CESS is pleased to present a series of author interviews highlighting the books shortlisted for this year’s prize. In the first of these, we welcome Malika Bahovadinova (University of Manchester and Czech Academy of Sciences), who poses a series of questions to Artemy Kalinovsky (University of Amsterdam) on Laboratory of Socialist Development: Cold War Politics and Decolonization in Soviet Tajikistan (Cornell University Press 2018) – thank you to both colleagues for this virtual conversation!
“Artemy Kalinovsky’s Laboratory of Socialist Development investigates the Soviet effort to make promises of decolonization a reality by looking at the politics and practices of economic development in central Asia between World War II and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Focusing on the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic, Kalinovsky places the Soviet development of central Asia in a global context.” (from the Cornell University Press website)
I would like to hear more about the idea of decolonization or decolonization/s. You suggest that there are multiple decolonizations in Central Asia, and you specifically look into the second process of the Khrushchev era. It seems that decolonization sometimes means claims on the state and requests for greater equality (or a fairer share of the statist welfare program). On other occasions, it seems more complex. I wonder if there is a relation between the claims to decolonization and the promise of “culturedness,” and if the latter posits a different type of decolonization or at least emancipation from certain ways of being in the world? What would a “good enough” decolonization look like at this particular historic juncture?
First, thank you for these great questions! I should start out by saying that I use “decolonization” not as something fixed or as one half of a binary, but rather as an idea whose meaning was redefined multiple times. The Soviets tried to practice a kind of revolutionary decolonization through a federal system: there would be no domination of one group by others, and every group would have cultural autonomy, but, at the same time, everyone would work towards a shared communist future. Of course this was a very contradictory concept, and this is why we’ve had very fruitful debates in the last three decades about whether or not we should think of the USSR as an empire.
But my approach was to step away from that debate a bit and see what people did with the claim about decolonization, in an era when the USSR was trying to reassert itself as a champion of decolonization in Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. And indeed, for some it was mostly a question of inequality or different levels of economic development. For others it was about relative cultural autonomy, including how you represent the past, how much freedom you have in the arts, and so on. What “good enough” looks like depends on whom you are asking and when. I think to many people in the 1950s it looked like economic equality, growth, the ability to write and publish in your own language, the resources to do that, and so on.
Culturedness is one area where it often seems we are not far at all from European style colonialism. The kind of “cultured” everyday behavior –modes of dress, comportment, and so on, envisioned for a modern Soviet citizen was very clearly based on European models. And yet even here we have two crucial wrinkles. The first is that these modes of culturedness were imposed on everyone; it was not a clear case of Russians imposing Europeeanness on everyone else, but rather a revolutionary minority trying to impose a vision of culturedness on everyone, starting with the Slavic peasantry.
Poet Mirzo Tursunzoda and other Tajik writers meeting with dam-builders. Photo credit Central State Archive of Video and Photo Documentation of the Republic of Tajikistan (used with permission from Artemy Kalinovsky).
But more important for me is that again, the Soviet promise of decolonization creates room for negotiation what culturedness means in different contexts. One of the things we see when we read the memoirs of Tajik intellectuals, for example, is that they clearly have an idea of what a cultured person is, not just in terms of the literature that person knowns but how they behave towards others, and so on, and this clearly is not a carbon copy of what a Russian intellectual might say, although there is some interesting overlap. But what is also clear, both from those memoirs and from the interviews I conducted, is that these intellectuals took the task of passing on this version of culturedness to a wider public very seriously.
While reading your book I also was reading Gramsci’s prison notebooks, and after reading the latter I became quite interested in your analysis of the role of intellectuals. You start your book with committed intellectuals and end it with an analysis of disillusioned cultural and other elites. Reading this with Gramsci in mind and his analysis of intellectuals (as the backbone of civil society and the site where hegemony forms and extends from), I began to wonder what happens when intellectuals lose faith. This is rather a question to Gramsci who talked about the “spontaneous” remit of hegemony (or we can say ideas), but I wonder if you could be better positioned to explain. I was surprised by the sharp contrast between the cohorts of intellectuals, the ones who had faith, and the others who had lost it. What happened in the middle? And how can we explain the shift from hegemonic belief in a state to utter dissatisfaction with it? I wonder how this “spontaneity” emerges or how it is lost? Why did these specific intellectuals stop believing?
I would start out by saying that perhaps the contrast is not really that sharp. First, even the most committed intellectuals who came of age in the 1950s and 1960s saw the Soviet project as something incomplete and requiring work and perfection. And many of the highly critical ones of the late 1980s were still willing to work for a reformed Soviet state. But a number of things happen in between, of course. One is that the many of the economic initiatives that they had championed in the 1950s not only fail to meet expectations, but also have all sorts of harmful effects, particularly for the environment and for health. Another is the engagement with the developing world, and later the war in Afghanistan, which makes (some) people question the claims about Soviet superiority and also think about the limitations of cultural autonomy as practiced in the USSR. But perhaps the most important factor is the way that with perestroika and glasnost Gorbachev encourages a re-thinking of everything that comes before. So much of the pre-perestroika past is presented as a lie that it inevitably leads to a reassessment of whether anything was true. And I think for the harshest critics, like Abdujabor, who you mention later, the answer was no.
None of these things happens in isolation from what is going on outside of Tajikistan – these intellectuals are in conversation with their counterparts elsewhere in the USSR, and of course they know what’s happening beyond the Soviet Union’s borders as well. And that also means that they are responding to the growing nationalism elsewhere in the USSR – especially Russian nationalism, which they see (correctly) as a danger to any kind of equality in the USSR, and Baltic nationalism, which becomes an inspiration for some of them.
What about race? Was it simply not an issue – was not there in Soviet Tajikistan? Or was it there, but not enunciated or present in archival materials and sidelined later by nostalgic memories of the internationalist city?
I think we need to be clear regarding what we mean by race. There was certainly plenty of prejudice, including at the “city of friendship,” Nurek. Sometimes it took on racial overtones, as when Russian workers talked about locals as “blacks;” in these instances differences were seen as biological. But more common I think were forms of prejudice that I would hesitate to call racial; this would manifest itself in construction managers not wanting to hire rural Tajiks because they assumed they would be less qualified, or becomes their Russian was weak. All of these things have been muted by nostalgia, but they come out in the archival records, in interviews, and even journalism and fiction about the period. (I would really recommend Jeff Sahadeo’s work[i], although he deals with migrants in Leningrad and Moscow rather than on relations within the republics.)
A more clear case for racialization of difference can be made, I think, in the way that social scientists talk about the relationship of ethnicity and labor in the late 1970s and into the 1980s. In seeking to explain why Central Asians do not seem to be moving towards industrial cities but staying in the countryside, they start to treat culture as something almost immutable. And although no one ever makes the case that this is biological, I think it comes pretty close.
I really liked your analysis of the “local labour” problem, or, rather, the problem of its im/mobility, as well as how this problem came to be understood in Soviet knowledge production. In your book, Tohir Abdujabbor argues that local labour did not move because industries were built with Russian in minds. I found this expression quite interesting, and from my limited knowledge of the labour “immobility” in Soviet Union, quite persuasive. Claims about inherent immobility often overlooked the role of networks and personal connections in procuring housing in cities, propiska, language barriers in navigating the bureaucracy, and many other structural factors in place making local labour “immobile”. Could you elaborate more on this issue: how can we interpret Abdujabbor’s statement?
I think Abdujabbor confuses effect with intent, perhaps deliberately to make a political point. His point is not just about industries but about the cities; he was referring to the size of apartments, for example. It’s worth pointing out that the idea that immobility was “inherent” only took hold in the late 1970s and 1980s, and even then remained controversial among Soviet planners. Simultaneously there were ongoing discussions about 1) how to make the cities more attractive for Central Asians with large families both physically (the “vertical mahalla” in Tashkent is a particularly interesting example) and aesthetically and 2) about changing the geographic distribution of industries so that people in rural areas could stay close to their extended families and still join the industrial workforce.
A Belaz truck mounted near the reservoir overlooking the city. Pictured here is Nurullo Shulashov, a local who became a Belaz driver, studied engineering, and eventually became mayor of Nurek. He identified strongly with the dam, and with his former profession.(Photo credit Artemy Kalinovsky)
Of course Soviet planners were largely blind to the questions you mention: the role of networks, personal connections, and so on. But the sociological surveys they carried out showed plenty of other reasons that many avoided coming to the cities, and the optimists tried to address these along the lines mentioned above.
You note in your concluding discussion some parallels between Chinese “hard” development in Tajikistan with the Soviet commitment to social and cultural transformation in the process of development. There is an implicit critique of the former, it seems, because there is no “commitment” to Chinese development today. It would be curious to hear more about this “commitment.” In your depiction of Nurek and Nurek’s local and migrant labour there is something of a missionary-style assumption of local backwardness, which needs to be overcome: the necessity of older brothers who need to be imported and thus bring quite colonial overtones to the Soviet aid. In the Chinese case, couldn’t cash transfers (and other “hard” development) be beneficial to people without the extended statist or developmental bureaucracies? If Chinese money builds infrastructure, why ought it to have a moral agenda along the way? Why is there a need for social transformation?
I think this is a very good question, and of course it cuts to more fundamental problems with the whole notion of development. I should say that I have not studied the question myself, and the things I say in the conclusion to the book are based on observations made in the 2011-2015 period. But the first question is who gets to benefit from these projects, and who gets a say in what benefiting from these projects means? My sense is that in the case of Chinese projects, which is carried out by Chinese companies using Chinese laborers, the benefits to locals are often unclear (although Irna Hofman has found some interesting nuances at least as far as agriculture is concerned[ii]).
I would say it was precisely because the Soviets had an explicit agenda that it was possible to challenge projects, to reshape them, at the very least to make sure they benefited local people in some way. We see this at Nurek when local villagers demand to get access to water, or roads, or other things that dam builders never thought they would have to think about. And when they mobilize local workers (which, again, is part of the agenda of social transformation) those workers also become spokespeople for their communities. When the USSR undertook projects without commitment to social transformation, for example in its various closed cities, this kind of engagement did not happen.
The PRC, I think, would claim to be less colonialist because it does not impose moral conditions on the governments they partner with, but they are engaged in extractive work with the benefits primarily going to Chinese companies and local political and economic elites, which to me is a very solid definition of colonialism, if not the only one.
Cash transfers are really intriguing, because they really do seem to get rid of paternalism all together, and this is one of the reasons we’ve seen even people like James Ferguson come out as cautious supporters. But the danger with cash transfers, as with Universal Basic Income, is that the government steps back from responsibilities for maintaining equality. Suppose the prices for services or rent or food go up? Will the government (or donor agency) increase cash transfers to compensate? What if wealth continues to accumulate in the hands of a few, who consolidate their control of political and economic life? What are the mechanisms to challenge this political and economic inequality? You could see cash transfers actually have a de-politicizing effect, where the recipients are treated like consumers who are given the choice on how to spend money, but no real citizenship.
[i] Sahadeo, Jeff. Voices from the Soviet Edge: Southern Migrants in Leningrad and Moscow. Cornell University Press, 2019.
[ii] Hofman, Irna. Cotton, control, and continuity in disguise: The political economy of agrarian transformation in lowland Tajikistan. Diss. Leiden University, 2019.