist transforma tion in economics, the mobilization of the broad

working masses for the protection of the October victory, the Communist Party did not apply methods of cruel terror and violence, of naked administra

tion and compulsion—as was argued by the leaders of bourgeois and petty-bourgeois parties, and as the ideologists of imperialism now repeat—but by means of education and of persuading the workers of the correctness of the political line.20 136

Such are the continuing "fine phrases" of Bolshevism. If, however, we give consideration to the images drawn by non-Bolshevik participants in the revolutionary events of the time, participants like Voline and Berkman, the Bolshevik Revolution begins to look very much like counter-revolution, and the Soviet state begins to look just like any other modern state—seeking to co-ordinate and control every aspect of the citizen's life according to bureaucratically-established priori ties. As was argued earlier in this chapter, the Russian Revo lution was a process which had long been under way within the Russian Tsarist state. Finally, during the months prior to the formation of a Bolshevik-dominated government, "the city proletariat was taking possession of the shops and factories, while the peasants expropriated the big estates...""^' Berkman explains how the social revolution had progressed so far in the

months prior to October that the power of the Provisional Government had all but disappeared. In the absence of popu

lar support for the regime, without any reinforcing myths to replace the defunct Tsarist "culture," the state lost its ability to control society. Given this, the Bolsheviks must not be seen

as leading a revolution, but as following in its wake: all of which explains how the Bolsheviks were able to gain power

only by adopting slogans that echoed the sentiments of the masses, and pursuing actions which merely complemented and completed a social revolution already under way. They advocated power for the soviets, land for the peasants, and workers' control of the factories within the framework of a radical destruction of the old state machine. That is, the Bol sheviks behaved like anarchists. However, as Berkman puts it,

they "energetically proclaimed the slogans of the Social Revo lution, in order to gain control of the movements of the mas ses."-- Lenin and his followers had to behave thus, but "at heart

they had no faith in the people and their creative initiative."--^ This distrust showed itself in the policy of the new govern ment, which sought to remove all decision-making power from the people, monopolizing authority, and demonstrating its essential statism in all of the following: — the Brest-Litovsk agreement with imperial Ger

many, demonstrating a preference to reinforce its power 137

rather than risk the uncertainties of a struggle against inter national capitalism; — the extermination of the Left Socialist Revolution

ary Party, which was the most popular party with the peasantry;

— the suppression of all political parties and movements; — the arbitrary and uncontrolled terror of the Cheka, under Dzerzhinsky, directed against anyone suspected of opposing the R.K.P.(b);

— the growth of a centralized bureaucracy to the point that, in 1920, soviet bureaucrats {soi'burs) in Moscow alone outnumbered the total Tsarist bureaucracy of 1914;^^ — the introduction of one-man management {ijedhiolitchiye); — the use of bourgeois specialists; — the use of forced labour;

— the use of military force in the requisitioning of

grain by means of punitive expeditions against the peasants; — the reintroduction of some forms of private capital ism under the New Economic Policy (after 1921); — the acceptance and growth of economic inequalities, and the growth of privileges amongst party members in particular; — the continued wage slavery of the industrial proleta riat in state economic enterprises; — the elimination of the autonomy of the soviets; — the repression of the Makhnovist movement in the Ukraine after it had ceased to be useful in the struggle against the White armies and foreign interventionists;

— the repression of the Kronstandt uprising in 1921; and

— the destruction of trade-union activity and the rejec tion of even the discussion of syndicalist ideas (at the Tenth Party Congress in 1921). 138

All of this is, for Berkman, not a deviation from Marx ism, but the central feature of that doctrine since the time that Marx arranged for the self-destruction of the First Interna tional, rather than have to bear the federative views of the

increasingly-strong Bakuninists. In Russia a "system of bar rack absolutism"25 dammed up the revolutionary wave upon which the Bolsheviks first rose to power. What Voline adds to this picture is a more detailed discussion of the role of anarchists in the Russian Revolution.

This accounts for the title of his work, The Unknown Revolu

tion; for he is concerned with movements which were not only independent of Bolshevism, but positively opposed to it—and not, therefore, either well-publicized or sympatheticallyhandled by the communist press of the soviet state. Voline sees the Russian Revolution as a process which stretched back to the Decembrist Conspiracy of 1825, and which gradually developed to maturity in the first decades of the twentieth century. He describes the broadening discontent which pro duced, after the 1905 revolution, the complete collapse of the Tsarist myth amongst peasantry and proletariat alike. He describes the events that led up to the creation of the 1905 Petrograd Soviet, demonstrates the limited role played by the Bolsheviks in the creation and development of these institu tions, and then rejects soviets as a vehicle for the attainment of liberation. His argument is that the development of soviets was evidence not of the vitality of the peasants, soldiers and industrial proletariat of Tsarist Russia, but a reflection of their immaturity and the paucity of other working-class organizations. "All power to the Soviets " is seen by Voline as "an empty formula; subject to being filled later with any kind of content."26 An anarcho-syndicalist, Voline argues that, "there is no doubt that if a union apparatus had existed, it would have led the workers' movement.Without trade

unions or syndicalist ideas, the "working masses" became ''the unconscious prize of political parties.'*^ Meanwhile, sponta neity held sway when the weaknesses of Tsarism led to its collapse in February, 1917: ''This action wa^ neithe?'organized nor guided Inj any political paHy. Thereafter, according to Voline, the Bolsheviks became increasingly popular, winning the "prize"—if only temporarily. However, even though popu139

lar support of the Bolsheviks did not last, it was enough for them to organize the perpetuation of their tenure of power. Anarchism fought a rearguard action against the Bol shevik forces, which had gained the advantage of political power before the working class had securely established its own organizations, particularly workers' councils and trade unions. In spite of the widespread ignorance concerning anar chism, Voline points to the rapid growth of the anarchist viewpoint as "a second fundamental idea" which emphasized the solving of problems "not by political or statist means, but by means of natural and free activity, economic and social, of the associations of the workers themselves, after having over thrown the last capitalist government.To achieve this, anarchists should be active as propagandists and organizers, but should hold back before taking authority to themselves and refuse to be tempted into politics, whatever the apparent short-term advantages. It is this view of the role of the revolu tionary activist which had distinguished Bakunin from Marx, and now distinguished anarchists from Bolsheviks. By con trast, the R.K.P.(b), "instead of simply helping the workers to achieve the Revolution and emancipate themselves ... organ ized itself as a privileged caste."^^ In spite of the repression of the anarchists and other anti-Leninist forces on the left, there were two historical events which anarchists, including Berkman and Voline, saw

as indicators of the potential of the social revolution (as well as martyrs to the brutality and unprincipled character of the new so-called revolutionary state). These are the Makhnovist movement in the Ukraine, and the Kronstadt uprising. It is not my purpose in a theoretical work of this kind to reiterate the historical details which can be found elsewhere. It is per haps worth noting, however, that for the modern Soviet histo rian, Makhno was a bandit, and the Kronstadt uprising was a function of the backwardness of "recruits drawn from the

countryside, politically quite raw and reflecting peasant dis content with the surplus requisitioning system."^^ Balancing the picture Voline, whilst admitting the weaknesses of the Makhnovist movement in terms of the political consciousness of its participants, provides both information and argument to 140

demonstrate and explain its anarchist character. With per sonal reminiscences—for he was closely associated with the anarchist movement in the Ukraine—Voline stresses the posi tive acts of the movement in generating an atmosphere of creativity, egalitarianism and autonomy amongst the pea sants. Makhno, in proper anarchist fashion, drew back from

the political power that he might have had, and left the pea sants to organize their own lives. Voline also draws freely from Arshinov's Histoiij of the Makknovist Morement,'^'^ the excel lent detail of which is combined with Voline's superior theo retical orientation. We see that the repression of Makhno's

army by the Reds was part of the inevitable repression of all

non-state (or non-communist) organizations. Makhtwrach i)ia— the whole ethos of freedom and autonomy generated by

Makhno amongst the peasant areas where his forces held sway—presented itself as an alternative to Bolshevism, the latter being totally foreign to the Ukrainian and Cossack tra dition of independence asserted through a genius for mobile warfare.

If Makhno was a response to specifically Ukrainian environmental factors, the Kronstadt revolt was a response to victorious Bolshevism. The democratic assembly (in the clas

sical sense that anyone who wished to attend was free to do so) of the sailors and general population of the naval base, Kron stadt, passed a unanimous resolution which demanded the following: new and competitive soviet elections, a secret ballot, freedom of propaganda for anarchists and left socialists, lib eration for socialist political prisoners, abolition of political

bureaux {politdeli), equalization of rations, abolition of armed communist brigades controlling both production and trade, freedom of the small peasant to farm independently, the

appointment of travelling control commissions to examine bureaucratic arbitrariness, and the permitting of individual

small-scale production.^^-* The population of Kronstadt, acting in conjunction with a general strike that was under way in Petrograd, stated its grievances. Nobody was shot, but a few communist officials were incarcerated. Then, "frightened for their power, their positions and their privileges, the Bolshev iks forced events and obliged Kronstadt to accept an armed

struggle."^^ Arguing that White Guard generals were involved 141

with a revolutionary committee composed of reactionaries, the Bolsheviks attacked Kronstadt, conquering it with great loss of life. However, even after all of this, both Voline and Berkman remained optimistic. Kronstadt fell and State Socialism triumphed. It is

still triumphant today. But the implacable logic of events leads it infallibly to disaster. For its triumph bore within itself the seed of its final destruction. It

exposes more and more the real character of the Communist dictatorship. (Voline).^® Kronstadt was the firfit popular and entirely inde

pendent attempt at liberation from the yoke of State Socialism—an attempt made directly by the peo

ple, by the workers, soldiers and sailors themselves. It was the first stop toward the Third Revolution which is inevitable and which, let us hope, may

bring long-suffering Russia lasting freedom and peace. (Berkman)^"^ The real tragedy is that this expected development of a movement aiming at the denuding of state power has not occurred, and the U.S.S.R. has become the model of, rather than an exception to, the modern state. Consuming larger and larger portions of social life, until the citizen is no more than an aspect of itself, the state inhibits any kind of independent activity outside of its own concerns. And that is why different kinds of anarchist argument remain an appropriate critical style in an analysis of "socialist" as well as "capitalist" states.

Ill: The Spectrum of Anarchism 1917-1921 Anyone familiar with the writings of anarchists does not need to be told that there is no anarchist orthodoxy, no

more-or-less rigorous system of concepts to which all anar chists subcribe. What anarchists hold in common, and that

which makes them anarchists, is the rejection of the state—

any state—as inevitably exploitative and a progenitor of inequality and repression of the individual. Other than this orientation—and it really is no more than that—anarchists 142

possess no common system. They may be individualists or syndicalists, terrorists or pacifists; and anarchism is nothing

if not an arena within which a multiplicity of ideas are pres

ented as possibilities for individual and social development. Given this, the question to which we now direct our attention is: What was the spectrum of anarchist ideas during the postOctober period in Russia? In the Soviet Union the officially-promoted popular image of the anarchist is one of a rip-roaring, heavy-drinking, immoral thief and libertine. Alexei Tolstoi's historical novel,

Khozhdenie po Mukam (Ordeal), pictures anarchists in the post-October revolutionary turmoil of Moscow and the Ukraine as disorganized malcontents without discipline or programme. And this image is not entirely wrong; for some of the selfstyled anarchists of this period were little more than bandits. In Moscow in 1918 a group calling itself the Black Guard {Cheniaia Gvardaia) was the best known of many "anarchist" gangs who hastened "to liberate" the houses of the prerevolutionary bourgeoisie and aristocracy—groups such as Hurricane (U^^agan), Avantgarde, and The Student Group.^ The very fact that groups such as these might know little or nothing about anarchist philosophy did not prevent more deliberate anarchists from identifying with them. After all, they were an active force spontaneously involved in the des truction of pre-revolutionary structures and values—as was argued by the Petrograd anarchist newspaper Burevestnik (The Stormy Petrel) on April 19,1918.=® This was exactly one week after the police (in the guise of Feliks Dzerzhinsky's Cheka) moved against those Moscow anarchists who were per ceived as a physical threat to the new regime in the new Bolshevik capital (to which they had moved from Petrograd). The rationale behind this action was the association of the

anarchists with criminal acts, the supposed existence of a plan by persons "representing themselves as anarchists" to do bat tle against Soviet power,''" and the on-going criticism of the Bolsheviks by anarchist newspapers and journals.^^ Four hundred persons were arrested, including F. Gorbov, a living caricature of the criminal genre of anarchist. Gorbov and his followers, who styled themselves Anarchist-Communists, had taken over the offices and inventory of the trading company 143

Korkhaz i Merkurii. Gorbov had set himself up in the Metro-

pole Hotel and, when he was arrested, was found to be in possession of bombs, revolvers and a large sum of money. His comrade, A. Svetlov, was arrested in possession of 100,000 rubles-worth of opium.^2 Following the excitement in Moscow, the Cheka moved against the actively anti-Bolshevik and/or criminal anarchists of other areas. The uprising of the Left Socialist Revolutionar ies against Bolshevik power in July of 1918, then the attemp ted assassination of Lenin by Fanny Kaplan on August 30,

1918, each provided further justification for the use of coer

cion by the Cheka against those who rejected both the organi zation and use made of state power by the Bolsheviks— including the anarchists.^^ Qf course, not all anarchists were repressed at this time—only those who pursued a deliberate policy of disobedience to the new legality. However, from this time on, the confines of "legitimate" anarchist activity became gradually narrower. In consequence, many of the more active anarchist elements drifted southwards to the Ukraine where

the Nabat Federation and the army of Nestor Nakhno seemed

to provide a radical alternative to the new form of state power that was developing under the direction of the Bolshevik lead

ership. Meanwhile, the Bolsheviks were only too willing to regard the Ukrainian anarchists as criminals and bandits;^^ and even today Soviet historians tend to disregard the military significance of Makhno's partisans in the defeat of the White armies in the south.

And yet, in spite of the destruction of anarchist organi zations during the period of the Civil War, we are faced with the fact that Leninist theory and practice never stopped think

ing of anarchist ideas as a threat to the Soviet state. In the context of the early years of the revolution, even though few

anarchists appeared as representatives on soviet or tradeunion bodies, their decentralizing and anti-authoriarian views

were seen by Bolsheviks to be a kind of intellectual virus infecting radical groups within the society at large, and even within the party itself. In the modern context we find a con cern that anarchist attitudes and ideas still do have an

appeal—both inside the U.S.S.R., and in the framework of 144

international revolutionary developments. Consequently, Soviet historians and theorists still find the examination of anar

chism a worthwhile pursuit. Insights are to be found in a study of the revolutionary period, and the lessons of the past will allow us better to understand the present—such is the orienta tion of Soviet writers such as S.N. Kanev of the Leningrad Academy of Sciences, the author of one of the most recent and best (though Leninist) books on Russian anarchism during the

revolutionary period. Even so, such analysis still gives to us a comprehensive description of anarchist forms as they deve loped in the revolutionary environment of the post-October period. Voline had described the main anarchist organizations as 1) the anarcho-ayndicalust Union for Anarcho-Syndicalist Pro

paganda, also called Golos Truda (which was the name of its newspaper); 2) the anarcho-communist Federation of Anar chist Groups of Moscow, with its newspaper, i4//a/*c7?/y; and 3) The Nahat Confederation of Anarchist Organizations of the Ukraine, which was closely associated with the Makhnovist movement, and which aimed at a synthetical organization of all individuals and groups which possessed a libertarian orientation. More recently, Paul Avrich has informed us that amrcfmt indiri dualists and Tolntouan pacifists should also be included in a categorization of Russian anarchist forms: "The anarchist groups fell into three categories: AnarchistCommunists, Anarcho-syndicalists, and individual anarchists ... Here and there, groups of Tolstoyans preached the gospel of Christian non-violence."^^ The following, more comprehensive categorization, was provided by Kanev, whose ideological bias does not necessarily invalidate the carefully-gathered infor mation relating to his topic. With him the anarchists are still miscreants, but miscreants of a far more complex character than that presented by the novelist of socialist realism, Alexei Tolstoi. We see them as, 1) The anarchiat commuuists, the most famous of whom was

Kropotkin. Their organization. The Moscow Federation of Anarchist Groups, also contained many criminal and terrorist elements for whom Kropotkin's scientific approach can have had little meaning. Its most active 145

members were A.A. Karelin, la, I. Novomirskii (Kirilovs-

kii), A.M. Atabekian, I.S. Bleikman (N. Solntsev), and K. Kovolevich. Kropotkin himself returned to Petrograd from London, after a forty-year exile, in June, 1917. The

general orientation was that earlier outlined by Bakunin, and developed through Kropotkin's philosophy and anthropology of "mutual aid." Internationalist in orienta tion, it pursued propertyless and stateless goals without either the dictatorship of the proletariat or the leadership of the Bolsheviks—both of which were explicitly rejected.

Berkman's sympathies seem to have lain closest to this group.

2) The anarchist cooperators, under the leadership of A.M. Atabekian, whose theory proposed the creation of an anarchist society under the leadership of the urban pro letariat (rather than the worker-peasant alliance pro posed by Kropotkin).

3) Anarctw-Hyndicalmn, developed first in France by Largardelle and Pelloutier, advocated the transition to a stateless and socialist society through the actions of the

workers organized into trade unions. Prominent were the aformentioned Voline, E. larchuk, G.P. Maximov (menti

oned in the last chapter as an editor of Bakunin's writ ings), G.B. Sandomirskii, V.S. Shatov, Alfa(A.M. Anikst), a n d N . I . P a v l o v.

4) The anarch iM federalists declared themselves to be "pure" syndicalists, advocating an interlinked system of federa tions based upon economic and demographic considera tions. The main personalities were N.I. Proferanov and L . K . L e b e d e v.

5) Christian anarchists (the pacifist followers of Lev Tol stoi), such as the journalist and propagandist A. Tiukhanov. Solzhenitsyn has argued that their stimulus in

providing the idea and organization of agricultural collec

tives made them an early target for the Bolsheviks who

saw them as competitors for control of the rural masses.''® 6) Various individualist anarchists, the "spiritual succes sors of Max Stirner." Leading figures were A.A. Boroboi,

146

the brothers V.L. and A.L. Gordin, and A. Andreev-

Bogdanov. All individualists denied the need to plan alternative societies. The best-know "individualist" theories were:

7) PananarchhiM which, with a demand that each individual

grasp his freedom immediately with a rejection of all

authority, appealed in its 1918 manifesto to the lumpen-

proletariat and other dMaane elements: to the dvorniki (doorkeepers), porters, prisoners, vory (thieves), murder ers, prostitutes. Formulated by the brothers Gordin.

8) Anarchist bio-co^nism, a pseudo-religious anarchism established by A.F. Sviatagor in December, 1920, emphasizing the idea of individual salvation.

9) Neonihilmn argued by A. Andreev-Bogdanov, who wrote, "I deny the state and power—I wish to be a criminal. Because my anarchism is always criminal, I am a crimi nal. And as soon as I cease to be a criminal for the sake of state and society, I lose both myself and my anarchism."''^

10) The Makliaevtsi, followers of A. Vol'skii (V.K. Makhaiskii) whose book, ChistvennyiRabochii (The Brain Worker)

had presented scientific socialism as a conscious fraud. They criticized both trade unions and political organiza tions in the post-October period.'*® There was, therefore, a considerable variety of anar chists during the first years of the revolution. They never, as is

to be expected, played a large role in the political organs of the

soviet state; for example, their largest representation in an All-Russian Congress of Soviets was in March, 1918, when there were 17 self-proclaimed anarchists at the Fourth Con

gress (from a total of 1,252 delegates). At the First All-Russian Congress of Factory Committees in October, 1917, anarchists made up 8% of the 137 delegates. At the First All-Russian Congress of Trade Unionists in January, 1918, anarchists

formed 2.3% of the 504 delegates. At the Third All-Russian Congress of Postal and Telegraph Workers in April, 1918, 6.7% of 266 delegates called themselves anarchists.''® These figures can be taken to "prove" many things: that there were

not very many anarchists (as Voline freely admits), or that 147

anarchists were not particularly concerned with involvement in the kinds of organization mentioned here. Furthermore, after April, 1918, the representation of anarchists on these and other organizations dropped almost to zero. Soviet scholars argue that this was because of the growing popularity of Bol shevism. However, it would be naive not to recognize that the Cheka was instrumental in the remarkable rise in the propor tion of Bolsheviks elected as delegates to various soviets and

congresses. Consequently, we are faced with the possibility, strenuously put by Voline and Berkman, that the expanded Bolshevik monopolization of representation on all elective

bodies in the soviet state hid a growing unpopularity amongst an increasingly terrorized population. This unpopularity is an anarchist distrust and den ial of state authority. It did not often call itself anarchist, but we can be in no doubt about its exist

ence as a mood (nastroenie), an underlying discontent and dissatisfaction with the statist mentality and methods of Bol shevism. Lenin certainly recognized it, even within the ranks

of his own Bolshevik Party, in which complaints began to emerge as the contradiction between revolutionary theory (e.g., power to the soviets) and practice (i.e., power to the communist party) became increasingly obvious. The Soviet scholar, V.V. Komin, tells us that in the pre-October (1917) period Bolsheviks and anarchists fre

quently worked together.^ Voline, whilst condemning Lenin, pointed out that, "When I read the writings of Lenin, espe cially those after 1914, I observed a perfect parallelism between his ideas and those of the Anarchists, except on the idea of the State and power"^'. It was on that question, of the state, that Lenin was to become firm and coherent, but as advocate rather than opponent, once his party grasped politi cal power. The problem for Lenin was that many of his own party had difficulty accepting the abandonment of the radical side of his revolutionary socialism, especially his unwilling ness to accept the reality of workers' councils, soviet power and self-management. Until the passage of resolutions forbidding

the formation of factions within the party at the Tenth Party Congress (1921),there were a number of intra-party groups

formed to oppose these tendencies—groups said by Lenin to be suffering from the petty-bourgeois revolutionary attitudes of 148

persons possessed by anarchist modes of thought.^ In spite of Voline's view that the intra-party conflicts were essentially "family quarrels," and that if the oppositionists had won there would have been no alteration in the "fundamental situati

on,"®^ the presence of anti-authoritarian views within the party requires both acknowledgement and consideration— whatever the title which we give to them.

According to Lenin, and Soviet writers since, the pre dominance of non-proletarian elements in revolutionary Rus sia, elements whose political values began to contaminate the party during its period of rapid post-revolutionary growth,

produced this anarchist orientation. It has been called "spon

taneous anarchism" {stikhiinyi anarkhizm), which exists

independently of anarchism as either an ideology or a political

movement;^ the automatic, sympathetic support of anarchist tendencies by the petty-bourgeois elements of Russian society. On the other hand, there are good reasons for viewing such anarchist sentiments as central to Russian cultural history.

For example, Robert Tucker has argued that, in the nine teenth century, Russians made a conscious distinction between the state [goaudaratvo) and the society {obtihchestro) or people

(uarod). Upon these grounds, Tucker argues that Stalin(ism)

was a continuation of a Russian tradition, a reaffirmation of a

separate and dominating state.^ The reverse side of the coin is,

however, that to the extent that this kind of distinction is made between society and the state, then we are presented with a cultural and intellectual condition which is fertile soil for the

growth of anarchist ideas. To the degree that one argues that social groups are capable of functioning productively in inde pendence of the state, to that degree do we move towards

anarchism. In revolutionary Russia, there were many who

were moving in that direction and, therefore, away from Bol shevism. Within the R.K.P.(b) it accounts for the perceived anarchist tendencies which had as their short-term goal the

(Imnwitli ug of a centralized mechan iam ofrerolutlommj power. Although defeated by the "Leninist" majorities, a radical revo lutionary alternative was present even in the communist party during the first years of soviet government, called "anarchist" then and now by Leninist commentators. In acknowledging the appropriateness of the nomenclature we need not accept 149

their judgement concerning these left-wing factions of the Bolshevik party which kept briefly alive the libertarian side of the Russian revolution.

Within the RKP(b) these anarchistically-oriented groups are usually identified as follows:

1) The Left Communists, whose leading figures were N.I. Bukharin, A.S. Bubnov, N. Osinskii, E.A. Preobrazhenskii, G.L. Piatakov, and K.B. Radek. Defeated at the Seventh Party Congress, 1918.

Opposing peace with imperial Germany, this group hoped to use the war as a vehicle for developing the Russian revolution into a world revolution. Their journal, Kommiinist,

published in Petrograd, also ar^ed against workers' disci

pline and organization, advocating "anarchist disorder and irresponsibility."^^

2) The Military Opposition, whose leading figures were V. Smirnov, G. Piatakov, S. Safarov, and A. Bubnov. Defeated at the Eighth Party Congress, 1919.

This "petty bourgeois, anarcho-syndicalist trend" denied

the role of central authority in the Red Army and in the relationship between the Red Army and the RKP(b). 3) The Democratic Central ist Group, headed by T. V. Sapronov

and V.M. Smirnov. Active at the Ninth and Tenth Party Congresses (1920 and 1921 respectively). The group argued that the party was mistaken in its

utilization of bourgeois specialists in the military and in industry, argued that individual authority was incompatible with democracy and with workers' participation in produc tion, was opposed to the centralization and unification of the

country and the economy, and proposed the unrestricted application of collegiality in the resolution of economic and political questions.

4) The Workers' Opposition, the "anarcho-syndicalist devia tion" led by A.G. Shliapnikov, S.P. Medvedev, G.I. Mias-

nikov and A.M. Kollontai. Rejected at the Tenth Party Congress (1921). 150

The theses of the Workers' Opposition appeared in Pmvda on January 16, 1921 and formed part of the debate concerning the organization and role of trade unions in the soviet state.®® Arguing that there was already excessive sub ordination of the proletariat to the developing party organiza tion, the Workers' Opposition accused the party leadership of becoming "separate from the mass of party members," and of "underestimating the creative powers of the proletariat."®^ This attack against both the party leadership and the overall role of the party was combined with a demand that all eco

nomic questions be handled by the trade unions, under the central direction of an All-Russian Congress of Producers.

After the Tenth Party Congress, ''the luxury of dwcus-

sioii.^ and dispute.^ within the party"®^ was not permitted. Party unity without "the slightest traces of factionalisni"®> became Lenin's goal. Of intra-party groups called anarchist, there were but two—the Workers' Truth (rabochaia pravda)

and the Workers'Group (rabochia gruppa)—whose criticisms

were rejected as anarcho-syndicalist deviations during 1922 and 1923.6=^ The former of these, the Workers' Truth, was

associated with A. Bogdanov, whose subjectivist views had been condemned long before in Lenin's Materialism and

Empirio-cnticiifiu (1908). Now, in the post-revolutionary situation, Bogdanov was re-affirming his old views that there is no such thing as objective knowledge and, therefore, no basis upon which the R.K.P.(b) could perform a leading role in the society. In politics this resulted in a demand for decentraliza tion. In cultural affairs there emerges a spectacular nihilism

which rejected the very principle of certainty in any area of human enquiry or endeavour. The cultural and artistic achieve ments or the past, of pre-revolutionary societies, were regarded with indifference or negatively, and the "taste" of working-

class groups was affirmed as the only measure of aesthetic value. Such were the arguments of the Proletarian Culture

group {proletkul't). Bogdanov, S. Minin and E. Enchman were the chief advocates of these principles in the early twenties,

supporting what has been termed an "anarcho-radicalism in the sphere of philosophy"®*^ with arguments like: "Philosophy

is the pillar of the bourgeoisie. Not merely idealist or meta151

physical philosophy, but philosophy in general, philosophy as such." (Minin).8

Scottish conclusions are repeated by the West Gla

morgan Common Ownership Development Agency in Wales. Though financed by local government, the agency still recognizes its anti-authoritarian role. As the developing officer, Jenny Lynn, has said: "This need to avoid becoming part of the bureau cracy has also brought the Agency and local co operatives reluctantly into conflict with national

organizations seeking to promote co-operative develop ment, who understandably from their point of view, tend to seek to impose centralizing structures on

what must remain a very localized development process if it is to succeed."^^ The Dutch Federation of Workers' Productive Co

operative Societies notes that the "aims and objec tives of Workers' Co-operatives basically are not directed to obtain the highest profit and return on 189

shares, but to the continuity of an organization where workers can perform their work in a humanfriendly way."2". Moreover, in time of unemploy ment they see the number of persons choosing the

cooperative option increasing which has also been the case in Britain.^i

In the Basque region of Spain the Modragon system has been implemented with considerable success and widespread acclamation. A group of coopera tives with a work force of some 18,000 in its indus trial and manufacturing sector and with an annual turnover in excess of $750 millions is impressive. No wonder some look at it as a model as it stands, rather

than as an aspect of a dynamic process of socio economic reorganization.^^ We can see, therefore, an alternative to both capitalism and state socialism in the organization of workers' co

operatives. We should remember, however, that cooperatives are frequently a palliative against unemployment encouraged by the capitalist state, financed by it, and dependent upon the good will of the state for their continuance. There are few linkages between cooperatives in various domestic or interna tional circumstances. Moreover, within the wider context,

they are no more than a deviation from prevailing property

and production norms. A contradiction, but not as yet a threat to capitalism. Nonetheless, whilst taking note of the shortcom ings which are perhaps inevitable whilst the prevailing sys tem remains capitalistic, we are still left with a suggestion of better things. It is probable that only in conscious opposition to capitalism in general, rather than in the struggle by individ

ual cooperatives to survive according to its rules, that capital

ism could be replaced by a system based on self-management. Moreover, this would require a revolutionary rejection of pol itical as well as economic hierarchy. This we can see when we

turn to Yugoslavia-not, however, in the frequently praised achievements of the system there, but in its failure. Imposed

"from the top down," Yugoslavia's system was still-born, its political affiliations perpetually limiting the developmental potential of what aspired to be an egalitarian structure of self-management. 190

An experiment in what has been called self-

management is central to the organization of the Yugoslavian

state system since the early fifties. The 1974 Constitution of

Yugoslavia indicates that it is not a system of state ownership, but social ownership, thereby distinguishing the Yugoslavian system from the other communist regimes of central Europe. Every social and economic relationship is seen to function

according to the principle of direct democracy of equal parti

cipants who elect their own officials. Local government (communes), economic enterprises, schools, residential zones, apartment buildings, sports clubs, etc., are all structured

according to the principle of self-management. The formal assumption in Yugoslavia has been that participation will lead to sophistication in self-managed institutions, and that

this will lead to that prescribed and predicted withering away of the state that was affirmed and promoted by both Marx and Lenin. The Yugoslavians see themselves as the authentic dis ciples of Lenin, who had promoted the soviet state as a transi tional form of organization. "Transition through the Soviet state," had been Lenin's public argument for "the gradual abolition of the state by systematically drawing an ever greater number of citizens, and subsequently each and every citizen, into direct and daily performance of their share of the burdens of administering the state."23 In the implementation

of the principle, however, the Yugoslavs appear to have taken a position quite opposite to that taken by the Soviet Marxists. In the Soviet case the vanguard party maintains strict state control, awaiting the historical maturity of the masses. In the

Yugoslavian case, the process and responsibilities of selfmanagement are seen to be the main means of education and

the development of a socialist consciousness. "Selfmanagement," we are told, "is the general name for the social

relations which are established in the process of the socializa tion of the means of production and the creation of direct democracy of socio-political relations."-^ In the realm of eco nomics such direct democracy must involve the rejection of a centralized, planned economy, as was explicitly stated by one

member of the Central Committee of the League of Yugoslav Communists (L.Y.C.) in 1974:

191

As social (not state) ownership of the nneans of pro duction is the basis of socialist commodity produc tion, and as under such conditions nobody (not even

the state) has the right to manage the means of production and appropriate the results of anybody's work on the basis of ownership, it follows that

centralized systems of economy management and direct planning must cease to exist-^

Consequently, the political and economic hierarchies

associated with state socialism are to be avoided - or such, at least, was the proclaimed intent.

The problem with the Yugoslav system was (and is) that what was conceived as a dynamic structure operates without sense of its developmental potential. The political instigators

of the system emphasize the necessity for some kind of author itarian protection against divisive tendencies, and purges of separatist tendencies still occur (most recently in the auto nomous region of Kosovo in southern Serbia, in 1981). Further, in individual enterprises, whether concerned with production or other tasks, the tendency towards elitism in the predomi

nance of the director and management (all of whom are

elected by the workers' councils) evidences an inegalitarianism of relations, and an indifference to this by the bulk of

participants. Moreover, this elitism is reinforced by structu

ral inhibitions against the development of initiatives from the

bottom up: the specialized character of management (techno cratic) operating against cooperativism; the sense of inade quacy and dependence of the workers; and the connections of the enterprise elite with other elites outside the enterprise. The picture is that of a working class which is concerned only with its income, its wages, while the system of selfmanagement associations and federations (to which local organizations send delegates) is controlled by elites, who are the beneficiaries in terms of power, influence and income. Not conceived by the working class, and not instituted by them, the self-management system of Yugoslavia is not an escape from

both capitalism and state socialism. The principles and prac

tice of self-management are actively and continuously com

promised not only by the local nationalism of a half dozen 192

nationalities, but also by the continuation of the state hie

rarchy (at level of both republics and federal government), and by a market system of economics which reproduces and reinforces a self-centered consumer mentality. The radical developmental potential of self-management is prevented by the "necessities" of political and economic life.

The Yugoslavian, Mihailo Markovic, indicated the opposition of self-management to both the state and the market in a 1964 article in Praxis (that journal of the Yugoslavian intelligentsia which was to be closed in 1974):

The existence of the state in general... automatically generates bureaucratic tendencies, which are by their nature tendencies to resist the further devel

opment of self-management, tendencies to preserve it in its present embryonic and limited forms.=^®

At the basis of self-management is the principle of the freedom of man, the principle of the initiative of the subject which, in the last analysis, leads to the creation of important values. At the basis of a market economy is the principle of economic neces sity, the principle of activity to obtain an even greater income.^^^

Yet today the state and the market economy are still the main determinants of behaviour and attitudes in Yugoslavia. In the practical experience of Yugoslavs, this has always been the case, and the possibility of alternatives having always been a product of external stimuli, there is no reason to expect a spontaneous resolution of the inhibitions against selfmanagement from the normal operation of the system. A movement towards a regeneration of self-management in Yugoslavia would of necessity be revolutionary in its denial of the stratified society within a state system into which it is frozen, still embryonic, today.

This was also the perception of the Pole, Jacek Kuron, when he was asked if Solidarity in Poland after August, 1980, was following the model laid down earlier by Yugoslavia. He replied, "We have chosen the Polish model, which has not existed up to now. Yugoslavia's reforms were decided at the 193

summit. Ours come from the rank and file."-" As we shall now

see, self-management in Poland developed from a situation in which the spontaneous revolutionary activity in all sections of Polish society produced the incapacitation of the MarxistLeniniststate structure. Even after forty yearsof the practice

and propaganda of the centralized and statist socialist model, the Polish workers showed that model to be incapable of gen

erating feelings other than those of alienation and rebellion. What began as a series of complaints against certain political and economic policies, developed through direct action into the affirmation (and some augmentation) of self-management in all social and economic ventures. In the complexity of a

multiplicity of interacting variables and in the absence of any particular system of thought, the 1980-1982 social revolution in Poland seemed to move inexorably towards a radical decen

tralization of authority through the dismantling of the state. It invites a reconsideration of Bakunin's nineteenth-century

populist claims, and suggests a kind of "inevitability thesis" that has nothing to do with the systemic affirmations dis cussed in the first section of this chapter. That thesis might be stated thus: In revolutionary situations, an anti-state move

ment towards self-management organization of life is normal. True or not, this is what happened in Poland.

Ill: Revolution and Reaction in Poland In a society controlled by a communist regime, the existence of strikes is an instant denial of the regime. The "socialist" state owns the means of production, which are organized by its officers according to the principles of "scien tific" Marxism-Leninism. The party of the working class is

politically dominant in this state: as a result of which it is

claimed that strikes are actions of the workers against their own interests. Strikes do occur, but are interpreted always as a result of human weakness and incompetence creating distor

tions in the system (to be cured by purging the guilty), work ing class immaturity and ignorance (to be cured by education), bourgeois elements gaining an influence over the working class (to be cured by their removal), or any combination of these. 194

In this context, strikes nnust always and obviously have a political significance, whatever the character of the imme diate demands; for the opposition to the strike is always state ownership and the statist ideology. In the specifically Polish context, the many apparently unpolitical demands put for ward by strikers in 1980 and 1981 always carried this broader significance. Strikes with demands for strike pay, controlled prices, wage increases, work-free Saturdays and, during the Solidarity trade union congress of September-October, 1981, the vigorous demand (with threats of work-stoppages) for the retraction of an increase in the price of tobacco, might seem to have been motivated simply by short-term economic (even trivial) demands. To conclude thus would be to miss the point, which is that every strike was a denial of the logic and legiti macy of state power in Poland. Moreover, the strike process itself, and millions of persons were involved, gave rise to the trade union movement. Solidarity, which was an alliance or confederation of local unions produced by the workers them selves (spontaneously and from the bottom up) in their opposi tion to the state. The strikes were revolutionary acts of con frontation with the state giving rise, concurrently, to alter native social organization. For those of an anarcho-syndicalist orientation, the developments which we shall now examine have been interpreted as the emergence of the classical structural form of revolutionary unionism:

Since its earliest days, Solidarity has been carrying out de facto the One Big Union programme of clas sical syndicalism. It moved to the brink of the apo calyptic general strike aimed at superseding the social authority of the dominant political power. Were it not for the Russian tanks at the border.

Solidarity would long ago have supplanted the authority of the PUWP [Polish United Workers' Party]. In order for the PUWP and the Soviet Union to countenance its existence, Solidarity must continue to deny any such syndicalist ambitions and give positive evidence of its trade unionist intenti ons.^

There seems to be some truth in this 1981 statement,

and it was perhaps even believed by the pseudo-saviours of 195

Poland who imposed martial law after December 13, 1981. The communist reaction showed itself in a militaristic devia

tion from the norm of civilian government; and this was nothing less than an acknowledgement that the post-1945 Pol ish state had never acquired legitimacy for the population. The history of Poland since 1945 is a study in the inade

quacy of state socialism both technically, in achieving the

realization of its policies, and culturally, in establishing its legitimacy. Geographically, the boundaries of the state were the arbitrary creation of the U.S.S.R., whose armies had "lib erated" eastern Europe from German occupation. However, the population was almost totally homogeneous both linguisti cally and in terms of participation in the Roman Catholic Church. Germans were expelled from formerly German terri tories in East Prussia and the lands East of the Oder-Neisse

line, the large Jewish population had been almost entirely destroyed by the Nazis, and non-Polish groups (e.g. Ukrain ians and Byelorussians) had been incorporated into the U.S.S.R. following the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact of 1939. This was the state that came under the control of the Marxist-Leninist

Polish United Workers' Party (P.U.W.P.), a control which was modeled after the rule of the C.P.S.U. in the Soviet Union,

although other "token" parties were permitted in Poland. As the Cold War developed after 1948, Stalinism prevailed in the form of political dictatorship, police terror, purges, and the development of a state socialist economy involving a central ized plan to be implemented by a multiplicity of directives (i.e., a command system of economics). Internationally, Poland was part of the Soviet bloc, subordinate to the larger designs of the U.S.S.R.

It is not my purpose here to present a detailed develop ment of Poland since 1948. However, we can note that the

Polish communists began with some considerable advantages in relation to the population which they set out to govern. Land reform had given land to the peasantry - including lands formerly German. The communists were associated with the battle against a brutal German occupation (both their own partisans and the Soviet Army). Refusal of western states to

recognize Poland's boundaries fed a nationalistic identifica196

tion of the populace with the de facto regime. Not an indus

trialized society before World War II, industrial development could be claimed as an achievement of the communist regime. A dictatorship before the war, the post-war communist regime could present itself as "popular." Yet none of this was

sufficient to prevent the gradual alienation of the society from

the regime, whose legitimacy was never established. The cul mination of this conflict between the state and the society was the formation of the Solidarity movement in 1980. In that organization of loosely-affiliated "trade unions," created by workers, by students, by farmers themselves, was the begin nings of a reorganization of society "from the bottom up." At this point in time it has been crushed by the reactionary forces of the state bureaucracy under the leadership of the army, and

that is a tragedy. On the other hand, to the extent that the Solidarity movement was part of the spontaneous generation of forms of self-management in the circumstances of modern production, the forces which generated the revolutionary reorganization of the working environment will not just go away. No matter how much Marxist-Leninists may rant on concerning the anarcho-syndicalist character of Solidarity's activities (and we can all recall the Leninist accusation that anarcho-syndicalists are objectively capitalist reactionaries), numerous elements in Polish society, and especially the work ing class, express both the demand and the capability for non-state reorganization which gives the lie to the claims of the authoritarians. This is not, of course, non-socialist; but

democratically socialist in a way that most socialists in west ern countries who lay claim to the term have yet to discover. T h e c o n fl i c t b e t w e e n t h e P o l i s h s t a t e a n d t h e P o l i s h

society was first openly expressed in 1956 in the form of antiStalinist riots (which began in Poznan). One expatriate Pole d e scri b e d th e si tu a ti o n a s fo l l o w s:

The ferment among the masses reached its climax in 1956 - in the Poznan revolt in June, and in the

demonstrations staged in Warsaw and some other cities in October and November. - At the same time,

the discontent among the populace took the form of a widespread mood of "non-violent non197

cooperation." ...The masses pressed for reforms in the direction of both de-Stalinization and desatellitization.

...The second main source of pressure came from the non-conformist intellectuals... By the spring of 1956 the two channels of pressure merged, with the intel lectuals largely assuming the role of spokesman for the masses.^^"

Responding to an inability to retain control, the leader ship of the P.U. W.P. recruited the previously-purged Gomulka back into the leadership as first secretary of the Central Committee (and thereby de facto leader of the state). Gomulka attempted to re-establish some form of legitimacy for the party by relaxing controls over students and intellectuals, dissolving collective farms and affirming that Polish agricul ture would be founded on a peasant class of small landholders for the forseeable future, removing Stalinists from positions of authority, and establishing a modus vivendi with the Roman Catholic Church - including freedom to propagate the faith and to train priests. In this way, Gomulka gave to Polish citi zens an inefficient agricultural system incapable of satisfying the demands of the society, identified the Church as a legiti mate symbol and channel of anti-communist behaviour, and held out the promise of a less repressive existence. And it seemed to work, until 1968, when students rebelled - showing an unw illingness to accept the increasingly-authoritarian way of Gomulka and his bureaucrats (especially his advocacy and support of the Warsaw Pact repression of the "Prague Spring"). Then, in 1970, widespread strikes in opposition to a rise in food prices just before Christmas began in the Baltic industrial area centered upon the city of Gdansk (formerly the German city of Danzig).

Faced with a collapse of party and state authority, the party leadership removed Gomulka and his cronies-i.e., the

Central Committeeof the P.U.W.P., sensing the insecurity of a crisis, enforced the removal and/or resignation of Klisko. Jaszczuk, Kociolek, Loga-Sowinski. Edward Gierek stepped into the position of first secretary. 198

The increased prices which had been the immediate stimulus for the country-wide expression of opposition to the

Polish regime were an attempt to make food prices reflect costs of production, and to soak up excessive purchasing power (which stimulated unofficial inflation on a black market or parallel economy). Moreover, Polish industrial growth was grinding to a halt on the basis of bad planning, bad adminis

tration, bad management, which combination of incompe tence and authoritarianism produced an alienation amongst

the working class. The legitimacy crisis was expressed by Gierek in a speech to the Central Committee of the P.U.W.P. on February 7,1971:

...the crisis had built up over a number of years and

had deep-rooted causes. The main cause was the weakening and, finally, the thoroughgoing rupture of ties between the party leadership on the one hand and the working class and other strata of the work

ing people on the other, ties that are necessary in the conditions of our system.

...In conditions of mounting public dissatisfaction,

the party's position became especially difficult; the worsening mood in the various circles gave rise to uneasiness in the party's ranks, especially among its akt iv. The leadership, losing contact with the party

and ignoring the enormous reserves of its political forces, imposed administrative methods of activity on the party.-^'

Yet, in spite of an acknowledgement of intra-party dis trust of the leadership, and an alienation of the party from the very classes for which it was supposed to perform the van guard role, Gierek was forced to go on to assert that everything boiled down, "only and exclusively," to a "deviation from the party's correct political line." Meanwhile, "the general line of the construction of socialism in Poland under the party's lead

ership, evaluating it from the historical perspective of the destiny of our people, is still a correct and inviolable line."=^Therefore, Gierek had no intention of changing anything. The authoritarian tenor of Marxism-Leninism described in the

last chapter with reference to the foundation of the Soviet state 199

is perfectly reflected in the arrogant, if not necessarily confi dent, assertion that the party line is "correct and inviolable." And nothing was going to change in Poland over the next ten years.

Under Gierek, Poland imported massive amounts of western technology, financed by loans from western banks. The imported technology failed to be integrated with the Pol ish industrial framework effectively or rapidly enough (to generate output and exports to earn currency to repay the western creditors). The import of western technology there fore failed as a means of regenerating the Polish economy, satisfying domestic material expectation, and giving the P.U.W.P. legitimacy as the guiding hand of Polish society. Meanwhile, food was still heavily subsidized, farming was inefficient (farms often operated at a subsistence level by the wives of wage-earners), industrial planning and decision making was still central ized in the state and party hierarchies, management was incompetent, output stagnant, and author itarian measures were used to stifle criticism by workers, students, and intelligentsia. In 1976 strikes at the Ursus trac tor factory (near Warsaw) and in the town of Radom were brutally repressed. Students and intellectuals were deprived of opportunity and income if they criticized the status quo. The regime was essentially the same as it had been in 1956. The standard of living was somewhat higher throughout the society; but it was also about to fall because of bureaucratic incompetence in the state administration, the international bankruptcy of the state economy, and the isolation of the polit ical party which claimed monopolistic control over the whole mess. The party's claims to infallibility began to sound a bit thin in this time of an absolute decline in industrial output of about 5% (as occurred in 1979). The P.U.W.P. began to run scared as the crisis mounted-a crisis expressed in the everdecreasing ability of the party or state officials to command the respect and obedience of the population. The end product this time was to be more than the negative statement of a strike, however. And resignation of the old party-state leader ship, plus a few handouts, whilst the structure and direction of the system remained, was to prove unsatisfactory for a society 200

whose every element was to become active under the idea and principle of self-management.

Revolutionary anti-statism could be seen developing in

Poland from early in 1980:

February 11-15: 8th Congress of P.U.W.P. in Warsaw (1888 delegates) is preoccupied with economic issues, especially declining output and the declining standard of living. February 18th: Premier Piotr Jaroszewicz replaced by Edward Babiuch because of unsatisfactory

economic results (especially in agriculture and housing construction) at a meeting of the Sejm (the Polish national legislative assembly).

April 2nd: A member of the United Peasants Party, Stanislaw Gucwa, elected speaker of the Sejm. July, 1980:

First wave of strikes. Work stoppages in Mielec, Tczew, Ursus in response to grow ing cost of living and new pay tables. Fol lowed by strikes in Lublin, Swidnik, Zyradow and elsewhere. According to information provided at 6th Plennum of P.U.W.P. Cen tral Committee (September, 1980) 81,000 people in 177 enterprises went on strike in J u l y.

July 23rd:

P o l i t b u r o o f P. U . W . P. C e n t r a l C o m m i t t e e

meets with Main Committee of United Pea

sants Party (U.P.P.). August 1-lOth:

Second wave of strikes in Lodz, Kalisz, Wroclaw, Lublin, Warsaw and other towns.

August ll-15th: Work stoppages across Poland. Public transport strike in Warsaw. Issues: wages, norms, organization of work (i.e. manage ment) 201

August 15-18th: Strikes begin on the Baltic coast, initiated in and centered upon the industrial port of Gdansk.

August 18th: Television appeal by Gierek for peace, grounding his argunnent on "the Polish rea son of state."

Evidence of the collapse of party and state authority, and an attempt to create the impression that changes were underway (in personnel changes, and in discussions with a token party, the U.P.P.), reached their peak with the strike in Gdansk. Gdansk was symbolic of the capacity of the working class to threaten the P.U.W.P. leadership—ever since 1970. Ironically, the rebellion of the Gdansk shipyard workers which had initiated Gierek's rise to power was now initiating his fall. Lech Walesa (the chairman of the strike committee) filled the T.V. screens and captured the imagination of the western media, as did the outdoor prayers and Catholic masses held before monuments erected to the victims of 1970

(those shot at that time). Members of the Committee for the Defence of the Workers (KOR) cooperated with Walesa and other strike leaders—KOR being an organization of intellec tuals created specifically to compete with the authoritarian ism of the state whilst forming an alliance of workers and intelligentsia. Pandering to the farmers, the P.U.W.P. regime had meetings with the U.P.P. Pandering to the workers, senior party members met with strikers, in what was rapidly becoming a general strike: August 20-30th: In Gdansk vice-premier Mieczyslaw leads a government commission to make an agreement with the workers. In the

sistertowns of Szczecin and Elblag the government is represented by Kazimierz Barcikowski and Jozef Pinkowski

respectively. August 26th: The Primate of Poland, Cardinal Wyszy nski stressed the need for calm, consid eration, responsibility, and the spirit of peace. The first example of the Church 202

acting as a "moderate" influence, pres enting itself as a possible arbitrator, and ever distinct in its interests to those of the workers.

August 30th: Agreement signed in Szczecin between Barcikowski (representing the govern ment) and Marian Jurczyk (Chairman of the Inter-factory Strike Committee). August 31st: Agreement signed in Gdansk between Jagielski (representing the government) and Walesa (chairman of the Inter-factory Strike Committee). Solidarity becomes the acknowledged vehicle of working class interest.

September 2nd-3rd:A government commission and the Interfactory Strike Committee met for talks in Jastrzebie, Silesia. Mines resumed work

after signing of an agreement. September 3rd: Jagielski states "We express our deep gratitude to our friends from the frater nal countries of the Warsaw Treaty for their understanding of our situation and their help in solving the problems that lie ahead."="

September 5th: Jozef Pinkowski confirmed as Prime Minister at a meeting of the Sejm (Babiuch having been removed during the last two weeks of August).

September 6th: Stanislaw Kania replaced Gierek as first secretary of the P.U.W.P. at the 6th Ple nary Meeting of the Central Committee. And there the established authorities hoped that things would rest. The party would stay in control, the trade unions permitted by the agreements would gradually be integrated into the mechanism of socialist administration, a symbolic

change in the top party and state posts, and a subtle reminder that the troops of the U.S.S.R. and other Warsaw Pact coun tries could well intervene if things got out of hand (as they had 203

in Czechoslovakia in 1968). That was their miscalculation. The

creative capacity of the population for social reorganization was by no means exhausted; and for the next sixteen months we are presented with the picture of the statists delaying, accomodating, threatening, procrastinating, implying for eign intervention, pointing to economic deprivation, shuffling the leadership in vain attempts to conjure up images of rejuvenation, and finally turning to brute coercion. In the process we see the power of the strike to bring authority to its knees, the prevarication of the Church whose interests are by no means those of the workers, and the inability of the regime to gain obedience of any kind as the power in society devolved upon the spontaneously-organized and freely-formed sections of Solidarity. All of this began with the agreements of August, 1980, the main parts of which were: the government recogni tion of trade union autonomy and the right to strike; the strik ers' agreed not to replace the leading role of the P.U.W.P.; strike committees would convert themselves into trade unions

which could be registered separately (with the courts) from the Central Council of Trade Unions (i.e., the communistdominated state-controlled unions); the government would introduce "enabling legislation" concerning the increased role of trade unions in the area of self-management; the unions would have their own research centre; the unions could make

independent statements; the rights of workers dismissed in 1970 and 1976 would be restored (and students dismissed from the universities); and political prisoners would be released. The strikers won the day. However, the agreements were but the beginning of the conflict and the growth of anti-state reorganization of society.

The chief features of the Polish situation following the official recognition of an independent trade union movement,

called Solidarity, were: a) the debate within Solidarity con cerning the stance which the union would take in relation to its

own internal structure, and in relation to the state; b) the constant denial of state and party legitimacy in a series of strikes, which themselves also demonstrated the decentral

ized structure of union authority; c) the universality of Solid arity's appeal as an anti-regime symbol for workers, peasants. 204

students, and intelligentsia—whose solidarity in opposition to the regime was unshakeable in spite of efforts by the state to create divisions between them; d) with the decline of legiti

macy, the attempt by the party-state hierarchy to achieve its goals through coercive techniques; e) the parallel attempt by the state to appeal to the "good sense" of the population, requesting obedience on the grounds that the regime was prepared to meet the unionist half way, doing what it could in

the situation; f) the ambiguous role played by the leadership of the Roman Catholic Church in Poland; and g) the constant

possibility of Soviet intervention and the imposition of a

"Soviet solution" upon the state making the second largest

military contribution to the Warsaw Treaty Organization. If

we look at each of these in turn the character of this most

recent example of spontaneous and revolutionary anti-state activity on a mass scale will become clear.

a) Concerning Solidarity's ideological unity (or lack of it), we see that, both in theory and practice, it was never much

more than a federation of local organizations. It had one

national congress, at which Lech Walesa was elected presi dent. At that congress (September-October 1981) Walesa was

opposed by many who regarded him as too moderate, too willing to integrate the new union structures into the partystate hierarchy of the past. Those radical elements, repres

ented by such as Marian Jurczyk (chairman of Solidarity m Szczecin), Seweryn Jaworski (deputy-chairman of Solidarity in Warsaw) and Jan Rulewski (chairman of Solidarity in Byd goszcz), directed the Solidarity movement towards anti-state goals. We see these aspects in the Solidarity programme deve loped at the 1981 congress, the first point of which was that, "at every level of leadership, a democratic, self-management

reform should enable the new economic and social system to

combine planning, autonomy and market." This, we are told,

would involve the ending of "the authoritarian direction of the

economy, which makes rational development impossible." In its place, "the basic unit will be a collectively managed social enterprise, represented by a workers' council and led by a

director who shall be appointed with the council's help and subject to recall by the council."^^^ There was further argument for a "society of solidarity," with "genuine socialization," 205

involving "every decision concerning the community" being "conducted under everyone's control," and the revival of "the idea of mutual aid."^^'' Solidarity committed itself to the assist

ance and protection of "every independent initiative for selfmanagement in culture and education. The anti-state movement was compromised at that time, however, by the various other aspects of the complicated situation. Much of Sol idarity's membership saw the organiza tion as an interest group, powerful to be sure, in the reformed system of state socialism. This was Walesa's standpoint, and it was reflected at numerous points in the 1981 programme, being summed up as the pursuit of a "true socialization of our government and state administration," wherein "the state must serve people instead of dominating them."-" That this was the prevailing attitude within Solidarity effectively iso lated the more active and more progressive elements. Thus, although radical anti-state elements performed the leader ship roles in Warsaw (Zbigniew Bujak and Seweryn Jaworski), Szczecin (Marian Jurczyk), Bydgoszcz (Jan Rulewski), Gdansk (Andrzej Gwiazda), and Katowice (Andzej Rosplochowski), they were always in a minority and not optimistic that their own political perceptions would be easily accepted by the average unionist. On the other hand, they saw that cooperation with the state merely strengthened the hand of the status quo. Bujak stated, from hiding, after the military coup: ...I know that many Western politicians believe that if we had been wiser we could have avoided this

tragedy. But I also know that what they call wisdom for us meant collaboration with the state and party authorities—a collaboration that would have been

directed against the workers, the intellectuals, the people of culture and the arts. We would have become another annex of the totalitarian system radiating only an impression of democracy. This must not be demanded of us or of our Solidaritif union.-^

Bujak was, however, taken by surprise by the military takeover, not thinking that Solidarity presented such a broad threat at that time. In this, he was in agreement with the rest 206

of the National Commission of Solidarity, its central executive body, which was meeting in Gdansk at the very moment of the coup—facilitating the arrest of its members. Nevertheless, even though there was no deliberate plan to takeover from the state, alienation from it was total. As American journalist, Robert Darnton, explained it; The wholesale withdrawal of allegiance from the state and its reinvestment in a movement that

began illegally is what the Poles have in mind when they refer to the "revolution." But they do not have a clear concept of Solidarity itself. Despite the influ ence of KOR and other dissident groups, it has no coherent ideology, no clear vision of an alternative social order, not even a general program of reform. The only thing holding it together is a deep, perva sive hatred of the regime. ...it represents an extra ordinary situation: the complete alienation of society from the state.^^"

Any lack of cohesion in theory was a result of what Wladyslaw Markiewicz viewed as the absolute certainty that "the workers' protest was spontaneous and not rehearsed."^" The organization and activity of Solidarity reflected this, par ticularly the series of strikes after August 1980. b) Concerning the strike activity of Solidarity, the place, purpose, and goals of what sometimes seems like an endless list, can be seen by looking at the major confrontations, both general strikes and local strikes: October 3,1980: A one-hour general strike ordered by Solidarity's central executive (in Gdansk) was a "complete success" according to Lech Walesa. The strike was called because of the government's fail

ure to honour agreements concerning pay raises and access to the media for independent trade unions.

At that time it seemed that Solidarity might be able to present a coordinated national strategy built round the threat

of a general strike, with the solidarity of the workers behind the National Coordinating Commission having been demon207

strated. At the beginning of November (1980) the Polish Supreme Court accepted the statutes of Solidarity as pres ented by the Union's Founding Committee under threat of a general strike. At the end of the same month the threat of a general strike obtained the release of Jan Narozniak and Piotr Sapela, charged with the theftof official documents. However, the central co-ordination of union activity was never more

than an aspiration. The central executive of Solidarity sur veyed an action-oriented working class which was in perpet ual circumstance of disobedience. Strikes were principally local in character, stimulated by immediate complaints and events, and the national leadership were followers rather than initiators of strike action, co-ordinators at best.

At worst, the centre was to become a force for the status

quo. A four-hour "warning" strike did take place towards the

end of March, 1981, in an attempt to show the government that they would no longer accept arbitrary police action—as when the police had beaten up Solidarity representatives in Byd goszcz on March 19th. However, this "warning" was not fol

lowed by a proposed full general strike on the last day of March. At that time a joint communique of Solidarity and government leaders promised an official examination of the Bydgoszcz police brutality. Desperate for a breathing space, the government had the cooperation of Walesa and the moder ates to thank for the easing of the tension. By the middle of June, with no action having been taken to punish the police

responsible for the Bydgoszcz Affair, a strike was planned in

the four northern towns of Bydgoszcz, Flock, Torun, and Wloclawek, but called off by Solidarity's national commission because of an increasing sense of a threat from the USSR. In July, Lech Walesa was requesting banches of Solidarity to desist from strikes against food shortages—the leadership was cooperating with the state. A final general strike was successfully carried through on October 28, 1981, under the influence of the growing radical faction on the national com mission of Solidarity elected at the party congress. That strike was called in opposition to government unwillingness to give Solidarity a larger role in the organization of the economy. Finally, with growing government coercion and widespread shortages, combined with general alienation from the ruling 208

party and the state, there was talk of "active strikes", involv ing the workers taking control and operating the factories, also distributing the product. The state hierarchy seemed incapable of coping with the situation, and the radicals looked

to an expansion of self-management through workers' coun

cils. Jan Relewski, for example, stated that the government was morally unfit to run the country. By December, the War saw branch of Solidarity was releasing press statements asserting that, in a general strike, the whole population would

take power in the formation of an authentically representative

system. The threatened general strike of that month was never effected, however; for state authority was replaced not by the union, but by the military. For all the talk of general strike, it was implemented on

only three occasions: October 3, 1980; March 27, 1981; and

October 28,1981. In each case the central organs of Solidarity

did little more than tap the anger and spontaneous civil dis obedience of the membership, following rather than leading.

In each case the purpose was to demand a change of adminis trative policy on behalf of the state. Only in December (1981) did it seem that a conception of the general strike as a step towards alternative social structures began to take shape within Solidarity's national commission. Whether this could have achieved a full devolution of authority in the Polish case we cannot now know. However, to the extent that it was a

possibility, it was a result of the delegitimation of existing structures by a series of local strikes which, as we have seen,

began early in 1980. These continued after the agreements of August, 1980; and the authority of Solidarity's central organs was the product not the creator of them.

The dynamics of the Polish revolution can, therefore, best be seen in the character of the numerous local strikes. Some of the major ones were: October, 1980. A strike in Katowice forced the

government to sign an agreement with the Interfactory Founding Committee of the Independent Self-governing Trade Union Solidarity headed by Andrzej Rozplochowski. (The model established on 209

the Baltic coast was being followed by the rest of the country). November, 1980: A series of strikes occurred in

Radom demanding punishment of those who repressed the strikes of 1976. (The Polish elite was being told to purge itself) A strike organized by the Solidarity chapter in Czestochowa enforced the resignation of the regional administrator, Miroslav Wierzbicki, who had been active against the union. (Union organizations were denying the authority of government officials). January, 1981: Industrial workers throughout Poland stopped going to work on Saturdays (imple menting (Ic facto a promise which the government was slow to implement). When the Ministry of Labour, Wages and Social Affairs responded by docking the wages of strikers, further protests and strikes occurred (The government could not com mand obedience). Demands that officials be removed

occurred in numerous centres, producing general strikes in Bielskoe Biala and Jelenia Gora. Else

where in Poland there was hardly a town where the workers were not making both social and economic demands upon the regime, downing tools to make their point. Meanwhile, the organizing principle extended to agriculture and the private farmers started to organize a Rural Solidarity. Occupation of public buildings in support of a rural organiza tion occurred in Nowy Sacz, Ustrzyki, and Rzesz o w. ( R e o r g a n i z a t i o n f r o m t h e b o t t o m u p w a s

extending to non-industrial sectors). February, 1981: Students' strike in Lodz, as part of a demand for an independent students' union. March, 1981: The Bydgoszcz incident (see above). April, 1981: in favour of government governing

Strikes in Bydgoszcz and Inowroclaw Rural Solidarity (peasant strikers). The finally accepted the Independent SelfTrade Union of Private Farmers

S o l i d a r i t y. 210

July-August, 1981: Strikes occurred across Poland

in response to food shortages. (The suspicion was that the government was deliberately withholding

supplies in order to create disillusionment with Solidarity). September, 1981: At the Katowice Steel Mill the

Solidarity branch organized a referendum to pro test against manager Stanislaw Bednarczyk's ref

usal to give access to the printing shop to Solidarity members. (The referendum as a method of direct

democratic control made its appearance). Mean while, rebellion had extended into the prisons. Inmates of a prison in Bydgoszcz had organized a mass breakout (154 escaped) and occupation (by the remaining 160). Solidarity provided voluntary hos tages to prevent the brutal repression which would normally be expected. October-November, 1981: Stoppages over shortages continued. In Zielona Gora 180,000 workers went on strike even after authorities reinstated a fired unio

nist, seeking the punishment and dismissal of offi cials. Following the general strike at the end of October, huge strikes continued into November. 150,000 were out in Zielona Gora and 120,000 in

Tarnobrzeg, in opposition to the authoritarian ten dencies of the government. In Zyrardow 12,000 tex tile workers, mostly women, went on a 23-day strike to protest shortages. Students across Poland pro tested against education laws. December, 1981: The fireman's cadet school in

Warsaw was stormed by the militia to break up a strike there (December 4). The military takeover on December 13 was followed by strikes at the Academy of Sciences in Warsaw (the intelligentsia), at the universities (the students), in Gdansk (the shipyard workers), in Silesia (the miners), and elsewhere. At that time the normal procedures of government had collapsed. Neither the party nor the state commanded any 2 11

authority. In the words of the supporters of the military takeover:

....towards the end of 1981 the actions of the extrem

ist and anti-socialist forces which gained the upper hand in the Solidarity movement led, in a situation

of unprecedented economic breakdown and mount ing anarchy, to the chances of uniting the nation in

efforts to overcome the political and socio-economic

crisis being forfeited. The country came face to face with a real threat of civil war and internationaliza tion of the internal conflict.

Or, in the words of the Polish sociologist, Jadwiga Staniszkis, written shortly before the coup: The present crisis of the Polish power apparatus has a number of dimensions. First, at the level of

government, it involves a growing disintegration of the state administration, combined with the inability of a paralysed state machine to control real devel opments... What is more, the tactic of devolving responsibility for local problems to the district level, in order to avoid an accumulation of tension, has virtually destroyed the capacity of the Jaruzelski team to steer the country. Secondly, at the level of the Party, there is a deep identity crisis in which all the traditional single-party functions,though seriously reduced, have not given way to new roles... The propaganda and coercive appara tuses are becoming increasingly unreliable... The main problem, however, is a power vacuum: not the form of rule but its very existence.^^

The army stepped in, and coercion became the primary basis for the maintenance of the state structure. However,

recognizing the extent of public animosity, the Military Council for National Salvation incarcerated many former leaders—as well as 5,000 persons associated with Solidarity. Included in the list of those detained were Edward Babiuch

(Former Prime Minister), Edward Gierek, Piotr Jaroszewicz (former Prime Minister), Jozef Majchrzak (former first secre212

tary of the Bydgoszcz party organization), Tadeusz Pyka (former deputy Prime Minister), Jan Szydlak (former deputy Prime Minister and Chairman of the Central Council of Trade

Unions; i.e., "official" unions), and MiroslawWierzbicki (former governor of Czestochowa). Even in the extremes of coercive militarism, the military council acknowledged the impor tance of pandering to the hatred of these peraonae. The combi nation of bad governors, bad unionists, economic hardship, and the threat of Soviet invasion was proposed to the Poles and to the world as the raiaon d'etre of military intervention. c) Concerning the unity of the Poles in opposition to the regime, we may note that workers in state-owned enterprises, farmers with their small properties, students in the universi ties, and intellectuals in the academic realm, all gave each other support. The intelligentsia of KOR cooperated with the workers elected to leadership roles in Solidarity. When KORKSS^=^ seemed to be a threat to the union, as when official

statements accused the organization of intellectuals manipu lating the movement, Kuron and his associates disbanded the committee. The international Marxist-Leninist propagandapress made much of the number of intellectuals in leadership roles in the union, generating what at times appeared to be a primitive anti-intellectual ism. The Information Bulletin of the World Marxiat Revieiv pointed to the "civil engineer" who was deputy president of a Solidarity branch in Krakow, and to the "lawyer" there who cooperated with the "opposition intel lectuals" of KOR. The "academics and lawyers" in Wroclaw, including associates of Jacek Kuron like Karol Modzelewski; the "computer data supervisor" in Wroclaw who was chair man of the Inter-factory Strike Committee; the presence of KOR member, Andrzcj Celinski, as Solidarity's National Secretary in Gdansk; and the high proportion of intellectuals involved in Warsaw's Solidarity organizations—all were used to demonstrate the non-proletarian character of the move ments^ Yet, in spite of friction, the unity of proletariat and intelligentsia persisted, as did that of proletariat and peasan try. In the struggle for a Rural Solidarity, the urban organiza tions of the union supported the farmers from the very begin ning of the rural movement (January, 1981). Similarly, striking students fully identified with the movement and 213

received support from union branches, especially in Warsaw. Attempts by the government to set different social groups against each other, even in a time of food shortages, were a failure.

d) Concerning the coercion of the state against the society, on the whole it was ineffective in the face of disobe dience and rebellion. Indeed, anyone suspected of authoritar ianism was forced to resign from the state apparatus by strik ing workers (as happened in Bielskoe Biala and Jelenia Gora in January-February, 1981). When Minister of Defence, Gen eral Wojciech Jaruzelski, was made Chairman of the Council of Ministers (Prime Minister) in February, 1981, the threat of coercion was implicit—as was his appointment also to the

position of General Secretary of the PIJWP in October (1981). However, ordinary policing to ensure party domination of the political hierarchy collapsed. The collapse was evident in June (1981) when a resolution of the Central Committee (PUWP) emphasized the need to combat "counter-revolutionary, anticommunist and anti-Soviet activities," with Jaruzelski argu ing for a tightening up of discipline and "putting an end to signs of anarchy and all forms of anti-communist and antiSoviet activities which prove harmful to Poland."^^ The des peration of the party hierarchy can be seen in its Appeal to the Working People of October 18 (1981) which talked of the "enemies of your calm," who, "under false pretexts, often with opposing the binding law in mind, ...want to push us into a still greater poverty. Their target is to overthrow the people's authority."'*'^ But the bankruptcy of authority was evident.

Hundreds of thousands had abandoned the party, and there were Stalinist suggestions that the party itself was in the control of "revisionists," too moderate for the needs of the time, too willing to compromise with bourgeois principles (like the acceptance of independent trade unions). No local repression would work as an example to encourage broader obedience—

as the March 1981 events in Bydgoszcz had shown. Repression had to be universal, and had to be implemented by those in society who had perhaps escaped the contamination of Soli

darity—those authoritarian and unthinking yahoos of every political system: the military. 214

With the approval of the 501 western banks to which the Polish government owed moneys, of the Warsaw Pact states, of those like the Prime Minister of Canada who thought that

anything was better than the threatened Soviet invasion, and

of the likes of Ronald Reagan who delight in every circum

stance that might be used to promote a justification of a mil itary build up, all pretence of accommodation was abandoned.

Public meetings, strikes, and internal movement were all for bidden. Solidarity's legality was eventually withdrawn in October (1982). Demonstrations and strikes were broken up by riot police and labour "militarized" in the shipyards (after December 13,1981). Draconian punishments were meted out. The Sejm confirmed the martial law decrees with minimal criticism. Only two members, Karok Malcuzynski and Janusz Zablocki, spoke against them. Communications (phone and mail) were controlled and censored. Oaths of allegiance were applied. Military personnel replaced many state officials in regional positions—as well as governing through the central military council. All agreements between the government and

various branches of Solidarity were declared void. The official myth, maintained at the end of 1982 when internment came to an end, was that reactionary forces had manipulated Solidar

ity. Whether or not the dozen or so individuals who have been chosen as symbols of the anti-state revolution which produced Solidarity are brought to trial for their "treason" will depend upon the rewriting of history that a reconstructed state order and party leadership decides to maintain as the official dogma. The evidence is, however, that the state in Poland has little basis other than what persists by the persuasion of the

bayonet. So thorough was public alienation that alternate strategies to coercion had proved a total failure for the conservatives—unless the numerous agreements are to be

regarded as cynical attempts to distract the public, allay opposition, and gain time to prepare the statist coup. e) Concerning the compromise measures by the Polish party-state hierarchy we see both structural promises (giving a role to Sol idar ity) and a sort of pol itical musical chairs (as the government and party shuffled personalities and portfolios,

seeking a popular mixture of political personalities). In October, 1980, an emergency programme was introduced into 215

the Sejm aiming to pacify the workers by promising wage increases, the reduction of wage differentials, an increase in pensions, the freezing of meat prices, the abolition of Saturday work, the expanded production and importation of foodstuffs, expanded aid to agriculture, and an increase in residential building. All this was to take place within a framework of long-run goals which included self-management of the econ omy through the new unions, as promised in numerous

apeements between strike committees and government offi

cials in various parts of the country. Solidarity was registered as a national union on November 10,1980. The "official" Cen tral Council of Trade Unions terminated its activities on

December 5, 1980, and the National Coordinating Commis sion of Solidarity replaced it entirely. Party and state officials attended the unveiling of a monument to the Gdansk workers

shot in 1970 (December 16,1980). Through 1981 an independ ent union of students and a Rural Solidarity was accepted—as we saw above. Other examples of accommodation were the appointment of a commission (headed by Professor Jan Szczepanski) by the Sejm to monitor agreements signed in Gdansk, Szczecin and Jastrzebie (March 6,1981); the election of dele gates to the 9th Congress of the PUWP (July, 1981) by secret ballot; the passing of a more permissive law on the control of publications (July, 1981); the introduction into the Sejm of a

law concerning self-management in state enterprises.

The state acceptance of the principle of self-management was, however, incapable of satisfying the growing radicalism amongst Solidarity's activists. As a state initiative it was, inevitably, an inhibition to self-management's development (as it had been in Yugoslavia). Moreover, it did not include the election of directors and management by the "employee coun cil," thereby making of self-management a procedure of par ticipation rather than control. The encompassing of selfmanagement within and subordinate to the state system, emasculating rather than expanding, was summed up in Article 45 of the legislation, which was concerned with dis putes between the workers and the director. These were to be solved by an arbitration commission composed of a represen tative from each side and "an arbitrator invited by them, who has completed law education and is chairman of the commissi216

It was this that raised the voices of opposition in Solidar

ity. Thus, at a summit early in November (1981), attended by Walesa, Jaruzelski and the Primate of the Polish Church,

Archbishop Josef Glemp, no agreement could be reached. Walesa's personal attitude may have been to accommodate the government, as he had earlier in opposing a general strike in March (1981) and appealing for fewer strikes (in June and July). On the other hand, Walesa seems to have become more radical at this time, and two days before the military coup,

said to the 107-member national commission, "I want a

genuine accord.. But we want the Government to serve the public and since it is not doing so we will have to teach them h o w. " ^ "

The government (and the PUWP) had been in con stant flux, trying to provide the right sort of politicial windowdressing. In September, 1980, Pinkowski and Kania were head of government and head of party respectively. The pur pose was to disassociate the new rules from Gierek's regime, to point the finger of blame, to create the impression that it was not the system of politics in Poland, but personalities, who were the cause of the alienation and outrage amongst the

masses. Pressure came frequently from the public, as when the general strike in Bielskoe Biala ended on February 6, 1981, with the resignation of officials in the region. At the top we have the fascinating picture of Jagielski (who represented the government in Gdansk bargaining in August, 1980) visit ing the White House and talking with Reagan in April, 1981, yet being forced out of office at the end of July (as Deputy

Premier in the Council of Ministers). We see that in the eight months after the Gdansk agreement more than 50 persons

stepped down from central party positions, and more than 200 from regional positions. The apparatchlki were sacrificing their own in an attempt to present a new image to a sceptical public. Thirteen Central Committee members (PUWP) also resigned, whilst 24 were recruited into that body. In the state machine (as opposed to the party) some 20 ministers were

replaced, and more than 30 deputy ministers.^^ Nor was that

the end. It was an ongoing process of shuffling and sacrifice to satisfy the public, to provide each succeeding leadership with its own personnel, to provide an appropriate image for 217

Poland's allies in the Warsaw Treaty Organization, particu larly the USSR. Kania's replacement by Jaruzelski at the head of the PUWP in October, 1981, was almost certainly done in part to accommodate the leadership of the USSR, who had criticized Kania in June for not doing enough about the "counter-revolutionary" threat. Eventually, of course, the mil itary takeover was to rid the system of all civilian figure heads; and the suggestion was that this was, in part, to prevent a Soviet intervention, and to create a new economic discipline for the generation of output and repayment of western banks (approximately $25 billions had been borrowed). To the extent that this was true, the final window-dressing was not for the Polish population at all. The military council also purged the lower levels of the administration. By the beginning of Febru ary, 1982, some 200 had been replaced, including six provin cial governors, 14 deputy-governors, and some 160 mayors and local leaders. When martial law was declared ended at the

end of 1982, nothing was left of the structures of alternate authority which had developed spontaneously and independ ently of ex isting structures independently even of the Cathol ic Church.

f) Concerning the Church in Poland, its role in Polish events was characterized by its unwillingness to function as an agent of the workers, preferring rather the role of arbitrator between society and the state in the perpetuation of authorit arian relationships. That is, it promoted its own interests. Afraid for its own role and authority, it sought from the start to establish a compromise between the state, the Church, and the trade union movement. As non-communist always, and anti-communist sometimes, the Catholic Church was an attractive symbol to the Poles, who are almost all Roman

Catholics. Initially, strikers in the Baltic ports expressed their intellectual opposition to state socialism through participation in outdoor masses—the expression of faith being an expres sion of solidarity in opposition to the government. Lech Walesa is a devout Catholic, and in January, 1981, was photographed kneel ing before the Polish Pope in Rome. Both the PUWP and the Polish Church would have been happy if the workers' movement had done the same, and the statists set in motion the 218

vehicle for that possibility as early as September 18, 1980, when the Joint Comm iaaUm of Representatives of the Govern ment and the Episcopate was reactivated. It was a wise move by the regime; for although the Church was not controlled by the state, its officials thought like those of the state. Then, on October 16, 1980, the 176th conference of the Polish Episco pate affirmed that the Church's actions "should be carefully considered and ensure social order.On December 8, there

was ameetingof the Joint Commission (state-church) devoted to internal stabilization. On March 27,1981, the Prime Minis

ter met Cardinal Wyszynski for discussions, following the latter's receipt of a letter from the Pope, John Paul II. On May 28, Wyszynsky died, to be succeeded by Archbishop Glemp, whose conciliatory politics were obvious from the start. By now, most Poles had begun to distinguish between their theo logical anti-communism, and their self-management and syn dicalist opposition to the communist regime, state socialism, and the PUWP. Consequently, in the first week of June (1981) the national commission of Solidarity voted 22-13 in favour of

a warning strike in four northern provinces—in protest against the failure to punish militia involved in roughing up Solidar ity members in Bydgoszcz three months earlier—in spite of appeals for moderation from Glemp. Glemp continued the position laid down by Wyszynski at Jasna Gora on August 26, 1980. Wyszynski had said, I believe, that sometimes little must be required, as long as order is restored in Poland. It is all the more so that even the demands may be well founded, and

they usually are, but it never happens that they can be satisfied immediately, today. Their implementa tion must be gradual."''

A position hardly calculated to rock the boat, let alone sink it. Consequently, that most Catholic of populations had to make the distinction between their religiosity and their social goals. Superficial observers might have thought they were, at first, seeing the creation of religious trade unions. This would have been to confuse "a genuine social phenomenon—namely the strength of religious feeling among the working class, which suddenly found an unhampered outlet—with the char219

acter and aims of the unions themselves."^'" On non-religious matters, the appeals of the Church feel more and more upon deaf ears. So, in the meeting in the first week of November (1981), Walesa (under instructions from the union's national commission) was unable to come to agreement with Church and State (represented by Glemp and Jaruzelski respectively).

The separate, but distinct, conservatism of religious and state structures had become clear. The argument of each in the promotion of moderation was that the movement for a renewal of Polish life must take into account the requirements of their Soviet neighbour to the east. Even with separate interests. Church and State could find a common ground; but it was a site which left too little space for Solidarity.

Playing both ends against the middle, Glemp appealed to the Sejm one week before the coup, asking it to avoid provok ing Solidarity with an emergency powers bill. Then, after the

coup, both Polish Pope, John Paul II, and Archbishop Glemp promoted again the moderate course, and denounced the mass arrests. Ten days after the coup, on December 23,1981, both Church (in the person of Franciszek Cardinal Macharski) and regime (in the person of Wieslaw Gornicki) disounted any Soviet role in the coup. In the first week of January, 1982, the Primate (Glemp) criticized loyalty oaths; and towards the end of January demanded an end to martial law. In February the Pope met exiled Solidarity members and praised their refusal

to resort to violence; and in Poland Walesa and Jan Kulaj (head

of rural Solidarity) met with Church officials (Glemp, Macharski, and Archbishop HenrykGulbinowicz of Wroclaw)

shortly after they had returned from the Vatican. Following that meeting, Kulaj was released from detention and began to cooperate with the regime (although later, from Paris, he was to denounce it). After Solidarity was declared illegal in

October (1982) the Pope declared that it was the Church that must carry on the renewal of Poland. The Church laid claim to the vacant lot of the Polish revolution, and promised to take it nowhere.

g) And so in Poland, in spite of the promise of Solidarity, the reaction asserted its coercive abilities. Alienation between

society and the regime is as extreme as it ever was; yet the 220

authoritarians would place upon themselves the mantle of saviours. The claim is that the military takeover resolved an

increasingly chaotic situation which was destabilizing the international situation and would have led to a Soviet inter

vention. The precedent of Czechoslovakia in 1968 can be cited as proof of the possibility. Throughout the whole of the period which we have been considering the troops of the Warsaw

Treaty Organization (WTO) were active in and around

Poland. Given Poland's geo^aphic importance for the main

tenance of the Soviet position in Europe at the head of the WTO, developments in Poland inevitably had broad interna tional ramifications. Moreover, Polish developments not only threatened the cohesion of the military structure of the social

ist states of Europe, they also threatened the stability of the domestic economic and political structures of those states. "Other WTO member states, inclusive of the Soviet Union

itself, share many of the same problems that have caused the

upheaval in Poland, although at lower levels of intensity."'"'^^ Consequently, a close eye was kept on developments in Poland by the elites of these societies, as was clearly indicated in the letter of Central Committee of the CPSU to the Central Committee of the PUWP at the beginning of June, 1981:

You remember, comrades, the meeting of the lead ers of the fraternal parties of the socialist commun

ity which took place in Moscow on December 5,

1980. On March 4, 1981, there took place talks between the Soviet leadership and the PUWP dele

gation to the 26th congress of the CPSU. On April 23 this year a delegation of the CPSU met the entire Polish party leadership. During these meetings, as well as in the course of other contacts, we voiced our

growing anxiety regarding the activities of the counter-revolutionary forces in Poland.*'*' The reason for their anxiety was by no means altruistic: We, as well as the brother parties, are no less con cerned at the fact that the offensive of the anti-

socialist forces, enemies of People's Poland, threaten the interests of our entire community, its cohesion, its integrity and the security of its frontiers."'"' 221

The letter ended with a veiled threat, enclosed within a

statement by Brezhnev made at the 26th C.P.S.U. congress: "We will not abandon fraternal socialist Poland in its hour of

need, we will stand by it."Nota very attractive offer, except to Stalinists, and one that might have been very difficult to refuse had the Soviet tanks started rolling. However, it would be wrong to think that the Soviet

leaders would have welcomed the opportunity to intervene in Poland. The social consequences in the other nations of the international system of bilateral and multilateral alliances

between communist regimes would be unpredictable— especially if the troops of other members of the WTO were

persuaded to participate, as they had in the 1968 example of

the "Brezhnev Doctrine," the invasion of Czechoslovakia. In all

the socialist states of Europe an economic slowdown has dis appointed expectations amongst the mass of citizens in regimes little, if any, more legitimate than the one in Poland (legiti macy being understood as the voluntary acceptance and affirmation of the structures of political authority). Who knows what would happen if, stimulated by unusual and unfamiliar events, alienated from their states, and dissatisfied

with the distribution of output, everybody caught the Polish disease at once. Moreover, with more than 100,000 troops bogged down in Afghanistan, whilst carefully maintaining a propaganda image of a party in pursuit of peace through detente, the Soviet leadership would have sent troops into Poland as a policing agent only as a last resort. In the event,

they did not have to make the decision, for the forces of Jaruzelski's Polish army did the job for them. Kulikov, the Commander-in-Chief of the Warsaw Pact armies was in

Poland at the time of the coup, and there is no reason not to

bel ieve that the repression of the revolution had the know ledge and approval of the Soviet leaders. Whether Jaruzelski's

military council acted according to principles of Polish national

ism (to pre-empt Soviet intervention), or principles of com

munist internationalism (re-introducingMarxist-Leninist disci pline and respect for treaty agreements in opposition to capitalist imperialism), really does not matter very much in the final analysis. In either case their actions re-established

state power, at first under the direct control of the military 222

elite (all of whom are also members of the communist party, the PUWP), but gradually reintroducing the party and the state systems which had existed before the development of S o l i d a r i t y.

Our final conclusion when considering the Polish events of 1980-1982 must be, that they not only demonstrate the vitality of revolutionary self-management as the spontaneous product of the workers in rebellion against the state, but they also indicate the continuing futility of thinking of revolutions as national events, confined within the artificial boundaries of

specific organizations. A trans-national social uprising against the state was the logical product of Solidarity's development. It was also the necessary condition of Solidarity's survival as an authentic system of self-management as defined and dis cussed in this chapter. The collapse of the Polish system (which did occur) would have to have been followed by com plementary developments elsewhere, and particularly in the U.S.S.R. Failing that, and failing the attempt of the statist forces in Poland to incorporate Solidarity into existing institu tional structures, repression and the reimposition of an elitist ideology and practice was the remaining option. One is reminded of Bakunin's assertion more than a century ago: The Revolution as we conceive it, or rather as the

force of circumstances today inevitably presents it, is essentially international or universal in charac ter. In view of the menacing coalition of all the privileged interests and all the reactionary powers in Europe, which have at their disposal all the for midable means given them by a cleverly organized organization, ...no national revolution will succeed if it does not extend at once to all the other nations...''''

At the present time we should remember that the "priv ileged interests" in both capitalist and communist regimes have a vested interest in each other's perpetuation. Each uses the other to promote its own authoritarianism over its own subjects. Both claim to be democratic, but in ways which justify the concentration of power in the hands of the few. Though contradicting each other, neither provides a satisfac tory alternative. That alternative exists only in the rejection of 228

both, which appears to be the practical direction taken by the social movements referred to in this chapter. These move ments rarely call themselves anarchist or libertarian; but that

is not important. What they do possess is a principled concern for the maintenance of individual autonomy within the framework of non-exploitative socio-economic relationships.

The argument of the previous chapters of this volume there fore regards them with approbation. It would be hopelessly optimistic to propose that they predicate the destruction of the state. They are, however, reminders of an alternative; and it is

only to the extent that the alternative is adopted that human beings will be able to develop as individuals within relations free from deprivation and domination. For, as we have seen, both in theory and in practice, the hierarchical forces which face residents of both capitalist and communist regimes are unpersuasive, inadequate, and bankrupt.

References

1. Karl Marx, Capital, III, 436. International Publishers, New York, 1967.

2. Marx & Engels, Selected CoirespomleuceA'^-Foreign Languages

Publishing House, Moscow, no date. Marx to P.V. Annenkov, December 28,1846.

3. Marx & Engels, Selected Works, 363. Moscow, 1962. From Marx's Preface to "A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy."

4. Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, 233-234. Claren don Press, Oxford, 1976.

5. Leszek Kolakowski, Marxism and Beyond, 191. London, 1969. 6. G.B.Shaw, The Intelligent Woman s Guide to Social ism. Capital ism, Sorietism and Fascism, 396. Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 1965.

7. See Viola W. Barnard, Perry Ottenberg, Fritz Redl, "Dehumani-

zation; A Composite Psychological Defense in Relation to Modern War," in Robert Perucci & Marc Pilisuk (eds.). The Triple Revo lution, 25-28. Boston, 1968.

8. Murray Bookchin, "An Open Letter to the Ecological Move

ment." Our Generation, Volume 14, no. 2, p. 24, Montreal, 1981.

9. George Katsiaficas, "The Extra-parliamentary Left in Europe." Monthly Review, Vol. 34, no. 4, p. 41. New York. 224

10. Ihi(L, 44.

11. A description of these communities was made in the nineteenth century by John Humphrey Noyes {Hktotuj of American Social-

/.swx) and Charles Nordhoff (The ConimuHiMic Socictiva of the Uu ited States). Both of these were republished by Dover Publica tions, New York, in 1966, along with Marx Holloway's more modern piece, Heareus on EaHii: Utof)ian Commuuitiea iu America Kiso-ism

12. Branko Horvat, Mihailo Markovic, Rudi Suped (eds.), Self(/orernin(j Socialism, II, 150. New York, 1975. From Mario Zanartu, "Self-management, Oligarchy, and Proprietary Socialism."

13. Ibid., II, 14. From Henri Lefebvre, "Elements for a Sociology of Self-managment." 14. See Robert Collins, "A Report on Tiakeni Textiles Cooperative

Limited," presented at the Consultation on Workers* Coopera tives, Coady International Institute (Antigonish, Nova Scotia), August 23-31, 1982. The next eight references are to papers presented at this conference which brought together a rich var

iety of information on production cooperatives throughout the

15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

world. Cited hereafter as "Coady Conference Papers." See B.T. Acharya, "Industrial (Workers') Cooperatives: the Indian experience." Coady Conference Papers. See Roger Spear, "Some Cooperative Development Stategies and Stuctures in Africa and Asia." Coady Conference Papers. See John E. Jordan, "Developing Worker Cooperatives as Sys tems of Firms." Coady Conference Papers." See Cairna Campbell, "A Better Way of Working." Coady Con ference Papers. Jenny Lynn, "Workers Co-ops Work.", page 31. Coady Confer ence Papers.

20. "Contribution of the Dutch Federation of Workers' Productive

Cooperative Societies (Associate van bedrijven op cooperatieve grondslag)." Coady Conference Papers.

21. "In 1977 there were probably less than 100 workers'cooperatives

in Britain. Today there are over 500 with two new workers'

cooperatives registering each week with the Registrar of Friendly Societies." Rita Rhodes, "The Promotion of Workers' Coopera

tives in Great Britain 1977-1982 and Some Educational and

Training Implications," 2. Coady Conference Papers. 22. See Robert Oakeshott, "Alternative Strategies for Developing Workers' Cooperatives." Coady Conference Papers. 23. V.I. Lenin, On the Sorief State Apparatus, 134. Moscow, 1969.

From the "Rough Outline of the Draft Programme: Ten Theses on Soviet Power," 1918. 225

24. Miladin Korac, "Concept and Structure of the Yugoslav Eco nomic System." Paper presented at a conference on "Social ism in Yugoslav Theory and Practice," International Centre of Social Sciences, University of Belgrade, September, 1974. 25. Jovan Djordjevic, "Le concept du systems politiqueautogestionnaire." Ibid.

26. Horvat, Markovic, Supek, op. cit., I, 433. Mihailo Markovic, "Socialism and Self-management." 27. IhicL, I, 435.

28. Quoted by Leopold Unger in the luienmtioual Hcrold TrihiiHc, April 7,1981. 29. Andrzej Tymowski, The Strike in Gdanak, 47. New Haven, 1981. 30. K. London (ed.), EaMcni Europe in Tramitiou, 70-72 From Adam Bromke, "Poland's Role in the Loosening of the Commu nist Bloc."

31. Reported in Current Digest of the Soriet P/t.s.s, Vol. XXIII, no. 6, p. 14,1971. 32. Ibid., 15.

33. Reported in Contemporarn Poland, Vol. XIV, no. 24, p. 16 December 1980). In "Poland 1980." Published in Warsaw until December, 1981.

34. Labour Focu.s on Eaateru Europe, nos. 1-2, p. 4. (Spring, 1982). London, 1982. From "The Programme of Solidarnosc." 35. Ibid., 7. 36. Ibid., 11. 37. Ibid., 3.

38. Interview with Zbigniew Bujak reported in the International Herald Tribune, January 19,1982. 39. Robert Darnton, "Poland Rewrites History," in the M'/r York Review of Booka, January 16,1981, page 10. 40. Wladyslaw Markiewicz, "What the Workers are After," in Poli.sh Perfipectirea, XXIV, no. 1, p. 9, Warsaw, 1981. 41. Artur Starewicz, "Working Class Centenary," in Poli.^h Perspectirea, XXV. nos. 1-2, p. 51, 1982. 42. Jadwiga Staniszkis, "Institutional Revolution," in Lalwur Focua on Eastern Europe, op. eit., 20. 43. The Committee for the Defence of the Workers (KOR) was founded by the intelligentsia in 1976. In 1977 it became KORKSS (adding "Committee for Social Self-Defence"). 44. Tim Wheeler, "Who Runs SolidarituV From the Daihj World of June 16, 1981. Printed in the Information Bulletin of the World Mar.vi.st Reriew, Toronto, August 1981, p. 39-40.

45. Contemporarif Poland, Vol. XV, nos. 13-14, p. 22. Warsaw, 1981, 226

46. Ihi(L XV, 21. p. 22. 1981. 47. Ihi(L, XV, 22, p. 39. "Bill on the Self-government of Personnel of State Enterprises passed by the Sejm of the PPR on September 25th, 1981."

48. Reported in The Globe ami Mail (Canada), December 12,1981. 49. Contentporan/ Poland, Vol, XV, nos. 13-14, p. 20. Warsaw, 1981. From "Events in Poland 1980-1981."

50. Ihl(L XIV. 24. p. 17. 1980. 51. Ibid, XIV, 18-19, p. 83. From the "Sermon delivered at Jasna Gora on August 26th, 1980." 52. Janusz Stefanowicz, "Self-government and the State," in PoUnli PetsiM'ctires, XXIV, no. 1, p. 28. January, 1981. At this time, works published in Poland were showing a remarkably critical independence. 53. Teresa Rakowska-Harmstone, Ivan Sylvain, Arpad Abonyi, War^iatr Pact: the Qttestioit of Cohesion (Phase Otie), 207. Depart ment of National Defence, Canada, 1980.

54. "To the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers' Party," in the Itifotwation Bidletin of the World Ma twist Rerieir, July, 1981, page 35. Toronto, 1981. 55. Ibid., 36.

56. From Bakunin's "Programme of the International Socialist Alliance," in The Haf/ne Confftrss of the Fitst Intefiiationtd, Septetnber J-7, tH72:Mintdes andDocntnents, 630. Progress Publish ers, Moscow, 1976.

227

WORK AND MADNESS

The Rise of Community Psychiatry by Diana Ralph

More books from BLACK ROSE BOOKS In this meticulously researched and immensely readable book, Diana Ralph takes on the commun ity mental health systems. In a penetrating analysis of the expansion and innovation of mental health practices since the second world war, she argues that these changes have not been simply quantita tive but that a qualitative shift has taken place in t h e d e fi n i t i o n a n d t r e a t m e n t o f s o - c a l l e d m e n t a l health disorders.

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These changes cannot be explained by available social theories whether liberal, Marxistor the radi

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