"Our country is full of Oblomovs"

 

“We’re dreamers, of course. Our souls strain and suffer, but not much gets done—there’s no strength left over after all that ardor. Nothing ever gets done. The mysterious Russian soul…Everyone wants to understand it. They read Dostoevsky: What’s behind that soul of theirs? Well, behind our soul there’s just more soul. We like to have a chat in the kitchen, read a book. “Reader” is our primary occupation. “Viewer.” All the while, we consider ourselves a special, exceptional people even though there are no grounds for this besides our oil and natural gas. On one hand, this is what stands in the way of progress; on the other hand, it provides something like meaning. Russia always seems to be on the verge of giving rise to something important, demonstrating something completely extraordinary to the world. The chosen people. The special Russian path. Our country is full of Oblomovs, lying around on their couches, awaiting miracles. There are no Stoltzes. The industrious, awaiting miracles. There are no Stoltzes. The industrious, savvy Stoltzes are despised for chopping down the beloved birch grove, the cherry orchard. They build their factories, make money…They’re foreign to us…”

**

“The Russian kitchen…The pitiful Khrushchyovka kitchenette, nine to twelve square meters (if you’re lucky!), and on the other side of a flimsy wall, the toilet. Your typical Soviet floorplan. Onions sprouting in old mayonnaise jars on the windowsill and a potted aloe for fighting colds. For us, the kitchen is not just where we cook, it’s a dining room, a guest room, an office, a soapbox. A space for group therapy sessions. In the nineteenth century, all of Russian culture was concentrated on aristocratic estates; in the twentieth century, it lived on in our kitchens. That’s where perestroika really took place. 1960s dissident life is the kitchen life. Thanks, Khrushchev! He’s the one who led us out of the communal apartments; under his rule, we got our own private kitchens where we could criticize the government and, most importantly, not be afraid, because in the kitchen you were always among friends. It’s where ideas were whipped up from scratch, fantastical projects concocted. We made jokes—it was a golden age for jokes! “A communist is someone who’s read Marx, an anticommunist is someone who’s understood him.” We grew up in kitchens, and our children did, too; they listened to Galich and Okudzhava along with us. We played Vysotsky, tuned in to illegal BBC broadcasts. We talked about everything: how shitty things were, the meaning of life, whether everyone could all be happy. I remember a funny story…We’d stayed up past midnight, and our daughter, she was twelve, had fallen asleep on the kitchen couch. We’d gotten into some heated argument, and suddenly she started yelling at us in her sleep: “Enough about politics! Again with your Sakharov, Solzhenitsyn, and Stalin!”

"Only a Soviet can understand anoter Soviet"

 

“Why does this book contain so many stories of suicides instead of more typical Soviets with typically Soviet life stories? When it comes down to it, people end their lives for love, from fear of old age, or just out of curiosity, from a desire to come face to face with the mystery of death. I sought out people who had been permanently bound to the Soviet idea, letting it penetrate them so deeply that there was no separating them: The state had become their entire cosmos, blocking out everything else, even their own lives. They couldn’t just walk away from History, leaving it all behind and learning to live without it—diving headfirst into the new way of life and dissolving into private existence, like so many others who now allowed what used to be minor details to become their big picture. Today, people just want to live their lives, they don’t need some great Idea. This is entirely new for Russia; it’s unprecedented in Russian literature. At heart, we’re built for war. We were always either fighting or preparing to fight. We’ve never known anything else—hence our wartime psychology. Even in civilian life, everything was always militarized. The drums were beating, the banners flying, our hearts leaping out of our chests. People didn’t recognize their own slavery—they even liked being slaves. I remember it well: After we finished school, we’d volunteer to go on class trips to the Virgin Lands, and we’d look down on the students who didn’t want to come. We were bitterly disappointed that the Revolution and Civil War had all happened before our time. Now you wonder: Was that really us? Was that me? I reminisced alongside my protagonists. One of them said, “Only a Soviet can understand another Soviet.” We share a communist collective memory. We’re neighbours in memory.”

Türk Oblomov'u

Yavuz Altın, tr724.com

Rus yazar Ivan Goncharov’un 1859’da yayınlanan romanı Oblomov, gününün çoğunu yatağında geçiren, ilgisizlik, hissizlik ve uyuşuklukla malul bir aristokratı anlatır. Kısa zaman içinde dönemin Rus toplumunu niteleyen sağlam bir hiciv olduğu konuşulur. Kitap o kadar etkili olmuştur ki, “Oblomov” kelimesi bugün bile hevessizliği, tembelliği, uyuşukluğu, iktidarsızlığı, aylaklığı nitelemek için kullanılır.

Bu tembel aristokrat Oblomov’un bu kadar gerçekçi ve sarsıcı bir karakter olmasının bence iki sebebi var: (1) Onun hareketsizliği, salt tembellikten ya da imkânsızlıktan değil, hevesinin tarif edilmez şekilde kırılmış olmasından (kelimenin Rusça’daki kökü oblov kırılmak, koparılmak anlamlarına geliyormuş) kaynaklanıyor. Aslında hayalleri olan, adaletsizliğe itiraz eden bir doğası var, hatta yer yer naif de; ancak onun adım atmasının önünde bir nevi öğrenilmiş çaresizlik mevcut. Bu sebeple de aslında (2) onun tembelliği zihniyle değil doğrudan doğruya bedeniyle ilişkili. Gün boyu çıkmadığı yatağında insanlığın hepsiyle ilişkili görüyor kendini ancak odasından dışarı adım atmaya mecali yok. Aslında bir bakıma bildikçe, adım atmaya da korkar hâle geliyor. Gevezeleştikçe, hareketsizleşiyor.

Rus Bolşevik Devrimi’nin mimarı Vladimir İlyiç Lenin, Oblomov’u konuşmalarında sıklıkla kullanmıştı. Onun için Rusya’nın ivedilikle kurtulması gereken şey, topluma sinmiş bu Oblomov karakteriydi. Kendisinden önceki ve sonraki Marksist geleneğin alışılagelmiş uzun kavramsal tartışmalarının ortasında, Lenin entelektüel kimliğiyle birlikte bir aksiyon insanı olarak ortaya çıkmıştı. Çoğu zaman Goethe’den şu alıntıyı söylerdi: “Tüm teori gridir dostum; ebediyen yeşil kalan ise hayat ağacıdır.” Lenin’e göre Oblomov romanının konusu, insanın harekete geçmedeki korkusu ve tembelliği üzerineydi.

Elbette Rus toplumu durduk yere Oblomov karakterine bürünmedi. Çarlık Rusya’sının baskıcı yönetimi, devasa bütçeli savaşlar (bir uçta Japonlar, diğer uçta Osmanlı), bunların getirdiği sefalet (19. yüzyıl Rus romanının her yerinden akar bu yoksulluk), hayatın değersizleşmesi, umutsuzluğun kökleşmesi… üstelik hepsi bir anda da olmadı. Yine de ama entelektüel hayat, Avrupa’ya öykünerek, varlığını sürdürüyordu. Rus romanı bir yandan o günün toplumunu resmederken, diğer yandan (çok da farkında olmadan) gelecekle ilgili kehanetlerini sıralıyordu.

Yani kabaca Oblomov gibiydi: Reel hayatta alabildiğine uyuşuk, zihin ve hayal dünyasında cevval bir varoluş biçimi. Ve bu toplumsal karakteri biçimlendiren neredeyse yüzyıllık bir baskı, çaresizlik ve yer yer aptallık dönemiydi.

Modern devletlerin günlük hayatın her alanına nüfuz eden uygulamaları (eğitim, yargı, askerlik, düzenleyici kurumlar vs.) bilerek veya bilmeyerek belirli bir “vatandaş tipi” üretir. Orhan Pamuk, Kafamda Bir Tuhaflık romanında o meşhur hikâyeyi tekrarlar: Bir avukat 1980 darbesinden hemen sonra Diyarbakır’a gider, taksiye biner ve taksiciye vaziyeti sorar. Taksici önce onun iyi giyimli biri olmasından yola çıkarak temkinli konuşur. Devletten memnuniyetini ifade eder. Ardından onun bir avukat olduğunu ve şehre işkence iddialarını araştırmak için geldiğini öğrenince de, duyduğu vahşi uygulamaları anlatır. Avukat şaşırır. Taksici kendinden emin, “İlki resmî görüşümdü, ikincisi şahsî görüşüm,” diyecektir. Pamuk, kitabın girişine kendi karakterine ait şu alıntıyı yerleştirmiştir: “Vatandaşlarımızın şahsi görüşleriyle resmi görüşleri arasındaki farkın derinliği devletimizin gücünün kanıtıdır.”

Rus Oblomov’u, kendine bir hayatta kalma reçetesi yazmıştı: Minimum hareket, maksimum hayalcilik. Türk Oblomov’u ise görüşlerini ikiye ayırmış, devletin gücü karşısında şizofreniye teslim olmuştu. Kamusal alanda, kerli ferli isimlerin belirli anaakım mesajlara mahkum kalışları, özel sohbetlerde ise daha açık şekilde fikirlerini ifade etmeleri, Türk Oblomov’unun sadece Diyarbakırlı bir taksici olmadığını gösteriyor bize. Rusya’da entelijansiyanın Sovyet döneminde bile fikirlerini savunmak için neler çektiği ortada. Türkiye’de bunun çok az örneğini görüyoruz maalesef, çoğu zaman sansüre bile değmeyecek gündelik sloganlar çıkıyor karşımıza.

Hareket kabiliyetimizi yitirdiğimiz gibi, hayal dünyamızda da kısırlaşma yaşıyoruz. Eskiden hep düşünürdüm, 1999 depremi gibi olağanüstü bir olayın sinema ve edebiyatta yeterince işlenmemesi, bize ne anlatmalı? Normal şartlar altında kurgu hikâye yazarları, böylesi dönüştürücü etkiye sahip olayların peşinde koşarlar. Milyonlarca insanın hayatını etkileyen depremin adamakıllı bir hikâyeye konu olmaması, entelektüel hayatımızın günlük hayatla iletişiminin kopukluğuna bir delil olmalı.

Ama daha derinde başka meseleler de var. Bu düşünce Oblomov’luğu, üzerimize çöken karabasanın sınırlarını görmeyi, otoriter devletin ruhlarımıza sızan karanlığını fark edip ondan kaçınabilmeyi de imkânsız kılıyor. Türk Oblomov’u, şark kurnazlığı ve köylü pragmatizminin üzerinde yükseliyor. Karşı tarafı “kandırmaya” yetecek kadar bir stratejik donanım ve “sadece sonuca odaklı” bir ahlak üretiyor.

Bunların acı, karamsar cümleler olduğunu biliyorum. Maksadım “halkı aşağılamak” da değil üstelik, zira bu karakterin ortaya çıkışında asıl etken neredeyse yüzyıldır süren devlet politikaları. Kötü ebeveynler gibi aile hayatını cehenneme çeviren, bu arada çocuklarının ruhunda binlerce yara açan “devletlûler”.

Ama öte yandan çocukların da “büyümeye”, bu karabasanı sırtından atmaya pek hevesi yok. Hâlen her türlü gelecek hayali, ebeveynlerin “değişme ihtimali” üzerine kuruluyor. “Şu seçimi bir kazansak var ya!” Bu halet-i ruhiyeye bir de rehine psikolojisini ekleyelim. Olayın sona ermesini ve “normal hayata dönmeyi” bekliyoruz hep birlikte. Nedir o normal hiçbir fikrimiz yok. Baskıcı otoriter rejimlerin devamını sağlayan şeylerden biri de bu felç durumu zaten. Her hafta düzenli olarak yüzlerce kişiyi gözaltına alan bir devlet mekanizmasından bahsediyoruz bu arada.

Gelgelelim, 1990’lardan bu yana devam eden, arada “nefes de alabilmiş” bir Cumartesi Anneleri anmasının, bu tepeden tırnağa tertemiz mağduriyet hikâyesinin bile entelektüel bir yaratıcılığın nesnesine dönüştürülememesi, bu hikâyelerin dünyayla bağlantısının kurulamaması, üstelik böyle bir zemin varken buradan 1990’ların geneline dair adamakıllı bir hesaplaşmanın gazete sayfaları dışında pek üretilememiş olması, demek istediğim şeye bir örnek.

Rehine psikolojisi, günübirlik çözümler üretmeye meyilli. Elimizdeki hayatın artık bundan ibaret olduğunu ve buradan çıkış için, yeni bir hikâye anlatmaktan başka da işimiz olmadığını görmek, acı verse de, gerekli. Sosyal medyada görünür muhalefetin, sokağa hiç dokunmaması, bilmem kaç milyon oy alan muhalefetin seçmenlerine hitap eden, onlarla etkileşim içinde büyüyen, gelişen ve böylece “ebeveynlere” meydan okuyan bir kültür havzasının oluşmaması, Türk Oblomov’unun marifetleri.

Bir yabancı gazeteci şunu keşfetti yakınlarda: Türklerin şu sıralar en çok okuduğu kitaplar, yıllar önce ölmüş yazarlara ait. Çünkü onlar “garanti”, canımızı sıkan bir laf edip de huzurumuzu bozamazlar artık. Onların kitaplarını okuyup üstünde rahat rahat tepinebiliriz. Üstelik meseleler de geçmişe dair, tertemiz. Akarı yok, kokarı yok. Oysa bugünü, bütün kabullerimizi, rahatımızı bozacak sözlere ihtiyaç var. Nazilerin kötülüğü, bütün Batı’yı temellerinden sarstı. Albert Camus, bu kötülüğün “kökü dışarıda” kabul edilemeyeceğini, hepimizin hayatlarını köşe bucak araştırarak buna nasıl el birliğiyle sebep olduğumuzu, medeniyetimizin nasıl buna müsaade ettiğine bakmamız gerektiğini söylemişti.

Ama bunun da yanında, nasıl bir gelecek istiyoruz? Bizim öğrendiklerimiz arasında neler yanlıştı ve çocuklarımıza, bize anlatılan hangi yalanları söylemeyi bırakmamız gerekiyor? Madem Erdoğan’ın hikâyesini beğenmiyoruz, bizim hikâyemiz ne? Bizce Türkiye’de doğup büyümek ne anlama geliyor? Türkçe’yi nasıl, öğrenenlerin yepyeni zenginlikler bulabileceği bir dil hâline getirebiliriz? Hepsinden önemlisi, bu yeni hikâyenin kaynaklarını oluşturmak adına neler yapıyoruz? Hangi fikir alışverişleri ile geçiyor zamanımız? İyi ve güzel işler yapan insanlara destek oluyor muyuz yeterince?

Bütün bu sorular üzerine düşünmek için rehine durumunun geçmesini beklemeye gerek yok. Oblomov’un gölgesini kovup, kendi yetersizliğimizin farkına varıp, daha yükseğe bakabilmek için büyümeye çalışmak hemen şimdi yapmaya başlayabileceğimiz bir şey. Kendi hikâyelerinizi yazmaya çalışarak başlayabilirsiniz. Yazmak, aynı zamanda düşünmek, tefekkür etmek demek. Her şey normalmiş gibi yapmanın lüzumu yok ama madem hiçbir şey normal değil, alışkanlıkları değiştirmeli ve daha anlamlı işler peşinde koşturmalı.

Sürekli çağlayan bir “sivil” kültür havzası oluşturamazsak, gelecek kuşaklar da bizim kafa karışıklığımızdan beslenecek ve hiçbir şeyi değiştirememiş olacağız.

A Look into Russian Politics

Debov joined the secret "Lenin Mausoleum" unit in 1952, a group of scientists that embalmed the revolutionary leader, who has been lying in state in Moscow since his death in 1924. For almost 40 years, Debov, who also embalmed Stalin, freshened up Lenin's body with a secret solution twice a week.

Then the Soviet Union and communism collapsed and President Boris Yeltsin slashed the secret unit's financing as well as the honor guard in front of the mausoleum. Lenin became a national pariah and citizen's initiatives began calling for him to be buried in a cemetery in St. Petersburg. Debov told me he was shocked: "Removing Lenin from the history of Russia -- that's unacceptable."

**

It's a common story in Russia. Even when the leadership tries to do something good for its people, things go wrong -- because the government takes decisions on its own and then presents them to the people like a Christmas present. And because it tries to realize its projects in a Bolshevik manner. The notion that there could be objections among the people is not something that Russian politicians tend to consider.

**

Several months ago, I had a dispute about this with respected filmmaker and theater director Andrei Konchalovsky. He is turning 80 this year, has made some of Russia's best films and has lived in Hollywood for a long time. Despite our disagreements, we were very close to one another in our views of many things. Konchalovsky says Russians have retained the soul of a peasant over the centuries, arguing that Russians never became citizens in the true sense of the word and always positioned themselves in opposition to the state, because the government is always trying to take something away from them. At the same time, he argues, Russians are so enormously patient that they can more easily accept injustices. He also argues that Russian thinking is Manichean -- that Russians only know black and white.

And then Konchalovsky said that Putin initially thought like a Westerner, but ultimately realized why every Russian ruler struggles to lead this nation: Because its inhabitants, in accordance with an unshakable tradition, freely delegate all their power to a single person, and then wait for that power to take care of them, without doing anything themselves.

In that sense, the relationship between people and state in Russia is a vast misunderstanding. Is a foreigner allowed to say such a thing? I think so. I have been reporting on Russia for over 30 years and lived half of that time in the country. It's clear to me why the liberals associated with Boris Yeltsin failed in the 1990s. Liberalism has no chance in Russia. The people won't allow it.

The strange relationship between many Russians and their government is also manifest in myriad everyday details. Two or three years ago, Moscow's mayor tried solving the parking problem by introducing an online parking system. The charges were low, with an hour usually costing less than a euro. The problem was largely relieved and the system worked for everyone. And then what happened? Muscovites began covering their license-plate numbers so that the inspection vehicles couldn't scan the numbers as they drove, thus making it impossible for them to find any violators.

Another example: For decades, few new streets, let alone highways, have been built in Russia. But now there are plans to build a new highway between Moscow and St. Petersburg. The first stretch, which leads to Moscow's Sheremetyevo international airport, is already open. As a toll road, however, it is hardly getting used, despite the relatively low charges. Russia's drivers believe it is a government rip-off and prefer sitting in traffic jams on the old road.

**

The notion that citizens must do something for society and that they will get something back is only rarely encountered in Russia. The Russians may honor their actors and poets far more than the Germans do theirs, but they take a skeptical view of the truly creative people, who, in their own way, try to advance the debate about the future direction of the country.

Writer Boris Akunin sells millions of books, but he lives outside the country because he can't stand his government's politics. The same is true of fellow writer Vladimir Sorokin, who was long harassed by political organizations close to the government. Internationally renowned director Kirill Serebrennikov has also been pressured, with police units recently having stormed his theater. His ballet "Nureyev" at the Bolshoi Theater was canceled three days before its premiere after having faced heavy resistance from conservative politicians. The cancellation also affected me, because I had managed to obtain one of the hard-to-get Bolshoi tickets for that evening.

Such overreach bothers only a small number of Russians. Apart from a few voices in the Moscow intelligentsia, there are no protests.

**

Demagogy, Half-Truths and Lies

The things I have written about here were not invented by Vladimir Putin. He merely discovered things that already existed and factored them into his calculations. Fear of personal responsibility? Marginalization of people who think differently? Resignation to fate? Feelings of inferiority toward the rest of the world? These are traits against which the state should be acting. Instead the government strengthens them, because it is useful for it. I only realized in the last few years how much it bothers me, even among Russian friends, most of whom have now succumbed to their president's demagogy.
Putin fires up the Russians' feelings of contempt for Ukrainians, even though -- and I'm convinced of this -- the Russians are jealous that the Ukrainians will now succeed in getting closer to Europe. And he reinforces a feeling of moral and military superiority among the Russians over the West. It has little connection to reality, but isolates the state and the people more and more from the outside world. Putin is making Russia a dissident from the world order and the people are thrilled by it like it's a fairground attraction, even though for many Russians, Europe and America remain the primary reference point for their own lives.

As I said, Putin didn't invent any of this. He only learned how to masterfully exploit it and to serve this Russian mentality with demagogy, half-truths and lies. That, for me, is the most important realization 25 years after Russia's rebirth.



Christian Reef
Der Spiegel

Rusya

Long Live The Revolution!

History provides ample evidence for the crucial importance of large-scale cooperation. Victory almost invariably went to those who cooperated better – not only in struggles between Homo sapiens and other animals, but also in conflicts between different human groups. Thus Rome conquered Greece not because the Romans had larger brains or better toolmaking techniques, but because they were able to cooperate more effectively. Throughout history, disciplined armies easily routed disorganised hordes, and unified elites dominated the disorderly masses. In 1914, for example, 3 million Russian noblemen, officials and business people lorded it over 180 million peasants and workers. The Russian elite knew how to cooperate in defence of its common interests, whereas the 180 million commoners were incapable of effective mobilisation. Indeed, much of the elite’s efforts focused on ensuring that the 180 million people at the bottom would never learn to cooperate.

In order to mount a revolution, numbers are never enough. Revolutions are usually made by small networks of agitators rather than by the masses. If you want to launch a revolution, don’t ask yourself, ‘How many people support my ideas?’ Instead, ask yourself, ‘How many of my supporters are capable of effective collaboration?’ The Russian Revolution finally erupted not when 180 million peasants rose against the tsar, but rather when a handful of communists placed themselves at the right place at the right time. In 1917, at a time when the Russian upper and middle classes numbered at least 3 million people, the Communist Party had just 23,000 members. The communists nevertheless gained control of the vast Russian Empire because they organised themselves well. When authority in Russia slipped from the decrepit hands of the tsar and the equally shaky hands of Kerensky’s provisional government, the communists seized it with alacrity, gripping the reins of power like a bulldog locking its jaws on a bone. 

“The communists didn’t release their grip until the late 1980s. Effective organisation kept them in power for eight long decades, and they eventually fell due to defective organisation. On 21 December 1989 Nicolae Ceauşescu, the communist dictator of Romania, organised a mass demonstration of support in the centre of Bucharest. Over the previous months the Soviet Union had withdrawn its support from the eastern European communist regimes, the Berlin Wall had fallen, and revolutions had swept Poland, East Germany, Hungary, Bulgaria and Czechoslovakia. Ceauşescu, who had ruled Romania since 1965, believed he could withstand the tsunami, even though riots against his rule had erupted in the Romanian city of Timişoara on 17 December. As one of his counter-measures, Ceauşescu arranged a massive rally in Bucharest to prove to Romanians and the rest of the world that the majority of the populace still loved him – or at least feared him. The creaking party apparatus mobilised 80,000 people to fill the city’s central square, and citizens throughout Romania were instructed to stop all their activities and tune in on their radios and televisions.

To the cheering of the seemingly enthusiastic crowd, Ceauşescu mounted the balcony overlooking the square,  as he had done scores of times in previous decades. Flanked by his wife Elena, leading party officials and a bevy of bodyguards, Ceauşescu began delivering one of his trademark dreary speeches. For eight minutes he praised the glories of Romanian socialism, looking very pleased with himself as the crowd clapped mechanically. And then something went wrong. You can see it for yourself on YouTube. Just search for ‘Ceauşescu’s last speech’, and watch history in action.20
The YouTube clip shows Ceauşescu starting another long sentence, saying, ‘I want to thank the initiators and organisers of this great event in Bucharest, considering it as a—’, and then he falls silent, his eyes open wide, and he freezes in disbelief. He never finished the sentence. You can see in that split second how an entire world collapses. Somebody in the audience booed. People still argue today who was the first person who dared to boo. And then another person booed, and another, and another, and within a few seconds the masses began whistling, shouting abuse and calling out ‘Ti-mi-şoa-ra! Ti-mi-şoa-ra!”
 
All this happened live on Romanian television, as three-quarters of the populace sat glued to the screens, their hearts throbbing wildly. The notorious secret police – the Securitate – immediately ordered the broadcast to be stopped, but the television crews disobeyed. The cameraman pointed the camera towards the sky so that viewers couldn’t  see the panic among the party leaders on the balcony, but the soundman kept recording, and the technicians continued the transmission. The whole of Romania heard the crowd booing, while Ceauşescu yelled, ‘Hello! Hello! Hello!’ as if the problem was with the microphone. His wife Elena began scolding the audience, ‘Be quiet! Be quiet!’ until Ceauşescu turned and yelled at her – still live on television – ‘You be quiet!’ Ceauşescu then appealed to the excited crowds in the square, imploring them, ‘Comrades! Comrades! Be quiet, comrades!’

But the comrades were unwilling to be quiet. Communist Romania crumbled when 80,000 people in the Bucharest central square realised they were much stronger than the old man in the fur hat on the balcony. What is truly astounding, however, is not the moment the system collapsed, but the fact that it managed to survive for decades. Why are revolutions so rare? Why do the masses sometimes clap and cheer for centuries on end, doing everything the man on the balcony commands them, even though they could in theory charge forward at any moment and tear him to pieces? 

Ceauşescu and his cronies dominated 20 million Romanians for four decades because they ensured three vital conditions. First, they placed loyal communist apparatchiks in control of all networks of cooperation, such as the army, trade unions and even sports associations. Second, they prevented the creation of any rival organisations – whether political, economic or social – which might serve as a basis for anti-communist cooperation. Third, they relied on the support of sister communist parties in the Soviet Union and eastern Europe. Despite occasional tensions, these parties helped each other in times of need, or at least guaranteed that no outsider poked his nose into the socialist paradise. Under such conditions, despite all the hardship and suffering inflicted on them by the ruling elite, the 20 million Romanians were unable to organise any effective opposition.

Ceauşescu fell from power only once all three conditions no longer held. In the late 1980s the Soviet Union withdrew its protection and the communist regimes began falling like dominoes. By December 1989 Ceauşescu could not expect any outside assistance. Just the opposite – revolutions in nearby countries gave heart to the local opposition. The Communist Party itself began splitting into rival camps. The moderates wished to rid themselves of Ceauşescu and initiate reforms before it was too late. By organising the Bucharest demonstration and broadcasting it live on television, Ceauşescu himself provided the revolutionaries with the perfect opportunity to discover their power and rally against him. What quicker way to spread a revolution than by showing it on TV?

Yet when power slipped from the hands of the clumsy organiser on the balcony, it did not pass to the masses in the square. Though numerous and enthusiastic, the crowds did not know how to organise themselves. “Hence just as in Russia in 1917, power passed to a small group of political players whose only asset was good organisation. The Romanian Revolution was hijacked by the self-proclaimed National Salvation Front, which was in fact a smokescreen for the moderate wing of the Communist Party. The Front had no real ties to the demonstrating crowds. It was manned by mid-ranking party officials, and led by Ion Iliescu, a former member of the Communist Party’s central committee and one-time head of the propaganda department. Iliescu and his comrades in the National Salvation Front reinvented themselves as democratic politicians, proclaimed to any available microphone that they were the leaders of the revolution, and then used their long experience and network of cronies to take control of the country and pocket its resources.

In communist Romania almost everything was owned by the state.   

Democratic Romania quickly privatised its assets, selling them at bargain prices to the ex-communists, who alone grasped what was happening and collaborated to feather each other’s nests. Government companies that controlled national infrastructure and natural resources were sold to former communist officials at end-of-season prices while the party’s foot soldiers bought houses and apartments for pennies.

Ion Iliescu was elected president of Romania, while his colleagues became ministers, parliament members, bank directors and multimillionaires. The new Romanian elite that controls the country to this day is composed mostly of former communists and their families. The masses who risked their necks in Timişoara and Bucharest settled for scraps, because they did not know how to cooperate and how to create an efficient organisation to look after their own interests. 

A similar fate befell the Egyptian Revolution of 2011. What television did in 1989, Facebook and Twitter did in 2011. The new media helped the masses coordinate their activities, so that thousands of people flooded the streets and squares at the right moment and toppled the Mubarak regime. However, it is one thing to bring 100,000 people to Tahrir Square, and quite another to get a grip on the political machinery, shake the right hands in the right back rooms and run a country effectively. Consequently, when Mubarak stepped down the demonstrators could not fill the vacuum. Egypt had only two institutions sufficiently organised to rule the country: the army and the Muslim Brotherhood. Hence the revolution was hijacked first by the Brotherhood, and eventually by the army.
The Romanian ex-communists and the Egyptian generals were not more intelligent or nimble-fingered than either the old dictators or the demonstrators in Bucharest and Cairo. Their advantage lay in flexible cooperation. They cooperated better than the crowds, and they were willing to show far more flexibility than the hidebound Ceauşescu and Mubarak. 

Slav Kültürü ve Rus Kilisesi

Yeni Mutlakiyetçilik

Kasım 2009’da Kuzey Kore hükümeti iktisatçıların para reformu olarak adlandırdıkları bir uygulama başlattı. Bu tür reformların nedeni genellikle şiddetli enflasyon dönemleridir. Ocak 1960’da Fransa’da gerçekleştirilen bir para reformu tedavüldeki frangın 100 katına karşılık gelen yeni bir frangı uygulamaya koydu. Eski franklar tedavülde kaldı, hatta yeni frangın değerinde değişiklik oldukça insanlar fiyat vermek için eski frangı kullandı. Sonunda Fransa avro’ya geçince Ocak 2002’de eski franklar tedavülden kaldırıldı. Kuzey Kore reformu görünüşte Fransa’dakiyle benzerlik taşır. 1960 Fransa’sında olduğu gibi Kuzey Kore hükümeti de paradan iki sıfır atmaya karar verdi. 100 eski won, Kuzey Kore’nin para birimi, artık bir yeni wona karşılık geliyordu. Bireyler eski paralarını getirip yeni basılmış paralarla değiştirebileceklerdi; fakat Fransa örneğindeki gibi 42 yılda değil, bir haftada. Sonra meselenin içyüzü anlaşıldı: Hükümet kimsenin 100 binden wondan daha fazlasını değiştiremeyeceğini duyurdu; gerçi sonradan bunu 500 bine wona kadar esnettiler. 100 bin won karaborsada yaklaşık 40 dolara karşılık geliyordu. Böylece hükümet Kuzey Kore yurttaşlarına ait muazzam miktarda şahsi birikimi tek hamlede silip süpürdü; ne kadar olduğunu tam olarak bilemiyoruz, fakat muhtemelen Arjantin hükümetinin 2002’de el koyduğundan daha fazlaydı.

Kuzey Kore hükümeti özel mülkiyete ve piyasalara karşı çıkan komünist bir diktatörlüktür. Fakat karaborsayı kontrol etmek güçtür; ayrıca karaborsada alım satım işlemleri nakit parayla yapılır. İşin içinde “az miktarda yabancı para vardır elbette, özellikle de Çin parası, fakat çoğu işlemde won kullanılır. Para reformu bu pazarları kullanan insanları cezalandırmak ve özellikle bunların aşırı derecede zenginleşip ya da güçlenip rejim için tehdit oluşturmadıklarından emin olmak için tasarlanmıştı. Bunları fakir tutmak daha güvenliydi. Ayrıca Kuzey Kore halkı tasarruflarını wona yatırıyordu çünkü Kore’de az banka vardı ve hepsi de hükümete aitti. Neticede hükümet para reformunu halkın tasarruflarının büyük bölümüne el koymak için kullanmıştı.

Hükümet her ne kadar piyasaların kötü olduğunu söylese de, Kuzey Kore eliti piyasaların kendilerine sağladığı şeylerden memnun. Liderleri Kim Jong-Il’in içinde bir barı, bir karaoke makinesi ve bir mini sinema salonu olan yedi katlı bir sarayı var. Giriş katında dalga makinesi olan devasa büyüklükte bir havuz bulunuyor; Kim bu havuzda küçük bir motoru olan bir body-board kullanmayı seviyor. 2006’da Birleşik Devletler Kuzey Kore’ye bazı yaptırımlar uyguladığında rejimi nasıl can evinden vuracağını biliyordu. 60’tan fazla lüks tüketim maddesinin ihracatını yasakladı; bunlara yatlar, jetskiler, yarış arabaları, motosikletler, DVD oynatıcılar, 29 ekrandan büyük televizyonlar da dahildi. Artık ipek eşarplar, özel tasarım dolmakalemler, kürkler ya da deri çantalar yoktu. Bunlar tam da Kim ve onun Komünist Parti elitlerine hitap eden kalemlerdi. Bir bilim insanı, “Fransız şirketi Hennessy’nin rakamlarını kullanarak Kim’in yaptırımlardan önceki konyak bütçesinin yılda 800 bin doları bulmuş olabileceğini hesapladı.

20. yüzyılın sonunda dünyanın pek çok fakir bölgesini anlayabilmek ancak 20. yüzyılın yeni mutlakıyetçiliğini anlamakla mümkündür; yani komünizmi. Marx’ın öngördüğü, daha insani koşullar altında ve eşitsizlik olmadan zenginlik üretecek bir sistemdi. Lenin ve onun Komünist Partisi Marx’tan esinlendi, fakat pratik, kuramdan bundan daha farklı olamazdı. 1917 Bolşevik Devrimi kanlı bir hadiseydi ve hiçbir insani yönü yoktu. Lenin ve etrafındakilerin yaptığı ilk şey Bolşevik Parti’nin başına yeni bir eliti, yani kendilerini getirmek olduğundan denklemde eşitliğe de yer yoktu. Bunları yaparken yalnızca komünist olmayan unsurları değil, iktidarları için tehdit oluşturabilecek diğer komünist unsurları da tasfiye edip öldürdüler. Fakat asıl trajediler daha sonra yaşanacaktı; önce İç Savaş’la, ardından Stalin’in kamusallaştırma politikaları ve belki de 40 milyon kadar insanın hayatına mal olan aşırı sıklıktaki tasfiyeleriyle. Rus komünizmi acımasız, baskıcı ve kanlıydı fakat eşsiz değildi. Ekonomik sonuçlar ve çekilen acılar başka yerlerde olup bitenlerle büyük benzerlikler taşıyordu, örneğin 1970’lerde Kızıl Kmerler’in idaresinde Kamboçya’da yaşananlarla; ayrıca Çin’de ve Kuzey Kore’dekilerle. Bu örneklerin tümünde komünizm habis diktatörlükleri ve yaygın insan hakları ihlallerini beraberinde getirdi. Yaşanan ıstıraplar ve katliamlar bir yana, komünist rejimlerin hepsi de farklı türlerde “sömürücü kurumlar inşa ettiler. Ekonomik kurumlar, piyasalar olsun olmasın, halkın kaynaklarını sömürmek için tasarlanmıştı ve mülkiyet haklarından nefret edildiğinden genellikle zenginlik yerine yoksulluk yaratıyorlardı. 5. bölümde gördüğümüz Sovyet örneğinde olduğu gibi, komünist sistem önce hızlı büyüme üretti fakat ardından hızını kaybetti ve durgunluğa yol açtı. Sonuçlar Mao idaresindeki Çin’de, Kızıl Kmerler idaresindeki Kamboçya’da ve komünist ekonomik kurumların ekonomik çöküşe ve kıtlığa yol açtığı Kuzey Kore’de çok daha yıkıcıydı.

Bu komünist ekonomik kurumlar tüm gücü komünist partilerin ellerinde yoğunlaştırıp bu gücün kullanımına hiçbir kısıtlama getirmeyen sömürücü siyasal kurumlar tarafından destekleniyordu. Bunlar şeklen farklı sömürücü kurumlar olsalar da insanların geçim kaynakları üzerinde Zimbabve ve Sierra Leone’deki sömürücü kurumlarla benzer etkiler doğuruyorlardı.

**
Özbekistan pek çok bakımdan geçmişten, unutulmuş bir çağdan kalma bir yadigâr gibi görünür: Tek bir ailenin ve maiyetinin mutlakıyetçiliği altında takati kalmamış, angaryaya –hem de çocukların zorla çalıştırılmasına– dayalı bir ekonomisi olan bir ülke. Fakat aslında öyle değildir. Özbekistan günümüzün sömürücü kurumlar nedeniyle başarısızlığa uğrayan ülkeler mozaiğinin bir parçasıdır ve ne yazık ki Ermenistan ve Azerbaycan’dan; Kırgızistan, Tacikistan ve Türkmenistan’a kadar uzanan eski Sovyet Sosyalist Cumhuriyetleriyle pek çok ortak noktaya sahiptir ve bize sömürücü ekonomik ve siyasal kurumların 21. yüzyılda bile yüzsüz ve acımasız bir sömürü modeline dönüşebileceğini hatırlatmaktadır.

1100-1500

The first two periods are often referred to as the ‘formative’ and ‘classical’ periods of Islamic history; and for most Muslims (who, it should be noted, tend not to use these terms or chronological divisions), they are the centuries that count the most. But the overwhelming majority of the world’s Muslims would almost certainly still be infidels were it not for the events of the 1100–1500 period. And although modern Islamists (those for whom Islam is a political as well as a religious system) shine their spotlight on the age of the Prophet and Rashidun caliphs, it is in response to the events of this period that Islamist movements emerged. From a European perspective, this is the period without which Turkey would have no case for inclusion into the EU (and no case for being ‘Turkey’ at all), and without which Russia would have no ‘issues’ with Muslims to their south.

History of Pakistan

My country may not be very old but unfortunately it already has a history of military coups, and when my father was eight a general called Zia ul-Haq seized power. There are still many pictures of him around. He was a scary man with dark panda shadows around his eyes, large teeth that seemed to stand to attention and hair pomaded flat on his head. He arrested our elected prime minister, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, and had him tried for treason then hanged from a scaffold in Rawalpindi jail. Even today people talk of Mr Bhutto as a man of great charisma. They say he was the first Pakistani leader to stand up for the common people, though he himself was a feudal lord with vast estates of mango fields. His execution shocked everybody and made Pakistan look bad all around the world. The Americans cut off aid.

To try to get people at home to support him, General Zia launched a campaign of Islamisation to make us a proper Muslim country with the army as the defenders of our country’s ideological as well as geographical frontiers. He told our people it was their duty to obey his government because it was pursuing Islamic principles. Zia even wanted to dictate how we should pray, and set up salat or prayer committees in every district, even in our remote village, and appointed 100,000 prayer inspectors. Before then mullahs had almost been figures of fun – my father said at wedding parties they would just hang around in a corner and leave early – but under Zia they became influential and were called to Islamabad for guidance on sermons. Even my grandfa” ther went. Under Zia’s regime life for women in Pakistan became much more restricted. Jinnah said, ‘No struggle can ever succeed without women participating side by side with men. There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a third power stronger than both, that of women.’ But General Zia brought in Islamic laws which reduced a woman’s evidence in court to count for only half that of a man’s. Soon our prisons were full of cases like that of a thirteen-year-old girl who was raped and become pregnant and was then sent to prison for adultery because she couldn’t produce four male witnesses to prove it was a crime. A woman couldn’t even open a bank account without a man’s permission. As a nation we have always been good at hockey, but Zia made our female hockey players wear baggy trousers instead of shorts, and stopped women playing some sports altogether.

Many of our madrasas or religious schools were opened at that time, and in all schools religious studies, what we call deeniyat, was replaced by Islamiyat, or Islamic studies, which children in Pakistan still have to do today. Our history textbooks were rewritten to describe Pakistan as a ‘fortress of Islam’, which made it seem as if we had existed far longer than since 1947, and denounced Hindus and Jews. Anyone reading them might think we won the three wars we have fought and lost against our great enemy India.

Everything changed when my father was ten. Just after Christmas 1979 the Russians invaded our neighbour Afghanistan. Millions of Afghans fled across the border and General Zia gave them refuge. Vast camps of white tents sprang up mostly around Peshawar, some of which are still there today. Our biggest intelligence service belongs to the military and is called the ISI. It started a massive programme to train Afghan refugees recruited from the camps as resistance fighters or mujahideen. Though Afghans are renowned fighters, Colonel Imam, the officer heading the programme, complained that trying to organise them was ‘like weighing frogs’.

The Russian invasion transformed Zia from an international pariah to the great defender of freedom in the Cold War. The Americans became friends with us once again, as in those days Russia was their main enemy. Next door to us the Shah of Iran had been overthrown in a revolution a few months earlier so the CIA had lost their main base in the region. Pakistan took its place. Billions of dollars flowed into our exchequer from the United States and other Western countries, as well as weapons to help the ISI train the Afghans to fight the communist Red Army. General Zia was invited to meet President Ronald Reagan at the White House and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher at 10 Downing Street. They lavished praise on him.

Prime Minister Zulfikar Bhutto had appointed Zia as his army chief because he thought he was not very intelligent and would not be a threat. He called him his ‘monkey’. But Zia turned out to be a very wily man. He made Afghanistan a rallying point not only for the West, which wanted to stop the spread of communism from the Soviet Union, but also for Muslims from Sudan to Tajikistan, who saw it as a fellow Islamic country under attack from infidels. Money poured in from all over the Arab world, particularly Saudi Arabia, which matched whatever the US sent, and volunteer fighters too, including a Saudi millionaire called Osama bin Laden.

We Pashtuns are split between Pakistan and Afghanistan and don’t really recognise the border that the British drew more than 100 years ago. So our blood boiled over the Soviet invasion for both religious and nationalist reasons. The clerics of the mosques would often talk about the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan in their sermons, condemning the Russians as infidels and urging people to join the jihad, saying it was their duty as good Muslims. It was as if under Zia jihad had become the sixth pillar of our religion on top of the five we grow up to learn – the belief in one God, namaz or prayers five times a day, giving zakat or alms, roza – fasting from dawn till sunset during the month of Ramadan – and haj, the pilgrimage to Mecca, which every able-bodied Muslim should do once in their lifetime. My father says that in our part of the world this idea of jihad was very much encouraged by the CIA. Children in the refugee camps were even given school textbooks produced by an American university which taught basic arithmetic through fighting. They had examples like, ‘If out of 10 Russian infidels, 5 are killed by one Muslim, 5 would be left’ or ‘15 bullets – 10 bullets = 5 bullets’.

Some boys from my father’s district went off to fight in Afghanistan. My father remembers that one day a maulana called Sufi Mohammad came to the village and asked young men to join him to fight the Russians in the name of Islam. Many did, and they set off, armed with old rifles or just axes and bazookas. Little did we know that years later the same maulana’s organisation would become the Swat Taliban. At that time my father was only twelve years old and too young to fight. But the Russians ended up stuck in Afghanistan for ten years, through most of the 1980s, and when he became a teenager my father decided he too wanted to be a jihadi. Though later he became less regular in his prayers, in those days he used to leave home at dawn every morning to walk to a mosque in another village, where he studied the Quran with a senior talib. At that time talib simply meant ‘religious student’. Together they studied all the thirty chapters of the Quran, not just recitation but also interpretation, something few boys do.

The talib talked of jihad in such glorious terms that my father was captivated. He would endlessly point out to my father that life on earth was short and that there were few opportunities for young men in the village. Our family owned little land, and my father did not want to end up going south to work in the coal mines like many of his classmates. That was tough and dangerous work, and the coffins of those killed in accidents would come back several times a year. The best that most village boys could hope for was to go to Saudi Arabia or Dubai and work in construction. So heaven with its seventy-two virgins sounded attractive. Every night my father would pray to God, ‘O Allah, please make war between Muslims and infidels so I can die in your service and be a martyr.’

For a while his Muslim identity seemed more important than anything else in his life. He began to sign himself ‘Ziauddin Panchpiri’ (the Panchpiri are a religious sect) and sprouted the first signs of a beard. It was, he says, a kind of brainwashing. He believes he might even have thought of becoming a suicide bomber had there been such a thing in those days. But from an early age he had been a questioning kind of boy who rarely took anything at face value, even though our education at government schools meant learning by rote and pupils were not supposed to question teachers.

It was around the time he was praying to go to heaven as a martyr that he met my mother’s brother, Faiz Mohammad, and started mixing with her family and going to her father’s hujra. They were very involved in local politics, belonged to secular nationalist parties and were against involvement in the war. A famous poem was written at that time by Rahmat Shah Sayel, the same Peshawar poet who wrote the poem about my namesake. He described what was happening in Afghanistan as a ‘war between two elephants’ – the US and the Soviet Union – not our war, and said that we Pashtuns were ‘like the grass crushed by the hooves of two fierce beasts’. My father often used to recite the poem to me when I was a child but I didn’t know then what it meant.

My father was very impressed by Faiz Mohammad and thought he talked a lot of sense, particularly about wanting to end the feudal and capitalist systems in our country, where the same big families had controlled things for years while the poor got poorer. He found himself torn between the two extremes, secularism and socialism on one side and militant Islam on the other. I guess he ended up somewhere in the middle.

İnsanların Dayanışmasını Kırma Taktikleri

Üstad Hazretleri, mektupta[Kastamonu Lahikası 150. mektup] ruhuna gelen bir endişeyi beyan etmektedir. Hizmetin hasım ve muârızları olan ehl-i dalâletin, Risale-i Nur talebeleri arasındaki tesânüdü yıkmak ve birliklerini bozmak için geçim derdini ve gafletli bahar mevsimini kullanarak; meşrep, anlayış ve hissiyât farklılığından ileri gelen zayıf damarları tahrik etmek istediklerini hissedip anladığını belirtiyor. O sıralarda insanları açlığa mahkûm edip, sadece midesini düşünür hâle getirmek için devletin erzak depolarını ve silolarını bile yakmışlar.

Bu sinsi ve merhametsiz tertip Sovyetler’de de uygulanmıştır. Hatta gizli erzak biriktiren ve saklayanları ortaya çıkarmak için okullarda öğrencilerin gözlerinin içine bakarlarmış. Beslenmesi iyi gibi olanları fark edince hemen evlerine baskın yaparlarmış. Kırım’da o sıralar, fazla buğday veya un elde edenler, evlere baskın olduğu için onları muhafazalı şekilde toprak altına gömerlermiş.

İnsanlar açlıktan tamamen midesini düşünür hâle gelince, dayatılan rejimlerin tenkidi ve yanlışlığı ile uğraşamaz hâle gelirlermiş. Zamanla diktatörlük rejimlerinin âmir ve memurlarının direktiflerinden çıkamaz olurlarmış. Fazla imkân ve maaş verilen memurlar rejimin yaman uygulayacıları hâline gelirmiş. Halkımız, ezanın Türkçeye çevrildiği dönemde o zamanki Milli Şef ve memurlar için şöyle bir yakıştırma ve tekerleme söylemiştir: “Tanrı uludur, Tanrı uludur; memurlar İsmet Paşa’nın kuludur. Haydi namaza. Haydi namaza. Memurlar şekere gaza.”