Political Culture in Post-Communist Russia

Political Culture in Post-Communist Russia Formlessness and Recreation in a Traumatic Transition James Alexander Poli...

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Political Culture in Post-Communist Russia Formlessness and Recreation in a Traumatic Transition

James Alexander

Political Culture in Post-Communist Russia

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Political Culture in Post-Communist Russia Formlessness and Recreation in a Traumatic Transition James Alexander Assistant Professor Northeastern State University Tahlequah Oklahoma

First published in Great Britain 2000 by

MACMILLAN PRESS LTD Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and London Companies and representatives throughout the world A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 0–333–77344–6 First published in the United States of America 2000 by ST. MARTIN’S PRESS, LLC, Scholarly and Reference Division, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 ISBN 0–312–23194–6 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Alexander, James, 1964– Political culture in post-communist Russia : formlessness and recreation in a traumatic transition / James Alexander. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–312–23194–6 1. Political culture—Russia (Federation) 2. Russia (Federation)—Politics and government—1991– 3. Political culture—Russia (Federation)—Syktyvkar. 4. Political culture—Russia (Federation)—Kirov (Kirovskaia oblast’) I. Title. JN6699.A15 A43 2000 947.086—dc21 00–021164 © James Alexander 2000 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. 10 09

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire

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For Kathleen

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Contents List of Figures

viii

List of Tables

ix

Preface

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1 Investigating Russian Political Culture 2 Political Culture as a Research Agenda 3 Surveying Attitudes in Russia: a Representation of Formlessness 4 Uncertain Conditions in the Russian Transition: the Popular Drive toward Stability in a ‘Stateless’ Environment 5 Concepts in the Making: How Russians Define Their Political World 6 Activity and Apathy: the Extremes of Politics in the Komi Republic 7 Russians as Political Participants: Looking Away from Politics 8 Russian Relations with Authority: the Call for Strength and Unity in Leadership 9 Formlessness and Cultural Recreation

176 209

Appendix

234

Notes and References

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Bibliography

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Index

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1 18 45

68 112 134 150

List of Figures 1.1 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 9.1 9.2

Map of Western Russia Types of Political Cultures Political Culture Fragmented Behavior Formless Political Culture Popular Reactions to Formlessness Russia’s Formless Political Culture

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7 20 35 39 40 215 226

List of Tables 2.1 Political Culture Adaptation 3.1 Subdimensions of Democratic Rights, Liberties and Institutions 3.2 Positions of Russia’s Choice Voters 4.1 National Problems 4.2 Local Problems 4.3 Russian Mass Cultural Types 4.4 Support for National Political Leaders 4.5 Support for Local Political Leaders 5.1 Terms Examined 6.1 Opinion on Reforms 6.2 Effect of Reforms 6.3 Negative Reform Impact 6.4 Life Perspectives 6.5 Preferences for Political Eras 6.6 Work Preferences 6.7 Confidence in Political Actors 6.8 Preferences for Komi Republic President 8.1 Political Functions 8.2 Comparative Electoral Results 8.3 Power Sharing Agreements 9.1 Russian Cultural Type Development

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37 48 54 74 75 79 83 86 113 145 145 146 147 147 147 148 148 185 199 204 228

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Preface

Preface The study of political culture draws people in with the hope of finding that magic key to understanding a society, its political roots and its developmental possibilities. My inspiration to examine this subject can be traced back to two years spent in Peace Corps Ecuador in the mid-1980s. In trying to communicate with mestizo and indigenous rural populations in the Andean highlands, I discovered the mysteries of culture. While constructing potable water systems and latrine networks, I also sought to engender an understanding of the health and medical benefits of these projects. I often failed in this latter endeavor. Not, however, because I was stumbling over tenses and conjugations as I first thought; instead, as my language abilities improved, I came to comprehend the gap that often separates one people from another. While human social groups have far more similarities than they do differences, these differences can act to separate and, when contemplated, enlighten. Not insurmountable for mutual comprehension, differences offer challenging opportunities. Ultimately, an explanation rarely contains magical properties, yet it helps to advance understanding. When I returned to higher education as a political science doctoral student at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, in 1990 I was unaware how much two years of ‘life in the clouds’ of Ecuador had affected my intellectual outlook. Yet, as the Soviet Union collapsed and an independent Russia emerged from the turmoil of a dying empire, I found myself drawing on what I had learned in Ecuador about culture and the possibilities for cultural change. In comparing my thoughts and expectations with the emerging body of Western scholarship on the Newly Independent States, I became increasingly frustrated. While the excitement of the empirical research possibilities was enlivening, I was appalled at times by the seemingly superficial and misguided attempts to represent Russian beliefs, behavior, and expectations. This drove me to embark on a dissertation project on Russian political culture that aimed to bring balance and depth to a complex issue. Completed in 1996, that project has been revised into the book in front of you. Perhaps having softened my reaction to ‘competing’ scholarship, I emerge from this project more circumspect, although ever more convinced x

Preface

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that a society’s political culture is a complex web of patterns and/ or contradictions that defy simple explanation. In reaching this point of ‘enlightenment’, there are many people I must acknowledge for their help and support. In Russia they are too numerous to acknowledge by name, yet several individuals stand out. In Syktyvkar, Yuri Shabaev and Pavel Krotov have been particularly helpful to me in developing this project over the years. In Kirov, I am indebted to Evgenii Ostanin and the Pechnikov family. Throughout my four months in Kirov, Igor, Svetlana and Artem were gracious hosts. In the United States there are also numerous individuals who unselfishly aided my drive to complete this project. For their helpful comments and criticisms, I am grateful to my colleagues Paul Bolt, Tim Nokken and Jeffrey Roberg. I am further beholden to my dissertation committee of Roger Kanet, Carol Leff and John Lepingwell. Both Roger, through his knowledge of the publishing world, and Carol, who helped me revise the document, were extremely helpful in bringing this manuscript to publication. Furthermore, I would like to thank the editors of Communist and Post-Communist Studies and Europe-Asia Studies for generously allowing me to print Chapters 3 and 4. Chapter 3 originally appeared as ‘Surveying Attitudes in Russia: A Representation of Formlessness,’ in Post-Communist Studies, Vol. 30, no. 2 (1997), pp. 107–27. Although much revised as Chapter 4, ‘Uncertain Conditions in the Russian Transition: the Popular Drive Towards Stability in the “Stateless” Environment’, Europe–Asia Studies, Vol. 50, no. 3 (1998), pp. 415–43, has been reprinted here by kind permission of Taylor & Francis Ltd, 11 New Fetter Lane, London, EC4P 4EE. Each of these chapters is integral to the book. I must also acknowledge the help I have received in making this a more readable volume. I am particularly indebted to Cheryl Frank who exhibited her considerable skills in helping me refine and condense an unwieldy manuscript into a (hopefully) smooth and manageable book. For my opportunity to work with Cheryl, I am thankful to my university, as support for this project was received from the Faculty Research Committee, Northeastern State University, Tahlequah, OK, 74464. That support enabled me to develop a manuscript that was more appropriate for publication. At the publisher, I am appreciative of the hard work and interest I have received from the editorial staff. I am at first grateful to T.M. Farmiloe who ultimately approved publication of this volume. Thanks go to Lesley

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Steward for expertly copy-editing the book. I am also thankful for the efficiency and talent exhibited by Aruna Vasudevan who, as my commissioning editor, helped guide me through the unfamiliar publication process. Finally, I owe much of the success in completing this book manuscript to my wife, Kathleen, who has constantly supported me in my scholarly goals. Without her calming influence, I hazard to wonder whether this project would have been completed. For being such a loving and caring partner, it is to her that I dedicate this book.

Investigating Russian Political Culture

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1 Investigating Russian Political Culture

On a bitter November evening in 1993 in the far north of Russia, members of the Syktyvkar chapter of the political movement Democratic Russia met at a local union hall to discuss strategy. Talk was heated and ultimately inconclusive. The group later would split into three factions. As an observer of these events I had the opportunity to see the political grassroots of a former communist superpower that could be taking the first unsteady steps toward democracy. The society was still reeling from the confrontation only a month earlier between President Yeltsin and the Russian legislature, the Supreme Soviet. The people attending this November meeting understood the enormity of the task facing them in transforming Russian society. The first significant opposition group to Soviet rule, Democratic Russia’s eventual split in the city of Syktyvkar, capital of the Komi Republic, exemplifies the difficulties of transforming authoritarianism into democracy. Although the hall that evening truthfully was not filled with the anticipation described by John Reed in 1917 on the eve of the Bolshevik Revolution, the uncertain meeting result seemed to me, nonetheless, to typify the hope, irresolution and general confusion of post-Soviet Russia. 1 Beyond recording and reporting on the loud, sometimes fervent debate, my purpose that evening was to form an impression of the mood among the political reformers. I walked around conversing with various participants, but, truthfully, the content of those discussions was not particularly remarkable. The one comment that left a lasting impression came – not in response to my substantive questions – but in reaction to one young man who asked me about my research. When I informed him that I was investigating Russian 1

2 Political Culture in Post-Communist Russia

political culture, he seemed impressed but asserted that ‘Russia doesn’t have a political culture’. This comment was rather surprising: his conceptualization of political culture as some notion of ‘political manners’ neither met my own view nor that in the scholarly literature. In retrospect, I find his comment underlines the difficulties of understanding an abstract term such as ‘political culture’, and trying to identify the political culture of a particular country. Frequently described by scholars as almost a genetic code for the political development of a society, political culture is far more than political manners. Instead, there are various types of political cultures encompassing a spectrum of political attitudes and behaviors. There is, for instance, a ‘civic political culture’ that assumes a strong popular presence in state affairs and a subject political culture that largely reserves state affairs to the political elite.2 Clearly difficult to define and situate, political culture is a conceptual tool used in structuring one’s understanding and expectations of a particular society. The concept extends beyond actions and preferences of individual actors to provide a collective understanding of that society or region. Political culture is not necessarily some coherent whole, however, especially with the existence of cultural sub-types. Developments in Russia provide a unique opportunity to investigate political culture’s role, both as an agent and recipient of the fundamental transformation now occurring. As I will argue, with changes in the Russian conditions, the indigenous political culture has lost much of the capacity to function effectively as a framework for popular interpretation of the society and the body of tools structuring political behavior. It may not be that the political culture itself has been fundamentally altered during this early period of Russia’s transformation, but rather that the popular ability to use that political culture has been compromised by drastic political, economic and social reform. Out of this turmoil will likely emerge significant cultural adaptation, as the instability of society influences this adaptation in very complex ways. Moving from the apparently all-encompassing embrace of state socialism, Russia has experienced an environmental sea change, overwhelming for the traditional political culture and its normal adaptation. Beyond many novel ideas and opportunities flooding a once stable, almost stagnant society, has been the traumatic experience for Russians trying to make sense of their changing environment with an inadequate set of cultural tools. The constant


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struggle to employ traditional tools has many Russians throwing up barriers to change and retreating, at least symbolically, into a more traditional world. With retreat, there is accompanying hope, and gradually more aggressive expression, for the recreation of aspects of the traditional system in which the indigenous political culture will regain functionality. A greater state role in economic and social policy, perhaps even a stronger police presence could result. The recreation of the more authoritarian aspects of that political culture makes near-term democratization in Russia a less likely possibility. And, the end game of political culture development in Russia is far from predetermined. Scholars traditionally assumed that Russian political culture would reflect the centuries of authoritarian rule that had characterized both Imperial Russia and the Soviet Union. Yet, as the Soviet Union neared collapse, new scholarship (generally based on opinion polls) depicted a population ‘primed’ for a world of liberal democratic nations. I enter the debate over the foundations of Russia’s political culture with an alternative perspective. While my empirically based findings exhibit some evidence of Western democratic values in Russian political culture, the dominant trend among the Russian people is expressed in support for the symbols and values that characterized Soviet and Russian tradition.

Political change and Russia The current process of political change in Russia provides a fruitful case for political culture research. Massive changes throw into sharp relief the disjunction between values and beliefs conditioned by a prior stable order, and demonstrate the need to interpret and respond to a dramatically different environment. Emerging from a history of varying degrees of isolation interspersed by invasions from powers to the East and West, Russia has a unique political culture base. For centuries, Russians have been dominated by long-term autocratic tsarist and hierarchically organized rule, as well as an equally hierarchical organization during the Soviet period. Soviet policies were similar to those of its imperial predecessor. An example that is particularly relevant to this study was the Soviet practice of isolating the domestic population from foreign influence. Western challenges to Soviet political and economic practices helped ensure the Soviets continued to resort to policies similar to those of Tsar Nicholas I in the 19th century to ‘protect’ Russia from the outside. 3


The Soviet regime maintained an almost impenetrable boundary – to foreign political ideas and economic influence. Behind this ‘iron curtain’, foreign influences were officially and unofficially mediated through a filter into Moscow, which further filtered these influences to the regions on official and unofficial levels. Moscow, and to a lesser degree Leningrad (now returned to its former name St Petersburg), was gatekeeper for any external influences that did reach the population. With additional controls on domestic activities, Russian society has long been conditioned to monotony – symbolized in the West as long queues and bureaucratic inertia – a routine life interrupted only by war and revolution. After 1985, the regime of Mikhail Gorbachev signaled that the state-controlled filtering process had eroded, opening society to powerful foreign influences and an explosion of internal expression and diversity that undermined the Soviet system. While Moscow still mediates a great deal of information to other regions (especially through centralized broadcast media), Russia has become much more open to foreign economic and political ideas as well as to foreign businessmen, tourists and scholars in regions across the country. Removal of official restrictions on speech and group organization also released indigenous forces. The ‘new’ forces varied across the society; all regions are currently contending with conflicting pressures to reform economic and political management, to buy imported goods and watch imported television programs. PostSoviet Russian borders are now far more open and permeable to the passage of different information and people. The current tumultuous process of political, economic and social change – which is broadly related to what Claus Offe termed the triple transition – is transforming Russian society.4 Yet, amid the turmoil of economic dislocation and political anomie, Russians are struggling with the affects of a halting movement toward an unknown market economy and liberal-democracy. Such change particularly strikingly effects a populace accustomed to the monotony of previous regimes, leaving Russians and foreigners alike unsure about Russia’s future. This book investigates the contemporary manifestations of Russian political culture in the chaotic swirl of these contradictory forces.


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The project Western scholars only recently acquired the ability to carry out wide-scale research in the former Soviet Union after decades of the information-constrained environment that so defined Sovietology and, most especially, Kremlinology. Research permitted was generally limited to Moscow and Leningrad. Assessments of the political situation in other regions was often extrapolated from these two cases. Furthermore, given the hierarchical nature of the Soviet system, most early discussions of political culture in the 1960s and 1970s assumed uniformity at all levels of that hierarchy.5 Research approaches broadened during the late 1970s and 1980s, with access to Soviet emigres in the West. Direct access for Western scholars to provincial regions, however, was still quite restricted. As the Soviet Union was opened through Mikhail Gorbachev’s policies of perestroika and glasnost’, this situation changed in the late 1980s. Political culture research since that time has relied on broadly applied quantitative survey methods to make generalizations about the Soviet, and now Russian, population. In striving for breadth and generalizability, these types of closed-question surveys lack depth in understanding, only offering superficial measurements of Russian political attitudes. This book will address this gap in knowledge about Russian political attitudes and the prospects for the developing political system. Primarily based upon field interviews, my research is among the first that draws upon ethnographic methods to supplement assessment of political developments in two provincial cities – Syktyvkar and Kirov – from October 1993 through to August 1994. The research is expanded, where appropriate, with analysis of events that have occurred in these two regions since the main body of this project was completed. Aspects of these additions emerged from a summer 1997 research trip to Syktyvkar. Location The first research site was Syktyvkar, where I lived and worked from October 1993 until March 1994. The capital of the Komi Republic, Syktyvkar is a medium-sized city with approximately 240 000 inhabitants, located about 900 miles northeast of Moscow. Largely an administrative city, it has relatively little industry, although the Komi Republic has a wealth of natural resources (oil, gas, coal, timber, and so on). The population is 60 per cent Russian, 34 per cent indigenous Komi and the remainder Ukrainians, Germans and others.


This ethnic diversity brings some controversy to the region, although not as serious as that in other ethnic republics such as Chechnya and Tatarstan. Leaving the train station in Sytkyvkar, a visitor lands on ulitsa Kommunisticheskaya (Communist Street), a long avenue that goes past the main section of the city to Stefanovskaya Ploshad (Stefan’s Square), named after Stefan Permski – who brought Christianity to the region and introduced the Komi alphabet in the 14th century. The city department store is located just before the square; along this street are retail businesses, banks, institutions of higher education and government buildings. While in 1997 many of the stores would have signs for Wrangler jeans, Kodak film and other foreign products, in 1993 the signs were quite different, with much of Syktyvkar’s economic transformation still ahead. Though much has changed, the city still looks much as it did. With the exception of the main square, which lost its title of Lenin Square, the street names and monuments of the Soviet era remain. ‘October Street’, ‘Soviet Street’ and other communist-era names dot the city. Standing over the square is the ever present statue of Vladimir Lenin. The emblem of the Soviet Union perches high atop the republic’s parliamentary building. Limited changes were an effect of the conservatism of the provinces – reflected in the lack of ‘revolutionary’ fervor after 1991. Much of the lack of change can also be attributed to practicality and expense – such as the need to use old stationery. Most of Syktyvkar’s restaurants and shops are in the center of the city which functions as the main commercial zone and work place. As the capital of the republic, Syktyvkar is primarily an administrative city. Located on Stefanovskaya Ploshad are the two buildings of present-day Komi government, the State Council and the administrative offices of the Head of the Republic. Within a short walk are the offices of the mayor and the city council. Despite regular transportation to the region, Syktyvkar is isolated from the rest of Russia. Other than regional bus services, access to other parts of Russia is primarily through several daily trains and expensive air travel. The city is located on a spur off the main railroad line to the coal producing regions of Vorkuta and the numerous former gulags (state labor camps) of the Stalin era. Individuals interested in traveling further east by train must make a lengthy journey back toward Moscow to the main east–west line or take a ten hour bus ride to Kirov in the south. For those with the fare, air


Figure 1.1

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Map of Western Russia

travel is quite convenient, particularly as the city’s airport is only a mile from the main square. By 1997 a new airport, under construction for about a decade, was still several years from completion. It will be located approximately 20 miles from the city center. Two hundred miles directly south of Syktyvkar, Kirov was the second research site. I lived and worked there between April and August 1994. The administrative center of the Kirov oblast’ (province), Kirov’s approximately 500 000 inhabitants makes it somewhat larger than Syktyvkar. Unlike Syktyvkar, Kirov is heavily industrialized, dominated by factories that formed part of the Soviet military– industrial complex. There is a developed agricultural sector and significant mineral and timber resources. The population itself consists of over 90 per cent ethnic Russians, with the rest comprising various ethnic groups.


On the road from Syktyvkar, Kirov is largely hidden by foliage until the bridge spanning the Vyatka river. Here Kirov’s imposing buildings sit on the rising bluff. Its two main streets, ulitsa Lenina (Lenin Street) and Oktiabrskii prospekt (October Avenue), run parallel to the river. Extending the length of the city, much of the administrative and business activity of the region occurs along or between these two thoroughfares that are a mile apart. At the midpoint between the two main streets is Constitution Square. There a visitor can find the administrative seat of the oblast’, replete with the obligatory Soviet symbols. Located about one mile away are the offices of the mayor. Called Vyatka until 1934, the city’s name changed to Kirov soon after the 1 December assassination of Leningrad Party boss Sergei Kirov. This event is often seen as the trigger for the vicious Stalinist purges of the 1930s. Today, one can find a large statue of Kirov standing in the middle of Oktiabrskii prospekt. Located next to the city’s main department store at the top of a hill, his statue overlooks the city as its symbolic protector and visionary. According to locals, however, Kirov, although born in the region, had never actually been to the city. For this and other reasons, many prefer the city’s previous name. Nevertheless, the conservatism of the larger city was exposed in 1993 when voters rejected a referendum to revert to the old name. Like Syktyvkar, the streets of Kirov still bear Soviet-era names. However, the name Vyatka and its variants increasingly appear in newspaper titles and as business names. Some members of the intelligentsia say it is only a matter of time before the city name reverts to the original. Getting to Kirov from the east and west is easier than traveling to Syktyvkar. Trains frequently travel through Kirov, as it is located along the trans-Siberian railroad. Ease of travel has also led to a more developed community of tradespeople from the southern regions of the former Soviet Union. Thus, although Kirov’s population is less diverse than that of Syktyvkar, the ethnic variety exudes a somewhat different flavor. This is further evident in the variety, and comparatively lower prices, of imported goods. Airline travel had been available in Kirov, with the airport an hour from the city. But in the summer of 1997 there were no regular, scheduled flights from the city. Rising prices and the convenience of the railroad eliminated most local air services. The choice of these two cities as case studies was initially driven less by their ‘representativeness’ as Russian cities than on the basis


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of pre-existing academic contacts. Contact with Director Anatolii Napalkov of the Institute of Languages, Literature and History of the Komi Science Center was made in summer 1992 when I worked as a volunteer in a local orphanage. Our first meeting led to an invitation to do research in Syktyvkar. In choosing Kirov, I looked for a city largely comparable to Syktyvkar in size and one that functions as an administrative center. I also relied on scholars at the Komi Science Center to connect me with contacts in other cities. An agreement was then reached with the Kirov Pedagogical Institute. A number of commonalities between the two cities were complemented by key differences for a valuable comparison. First, although Kirov is twice the size of Syktyvkar, the difference does not signify markedly dissimilar ways of life, especially given the fact that they are both provincial cities largely built under the centralized administration of the Soviets. Their development is more standardized than analogous cities in the United States. Second, a large part of each city’s administrative bureaucracy is occupied with the direction of its region, thus ensuring a similar functional culture. Third, both cities are located in the eastern part of European Russia, so that environmental differences do not play a significant role in explaining variant popular attitudes and preferences – as might have been the case if comparison had been with a more temperate southern city. While the similarities between the two chosen cities allow for a basis of comparison, the differences provide for more productive analysis, expanding the scope of the research to provide a rough cross-section of Russian urban society. First, the fact that Syktyvkar is the capital of a republic signifies greater independence from central authority than that found in Kirov, an oblast’ center. Unlike the 50 states of the United States, all 89 regions in Russia are not, and have not been, constitutionally equal. This follows Leninist nationalities policy to co-opt non-Russian regions – whether Soviet Republics or internal Russian Republics – with constitutionally recognized privileges that the oblast ’ and other regional designations did not possess. Such a factor may be important for determining popular attitudes toward authority and people’s disposition toward political participation. Second, the different economic bases of each city provide for a greater understanding of the effects of the economic crisis on political attitudes. These differences could show how economic conditions heavily color political opinion. Economic issues are especially relevant in the former Soviet Union, where economics and politics were closely tied in state ideology and policy.

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Methods The varied, in-depth approach to this investigation constructed a contextual base to the study of Russian political culture which goes beyond the mass survey approach. Political scientists studying other regions through mass surveys have been criticized for ignoring localities in the attempt to construct a homogeneous national (Russian) political space. It is notable that research designs have generally been mechanically implemented with little concern for cross-regional differences. Even though scholars currently applying these surveys to Russia are increasingly cognizant of such problems, the use of Western survey methods in post-Soviet Russia risks inserting bias and measurement error into the process of data collection and data interpretation.6 In essence, in striving for external validity (or predictability), researchers employing mass surveys jeopardize the achievement of the internal validity (understanding the varied internal processes) acquired through in-depth research. This is particularly a problem where intellectually . . . the problem of the moment is less one of explaining changes within broad encompassing frameworks of theory from a concern to preserve the purpose and legitimacy of such theorizing, than of exploring innovative ways of describing at a microscopic level the process of change itself.7 This project is designed to construct a limited and situated theoretical representation of Russian political culture through qualitative methods. Anthropological techniques of ethnography were appropriate for the task. Faced with the monumental, varied and often contradictory political events occurring in Russia, superficial methods such as surveys cannot provide in-depth understanding of a region better suited for study through a properly executed ethnography. While the ‘purpose of ethnographic research is to describe and interpret cultural behavior’, this study narrowed the ethnographer’s focus to examining the political manifestations of culture.8 While not a ‘traditional’ ethnography, I have adapted the approach to political science in striving to develop a ‘thick explanation’ (note, not a ‘thick description’) of popular attitudes and behavior based on a combination of observation, experience and systematic in-depth analysis. 9 As a problem-driven approach that explains behavior and events rather than building a model for prediction, thick explanation does not require positive proof. Instead, a re-


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searcher attempts to persuade and convince on the basis of certain rules of evidence while being more accepting of empathetic understandings, especially concerning cross-cultural analysis. Research in action The project employed two ethnographic techniques in three stages, all framed by participant observation. Through the initial stage I gathered impressions and information inductively through informal and unstructured interviewing.10 The respondents were identified through ‘snowballing’, a technique where respondents suggest future respondents. At this stage the 27 and 24 respondents respectively in Syktyvkar and Kirov came disproportionately from the more educated population. This was a predictable bias since my initial contacts were often more highly educated than the general population. This first-stage information was in its rawest form, as the purpose was also to establish rapport with research informants. To help identify community patterns in both cities, the constant comparative method was employed throughout this stage. Coding and comparison of observations and incidents is continually carried out during data collection – in essence, a dialectical process of information collection.11 During the second stage, the ‘stories’ in the data were deconstructed in order to integrate categories and their properties. Categories were refined through a research memo organizing the topics identified by respondents as important and, therefore, promising issues for further examination. The process of theoretical development began in earnest and involved the creation of hypotheses to be tested in the third stage of structured interviews. 12 Ultimately, the first two stages determined the questions constituting the structured interview. The 30 interview subjects in each community in the third stage were chosen through a purposive sample of individual respondents.13 Knowing that a sample as small as 30 respondents cannot represent a community, I identified respondents in each city on the basis of four individual attributes. In Syktyvkar, these attributes were: age, sex, level of education, and ethnicity. Because over 90 per cent of Kirov residents are Russian, however, I replaced ethnic identity with profession as one of the four categories of difference. The numbers of respondents chosen with particular attributes were calculated roughly on the basis of the demographic characteristics of each city. In Syktyvkar just about 50 per cent of the respondents

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had to be men and 34 per cent had to be ethnically Komi. Thus, 15 men were selected of whom five were ethnic Komi. Five Komi men were chosen from a ‘pool’ that met certain criteria pertaining to age and education. As a statistically representative sample was impossible, I systematically identified an appropriate sample pool (see Appendix A). In Syktyvkar, the respondents were chosen through acquaintances, friends, workers in academia and others. This resulted in a fairly representative sample, although respondents with higher education were somewhat overrepresented. In Kirov, respondents were chosen with the aid of a local sociologist, making the sample more representative than in Syktyvkar. All interviews in the third stage were taped and transcribed. The 700-interview pages were coded for a qualitative database program (askSam2.0) which organized the unwieldy information into a more manageable format for analysis. I also contacted members of locally organized political and social groups. I had intended to identify certain variables determining popular participation through the informal and structured interviews, but this proved impossible in practice as the general inhabitants of each city were largely divorced from participation outside of household needs. To supplement my profile with a sample of activists, I interviewed members of local political parties, environmental groups and ethnic associations to gather their impressions of the political process as well as identify the role they played in the weakly developing civil society. The combination of political science and anthropological methods is designed in part to overcome the weaknesses inherent in survey research for identifying the behavioral components of political culture. Subjective orientations were determined through the informal and structured interviews. The open-ended interview questions elicited far richer information about popular attitudes than data collected through mass surveys. Additionally, participant observation can powerfully examine the behavioral manifestations of political culture. Living and participating in a particular culture allows the researcher to provide some missing links between attitudes and behavior.14 Research at the local level is not immediately generalizable nationwide, but does provide an in-depth examination of the transition process affecting a limited population. In his depiction of policy reform in Yaroslavl’, Blair Ruble argues that low-level research and attention to detail help in understanding impacts of reform and


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antireform initiatives. Although it will take myriad similar studies to paint a complete picture of Russia, they ‘add color and texture to discussions of reform.’15 This project also provides conceptual tools to examine and explain the underlying issues of Russia’s political transition. Thus, I endeavor throughout the study to discuss the broader implications for Russia. Of course, the findings of this research also act as a contextual foundation for more broadly based future studies. In fact, ‘the anatomy of social life at the micro-level is more intricate, and no less revealing, than among the grosser super-structures of the macro-level.’16 For, as Reinhard Bendix argues, local cultural practices are causally relevant to the trajectory and outcome of societal change.17

The political culture concept In conceptualizing political culture, I move beyond political science perspectives and adapt anthropologist Anthony Cohen’s conception of culture to politics: It is the broad interpretive framework held by a community or individual that ascribes meaning to political behavior. It is the meaning perceived in particular events and behaviors that are mediated through the interaction of a society’s historical patterns, traditional practices and conventions of human association. Found in political beliefs and expressed through political behavior, political culture is created and continually recreated through social interaction. It is manifested in the capacity with which it endows people to identify and perceive meaning in political behavior.18 Subjective beliefs and behavior are intertwined in an iterative process of interaction that in time becomes routine. The level of analysis is the community. The local political culture encompasses the ideology of the political elites and the nation, in general, yet is differentiated from other localities by unique environmental, or neighborhood effects (that is demographic characteristics). This conceptualization is broader than the widely accepted subjectivist view of Sidney Verba:

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The political culture of a society consists of the system of empirical beliefs, expressive symbols, and values which defines the situation in which political action takes place. It provides the subjective orientation of politics.19 Verba’s concept focuses on political orientations, to the exclusion of behavior. My study combines subjective orientations and behavior in a conceptualization that stresses the recreative character of culture through interaction between attitudes and behavior. The research is closer to Stephen White’s concept of political culture, as ‘the attitudinal and behavioural matrix within which the political system is located’,20 although I add the dynamic element of culture recreation. The two types of political culture that frame this discussion, in some sense the opposite poles of a spectrum, are ‘democratic’ and ‘authoritarian’ modes of belief and behavior. A democratic political culture manifests popular feelings of political efficacy, interpersonal trust and tolerance. 21 People are tolerant of political change and are willing to question authority in thought or action, or acknowledge the rights of people who do. Society is based on the recognition of individual rights if the rights of others are not impinged. Individually motivated participation in public life is accepted and even encouraged. Yet, individuals decide whether to participate. Authoritarian political culture is a culture of popular passivity, lack of interpersonal trust and intolerance of difference. Whereas individuals in a democratic political culture desire significant independence from political authority, strong authority relationships are valued in an authoritarian political culture. The wielding of authority is a basic and pervasive feature of social relationships. Intolerance of political change – often change that endorses individual rights because it threatens to lead to a less ‘ordered’ society – is emblematic. Authoritarian personalities are more comfortable with ceding to the state, or an individual leader, the right to decide their general future rather than to take personal responsibility for those decisions. Obedience to authority is unquestioned both by decisionmakers and political subjects. In general, subjects do not participate independently in political processes, they are led. The characterizations of these two ideal types is designed to clarify the terms of discussion. The difficulty of employing such terms in themselves is that their global nature masks complex behavioral and attitudinal characteristics not easily categorized under a single heading. Democratic characteristics are present in societies classi-


15

fied as authoritarian and authoritarian characteristics are found in democratic societies. Thus, some tolerance of religion existed in the Soviet Union, just as authoritarian characteristics were manifest in the United States during the McCarthy period of the 1950s. Aware of these complexities, I provide a careful qualitative analysis of popular opinions to explain broadly defined political tendencies among respondents. I strive to identify and understand the pieces that make up the larger Russian political culture.

The challenge for change Whether or not thermidor has struck the Russian ‘revolution’, and the society is moving to mimic its past, a strict return to the Soviet system of centralized economic structures and chiliastic dreams is unlikely, if not impossible. The old system failed, and Russia is striving to reorganize itself while simultaneously entering the world system dominated by Western markets and liberal-democracies. Continued integration into the contemporary global system is far from certain, for the traditions of the Western world with its emphasis on individualism and difference are unfamiliar to Russians. Instead, the legacy of Russian paternalism, Soviet social guarantees and the comfort of leadership bearing a large portion of the weight of guiding individual lives is a powerful, although not all-encompassing, attraction for the populace. The symbols and substance of the old system are revocalized and rearticulated. Political culture formlessness Although old and familiar practices hold an initial advantage, the policies of Western states and international economic institutions are powerful competitors compounding the attraction of Western material life. Nevertheless, traditional cultural patterns (such as religion) carried forward from the Russian autocracy through the Soviet period attest to the potential limits on cultural change. 22 The struggle is occurring on several fronts: across generations, between conservatives and liberals and between reform and tradition. Popular expression of Russian political values and beliefs has become fractured, contradictory and elusive; this is a condition of ‘political culture formlessness’. As more fully developed in Chapter 2, formlessness arises following a disjuncture in cultural development during or after a traumatic event (such as the collapse of the Soviet state). 23 As cultures (particularly traditional cultures) are capable of adapting new influences

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into the traditional framework on a gradual basis, the sudden influx of unfamiliar variables ‘overloads’ the existing culture. During a period of political culture formlessness, the underlying meaning of attitudes and behavior are difficult to identify and comprehend for local and foreigner alike. Despite its seeming malleability to contextual shifts, traditional Russian political culture is playing a large role in the struggle to determine the direction of reform. The clear implication is that the ‘end point’ of transition may not result in Western-style liberal-democracy.

Overview of the book I argue that Russian political culture bears the imprint of Soviet authoritarian traditions, leavened with signs of support for aspects of democracy. As I will contend, it is the authoritarian traditions that have come to be reasserted. Yet, this does not signify that contemporary Russian political culture is just continuing traditional patterns. What emerges instead is a seemingly contradictory collection of attitudes representing the ‘old’ and the ‘new’. Transition is manifested in a population that is rife with formless attitudes and behavior obscuring the foundations of Russian political culture. Thus, I employ qualitative methods as a means to burrow under the disorder and probe the underlying political culture. The book is roughly divided into four parts, organized in nine chapters. Including this chapter, the first part is introductory. Chapter 2 develops the theoretical precursors to this study, across both disciplines and regions. From this discussion, I draw upon political science, anthropology and sociology to develop the theoretical representation of political culture that underlies this book. This theory combines factors of continuity and cultural change with political behavior in an interactive explanation of political culture dynamics. Chapter 3 provides a critical examination of the findings and methods of Western survey research in late-Soviet society and post-Soviet Russia. I raise serious concerns about survey research’s effectiveness for measuring cultural attributes in a transition environment. In the second part, I map out the broad contours of the political environment. Chapter 4 adapts Offe’s conceptualization of the ‘triple transition’ to popular perceptions of political, economic and social stability in contemporary Russia. I argue that unstable conditions are driving the people to search for stability. This quest is seen in the popular reassertion of personal belief systems and com-


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munity values aiming to return to a predictable environment. I also develop certain Russian cultural types – as a tool to disaggregate complexities of Russian political culture – that are employed throughout the remainder of the book. Chapter 5 looks at popular understandings of terms (for example president, state, democracy and more) with important conceptual overtones in the transitional environment – terms that are also used by Western researchers. This chapter develops the idea of the formless nature of society through the inconsistencies of popular conceptualizations of important political terms. Together, Chapters 4 and 5 provide an overview of contemporary Russian society seen through the eyes of the residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov. The third part is divided into three chapters. Chapter 6 analyzes the struggle for power in the Komi Republic and looks at elite politics alongside public perceptions. While almost solely focusing on Komi political developments during 1993–94, this chapter also discusses more recent developments in both regions. I show how far popular life is divorced from the elite world. Chapter 7 moves away from the structured interviews to examine the development of political participation and civil society, focusing on the voting process and popular feelings of political efficacy. I assess the limited development of variables considered vital by many Western democratic theorists for the successful transition to substantive democracy. Chapter 8 examines popular relationships with authority, analyzing expectations of specific individual leaders and the functions of particular political roles. These findings are also compared with the results of a similar 1994 survey by Stephen White, Richard Rose and Ian McAllister.24 In ‘closing the circle’ begun in Chapter 4, this chapter shows how instability and a lack of popular political access contribute to a popular desire for strong, decisive leadership. In this way, the people of Syktyvkar and Kirov recreate the cultural practices of the past. Finally, the concluding chapter summarizes important findings and raises theoretical and empirical issues of the formlessness and recreation concepts underlying this book. I go beyond the theoretical discussion of these concepts in Chapter 2 to unpack the inchoate nature of contemporary Russian political culture and extend beyond the contemporary period into the future. This chapter provides a recommendation for future investigations of Russian political culture in particular and that of transitional societies in general.

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2 Political Culture as a Research Agenda

Scholars have been debating the utility of the political culture concept for over 40 years. Thus, there are difficulties incumbent in employing such a diverse and broad concept. In many respects this chapter raises questions about whole bodies of political culture research written in the field of political science, and the scholarship that emerged focusing on the Soviet people and their successors. This literature review addresses the history of political culture research and the strengths and weaknesses of previous scholarship before portraying my political culture conceptualization as I strive to learn from – and build upon – past and present research. As will be shown, the political culture concept has not always been employed to its full potential. The chapter begins by examining the early political culture research and progresses through scholarship focusing on the Soviet Union before discussing the rise of empirical research in post-Soviet Russia. The chapter closes with a detailed explanation of the issues of culture and cultural change fundamental to this project. This investigation fills in some of the gaps of contemporary research and develops my own perspective on political culture and how political culture changes.

Political culture in political science In attempting to enlarge the scope of political research in the mid-1950s, Gabriel Almond investigated how sociological and anthropological concepts could facilitate systematic comparison. Almond introduced political culture to political science to explain ‘the particular patterns of orientations to political action’ embedded in all political systems.1 He saw political culture as an inclusive 18

Political Culture as a Research Agenda 19

concept with varying conceptual components, the very breadth of which has led to the most criticism; criticism aimed at redeveloping the concept, if not discarding it entirely as a research tool. Prior to the strong counter-reaction to the concept in the late 1960s, political culture research significantly affected the subfield of comparative politics. With Sidney Verba, Almond developed a typology of political cultures: specifically employing the term civic culture to identify the political culture characteristics that explain the stability of a society’s democratic political structure. 2 Through the application of mass surveys in five societies and a structuralfunctional method of analysis, they argued that civic culture was characterized by congruence between the participatory culture of a democratic citizenry and state political structures. 3 The Civic Culture greatly influenced political culture research. Almond and Verba constructed three ideal types of political culture. In a ‘parochial political culture’ the individual is completely divorced from the political system and does not participate or have expectations of benefitting. Here the system is undifferentiated, often focusing on a single leader. Almond and Verba saw the parochial political culture typifying tribal societies and, therefore, a number of new states which had (then) recently been released from colonial rule. A ‘subject political culture’ exists where citizens are aware of a differentiated political system and expect to receive benefits from it. They do not participate in the process of policy development, or see themselves as efficacious. The political cultures of totalitarian and authoritarian societies are more consistent with this concept. Finally, the ‘participant political culture’ is characterized by a citizenry viewing itself as an efficacious and necessary part of both political decisionmaking and policy implementation. This model most closely describes Western, democratic political culture.4 This study strikingly assumes that the countries and cultures of the developing world were progressing toward the civic culture through the diffusion of Western culture and technology. The diffusion was a one-way process toward a ‘new world political culture’ based on a culture of participation. 5 Almond and Verba were clear, however, that such participation need not take the ‘ideal’ form of the citizenengendered engagement of democratic societies; state-generated mass participation also characterized totalitarian societies. Thus, while the purpose behind The Civic Culture was to explore the cultural factors that support democracy, Almond and Verba presented a spectrum of political development with a distinct directionality.

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Figure 2.1

Types of Political Cultures Least Developed Parochial

Most Developed Subject

Participant

Figure 2.1 reflects an understanding that political cultures change from the less developed parochial and subject cultures in the direction of the participant culture. While advanced industrial cultures made the transition from parochial to subject cultures before arriving at participant cultures, during the 1950s and 1960s many scholars argued that several new states were struggling to jump directly from parochial to participant cultures.6 The sheer parsimony and shorttime line of such an explanation was (and is) attractive. Those employing the political culture concept during that era tended to focus on the transition from a less developed society, both politically and economically, toward a more developed society, generally modeled by the Western liberal-democracy. Lucian Pye and Verba linked political culture and political development by positing the normative basis for the acquisition of ‘a better understanding of the policies and necessary investments in various socializing agents which can best produce desired changes in a nation’s politics.’7 Criticism of the 1960s political culture research is now widespread. Among the more contemporary critics, Stephen Welch argues that The Civic Culture employed inappropriate methods for explaining factors underlying democratic stability. 8 First, Almond and Verba attempted to identify comparable variables in uniquely evolved societies, which makes the cross-comparison of particular societal political cultures problematic. As political cultures emerge from distinctive or specific configurations of historical influences, geographical peculiarities and varied leadership patterns – the ‘web’ of factors comprising a political culture that separate it from such a web in another society – makes comparison unwieldy. Often, the problem is less that societies are unique; it is rather that researchers searching for summary statistics either do not recognize the complexities of the society or ignore them in order to make a ‘clean’ comparison. Second, in trying to identify political factors supportive of stable democracy, Almond and Verba confused cause for effect: Does a stable democratic political system lead to a civic culture?


Or, is it a civic culture that explains a stable democratic system? Such circularity seriously undermines the explanatory power of Almond and Verba’s claim that a stable democratic system is explained by the congruence of a political culture with its political system. 9 By drawing on area studies specialists in an edited volume, the approach to Political Culture and Political Development would escape some of Welch’s criticism, and better fit the requirements of contextuality. Yet, by pairing political culture with political development, many political scientists exposed their anthropological naiveté. Anthropologist Anthony Cohen harshly criticizes those who assume that people can have their culture stripped away, leaving them void, then to be refilled by some imported superstructure. They assume, in other words, that people are somehow passive in relation to culture: they receive it, transmit it, express it, but do not create it.10 Instead, Cohen contends that Western institutional forms (parliaments, federalism and so on) adopted by societies with varying political cultures often bear only a formal resemblance to institutions of the West: Communities might import structural forms across their boundaries but, having done so, they often infuse them with their own meanings and use them to serve their own symbolic purposes. 11 These institutions conform with the indigenous political culture, rather than acting to reform traditional forms of political behavior. For example, in spite of regional reforms in Italy during the 1970s that introduced popularly elected local councils, the strong patron– client relations existing in southern regions prior to reforms have persisted within the new structures. 12 By the end of the 1960s, and through much of the 1970s, the political culture concept was on the wane as being too imprecise. The general failure of expectation that economic and political development would necessarily lead to democratization was embedded in the reaction in many developing countries that actually strengthened the position of authoritarian regimes such as those in Latin America. The agenda of political culture research generally declined precipitously. In the subfield of communist studies, however, this concept was widely used to theorize about mass orientations towards the

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state. Political culture was thought valuable when examining changing communist society in information-scarce environments. 13 Lack of data concerning Soviet society, however, limited the usefulness of Western scholarship – particularly telling when most Sovietologists failed to predict the Soviet collapse.

Research in Russia Traditional Western research informed us that Soviet political culture, founded on the basis of long term authoritarian rule, could only change gradually. 14 Yet, with Gorbachev’s reforms and the rise of a new Russia, a number of researchers argued that Russian political culture is currently comparable to Western political culture – embodying characteristics of tolerance, trust and personal independence.15 Largely rejecting cultural continuity arguments, these scholars often adhere to problematic rational choice perspectives that focus on cultural malleability as a function of context. Problematic first because Soviet restrictions on empirical information limited the explanatory power of cultural continuity theories. Limited data often resulted in historical arguments and speculation based on only the few signs that emerged. Problematic second because the new generation of political culture researchers in Russia generally employ investigative tools (that is, largely survey methods) that cannot delve into the complexities and contradictions of political culture patterns. Ultimately, both schools contributed research lacking contextual understanding. I look at the problem of information scarcity first. Even as Sovietology evolved through various research schools (totalitarianism, 16 pluralism, 17 a bureaucratic model and corporatism18 ), the fundamental secrecy of the Soviet system left many ‘feeling in the dark’. Political culture in Soviet studies Of the research explicitly examining Soviet political culture, the most focused work emerged from Archie Brown, Robert Tucker and Stephen White. White argued that Soviet political culture exhibited broad continuity with Russian Tsardom.19 He drew parallels between the political centralization and passive mass public of pre-1917 Russia and 1980s Soviet Russia. 20 White’s stance was somewhat contradictory: while he noted broad support for the Soviet social sector (state education, medicine, pensions and so on), he found that Soviet modernization had a politically reformist effect


on youth views during the late 1970s. 21 Still, he argued for cultural continuity: In both Czarist and Soviet periods the peoples of what is now the USSR have been ruled by a centralized and powerful state, exercising broad powers over the economy and over all aspects of the lives of its citizens and relatively little influenced by the mass public or by autonomous institutions such as trade unions, courts of law, or the press. The mass public, in both periods have typically been characterized by relatively low levels of at least formal political knowledge and participatory behavior, broadly supportive of the collectivist and welfarist aspects of state policy, fearful of disorder, little attached to institutions or procedures by which the powers of government might be constrained, and proud of the achievements in various fields brought about by the strength and unity of the state – although not, in either period necessarily in favor of every single item of state policy. 22 White’s historical approach had merit, particularly as he adapted historical literature to a mature Soviet Union. While Tucker broadly concurred with White’s continuity thesis, he took a less empirically based, institutional approach to examine Soviet-era political culture change. Tucker, however, focused on political elites and their attempts to restructure Soviet society. His clear premise is in line with Almond’s conceptualization of a Soviet mass subject culture; the Russian political culture is altered through elite machinations rather than citizen involvement.23 In an edited volume, Archie Brown and others critique the general use of the political culture concept in communist studies. 24 This book, raising difficult questions about carrying out research with scarce information, covers the broad spectrum of debate concerning ‘subjectivist’ conceptions of political culture, as well as more anthropological conceptions of culture focusing on political behavior. Scholars often employ one or the other approach, and some (most notably Stephen White) include both variables in their conceptualizations. In the Brown volume, Mary McAuley contended that scholarly endeavors based on subjectivist interpretations of history positing cultural continuity lacked both contemporary empirical testing and sufficiently lengthy longitudinal studies tracing cultural phenomena through history. 25 This lack significantly undermined the validity

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of political culture study in communist states. McAuley sums up the weaknesses of traditional cultural continuity theories and anticipates an important weakness of contemporary studies (including this one). She points to the lack of retrospective studies that build a reliable base from which to test contemporary political culture. 26 Today’s empirical studies of the manifestations of political culture are therefore not always in a strong position to test a set of earlier conclusions. Entering the empirical era Without direct access to Soviet citizens, the earliest Western popular opinion surveys in the pre-Gorbachev era were carried out with Soviet emigres. The first notable survey of World War II refugees stemmed from the Harvard Project of the 1950s.27 More recent surveys from the Soviet period include, in particular, the Soviet Interview Project (SIP) of the 1980s. SIP sampled a large number of Jewish emigres leaving the Soviet Union as a result of detente.28 With the SIP, Western scholars began to paint a picture of mass attitudinal and behavioral aspects of Soviet politics that often undermined findings of continuity arguments. In 1984, DiFrancesco and Gitelman employed SIP data to argue that popular participation was important at the stage of policy implementation (largely for the purposes of individual gain) rather than at the policy formulation stage.29 Roeder’s theoretically oriented characterization of a subject culture focused on state policy rather than individual instrumental initiative. Long-term national policy enlisted the involvement (or forced departicipation) of people through controlled mobilization in community activities (that is komsomol, subbotniki, and so on). Thus, the Leninist plan focused popular energy in a socially constructive fashion to limit individual initiative for political participation.30 By contrast, Friedgut showed the existence of a limited degree of civic consciousness, especially at the community level. 31 Hahn also argued that popular participation in local government (that is community councils) was regarded favorably.32 Other scholars attributed increasing participatory pressures to the process of modernization.33 For example, Moshe Lewin focused on long-term demographic changes such as the rising levels of urbanization and education.34 Roeder saw such societal pressures reflected in declining rates of activity in state-sponsored programs and a rise in the rates of popularly initiated activities. The Gorbachev era saw limited state attempts


to both reinvigorate popular involvement and channel rising participatory pressures toward state-sponsored avenues of activity. The difficulties for containing participatory pressures were compounded by the Gorbachev reforms of regional government, however. While expanding individual participatory rights, these reforms also threatened the efficiency of the Soviet system through a rising competition between levels of government, manifest in a ‘war of laws’ across those levels. 35 The uncertain reform effects ultimately provided impetus for self-initiated popular activity. Political conflicts between Moscow and the regions and popular demands played a significant role in sparking the conservative putsch in 1991, the last gasp effort to reestablish Soviet authority. As did their forerunners, many contemporary scholars employ tools of Western social science in looking for signs of a developing Western-style democracy. Evidence is sought to confirm sufficient levels of political efficacy, trust and tolerance, as the presence of these interpersonal factors are deemed necessary for the development of democracy. This wave of Western research grows in post-Soviet Russia. Chapter 3 provides in-depth discussion of Western survey research in the former Soviet Union. Results of the research are briefly summarized here: taken as a group, the findings of these surveys have been inconsistent and contradictory, exposing a complex matrix of both democratic and authoritarian characteristics. Borrowing Eckstein’s term, I contend that these inconclusive findings reflect the ‘formlessness’ of political culture in an unstable Russian society, as well as methodological problems inherent in survey tools.36 Not all recent Western scholarship studying Russian political culture employs mass surveys, however. Several scholars take a more holistic approach to studying Russian political culture. Using interpretivist tools for a retrospective analysis, Nicolai Petro examines the historical development of Russia and the Soviet Union. Somewhat contrary to continuity theorists, he finds that Russian history exhibits democratic traditions – the precursors to a substantive democratic regime. Petro contends that a dual political culture encompassing authoritarian and democratic characteristics existed in Russian society under autocracy and in church–state relations. Minimizing the historico-cultural link between imperial Russia and the Soviet regime, Petro argues instead that the Soviet regime was not congruent with the historical Russian political culture. Ultimately, the rejection of the Soviet system was an expression of the true Russian identity. Arguing that traditional

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political science approaches to the study of political culture were too narrowly focused on ‘civic culture’ development, Petro claims these approaches are inadequate for identifying the ‘complex politicalcultural symbols’ in non-public arenas of society. 37 Petro’s criticisms of political culture research are quite similar to those made in my research project, particularly his dissatisfaction with the unimaginative use of research materials that have misrepresented Russian political culture.38 As a corrective, Petro carries out an interpretive analysis of historical traditions and symbols that traces the persistence of Russian democratic ideals throughout the Soviet period. Although he may overcorrect by focusing too heavily on the democratic aspects of Russian history to the detriment of the authoritarian aspects – and it could be argued that his research extends White’s historical analysis – Petro’s diverse analysis is illuminating. Richard Sakwa takes a similar tack by reopening questions surrounding the subjective factors in Russian political evolution. Criticizing cultural determinist arguments, Sakwa denies the existence of an impermeable authoritarianism in Russian political culture. Instead, he identifies a duality in the Russian value system, in which a ‘latent democratism and non-statist tradition’ exists alongside an authoritarian tradition.39 Sakwa’s argument has merit, but could risk positing too clearcut a duality. Such a duality characterizes the society as too well delineated for explaining a complex phenomenon such as the disorder in contemporary Russia. Recognizing the complexity, Michael Urban finds that Russian political chaos is clearly replicated in a national search for a political identity. He contends that rejection of the communist system is also the wholesale rejection of communists and their link to the Soviet past. Yet, Russians do not necessarily reject Soviet values. These values continue to resonate in the Soviet-socialized population. Faced with this contradictory situation, Russians commonly relabel Soviet values in an effort to preserve them while rejecting the system itself. Unlike Eastern Europeans, however, rejection of Soviet identity is also rejection of an indigenously created identity. 40 Russians, in rejecting the old identity, are constructing a new one in part from old materials. The history of Soviet/Russian political culture research has had mixed results. Unfortunately, much scholarship has been constrained by information scarcity or poor choice of methodology. Where the earlier research had generally been based on the careful (even if misfounded on occasion) analysis of available documents, much of


contemporary research has employed superficial mass survey projects with little contextual grounding in Russian political society. The challenge becomes to combine the care of the earlier generation of political culture researchers with the contemporary opportunities for in-depth research. Ultimately, the goal is to produce a clearer picture of complex Russian society. As scholars such as Petro, Urban and Sakwa demonstrate, interpretive approaches help in examining complex phenomena.

Analytical framework Petro’s recommendations for interpretive analysis ring especially true. Yet, where Petro carried out a retrospective examination of Russian and Soviet history, my project draws upon ethnographic methods to implement an interpretive analysis of contemporary Russian political culture. Thus, I consciously attempt to avoid employing the ‘shortcuts’ that political science often takes in summarizing culture. Rather, looking to anthropology and sociology for guidance, this book investigates the depth and complexity of political culture, integrating the cultural conceptualizations of anthropologist Anthony Cohen, political scientist Harry Eckstein and sociologist Ann Swidler. After laying out each of their arguments, I proceed to outline this volume’s perspective on political culture and political culture change. Cultural recreation Cohen contends that members of a community erect symbolic boundaries that define member interactions while constraining the speed and scope of cultural change. Cohen clearly constructs the concepts of community and culture. A community exists where ‘the members of a group of people (a) have something in common with each other, which (b) distinguishes them in a significant way from members of other putative groups.’41 Cohen goes on to employ an adaptation of Clifford Geertz’s culture concept: There are three interrelated and powerful principles contained within Geertz’s precise and eloquent formulation. The first is that culture (‘webs of significance’) is created and continually recreated by people through their social interaction, rather than imposed upon them as a Durkheimian body of social fact or as Marxist superstructure. Secondly, being continuously in process, culture

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has neither deterministic power nor objectively identifiable referents (‘law’). Third, it is manifest, rather, in the capacity with which it endows people to perceive meaning in, or to attach meaning to social behaviour. Behaviour does not ‘contain’ meaning intrinsically; rather, it is found to be meaningful by an act of interpretation: we ‘make sense’ of what we observe. The sense we make is ‘ours’, and may or may not coincide with that intended by those whose behaviour it was. Thus, in so far as we ‘understand’ the behaviour which goes on around us and in which we participate, we make and act upon interpretations of it: we seek to attach meaning to it. Social interaction is contingent upon such interpretation; it is, essentially, the transaction of meanings.42 Cohen argues that each community has certain symbols which act as ‘mental constructs’ to provide a way for people to make meaning of the world. The construction of meaning over time is an interactive process employing past mental constructs to analyze events, behavior and interpretations of behavior. While individuals in a community do not necessarily interpret behavior in identical fashion, behavior exhibits broad commonality. Cohen emphasizes how people contrive community and is particularly concerned with the manner in which symbols are used to reassert community boundaries when the process and consequences of change threaten a community’s integrity. 43 Cohen attacks political science approaches to cultural analysis, arguing that political scientists approach the topic with inadequate contextual understanding of the culture they are analyzing and simplistically apply structural analysis to problems needing ethnographic approaches. In attempting to examine communities through external means, political scientists and anthropologists alike risk inserting ‘their own interpretive constructions upon other people’s experiences and frequently confuse the two.’ 44 Researchers who attempt to get ‘inside’ a community’s culture, significantly minimize this risk. The lack of contextualized understanding leads Western researchers to gauge, incorrectly, a community’s capacity for cultural change in the face of outside influences. Cohen provides the theoretical foundation for Putnam’s discovery of persistent patron–client relations in southern Italy:45 States may adopt the liberal-democratic institutions of the West, but instead of adapting their cultures to


these institutions, they infuse these institutions with their own meanings. Just looking at the social structures is to be satisfied with superficial indicators. Cohen shows ways in which communities resist influences from outside their boundaries. As structural bases of a boundary blur, the symbolic bases of a culture strengthen. These occurrences vary in type and intensity. First, the reversion to community culture may be exhibited in aggressive expression of clear difference, such as encoded in language or dress. Second, community members may strengthen their allegiance to traditional institutions, such as organized religion. Third, people may increase their observance of seemingly superficial rituals holding great symbolic resonance for the community. Fourth, the behavior that the outsider observes and interprets as similar to his/her own society’s behavior may carry quite different meaning, even the reverse of that society’s beliefs. 46 Such behavior may be strategically designed to fool outsiders to achieve some end while still holding onto indigenous meanings. 47 A good example is China’s attempts to present an image of observing international standards of human rights, while surreptitiously maintaining past authoritarian attitudes and behavior. The Chinese leadership present a public face for international observers, but maintain a private face within the society. Such a framework helps explain the Chinese regime’s inability to maintain its public face when confronted by student anti-corruption protests in 1989, which resulted in the massacre at Tiananmen Square. Cohen’s approach is especially relevant for studying current Russian society. His analysis is focused on community level aspects of culture, and remains applicable to larger societies, especially for local-level research. Russia’s isolationist history provides a special environment for examination of political culture change as society emerges from its authoritarian past. Overall, Cohen’s analysis challenges political scientists to provide a contextualized analysis of political culture. Cohen’s position raises certain ‘red flags’, also found in continuity theory, however, by providing little room for cultural development and change. Thus, Cohen’s circumscribed picture of cultural development is not sufficiently flexible for my analysis. Eckstein’s theory of cultural change helps overcome these limits. Cultural formlessness Because cultural scholars emphasize the processes by which political cultures are maintained, for Eckstein they are unable to explain

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change in times of momentous disruption. 48 Instead of accepting the assumptions of rational choice theory, however, which argues that people can change rapidly when faced with new conditions, Eckstein presents a more nuanced theory of cultural change that he claims should be acceptable to culturalists. For him cultures are not static and constantly recreating, but instead change naturally. In normal environments this change is a type of pattern-maintaining change shaping new influences into existing patterns. In more modern societies, change becomes an integral part of the maintenance process of a political culture. Describing a situation of ‘change toward flexibility’, Eckstein’s argument posits that rapid technological advances and economic shifts do not lead to a different cultural type. Instead, a flexible culture can adapt these advances and shifts into the existing cultural base. In societies based on rigid dogma (like communist states) that have modernized, the expectation of pattern-maintaining change moving toward greater flexibility would hold. Old dogmas would resist new ideas, yet would become increasingly pliable. Applied to the Soviet case, this is the process largely described in the Soviet Interview Project (SIP). Nevertheless, the accommodation of new institutions in the cultural base is a long, gradual process. A problem arises when a sudden challenge, such as a war or an economic trauma, confronts the old culture and interrupts the accommodation process. Rather than quickly reorienting the society, ‘changes that occur in response to social discontinuity should initially exhibit considerable formlessness.’49 The formless culture is manifested in a population that loses its cohesiveness and becomes disoriented. Formlessness is thus a representation of Durkheim’s anomie, where individuals are unable to use the past cultural base to make sense of new surroundings. Formlessness resembles anarchy and includes retreat toward more parochial groups. Ultimately, the political culture reformation in such a society should be long and costly. The fragmentation process of the political culture is not uniform across society. Eckstein hypothesizes that older people should maintain a ‘good deal of orientational inertia even when traumatic socioeconomic change occurs.’50 He argues that this group would be less susceptible to disorientation than the young, because their long socialization signifies a greater capacity to construct traditional meanings in new contexts. In this he approaches Cohen’s conceptualization of the way people strive to construct a symbolic representation of reality that meets traditional standards.51 Not suffi-


ciently ‘trained’ to employ the traditional culture, the young are more quickly disoriented by contextual shifts and are unable to attach traditional meanings to new events. I will contend, however, that over the medium- to long-term, the young are more capable of reorienting their perceptions and adapting to societal discontinuity. Whereas Cohen did not explain change, Eckstein provides for cultural reformation, while envisioning a certain cultural fragmentation in sub-cultural groupings. Nevertheless, his is a rather abstract treatment of political culture – because he does not sufficiently develop the concept of sub-cultural groups. He recognizes variation, but does not provide the tools to adequately disaggregate cultural characteristics. Furthermore, while Eckstein’s and Cohen’s concepts of cultural change are powerful for broadly examining development of political culture, neither researcher has a dynamic way of explaining complexities of cultural influence on social actions – at the group or individual level. Ann Swidler takes a significant step in that direction, while also conceptualizing behavioral change that does not necessarily indicate commensurate cultural change. Culture in action Swidler’s conceptualization of culture carries the symbolism of Cohen. Like Eckstein, she rejects rational choice theory (arguing that culture is not determined by one’s goals) and the strict determinism that bedevils continuity theory. Swidler adds a twist that permits the analyst to tease out the intricacies of culture and cultural change by focusing on the interaction of culture, context and behavior. Her theory focuses on ways of organizing behavior. Looking at the expression of cultural symbols, Swidler examines the interaction of culture and the environment. Indeed, the skills required for adopting a line of conduct – and for adopting the interests or values that one could maximize in that line of conduct – involve much more than such matters as how to dress, talk in appropriate style, or take a multiple-choice examination. To adopt a line of conduct, one needs an image of the kind of world in which one is trying to act, a sense that one can read reasonably accurately (through one’s own feelings and through the responses of others) how one is doing, and a capacity to choose among alternative lines of action. The lack of this ease is what we experience as ‘culture shock’ when we move from one cultural community to another. Action is not determined

32


by one’s values. Rather action and values are organized to take advantage of cultural competences. 52 Swidler theorizes that culture is not a passive filter that guides action in a consistent direction, as a continuity theorist might argue. Instead, culture is more of a ‘tool kit’ from which actors choose differing pieces of equipment for constructing lines of action. She argues that individuals and groups vary in cultural capacities, resulting in differing behavior, depending on the circumstances. Because of differing individual capabilities, people differ in what tools they use. People construct what Swidler calls a ‘strategy of action’, which is ‘a general way of organizing action (depending upon a network of kin and friends, for example, or relying on selling one’s skills in a market) that might allow one to reach several different life goals.’ 53 While a strategy emerges from a certain cultural base, that base only provides form and not pre-determined ends. She sees the tool kit conceptualization of culture as signifying that strategies of action will be more lasting than particular goals. Furthermore, people value goals to which their cultural tools are well suited. Swidler’s perspective on the effect of context parallels Eckstein’s views. Her conceptualization focuses on the broad concept of culture, however, rather than the more narrow political culture concept. Swidler differentiates two models of cultural influence: settled and unsettled cultural periods.54 In settled periods, culture is so integrated with action and institutions – matching the expectations of congruence between political behavior and political institutions in Almond and Verba’s The Civic Culture – that it is difficult to untangle culture from the observable environment. Unlike unsettled periods, settled cultures ‘are not in open competition with alternative models for organizing experience. Instead, they have undisputed authority of habit, normality, and common sense.’ 55 Swidler stresses that the choices and actions of individuals and groups in settled periods still depend on tools. Tools aid in constructing strategies of action particularly tough to change given the relative congruence between culture and structure. In these societies culture becomes most evident as a factor in structuring behavior in uninstitutionalized, but recurrent, situations. She uses voluntarism in the United States to show people using their cultural tools to organize interest groups. People will act in concert by following certain behavioral repertoires, despite varying situations. The repertoires lead to strategies of action becoming institutionalized. This


contrasts with the unsettled cultural periods when the strategies of action are much more ephemeral. Unsettled cultural periods occur during social transformations: times when the traditional tools of culture no longer function in interpreting the environment. People learn ‘new ways of organizing individual and collective action, practicing unfamiliar habits until they become familiar, then doctrine, symbol, and ritual directly shape action.’56 The question during such a period is between a culture’s role in sustaining existing strategies of action and its role in constructing new ones. Such a period is full of variation as individuals and groups adapt strategies to the new environment, thus producing a phenomenon resembling Eckstein’s formlessness. Swidler argues that during these periods people use ideologies – ‘explicit, articulated, highly organized meaning systems’ – to establish new strategies of action. 57 These ideologies – not complete cultures – make powerful demands in particular areas and may be drawn from historical groupings, such as religious and ethnic identity. The ideologies function somewhat like Eckstein’s notion of reverting to parochial groupings and Cohen’s idea of strengthening group boundaries. The dominant culture no longer provides adequate tools, so attempts are made to remake strategies of action using ideological constructs as guiding mechanisms. While people use cultural tools in creating new strategies of action, the ideological underpinning of activity carries much more of a conscious effort than the creation of strategies of action in a settled period. During unsettled periods, there are a number of ideological movements in active competition. Not only do they compete with each other, they compete with other cultural frameworks (that is common sense and tradition). The analyst tries to understand why a particular ideology triumphs over others and the degree of influence ‘losing’ ideologies and competing cultural frameworks retain on strategies of action across a culture. While culture has an independent causal influence during an unsettled period, context (or, concrete situations) is the ultimate arbiter determining strategies of action that gain dominance as a society enters a more settled period. Swidler’s picture of culture in action has advantages over the views of Cohen and Eckstein in understanding the divisions within cultures and how those different groups behave – something very helpful in grasping the complexities of a political culture during an unsettled period. Nevertheless, Swidler does not sufficiently explain how the ‘tool kit’ that underlies a political culture as a whole adapts to

34


contextual change and new strategies of action, particularly in the long-term. This limitation is a universal problem in political culture research: scholars study only the expression of culture in action or opinion. For, short of mind reading, it is difficult to burrow under the cultural façade of behavior and opinion to access the root tools that make up culture. While still somewhat hampered by this reality – although my methodological approach alleviates much of the problem – I nevertheless blend together the three cultural perspectives presented above to adapt the strengths of each scholar. I create my own dynamic explanation of political culture continuity and change. Political culture in my view is neither immovable nor simply malleable, but a complex construct of varying, often contradictory, factors that help explain larger social development.

Political culture change In this book, I draw together various aspects of the arguments presented by the three scholars discussed and provide an integrated and dynamic portrayal of political culture development. I link Cohen’s contention that cultures resist change and have a tendency to recreate themselves behind community boundaries to Eckstein’s contention that cultures do adapt new and foreign influences into the dominant framework over time, particularly in periods of significant social disruption or transformation. Swidler does not directly contend with the issues of attitudinal cultural change – instead, she focuses on behavioral change. However, by not precluding the cultural development and adaptation formulated by Eckstein, Swidler’s conceptualization fits in well and is useful for my purposes. She inserts a method of disaggregating this rather abstract political culture formulation to include group and individual behavior. In drawing together the valuable insights of these scholars, this volume presents another perspective on cultural change. Aspects of this political culture model evolve throughout this volume’s examination of postSoviet Russia. The analysis focuses on the development of political culture during transitions involving political liberalization and/or regime collapse, such as we currently find in post communist Eastern Europe. ‘Modeling’ political culture dynamics In ‘normal’ political culture development, tools are acquired by the general population via socialization occurring in that society’s history

Political Culture as a Research Agenda 35 Figure 2.2

Political Culture external influence t

Political Culture Framework t

*

context t

➾

Behaviort

(t +1)

*

= confronted by

➾

= yields

t

= time

t +1 = feedback into next iteration Political culture framework = shared political tools + variable tools Behavior = strategies of action + behavioral cues

and in the lives of individuals and groups (see figure 2.2). Socialization provides a political culture superstructure, or framework, manifested in the political tools individuals use to interpret their environment. Some tools are ‘shared political tools’ or portions of the framework that are broadly held by the population, and others are ‘variable tools’, specific individual and group characteristics (that is education, profession and ethnic identity). These tools allow meaning to be attached to the socio-political context confronting people every day that leads to individual and group political behavior. The context includes political institutions (parliament, president and so on), economic conditions (depression, boom and so on) and social issues (that is health care, epidemic and so on), and encompasses elite and group activity individually and collectively. Domestic conditions generally dominate contextual influences, but international factors create a certain variability that may affect the domestic environment. These external factors include, but are not limited to, international war, the demands of economic institutions (that is the International Monetary Fund), imported consumer goods, environmental threats and foreign media. These influences affect the context and are a potentially supercharged component in the equation. Behavior is comprised of two components: (1) Swidler’s ‘strategies of action’ and (2) what I call ‘cues of behavior’ or the symbolic,

36


subjective construction of the environment that may be thought or voiced. Cues of behavior are separate from strategies of action, as one’s attitudes do not necessarily translate into action or may be latent attitudes that are yet to emerge in behavior. For example, people may express their disdain for a political leader, even call for her removal, but vote for her anyway. Yet, at some point, people will act on this potential and vote against the candidate. The complexity of political culture modeling requires the depiction of the nature of developments over time. In this depiction, I contend that the changing context affects the political culture framework when mediated through components of behavior on a recursive and interactive basis. Thus, I include both a time element (t) and a feedback loop for the next measurement period (t+1), though differential effects on the tools and context often means that a clear referent of change is difficult to measure. This conceptualization of political culture can be applied in settled and unsettled periods. The straightforward portrayal of political culture dynamics is not intended as a definitive statement of cultural development, however. Culture is rarely that simple and certainly not nearly so linear as defined by the model – as Cohen, Eckstein and Swidler would agree. There is great potential for variability. Given their historical roots, societal political tools are relatively stable factors. To a lesser degree, so are factors of individual variation, regardless of whether the society is settled or unsettled. The context for the expression of political tools is relatively stable in settled societies, with greater variation in unsettled societies. With minor variation in context, popular interpretation will adapt strategies of action and, assuming no severe shocks to the system (that is war, economic collapse and so on), will gradually influence society’s political tools and have impact on the degree of contextual dynamics. Another complexity arises in considering the influence of variable political tools; it provides for differing strategies of action within a dominant strategy (see Chapter 4). For example, a lawyer possesses tools better suited to comprehend and challenge government policy than does a carpenter. Strong ethnic or religious identity may provide ‘training’ for collective action in a political system. On a more day-to-day basis, some individuals (that is a recent college graduate), have greater capacity to take advantage of improving business opportunities than others (that is a 50-year-old assembly line worker). As difficult as it is to comprehend a society’s political culture during a settled period, however, it is significantly more difficult in unsettled periods.

Political Culture as a Research Agenda 37 Table 2.1 Political Culture Adaptation58 Condition Societal Type

Settled

Unsettled

Doctrinaire Authoritarian Liberal Democracy

Limited Adaptation Iterative Adaptation

Formlessness & Recreation Challenging Adaptation

Table 2.1 shows how political cultures change in differing societal types and conditions. Representing communist states, doctrinaire authoritarian society is characterized by a hierarchical political structure infused in all aspects of society and built on an ideological foundation. Liberal democracies, characterized by open political processes, include an independent popular role, significant individual freedoms and a more limited (but varying) role of political authority in social and economic regulation. The question of whether a society is settled or unsettled rests on the severity of contextual change (for example, a depression is unsettled, a recession settled). During settled conditions, political cultures in both types of society do not shift much in the short term. Nevertheless, cultures in liberal democracies see a much more rapid adaptation of new contextual inputs into the behavioral domain and, eventually, the political culture framework. In the long term, these societies follow the pattern described by Eckstein of ‘change toward flexibility’.59 That is, the political culture adapts contextual changes into the cultural superstructure in a way that rationalizes their inclusion in the dominant framework. Closed societies by nature are based on a particular doctrine and contend with fewer external influences. In such a society, political culture change emerges from internal contextual changes influencing the behavioral domain and the interactive effects of the feedback loop. Few new contextual cues are available to adapt into the superstructure. Immanent change (for example rising education, industrialization and so on) accounts for internal developments and the degree of flexibility in a society’s political culture.60 During unsettled conditions, cultural change becomes more complicated. In traditionally open societies, such as the liberal democracies, the adaptation of political culture under trying conditions may exhibit an initial period of fragmentation – and reversion to more parochial or ideological groupings61 – that is relatively quickly

38


(within a few years) replaced by a complex, challenging adaptation. New conditions result in changes in the behavioral domain that affect the dominant framework, as society continues normal iterative adaptation. Two somewhat contrasting events in the West illustrate cultural adaptation in liberal democracies: 1) the United States during the Great Depression and 2) France following World War II. Each political culture had to contend with significant alterations in the sociopolitical environment and with challenges to the existing political culture. In France under the Fourth Republic, a reassertion of the traditional political culture resulted, as the adaptive process emerged with the culturally more congruent Fifth Republic over a period of 13 years. That is, the political system moved from the weak executive structure of the Fourth Republic to the strong executive of the Fifth. Arriving at this resting place, the French system has seen relatively stable cultural adaptation under the Gaullist political structure. For the United States, the stockmarket crash of 1929 saw a period of fragmentation as people reoriented their strategies toward survival in the depression environment. Yet, the popular adaptation to the New Deal (an elite created resting place) depicts the durability, and adaptability, of a liberal-democratic political culture in the 50-plus years since. The adaptive processes of the more doctrinaire society during unsettled conditions carries greater ramifications. In expanding Eckstein’s formlessness conceptualization, I analogize such a situation to ‘culture shock’.62 Culture shock affects an individual who visits ‘foreign’ parts of the world; she discovers that her cultural background does not provide the interpretative tools to function with ease, thus severing the link between cultural tools and a successful strategy of action. She has difficulty ordering food, knowing how much to tip a waiter, discerning the social role of different genders and more. Most importantly, however, those that suffer from culture shock generally understand that this condition is temporary. For the individual in the doctrinaire society that enters the unsettled period of a social transformation, the reverse is the case: a foreign environment is brought to the traditional culture. The individual in the unsettled situation must make sense of an incoherent and poorly formed socio-political environment lacking an intelligible system of formal and informal rules, coming close to anarchy. The trauma experienced is less the result of material deprivation that may accompany economic shock than the loss of

Political Culture as a Research Agenda 39 Figure 2.3

Fragmented Behavior expanding external influence t

Traditional Tools t

*

initial contextual shock t

➾ fragmented behavioral domain t (t +1)

*

= confronted by

➾

= yields

t

= time

t +1 = feedback into next iteration

comprehension as existing tools lose their capacity to construct meaning both symbolically and in action. Thus, people attempt to construct new strategies of action with limited, albeit varying, capacities to employ their political culture tools. After the contextual ‘shock’ leading to unsettled conditions comes individual adaptation; people adjust their strategies of action and exhibit changing behavioral cues to deal with the immediate situation. For example, rather than focusing on building his career, the father in a family may try by any means (for example a second job, planting a garden, criminal activity and so on) to put food on the table. This creates a situation of fragmentation in the behavioral domain as people across the society move away from traditional pursuits and adapt behavior in many ways. Varying capacities to employ societal and individual political tools in the new context only serve to magnify the effects of contextual change. At first, this situation appears as shown in figure 2.3. If the shock is minor (that is the near collapse of the Mexican peso), that may be the end of the fragmented conditions as this individual, his family and the country move toward normalcy. Yet, as the populace contends with a severe shock, initial fragmentation explodes as unsuccessful strategies of action are recycled through inadequate cultural tools into new, increasingly divergent strategies. This may occur over a period of several years, as exhibited in Gorbachev’s reforms, or rather quickly, as in Romania during the late 1980s. The degree of formlessness at any moment in time is a

40


Figure 2.4

Formless Political Culture variable external influence t

Circumscribed Tools t

*

severe/continuing contextual shock t

➾

increasingly fragmented behavioral domain t

(t +1)

*

= confronted by

➾

= yields

t

= time

t +1 = feedback into next iteration

function of the shock’s severity. With all parts of the model in some stage of functional abnormality, the political culture becomes truly formless, as depicted in figure 2.4. As the initial shock exerts its influence over time, the cultural base truly loses coherence. This is partly manifested in the reawakening of more parochial groupings and/or ideologies, such as the upsurge of ethnic awareness in the Soviet Union following Gorbachev’s reforms. Generational differences may also emerge. People long socialized in the system have an initial advantage applying traditional tools to the new environment, while the young have little cultural experience.63 With time, however, the continuing shocks in society undermine the ability of the older generations to accommodate the changes in their symbolic representation of society. Formlessness becomes more evident as older generations understand that their traditional tools will not function and are less apt than the young to adapt the changes into their cultural framework. ‘Hampered’ in their flexibility, the majority of those sufficiently socialized into the old system begin to recreate the earlier political culture both symbolically and behaviorally. 64 That is, they begin an implicit search for the political symbols of the past (for example strong leadership) that eventually emerges in the explicit demand for the past symbols in form and content (for example strong leadership supporting state economic and social intervention) through both protests and the ballot box.


As people contend with personal survival, both behavioral components considerably fragment. For, the populace is using traditional tools to interpret a novel situation. Strategies of action and cues of behavior show a marked lack of consistency, contradiction and uncertainty. Thus, citizens leaving state socialism for a liberalizing society will take advantage of opportunities for individual advancement yet still expect the state to provide socio-economic comforts and protection. If the ‘shock’ proves to be short-lived and the context finds a consistent and popularly understood ‘resting place’, the components of behavior will attain some consistency, although the political tools for interpretation will remain significantly unchanged for the foreseeable future, only gradually adapting the new behavioral domain and context into the interpretive framework. The symbolic meaning of behavior and the overall context continue with a significant flavor of the past. Even in a relatively successful democratic transition, the political culture is likely to reflect partial thermidor as societal processes become more regularized and traditional tools are more in evidence. We have seen just such a situation in Poland as economic reform programs encountered difficulties and politicians advocating a more socialist agenda were elected to office. Elites play a significant role in the creation of a functioning resting place. If new democratic political structures function democratically – acquiring a substantive democratic component – then a political resting place comes into existence and may become founded in the society over the long term (a generation or more) if people see that their politicians are committed to democracy, are following the laws of society and that there is a certain rationality to state services. To assume political leaders are committed to substantive democracy is a mistake, however. Politicians were also socialized under the old regime and employ their traditional tools to create strategies of action in the new environment. Thus, their strategies are likely to continue to bear strong resemblance to previous strategies. 65 If emerging from a political system that functioned on the basis of paternalism, high degrees of personal self-interest and corruption, similar patterns will emerge in the halls of ‘new’ government.66 Even if we assume an elite commitment to new democratic forms, however, there are internal and external contextual factors that are difficult to control (that is failing economic reform, threats of war and so on), demonstrating one clear flaw in the institutionalist argument: it assumes relative insulation

42


from contextual factors that threaten a democratic resting place. Following World War II, United States’ dominance ensured Germany and Japan a large measure of this insulation. The overall development of Russian democracy does not have the almost total ‘protections’ provided by the occupying powers after the war, even with IMF aid. Thus, contemporary Russia exhibits many important similarities to Weimar Germany. There are many threats to successful democratic transition and, especially, consolidation.67 In this uncertainty rests the serendipity of political culture ‘reformation’. The real difficulty for political culture change comes in a context that never attains a sufficiently stable resting place upon which to ground both components of the behavioral domain. As apparently functioning strategies of action are washed away by each new ‘minishock’, continual ‘culture shock’ becomes the norm. The forces for the recreation of the traditional culture become most apparent. While there are still varying groupings (what Swidler terms ‘ideologies’) pushing for different developmental elements (that is reform), the awakened majority subculture begins to carry more weight. Because the majority in a doctrinaire society is by nature conservative, this population threatens to overwhelm its reform-oriented competitors. Within continued instability traditional symbols are increasingly reasserted. A more direct and fervent call is sounded for earlier societal conditions in a popular push toward political figures and policies that more closely match past policies – including greater state intervention in economic and social spheres. The strategies become proactive attempts to reform the context (returning through the feedback loop) in a way that expands the popular capacity to employ its traditional political culture tools. Thus, symbolism comes to acquire content in popular attempts to regain comprehension in unsettled conditions. The actual process of political culture recreation is difficult to model, for it is primarily a personal process. This process is easier to depict, however, on the level of official political practice. Traditional cultural practices are reasserted in the electoral politics of formerly doctrinaire authoritarian societies, where political figures alter policies to meet popular needs and/or new politicians are elected that offer popularly supported policy. The popular hope for greater state intervention could also be realized in a way that undermines the democratic institutions permitting such a political reversion, as elected officials might constrain democratic practices in redeveloping the intrusive state apparatus. Of course, the actual


result and/or degree of such a recreative process in practice is not predetermined. As found in continuity arguments, I include the effects of the prior regime type in the contextual mix. The nature of the doctrinaire authoritarian society is important in evaluating the degree of ‘backtracking’ in a political culture under conditions of formlessness. There will be individual/group differences, yet in societies with long authoritarian traditions, the conservative majority culture has sway. While democratic developments are certainly not beyond the realm of possibility, the period of maximized opportunity has passed and political culture thermidor becomes the most likely way to stability.

Russian political culture: Formlessness and recreation This last scenario describes post-Soviet Russia. Although there are ‘pockets’ of democratic practices and belief, traditional authoritarianism has been strengthened. With the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 and the traumas of the economic reform that followed, Russian society has been racked by instability. The Gorbachev reforms beginning in 1987 were tremors forewarning a coming eruption. These reforms were the initial shock that forced Russians to confront an influx of new and foreign ideas and institutions with existing political culture tools. An early euphoria set in as Russians adapted their strategies of action to reforms under Gorbachev. But the continued social protections of the communist system served to distort the effects and perceptions of reform. With the implementation of ‘shock therapy’ coming alongside Russian independence, however, the rollercoaster ride that ensued has yet to arrive at a stable resting place to strengthen and create democratic capacities. In many ways, the chance for the near term development of a democratic political culture in Russia was precluded at the inception of independence in late 1991. Not only were economic reforms shocking, but the rising political wranglings of President Yeltsin and the Supreme Soviet did not provide an auspicious start to Russian democracy. Emerging from the undemocratic, and literal, destruction of that Supreme Soviet was Yeltsin’s almost autocratically created Constitution and legislative branch. The possibilities that institutional democracy would be created yet carried some measure of optimism for political culture democratization. The necessary elite commitment to democratic practices has not always been particularly evident, however, either in the executive or legislative branches.

44


In many regional governments the absence of substantive democracy is even more marked, further strengthening popular authoritarian tendencies. When combined with continued economic difficulties, a war in Chechenya and a multitude of other contextual factors, a stable resting place, whether democratic or not, has yet to materialize. Out of this tumult emerges cultural recreation.

Conclusion Using contemporary Russian politics as a case study, this book enlivens the quest to understand political culture dynamics. Following the substantive and methodological discussion of Chapter 3 (a chapter that readers with more general interests may skip), Chapter 4 examines perspectives on Russia’s evolution. The remaining analytical chapters look at the components of the general political culture model individually. Whereas Chapter 5 comes as close to presenting political culture tools as may be possible, Chapter 6 presents the internal context confronting these tools. Finally, Chapters 7 and 8 develop the output side of the model: the behavioral domain. Looking at both political strategies of action and behavioral cues. The interesting irony of this study is the discovery of existing democratic tools in the Russian political culture superstructure. The failures of political officials domestically and worldwide to properly identify and develop this democratic side of Russian society has many roots. Unfortunately, part of the problem has been the lack of information. The process of accommodating contextual fluctuation is reflected in the contradictory results coming out of Western survey research both before and after the collapse of the Soviet Union. These contradictions exhibit the characteristics of a formless political culture if accepted at face value. Yet, as discussed in the next chapter, understanding these survey results addresses the heart of the problem – and whether surveys were the appropriate method to be applied in post-Soviet Russia.

Surveying Attitudes in Russia: a Representation of Formlessness

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3 Surveying Attitudes in Russia: a Representation of Formlessness

Western study of Russian politics has made a remarkable transformation. From a formerly information-constrained research environment, often more informed by educated speculation than by hard empirical data, the field is now brimming with opportunity for incountry research. One trend among Western scholars has been the examination of political culture through the use of quantitative survey methods. Many contemporary researchers have sought to test cultural continuity theories with Western concepts of political culture development. Unfortunately, the findings of this research have been mixed, often contradictory, and inconsistent. As new research should begin after examining what has gone before, this chapter presents a review of Western survey research results in Russia.1 Following the uncertain impact on democratization of communist successes in the December 1995 parliamentary elections and the contrasting victory of the more Western-oriented Boris Yeltsin in the July 1996 presidential election, we must strive harder to understand Russian political culture. Ultimately, upon discovering inconsistent findings and disturbing tendencies in the employment of social science methods, I question whether Western survey methods are adequate to examine the complexities of contemporary manifestations of Russian political culture.

Surveying attitudes: the initial steps Except for the Harvard Refugee Project in the 1950s, the era of empirical measurement of Soviet political and economic attitudes began with the Soviet Interview Project (SIP) of the mid-1980s. The SIP interviewed 2739 respondents from a group of primarily Jewish 45

46


emigrants (85.7 per cent) who had left the Soviet Union at the end of the period of detente from 1979 to 1982. Although this group was unrepresentative in its disproportionately high levels of education, the sample provided a glimpse into popular attitudes and levels of participation in Brezhnev’s Soviet Union.2 The findings of the SIP were unexpected for many Western scholars of the Soviet Union, who had long argued that Soviet political culture necessarily reflects centuries of authoritarian political relationships.3 The SIP findings parallel modernization arguments that have emerged from examinations of developing nations since the 1960s.4 Furthermore, SIP findings conformed with the contentions of scholars in the Soviet field who had inferred modernizing elements from statistical evidence of demographic changes. 5 The SIP authors found that industrial expansion and educational advancement were both eroding and developing the traditional culture. Increases in education levels were correlated to weakening support for regime norms. Reflecting changing societal patterns, younger respondents were more supportive of individual rights than older respondents, no matter the level of education.6 Confirming the attitudinal survey conclusions, the SIP examination of patterns of participation also exhibited the characteristics of a modernizing, or even modern, society. Nevertheless, modes of participation in such a hierarchical system were difficult to compare with largely autonomous participation in Western democratic states or post-authoritarian developing societies. Among the SIP authors, Donna Bahry found that educational levels were positively correlated to unconventional modes of participation not in concert with directed participation by the Soviet regime. 7 Unconventional participation included dissident activity, such as the illegal publication and consumption of samizdat literature. Creative professionals such as teachers, economists, doctors and engineers were the most likely of the highly educated to participate in these activities. These findings questioned the conventional wisdom of the cultural continuity thesis propounded by Stephen White and Robert Tucker. 8 In essence, these critical scholars argued that post-Stalin generations had developed similarly to their counterparts in the modern and modernizing societies of the West and South, respectively. The disjuncture between the generation socialized under Stalinism and the generations that followed suggested that Soviet political culture was characterized by continual development rather than static (cultural) continuity. 9 Along with the gradual relaxation


47

of restrictions on empirical research following Gorbachev’s accession to power in 1985, these findings led to a concerted Western examination of Soviet, and later Russian, political culture. Several ‘nonobjective’ studies were characterized by the purposeful search for signs of a democratic and market culture (liberal-democratic), or (to a far lesser degree) its dichotomous opposite, socialist authoritarianism. The search for these two artificially constructed extremes (democracy versus authoritarianism) clouds the fact that the vast majority of the population has a more complex attitudinal outlook. These two extreme positions are not easy to differentiate as individual Russians often hold seemingly irreconcilable positions. Rather than exhibiting a clear sign of the likely direction of Russian political culture development, the often contradictory research findings raise several issues addressed by Harry Eckstein concerning cultural change.10 This review examines the body of Western survey research exploring popular attitudes that has emerged since the mid-1980s SIP study. The broad findings exhibit the great complexity of Russian political culture. Beginning with a look at research that is quite optimistic for Russian democratization, the discussion progresses to show the complexity and contradictions in findings that then raise important questions about the direction of the Russian transition. Further questioning leads to a critical analysis of the methods employed in this body of research.

The coming democracy? Accepting modernization theory, James Gibson, Raymond Duch and Kent Tedin claimed that the Soviet Union participated in the spread of global trends.11 Finding that the educated, males and youth are more supportive of democratic norms, Gibson et al. argued ‘that further efforts to democratize the Soviet Union will not meet further resistance from Soviet political culture.’12 Analyzing a Winter 1990 survey of 504 residents of the Moscow oblast’, Gibson et al. supported their position through examining seven subdimensions of basic democratic rights and liberties. 13 Overall, Gibson et al. found support both for the individual liberties useful to democratic politics and for democratic values at an abstract level. This support was reinforced by a degree of ‘rights consciousness’ that compared quite favorably with that of more

48


Table 3.1 Subdimensions of Democratic Rights, Liberties and Institutions16 Subdimension Political Tolerance Political Liberty Democratic Norms Rights Consciousness Support for Dissent Independent Media Competitive Elections

Support ⫺ ⫹⫹ ⫹ ⫹⫹⫹ ⫹ ⫹ ⫹⫹a

Note: a The number of symbols signifies relative degree of support

established Western democracies. Respondents expressed general support for democratic styles of dissent and for independent media, with strong support for competitive elections.14 The only negative sign was a lack of political tolerance for particular socio-political groups. Questioning whether this popular intolerance was pluralistic in nature, or variously directed toward a number of groups, Gibson et al. expressed concern that the almost universal intolerance toward one’s political adversaries may still limit the prospects for democratization. 15 In a survey of 975 respondents in the city of Yaroslavl’, Jeffrey Hahn tested modernization theory alongside the historical continuity thesis and found little support for the argument that Russian political culture today is dominated by the autocratic traditions of the past. Rather, the patterns that emerge suggest that Russian political thinking comes closer to what is found in Western industrial democracies.17 Both the Gibson et al. and Hahn findings supported Ronald Inglehart’s position that political culture is the crucial link between economic development and democracy. 18 Hahn’s four main findings provide general support for the development of a democratic society.19 First, he found a population that had levels of efficacy similar to those in Italy and Mexico in The Civic Culture: respondents had comparable levels of internal efficacy (personal competence) and lower levels of external efficacy (expectations of government competence). 20 Thus, respondents felt they could be individually effective participants in political processes, although they had little trust in their contemporary political institutions to implement effective policy.


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Second, Hahn argued that Russians showed higher levels of political trust in areas related to distributive justice (the government is for the benefit of all) and on levels of personal competence than on levels of government performance. Abstract notions of trust were high, whereas trust in the government to make the right decisions was quite low. These last two factors suggest that the political culture exhibited tendencies that were not inconsistent with the emergence of a ‘civic’ culture. Third, there was popular support for competitive elections. Although the roots were not as deep as those found in the United States, Russians were committed to the idea of voting. Finally, in agreement with the Bahry, Silver and Gibson et al. findings, Hahn discovered that support for traditional political culture was negatively correlated with age and education, another finding that undermined the continuity thesis and supported the development position.21 Based on these two studies, it appeared that Russians were more than capable of entering the world of developed democracies. Popular views toward political participation also seemed to indicate a Soviet population that was far more engaged than the atomized view presented by some scholars. 22 These studies found levels and types of participation that coincided more with expectations of modernizing societies than with conventional expectations of the hierarchically organized Soviet Union. 23 However, neither Gibson et al. nor Hahn went so far as to claim that Russians were fully-fledged democrats. Neither could clearly say how Russia would develop in the future: the society continued to be managed by non-democratic Soviet institutions and the officials running those institutions had a stake in their continued existence. As Bahry and Silver argued, those satisfied with their lives were more supportive of the system. 24 As this satisfaction often emerged from official privileges, there was no certainty that political figures would be willing to relinquish their privileged standing. Yet, in an ironic twist, even as the Soviet collapse forced these figures to relinquish certain privileges, the complexity of the Russian transition emerged in research that both contradicted and supported the democratic findings just discussed.

The jumble of complexity As two of the early studies on perestroika-era change, the findings of Gibson et al. and Hahn appeared to undermine thoroughly the political culture continuity theories even as later research presented

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a more complicated view of Russian political culture. Using the findings discussed above as a baseline, this section looks at the varied findings. An autumn 1989 survey of 2520 respondents by Ada Finifter and Ellen Mickiewicz resulted in findings that exhibited the political culture formlessness depicted by Eckstein.25 In their survey of the USSR’s seven most populous republics, Finifter and Mickiewicz found populations that supported both democracy and state control. While few objected to competitive elections, respondents did not approve more subtle concepts of political rights. Where Gibson et al. had found strong rights consciousness, 40 per cent of this 1989 sample believed that public order was more important than free speech. In fact, contradicting modernization expectations of supporters of political liberty and dissent, Finifter and Mickiewicz found that people approving political protest were more likely than those who disapproved to see individual well-being as a state responsibility.26 As expected, the more highly educated were more likely to be supportive of political reforms than the less educated, yet it went entirely against Western expectations that this same group would be more supportive of a strong state role. Thus, Finifter and Mickiewicz argued, the rejection of aspects of the Soviet system did not signify the wholesale abandonment of the entire system.27 Arthur Miller, Vicki Hesli and William Reisinger tested the Finifter and Mickiewicz findings.28 They argued that there was a disjuncture between broad findings that associated support for democratic change with support for individual responsibility and, therefore, market reforms. Through an examination of a series of three surveys conducted between 1990 and 1992 in Russia, Ukraine and Lithuania, Miller et al. found evidence that was more in line with prior theoretical expectations: supporters of democratic change generally supported economic reform. Also in contrast to Finifter and Mickiewicz, they found that education, higher incomes and male gender were positively correlated with support for individual responsibility rather than an intrusive government role.29 Miller et al. further argued that the average level of individualism increased over the period of the surveys, casting doubt on arguments supporting the long-term effect of Soviet indoctrination.30 In a third study designed to test these contradictory findings, Robert Brym provides yet another interpretation: ‘Russian politics are not as directionless as Finifter and Mickiewicz hold. Nor is Russia moving toward liberal democracy, as Miller, Hesli and Reisinger


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suggest.’31 Instead, Brym’s 1995 survey of 2000 Russian adults indicated that support was growing for more state responsibility for popular well-being. In Russia this signifies support for nationalists and reformed communists. Rather than rely solely on his statistical conclusions, however, Brym is more circumspect and recognizes the volatility of contemporary Russian politics. Brym also asks whether Eckstein’s culturalist theory of political change is a possible explanation for the volatility in findings.32 The correlation between political and economic attitudes has been widely debated in the literature. In agreement with the Miller et al. position, Gennady Denisovsky, Polina Kozyreva and Mikhail Matskovsky found a strong relationship between support for freedom and the market. They also found market support linked to a higher estimate of individual relative to state responsibilities.33 Similarly, in a 1992 survey, Gibson found a ‘fairly strong relationship between support for democratic institutions and processes and support for market-based institutions and processes.’34 By way of contrast, however, using the 1990 Gibson and Duch data set examining the European USSR, Denisovsky et al. argued that support for market reforms, if taken at face value, overstated ‘the depth and strength of public support for a market economy.’35 Through a more comprehensive analysis of a wider array of motivational and behavioral indicators, they suggested that only about twelve percent of Soviets had consistent, firmly crystallized attitudes favoring a market economy. The alternative group – firm supporters of a planned economy – comprised 15% of the population. 36 Thus, there was a large portion of the population, nearly three quarters by the Denisovsky et al. findings, that rested somewhere in between the two extremes. This group exhibited an economic consciousness that was generally opposed to economic differentiation (that is, greater differences in incomes and wealth). Nevertheless, as this group is not normally politically active, it was theorized that people could passively accept ‘a rigid authoritarian introduction of a market economy’; for only a small percentage of the population was decisively opposed to the market. 37 The argument presented by Denisovsky broadens the perspective of the research by examining the various possibilities for political and economic development in the post-Soviet societies. Raymond

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Duch found a ‘nascent free-market culture’ in the former Soviet Union. Nevertheless, he also argued that support in this sector was greater for social democracy than for laissez-faire capitalism, and that there was widespread support for social egalitarianism. 38 Of course, such an argument is a tacit admission of the presence of cultural continuity, albeit one limited in its analytic development by Duch’s explicit focus on popular support for a free market. Thus, while some scholars were more explicitly identifying factors of continuity than others, clear evidence of continuity appeared in their work.

Developmental possibilities in a complex environment The contention that a significant majority of the population could accept elite imposition of a market economy (although they themselves largely opposed such economic principles) could easily be a sign of an enduring subject, or authoritarian, political culture. The population appeared willing to remove itself from influencing economic change and allow a small group of leaders to implement policies for them. By its nature a population that is amenable to the decisive hand of a strong and powerful leader is also amenable to the protections provided by a socialist economy. It is possible that the broad mass of the population would support the philosophy of a resolute leader from either of the two active ends of the conservative–reformist spectrum. If true, popular opinion would not seem particularly important. Yet, Russian popular opinion is quite important in the procedural democracy that characterizes the contemporary society. For, if citizens participate in elections, and this is by no means a certainty as turnout has been sporadic, they are the ones who will anoint their future leaders. While popular opinion seems important, the popular electoral expression has not been clear. In a survey of 1509 respondents in December 1992, Stephen White, Ian McAllister and Olga Kryshtanovskaya investigated the durability of popular support for presidential candidates in the Russian Republic’s election in June 1991.39 In a one-issue campaign, voters elected Boris Yeltsin. He was the only unequivocally declared democrat, so voters were choosing between reform and the status quo of the communist system. With this single-issue campaign and the lack of an established party system, none of the six candidates received electoral support from any identifiable socioeconomic group.


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At the time of the survey, however, support for Yeltsin was half that indicated by the actual election results. No longer limited to the single issue of the earlier election, those who left the Yeltsin camp were less motivated by personal economic concerns and more by attitudes toward communism and general political beliefs. The disaffection with Yeltsin was linked to a favorable view of the role of the CPSU in Russian history, concern about the progress of democratization, and with support for a national-patriotic political system that went beyond liberal democracy and communism. Overall, White et al. found doubt about reforms and a rapid absolute decline in support for Boris Yeltsin that only stayed at a relatively high level due to the lack of a viable alternative leader. 40 In a survey taken before and after the December 1993 elections, Matthew Wyman, Stephen White, Bill Miller and Paul Heywood found that the Russian electorate had matured: We identify a rise in party identification because of the December 1993 elections, and we suggest that the party lists that contested the elections did have clear social and attitudinal bases. . . . There were striking attitudinal differences relating not just to issues around economic transformation, but also about the nature of politics itself and the way in which they should conduct it.41 Additionally, Wyman et al. found that the number of those who saw the election as free and fair rose significantly during the campaign. That this view prevailed among all sections of society meant that a particular set of ‘rules of the game’ had been accepted as legitimate in the eyes of voters – encouraging prospects for democratic consolidation.42 They also discovered combinations of attitudes not necessarily consonant with the political platforms of the parties. Supporters of Russia’s Choice, the most pro-democratic political party at that time, exhibited instrumental attitudes toward the government in power, a government these supporters believed to be acting largely in their interests (Table 3.2). Those respondents most expected to support the democratic rights, described by Gibson et al., were very undemocratic in expressing their lack of tolerance for the political opposition.43 By contrast, those parties normally expected to be the most intolerant of political opposition (Liberal Democratic Party, Communist Party and the Agrarian Party) were more tolerant of the rights of political minorities, although they were not particularly

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Table 3.2 Positions of Russia’s Choice Voters44 % in favor 1. The government should be able to overrule parliament 2. The government should be able to overrule the constitutional court. 3. A strong leader should be unrestricted by law. 4. The government should ignore public opinion if it disagrees with it. 5. It is permissible to suspend citizens’ rights to combat slander against the government. 6. The Communist Party should be banned. 7. The LDP should be banned.

56 28 32 15 49 32 54

tolerant of one another. Wyman et al. contended that if these groups were in power their supporters would be likely to become less tolerant of opposition groups. In all, these attitudes raise questions about the commitment of Russians to a democratic political system. In contrast to Tedin’s 1990 survey findings, popular support for democratic institutions did not exhibit diffuse characteristics.45 Instead, the Wyman et al. findings appear to show continuity in a political tradition of intolerance and instrumentally motivated attitudes. A lack of tolerance for other groups is consistent, however, with the findings of Gibson and Duch.46 They found that Russians were intolerant of numerous groups in society, and there was strong support for outlawing the disliked groups. This intolerance, Gibson and Duch argued, is a potential obstacle to democratization. The fact that Wyman et al. were more concerned with the foundation of a stable party system, rather than the intolerance of Russia’s Choice voters, underlines the problem of identifying trends in Russian politics. Negative findings in terms of the direction of democratization have frequently been minimized for the presentation of positive findings. Nevertheless, these findings are largely in line with those of Gibson and Duch concerning the tolerance associated with more democratic individuals: Those more strongly committed to democratic values such as liberty, citizen rights, and so on, are more tolerant. The fit is far from perfect, however. This finding parallels Western research in that people are more strongly committed to democratic values in the abstract than in application. Soviet citizens seem to be more likely to claim rights and liberties for themselves than they


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are to extend the same rights and liberties to their political opponents. From this point of view, the democratization of Soviet political culture is far from complete.47 The issue of contradictory findings within studies (in contrast to between studies) is not unusual. In arguing that the political culture continuity thesis does not explain Russian political attitudes, William Reisinger, Arthur Miller, Vicki Hesli and Kristen Hill Maher also found that ‘the desire for strong leadership is positively associated with support for democratic values’.48 While support for strong leadership would normally be associated with authoritarian tendencies more in line with political culture continuity theories, Reisinger et al. denied any clear link to authoritarian tradition. They hypothesized instead ‘that an alternative conception of democracy holds sway among many in the former Soviet Union.’49 Such an anomaly should indicate to scholars, however, that the popular conception of the future Russian political system may be unlike Western conceptions. Contrary to the attempt by Reisinger et al. to arrive at a clear-cut conclusion, the contradictions found in the Russian conception of democracy may very well reflect traditional authority patterns. I would make the alternative argument that these contradictions are another manifestation of the complexity of Russian political attitudes in a chaotic period. Taking the position that Russian tradition is reappearing, Jerry Hough argued that the elections of December 1993 would come to be seen as the beginning of the thermidor of the Russian Revolution of 1985–93. In a huge, nationwide survey (N=33 869), Hough found that Russians were receptive to moderate reform, but not to the shock therapy Yeltsin instituted in early 1992. Hough did not find, however, that opposition to shock therapy was associated with political authoritarianism. Supplementing Wyman’s findings, Hough discovered that opponents of economic reform (those individuals Miller et al. and Duch would have expected to be less democratic) ‘gave stronger support to concrete aspects of democracy than did those who favored a quick transition.’50 Like Reisinger et al., Hough does point out that there were problems defining particular concepts, using the term ‘democracy’ as an example.51 It could be argued that those supporting the quick transition were doing so in their hope for something akin to the concrete, time-bound five-year plans of the Soviet era. In general, Hough found mixed views toward democracy, views that were often extremely sensitive to the formulation

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of a particular question and the degree to which one’s personal situation had worsened. Hough’s discussion is particularly significant in that he focused on the complexities of majority opinion rather than on minorities holding particular democratic or authoritarian views. William Zimmerman took a similar approach in comparing foreign policy elite attitudes with mass attitudes on political and economic issues.52 He found elites particularly supportive of both democratic modes of government and a market economy, in contrast to universityeducated non-elites who generally held pro-democracy views with less support for a market economy, and the less educated mass public who generally could not be classified as democrats and held an even lower view of the market economy.53 Zimmerman’s most striking finding was that attitudes toward Russian foreign policy in the ‘near abroad’ (the 14 former Soviet Republics) were not associated with education or position.54 Overall, attitudes toward the near abroad were distinctly nationalistic, a discovery apparently in line with findings indicating a popular lack of political tolerance in domestic affairs. 55 In a second study that employed these same data, Zimmerman reexamined the differences between the elite, educated groups and the general population.56 Zimmerman anchored his discussion around a question that asked respondents for a reaction to the proposition that there is only one true philosophy. He found that those with higher education and/or a greater awareness of the outside world were more likely to reject the proposition. For Zimmerman this was a sign that attitudes central to a political culture are knowledgedriven and not constant. Largely in agreement with Bahry and Silver, he found that education and the awareness of difference do influence the evolution of political attitudes.57 Once again, this is a finding that undermines the cultural continuity argument. None of these findings can clearly resolve the question whether Russia will make the transition to liberal democratic modes of government, especially in light of the contradictory popular attitudes. A more pointed question is whether the attitudes measured by these surveys represent firmly held, underlying Russian beliefs. Or, are they artifacts of volatile political and economic conditions of a transition environment that have done more to distort popular opinion than can be clearly identified? In rejecting the argument that the 1993 elections were either a reaffirmation of Russian political tradition, or the protest of a population whose political culture had


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become more democratic in the post-Stalin era, Stephen Whitefield and Geoffrey Evans contended that the ‘Russian public has been drawing negative lessons about market democracy from the transition itself’. 58 Attitudes being tapped were more an ad hoc response to the experiences of marketization and political transformation than of enduring abstract norms. 59 Thus, one might argue that attitudes toward liberal democracy were different at an earlier point when liberal democratic modes were as yet an unknown in practice than when two or more years of negative experiences had tarnished their luster. In fact, in a 1993 survey broadly replicating the 1990 survey in Yaroslavl’, Hahn did find ‘some erosion of support for democratic values’.60 This finding is contrasted, however, with Gibson’s findings for 1992 that showed Russian attitudes toward democratic institutions and process to be reasonably stable. 61 These last two studies show variable and contradictory findings and suggest the problem that confronts the use of survey methods to examine attitudes in Russia. Ultimately, these unstable findings are signs of the underlying ‘formlessness’ of current Russian political culture, and at least initially meet the expectations of Eckstein’s theory. Whether there is really any fully satisfactory means for gauging the Russian political mind during this period is not at all evident. Yet there is considerable doubt whether surveys are the best means for carrying out this research. Even in stable societies, the success of surveys for measuring deeply held attitudes has been uneven. Combining the difficulties inherent in survey methods with the chaos of post-Soviet Russia presents still greater pitfalls.

The use of survey methods My analysis shows the contradictory characteristics of contemporary Russian political culture. The ‘formlessness’ of survey findings points to the complications that face a researcher trying to pinpoint particular characteristics that capture the political society. Four key issues regarding the validity of post-Soviet surveys are of particular interest in evaluating the survey methods. First, the implicit assumptions about human nature and the capabilities of survey research methods in these studies provide important clues for interpreting particular findings. Second, the questions employed to test particular political characteristics provide important information about the likely validity of the responses – particularly when examining surveys with a closed-question format. Third, the manner

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in which surveys are implemented significantly influences the coherence and robustness of the survey results. In combination, all three of these issues play important parts in determining the validity of results. Fourth, interpretations of the answers to survey items merit attention. There are important concerns in all four areas. I do not argue that the entire body of research or that of any particular researcher is flawed; rather I find that some studies have greater problems than others. Nevertheless, I do find that there are clear concerns with aspects of the research that bring into question the validity of survey approaches to measuring culture in the post-Soviet states, in particular Russia. Assumptions Two intertwined issues seem relevant to the research assumptions governing political culture research in Russia. The first concern is fundamental. According to Eckstein, there are two viable general approaches to political theory: (1) political culture theory and (2) political rational choice theory.62 When one examines the political culture concept, these two approaches agree in general on a broad array of issues – with the notable exception of cultural continuity. Rational choice theory argues that human patterns of behavior and attitudes are often contextual and can change rapidly as the environment is altered. In a simplified form, those researchers who generally accept the validity of survey evidence that shows surprisingly ‘Western’ political attitudes in Russia are more likely to subscribe to the logic of the rational choice school. Those who challenge such results based on the historical tradition of a people and what these researchers view as the transitory effects of ephemeral conditions are more likely to agree with cultural theory (or culturalist) assumptions. Although the closed-nature of survey questions limits them to measuring surface attitudes, those who implement surveys often accept the answers as representative of deep-seated societal attitudes. An implicit presumption that these methods have functioned well for a number of years in the West leads to the questionable conclusion that they will function well in other societies. Yet, the effectiveness that survey methods have exhibited relates to the measurement of attitudes and the tracking of change in stable political environments. As a ‘snapshot’ of society, these methods are inadequate for gaining an accurate perception of political attitudes in a ‘formless’ environment like that of Russia. Furthermore, the survey technique has


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even faced problems in reliably measuring attitudes in the United States, a society generally assumed to be stable.63 Closely tied to the culturalist/rational choice debate is the overly simplified nature of the empirical tests that are used by survey researchers to examine complex theories. This problem is shown in the practice of narrowly conceptualizing hypotheses to facilitate statistical measurement. Unfortunately, this practice reduces the breadth and complexity of cultural categories and has not been conducive to examining cultural attributes in Russia’s chaotic state. Several studies tested conflicting theses. For example, Reisinger et al. tested the applicability of the historical continuity thesis, the regime indoctrination thesis and the modernization thesis in surveys of Russia, Ukraine and Lithuania.64 Ultimately, these authors rejected the first two of these theses and found that the modernization thesis was the best explanation for their data. While this conclusion seems relatively straightforward, the rejection of the first two theses was more a function of the narrow hypotheses framing the studies than of the theses’ applicability to Russian/Soviet political culture. 65 Because Reisinger et al. tested these two theses with such narrow hypotheses, any evidence not explicitly supporting the hypotheses led to their immediate rejection. The rejection of the historical continuity thesis is illustrative. Reisinger et al. ‘analyze[d] two dimensions of authoritarianism: the desire for strong leadership and a preference for order in society.’66 Two hypotheses tested for the presence of authoritarianism: (1) there will be a clear-cut, cross-society pattern showing a desire for strong leadership; and, (2) that a lengthier experience of life under authoritarian rule would show Russians to be more authoritarian than Ukrainians and Lithuanians. The authors rejected the historical continuity thesis on the grounds that a cross-society pattern was not evident and that there was no significant difference between residents of the three post-Soviet states concerning the need for order and stability.67 Authoritarianism, however, is a complex phenomenon that involves attitudes (such as tolerance, state responsibilities, participatory norms, gender relations and so on) that go beyond the questions and hypotheses Reisinger et al. employed. Although the tests of these two theses did not allow for a complex explanation of the findings, such was not the case for tests of the modernization thesis, which has been the subject of much more research. They compared attitudes garnered from numerous questions (including those employed to test the other two theses) with a variety

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of demographic variables associated with modernization. Ultimately, the complexities of the thesis emerged, exhibiting numerous patterns that both supported and contradicted expected results. They found that urban respondents and the more highly educated were more likely to value strong leadership, a finding that contravenes expectations derived from the modernization thesis. Rather than linking this finding to continuity or indoctrination theories, however, Reisinger et al. devoted considerable attention to accounting for the incongruities of their results in defense of the modernization explanation for Soviet political culture. Whereas the first two theses were tested on positivistic grounds, meaning the theses were either confirmed or rejected, tests of the modernization thesis were more inclusive of contradictory evidence and did not lead to rejection. The relatively simple rejection of the historical continuity and indoctrination theses exposes the problem in the analysis. The results of these tests were not easily comparable, as they did not occur ‘on a level playing field’. To their credit, the authors acknowledge that their results exhibited a great deal of complexity that must be investigated. 68 Yet, in recognizing that their study was unable to test certain key values important for explaining the incongruities in their results, the authors implicitly acknowledged the ‘formlessness’ of their own results. Rather than presenting a view of a complex political culture that, for example, might have integrated aspects from all three theses, unduly narrow hypotheses predetermined results and focused attention on one answer, modernization. This issue arose to some degree in other research.69 While the use of circumscribed hypotheses may have been useful initially for breaking the ‘dam’ of historical continuity theory, that approach now masks underlying cultural issues. The more appropriately tailored Finifter and Mickiewicz study looked for attitudes toward particular issues rather than measuring attitudes against defined theory.70 In testing the Finifter and Mickiewicz findings, Miller et al. also employed their data more appropriately for examining political culture in a period of uncertainty. 71 Ultimately, attempts to test narrow hypotheses overlook the complexities of Russian political culture and are not productive for research. Questions While broad issues may be reduced through narrow and inflexible tests, survey questions can often have the opposite problem: excessive breadth and abstraction. In a closed-question format, however,


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respondents selecting from a circumscribed number of possible answers are forced to compress and simplify historical, personal and contemporary experiences into narrow responses. A prime example is found in questions designed to evoke opinions about democratic norms such as human rights: ‘It is necessary that everyone, regardless of their views, can express themselves freely.’72 This particular question is problematic for it contains a uniquely American interpretation of the freedom of speech. Many, if not most, democracies do not have such an extreme first amendment stance. As a result, this question may not mean much to most Russians. Philip Converse argues that presupposition of any information about objects which lie beyond the daily ken of the subjects tested will miss the mark for substantial numbers of people in a heterogeneous population.73 In spite of media changes as a part of glasnost’, it is unlikely that most mainstream Russians would have been struggling with the intricate issues of free speech and its potential ramifications. A question that focused more directly on individual considerations might have been more relevant as all Russians had long been struggling with the limits on individual activity in public and private circles. 74 As to the ‘free speech’ question above, however, ambivalence about one’s personal opinion may have led respondents to choose the more ‘democratic’ response. Given the general atmosphere in 1990, people may have recognized the ‘right’ answer to such a question. Furthermore, people would often rather state an opinion than express no opinion at all.75 Interestingly, the conclusions by Gibson et al. that Russians held broadly democratic views on political rights emerge from such abstract questions, whereas the lack of tolerance for political adversaries emerged from questions with a more specific focus on identifiable groups. 76 In the latter case, respondents were presented a list of political groups and asked to identify the ones they most disliked.77 Interviewers then used the two most disliked groups chosen by each subject in a series of questions that probed for tolerance.78 Although the initial question is still relatively closed, this format does provide the respondent a broader range of responses. Providing a broader range is the exception rather than the rule in surveys. Individual motivations, interpretations and the context of the survey are usually lost in asking for very narrow agree-or-disagree responses. Another example of this type of questioning problem is found in

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the Zimmerman survey. In testing for differences in elite and mass opinions, the survey presented this statement: ‘It is apparent that of all of the philosophies in the world only one is undoubtedly right.’ 79 Oddly, for a question that would appear to have absolute responses (agree or disagree), Zimmerman expanded the number of responses to include partial agreement and disagreement and allowed ‘I don’t know’ responses as well. In presenting a question concerning an absolute, partial agreement or disagreement (that is, ‘I partially agree in absolute truth’) is tantamount to an ‘I don’t know’ response. The combination of partial agreement and actual ‘I don’t know’ responses produces a profile in which approximately 26 per cent of foreign policy elites, 53 per cent of those with university education and 76 per cent of the general population did not present a clear preference.80 This is in contrast to the ‘I don’t know’ and no response levels of 4 per cent, 15 per cent and 39 per cent, respectively, that Zimmerman presents. While the broad pattern is still evident, the strength of the findings are diminished when taking the ambivalent responses into account.81 The doublebarreled nature of the question compounds this problem. For, it is uncertain whether the question is asking for perception (‘apparent’) of there being one correct world philosophy in practice or personal belief about whether there is only one in existence.82 A less troublesome difficulty lies in the use of apparently clearcut questions that summarize popular opinion so much that complexity of belief is lost in the response. For example, in testing respondent support for competitive elections, Gibson et al. present the following proposition: ‘It is necessary to ban elections and allow the CPSU to rule the country (without elections).’83 Respondents are provided a dichotomous response option as to whether they agree or disagree. Employed in 1990, this particular question takes on a complex phenomenon and asks respondents to provide a focused response. While survey researchers use multiple questions to test such opinions, the questions are generally of the same nature. In the end, both question and response doubly summarize and thus simplify a complex issue. Because respondents often base answers on comparing potential responses in their heads, these sorts of question constructions truncate the cognitive space for developing an informative answer.84 A better strategy has been to ask specific substantive questions that elicit particular answers. For example, White et al., Whitefield and Evans, and Wyman et al. asked respondents about their voting


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records and support for particular candidates. 85 While even these surveys have problems in recall reliability, as the authors readily admitted, the focus is quite concrete as questions are tied to specific issues and events.86 Thus, researchers can determine a respondent’s views toward economic freedom through questions about a specific governmental program. Although these types of questions are particularly context-dependent, they allow for greater validity in that intervening variables (election platforms, political events, economic downturns and so on) are more evident and can be taken into consideration during data analysis; this is in contrast to abstract questions that often lead to highly variable responses over time. 87 Concrete questions may not generate broadly inclusive conclusions or clearly comparable test results over time, but abstract questions run the risk of misrepresenting reality. Survey implementation While concerns of personal fear influencing respondent truthfulness are no longer the central issue, the ambitions of survey researchers themselves may impeach the validity of the surveys. I am concerned that scholars are trying to gain a broad view of Russia by employing lengthy interview forms that are often completed in surprisingly short sessions. For example, the Whitefield and Evans survey included 300 test items that took an average time of 90 minutes to complete with respondents clocking an average 18 seconds on each question. 88 Approximately half the respondents were completing the survey in under this time! These were face-to-face interviews, which means that part of that 18 seconds was taken up by the interviewer reading the question and recording the answer. Similar issues confront the Hough survey carried out just before the December 1993 elections. 89 From personal observation and conversations with interviewers, I discovered that the average time expended in responding to the approximately 180 items in the survey ranged from more than 20 seconds down to less than 10 seconds per item.90 Additionally, a joint examination of the survey form with a Russian sociologist found the survey items themselves to be quite complex. We surmised that both the complexity of the questions and survey length raised concerns about the validity of all of the items. Certainly, in the case of the respondents in the Whitefield et al. survey, fatigued respondents would be less likely to spend the necessary time or intellectual energy to respond properly to the items at the end of a survey. As Converse notes,

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such a phenomenon as test fatigue is itself a direct consequence of pressures felt by the subject to search for faint or non-existent bits of affect to fulfill the requirements of the attitude questionnaire.91 (Emphasis in the original text.) While I do not contend that 15 seconds is an insufficient time period for answering many questions, the chaotic Russian environment does not lend itself to probing for underlying attitudes within the parameters of a closed-question format. Rational choice supporters generally assume that a respondent has some measure of information on which to base a response; in answering a particular question a respondent should be able to average across possible responses before making a choice.92 Unfortunately, an assumption of respondent knowledge is problematic in a chaotic environment. This problem is exacerbated by declines in Russian attention to broad political and economic issues evidenced in drastic reductions in newspaper circulation. Respondents may have little knowledge about a particular question to which they provide a response, whether shown in a truthful ‘I don’t know’ response or an ambivalent opinion. To summarize, the conjunction of survey, complexity and length, the time used to complete that survey, and the rise of new and competing perspectives in Russia, further casts doubt that surveys provide an accurate representation of society. Answers Problems in interpretation are, of course, functions of assumptions, question formation and survey implementation. I have identified three areas of concern in the interpretation of Russian survey results. First, closed-question format means that responses lack the depth of explanation that would be valuable for understanding contemporary Russian politics. While scholars of all methodological orientations often examine narrow issues by necessity, the discrete character of responses for survey questions, in particular, limits the richness of explanation. At base, these questions cannot tell us how people think or reason. Second, there are conceptual problems that arise in the interpretation of the surveys; problems that tend to be ignored for the sake of coherent results. These problems arise where post-Soviet conceptualizations do not coincide with the Western conceptualizations of the researcher. Hough points to such difficulties in determining the popular meanings of support for privatization and


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the term ‘democracy’.93 This is clearly a problem with the Reisinger et al. findings that the desire for strong leadership is positively associated with support for democratic values. This would be unexpected to those who presume that a desire for strong leadership forms part of an ‘authoritarian’, or anti-democratic political culture. It raises fascinating questions about the understandings of ‘democracy’ held by citizens of the post-Soviet states, questions that are outside the scope of this article. . . . Our data suggests [sic] that an alternative conception of democracy holds sway among many in the former Soviet Union.94 If specific findings point to democratic beliefs, what do we learn if the local conceptualization of ‘democracy’ is not probed and understood by the researchers?95 Third, a primary area of concern arises from a focus on the presence of liberal democratic attitudes (at times in the minority of the population) rather than on potentially more crucial popular authoritarian perceptions (possibly in the majority). The presence of particular attitudes was often interpreted as the seed for liberaldemocratic development. For example, Duch focused on the presence of a ‘nascent free-market culture’. Though he did not deny that other factors pose a threat to developing liberal-democracy, the focus on a minority belief overshadowed emphasis on majority beliefs. 96 The focus of Wyman et al. on support for competitive elections outweighed the discovery that supporters of the group most closely identified with the government (at that time, Russia’s Choice voters) expressed high levels of intolerance toward other political groups. 97 This latter finding might play a significant role in determining the direction of Russian democratization, especially if that ‘democracy’ might not match up with a Western conception.

Conclusion The problems in the survey results, broadly viewed, stem from several factors. It could be argued, for example, that the Soviet Union was sufficiently stable between 1989 and 1991 for productive attitudinal research to be carried out, but that the findings of that research did not always exhibit that stability. Thus, clear conclusions about Soviet and/or Russian political culture could not be

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drawn. It could also be argued, however, that the problem lay not in the objects of research, but in the instruments employed. Survey methods have inherent flaws that limit validity. By this logic, one could argue that the survey instruments had misrepresented a stable society. Still, if the society was already relatively unstable, as I contend, then the survey results might have actually captured the instability in attitudes without accurately characterizing those attitudes. A key problem is that survey methods are most effective for measuring attitudes and tracking change in stable political environments. Yet, even in stable environments, such as that of the United States, attitudinal survey results are subject to great variability. The quandary then becomes: if Russian political culture were stable before 1992, the reader is put in a position of discounting conflicting survey results. If Russia had been unstable during that period, then broad conclusions from these conflicting results are at best attributable to contextual variability and mean very little about long-term attitudes. At worst, there could be an interactive effect between societal instability and methodological weaknesses. Unfortunately, the significance of survey representations of attitudes is problematic and has become even more so in the post-Soviet period. This critique of evidence generated through surveys is not intended to rule out their use in Russia. They can indeed be a valuable tool. The very lack of agreement among these survey results should indicate, however, that contemporary Russian political characteristics are particularly difficult for surveys to pinpoint. The limitations inherent in surveys as a research tool must be acknowledged in the face of such a high degree of instability, both in political Russia and in the survey results. Researchers must strive for a deeper understanding of a society that has only recently become accessible to Westerners, especially if we hope to understand Russian political culture as Russians themselves are chaotically searching for their political identity. 98 The scope of research projects must be scaled down to focus on building micro-theory rather than macro-theory. Rather than attempting to examine an entire population, or even a region, through a mass survey, we must get the view from the bottom as Erik Hoffmann suggests.99 Just as the term ‘political culture’ was adapted from anthropology to political science, political scientists need to return to anthropological modes of research in order to build inductively the research foundations upon which surveys can be implemented.


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Through a more ethnographic approach scholars can arrive at a contextual understanding of Russian society that will allow the development of testable, grounded theory. In providing a ‘thick explanation’ of Russian political culture, this book acts as one early step in the process of theory building.100

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4 Uncertain Conditions in the Russian Transition: the Popular Drive toward Stability in a ‘Stateless’ Environment

Of all the changes in contemporary Russia, the most vexing for the people has been the disappearance of the all-encompassing stability; the trauma experienced by Russians today can be attributed to the overarching loss of the Soviet state. It had provided a structured political system, a broadly functioning economic infrastructure and a developed social-welfare system. Even though the political system was exclusionary and repressive, economic production had stagnated in the mid-1970s, and the social-welfare system was substandard, as judged by the West, Soviet state structures gave people a perspective on their future and a consistent and popularly understood environment. After the Soviet Union collapsed, the Russian political, economic and social system diverged markedly from its predecessor. Following Mikhail Gorbachev’s first tentative reforms, Russian political institutions and leaders changed dramatically, the economic system largely collapsed and social protections have faded away – a chimera of the past. The former granite-like immobility of state structures in the USSR has ‘disappeared’, and its successor has created great confusion and uncertainty – leading many to attempt to reestablish aspects of the earlier stable environment. Russians have looked in numerous directions as they attempt to order their lives, at times searching for elusive stability in directions appearing to contradict their personal political, economic and social positions. Taking a lead from Claus Offe’s concept of ‘triple transition’ occurring in former communist Eastern Europe, this chapter examines the political, economic and social environment of contemporary 68

Uncertain Conditions in the Russian Transition

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Russia. 1 My conceptualization of the transition in Russia diverges from that of Offe and others who have employed the triple transition concept. This divergence occurs as I move from analyzing the macro-analyses of developing political and economic institutions characterizing much of the research on post-Soviet Russia to my own micro-analytic study to investigate the popular perspective on these developments. 2 This chapter achieves two goals: first, it redevelops the triple transition concept to then examine the popular effects of the radical redefinition of the Soviet state. Rather than examine aggregate statistics, institutional formation, or mass-based surveys, the research presented here is based on an in-depth examination of local phenomena. Second, and more important, this research represents the interdependent transition process as seen through the eyes of the people. My research gives a relatively complete understanding of the popular experience during the tumult of change, with broad implications beyond the two regions studied. The chapter briefly summarizes the theoretical basis by which I adapt the triple transition concept and develop the ‘state’ perspective underlying the analysis. After describing the research context, I develop a typology of mass cultural types, thus disaggregating the cultural superstructure and more clearly representing the variable tools of the model. The types develop a more complex picture of Russia’s political culture in this time of flux, and help structure the explanation of what often seems to be an inchoate representation of popular attitudes and behaviors. The analysis begins with a summary depiction of popular perceptions of instability during transition, followed by three more focused sections on the political, economic and social concerns of the residents of the two provincial cities studied. The specific topics that fall into these broad categories generally emerged out of the issues respondents personally identified as significant.

Beyond the triple transition Offe conceptualizes the triple transition around three issue categories: territory, democracy and ‘the economic and property order and the orderly political management of pressing production and distribution’. 3 Political scientists have adopted differing terms to summarize his conceptualizations. In general, the three transitions (in the order above) are described in terms of national identity,

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politics and economics.4 In keeping with Offe, national identity encompasses the dilemmas of new state boundaries, minority rights and issues of popular loyalty to the new state. Politics refers to the movement from a one-party monopoly to a multi-party system, the creation of a constitution, and the realization of that constitution in governmental practice. Finally, economics concerns the processes of marketization and property privatization in formerly command economic systems. This last generates economic inequalities, unemployment and inflation, among other problems. The broad triple transition concept is reconceptualized in my research in terms of the level of analysis and the content of the three categories. This is due largely to the focus of this research. Rather than examine the summary, state-level data of most transition research, I shift the unit of analysis from the state to the individual, although the individual’s perceptions often focus on state institutions. Acknowledging the general political and economic legs of the transition, I conceptualize the first leg, national identity, as too narrowly defined to be fully useful in my analysis. At the local level, identity issues are more personal, as individuals attempt to understand their position in relation to the changes of broader state identities. I therefore redevelop the national identity concept to examine the social transformation (the third category I employ here) taking place alongside, and in conjunction with, political and economic developments. The identity issue is included in my social transition concept, yet the concept also includes a number of other factors. The social transition category encompasses popular relationships with the state, more specifically, with the support programs that the Soviet state once guaranteed, and general perceptions of the social environment, both of which may be conditioned by generational or other categories of self identification. The boundaries of the three concepts have shifted, as I draw aspects of the economic and political categories into the newly engineered social category. Undergirding this reconceptualization is the shifting focus away from institutional level representations of transition toward personal representations. The symbolism found as people apply available cultural tools to developments becomes evident as an important factor influencing the behavioral domain of individuals and groups. Social change emerges more clearly as a powerful explanatory category. I focus on the manner in which Russians have reacted to the disappearance of the state in their everyday lives and their per-


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spective on the future. Traditionally, state-oriented research has studied the roles filled by the idea and apparatus of the state. Max Weber provides the classical conceptualization, focusing on three state attributes: (1) a legislatively regulated administrative and legal order, (2) binding authority over citizens and a defined territory, and (3) a monopoly over the legitimate use of force. 5 Because the Communist Party dominated state legislative institutions in mature Soviet society, the state in the USSR did not clearly meet this and other Western conceptualizations of state autonomy. 6 The point to recognize here is how much the state penetrated the lives of the Soviet people: it propagated an all-encompassing ideology, mobilized the population in political activity, organized and directed almost all economic affairs and provided a broad range of social-welfare services, among other functions. Comprehensive state functions and structures led Robert C. Tucker to argue that the heritage of Stalin’s state-building practices had emerged in the ‘swollen state’ of the Brezhnev era.7 The swollen state helped explain the economic and social inefficiencies that had undermined the Soviet ideology of a better life and ultimately contributed to the Gorbachev reforms. While still protected by the supports of the Soviet system, the long-repressed population greeted the freedoms emerging out of glasnost’ (openness) with euphoria. Some argued that this optimism continued to exist through the decline and collapse of the Soviet system (and perhaps somewhat beyond). 8 But the ‘shock therapy’ in 1992 and the continuing hardships to follow have undermined popular optimism, as no stable resting place could be reached and there were unsuccessful attempts to convert the system to liberal-democracy. This situation has led Russians to question the value of such an unstable system. New governmental structures, attempts at privatization, rising inflation, and collapsing medical and educational services have all been evidence that no effective Russian state has emerged. Where the old Soviet state provided security and intelligibility, the successor state provides neither. When studying the state, Theda Skocpol describes two basic approaches: first, the state is commonly characterized as an actor, or ‘a set of organizations through which collectivities of officials may be able to formulate and implement distinctive strategies or policies.’ Second, rather than focus more narrowly on the processes and structures of the state, Skocpol’s ‘Tocquevillian’ approach examines the way in which these processes and structures

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‘unintentionally influence the formation of groups and the political capacities, ideas and demands of various sectors of society.’9 I employ this second approach, although with a fundamental difference: rather than examine the ‘macroscopic’ ways in which the state affects society, I look at the ‘microscopic’ effects of the Soviet state collapse through the eyes of individual Russians.

Examining the overall transition The unstructured interview process in Syktyvkar started in October 1993, just after President Yeltsin disbanded the Supreme Soviet for obstructing his government’s reform policies. There was a dramatic confrontation between a parliament that refused to disband and Yeltsin, who ordered troops to remove forcibly parliamentarians and their supporters from the Russian parliamentary building. The confrontation dominated many of the discussions of Syktyvkar respondents throughout the unstructured interviews. Responses were also influenced by approaching parliamentary elections and the constitutional referendum that were a byproduct of the October events. While fueling popular discussion, the focus on these conflicts tended to diminish potential discussion of other pressing political, economic and social issues. In February 1994, when carrying out structured interviews in Syktyvkar, the December election issues continued to influence responses. By then, however, broad economic and social concerns were returning to the fore as people began to refocus on subsisting. This more ‘settled’ situation characterized the environment in Kirov during both interview stages. Despite some variance in context and conditions, however, several general trends affected the residents of both regions: economic decline, deteriorating social services, political corruption, new business opportunities, rising crime and more. This turbulent transitional environment provided the context for the responses elicited. With inflation soaring at approximately 20 per cent a month, cost rather than availability of products was a central concern, particularly in households where wages were delayed by the state’s tight monetary policies. In Syktyvkar, energy resources produced locally continued to be shipped, but cash-poor industries in other regions were not paying for them. In Kirov the formerly dominant military industry was in the midst of conversion to consumer production; factories were both delaying the payment of wages and


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laying off workers. Furthermore, despite government statistics showing unemployment in the oblast’ to be hovering around 4 per cent, a respondent employed as a local unemployment office ‘case worker’ claimed that 15 per cent was more accurate. In order to present a more positive picture of the transition, he argued, the state was ignoring under- and part-time employment. Residents of both cities were encountering deteriorating social conditions, with no easy access to medical services and supplies. Medicine was in increasingly short supply and, in any case, prices for medication had risen to prohibitive levels. Schools also felt the effects of declining state support, just as they needed updated textbooks and teacher training. Cultural events declined without state subsidies. Business ventures were emerging literally on every street corner as a new strategy of action to cope with change; kiosks and street vendors proliferated. The vendors could provide goods (such as branded chocolate bars, canned fizzy drinks and foreign deli products) never before available. This new private sector did not emerge as a clearly positive (or even neutral) force, but instead was both a proliferator and a victim of increased crime levels. Everyone in the transition was affected by the spread of organized criminal activity. This turbulent environment provided the context in which respondents discussed both temporary and long-term political perceptions. The behavioral domain in this variable context was quite difficult to track. In the examination of popular responses to the environment of the Russian transition, this chapter (and the one to follow) sets the tone for subsequent analytic chapters.

Instability: a Russian nightmare Following over seven decades of state control and guidance, Russians are particularly anxious for their future in the face of chaos. When asked whether Russia could be characterized as stable or unstable, 54 of 60 respondents chose the latter option. Their primary concern was economic instability, with numerous comments on the impact of high inflation, a concept that was still new for Russians. A number of respondents claimed that societal instability limited their ability to plan for the future, something that had been relatively simple in the Soviet era. When asked what is the ‘most pressing problem in contemporary Russia’, respondents again identified the economic crisis. Yet, as

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Table 4.1 National Problems Question: What do you consider to be the most pressing problem in contemporary Russia? Political Economic Social Other

Syktyvkar January–March 1994 7 17 9 5

(23%) (57%) (30%) (17%)*

Kirov May–June 1994 7 18 12 1

(23%) (60%) (40%) (3%)*

Note: *due to overlaps, sum totals are greater than 100%.

Table 4.1 shows, political and social concerns were also voiced. Especially interesting was the concern for social issues, such as rising levels of crime, unemployment, stipends for the elderly and students, and housing. Socio-economic concerns are, of course, symptomatic of the extreme difficulties that faced residents in both cities (particularly Kirov) and reinforced the population’s tendency to look to the state to provide the social programs and subsidies that were the mainstay of Soviet policy. Some respondents simply referred to the troubled economic sector generally, while others were more specific, pinpointing declining production, inflation, economic instability and unemployment. In the political realm, respondents focused on the effective management of political power, the need for improved tax policy, and the corruptibility of politicians. When the interview questions targeted local issues, concerns shifted (Table 4.2). While economic concerns continued to resonate strongly for respondents in both cities, there were two noticeable differences in comparison with responses focusing on Russia as a whole: social issues generally had greater salience and political concerns almost disappeared, especially in Kirov. Thus, responses moved away from the abstractions of broad political and economic issues and focused much more on the specific social issues that affected everyday life. Most commonly mentioned among social issues, which continued to be seen in terms of the state’s role, was the housing shortage. Long a socio-political state function, people perceived a decline in housing construction and maintenance. Other social issues focused on publicly provided resources such as education and hot water. Furthermore, descriptions of declining city cleanliness were indirect criticisms of the city administration’s ability to maintain the streets and public areas. A concern expressed in Kirov – likely to be as a result of its military industry – related to the region’s environ-

Uncertain Conditions in the Russian Transition Table 4.2

Local Problems

Question: What do you consider to be the most pressing problem in . . . Syktyvkar Syktyvkar and Komi/Kirov? January–March 1994 Political Economic Social Other

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3 11 17 3

(10%) (37%) (57%) (10%)*

Kirov May–June 1994 0 11 22 4

(0%) (37%) (73%) (13%)*

Note: *As in Table 4.1, due to overlapping responses, the sum totals are greater than 100%.

mental situation. Expression of this concern was mirrored in the emergence of a relatively prominent environmental movement in the city, possibly a good sign for developing an effective civil society. A point to keep in mind is that these varying categories (especially those describing specific issues) are intertwined in the popular consciousness. The interdependency of issue perception illustrates the underlying complexity and, at times, contradictory nature of popular beliefs. In recognizing and addressing these complexities, I bring greater coherence to this varied analysis through identifying particular cultural types in the Russian population. These types help to structure the frequently inchoate popular positions presented throughout this book.

Russian mass cultural types 10 The categories developed here are drawn from a broad analysis of respondent comments concerning the role of the state, levels of personal efficacy, and identification with liberal, social and nationalist issues. While this initial analysis allowed me to split the groups into broad conservative or reform oriented categories, such a simple dichotomy, although often used for convenience in discussing postcommunist change, is too rough to capture the texture of popular orientations. Personal interaction with a number of the respondents that went beyond the interviews allowed me to develop two subtypes for each category. Of course, not all respondents could be easily classified in one of the sub-types. In such cases, they were identified by the broader categories – reform or conservative. Rather than employ Swidler’s ideological categories, or even Eckstein’s parochial groups, as the basis for identifying sub-cultural types, my focus is upon detecting characteristics that extend beyond

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the boundaries of each scholar’s categories. Swidler’s varying groupings, in particular, are subsumed under the general rubric of formlessness, as they define a certain sub-cultural competition that is exclusive, rather than inclusive. Her ideological categories tend to divide the overall culture into distinct categories (that is, Komi are different from Russians who are different from Ukrainians, although all have been socialized in the Soviet/Russian system). 11 While Swidler’s schema is valuable, instead of categorizing on the basis of exclusion, this theoretical construct employs the sub-cultural types that focus more on individual, but potentially ‘universal’, capacities that are more inclusive and stretch across these ideological and parochial boundaries. By disaggregating the population, these types expose the interaction of political tools, particularly variable political tools, and the components of the behavioral domain that emerge when confronted with Russia’s unstable environment. In each of the four type descriptions I develop the variable factors that separate these groups from one another. These factors help to explain the differing capacities of each cultural type for adapting their behavioral components to events around them. Thus, I broadly conceptualize each type’s likely strategy of action and a potential strategy (behavioral cues) if there were to be some fluctuation in the context. The reform category constitutes a minority of the population (approximately 15 per cent of the respondents) that are characterized by their adaptability to changing conditions. Mostly men, reformers view the changing conditions as an opportunity for personal and, perhaps, societal advancement. There are two sub-types in the reform category: Entrepreneur The entrepreneur is generally male, young (probably no older than 35 years of age in 1994) highly educated, and unlikely to have been a member of the Communist Party. The professional pursuits of an individual in this group could include: creating new businesses, working as a legal consultant, and being part of a growing class of young economists and skilled workers in the financial industry. These individuals are not likely to be connected to positions of political power, although they are the most likely group to form independent economic interest groups and could also be involved in social causes (that is the environment) in the long run. Given their educational achievements, relative youth, and levels of


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activity, entrepreneurs would be most likely to develop post-materialist values. Overall, this group is concerned about the establishment of a level of stability in society that will allow them to pursue their individual projects without fear of sudden disruption. Pragmatist The pragmatist is generally male, middle-aged, highly educated and likely to have been a former member of the Communist Party, particularly those who joined the party simply as a means for personal advancement rather than some higher ideological goal. These are professionals with links to the political and economic elites. Ensconced in patron–client relationships, the pragmatists are dependent on the success or failure of their patrons. Because of the instability of the system, these individuals try to ‘hedge-their-bets’ by changing alliances as their personal advantage dictates. Not necessarily reformist in outlook, these individuals are opportunists, more driven by personal instrumental ends than political ideals. Overall, there is some overlap between these two types. The primary difference between the two groups lies in their involvement in the contemporary political system. Pragmatists see their opportunities lying in their ability to benefit from attachment to the political elite, while entrepreneurs avoid political struggles in order to focus on achieving independent economic and/or career success. Individuals of this type have the capacity to evaluate their environment in ways that allow them to construct variable strategies of action, particularly with the pragmatists who are less limited than the entrepreneurs by some ideal – albeit limited – of societal development. The pragmatic reformer comes the closest to embodying the broad cultural malleability envisioned by rationalists during periods of contextual shift. Much more constrained in their capacities for contending with developments in post-Soviet Russia, ‘conservatives’ constitute the vast majority of the population (approximately 80 per cent of respondents). Individuals in this group are tired of instability and yearn for some measure of certainty in their personal lives. Unlike the reformers who have thrived on the opportunities of the transition, most representatives of this group are detached from public activity and are more concerned about meeting low-level economic and social needs than with pushing for rapid personal advancement. There are also two sub-types in the conservative category:

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Passive The passive individual meets no specific criteria other than broad disillusionment with reform and feelings of powerlessness in the transition process. Although those falling into this category are generally women, a large portion are men. Ages range across the spectrum from early-20s through to retirement age. Often manual and industrial workers of both sexes, highly educated women may also fit into this category. Passive individuals are not likely to have been members of the Communist Party. These people are not involved in public activities, other than activities that directly impact their personal economic well-being. The passive individual is concerned about declines in the standard of living and in the state role in popular welfare. Tired of instability, passive individuals are looking to leadership to carry them to general stability. They are less concerned (at least initially) with the qualities of that stable system than that predictability be returned to everyday life. Traditional The traditional type includes both men and women, is irrespective of past party affiliation – although there are many former Party members in this group – and ranges across the age spectrum, although generally over the age of 40. Including representatives across all educational levels, this group is particularly concerned with the social values of the new system. Looking back to the past, this group feels that many past political and economic practices continue to be appropriate for the Russian system. Traditionalists advocate a return to institutional practices more akin to those found in the Soviet era. For this group, old values have been corrupted and need to be reinstated if society is to return to its proper equilibrium. They advocate reversing the decline of the social welfare system and reinvigorating state controls over economic production. There is a significant overlap between these two types. In particular, passive conservative types hold many traditional views. Yet, whereas passive conservative individuals are characterized by low levels of personal efficacy, traditional conservatives are intellectually active in advocating their position – if not also politically and socially active. Those that fit these characteristics are more likely to possess higher education and to have been affiliated with the Communist Party. Overall, the major difference between the reformers and conservatives is the capacity to develop strategies that take advantage of the new context (Table 4.3). The conservatives – especially, the passive


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Table 4.3 Russian Mass Cultural Types Reformers Entrepreneur

Sex

Generally male Generally under 35 Higher

Generally male Middle aged Higher

CPSU Member

Unlikely

Likely

Mostly middle to lower Unlikely

Goals

Personal Economic Advancement Potentially active Cautious – seek greater rationality

Personal Political Advancement Active

Personal and societal stability Inactive

Searching for patron

Looking for guidance

Age Education

Political Activity View Toward Authority

Pragmatist

Conservatives

Sub-types

Passive

Traditionalist

Mostly women Wide range

Men and women Generally over 40 Wide range

Either

Reform reversal Some activity Advocating hierarchy

conservatives – are those who are having the greatest difficulty in developing a functioning strategy of action, often removing themselves from public life as far as possible. The strategy of action most likely enacted by traditional conservatives is the advocation of a system more similar to the past. Yet, they too are having significant difficulties contending with the tumultuous environment, particularly as the disappearance of many earlier institutions (for example, effective state health care) leads to increasing problems in employing their political tools. The passive conservatives, however, are the group whose behavioral cues give the most accurate indication of their capacities and preferences: their lack of public activity mimics preferences for paternalistic leadership. When broadly comparing across the two general categories (reform and conservative), many issue positions cannot be reliably and exclusively identified with a specific category. For example, all four types tend to express some support for a state-provided social welfare system. In this example, we find an instance of shared political tools relating to the care-taking responsibility of the state. What distinguishes conservatives and reformers is their capacity to develop new strategies of action. Reform types, whether through education or other factors, are simply more flexible. Yet, whereas

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reform types have the energy for engendering change, conservatives have the numbers and the inertia to limit the magnitude of that change. Overall, there is a certain degree of consistency found between cultural types and their positions on issues of the Russian transition. It is vital to note, however, that there are also certain important contradictions in the opinions expressed by representatives of the different cultural types – very much a reflection of Russia’s formless political culture. (See Appendix A for the cultural typing of each respondent.)

The political environment As subsistence concerns often dominated daily lives, popular interest in Russia’s political transformation lagged among residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov. This did not signify that the people were apathetic about government reforms and the intrigue of the political struggle. Rather, it was a matter of priorities. When responding to open-ended, general questions, people overwhelmingly focused on personal, regional, and national economic and social issues. Because political issues carried less day-to-day urgency than the ability to ‘put food on the table’, issues concerning the broad political environment were often ignored by the general population (in fact leading some to deny that politics even affected them). Although confidence in politicians was declining, many still hoped that their representatives would take a stronger leadership role in addressing pressing everyday problems. Given the close relationship between political and economic decisionmaking in the Soviet Union, however, there continues to be a great deal of overlap between the public and private spheres in contemporary Russia. The overlap is most pronounced regarding political economy issues, which will be discussed in the economic section below. This section focuses on the more narrowly political responses of respondents in Syktyvkar and Kirov. Corruption and the law Within the broad Russian political environment, there existed widespread negative attitudes toward political figures. Respondents often described the degree of corruption at all levels of the political hierarchy, from local officials to (in particular) national parliamentary deputies and the president. The emphasis on corruption, part of the larger popular concern with instability, stimulated the call for


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legal stability. The most common complaint was that state officials functioned almost exclusively out of personal interest rather than to fulfill their assigned roles, which were to watch over and represent the interests of the whole population. Exemplifying this cynicism, a reform-oriented mechanic in Syktyvkar described the formation of the 1993 Russian Constitution: For simple people, the Constitution is obscure. Obviously it is written in the lobbies of power, of the bureaucrats. Naturally, the bureaucrats made the Constitution for themselves and they will do [things] for themselves. And, they will work in laws for themselves. (Syktyvkar, 16)12 In using their positions for personal self-enrichment and aggrandizement, political officials were seen to be personally profiting from new business arrangements in a way unavailable to the general population. 13 Furthermore, as these same officials were frequently linked to the rise of organized crime, Russians often held them responsible for societal instability. Russians accordingly called for the development of a stable and respected legal foundation. As Hobbes argued in the 17th century, and contemporary scholars contend concerning democratic development, state stability cannot be achieved without a clearly delineated legal system. 14 A conservative nurse had the following vision of democracy: ‘[W]e ought to live freely and submit . . . we should have laws by which we could live. There should be laws and we ought to adhere to them and those in power should observe them.’ (Kirov, 7) The lack of legal regulation was also frequently seen as an impetus for bureaucratic corruption. The achievement of a stable system would mean that both common Russians and the elite would be held accountable, ultimately permitting popular rights to be observed and limiting a large part of institutionalized corruption. A system based on the rule of law was viewed by conservatives and reformers alike as the primary means to emerge from society’s crisis. Paramount was the concern that the development of trade and production required a clear legal environment within which to function and guide industrial and business practices. A conservative 50-yearold nurse claimed that she is ‘not active in politics because everything continues to be stopped by [the old] laws.’ (Kirov, 10) The first nurse argued that it would only be through legal enactments that people’s rights could be observed. In explaining why her pay had been withheld,

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bureaucrats had claimed, ‘Such a law has not been released. You do not have the right. Your administrators are to blame.’ (Kirov, 7) If outdated laws were a problem, so too was the disorderly explosion of new legislation. Several respondents claimed that Russian instability was manifest in the proliferation of laws and presidential directives implemented haphazardly, or not at all, across all levels of the society, a phenomenon that is itself a fertile field for political corruption. This perception was only solidified by the chaos in Russia’s newly formed legislative bodies. Activities in the State Duma were anything but efficient, providing a stark contrast to the regimented unity (whether real or contrived) of Supreme Soviet sessions prior to the institution of reforms under Gorbachev. The inability to enforce laws underlies the fact of diminished state power. The popular perception that parliamentary deputies were passing laws for their own personal benefit compounded the problem. A 22-year-old reform entrepreneur student argued that it would be difficult to overcome this practice as long as the parliamentary deputies had the legal right to regulate their own actions; in essence, they had the ‘responsibility’ of both rewarding and punishing themselves. (Kirov, 9) Such immunity is an important safeguard designed to encourage parliamentarians to tackle important, but controversial, issues without fear of eventual retribution. Yet, in the absence of established parliamentary standards in Russia, such a safeguard actually encouraged corruption for those wielding power in an unregulated environment. In extreme cases, the parliament even became a refuge for some deputies hiding from prosecution for crimes committed prior to acquiring the veil of immunity provided by the institution. Although several individual political figures received positive evaluations, general Russian doubts about the intentions of their leaders were also expressed in respondent views of specific leaders. What is most striking is the number of respondents who had little to say about particular political figures other than President Boris Yeltsin, at the very top. Despite their dissatisfaction, most people were not always paying close attention to political developments. In a reflection of pervasive conservatism, this inattention was intertwined with the passive hope that these leaders could bring about a better future. Interviews were conducted close to the December 1993 elections (especially in Syktyvkar), so respondents were generally familiar with national political leaders, who were prominent on national television and radio and in national and local newspapers. The leaders


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Table 4.4 Support for National Political Leaders Name Boris Yeltsin Yegor Gaidar Grigorii Yavlinskii Vladimir Zhirinovskii Aleksandr Rutskoi 15 Nikolai Travkin Genadii Zyuganov Viktor Chernomyrdin

Positive Responses 15 24 26 8 10 17 7 20

(25%) (40%) (43%) (13%) (33%) (28%) (12%) (33%)

Negative Responses 34 19 9 47 10 17 22 17

(57%) (32%) (15%) (78%) (33%) (28%) (37%) (28%)

Other Responses 11 17 25 5 10 26 31 23

(18%) (28%) (42%) (8%) (33%) (43%) (52%) (38%)

discussed in the interviews (Table 4.4) were chosen on the basis of their national prominence and representativeness of the spectrum of Russian political positions and ideologies. Representing the reformers were Boris Yeltsin, Yegor Gaidar and Grigorii Yavlinskii. Vladimir Zhirinovskii, Genadii Zyuganov, Aleksandr Rutskoi and Nikolai Travkin are at minimum conservatives, if not clearly nationalists, with Zyuganov also the only avowed communist. Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin was selected solely on the basis of his important political function. Political leadership National leaders who attracted popular support tended to fall into two clusters: those who advocated democratic reform on the one hand, and those who advocated socialism, or nationalist conservatism, on the other. For example, respondents who supported the reformer Gaidar usually showed some support for reformer Yavlinskii. On the other side, people who supported communist leader Zyuganov, nationalist Zhirinovskii, nationalist former vice-president Rutskoi or conservative Travkin were somewhat more likely to support one or more of the others in that ideological category. Although individual approval patterns showed a degree of consistency, preferences were not always consistent with expectations ascribed to the cultural types. For example, a number of conservative respondents supported democratic reformers, while rejecting conservative personalities. This incongruity was not a change in political values; this disjuncture was rather a sign of the complexities, and contradictions, of the transition. A conservative desire for unified and directed leadership (no matter the policy) outweighed a preference for more conservative economic and social policies. The

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conservatives were limited in adapting their cultural ‘tool kits’ and changing their behavioral patterns. Rather than support the content of reforms, the conservative could support the symbolism of authority. Thus, a coherent reform policy focusing on democratic and market mechanisms could be supported by a conservative individual. Least admired of all the leaders mentioned was Communist Party leader Zyuganov. Yet, while respondents’ negative evaluations dominated positive evaluations, an absolute majority of comments concerning Zyuganov were in the ‘other’ category, signifying broad uncertainty generated by the current political system. As described in Chapter 8, the lagging support for Zyuganov was part of a trend among some to prima facie reject an individual for present and/or past connections to communism.16 A passive conservative 30-yearold editor expressed the stronger, ‘automatic’, reaction of many Russians: ‘He is in our Communist Party. I have disdain toward that party.’ (Syktyvkar, 3) As a sign that Russia’s economic downturn was having variable effects on different regions, all but one of the respondents supportive of Zyuganov were from the more critically affected Kirov. As the economic crisis continues, however, aspects of the old system have become more attractive: continued problems in economic reform were likely to drive voters, especially the undecided, toward communist or similar platforms. The communist success in the December 1995 parliamentary elections is an example of this reaction. With time the boundaries of the past have been reasserted. Still, even citizens sympathetic to the Communist Party had their doubts, as expressed by a traditional 75-year-old former communist: ‘Until now [Zyuganov] has not really restored the party and it is difficult to talk . . . about him. Nevertheless, he speaks correctly.’ (Kirov, 13) Given popular support for Zhirinovskii in the 1993 parliamentary elections, respondents surprisingly rejected him as a politician. The fact that those voting for Zhirinovskii nationally were thought to be young males might explain these results, as they only made up a small portion of the sample. Discussion of the controversial Zhirinovskii often exhibited the most emotional energy. Comments ranged from the concise ‘knee-jerk’ reaction of a passive conservative woman to the more thoughtful responses of a reform entrepreneur student and a traditional conservative architect:


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A mentally ill person. (Syktyvkar, 2) It is hard to identify what he declares to be some kind of a program. Most likely, it is a collection of negatives, that is, he negates that which exists now and plays on those wishes which exist in our people, those that are connected with our past, that is, this great power, a particular degree of Russian nationalism and a level of well-being that nevertheless [was manifested] under the stability of socialism. (Kirov, 9) Well, if we were [to look at him] among Western leaders, then in that sense he really resembles Hitler. In a good sense, as Hitler had some good. He (Zhirinovskii) can speak, organize and lead the people. (Kirov, 29) This last comment expresses the belief that the act of being a strong leader may hold greater salience for this respondent than the policies advocated by a particular leader. Reform leaders received generally more balanced evaluations than their conservative or nationalist counterparts. Overall, Gaidar received especially balanced support/opposition, while Yavlinskii enjoyed a similar level of support though far fewer detractors. The differing proportions are explained by the fact that Gaidar, as the former interim Prime Minister, was more directly tied to perceived government failures than was Yavlinskii, recently elected to Parliament in December 1993. The lesser-known Yavlinskii also received more responses that either did not express an opinion or showed little knowledge of him as an individual, although the number of such responses were not insignificant for Gaidar. While respondents also considered Boris Yeltsin to be a reformer, their views of the President were relatively independent of views of the other leaders. As the ultimate leader of the country, he was held to a different standard than other politicians. As a result, the blame for the painful reform process was directed toward Yeltsin, with a majority of respondents voicing negative opinions, while one-quarter provided complimentary comments. Although negative views toward Yeltsin were split evenly between both cities, supporters of Yeltsin in Syktyvkar greatly outnumbered their counterparts in Kirov. The production crisis in Kirov’s military-industrial complex provided solid foundation for the lower support. This factor, along with Kirov’s conservative rural sector, also helps explain the oblast’s lower level of support for Yeltsin in 1996 presidential

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Table 4.5 Support for Local Political Leaders Political leader Syktyvkar: Anatolii Karakchiev Yakov Yudovich Yuri Spiridonov Viacheslav Khudiaev Kirov: Anzhelii Mikheev Vasilii Desiatnikov

Positive Responses 11 (37%) 2 (7%) 11 (37%) 8 (27%) 7 (23%) 7 (23%)

Negative Responses 10 6 10 10

(33%) (20%) (33%) (33%)

11 (37%) 7 (23%)

Other Responses 9 22 9 12

(30%) (73%) (30%) (40%)

11 (37%) 16 (53%)

elections.17 A traditional 53-year-old male mechanic from Kirov was extremely negative in his evaluation of Yeltsin: Four years have already gone by [since he came to power] and there is absolutely no sort of progress. We are continually moving into an [economic] slump. . . . Not toward better, but toward worse, there is absolutely no kind of progress. (Kirov, 23) The manner in which respondents held Yeltsin apart from other leaders reflected a particular attraction toward individual rule and the perceived stability brought by the unity of one individual making policy. When asked to comment on (presidentially appointed) Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin, a politician on whom opinion was evenly balanced, a plurality of respondents had ambivalent feelings. It became clear that the individual ruler of Russia, in this case Yeltsin, occupied an elevated position. At that time respondents considered the Prime Minister more a Yeltsin functionary than an independent political figure.18 If respondents were generally aware of their national leaders, this was not always the case when discussing specific local leaders, particularly in Kirov. When asked to produce the names of the most important leaders in each city, Syktyvkar respondents had few problems, with 28 of the 30 respondents able to name at least one (and generally two) of the city’s main political figures listed in Table 4.5. For Kirov, however, the situation was much different, with only one-half of respondents able to name at least one main political figure. This difference in popular recognition stems from two factors: (1) institutional structure and (2) political visibility. First, republic status signified that the political situation in Komi was more mean-


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ingful to its inhabitants than were politics at the oblast’ level of Kirov. Because Russian republics had greater independence from central control in the Soviet era than did oblasts, local leaders had comparatively greater visibility in the republic. Second, and more immediately, the two main figures in Komi (Spiridonov and Khudiaev) had long held influential positions in the Party and government hierarchies. The two most visible political figures in Kirov (Desiatnikov and Mikheev) were comparative newcomers at the top of local political institutions. Despite these differences, however, the inhabitants of both Syktyvkar and Kirov expected little from local leadership and looked to the central authorities for solutions. While most residents in Syktyvkar had doubts about the national government, a large proportion of the inhabitants were supportive of their local leadership, at least in the abstract. As Table 4.5 shows, however, when discussing specific leaders, the degree of support was less clear. The top two officials in the republic, Supreme Soviet Chairman Yuri Spiridonov and Council of Ministers Chairman Viacheslav Khudiaev, together received supportive comments from only one-third of respondents, support that was balanced out by negative responses. While Spiridonov and Khudiaev were associated with the ‘old guard’, the young, Spiridonov-sponsored mayor, Karakchiev, received a similar proportion of responses. Again, the popular knowledge of local leaders was generally restricted to the top officials as exemplified by respondent views of local Supreme Soviet Deputy Yakov Yudovich, where a clear majority in the ‘other’ category actually expressed ignorance of him as a political figure. An early member of the Democratic Russia movement in Syktyvkar and largely independent of the top leadership, Yudovich was an example of the distance ‘newcomers’ still needed to travel in this region to attain political prominence. In Kirov, support for Governor Desiatnikov and Mayor Mikheev was extremely weak, and was actually outweighed by a combination of negative and ‘other’ responses. A 1991 Yeltsin appointee, Desiatnikov was not viewed as a local politician; more than onehalf of the respondents were either noncommittal or simply ignorant of the name.19 The lack of support for Mikheev, however, reflected the populace’s general dissatisfaction concerning the economic and social conditions of Kirov and also signaled lack of expectations for local leadership. Expectations across levels of authority (city, province/republic, national) significantly influenced local politics. The relative

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administrative independence of Komi led to a greater degree of popular attention to local affairs. While Komi was not threatening to secede from Russia as were other republics, the people of Syktyvkar pushed for the local authority to develop Komi’s large ‘storehouse’ of natural resources. Expressing their entrepreneurial leanings, residents of Syktyvkar looked to the local leadership to implement particular policies. In Kirov, however, there were few such hopes or expectations. The generally low expectations held for the local leaders in both regions was in part due to the hierarchical nature of the Soviet system and the still significantly hierarchical Russian system. Most did not have a clear perception of local officials as politicians with independent political agendas for their regions. Instead, conservative individuals often characterized their local political leaders as bureaucrats, or officials in a hierarchy who should take direction from the center, Yeltsin’s objective in appointing governors in 1991 to oversee provincial matters. Citizens may also have been responding, especially in Kirov, with an awareness that local officials often lacked the means for addressing the problems of their communities, in part because local resources were perceived to be controlled by the heads of factories, large enterprises, banks and the mafia. Consequently, they continued to look toward central figures for solutions to many regional problems. Overall, discussions of leadership indicated a certain degree of consistency among individuals who supported national, democraticreformers. Support for conservative political figures at the national level, however, tended to be less consistent, perhaps reflecting the initial difficulties for those supporting the various discredited ideas of the Soviet Union to regroup as the opposition. Discussions of local political figures often lacked clear ideological basis. With the exception of Governor Desiatnikov, local officials were not clearly identifiable with any particular political movement – a phenomenon broadly characteristic of local aspirants to politics nationwide. Candidates in electoral districts have been disproportionately independent. As a result, comments about local officials focused on their ability to defend the particular region that they represented. The significant number of ‘other’ responses to questions about the leaders raise important questions for the attempt to understand Russian popular opinions in the transition period. These responses typically showed a very limited evaluative component or a simple lack of knowledge of the particular individual being discussed. These


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numbers seem particularly significant in trying to understand the degree to which Russians are paying attention to political issues. As described in Chapter 7, the restricted awareness of political issues helps explain low levels of popular political participation. As Swidler argues, we often do not use all of the tools that are available in constructing strategies of action. 20 Even people with well-developed tools for public activity may be unable to access them. Additionally, this lack of interest was in part manifested in the difficulties Russians were experiencing in evaluating and making sense of their post-Soviet environment. Opinions became formless in mimicking the society in the face of the disunity and chaos. In this respect, passive conservative support for democratic-reformers reflected more a need for the perception of unified political policy than an expression of support for Western democratic values; and, not as the rejection of Soviet socialist values. Ideology often fell by the wayside in the search for personal security.

The economic environment If general interest in politics was low, concern about economic problems, especially as they affected individuals and families, attracted sustained comment across a spectrum of issues. In broad terms, respondent fears emerged out of the uncertainties caused by drastic reform. Discussion focused consistently on specific topics (inflation, wage arrears, the economic–environmental balance and so on); although numerous respondents simply expressed a general hope for economic stabilization and grasped at any form of reassurance from signs of economic improvement and directed leadership. The majority of responses reflected conservative positions that clearly harkened back to the past, while others masked conservative attitudes with apparent support for reform policies. Looking to the past for solutions to contemporary economic uncertainty, some respondents recommended the economic integration of the former Soviet Union; here, discussion focused primarily on Russia’s relationship with Belarus and Ukraine. Others looked beyond former relationships, with several comments expressing both fear and hope about the West as economic savior. Whatever the source of perceived salvation, popular concern for economic security was ever present.

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Inflation The reforms that began in earnest in 1992 were accompanied by an extremely high rate of inflation. Though inflation had declined since the early periods of shock therapy in 1992, during my research period it was still hovering around 20 per cent per month. Inflationary pressures placed constant strain on Russian living standards and influenced general perceptions of instability. Respondents also envisioned certain long-term social threats affecting both young and old. With a pregnant daughter and an underemployed son-in-law living in her apartment, a passive conservative 47-year-old woman predicted grave problems for future generations: ‘The unending rise in prices [means] that our young people do not want to learn to work, and even if they do obtain a profession, there is no place for them to work. . . . Unemployment will rise.’ (Syktyvkar, 10) Rising prices particularly threaten the elderly, those on fixed incomes and those with large families. While pensions were more likely than other forms of state income to be indexed to inflation, they were not always successfully matched to inflation rates that varied across different commodities.21 A respondent described a personal experience in a Syktyvkar store, ‘An old woman comes into a store and says, “Oh, bread has become more expensive again”, so she left’ without buying anything. (Syktyvkar, 23) As food prices rose continuously, feeding one’s family was of vital concern. Several women commented that 60–70 per cent of their families’ incomes were spent on food products, despite the fact that Russians were generally involved in intensive summer gardening projects, to supplement the food they normally bought with home-canned food. The concern about food was so high that it blocked marginally higher needs, such as clothing. This focus on survival issues is important in two respects. First, it is a major factor explaining why Russians rarely participated in higher order activities, such as political or community events; and, second, conservative responses implying the need for state intervention were common among Russians coping with continual whirlwinds of change. Economic reforms Russians were particularly disappointed in state efforts in the transition from socialist to market mechanisms of economic planning. Profound insecurity followed the approximately two-and-a-half years of radical economic reform. Declining state responsibilities coupled with efforts at reform had differential and confusing effects across


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Russia’s regions. The speed of reforms had a more severe effect on the economy of Kirov where the issues were more investigated than was the case in Syktyvkar. Syktyvkar residents saw the enduring national and international demand for natural resources, particularly energy resources, as a cause for optimism and higher levels of entrepreneurial spirit than did Kirov residents. Such ‘neighborhood effects’ help explain differences in the tools accessible to the residents of varying regions. Of course, Syktyvkar residents still faced the burdens of inflation, uncertain wages and political leadership, and problems in making local industries competitive with international standards. Nevertheless, they had confidence that the future lucrative development of Komi’s natural resources would benefit everyone in the republic. Lacking a comparable storehouse of natural resources, Kirov residents eyed reforms, and particularly the pace of reform, with continuing apprehension. Since the end of the cold war, residents had confronted the decline and conversion of the military–industrial complex that had once dominated the city. Reforms had left a large proportion of the population unemployed, underemployed, and/or unpaid – and without the future prospects that bred hopefulness in the Komi population. When beginning my fieldwork, I had expected that the disruption of everyday life brought on by shock therapy would lead to strong opinions against rapid reforms. Respondents in Syktyvkar had not given me reason to believe otherwise. Surprisingly, many respondents in Kirov argued that reforms were moving too slowly. Furthermore, several respondents worried that reforms had stalled altogether. As described by a conservative nurse: Reforms are moving very slowly. . . . Nothing is going on with reforms. Our economic [system] has reached a real deadlock, enterprises have not worked for months and people are sent on forced leave. Is this actual movement? (Kirov, 10) Those that saw reforms moving too slowly formulated several types of solutions. Some saw problems in the relationship between executive and legislative branches of government; a few claimed that the politicians running the reforms needed to be changed, or that politicians needed to keep the public better informed; and, there was also support for providing regions greater responsibility. Dissatisfaction with the slow pace of reforms might easily be

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interpreted as a sign of support for the transition to a market economy. This would be a mistake, however. The irony of this position can be found in the temporal context. Whereas it was quite likely that Kirov respondents would have claimed the reforms were proceeding too quickly as their effects became known in mid1992, by mid-1994 the respondents were tired of the dislocation of failed reforms. No longer showing a clear attachment to old patterns, respondents simply wanted the reforms to come to completion. A conservative factory worker argued, Right now, they are moving slowly. Of course, there is high unemployment and tension. The people have waited a year, two years, and could wait for three years. You know, for them it is unclear what is going on. For this reason, [the reforms have been limited]. (Kirov, 17) The reform-oriented entrepreneurial minority among respondents generally did express preferences for market mechanisms, but most of those who favored speeding up reforms saw their successful conclusion as the shortest path to a predictable lifestyle.22 Thus, rather than representing a shift in attitudes among conservatives toward reform views, this particular population was instead expressing its passivity. The reforms this group might have supported in a more stable situation could have included market solutions, but they would certainly not be limited to them. Simple economic stability was the overarching goal, rather than a drive for a market economy. Overall, this is a counter-intuitive finding that survey researchers at that time would have done well to consider. Regardless of one’s position on the speed of reforms, there was clear sentiment that the uneven pace of reforms did not correspond to popular demands, and, worse still, was not being stabilized by commercial laws being enacted at the time. The passive conservative 25-year-old female designer summarized the feelings of many in Russia’s subsistence environment: It is difficult for me to judge. Somehow I have not thought about, nor thoroughly investigated whether reforms are moving quickly or slowly. I don’t even know how they ought to go. I only think about how to feed my son and myself. (Kirov, 18)


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The state role in economic reform Exemplary of the broadly passive nature of respondents, only a minority championed decentralization of power. The most common response focused on the central organs of power, often linking this preference to Soviet models and practices. A conservative 38-year-old female teacher who had not been a member of the Communist Party commented approvingly, Earlier there was this word: democratic-centralism. This meant the subordination from bottom to top and from top to bottom. That’s it, perhaps the president somehow issues a reform and all organs will subordinate themselves, beginning from the small village and finishing with the towns, cities and big cities. (Kirov, 19) The minority view queried the viability of centrally directed economic reform. Pointing to the difficulties facing nationwide reforms, the generally conservative 39-year-old daycare worker took the position of a reformer in arguing that reforms should be carried out at the local level: The central organs of power have sent out many directives and propositions. But, they do not really know what is going on at local levels. It seems to me that as long as [the people] in the localities do not experience and understand [what they are going through], they themselves will not be able to find a solution – everything is useless. This is because our country is very big and the approaches [to a solution] could be different everywhere. (Kirov, 27) When asked what role the state should play in the economic system, Kirov residents gave varied responses: from conservative positions calling for the state to take a strong, intrusive position, to its taking a simple regulatory role as might be found in the West. Some respondents felt the state should play the role of unifier among domestic industries, and with the former Soviet republics. There was little support for returning to the Soviet-era planned economy, although some linked the ‘plan’ to past stability and several respondents presented a more balanced view of the state planning role in a market economy. Some went so far as to designate state and market spheres of influence, or to envision the state’s role as a

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Western-style prognosticator, rather than the producer of obligatory plans. The 22-year-old student showed his entrepreneurial leanings: Only in the form of planning/prognosis, not in the form of obligatory plans, in so far as they are not flexible and do not take into account the state of the market, while plans/prognoses are the known world practices and experience . . . for [50] years in Western countries of post-war development. It is generally impossible to be without planning in any society. (Kirov, 9) Views of state involvement in the privatization process were somewhat contradictory, again showing clear links to the ideology of the past. Although there was support in Kirov for land privatization, there was also backing for a significant state role following the privatization process, in particular for farmland. Summing up these comments, a conservative 48-year-old electrician said, If we move to private property right now then [the state] must support the owner, such as the farmer. If we imagine, in agriculture farmers take the land for themselves but do not have sufficient resources. [Farm machinery] and fuel are very expensive, all around prices are rising. . . . And the farmer has no way of getting by, therefore many farmers [have some attachments] to the past. (Kirov, 1) In addition to calling for state subsidies to the agricultural sector, some argued for more general subsidies. A 26-year-old architect, for example, exhibited a traditional perspective that belied his age as he envisioned a strong role for the state in ensuring that private firms did not go bankrupt and if they did, they should be returned to state control. (Kirov, 29) While many Russians had rejected the failed planning mechanisms of the Soviet system, there was still an expectation that the state would continue intrusive policies to stabilize the economic decline. Even with some support for less state interference in the economy, many Russians supported a policy to strictly circumscribe the natural ‘paring’ of poor economic performers. Resource exploitation and the West Syktyvkar respondents almost universally agreed that the Komi


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Republic’s resources were being improperly and irrationally employed. Chief among complaints was the environmental damage caused by the timber and oil industries and general lack of public benefit from resource sales.23 Concerns about economic benefits centered on the lack of a local means to convert the republic’s raw materials to finished products. Although there are local furniture factories, most of Komi resources were shipped to other regions for processing. Syktyvkar residents hoped locals would soon reap the benefits of greater profits from expansion of local production of finished products.24 In addition to attention to the environment (or, perhaps in spite of it), Syktyvkar residents considered the local development of processing plants and factories to be lacking rational policy. Of particular interest and (at times) concern to residents of Syktyvkar, and to some degree in Kirov, was the role of Western ideas and investment in the reform of local industries. Respondents from both cities showed reform tendencies when discussing Western involvement in economic reform; they were quite favorable toward adapting Western ideas. Certain conservative strains did emerge, however, as some argued that Russia and Russians are qualitatively different from the West and must take their own path toward economic development. Several respondents raised nationalistic fears about the potential ramifications of a strong Western presence in the Russian economic recovery.25 The majority of respondents claimed that a balanced approach to Russian development would be the proper course. As a conservative 30-year-old male carpenter contended, [We] must learn from foreign mistakes, and not from [those we have created]. This is necessary. Russia always lived individually. Russia has its own style of life. It should use the mistakes of others, but not repeat them . . . (Syktyvkar, 26) The traditional 26-year-old architect was more cautious: Of course, Russia should use Western experience. Yet, [Russia] should not frenziedly accept Western experience, but orient [that experience] to one’s own historical experience. It is not possible to adopt in its entirety the basis for some kind of system. (Kirov, 29) Russia would ideally learn from the mistakes of Western developmental history and adapt the successes to Russian traditions and

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psychological patterns. Similarly, respondents were widely favorable toward Western investment in the overall Russian economy, as long as Russians benefitted and were internationally competitive. Looking for saviors, several respondents saw such investment as the only real means for escaping the economic abyss, in some sense replacing former state responsibilities in the economy. Ultimately, economic improvement may be the key to broad social and political stabilization. Yet, the respondents preferred path to stabilization was not clear. Often, straightforward support for reform policies carried anything but a straightforward meaning. Apparent preferences for reform hid popular reassertion of traditional political tools. Economic stagnation will always entail great popular dissatisfaction with public policy, a problem further manifest in social programs that often depend on a healthy economy for their maintenance. The social transition has been complicated by the Soviet ideological and economic system that did not recognize the economic rules guiding Western liberalism. As a result, Russian attempts to base social programs on an evolving market economy has led to sharp decline, or near collapse, in services once provided by the state.

The social environment The waning of social subsidies and programs that had permeated Soviet society and the arrival of new political and economic structures has led to a great dislocation.26 While an examination of social issues could focus directly on the changing role of medical and educational institutions, among others, this analysis takes a somewhat different tack. The analysis in this chapter also focuses upon the popular reaction to the social transformation where there is clear overlap between political and economic spheres. This reaction encompasses the fears and uncertainties that arose among respondents as parts of their everyday social foundation decayed and/or were administratively removed. The ways people identified themselves in relation to the state and society became an important consideration for survival under new conditions. Effects of Russian chaos emerged in the discussion of generational change across all levels of society, and personal value shifts in the face of instability and expectations for the future. A conservative metal worker summed up popular goals:


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to breathe freely . . . to breathe, in that sense that one should be able to enter any store . . . to buy some kind of food or clothing and not [have to] choose that which is cheaper instead of that which you like. I think that a person who has finished their work in good faith, [should be able to] come home with a clear conscience and be able to peacefully relax. And, not [have to think about] what is waiting for you the next day. (Kirov, 5) Housing and employment Continuity from the Soviet period was shown in the popular concern for the local availability of housing. A chronic problem in urban areas since the massive demographic changes beginning in the 1930s, housing construction has never met demand and leaves large families living in small apartments for extended periods. 27 Whereas Soviet-era complaints about housing shortages might have focused on the simple lack of availability and the need for more state construction, respondents expressed concern that post-Soviet practices violated the old allocation system. A conservative 37-yearold female economist pointed to the rise of private business: Look, currently they have begun to build housing, but in general this housing is sold to businessmen. As a result, the queue we have for housing in the city administration does not move. It seems to me that we should direct more resources to a solution for this problem: the construction of housing and to supply the housing [in the order determined by the local housing queue]. (Syktyvkar, 6) A fundamental former state role was being undermined in not following past practices, only exacerbating perceptions of instability. Not only did people expect the state to maintain a queue for living space, but the economist also intimated that the state, as before, should construct and provide that new housing. As Russia switched over to privately financed construction projects, people were skeptical that housing shortages could be solved. (Kirov, 19) Faced with escalating costs, ordinary Russians doubted they could ever afford a privately financed, non-state subsidized apartment. A concern more acute in Kirov than in Syktyvkar revolved around the intertwined issues of unemployment and delays in receiving pay. The impact of these issues goes far beyond the economic realm, stretching into social and political spheres. A conservative 40-yearold nurse tied the unemployment problem into social concerns:

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It appears to me that right now [the biggest problem] in Kirov is unemployment. The defense industry plants are not working. Because of this, in the city there is more drunkenness, more dirt, and the general atmosphere is not good. (Kirov, 7) Pointing to broad threats to the economy, a 27-year-old female nursery schoolteacher called for the resolution of social conflicts: In general, I consider that the most pressing problem in Komi is that there should be no strikes. They are not paying people, nobody. And, for two or three months these people have not been able to earn anything, in the sense of receiving money, and [as a result] they strike. (Syktyvkar, 23)28 Crime Just as strikes were signs of turbulence in post-Soviet Russia, rising rates of crime also greatly troubled a people accustomed to state-imposed order.29 While some respondents in Kirov related rising criminal activity to high unemployment rates in the city’s industrially based economy, there were additional concerns, including a clear ethnic component. Russians often expressed regret that their Slavic sisters, Ukraine and Belarus, had left their historic union, though most did not show regret for the loss of the other republics, especially those in Central Asia and the Caucuses. Many perceived that much of Russia’s crime problem came from organized criminal gangs originating in these non-Slavic regions. Groups of ‘southerners’ (particularly Georgians and Azerbaijani) were more evident in Kirov than in Syktyvkar, particularly in the food markets, and were often criticized by Russians for their prices, speculative activities and suspected criminal ties, specifically the importation of criminal organizations. Not all criminal activity was attributed to non-Russian groups. Kirov residents also recognized the existence of Russian-based criminal activity. People were bombarded on the nightly news with images of death and mayhem in Russian cities and towns. In the past, these sorts of images normally had depicted foreign societies, especially the Soviet’s state portrayals of the capitalist West. Particularly threatening at that time was the rising force of organized crime that defied government control. Yet, post-Soviet government attempts to eliminate crime were perceived to extend beyond simple attempts to regulate its growth. The 22-year-old student tied the government itself to criminal activity:


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It seems to me that in our oblast’ it is not the deputies in the [city] Duma or the representatives in the administration who direct politics. Instead, politics are directed by the heads of the factories, some large enterprises and banks. And, clandestinely tied to some of these [people] . . . is a mafia structure. Moreover, the administration is partially, at a minimum, involved in this [structure]. (Kirov, 9) It was often noted that the extensive networks built between Russian communists under the Soviets continue to exist as criminal operations.30 Two reactions to different types of criminal activity are indicative of broad attitudes toward crime. A 32-year-old male factory worker responded to contemporary political and economic leaders with the assumption that a certain degree of corruption and criminal activity is an attribute of the Russian culture: Well, I think that they steal a lot. If they could only live honestly . . . I am a pure [ethnic] Russian, therefore I think: take, but only a little. Don’t swipe a lot. (Kirov, 4) Acceptance of corruption in political and economic management is contrasted to the personal threat of rising crime in everyday life. The passive conservative 25-year-old female designer expressed a very Hobbesian theory of human relations in an environment unconstrained by a legal framework: I was proud that I lived in the Soviet Union. My mother and I could go for walks late at night, at ten or eleven. We could peacefully walk along Oktiabr’skii prospekt (a main street in Kirov), walk along the street and not fear that someone there would come up, strike or hit, shoot . . . Or take money. For me, for my son, this was a manifestation of freedom. And now . . . I do not think that I am free. (Kirov, 18) Conservative Russians look back to Soviet-era order nostalgically, often contending that former state restrictions allowed for greater freedom (that is, the absence of unpredictable threats to one’s person) and were preferable to the disorder of contemporary Russia.

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Education and medicine The two social programs most broadly discussed were education and medicine. The primary concern was that these programs were being severely damaged as the state pulled back its financial and administrative support. In education, Russians worried that regulations were being haphazardly enforced, raising the possibility that many children were not attending school, particularly at high school level. Breakdowns in educational administration sparked concerns that the state schools could no longer provide adequate education. A symptom of the problems besetting public education were found in the school lunch programs, with a teacher in Kirov describing the disintegration of the program at her school: rather than buy good food and prepare wholesome meals (a process that is work intensive), the cafeteria workers were simply buying candy to distribute to the children. Because processed food products are so much more expensive than unprocessed food products, she claimed that the school would soon run out of budgeted funds. After that, she claimed, there would be nothing offered. To this teacher, this was a sign of declining state controls in the social arena. As the resources for state education declined, parents were looking toward private pedagogy from nursery school through to secondary levels of education. A number of respondents viewed the movement toward private schools as a real threat to mass education. They feared that the system could produce an educated wealthy class, while ignoring the general population – in a system of ‘survival of the fittest’. Not all respondents were that concerned, however. Expressing a reformist opinion, a conservative 23-year-old male college student argued that the movement toward private education was a positive step, characterizing it as an option for the rich and others through their intelligence. Those not able to attend would be simply unlucky. (Kirov, 3) This last position parallels aspects of the private versus public school debate in the United States; it is of no great concern so long as public schools are a viable option for the general population. In these turbulent times, however, there was often the implicit assumption among many Russians that the primary and secondary educational systems were inadequate. At the same time, some saw no differences in quality between the public and private systems, as the private schoolteachers were the same as those who had worked in the public schools. For these respondents education had been and would remain poor.


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Beyond educational quality, a primary concern of the debate focused on nursery schools. In the past, nursery schools were provided by the state, unions, or factories, although a nominal fee was sometimes required. Amid the changes, some schools have closed while others have charged exorbitant fees. This sudden change has a huge effect on popular lifestyles. To place their children in an affordable nursery school, mothers often travel significant distances as guardians, quit their jobs, or get help from retired grandparents in watching over small children. Russians were equally concerned about declining healthcare services and rising costs, whereas others focused on the lack of sufficient medicine and general supplies. Paying for services that were once free made a lot of people nervous. A conservative, 47-year-old female nurse summarized popular concerns: I want it to be possible for a sick person to peacefully heal in a municipal hospital, a city hospital, or a private clinic. If he has the resources, let him heal in a private clinic. Yet, if he does not have the resources, he should not be refused the elementary aid in the regular municipal or city hospital. Nor should a person think that he does not have the resources to buy medicine, which costs so much right now. Or, as I see now, the hospitals work, but there is no medicine. (Syktyvkar, 10) Others, including the traditional 26-year-old male architect, kept faith with ‘socialized medicine’. (Kirov, 29) As one of the fundamental propaganda devices employed to justify the Soviet state (and to differentiate Soviet socialism from American capitalism), socialized medicine’s decline left people fearful and unwilling to move toward a little understood private medical system. Attitudes toward change Providing a window into popular views of change in a once stable environment, is the fear engendered by rising levels of crime, that exemplify the collapse of state services and state control. Those, together with other factors challenge the capacity for the populace to employ its cultural framework in order to develop a new strategy of action. Whether crime has yet reached the levels found in advanced Western democracies is immaterial to Russian perceptions, for the evidence of crime in Soviet society was previously quite limited; it is by comparison with the past that Russians view present

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crime levels. In terms of an individual’s capacity to employ and/or adapt her interpretive tools, the fear that arises in the new environment can have a paralyzing influence. The comment by the young mother in Kirov (see above) makes an interesting comparison between the Russia present and the Soviet past. While an extreme response to the changing environment, she does provide a useful insight into how people, in particular the passive conservative types, are adapting their behavior. (Kirov, 18) She also represents parents who have intergenerational concerns about the future of their children and how the current generation of child-rearing adults can react to the new challenges, as well as what is to become of the aged in their ‘new’ surroundings. This last issue is of real concern as ‘the majority of pensioners fall within the income category affected by poverty.’31 Again, perceptions were not always as straightforward as they initially appeared. A case in point involved apparently reform-oriented attitudes toward generational change in leadership, exhibiting changing demographic patterns and the (in)ability of people to develop successful strategies of action. Across the age spectrum, individuals argued that Russia needs younger leaders, as older generations of leaders were often considered unable to adapt. The recognition of the need for change in leadership indicated that the populace had gone beyond the need for a return to strictly Soviet modes of government associated with past generations and the Soviet collapse. The popular disdain for Gorbachev exemplifies a degree of distrust for leaders of his generation. These two trends at first would seem to indicate that respondents supported the reform policies associated with younger leaders. Nevertheless, as in the case of support for quick reform in Kirov, support for young leaders did not necessarily indicate support for their reform policies. While people longing for stability were willing to support those leaders who appeared to offer the most rapid movement toward stability, it was not always the case that they supported the means for getting there. Because reformers held the upper hand in the struggle for power, their policies seemed the quickest way to return to a stable society. Many conservatives were likely to reject specific policies advocated by the new generation of leaders, but were largely willing to support them as a group. If there was consensus at the top, the instability wrought by the lack of unity in contemporary Russia would come to an end. A tired population wanted to get to the new era


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as quickly as possible. Therefore, support for generational turnover did not necessarily signify support for classically liberal policies – or, conversely, a lack of support for the retention of Soviet-era social programs. Put simply, new people were needed to found a new state. Popular adaptation to new conditions was difficult to predict. Although himself a reformer, a 22-year-old student deftly employed the Russian case to apply culturalist arguments concerning the prospects for change: Many old stereotypes were carried forward into the current situation. That is, of course, a person does not change very quickly. And if he is accustomed to a certain type of understanding of justice, when everybody is equal, even equal in poverty, then it is difficult for him to accustom himself to that in which people could be unequal on a material plane, that it is possible for some to be rich and others to be poor and under such a regime that there could exist justice. That is, as before, the majority of people live in the past. And they carry with them those old arrangements, that are complicated in their heads by the current situation and therefore . . . our perspectives of the communist movement are far from exhausted. (Kirov, 9) Others (both old and young) made similar claims about the older generation’s reticence to change. At what age one becomes ‘old’ can be very different from what Westerners might expect, however. Men and women as young as their early-thirties would often express the difficulties of adapting their Soviet ‘mentality’ (read: interpretive tools) to the new Russia. Here a 43-year-old male cook explained, Our generation is already [set, we were] raised with that consciousness which was drummed into us for 70 years . . ., in school they taught us that way. Now [we] must begin from kindergarten . . . (Syktyvkar, 15) It was the youth (frequently paired with the aged) who were often seen to be most at risk in the new Russia.32 As the system of public education declined and business ‘opportunities’ opened, people feared that the next generations were being poorly raised in an environment dominated by a new materialism. Parents were concerned that their children were being raised with corrupt values. Whereas socialization under the Soviet system had nurtured

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appreciation of, and compassion for, fellow human beings; parents saw that self-gratification was fast becoming the dominant impulse. In this observation many Russians echoed Allan Bloom’s criticisms of a rise of Nietzschean nihilism in the contemporary United States.33 Traditional values fell by the wayside in the youthful rush to accommodate new ideas and modes of behavior. Ultimately, Yeltsin would recognize the negative effects of this phenomenon in his year-end radio address of December 1997.34 Unconsciously mimicking Turgenev’s portrayal of generational differences in Russia 140 years ago, Russians over 35 years-of-age were having difficulty adapting their cultural frameworks to change: the ‘consciousness of youth is changing . . . has changed very quickly.’ (Kirov, 10) The ability to adapt to new conditions has some negative outcomes, however, when the conditions being adapted to are not properly balanced. A 67-year-old female retiree evaluated the situation: ‘Our generation survived [when] something still existed, but now the young do not really have a consciousness. I do not know how they will live in the future. There is no upbringing [for them] . . . They do not have anybody to be with them.’ (Kirov, 22) In addition to potential problems arising where the norms of the community and nation are inchoate and are not ‘permitted’ to temper self-interest, the rapidity of change threatened to abandon the less prepared. For example, the attractions of small businesses – in which the uneducated could earn significantly more than the highly educated – is a potential tragedy for the contemporary young. These small (often micro) businesses (kiosks and street vending) were pulling youth away from educational and training opportunities. As small business opportunities become less lucrative and are replaced by larger ventures, it is possible that a significant proportion of a generation of Russians will possess few qualifications as they search for careers.35 The seemingly uncontrolled ‘revaluation’ of priorities by the population least socialized by tradition and standardized strategies of action was of particular concern to parents. Value assessment in chaos A key issue that arose among residents of both cities concerning the ‘environment of instability’ was difficulty identifying and assessing personal and societal values. Prior to the Gorbachev period, Soviet citizens had become unaccustomed to anything more radical than incremental change – in sharp contrast with Western societies, in which recent change is driven by rapid technological


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advances, economic fluctuations and political variability. Whereas Western processes of change occur on the bedrock of constitutional and (especially in the case of Great Britain) common law, the tectonic nature of Russian reforms are disrupting Russia at all levels, as society is being overturned in a seemingly headlong rush toward the reconstruction of political and economic institutions. Further complicating fundamental societal change has been the accompanying chaotic infusion of Western notions of change. The difficulty of determining Russian personal values in this setting becomes clearer through examining how people in a former ‘worker’s paradise’ have come to evaluate labor developments. This has become an area of dissonance as Russians trying to rank levels of professional prestige are confronted with, for example, a driver for a firm earning significantly more than a middle level factory manager; or, a clerk in a kiosk selling foreign soda and candy is more valued than a person with a high school or even a university education. This confusion models the difficulties people are having applying their long-standing interpretive tools, showing as well a microcosm of formlessness. This confusion exists within family units, even for members of the same generation. In 1997, a friend of mine in Kirov described the difficulties her husband was having adapting. In his early forties, he had been employed for years at an armaments factory. Even as the factory production declined and his wages went unpaid, he was unwilling to adapt his strategies of action to the context. Despite job offers in business-oriented firms that both paid well and regularly, he remained in the security of his long-term position. As his wife commented, he had given up trying to adapt, fulfilling the role of passive conservative. Meanwhile, her entrepreneurial tendencies were enlivened. Long an English language translator, she was active in a local business and had begun to study for a graduate degree in political science. Two questions in my survey probed labor-related issues, asking respondents to identify prestigious professions in the Soviet era and post-Soviet Russia. Looking back ten years, Kirov respondents identified various prestigious professions: teacher, engineer, store clerk, doctor, economist, lawyer and numerous types of industrial workers.36 Most of these hold little in common. Some require higher education, some a high school degree, or less. Where variety typified the retrospective responses, one factor almost universally connected responses concerning contemporary prestige professions: money. 37

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Respondents in both cities generally associated well-paying jobs with prestige. Himself an entrepreneur, the 22-year-old male student summarized most responses: The prestigious professions are those that provide the maximum quantity of money, that is bank workers, lawyers, these types of professions. Well, a store clerk in a particular, successful store [is also prestigious]. Naturally, the entire group of directors and owners of private property . . . (Kirov, 9) Still, the sudden equation of monied professions with prestige was counterbalanced by confusion about these values. As expected, older Russians expressed this type of confusion, but the young did also. A conservative 25-year-old stewardess shows how money, rather than a profession itself, was equated with prestige: I think that it is difficult to say which professions [are prestigious], because all that depends on how it concretely relates to separate enterprises. At one enterprise, [the most prestigious position] is the accountant. I consider it a prestigious profession as [an accountant] does not do too badly. Yet, at another enterprise he receives five times less. Like they say, it depends on where you get a job. (Syktyvkar, 22) The high prestige accorded remunerative jobs need not reflect a clear trend in the development of a Russian belief system; rather money-oriented values were attributable to the transitional context. Note how the 22-year-old student expanded his description of prestigious professions: Now professions that, unfortunately, are very prestigious are connected with dishonorable business, that is, either prostitutes or [protection] rackets, and all such shady structures. (Kirov, 9) Ultimately, the inclusion of criminal activity in the realm of prestige was a clear sign of popular confusion about how to evaluate multiple signals in the chaotic environment. Immersed in an early stage of market development, respondents were reacting to new images with undeveloped means for interpretation. Faced with a system in which old patterns of value assessment were obscured by new trends, popular emphasis on financial gain seems to reflect the search for


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an orienting marker as a temporary, or even long-term foundation (resting place) for making assessments. This mode of assessment is likely to incorporate more traditional values as the society stabilizes. A traditional 35-year-old female economics professor who was clearly tied to the past evaluated the complex environment: Today, that which is prestigious is that which provides money. You understand, I consider prestige using the contemporary understanding, (as if it were actually) missing. They judge only by money. How much one is able to make. Now, those professions which were prestigious are no longer. Moreover, earlier prestige in a profession came from education. . . . That is, if you were more educated, your profession was more prestigious. Intelligence and abilities which were employed in one’s work were [considered] prestigious. In this manner, people were judged by their abilities and actions. Now, only by money. (Kirov, 16) This example dramatizes the difficulties that people, particularly conservative cultural types, face in reconciling past beliefs and behaviors with the unending change. In attempting to employ traditional tools, Russians in an anomic state are no longer sure how valuable education, technical training, or artistic culture is to their lives. While reformers are more adaptable in the face of this uncertainty, such dilemmas lead to simple confusion among the conservatives, as the inability easily to evaluate (or prioritize) formerly everyday concerns had become a great source of dissonance. Exacerbating matters was the continued, inconsistent and uneven process of reform. Conservatives had neither the capacity nor the energy to catch up, or even stay abreast, of the seemingly directionless transformation of society, leaving attitudes formless and people unsure of their personal orientations. In part, a 51-year-old female typist described this situation: [W]e have an unstable [situation] in that we accustom ourselves constantly . . . well, for us even the word inflation is entirely incomprehensible, [although] we have already become accustomed, and now we (her family) are already becoming accustomed to this continuous race of prices. Well, of course, it is still possible that workers can escape this situation [of keeping up with inflation], but for the non-workers, the pensioners . . ., the undefended layers, and those with many children it is very difficult. (Syktyvkar, 19)

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Russians were looking for ‘particular orienting marks’ and a ‘resting place’ to measure themselves and guide their behavior.38 The most dramatic area of change, challenging belief systems, has been the shift from Soviet era values toward new and untested foreign ideas, as well as the ‘return’ of traditional Russian values repressed for 70 years. A 39-year-old female daycare worker argued that past values could not be forgotten, yet clearly expressed the confusion on how to adapt these values: There is no way to change it entirely at our level. It is all the same, we will live with some kind of past consciousness. The old values of a person live. We are not zombies. The consciousness of today’s children, for example, really alarms me. In the past we had an ideology in fact some kind of radiant ideology, but now they inculcate the culture of the church, exactly as they inculcated the culture of communism. There is something unnatural. (Kirov, 27)39 Who ‘they’ are is difficult to identify from this interview. Yet, the identification of anonymous authority can express popular alienation and passivity (common in communist states) and may become operational in a search for guidance. While Russian society adapts, the Russian Orthodox Church and numerous foreign religious organizations are rushing to fill the void left by the collapse of official state atheism. Foreign proselytizing groups that I witnessed included: Baptists from the Southern United States who asked for my help in contacting Syktyvkar’s orphanage; fundamentalist Christians from the Eastern United States who made elaborate presentations in front of large, mesmerized audiences in the union halls of Kirov; Christian evangelists preaching in the street against sin and alcoholism in Vladimir; and, the radio broadcasts of the Japanese evangelical organization Aum. For certain conservatives (both old and young) in post-Soviet Russia, the security offered by organized religious organizations is powerfully attractive in the vacuum left by the collapse of the Soviet state. In conversations with a friend affiliated with the Russian Orthodox Church, I came to understand the threat to indigenous religion. Flush with money, foreign organizations were stronger competitors than the poverty-stricken Russian religious order. Alongside rising materialism, foreign orders offered the unity, if only symbolically, of faith and change that the Russian church could not. While older Russians are


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likely to look to Russian Orthodoxy, the young may be more attracted to the excitement and pageantry of non-indigenous religions. Uncertain expectations of the future Without functional means of orientation, Russians experienced extreme difficult in conceiving of a future beyond immediate, personal concerns. The vast majority of respondents described a hand-tomouth existence that kept them low on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. A conservative 53-year-old mechanic related his personal perspective on the future: I do not see anything. It seems to me that now there is nothing, neither here nor there. I do not know where [to go]. . . . I do not know where, or toward what, we are going right now. I cannot even imagine it. (Kirov, 23) While this passive conservative comment is particularly non-specific and disoriented, it describes the rising uncertainty that many Russians were feeling. They waited for the next delayed paycheck to arrive, something that had not occurred under Soviet rule; they wondered whether or not they would continue to work, in a state that formerly guaranteed the right to work; and, wondered whether they could afford to buy products in the unprecedented inflationary economy. Meanwhile, social services were in rapid decline. The 39-year-old daycare worker argued, If before we lived out of sight of the delights of today, we [still] lived with confidence about the future. With some kind of confidence we had hope for tomorrow. Hope that our children would be secure, although we would have had some sort of illusory well-being. But now I cannot live this way anymore. I am not confident that I will have a job tomorrow. And, at this time, at my age and in my profession it is very difficult to get a job. Moreover, I am not sure how I will take care of my children. (Kirov, 27) Often heard was the phrase, ‘I do not know what will happen tomorrow’; an expression describing the inability to plan for the future on any level. Unable to develop a successful, coherent strategy of action, Russians were looking to a time when they would not be living day-by-day.

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Aside from concerns about the immediate future, Russians had no real basis upon which to ground expectations for the long-term. Asked about the next century, many respondents were unwilling to hazard an opinion. Others made general comments that they hoped or believed that the future would be better, though the arrival of stability was measured in decades or more. Although some were able to identify specific fears (for example the environment, war, industry and social issues), most comments expressed only vague hope and uncertainty for the future. A 63-year-old female pensioner recommended patience, Everything must be regarded with understanding. . . . Realize and understand everything and tolerantly wait. Sooner or later, it will begin [to get better]. Do not insult people or be crude, [and] wait patiently. (Syktyvkar, 5)

Conclusion The vacuum left behind by the collapsed Soviet state is manifested in the general confusion expressed by respondents. Looking across the three tiers of the transition, it is clear that few aspects of the reform process generated satisfaction or optimism. Even reformoriented individuals had real concerns about the transition process in Russia, particularly where they saw legal instability undermining the development of ‘normal’ business relations and planning. Of course, the conservative ‘super-majority’ was even more disgruntled, valuing above all else the achievement of stability. Paradoxically, they did not necessarily see stability resting in the traditions and programs of the past. Rather, it lay at the end of what was perceived as the quickest policy path: liberal-democratic reform. Because reform-oriented politicians in 1994 were the most unified group and at that time held the upper hand in the political hierarchy, respondents often identified them and their policies as the means to construct a new state and arrive at a stable condition. Support for the reform-oriented leaders neither signified that Russians had adopted a reform ‘mentality’, nor that they had abandoned old values, however. Instead, it exemplified the difficulties that contemporary Russians have in employing their interpretive tools to contend with a variable context. In their unsuccessful attempts to create lasting, coherent strategies of action, the Russian people, both individually and as a group, manifest the formless


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political culture. This is exhibited in the counter-intuitive indication of a conservative attitude toward authority. While respondents expressed evident distrust in their political leaders, they were willing to follow a program instituted by those leaders, so long as it had a coherent body of issues and goals. In this respect, apparent support for liberal-democratic reforms often masked conservative attitudes that militated against the content of those reforms and focused on the authoritative (if not authoritarian) implementation process. In this way, certain traditional tools were reaffirming traditional strategies of action. Running parallel to the complexities of living in a society in flux, the investigation of Russian political culture is equally challenging. As shown by the numerous contradictions and ‘counter-intuitive’ findings discussed in this chapter, the very instability of the society truly limits researcher confidence in the strength of their data. If life was viewed as so unstable by respondents, opinions about life and values had to have been influenced by contextual changes. If people had lost the ability to identify the personal or social worth of the objects and issues that faced them constantly, how could they be expected to formulate easily encapsulated opinions about larger, more abstract issues, such as freedom or democracy among others? I continue to wade through the complexities masking Russian attitudes in following discussions. Through an analysis of popular conceptualizations of important political terms, the next chapter exemplifies the difficulties in identifying the underlying beliefs of post-Soviet Russians. Of all the discussions, the next chapter provides the most direct representation of Russian political tools. The inconsistencies found in popular conceptualizations help to model the formlessness of contemporary Russian political culture.

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5 Concepts in the Making: How Russians Define their Political World

Cross-cultural research challenges the foreign researcher’s ability to identify political patterns, partly because the insertion of one’s own cultural conceptualizations into the interpretation and analysis of these patterns is difficult to avoid. Most obviously, outside researchers should never assume the cultural meanings of particular events, political figures and societal issues, but instead should investigate them. Inaccurately assuming the popular meanings negatively impacts all political culture research, but is particularly problematic during periods of disruptive change. The disruption in Russia has influenced political terms employed by the people in at least two ways: first, new terms and ideas challenge old political interpretations. Terms like ‘marketing’, ‘bestseller’, and ‘mayor’, have been imported directly into the Russian language. In many cases, Russians simply transliterate these words to fit their linguistic system. Although outsiders often assume the terms have the same meanings, the terms frequently mutate as they are adapted to the Russian culture. Second, traditional Russian terms such as ‘president’, ‘democracy’, and ‘deputy’ are being adapted to new realities. A 67-year-old female pensioner described both changes in post-Soviet Russia: You know, now there are many of these words that we learned in one way before, [but now have different meanings]. And, there are now very different words the meanings of which we do not know. (Kirov, 22)

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Concepts in the Making Table 5.1

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Terms Examined

Question: What does the word I am about to say mean to you? Individuals

Collective bodies

Actions

Abstractions

President Deputy Leader

state government

Political participation

freedom democracy

Assuming the popular meaning for vital concepts on the part of researchers is a problem throughout the body of Western surveys examined in Chapter 3. In excluding complex variables of social life, surveys preclude access to linguistic meaning; they miss ‘the basic assumptions of reality which are built into the language.’ 1 Ultimately, if the Western researcher’s conceptual basis is different from Russian conceptualizations, and it often is, the findings may misrepresent Russian reality. In striving for accurate representation, this chapter examines Russian perceptions of certain key political terms (Table 5.1). These terms are the tools individuals employ to give meaning to the societal context and significantly affect the behavioral domain. The difficulty in asking people for their conceptualizations of such terms is that a briefly considered response offered in a closed question may not truly access the meaning for that individual. Recognition of this obstacle partly explains my choice of qualitative methods. This chapter’s explanation of popular conceptualizations supplements and advances the broad conceptual framework introduced in Chapter 4. Determining the relative degree to which responses were either conservative or reform oriented, means that categorization of the comments was not always straightforward. I found that responses were oriented toward the conservative side of the spectrum, but it was difficult to determine whether opinions were artifacts of contemporary conditions or traditional beliefs. The fieldwork experience helped to clear up such confusion. The ragged dividing line between conservative and reform cultural types often rested on the degree of emotion evoked by a particular term. Dispassionate responses were more likely to be linked to reform cultural types while emotional responses were linked to conservative types. Inconsistencies arose, however, that could not be cleanly categorized. Strong emotional content, which was often very negative, suggests an individual’s frustration and relative lack of success in contending with change. Emotions associated with respondents’

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conceptualizations thus provided me with a graphic display of the capacity of the different cultural types to adapt strategies of action to varying contextual cues. Popular attempts to conceptualize these political terms probably come as close as the researcher can get to seeing the adaptive process of political cultural tools and represent the struggle to rationalize new concepts into a once stable system of meanings. The inability to employ easily these conceptual tools in the fluctuating context is exhibited in the formlessness of contemporary Russian political culture. The variation in conceptualizing, in itself, illustrates this formlessness.

Individuals President (prezident) The most common conceptualization of this term was straightforward: the president is the head of state, or the wielder of executive power. Nevertheless, a majority of these comments included a value judgement – typically a conservative characterization of the president as an authoritative, if not authoritarian, figure. While a few respondents described the president as a strong, responsible figure, more traditional responses endowed the president with tsar-like authority. Others compared this political figure to the Soviet General Secretary. A 45-year-old male factory worker voiced the thoughts of several others: I think that this is the head of state with unlimited resources. So that he could say . . . now we have laws that are not fulfilled, and those laws which he issues should be fulfilled immediately. (Kirov, 17) Expressing a passive conservative position, several others described the president as the protector of the Russian people. For a number of respondents, the person holding this position deserves popular respect and will, in turn, take care of the people. As if abdicating responsibility for creating their own direction in life, others laid their future at the feet of the president: ‘This is the person upon whom we lay all of our hopes. Both in politics and in economics, and in all of our life in our country.’ (Kirov, 10) Exhibiting their need for stability, a number of respondents looked to that individual as the one who could best express unity and direction for

Concepts in the Making

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the new Russia. Those people – however dissatisfied with Boris Yeltsin’s performance – often claimed that there was no alternative leader. While some respondents envisioned a president associated with almost the divinely inspired authority of a Russian Tsar, others expressed unfamiliarity with the term. Long associated with political systems in the West, the institution of the presidency had only recently been imported into the Soviet and post-Soviet political system. A passive conservative 56-year-old male driver said, [F]or example, if one were a king he would be in power until death. But a president, to me this is [simply] a word. Where does it come from? It came from abroad. . . . We have so many presidents in Russia. . . . What does this word mean?. . . . I don’t understand. (Kirov, 8) The post-Soviet rush to drop Soviet designations and adopt a Western equivalent had occurred in a somewhat haphazard fashion. Leaders of republics in the Russian Federation were adopting (and diluting the Western meaning of) the title as well. One reaction to the foreign political concepts and functions emerged in the nationalistic tones of a 31-year-old male economist: The word is foreign, not primordially Russian. It is more suitable to Western democratic countries. To what degree [the word/ political function] is acceptable to us, for our country, I don’t know. (Syktyvkar, 7) Amid the uncertainty generated by the new political institutions, most respondents seemed to have a clear idea of the position the president occupied as head of state, but were unsure of the presidential role. Deputy (deputat) With almost two-thirds describing the deputy as the representative of popular interests, respondents expressed greater certainty than in discussing the president. Many described a deputy as a popular representative, an individual elected to parliament. (Kirov, 1)2 Unlike the presidency, however, the deputy’s role had developed throughout Soviet political history. As the fundamental representative in a system that went from the lowest community council all

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the way up to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, ‘deputy’ had been clearly conceptualized. Because people have a common definition for this term, when contemporary deputies diverged from that definition popular responses were extremely pejorative. Comparing past conceptualizations with the present, respondents expressed how much contemporary representatives fall short of their ‘ideal type’. Overall, about half of the respondents characterized post-Soviet deputies as liars, self-interested functionaries, or simply as accomplishing nothing for their constituents. Contrasting past with contemporary views, a passive conservative female factory worker said, Earlier I thought that a deputy was generally the kind of a person who was positive from all sides, but . . . more deeply, as they say, I discovered that these are machinators, those kinds of people who don’t lead a very honest form of life, who strive for power. (Kirov, 12) Far from embodying a socialist ideal, the deputy had come to be seen as a parasite on the system. Respondents perceived deputies gathering personal privileges, including state-provided Moscow apartments and high incomes. The continuing hardships of reform evoked animosity toward deputies at the ‘feeding trough’. For the deputies ‘[d]oing nothing receives a very large blessing’. (Syktyvkar, 12) It appeared that the act of adopting democratic institutions and labels was reason enough for celebration among political representatives and engendered popular misgivings toward the concept of democracy. Negative views toward contemporary deputies exhibited the high level of disillusionment of a populace that had become exhausted by continual reforms. As a result, discussion of Russian politics often carried an implicit, if not explicit, comparison to the propaganda and practices of representatives under the Soviets: these officials should achieve a high standard for honesty and community interest over self-interest. (Kirov, 23) Even young reformers, such as the 22-year-old student, looked to the past: At first, for some reason [the term] deputy is associated by me with Soviet history . . . on the whole, a deputy represents the interests of those who have chosen him, and therefore his political program should be less independent than currently. (Kirov, 9)


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This notion of independence touches on a common theme concerning the deputy’s role as an adviser or intermediary between the people and the president, rather than as a legislator. A conservative 38-year-old female teacher hoped the new representative would be ‘a person who knows how the people are living. [He] is able to carry what we are thinking up to the president.’ (Kirov, 19) The notion of the advisory role of the deputy relates to the hierarchicalauthority relationships that existed under Soviet democratic centralism, a subject more fully developed in Chapter 8. General confusion about new political institutions, however, was expressed in several reform-oriented comments. These respondents recognized the contemporary deputy’s emerging role of active policymaking and lawmaking. While this emerging conceptualization is one of the clearest connections to Western views of representative democracy, the negative views of contemporary deputies overshadowed it. Leader (lider) Respondent conceptualizations of leader initially seemed tautological. Almost two-thirds characterized a leader as someone who could actively generate popular support. Yet, respondents were almost universally positive toward the concept. A leader was described as chosen; a good person, generally capable; fights for the people, and/ or carries through policies. Additionally, several respondents recognized a leader as the head of a party, group or organization. A leader was seen as qualitatively different from, and superior to, others. ‘Leader’ is not associated with representative functions in Russia. Respondents recognized that leaders existed at various levels in society. For passive conservatives searching for stability, confidence and hope resides in the leader. Exemplifying this position, the 25-year-old female designer claimed, You know, it seems to me that it is an ability given by God. There might be a leader in school or in a class. . . . It is a particular, extraordinary trait of character that is [found in] leadership. It could really be given by God. The ability to attract mass support. (Kirov, 18) Similarly, ‘[H]e should be brilliant in all respects, an educated and cultured person’. (Syktyvkar, 19) Tired of ‘uncultured’ politicians (including Yeltsin at times), conservative Russians in particular sought an idealized leadership image. For some the most important leadership

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characteristic was his/her ability to attract followers, ‘[e]ven those who don’t believe in [the policies] that they follow’. (Kirov, 28) Thus, attraction to a leader can override assessment of the leader’s policies. Many might be hoping for traits ‘given by God’, whether the leader is a reformer or a conservative. Many conservatives, particularly passive conservatives, seek a person who embodies the strength and unity required. Reform entrepreneurs are less likely to simply line up behind a strong leader, but the desire for legal stability and consistent state policy carries a lot of weight. Reform entrepreneurs want leaders with policies that allow them to continue with their private projects. Pragmatists view successful leaders as those personally associated with the pragmatist’s individual success. Individual figures: summary The discussion of terms for individual political figures raises two issues of note: first, the conceptualizations of these terms are extensions of Soviet socialization. Where respondents discussed the two concrete political positions – president and deputy – an interesting contrast was generated. Many respondents employed traditional conceptualizations to describe contemporary concepts. For ‘deputy’, this is not surprising, for it was an important role that had long existed in Soviet politics. When conceptualizing the term in reference to post-Soviet conditions, the condemnation of deputies is an expected, rational observation. Because the presidential post had not existed until the very end of the Soviet era, however, a number of respondents were forced to look to familiar political figures from Soviet, and even Russian, history. Respondents used prior socialization to evaluate contemporary Russian political roles. In the case of ‘president’, the term was being adapted to Russian cultural categories, rather than retaining the meaning from abroad. Second, the desire for stability amid Russian turbulence emerges quite strongly. Perceptions of individual political figures express several regularities: the most evident view is the conservative hope for a strong individual who will guide the society out of contemporary chaos, a view complemented by the negative attitudes toward postSoviet deputies. Disillusion with representative government was driving conservative Russians toward supporting individual rule, more akin to imperial autocracy than to the ‘rule by committee’ of the Soviet era. Permeating the discussion, however, was confusion as to the roles of a president. The contrast with the certainty found in characterizations of ‘ideal’ representatives showed the


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difficulties people were having moving from the image of legislative, or committee, rule in the Soviet system toward the presidential rule in Russia.

Collective bodies State (gosudarstvo) The traditional state role in the lives of Soviet citizens was allencompassing, both as the provider of goods and repressor of dissent. In post-Soviet Russia, that role has been transformed. The state is no longer the provider of all goods, or the enforcer of political control. Despite this decline, contemporary conceptualizations of the state show a clear foundation in the past and fall into three, at times overlapping, categories. The first two categories were straightforward: respondents (1) described a state as a country or a territory, and (2) portrayed the state’s role as a mechanism of political and economic power, laws and political institutions. Affect represented the third category of frequently abstract comments that often reflected conservative attachment to state functions. Positive and negative in tone, remarks touched on a range of concepts, including patriotism, national unity and freedom. For others, the state’s repressive side came to the fore. The most frequent response in the third category, however, focused on the state’s unifying role, describing its functions to determine institutional structures and laws. Respondents portrayed the paternalistic warmth and safety that came from state power, as expressed by a traditional 30-yearold male carpenter: ‘It should be a unified family, which lives with the same concerns. If there is the possibility, [they should] help others.’ (Syktyvkar, 26) Others expressed specific ties to the state that had strong emotional content. In associating social programs, subsidies and job guarantees, respondents commented on the state responsibility for their standard of living. Furthermore, in recognizing the Soviet state’s role in the construction and maintenance of housing, many Russians equated the state with Russian apartments and homes. A conservative 60-year-old male pensioner said, ‘It is our lives, it is our apartment, house, forest, and land. Everything is our state.’ (Kirov, 14) Overall, many Russians confronted with an unpredictable future were unwilling to face the repressive aspects of their Soviet past and found refuge in a mythical depiction of Russian imperial tradition.3 In this respect, the state represented historical and cultural

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ties invoking strength and security. The 25-year-old female designer exemplified this conservative view: The state is something united, like a fist. The state . . . with its hymn, its flag, its emblem, its people, its culture, and its economics. But for the time being [it represents] unity. Culture is complicated, it needs to be looked after. (Kirov, 18) A 45-year-old male factory worker conjured up images of tsarist history: ‘I would like it if [life] were like the period under Peter and under earlier sovereigns, so that we could be proud of the flag and the anthem.’ (Kirov, 17) Looking past the Soviet period toward idealized Imperial Russia is common. People tried to deny what they viewed as the ‘artificially’ constructed Soviet identity and saw a return to a mythical ‘traditional’ Russian identity as the means to avoid hard choices about an uncertain future.4 This denial is a sign of the pain wrought by the Soviet regime. Two respondents referred to this pain: a 44year-old male mechanic made an oblique reference, ‘It is the whole system, the state. It is the judges, the army and it is the police, which set one’s teeth on edge. . . .’ (Syktyvkar, 16) A 32-year-old male student was more direct, ‘For the duration of 70 years an opinion took shape among us that above all else, the state is an oppressive apparatus.’ (Kirov, 15) The state thus has a number of associations for Russians. Reformers were more likely to hold neutral convictions. For most people, though, the state carries strong emotional, generally positive, attachments. Summing up this sense, a 23-year-old female student equated ‘Russia’ and the ‘state’: ‘Like Russia, only not now, but when she is flourishing, then we can say [it is a state].’ (Kirov, 21) For this individual and others, the state is not an ‘objective’ concept describing institutions and procedures: the state fulfils the role of protector while embodying the strength and unity of the Russian people. Government (pravitel’stvo) Popular views of the term government were not easily classifiable. Still, generally neutral perceptions of ‘government’ provide an interesting contrast with the normative views of the state. If there was a central point among the various comments, it was relatively direct: the government is the structure guiding the state and fulfilling executive functions ‘in the interests of the life of the community’. (Syktyvkar, 7) Beyond the government’s role in guiding the state, a


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traditional 23-year-old female speech therapist described a government of philosopher kings: ‘The people who run the country. . . . Of course, they are not [running it] for their own good, let it even be harmful to their personal fate, but [for the good] of the country.’ (Syktyvkar, 17) As a group elected to their posts, the government was expected to embody certain positive attributes. Composed of experts honestly and conscientiously running affairs, the government was viewed as the president’s helper. Within the disorder of Russian society, a conservative 51-year-old female typist argued, In the government there should be people who can all bring order, so that it would again be [possible] to put right our lives in some way, because we have come up against everything and we have such instability that we do not know what the government is doing. (Syktyvkar, 19) Collective bodies: summary As in any society, the state and the government have a symbiotic relationship in post-Soviet Russia. That ‘government’ carries very little popular affect, however, is to be expected when one considers that the role of the government in Soviet times was to implement the policies formulated by the Party leadership. Party oversight at all levels of bureaucracy tended to limit perceptions of the government as an independent political entity. For example, despite his rising prominence the government representative, Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin, was seen as a functionary, rather than as a partner, to the head of state, President Boris Yeltsin. In contrast to the narrow conceptualizations of the government, conservative views of the state explain the disorientation felt by many Russians. As if losing a parent, conservatives were searching for something to fill the void. Simultaneously, self-reliant reformers were beginning to flourish in the unconstrained environment. While retaining access to certain weakening state services, these individuals were also taking advantage of the opportunities now afforded by the absence of state controls, investigating business opportunities and enrolling their children in private schools.

Actions Political participation (politicheskoe uchastie) Political participation was a state-engendered activity during the Soviet period, but since its collapse political activity has been

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independent of state direction. Inevitably, concerns about economic and social subsistence have limited popular political participation in Russia. Due to a lack of experience with new forms of political activity, almost a third of respondents were unable to conceptualize this concept, providing a tautological (‘political participation is participating in politics’) or ‘I don’t know’ response. Thus, it is unsurprising that the remaining respondents who did express their views showed a measure of confusion. One claimed, ‘For me that combination of words is not entirely understood. . . . Here we don’t speak in such terms.’5 (Kirov, 9) Nevertheless, as shown below, this individual and others had a very well-developed understanding of political participation. There were two main categories of responses: (1) concrete participatory activities and (2) issues surrounding the participatory process. Concrete activities included elections, party and organizational activity, rallies, workplace activity and civil disobedience (in terms of not paying one’s taxes). Reform views focused on actions that covered a variety of modes of behavior, from the lowest levels of voting in elections all the way to presidential decisionmaking. (Syktyvkar, 4) There were more nuanced responses. For example, a 31-year-old male economist discussed participation as if he were a pragmatic reformer: It is the participation of some concrete figures in the political struggle. [Looking at it] in another fashion, it signifies life’s interests, of some kind of particular circle, and level of society. (Syktyvkar, 7) The 22-year-old male student expressed a reform attitude of the more entrepreneurial genre: Political participation is participation in those affairs that are important for the entire society. That is, political participation may be strikes, elections, or simply the hunger strike of one person. It is everything that somehow rivets the attention of the public and somehow influences the general situation. (Kirov, 9) Whereas reformer conceptualizations were relatively descriptive in nature, more conservative commentary inserted a sense of obligation and covered a number of issues. Topics of discussion included boundaries on what is considered participation, placing limits on


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actual participatory activity, and descriptions of the goals of the participation itself. A traditional 63-year-old female pensioner argued that there was a positive goal to participation: ‘Politicians and people who want to improve life. To bring something good to the lives of citizens.’ (Syktyvkar, 5) Two Syktyvkar respondents pointed out the popular role in politics. A tradition-minded 23-year-old female speech therapist stretched across conservative and reform boundaries: This is when each person has power . . . to bring into community or state affairs, like elections to the presidency. It is when . . . the little person, the working person is also able to change something if he wants, if he has a developed political consciousness, if he wants good for the country. This is when it is the affair of each [to be part of] the affairs of the future. (Syktyvkar, 17) A passive conservative 51-year-old female nurse said, It seems to me that if a person has something in their spirit and is able to say something to another person, he is able to participate in some way, in some kind of movement . . ., but if he has nothing to say, then . . . there is no reason to put himself into politics. (Syktyvkar, 19) Other than personal reasons for staying out of political affairs, some respondents mentioned certain legal issues, expressing fears that Soviet-era regulations continued to impede their capacity to become active members of the community. (Kirov, 10) Picking up on the need for Russian legal guidelines to replace old regulations, a conservative 45-year-old male factory worker argued, I think that political [participation] is a constitutional path that needs to be done. . . . There are strikes that need to be done . . . in the confines of laws. Thus, if there is a strike, nothing bad [will have occurred]. [T]here should be no shooting . . . (Kirov, 17) Past regulations may continue to psychologically limit some activity, but it is the lack of enforcement of existing laws that irks other conservatives. Echoing his earlier conceptualizations of the president, this last respondent discussed participation within legal confines, for he did not approve of the constant criticism of President Yeltsin. (Kirov, 17) Conservative cultural types envisioned some areas where

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respect for authority requires the limitation of political participation and, in this case, public expression. While the strongly passive conservative 25-year-old female designer could envision different modes of political participation (strikes, rallies, and so on), she argued that her personal ‘political participation should simply be patience’, although she continued, ‘from another side this could be discerned as passivity.’ (Kirov, 18) In line with passive conservative comments concerning the state and leadership roles, invoking ‘patience’ was a euphemistic way of expressing one’s feeling of powerlessness in the transition. Unlike those reformers who were taking advantage of certain participatory activities, whether in political, or (more likely) economic, activities, passive conservatives avoided opportunities for independent action. Still, some respondents linked participation to the personal need to meet subsistence demands in a society that neither allowed for, nor encouraged, many to be active beyond personal affairs. Such is the case when crisis conditions are combined with a fundamental shift from state directed activities to independently motivated participation. In the end, inattention to public affairs has not allowed a large proportion of the population to acquire an understanding of the concept itself.

Abstractions The next two terms, freedom and democracy, go to the heart of this investigation of popular hopes for Russia’s future. Respondents expressed the complexity of Russian society and the effects of this complexity. Freedom (svoboda) Respondent conceptualizations of freedom were almost universally positive, expressing belief in the freedom of thought, speech and action. The fact that conservatives also supported these freedoms shows the deep, society-wide dissatisfaction within the boundaries erected by Soviet authorities to limit thought and behavior. Rather than move on to a new era, the understanding and expression of freedom in post-Soviet Russia exhibited strains of thought reminiscent of the Soviet past. Some conservative comments alluded to the tradeoff of types of freedom as the negative freedoms of liberal democracies (speech, thought, and so on) replaced the positive freedoms of socialist society (guaranteed work, state provided medical care, and so on).


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I divide conceptualizations of freedom into two categories: public and private. People largely defined public freedom based on outward expression, or action, and the need for popular interaction that stems from it. These forms of freedom included freedom of speech, the observance of moral principles and economic relations. Private freedom focused on the personal achievement of goals or ideas without restrictions on private behavior and included the freedom to make personal choices and to have a private life without fear of state interference. As before, there were certain comments that bridged both categories while others did not fit easily into either. Discussions of public freedoms were dominated by comments concerning freedom of speech. A traditional 63-year-old retired female nurse bridged the gap between Soviet and post-Soviet speech regulation, ‘Freedom of speech is good. It is not [like it] was in the ’50s. Now you can say what you want.’ (Syktyvkar, 5) A passive 30-year-old female editor made a similar comment: There is the freedom of speech and the freedom of press. This is when you can say everything that you think and when you will not be afraid that somewhere an eavesdropping device is set up. There is no shadowing. (Syktyvkar, 3) An entrepreneurial 23-year-old female economist explained: Well, in principle, the freedom that I now feel is only in politics, in current freedom we are able to express our opinion, our views, earlier this was not allowed. If it is pleasing to me, I can be a communist, if it is not, I can be a democrat. (Syktyvkar, 8) Although a number of respondents in both cities echoed these thoughts, freedom of speech was not sufficient for all. Conservatives quibbled over whether Russians were free to take advantage of widening business opportunities and focused on the slowly developing legal foundation for independent production, sale and trade, and the lack of legal controls on criminal domination over many economic sectors. The laws were often unclear as to which business practices were allowed while offering little protection against demands for ‘protection’ money. While some cited issues of economic freedom in terms of socialist practices, others focused on the golden rule of liberal politics: ‘Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself.’ Yet, taking the more communal perspective of Rousseau, an entrepreneurial

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22-year-old male student argued, ‘Freedom is the ability to do that which each person wants that does not encroach on the interests of others.’ (Kirov, 9) 6 There were those who revelled in the arrival of freedom, yet called for responsibility in using that freedom. A passive conservative 40-year-old factory worker echoed comments about the excesses of political participation: ‘I consider that . . ., at the foundation, we have speech and that is the only freedom [we have], and I am a little fed up with [that freedom].’ (Kirov, 12)7 In a more collective vein, some traditional conservatives contended that personal freedom could not exist without concomitant awareness of society’s guiding moral principles. (Syktyvkar, 17) Perspectives on private freedom reflect a certain popular need to avoid interaction with the state to cultivate personal interests. Nevertheless, to avoid the state also meant functioning within the laws of that state. Conservative commentators raised a very Hobbesian, and thus liberal, notion of freedom: ‘I think that freedom is when you are able to do what is not forbidden by the constitution and different kinds of laws.’ (Kirov, 30) Various cultural types discussed freedom in terms of personal choices, as summarized by a traditional conservative 32-year-old female professor: [T]his is an internal understanding. Freedom is the ability of a person to sense his independence from his surroundings. He is able to personally choose a profession. He is able to choose a place to live. (Kirov, 16) To make these choices, freedom must include the absence of fear of retribution, a requirement that is particularly important for older generations who had to live within themselves for many years. Yet, to overcome the psychology of limitation, even when simply choosing to go to a movie or the theater, is not always a simple task, particularly for those conditioned to passive acquiescence to authority. With the acquisition of liberal negative freedoms (that is freedom where the laws are silent), the loss of the positive freedoms found in socialist society have had a certain negative effect on many conservatives. The 25-year-old female designer reminisced about the security provided under Soviet ‘freedom’ (see Chapter 4). Not only could she no longer afford certain social services once provided by the state, but her freedom of movement was restricted as crime rates increased in the absence of strong police protection. Although


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she recognized the acquisition of freedom of speech, this woman saw her life limited in these and other areas. (Kirov, 18) In this sense, certain freedoms were traded for others. Nevertheless, Velena Pimenova, widow of noted Soviet dissident Revolt Pimenov, argued that living in poverty meant little when compared to the benefits of free thought and action.8 For the older generation, Pimenova was an exception, however. More than twenty years her junior, a 40-year-old female nurse described the difficult transition for her generation: It seems to me that our generation does not feel itself to be free as of yet. Maybe, my children . . .[can be] raised in this fashion: you are free, you can do what you want in the limits of reason. Nevertheless, we are people with a complex of some kind. They told us a lot before: ‘Don’t do that, don’t do that.’ And, therefore, . . . I cannot feel myself to be free in all relations. Nevertheless, everywhere there is an obstacle. (Kirov, 7) Democracy (demokratiia) Views of democracy were also quite varied. Unsurprisingly, there was overlap with conceptualizations of freedom, particularly in terms of freedom of speech. Views of democracy carried rather liberal notions while also exhibiting Soviet influence. Conservatives did not always accept democracy as appropriate for Russia and also questioned whether Russia was, or even would become, a democratic polity. I divide comments into two broad categories: first, democracy was often described in terms of individual rights: the right to public expression, general rights, economic rights, and the freedom to choose one’s own life path. Second, respondents discussed the role of the citizen in democratic politics, popular power, and citizen obligations and activities. Interestingly, whereas Syktyvkar residents gave relatively equal attention to rights and civic roles, there was little discussion of citizens’ roles in Kirov. Conceptualizations of democracy were often expressed in terms of freedom. Furthermore, freedom of speech was frequently equated with democracy. In line with theories of modernization, associating educational and economic advancement with a rise in popular political demands, Russians intellectually moved beyond the boundaries of Soviet political control. For example, a 62-year-old retired male professor made a narrow comparison between Soviet and post-Soviet rule:

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I have lived my whole life in a ‘democracy’, but only today am I able to converse democratically with you. . . . [It is] freedom and the expression of thoughts without persecution. (Kirov, 24) Whereas the Soviet Union had long trumpeted its achievement of political and economic democratic status, it was only in the postSoviet environment, having acquired free speech, when many felt they had entered the age of democracy. Notably, some respondents who incorporated free speech into their definitions of democracy sometimes argued that the Soviet Union had been democratic: In principle, I never considered myself squeezed in these relations of democracy. I could speak as I wanted and earlier, it was simply different information that I received. At one time here one kind of information was received, and now a different kind of information is received. Whether it is democratic or nondemocratic, this all depends on us. Imagine if I were working in a factory, . . . if a person did something little wrong, then at meetings, at section [meetings], at factory [meetings], I nevertheless tried to argue my point of view. This ability to stand up for one’s point of view [existed] even at that time. (Komi, 16) As a factory worker, he referred to the ability to speak freely within the confines of labor responsibilities. While lacking the scope of freedom demanded by political activists, this example represents the Soviet notion of political participation in the workplace through economic democracy.9 The narrow view of freedom of speech, however, suggests that the general population had a very limited conception of democratic participation. The association of free speech with democracy was not the only right linked with the concept. For some passive conservatives, democracy signified the simple ability to ‘say everything and do anything that you want.’ (Komi, 10) The 25-year-old female designer said, ‘Democracy is when everybody can say and do what they want. Not fearing that there will be unpleasant consequences.’ (Kirov, 18) Perhaps reflecting the passive conservative disinterest and disdain for contemporary political issues, a definition of democracy that incorporates no sense of obligation on the part of either state or citizen emphasizes the powerlessness felt by many Russians. Overall, by emphasizing freedom of speech, respondents


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continued to downplay their participatory role in a democratic society. Laissez-faire views toward democracy may have emerged from false expectations about the benefits of democratic society, engendering disappointment that led some to claim that Russia was not yet a democracy. Such expectations may be a partial result of television programs and movies arriving from the West, which ‘cultured’ Russians often targeted as a sign of decline in the Russian culture itself. Judging by the types of foreign programming, Westerners should not be entirely surprised that Russians would be disillusioned. The movies and shows arriving from the United States fit into several types: (1) action movies starring actors such as Jean Claude Van Damme, Arnold Schwartzenegger and Sylvester Stallone; (2) mindless comedies starring performers like Charlie Sheen and Leslie Nielson; (3) fantasy love stories such as Bodyguard starring Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston; and, most important, (4) the ‘everyday’ dream worlds of Mexican and American soap operas such as Simply Maria and Santa Barbara, respectively. Cartoons also portrayed the fantasy world of Western democracy. Among the cartoons popular at that time, ‘Duck Tales’ chronicled the adventurous life of Donald Duck’s billionaire uncle, Scrooge McDuck. With the soap operas as the prime example, these programs showed a world of wealth and unrestrained hedonism. Whereas many of the less doctrinaire Soviet and post-Soviet movies eschewed socialist realism to express an artistic view of real life, these recent imports show a fantasy world. While Russians often recognize this to be fantasy, it is a powerful image of a West that the Russian government and society has been trying to emulate, often leading them to link democracy with affluence. A conservative 45-year-old male factory worker links Western media with Russian resistance to change: In principle, we only read and watch television. Specifically, [as shown] in the West . . . I think that democracy is . . .: freedom of speech, of course, this is so that you are not ordered, ‘you are not sitting correctly here, are not doing [things] correctly, you can’t go in there.’ I think that a person is free, [yet] a person should be brought [to that point], so that his intellect were free. I don’t think that this is the case [yet], especially here in Russia, [where] it must be done gradually. (Kirov, 17) Rather than focus on some ingrained Russian cultural barrier to democracy, however, others claimed that the problem lay in the

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fact that democratic procedures and modes of behavior had not yet been implemented in Russian society. A conservative 40-yearold female nurse discussed the state role, issues of order and her need for stability: It seems to me that we ought to live freely and submit. We should have laws by which we could live. There should be laws that we can hold onto and those in power should observe them. Well, in general, democracy should still protect the person. (Kirov, 7) A pragmatic 48-year-old male professor argued, Democracy is, naturally, the sovereignty of the people. But, unfortunately, for at least the time being in our region we are only learning, although a lot of people are talking about it. (Syktyvkar, 30) If conceptualized as popular sovereignty, democracy carries with it the requirement that the members of a political community play a role in community management. Respondents in Syktyvkar showed noticeably greater recognition of citizen obligation than their Kirov counterparts. This may be partially attributable to the greater degree of independence and responsibility residents of a republic feel in contrast to the more centrally connected residents of an oblast’. In linking freedom with responsibility, a passive conservative 45year-old female store manager claimed democracy is ‘[f]reedom of speech and press. You should not say what [simply] comes into your head, but what is useful for the country.’ (Syktyvkar, 2) Of course, the emphasis on responsibility to society clearly comports with Soviet-style democracy. A passive conservative 30-year-old female editor’s view makes the connection even more explicitly: It is a society where the socialist rights and obligations of citizens are observed. Where the constitution is executed. Where there is no arbitrariness. This is where there can be democracy. True democracy. (Syktyvkar, 3) Although direct allusions to socialist democracy did not dominate discussion, several respondents included political and economic dimensions in their definitions, in consonance with the economic emphasis of Marxism. A pragmatic 36-year-old male geologist said,


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It is a system of fundamental laws, the results of which are found in the principle of equal competition. If you are more intelligent and work better it means that you will receive more accordingly and live better. Although democracy does not exist in a pure form in any country. There is not any one country where there could be democracy. This is because all [the leaders in countries in transition] attempt to arrange the mechanism for the greatest profit for themselves. (Syktyvkar, 1) In informal conversations, it was not uncommon for people to combine Western modes of political organization with market means of controlling the economy under the umbrella of democracy. This may have been a function of two interrelated factors: first, Russians were socialized in a socialist system in which both economic and political functions were intimately tied to one another. Second, for Soviets the ideological alternative to state socialism was Western liberal-democracy, an alternative that combined democracy with capitalism. Echoing Soviet propaganda, a 52-year-old male painter claimed, ‘Democracy means that there should be rich and poor.’ (Kirov, 25) Thus, it was not uncommon for people disgusted with the Russian reform process to simply reject economic and political reform as one large, indivisible ‘democratic’ package.10 The rejection of democracy may also be tied to expectations that democracy should be ‘the implementation of majority interests into life.’ (Syktyvkar, 4) For some, however, elite manipulation of the reform process meant that reforms bypassed most Russians. A fatalistic 33-year-old detective raised issues of national character in doubting whether majority rule is achievable in Russia, ‘[Democracy] is for the majority . . . But we don’t have democracy and never will. Those at the top live by their own [rules] and those at the bottom live by theirs. Each has its own goal.’ (Syktyvkar, 12) A conservative 40-year-old female nursery school counsellor consciously recognized her confusion in separating Russian democracy from the Soviet version, perhaps underlying her disappointment with the Russian reform process: I don’t know, everything is divided equally. I think this, although [it was the same] for communism, everything divided equally. Yet, it seems to me that democracy [is a system in which] everything is divided equally. (Syktyvkar, 20)

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Underlying these multiple perceptions were further descriptions of Russian democracy in action as a competition for power between criminals, while the general population was being marginalized during reforms. Concrete results of reform and a lack of experience with Western democratic modes of organization and behavior muddled definitions of this abstract concept. This confusion had one 43year-old male mechanic hoping for a fantasy, ‘I would like the kind of democracy as [found] in the majority of Western countries. That’s it, I would like that kind of democracy.’ (Syktyvkar, 27) Abstractions: Summary Conceptualizations of these two important terms – freedom and democracy – effectively embody the formlessness of Russian attitudes toward contemporary political, economic and social reforms. Most respondents were clearly satisfied to have escaped the limits on freedom erected by Soviet authorities. Yet, this ‘escape’ leaves them uncertain as to what their roles and responsibilities are in the new system and, as a result, are having trouble constructing workable strategies of action. Conceptualizations of democracy manifested popular confusion in the face of media telecasts of images of reform, official corruption and personal living conditions. For some, democracy evokes feelings of powerlessness, while others are best able to construct their conceptualization of the term through employing images of the past. While there were those who understood the popular responsibility in constructing a Russian democracy, many continued merely to dream of a radiant future (svetlee budushchee) others would construct.

Conclusion The manner in which respondents conceptualized these terms is a broad reflection of the turbulent society and embodies the formlessness of contemporary Russian political culture. Associations with the Soviet past can be seen as an attempt to employ familiar cultural concepts to bring order to chaos. There was some differentiation of response to specific concepts by reform and conservative cultural types, particularly in the level of affect attached to those concepts. On the whole, the more straightforward comments were most likely to be associated with reform oriented respondents, while comments that carried emotional attachment (in particular to concepts such as ‘president’, ‘leader’ and ‘state’)


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were generally articulated by more conservative individuals. In this respect, reformers faced change more flexibly and independently, while conservatives needed guidance. Evaluative commentary was not the sole province of the conservatives, however, both groups exhibited very negative reactions toward ‘deputy’, but accompanied criticism with descriptions of a deputy’s representative role. Respondents were apparently able to compare an ideal view of a deputy’s role – a product of Soviet socialization – with more negative contemporary manifestations of that position. The most evident trend in responses lay in their broadly conservative bent. Despite the domination of the national political agenda by the reform policies of political elites, the large mass of respondents interpreted the environment from a conservative world view using their traditional tools. Most respondents could not take advantage of new opportunities and felt increasingly powerless. This feeling helps to explain the low levels of participation described in Chapter 7, rather vividly demonstrating Russia’s cultural divergence from the voluntarist culture of the United States.11 Part of the explanation for this difference is shown in Chapter 6’s analysis of Komi politics, where a large gap existed between the political processes of the elite and the general population. Although reform-oriented cultural types partially filled this gap, ordinary Russians lacked both the resources and the capacity to have much influence on the political processes.

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6 Activity and Apathy: the Extremes of Politics in the Komi Republic

Since this book concentrates on popular perceptions, the activities of political elites has been largely overlooked. By way of contrast with popular attitudes, this chapter examines elite politics in Komi during winter 1993–94. At that time, the political affairs of the republic were dominated by a struggle for power between the Chairman of the (now defunct) Komi Supreme Soviet, Yuri Spiridonov, and the then Chairman of the Council of Ministers, Viacheslav Khudiaev. The feverish political intrigue of ‘high’ politics in Komi provides an interesting contrast with the apathy of the Komi population and permits me to detail, at least in part, the contextual development of Russian society that confronts the indigenous political culture. A similar contrast is not appropriate for Kirov because of the lack of comparable elite activity in that city and the greater degree of constraint on political competition there during 1994. With a governor (then) appointed by President Yeltsin to guide the oblast’, there was no significant struggle for power taking place at official levels. As briefly described below, however, this would change with the eventual election of communist-supported Vladimir Sergeenkov to the governorship in 1996. Nevertheless, the contrast between political elite activity and popular interest in 1994 was not nearly so stark as in Komi. Yet, the minimal levels of Komi popular interest in the very active local elite underline my finding that levels of popular interest in local politics were comparatively lower in Kirov’s relatively sedate political environment. These contrasting levels of elite–mass engagement lead directly into the discussions of popular 134

Activity and Apathy: the Extremes of Politics in the Komi Republic

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participation and relationships with authority that follow in Chapters 7 and 8, respectively. This chapter looks at the competition for political power among local politicians, while developing the popular perspective on the changing environment. It examines the leadership struggle in 1993–94, providing a brief history of the relationship of the two contenders, as well as a more in depth discussion of the prevalent constitutional issues and how they affected that battle. This discussion focuses on Komi political developments during February 1994 (when I left Syktyvkar for Kirov), while also updating events during late 1997. It is at this point that more recent events in Kirov are presented. Elite politics are then contrasted with the effects of the political and economic situation on the Komi population, providing more concrete evidence of the impact the Russian transition is having on people’s lives through a presentation of locally collected survey evidence, as well as interviews with officials and residents of Syktyvkar.

The competitive environment Political events in the Komi Republic during winter 1993–94 were representative of the turmoil then afflicting a number of regions as local politicians struggled to establish their authority. In Komi, a relatively low level of competition between Spiridonov and Khudiaev erupted into a well publicized battle. Largely unacknowledged before, the competition between these two figures became public with Spiridonov’s 18 January 1994 release of a draft constitution for the republic. In addition to eliminating the Soviet-era legislative and executive institutions, the constitution was designed to concentrate power into the hands of a single republican leader. This meant that both Spiridonov’s position as Chair of the Supreme Soviet and Khudiaev’s post of Chairman of the Council of Ministers (often referred to as the Prime Minister) would be eliminated. Thus, whereas power had been relatively evenly split between the two positions before, Spiridonov was now challenging Khudiaev to a ‘winner-takeall’ competition for the newly created leadership post. While Spiridonov eventually emerged victorious, the process that led up to his triumph is instructive for understanding post-Soviet regional politics. The position of the Komi Republic in Russian politics differs from that of most regions; its republic status provides it with a greater level of independence than in the other administrative regions (oblast’ and krai) of the Russian Federation. As a result, the power struggle

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in Komi was more akin to national politics, rather than to regional politics. In fact, Spiridonov’s attempt to dominate the republic through the creation of a constitution providing him (assuming his electoral victory) with almost unchallenged authority, was not far removed from Boris Yeltsin’s management of the Russian constitutional process leading up to December 1993 elections. Like Yeltsin, Spiridonov determined administratively the contents of the Komi Constitution, including the dominant position of the Head of the Republic. In the face of the elite struggle for power, the 1.3 million residents of the Komi Republic were largely political ‘bystanders’, as they focused their attention on satisfying everyday needs, the fulfilment of which was constantly threatened by wage arrears. As a result, in 1994 the frequency of strikes and strike threats was rising in the coal mines of Vorkuta, and strikes were being threatened by workers in the oil and gas fields around Usinsk and Inta, as well as workers in the timber regions of the South.1 Overall, the two extremes of political activity – a spirited fight for power at the top alongside a passive population – were not encouraging for the future development of citizen-based activity. Instead, the practice of political patronage evident in the Soviet Union continued into Russian politics, as political groups and officials lined up behind the two main contenders for power.

The fight for leadership The makings of a power struggle Following the Komi Supreme Soviet’s approval of the Constitution in mid-February 1994, May elections for Head of the Republic promised a heated battle between Spiridonov and Khudiaev. At the time, the possibility for nationalities conflict also existed as several issues were viewed by members of the indigenous Komi minority (23 per cent of the republic’s population) as part of a continuing attempt by the Russian majority (about 60 per cent of the population) to expand its domination of the republic. The competition for power was further complicated by the fact that Spiridonov is Russian, while Khudiaev is Komi. The seeds for the conflict were planted in 1987 following the death of Komi party leader Ivan Morozov. Chairman of the Council of Ministers, Aleksandr Mel’nikov was elevated to the top party position, and Yuri Semyukov, Chairman of the Presidium of the Komi Supreme Soviet, nominated Spiridonov as the most logical replacement in the Council of Ministers. Yet Mel’nikov and Spiridonov


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were both ethnic Russians, which signified that the new Chairman should be an ethnic Komi. Long term Soviet policy was to place a member of the titular minority of a republic alongside a Russian representative. Thus, it was Khudiaev who received the post as leader of the government. Later, when Mel’nikov received a ministerial position in Moscow in 1989, Semyukov recommended Spiridonov to replace Khudiaev as the head of government. The experienced Khudiaev kept his post, however, after Spiridonov was chosen as First Secretary.2 Just as nationality issues had figured in the naming of Soviet-era officials, they continued to bedevil Spiridonov’s political rise thereafter. In June 1990, Spiridonov was elected Chairman of the Komi Supreme Soviet following a close contest with erstwhile supporter turned main challenger, Yuri Semyukov. While Spiridonov was victorious, nationality representation became an issue as the appointments of various deputy prime ministers were divided between the camps of Spiridonov and Khudiaev.3 The result was a government structured into two competing groups lined up behind their respective leaders, an initial division that would play a significant role in the political fortunes of the republic in late 1993.4 The eventual struggle for power exhibited interesting parallels to earlier events in national politics. Just as President Boris Yeltsin and former-Russian Federation Supreme Soviet Chairman Ruslan Khasbulatov had once been allies defending Russian interests versus Soviet authorities, until autumn 1993 Spiridonov and Khudiaev focused on defending Komi interests against the control of the federal government of Russia. In both cases, because of the common cause of the participants, conflict initially was limited. Whereas the alliance between Yeltsin and Khasbulatov gradually soured following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the October 1993 attack on the parliamentary building in Moscow that (momentarily) eliminated Yeltsin’s opposition was the catalyst for events in Komi. Dissatisfied with the lack of support from the regions during the October crisis in Moscow, Yeltsin recommended the dissolution of all regional soviets (councils). Spiridonov did not initially comply with Yeltsin’s ‘suggestion’. As the Chairman of the Komi Supreme Soviet, his post was in jeopardy; Khudiaev’s position, however, was not immediately threatened. Apparently aware of the potential for a confrontation with central authorities, and gambling on his comparative popularity in the region, Spiridonov tried to ensure his future position by adding a referendum item, creating the post of Komi president, to the

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election ballot on 12 December 1993. This referendum truly initiated the competition between the two leaders. While Khudiaev himself did not publicly oppose the presidential referendum, delegates to the Third Congress of the Komi Nation did. The delegates complained vociferously that there would be little chance ever to elect an ethnic Komi candidate.5 While it was difficult to ascertain whether their position affected the subsequent vote, the referendum failed 54.5 per cent to 42.5 per cent. Undeterred, Spiridonov declared the vote invalid, because only 47.8 per cent of the registered voting population participated in the elections. According to Article 32 of Komi Law, at least 50 per cent of the voting population must vote in order for the results of a referendum to be considered valid.6 Spiridonov’s juridical interpretation fueled much of the struggle that followed, as he continued in his quest for sole leadership of Komi. In the December elections to the newly formed upper house of the national parliament – the Federation Council – both Spiridonov and Khudiaev won positions as deputies. The fact that the republic had two positions to be filled signified that these two highly favored candidates did not have to face each other, and any conflict between the two was hidden from the public. Ultimately, both won, with Spiridonov winning 47.7 per cent of the electorate compared to the 39.5 per cent received by Khudiaev in a five person field in which voters could vote for two candidates.7 The constitutional struggle: ‘The cult of personality’ With the 18 January 1994 release of the Komi Republic’s draft Constitution, groups of Komi intelligentsia mobilized behind Khudiaev in opposing legislative acceptance of the document. They were dissatisfied with two major aspects of the Spiridonov constitution: first, provisions for a newly designed legislature did not include a second nationalities chamber that would provide ethnic Komi a greater voice in the Komi republic’s politics. Second, it created the post of Head of the Republic to replace the presidency proposed in the failed referendum. Spiridonov had taken quick advantage of the invalid elections and employed his strength as Chairman of the Komi Supreme Soviet to use the legislature (instead of the voters) to create a position functionally equivalent to the failed presidential post. Most damaging to the ethnic Komi cause was the elimination of Khudiaev’s position as Prime Minister, placing all executive functions under the direction of the Head of the Republic. Seeking to


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strengthen Khudiaev’s position, supporters in a group based in the local Academy of Sciences were heartened by what they viewed as a small difference in votes between the two victors in the election to the Federation Council. They sought to exploit this by carrying out ‘research’ that would show the minimal differences between the two leaders in terms of voter support. Yet, as the 15 February Supreme Soviet session to discuss the constitution approached, opposition on the basis of nationalities issues became less vocal as pragmatic Komi political figures realized the unlikelihood of a Khudiaev victory in the Spiridonov-controlled legislature. Opposition to the constitution, by ethnic Komi and other groups alike, was now mostly expressed on procedural grounds. Democratic Russia co-chairman Boris Zavialov argued that the four week period for discussion was too short. Further, Democratic Russia called for the creation of a professional, standing legislature prior to the acceptance of a constitution, arguing that the periodically active, Soviet-era Supreme Soviet was dependent on Chairman Spiridonov. 8 In addition, radical Komi activist Nadezhda Mitushchova contended that many ethnic Komi, whether deputies to the Supreme Soviet or other government officials, were afraid to risk their individual futures for what might be considered the principles of their national group. 9 Still, concerns for career prospects existed, irrespective of an official’s national identity; few political officials of any ethnic stripe were willing to risk their individual futures by opposing Spiridonov. Despite Khudiaev’s challenge, Spiridonov was widely expected to achieve his goals. As discussed in the Chapter 7, aspects of Soviet-era paternalistic party politics continued, exemplifying the actions of pragmatic reform cultural types. To protect themselves, political participants lined up behind personalities they felt could win, not necessarily those sharing similar political convictions. The legislative discussion of the constitution was quite mild. Several Komi representatives, such as Valerii Markov, Chairman of the Committee for the Renaissance of the Komi Nation, spoke out against the Spiridonov constitution. He proposed a Komi version, one which contained a second legislative chamber, a republican head and a prime minister. Legislative consideration of the alternative document was voted down, however. Breaking a long silence in public, and perhaps recognizing the inevitable, Khudiaev actually spoke of the need to accept the Spiridonov draft as a foundation, although one requiring major revision. Requiring a two-thirds vote for approval, the vote of 120 to 28 barely topped the required level of

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118 votes (of the full Council of 177 deputies) for accepting the document as a basis for discussion.10 More than two days of article-by-article discussion followed. At times the discussion became quite involved, especially over the issues concerning individual leadership of the republic, the second legislative chamber, and a requirement that the republican leader be fluent in both state languages, Russian and Komi. The language discussion was especially heated, although there was only one viable solution, as more than 80 per cent of the republic’s population would be eliminated from consideration due to their lack of fluency in the Komi language. In a clear example of political gamesmanship, Khudiaev looked for future ethnic Komi support in the (then) likely electoral leadership contest with Spiridonov by arguing fervently for the necessity of the two-language requirement. Spiridonov received strong support in gaining his program: all mention of language requirements were removed and a single leadership post was created.11 Furthermore, the new legislature, renamed the State Council, shrank in size to 50 members. Like the Supreme Soviet, however, the State Council was not originally designed to act as a standing body. As a result, much of the council’s actions would be under the direction of the Head of the Republic. Thus, confident in his victory in future elections, Spiridonov had contoured the republic’s political structure to focus authority on his personal rule.12 Consolidation in Komi politics The Komi political future remained uncertain. Yet, Spiridonov seemed virtually certain to win the position of Head of the Republic in the 8 May 1994, elections. As Prime Minister, Khudiaev had always received significantly less media exposure than the Supreme Soviet Chairman and was a much less effective public speaker. In spite of these apparent obstacles, however, Khudiaev supporters still held out hope for their patron. Khudiaev’s Director of Correspondence and Citizen Reception, Angelina Beliaeva, believed that Khudiaev’s experience as government executive would be recognized by the voters. Yet, she qualified her statement by claiming that Khudiaev’s chances depended on voter turnout. 13 By inference, Khudiaev’s best chance for victory required an unusually high turnout of ethnic Komi alongside a low turnout from the remainder of the republic’s population. Given the low vote totals for the nationwide elections in December 1993, it was probable that the turnout would be even


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lower in republic-level elections. However, whether the necessary proportions for Khudiaev’s victory would materialize at the polls was far less predictable. As for the legislative elections, it also seemed likely that the people of Komi would eventually elect a legislative body to Spiridonov’s liking. In fact, recognizing the overwhelming support he had received in passing the Komi Constitution, Spiridonov had publicly announced that he would welcome the return of as many as 80 per cent of the deputies in the Supreme Soviet to the new State Council.14 Furthermore, if the pattern of legislative elections were to continue in Komi as they had in other regions, the majority of deputies in the new legislature would emerge from the Komi Supreme Soviet, most of whom represented the old Party apparatus. Ultimately, the expected low turnout in the election for Head of the Republic came about, as only 35.6 per cent of the registered voting population went to the polls. While it is difficult to determine the composition of those who voted, it seems apparent from the results that the ethnic makeup of the voters was not in Khudiaev’s favor, since Spiridonov was elected by a landslide in the four candidate race, receiving 52.9 per cent of the vote to Khudiaev’s 34.4 per cent.15 During the remainder of 1994, Spiridonov would further consolidate his power. Drawing upon the Komi Constitution and the Komi Law on Executive Authority passed by the still existing Supreme Soviet in October 1994, Spiridonov ensured the election of a State Council largely dependent on his rule. The Constitution identifies 20 districts in Komi of regional/territorial importance (Article 70). Although 1998 federal court rulings have mandated changes, up until then the leadership position of each district was included in the executive branch (Article 94) under the direction of the Head. These 20 Heads of Administration were appointed by the Head of the Republic (Komi Law on Executive Authority, Article 32). Overall, the 20 regional/territorial districts are combined with 30 districts based on population to comprise the 50 electoral districts of the current State Council (Komi Constitution, Article 71). With an inherent advantage in January 1995 elections, 13 of the 20 administrative heads were elected to the State Council along with others who were, or became, beholden to the Head through ministerial appointments to the executive branch. In this fashion, Spiridonov created a dependent, rather than independent legislative branch. As one local reporter claimed, one-half of the State Council was in the pocket of the Head.16

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Spiridonov’s political dominance in Komi is demonstrated in two telling political events. First, elections to the chairmanship of the State Council in February 1995 clearly strengthened Spiridonov’s position in Komi. In that vote, Spiridonov-sponsored Vladimir Torlopov was chosen to be chairman over the opposition of Khudiaev. Showing how far Khudiaev had been pushed from the top of Komi political circles, only four of the 48 deputies who voted supported the candidacy of the former executive officer.17 Second, on the basis of relatively favorable economic conditions in autumn 1997, Spiridonov called a special election for the Headship on 30 November rather than wait until June 1998 for regularly scheduled elections. While clearly seeking to maximize his electoral chances, Spiridonov first had to convince the State Council to amend Article 82 of the Komi Constitution that mandated elections every four years. In this he succeeded. He also succeeded in defeating his main opponent, Communist State Duma Deputy Rita Chistokhodova, by almost a three-to-one margin in the popular vote.18 Just as Spiridonov has constructed his own political fiefdom in Komi, Kirov Governor Vladimir Sergeenkov has been consolidating power following victory in autumn 1996 elections. Showing the conservative streak of the Kirov oblast’, nationalist Sergeenkov achieved victory in an election that saw Yeltsin appointee Vasilii Desiatnikov fail to make it to the second round. In his first year in power Sergeenkov would assert his independence in opposing central reforms by ‘renationalizing’ sectors of local industry. Additionally, in pulling away from earlier liberalizing trends in Kirov government, Sergeenkov is mandating greater secrecy in oblast’ affairs. Perhaps delayed by the presidentially appointed governor during 1996, elite politics in Kirov have come to resemble more closely the political machinations of Komi.

Electoral politics and opinion Between 1993 and 1994, conditions in the Komi economy and social situation did not encourage political activity, or even political interest; like other regions, Komi suffered from an acute financial crisis. In large part because of the federal government’s failure to pay for the goods it received from the republic, workers in various industries (in particular energy-producing industries) had not been paid for up to six months. Morever, backwages were not generally indexed for inflation. For example, a wage from three months earlier


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would have lost 42.1 per cent of its value based on a rough estimate of the inflation rate at 20 per cent a month. Consequently, strikes and strike threats had become common in all major industries of the republic. December 1993 elections19 With the exception of the strike activity, concern over personal economic situations had produced increasing political apathy. In December elections, popular turnout was less than 48 per cent, as compared to officially announced nationwide levels of 54.8 per cent.20 The election itself had five ballots, four of which mirrored those in the rest of Russia, with the fifth concerning the republican presidency. Two items, the vote for the seats to the Federation Council and the presidential referendum, have already been discussed. As for the third ballot item, in a vote which represented the Komi population’s desire for relief from their unstable situation, voters overwhelmingly approved the Russian Constitution by a margin of 62.1 per cent for approval to 35.4 per cent against.21 This compares to the marginally lower 58.4 per cent who voted for approval nationally. 22 In the fourth ballot item, the seat in the State Duma for the 18th District, which includes Syktyvkar, was won by independent Nikolai Gen. A conservative member of the defunct Russian Supreme Soviet, Gen defeated the Chairperson of the Republic’s main hospital, Ekaterina Popova, by a narrow margin. Running as a member of the Women of Russia bloc, Popova eventually reached the Duma on the basis of the party lists. In the 17th District, independent Valerii Maksimov was chosen in another close race, garnering 34.2 per cent of the vote to top Communist Valerii Nesterov with 33.4 per cent.23 Maksimov, a former coal miner and Deputy to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, was a natural choice as the 17th District is dominated by the Vorkuta coal mines. Finally, the votes for individual blocs or parties followed the trend of the rest of Russia, with Vladimir Zhirinovskii’s Liberal Democratic Party garnering 23.3 per cent of the vote, followed by Russia’s Choice with 21 per cent. Women of Russia came in third with 11.8 per cent of the vote. While overall LDP took the first position with Russia’s Choice second, voting in the main cities (Syktyvkar, Vorkuta, Ukhta) saw the order switched, although the LDP’s totals still demonstrated quite strong support.24 The vote for Komi seemed to validate the often self-expressed cultural and political tendency of Syktyvkar

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residents to choose the extremes of any given issue. The conservative contenders (LDP, Communist Party of Russia (6.8 per cent), and the Agrarian Party (5.3 per cent)) received 35.4 per cent of the vote, as compared to the top three reform-minded groups (Russia’s Choice, YABLOKO (6.8 per cent), and PRES (6.8 per cent)) which received 34.6 per cent of the rote. 25 In this sense, the ‘extreme’ positions may have represented the unity of leadership that respondents described in Chapter 4. National totals were considerably more conservative with 43.8 per cent of the electorate voting for the three main conservative parties and 28.5 per cent voting for their reform-oriented counterparts.26 As for much of Russia, district election results could not be linked to the party lists. In the districts, the votes were for individual personalities; both Gen and Maksimov ran as independents. In the 18th District, the candidate for Russia’s Choice, Vera Kuznetsova (10.5 per cent) finished fourth, while LDP candidate, Valerii Zlobin (3.2 per cent) finished last.27 Thus, just as the two best known names in the republic were elected to the Federation Council, the well-known figures of former Russian Supreme Soviet Deputy Gen and former Soviet Supreme Soviet Deputy Maksimov were sent to the State Duma. Popular opinion Popular views of political processes at both federal and republican levels was one of disinterest, if not outright nihilism. As shown in a Komi-wide survey (1027 respondents) collected just before the December 1993 elections, the popular mood was quite negative toward the government and its economic reforms.28 While it should be noted that the questions presented here suffer from some of the same problems described in Chapter 3, the majority of the questions that I employ approximate to my recommendations that questions be directly focused on specific issues that allow for broader interpretation. These questions ask for information based on personal experience, rather than relatively specific knowledge about Russia’s tumultuous transition that cannot be assumed. In this way, an interesting collection of behavioral cues, in some ways more focused than those emerging from my interviews, becomes evident in responses. As is evident from Question 2, the effects of the economic reforms were viewed quite negatively and this is in concert with the interviews that I was conducting at that time in Syktyvkar. These interviews showed a system becoming polarized between a small wealthy class and an expanding majority, which viewed itself as


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Table 6.1 Opinion on Reforms Question 1: After the first two years of state economic reforms, what is your opinion of those reforms? 1. Reforms will lead the country from crisis 2. Reforms will deepen the crisis 3. Reforms will not change anything No answer

% of total 25.1 25.3 44.4 5.2

Table 6.2 Effect of Reforms Question 2: How have the reforms affected your life? 1. Improved 2. No Change 3. Worsened No answer

% of total 8.5 29.6 60.2 1.7

becoming increasingly poor. As to their perspective on the effectiveness of reforms to carry the country out of its economic crisis, the majority could best be described as pessimistic. What was striking from the interviews was the typical comment that, while the supply of food and other goods has improved, these goods were too expensive for the majority of the population to buy. One telling point was the number of responses that fit into the ‘reforms will not change anything’ or ‘no change’ categories for Questions 1 and 2, respectively. From my field interviews it was relatively clear that this response described a general popular confusion about the reform process, and exemplifies the difficulties in carrying out attitudinal research employing mass surveys. Furthermore, as discussed in Chapter 4, people did not always know how to compare their past life with their current one. As for predicting the future, people generally viewed their current situation as so unstable that they often stressed the difficulties of predicting what would be the following day, let alone five years from that point. Further calling into question the strength of mass survey findings (and to some degree the survey results presented here), much of the uncertainty expressed by the people concerning the future was reflected in their general lack of knowledge about the political/ economic situation. Preoccupied with feeding their families, people were often too busy to study broader societal issues beyond passive acquisition of television and radio news. On a concrete economic

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Table 6.3 Negative Reform Impact Question 3: If your material situation has worsened, what area has been most affected? (Note: respondents could choose up to two answers.) 1. The quality and assortment of food 2. The purchase of durable goods (televisions, etc.) 3. The purchase of clothing and shoes 4. The use of consumer services 5. The use of transportation services 6. Relaxation, entertainment, hobbies, etc. 7. Savings 8. Other No answer

% of total 14.6 21.8 19.1 3.2 2.8 7.7 9.3 0.9 20.7

level, prices of newspapers soared. Families that may have subscribed to three or four newspapers in the past were often only subscribing to one. Furthermore, many bought one newspaper a week in order to get the coming week’s television schedule. Thus, it was not surprising when uncertainty dominated the answers to Question 4. The situation at that time had people searching for some measure of stability. Thus, as shown by Question 5, people looked back to the past with nostalgia, many preferring the period of (openly admitted) stagnation under Brezhnev to the uncertainty of postSoviet Russia. Finding stability after the Soviet collapse was proving complicated. According to Question 6, it might have appeared that people were (psychologically) making the transition from a state run economy to one dominated by private business. Yet, this was not necessarily the case. These data are problematic, for it was difficult to know how consistently each type of enterprise was actually paying its employees and how strongly this practical consideration affected responses. 29 Although at one time budgeted enterprises (hospitals, schools and so on) had offered secure employment and consistently paid their employees, non-state enterprises had generally carried the possibility of failure that a state enterprise did not have. Due to the extreme financial difficulties in the Russian and Komi governments, however, as of December 1993 many budgeted enterprises no longer paid wages regularly. The non-state enterprises may have run the risk of bankruptcy, but they did generally pay their wages regularly. Given concerns about rising unemployment, however, people were likely to stay with their jobs whether they were consistently paid or not. A stable job was more important than a consistent

Activity and Apathy: the Extremes of Politics in the Komi Republic Table 6.4

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Popular Life Perspectives

Question 4: In relation to the transition from the market economy, how do you assess your life perspectives?

% of total

1. Favorable 2. Unfavorable 3. Undetermined No answer

7.4 24.5 62.9 2.2

Table 6.5

Preferences for Political Eras

Question 5: In which period would you prefer to live? 30

% of total

1. Stalin 2. Khrushchev 3. Brezhnev 4. Gorbachev 5. Yeltsin 6. Other No answer

3.6 4.8 44.5 4.2 12.8 17.9 12.3

Table 6.6

Work Preferences

Question 6: In which type of enterprise would you like to work?

% of total

1. State (budgeted) enterprise, establishment, organization or farm 2. Collective farm or consumer cooperative organization 3. Non-state enterprise (private, stock, joint venture, rented) No answer

56.2 3.1 34.3 6.5

income, as one could at least expect to be paid at some time when working. Thus, the state firm still appeared to many to be the safer choice. Yet, with financial difficulties and threatened bankruptcies in the state sector, this issue has become even more complicated than it formerly was. Local political leadership In my field interviews, people often emphasized the need to find new leadership. In failing to find these new leaders, they were forced to continue to look to their current leaders for solutions. The two most recognized leaders in the republic were Spiridonov and Khudiaev. Paralleling the structured interview findings, responses to Questions 7 and 8 show that recognition of certain leaders does not, however, necessarily translate into support for these two politicians. It was

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Table 6.7

Confidence in Political Actors

Question 7: Which of the Komi Republic’s political actors and leaders provide you with the most confidence?

% of total

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

3.0 2.0 1.2 1.6 28.7 3.1 13.5 0.8 46.1

R.M. Valeev A.A. Kozlov V.M. Markov A.M. Okatov Y.A. Spiridonov V.A. Torlopov V.I. Khudiaev Ya-E. Yudovich Other

Table 6.8 Preferences for Komi Republic President Question 8: Who would you like to see as the first Komi President?

% of total

1. 2. 3. 4.

17.9 6.5 2.5 2.6 70.5

Y.A. Spiridonov V.I. Khudiaev One of the leaders of the Komi national movement Other No answer

often the case that the Komi people would rather not support either. This became especially apparent when questioned about who they would choose in an election to the post of Komi president. As these data were from late November 1993, the winter 1994 struggle between Spiridonov and Khudiaev did not influence the results. The lack of support for political leaders, in general, and Spiridonov and Khudiaev, in particular, has several possible (overlapping) explanations. First, people were not very knowledgeable about many of the individuals listed in the questions. Thus, it was easy to give the vague ‘other’ response of Question 7 or simply not to answer Question 8. Second, given some of the comments I received in my own interviews, the refusal to answer Question 8 may have been a sign of the dissatisfaction some people felt that the issue was even being put before them. As shown by the referendum’s eventual failure in the December elections, people did not support the establishment of the presidential post. People in Syktyvkar often argued that it was not needed, feeling that the leaders were wasting energy on unnecessary activity. The fact that Spiridonov went ahead to form the equivalent post himself exemplifies the distance between political elites and the people. Third, as developed in Chapter 7, people


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were unwilling to make a choice given the uncertain direction of political developments in transitional Russia. Having seen the outcome of events in October, it was cognitively safer to remain neutral. Furthermore, in interviews several respondents claimed that they would not choose either of the two possible candidates as they represented the old Communist Party apparatus. People often attributed stagnant or declining personal living conditions to the lack of political turnover: government was still run by the Party elite. Yet, as few people saw any alternative among the new challengers, they continued to vote for incumbents. Staying with the existing leadership posed fewer risks than electing relatively unknown and untried political candidates. Additionally, by accepting the status quo option, conservatives were expressing a feeling of absolute powerlessness to personally influence the political process. People were caught in a ‘no-win’ situation: leaders were expected to solve the problems, although people often expressed little confidence that they would do much more than enrich themselves. Yet, without perceived alternatives, these same leaders were being re-elected. Ultimately, a broad gap existed between the actual processes of government, and the hopes and desires of the general population.

Conclusion As Spiridonov moved toward consolidating political power in the Komi Republic in his own hands, the ongoing struggle did not galvanize the republic’s population into political activism; the public, engrossed in the struggle for economic survival, remained politically inert except for strike activity. Ultimately, politics in the Komi Republic rested on two extremes. At the top level was the fervent activity of the political elite; and, far below rested the remainder of the Komi people, a politically passive population more concerned with individual survival than power politics at the top. The chapter that follows continues this discussion by returning to the interview data to develop a clearer understanding of popular perceptions of this political dichotomy, and of the minimal public role in the political processes of post-Soviet Russia. The chapter also looks at a related problem, the limited development of civil society through a series of unstructured interviews with representatives of various socio-political organizations in each city. Thus, after examining the other components of the model developed in Chapter 2, we arrive at an in-depth discussion of the output of these processes: the behavioral domain.

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7 Russians as Political Participants: Looking Away from Politics

So far the analysis could well leave the impression that most residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov focused on day-to-day survival and did not actively participate in Russia’s transition politics. Truthfully, with the partial exception of voting, respondents did not participate extensively, as they did not perceive the political processes as open to them. In this way, the people model the behavioral domain: their strategy of action is to avoid political participation and their behavioral cue is the perception that there is no access. As we have just seen, people were not paying attention to politics, let alone participating in them. Following a brief review of Western scholarship on modes of participation, this chapter shows how contemporary conditions mitigate against the expansion of popular participation. Soviet rule conditioned people against self-initiated, independent participatory activity. Contextual conditions have limited popular participation levels and have led to low levels of external efficacy (confidence that political institutions will respond to popular activity). Thus, expanding popular activity in the near term does not seem likely. However, the structural constraints that limit participation may mask higher levels of internal efficacy (the sense of personal competence). This behavioral cue could play a role if the constraints diminish in strength.

Participation in the late Soviet Era Traditional Western research on popular participation in the Soviet Union was often limited to hypothesis and conjecture. While postulating very different popular roles, the totalitarian, pluralist and 150

Russians as Political Participants

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bureaucratic political models were based on limited information. Thus, with some exceptions, it was not until Jewish emigration in the late 1970s and early 1980s that more ‘empirical’ light was shed on citizen activity in the USSR. 1 In concert with modernization theory, emigre-based research showed that education and participation were linked. Interestingly, with limits on ‘unofficial’ participation, the highly educated were most likely to be active in both unconventional (unsanctioned by the state) and conventional (state sponsored) activities. Those with higher education who were dissatisfied with the Soviet system were more likely to be participants in unconventional activity.2 Still, professional responsibilities led many of the highly educated to participate also in conventional activities. The emerging empirical research on political participation in the Soviet Union shattered the Western myth of an undifferentiated population. Soviet citizens had more complex relations with the state: they were not simply receptors of state directives who only influenced policy in the process of implementation. 3 In fact, research showed that citizens frequently contacted political officials – often a form of clientelistic relation. Education and economic status were correlated with attempts to influence politics beyond areas of narrow personal interest.4 Furthermore, internal efficacy (personal competence) levels were comparable to some Western societies, while external efficacy (government responsiveness) levels were somewhat lower. 5 Popular participation in demonstrations and informal organizations rose dramatically in the early 1990s. Yet, as the initial euphoria declined and poor living conditions deteriorated, participatory levels also declined. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs predicts that subsistence living leads to a politically inactive population. However, Soviet practices of forced political participation developed an externally motivated participatory culture, and collectivist propaganda did not provide the individual much opportunity for self-motivated participation. Dissent did exist, a finding that undermines traditional interpretations of Russian authoritarianism.6 Individually initiated political activity rose during the socioeconomic development of the Brezhnev era. Still, most political activity was still directed by the political authorities as the Soviet Union weakened.7 With the Soviet collapse, the external motivation for participation disappeared. From a Western perspective, it is ironic that more open political process did not generate greater participation.

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In this chapter, I examine perceptions of political and community participation. I find that low levels of popular participation and personal efficacy were generally attributed by respondents to external factors. Without state pressure to participate, the very existence of participants and/or those who could imagine possibilities for participation indicated developing levels of internal efficacy. Yet, signs of this development were dwarfed in magnitude by broad apathy and perceptions of personal political insignificance. I begin with a discussion of electoral participation to build a concrete foundation before examining more abstract popular views of participation and representations of personal efficacy. The next section expands the discussion to examine the development of civil society, leaving the structured interview approach for conducting unstructured interviews with representatives of community organizations in Syktyvkar and Kirov. The status of popular political activity in these two regions in 1997 closes the discussion.

Contemporary popular political behavior Voting Electoral participation in the two cities was comparable to the rest of Russia. That is, low participation threatened that the participatory thresholds necessary for valid election results (at either 50 per cent or 25 per cent of the electorate) would not be met, thereby allowing individual leaders greater influence. Spiridonov extant, for example, used the pretext of an invalid referendum on the Komi presidency to create the equivalent post legislatively. The inability to pass the 25 per cent threshold in several districts during March 1994 elections for the Kirov oblast’ legislature led Governor Desiatnikov to personally ‘validate’ the results for two heavily populated districts. Loosely tying his decision to constitutional principles allowing citizens the right to choose their representatives (Articles 32 and 77 of the Russian Constitution), Desiatnikov chose to seat deputies anyway. He also argued that 25 per cent of city-wide registered voters had participated and that further elections were beyond the region’s financial means. 8 Low participation and administrative manipulation of electoral results were not surprising for an electorate tired of frequent elections and disillusioned with their political officials. Paradoxically, respondents recalled voting at much higher levels than the general population – a finding also characteristic of Western


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voter recall. Twenty-four (80 per cent) Syktyvkar respondents claimed to have voted in December, with total turnout at 45.2 per cent. Thirteen (43.3 per cent) Kirov respondents recalled voting in March, far more than the 23.1 per cent turnout. Several factors may explain these discrepancies: first, as the respondents were chosen by purposive sample, those willing to invest their time and risk their opinions in a face-to-face encounter with a stranger were more likely to be politically aware. Second, respondents may have inflated their responses toward the more normatively accepted position. Some people approach surveys as a test and often respond with certainty despite actual ambivalence. 9 To respond that one had voted was more personally satisfying. Furthermore, a faceto-face interview format means one’s appearance to the interviewer carries greater weight, especially after years of Soviet socialization (perhaps developing a sense of civic obligation) in a system requiring that people vote. 10 Third, in a society overrun with elections and referenda since the late 1980s, recall difficulties may have led to the ‘safer’ response. Faced with day-to-day survival concerns, electoral ‘forgetfulness’ could be genuine. Whether or not the respondents were honest about their voting record or are unrepresentative of the general population is largely moot, however, as comments concerning personal activity in public affairs exhibited very low levels of participation. Faced with economic conditions demanding personal attention and a confusing political system that was perceived to be corrupt, people had no impetus to get involved in affairs beyond the circles of friends, family and work. Community participation: active roles Individual participation in public affairs was sporadic, indeed almost non-existent. For example, one individual periodically spoke with the mayor in Syktyvkar, another tried to meet the governor in Kirov, and one was a member of a sports club. Furthermore, a woman in Kirov set up an after-school program to teach children the French language and drama, while a ‘civil disobedient’ protested high tax rates by not paying his taxes. The most active individual was a founding member of a political research and activist group who also wrote newspaper articles about politics. He was the exception, however. In response to a question added to Kirov interviews, a number of respondents admitted to being members of labor unions. Yet, recognizing

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that poor economic conditions afforded unions little power, respondents had no incentive to be active members. In fact, the woman who had tried to meet with the governor claimed that her union activity had resulted in her premature lay off. The most active respondents were former Communist Party members, including the man who was not paying his taxes and the individual active in the political research group. Two female pensioners were active in the Veteran’s Council and Women’s Council – unsurprising as Party members were the best trained for organizational work in the Soviet system. Continued ‘communist’ participation has led some to the re-creation of past modes (traditional conservative) of political behavior; the durability of traditional strategies of action thus is displayed rather clearly.11 Earlier participatory experiences would be the ‘path of least resistance’, particularly with Russia’s tenuously rooted legal and institutional bases. The durability of past participatory patterns could be an important finding requiring further attention, and merits investigation at the elite level, as partially presented in Chapter 6. On the whole, however, the vast majority of residents in the two cities, whether former party members or not, were not participating in public affairs beyond voting and minor activity in labor unions. Popular inactivity Popular reasons for their inactivity are categorized along a spectrum of perceptions of constraint. A respondent feeling externally constrained might blame structural problems, such as too many choices of political parties. Or, a respondent pointing to an internal constraint might indicate personal passivity of character. In either case, respondents self-identify their capacities for employing – even the existence of – certain cultural tools in their individual repertoires. I begin this section by focusing on external constraints and then on internal constraints. Of course, there is also a complex, multidimensional interaction effect among these particular constraint variables. Confusion and uncertainty are the primary characteristics used to justify a lack of political participatory activity. Groups in general were looked down upon by some respondents, while others simply argued that there were no groups for them to join. The 43-year-old male cook expressed a broadly conservative attitude: ‘We don’t have any [groups] currently. And, they have not founded any new [ones].’ (Syktyvkar, 15) This characterization exhibits the external nature


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of group activity characterizing the Soviet period.12 Rather than proactive, self-initiated participation, people were ‘involved’ or directed toward publicly organized activity by the state. As implied by the cook, if the organized leadership (‘they’) does not form the groups for the populace, those groups will not come into existence. External obstacles were identified as the main impediments. People claimed they had no influence on public officials, as exemplified by the conservative woman who said, ‘I do not try [to participate] in any form because I cannot . . . even get an audience with the governor.’ (Kirov, 6) This extreme example, given the rank of the official, still indicates the perception that politics are closed to the common person. A traditional conservative 39-year-old graphic designer expressed a fear that may have been widespread. Viewing political participation as a ‘zero-sum’ game, this respondent avoided personal activity for fear of what might happen if his issue or political candidate were to fail or be defeated: It is not desirable right now to attract [attention] or to support somebody. To support some kind of movement while the struggle goes on for something. I am only occupied with my own professional activities. Nothing more. (Syktyvkar, 25) Framed by the Soviet political tradition (especially in a region once full of Stalinist labor camps), political struggles among the elites could act to deter a cautious population. The violent end to the parliamentary standoff occurred only months before, and the struggle for power at the local level meant there was much to risk by getting involved. To ally publicly with a particular official was to risk ‘retribution’ if that official were to lose. While retribution might not come in the form of a labor camp, or other extreme forms of political oppression, this was a time in which economic resources were being reallocated and being in disfavor with those who ‘win’ was not a desirable condition. Thus, many remained publicly neutral. Until the contextual resting place of a stable democratic political foundation was perceived to be clearly in place, most Russians were likely to be publicly cautious.13 The perception of constraints meant people did not actively pay attention to politics, focusing instead on personal, economic needs. In contrast to the atomization of the Soviet regime, where individuals were kept actively involved in collective behavior as a means

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of limiting their private space, 14 the post-Soviet focus on personal issues had atomized the population in another direction. By concentrating on their private space, Russians mimicked Hobbesian society’s strictly limited public life.15 The institutional structures and elite modes of behavior provided the context that resulted in a broadly collective strategy of action of self-imposed withdrawal from overtly political activity. Some respondents argued that they individually had few possibilities for public activity; for others, individual activity was a means for escaping the collective activity that existed under the Soviets. A 35-year-old music teacher said, ‘No. I don’t belong [to a group]. In general, I don’t like voluntary organizations. I like [to be my own person.]’ (Syktyvkar, 24) To avoid the formerly ever-present state, a 40-year-old nursery school teacher claimed, ‘We decide our own problems. All of our lives. [Specifically] my personal family.’ (Syktyvkar, 20) Where the state had placed significant boundaries on personal freedoms, post-Soviet Russians conceptualized freedom as the ability to do or say anything you want. Yet, this attitude often indicated personal powerlessness rather than the acquisition of personal responsibility. Unable to influence the political system, people eschewed involvement and tried to escape its (former) controls. Some respondents argued that people should focus on their work: if individuals focused on their own employment issues, then problems, particularly of the economic variety, would be solvable. The passive conservative 30-year-old female editor described her role in solving national problems: It seems to me [that the problems would be solved if] each person at their particular work place would be occupied with their own immediate affairs. If it were only like this. Together. I can only do something in my own specialty. (Syktyvkar, 3) By implication this comment expresses a Hobbesian notion that the solution to public problems should be managed by experts (working in their specialties) rather than through popular involvement. 16 In the Platonic view of justice, if everybody did what they were best at, the society itself would come to order. To carry this technocratic approach farther, the society that would emerge would more resemble the rigid Soviet system than democratic institutions.17 Thus, the behavioral cues show a remarkable continuity with the


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old system and indicate a reassertion of certain cultural tools when confronted by the reform failures. The lack of popular political involvement was described by some as a manifestation of the passive Russian nature. Like the 25-yearold designer from Kirov, a conservative 27-year-old female nurse characterized Russians as apolitical: ‘[M]aybe it’s because [personal political activity] is not accepted here. Because we are a passive people.’ (Syktyvkar, 21) Placing passivity on a generational level, ‘older’ Russians, some as young as their early thirties, employed their age as the excuse for not becoming involved. A passive conservative 45-year-old female sales clerk justified her inactivity: ‘I am not the right age to be a person actively engaged in public life.’ (Syktyvkar, 2) As described in Chapter 4, Russians who are entering middle age and beyond argue that they are set in their modes of behavior. In a world that is not of their making, they seem to be leaving involvement in public life to new generations. Russian development toward a civic culture depends on the correct constellation of many factors. Many respondents neither saw an opportunity, nor the personal need, to become effective political actors. Without a feeling of individual and group efficacy in political decisionmaking, political and economic stability will not result in productive, democratic modes of participatory behavior.

Political efficacy Perceptions of individual political efficacy were higher than expected given the levels of participation described in the last section. Feelings of personal influence were often quite narrowly focused, however, reflecting the ideologies and structures of the Soviet system. People were further constrained by the psychological limitations imposed by hardships of the transition, leaving Russians disillusioned with their prospects for influencing politics. The discussion of political efficacy overlaps and diverges from the discussion just completed concerning political participation. Yet, whereas the politically active respondents were basically a distinct group, political efficacy showed greater variability across groups. Respondents expressed higher levels of external efficacy in specific situations. These variable levels of external efficacy potentially translate into strategies of action that would include political activity in those situations where the higher levels existed. Respondents felt their highest degree of external efficacy as voters

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and workers. Voting was seen as the most effective means for expressing preferences in politics, while fulfilling labor responsibilities was seen to influence the political and economic reform processes – a probable carryover from Soviet perceptions of labor. In conjunction with her earlier comments on work responsibilities, the passive conservative 30-year-old female editor summarized the thoughts of others: [o]nly in the election process as a voter. As a citizen of Russia. I am able to provide my voice on decisions [concerning] some kind of problem or [as concerns] a particular individual. (Syktyvkar, 3) Isolated individuals have relatively little effect on political processes when solely acting as a voter. Thus, some respondents showed great disdain for the Russian political system, exhibiting low levels of external efficacy. These respondents claimed that voting itself had absolutely no effect on policy and, in extreme cases, even claimed that election results were fraudulent. (Kirov, 30) A conservative 27-year-old nursery school worker recognized a universal limitation on the clarity of the electoral mandate: I can only go to vote for or against, for the president or against the president, for the constitution or against the constitution and in this fashion I am unable to influence any [of the political decisions.] (Syktyvkar, 23) In contrast to these ‘minimalist’ notions of participation, however, reform entrepreneurs expressed higher levels of external efficacy: ‘Right now we love to [have referendums]. At the very least, [these decisions] are made by the people.’ (Syktyvkar, 11) There were also a few who placed faith in a collective ability to address political issues. While balancing his ineffectiveness as an individual, a 33year-old law professor spoke positively of ‘regular’ people coming together to influence the course of economic policy. (Kirov, 11) This individual exemplified the reform entrepreneur. While focused on his own pursuits as the legal representative for a mushroom importer from Germany, he was totally uninvolved in political affairs. Although he supported people’s right to participate, he was unable to express how they might organize to do so. His most important political issue was developing a ‘rational’ tax plan. Some reform entrepreneurs felt they could influence political figures,


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however, either as advisers or as critics in the press. For example, two respondents made light of their individual capacities to use the variable tools acquired through education and life experiences. As the son of local journalists, the 22-year-old male student felt that he could influence local policy through publishing a carefully researched paper on the environmental situation. (Kirov, 9) A 28-year-old male lawyer presented two sides to his ability to influence public policy, I don’t have many ways to influence the acceptance of decisions at the local and city levels through legal organs or the newspaper. I am able to correct this, [however]. Along with a group of particular individuals, I can correct a decision after it has already been accepted. (Syktyvkar, 4) This response shows low levels of external efficacy relating to the initial policymaking process, but much higher levels in the policy implementation or, in this case, policy ‘challenging’ stage. As an attorney he could legally challenge particular laws or policies. As a partner in a fledgling legal office, this individual defined realms of activity in which he could participate (and profit). The young lawyer described the citizen’s role in terms similar to those of DiFrancesco and Gitelman, who had argued that Soviet citizens excluded from the policymaking process could nonetheless influence policy during the implementation stage, through unofficial ‘covert participation’. 18 Contemporary Russians have the legal right to influence policymaking, but this right means little in practice in the absence of access to policymaking circles – whether through community councils or direct access to political decisionmakers. Without repressive enforcement mechanisms in evidence, traditional political practices set boundaries to popular input. Earlier patterns of political behavior continue to exist despite the adoption of new institutions. A 35-year-old music teacher described her situation in terms of de jure and de facto means of influence: ‘Formally, I can [influence political decisions] – elections and participation in any kind of movements – but in practical terms it is hardly possible.’ (Syktyvkar, 24) Thus, although some respondents saw themselves as potentially influential, many denied that they had the means to influence public policy. For these respondents, laws that theoretically provided the general populace access to the public policy process were not observed in practice.

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A lack of efficacy In stark contrast to Americans, the residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov predominantly emphasized a lack of external efficacy. US citizens have a distinctively voluntaristic collective culture that bolsters perceptions of external efficacy. Despite inequalities in wealth and access, Americans have an optimistic outlook that self-initiated collective action can influence policy from grassroots to national levels. Growing out of American individualism, this viewpoint persists even when confronted by the growth of American bureaucracy and the institutions wielding political power. 19 One need only look at organizations like Mothers Against Drunk Driving for evidence of this outlook. Even with some evidence (discussed below) of civil society development in Russia, with few exceptions the respondents for this study did not believe that their political system was open to popular influence. Confused and disillusioned with the post-Soviet system, respondents depicted an uninviting and unapproachable political process. A conservative 37-year-old female economist who had argued that voting was ineffectual saw a tension between a government responsible for instituting changes and a popular inability to influence these changes: It ‘is difficult to say [who can solve the economic problems]; if our political process does not change and the government does not help, there is nothing that we will be able to do.’ (Syktyvkar, 6) Furthermore, a conservative 45-year-old male factory worker pointed to structural impediments to popular access. He could influence national politics if he ‘were a leader, of course. And, I suppose, it would be possible to have influence. But the old structure remains. This is all very difficult. . . .’ (Kirov, 17) Straddling internal and external efficacy was the common description of the individual’s predicament in the larger scheme, as if a ‘grain of sand in the ocean’. (Kirov, 19) A 31-year-old male economist claimed, I can exert influence like a rank-and-file resident of the republic, not a participant in political movements because my influence is very insignificant, extremely insignificant. (Syktyvkar, 7) Several respondents offered this semi-military, or Communist Party, reference to the rank-and-file – a perception that reflects the powerlessness people felt when confronted by the Russian political hierarchy. This terminology carried a double meaning, however, signifying the


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need among the more conservative respondents to be externally directed toward public behavior. A conservative female pensioner looked to past practices in which city residents helped harvest crops at state and collective farms, ‘I don’t know what we can do. In the past we somehow knew: they send us, we go and pick [crops]. Now, I don’t know.’ (Kirov, 22) To be ‘involved’ in policy implementation may be the only way to influence the process and frequently meant the use of connections. While himself a conservative, a 43-year-old male cook offered a pragmatist’s view of political relationships: ‘[I can do] nothing, because in this atmosphere I am not connected.’ (Syktyvkar, 15) Expressing the gulf between the general populace and the political elites, others argued that status was the only means of influencing public policy. A 36-year-old male intelligence officer in the successor to the KGB said, In order to be occupied [in this area], one must be either a politician or a specialist who would be able to give his recommendations at the very highest level, which [those at the top] would be able to use for the adoption of decisions at the level of the republic or Russia; that is, . . . at any governmental level . . ., even at the city level. (Syktyvkar, 14) For those with a low level of external efficacy, the normal population neither played a role, nor was provided such an opportunity. A conservative 40-year-old female nursery school teacher who supported nationalist Aleksandr Rutskoi expanded this sentiment: They always said that it depended on me. No, unfortunately, in this country it does not depend on me. Or, on my husband. It depends on those people who have seized power, [those who] have old thoughts. They are striving toward the feeding trough that fed them [before]. . . . They do not think about me, about us, and we need that type of leader who will think about us. (Syktyvkar, 20) Seeing political leaders as corrupt or more concerned for themselves than the people limited popular perceptions of their own potential influence. Comments that placed the onus on lack of personal capabilities, or low levels of internal efficacy, were relatively few. The few

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comments along these lines cited personal passivity, insufficient education and advanced age. Respondents tended to focus more on what they felt they could control, frequently explaining their failures to participate on a lack of time or work responsibilities. Overall, internal constraints on political participation were difficult to characterize. In part, this is because the interview was not constructed in a fashion so as to probe for such issues. Furthermore, it is not surprising that people did not focus more on their own personal inadequacies; research in the United States has shown that people do not hold clearly developed opinions concerning issues that do not confront them daily.20 In this respect Russians occupied with personal issues of survival had not given thought to their role in the political and economic reform process. Despite the apparent obstacles to activity, however, there were individuals who were more active in political processes than the respondents. These people, functioning as active members of separate political movements and community organizations, developed various strategies of action in reaction to contemporary developments. Yet, these active individuals were also anomalous in several respects. They were clear exceptions to patterns of post-Soviet Russian political development and frequently represented emergent phenomena not clearly identifiable with Western political organizations, either. Perhaps these individuals were indicating a strategy of action emerging from uniquely Russian cultural attributes.

Civil society The political groups forming during 1994 in Syktyvkar and Kirov were small and ineffectual. Any impact they had was generally linked to their dependence on local political figures. These organizations often represented pragmatic reform interests and were led by individuals adept at developing successful strategies of action. They took advantage of what was given to them rather than focusing on a higher ideal (that is the environment, arms control and so on). In contrast to the patron–client relations cultivated by the pragmatists, organizations without patronage had relatively little political influence and comprised reform entrepreneurs or traditional conservatives. To explain civil society development, this discussion targets several political and community groups in each city. The groups discussed represent those easy to contact and interview, although I endeavored to interview representatives from a variety of political perspectives.


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Although these particular organizations are not representative of all groups in the two cities, they do raise issues that are broadly representative of those facing all groups in contemporary Russia. Syktyvkar Independent political movements in the Komi Republic were not completely absent, yet the movements in Syktyvkar do not offer an optimistic prognosis for the development of groups that are both independent of the state and willing to recognize the state’s authority. These existing movements exemplified two dimensions of Komi politics: the process of political reform and nationalism. Representing the political reform movement were Democratic Russia (DemRossiia) and the Komi Republic’s Public Committee for the Reform of Power (KROK). Exemplifying the nationalities movement were the Committee for the Renaissance of the Komi Nation and the group We Defend Ourselves. I was able to personally interview representatives of each group, with the exception of the Committee for the Renaissance of the Komi Nation, whose conference I attended. Syktyvkar’s chapter of DemRossiia came the closest to representing the independent political movements of the West, embodying the interests of reform entrepreneurs. Yet, by splitting into three factions in the period leading up to the December 1993 parliamentary elections, DemRossiia was also a microcosm of the chaos of Russian politics. Formerly united in common cause against the repression promulgated by the Soviet state, the lack of a unifying cause to focus the group’s efforts in post-Soviet society led to its division. Ironically, each faction embodied different aspects of the three more active cultural types. As described by co-Chair Boris Zavialov, the first of these factions was comprised of people actively campaigning against Yeltsin government reforms, actually bridging the gap between reform entrepreneurs and traditional conservatives. This faction strongly opposed the continued presence of the old communist leaders (such as Prime Minister Khudiaev and Chairman Spiridonov) in local and national government, and professed a populist ideology most akin to the positions of Vladimir Zhirinovskii’s Liberal Democratic Party. In combining aspects of the two cultural types, they were both pushing their own political agendas, while calling for a return to certain historical Russian traditions. The second faction was closely tied to the political fortunes of the Komi leadership, especially those of Spiridonov. In aligning

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themselves with such a powerful political patron, this group represented the pragmatic reform cultural type. Reflecting broader trends toward regionalism, this particular faction was critical of federal government reforms, while supporting the relatively independent path that Spiridonov was taking in opposition to the central authorities. In this respect, along with KROK they hoped to profit from association with Spiridonov’s anticipated success. Further, the third wing, which included Zavialov, took a position in between the other two: while not abandoning the populist stance of the first group, this faction shared the desire of the second group to continue to work with the local leadership of that time. Their more independent stance in the political reform process most closely fit the attitudes and goals of the reform entrepreneurs. It was this group that opposed the ratification of the 1994 Komi Constitution on procedural grounds, rather than on the basis of nationalism or ideology. Zavialov went on to argue that this faction should have been restructured and renamed; for, he contended, the title ‘DemRossiia’ had been discredited by the positions of the radical, populist wing. 21 Comprised of intelligentsia generally connected with Syktyvkar State University, the second political movement, KROK, was the other nominally reform-oriented organization. While advertising the group as oriented toward reform, leaders Dmitrii Sakharov and Dmitrii Litoshko (himself associated with the second faction of DemRossiia) described their function as political consultation rather than issue advocacy. 22 Like the pragmatist faction of DemRossiia, they met the criteria for the pragmatic reform cultural type. The group’s goals were to influence republic-wide politics through advising political candidates and, eventually, political leaders.23 Rather than acting as an independent political lobby holding and fighting for defined positions, KROK was dependent on the support of political figures for its funding. Sakharov and Litoshko considered themselves a political service, not a political movement; and, they offered election advice and services such as opinion polling to candidates they felt could win. This was the key. Instead of supporting those who held positions that were most aligned with KROK’s ill-defined notion of reform, they sought to build the organization’s influence through political patronage. In nationalities politics the Committee for the Renaissance of the Komi Nation was the most widely recognized group. Like KROK and DemRossiia, its membership was largely drawn from the


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intelligentsia, although many of them were also Komi government workers. One of the more vocal participants in the early constitutional debate, this organization encompassed aspects of both reform types: it pushed for independent interests and attempted to maintain alliances with powerful political figures. At the December 1993 conference, this group advocated the revival of the Komi people and culture. Yet, its members frequently depended on existing political leadership for their individual professional and political positions. Primary among the patrons was their ethnic compatriot, Khudiaev. The Committee leader, Valerii Markov, was also Deputy Prime Minister for Nationality Issues. Therefore, unlike KROK, this organization had an established political mission that was not particularly adaptable to the winds of political fortune. With Spiridonov’s victory in the 8 May 1994 election for Head of the Republic, and the eventual marginalization of Khudiaev in the landslide choice of Vladimir Torlopov to lead the Komi State Council, the Committee has lost a significant amount of political influence. Finally, unlike the other three organizations, the group We Defend Ourselves took a grassroots perspective in claiming to represent the interests of the ethnic Komi. Drawing its membership (which it said totaled 300) from the ‘simple’ population, it was the most independent of the four groups, the most extreme and the most difficult to identify with a particular cultural type. According to coDirector Nadezhda Mitushchova, the organization had two goals: first, it intended to overcome seven centuries of Russian and Soviet genocide of the Komi people. During this period, Mitushchova argued, the systematic destruction of Komi culture and the physical elimination of the ethnic Komi population, had been experienced. Second, the group planned to return the Komi nation to a position of self-rule and to overcome centuries of socialization engendering acceptance of Russian rule. Mitushchova admitted that they neither recognized the Russian nor Komi governments. Furthermore, they did not support the Committee for the Renaissance of the Komi Nation, because it was too closely aligned with mainstream politics. This disdain extended to include Khudiaev, who Mitushchova claimed had recently lied to them in order to gain the group’s electoral support. 24 While carrying some reform entrepreneur characteristics, the fact that We Defend Ourselves did not claim to recognize the legitimacy of the political system made them an outlier among the political groups. Their revolutionary rhetoric was more in line with the traditional conservative category, although they

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did not explicitly support Soviet tradition or Russian historical patterns. With the exception of the independent, reform entrepreneur Zavialov wing of DemRossiia, these groups did not comport with a Western sense of civil society with independent groups participating in the political process. On one side, certain pragmatic reform groups (KROK, the second wing of DemRossiia and to some degree the Committee for the Renaissance of the Komi Nation) were willing to work in the current political system, although they depended on the individuals in power for their existence. As such, they did not provide a focused voice independent of the state, and were not in a position to act as a popular ‘check’ on elite activity. On the other side, the most independent groups (We Defend Ourselves and in some respects the first wing of DemRossiia) were unwilling to work within the existing political institutions. In effect they advocated ‘revolution’ in Komi governmental circles and did not exhibit the characteristics of moderation and tolerance that characterize the majority of Western political movements. As a whole, these groups did not provide optimism for the development of healthy civil society. Kirov Interviews with group representatives in Kirov did present a somewhat different picture, although there were negative indicators for civil society growth here as well. While several of the same concerns (lack of funding and influence, and the need for patronage) arose in discussions with the representatives, there was also a sense of greater possibility. Whether this difference is a function of the groups selected for interviews in Kirov or due to the political differences between Kirov and Syktyvkar is difficult to determine. The organizations examined fell into three categories: women’s groups, an ecological group and political parties.25 Women’s groups Three women’s groups provide a broad view of organizations in Kirov and trends in Russia more generally. Like DemRossiia in Syktyvkar, they encompassed the spectrum of cultural types. The largest and most dynamic of the groups, the Regional Council of Women, broadly met pragmatic reform criteria. Director Ludmila Stepanova saw her group as the descendent of the Soviet-era Committee of Soviet Women.26 Stepanova claimed that the Regional


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Council was the group uniting all women’s organizations. She saw their role, among other things, as the defender of women’s rights in economic matters and domestic disputes, and even in the creation of a Mother’s Day holiday. Stepanova believed her organization played a significant role in supporting women, pointing to the 400 women who had contacted them the previous year. She was traveling to Moscow the day of the interview to lobby the parliament for legislation to cut women’s paid work days by two hours. 27 In contrast, the activities of the Congress of Soviet Women met the criteria for the traditional conservative cultural type. As an ‘opposition’ group, Valentina Sushkova argued that her organization protected working women in contrast to Stepanova’s protection of the interests of women in business. 28 Meeting in the one-room office of the radical Workers’ Communist Party, Sushkova proclaimed her organization’s primary purpose as the defense of (declining) social morality against the onslaught of Western movies and television shows. The relative decline in women’s incomes and their disproportionate levels of unemployment was also of concern. While Sushkova admitted that male drinking was a problem in society, she denied that there were any problems of spousal abuse that needed to be addressed, although her organization would be involved in finding a solution if need be. Rather than focus exclusively on women’s issues, however, the general goals of the organization were more along the lines of protecting society from Western influence, while agitating for a return to the Soviet past in alliance with the Workers’ Communist Party. With only thirty members in the organization, this group’s effectiveness was extremely limited. At the other end of the spectrum, the reform entrepreneur Organization of Business Women envisioned a very different role. Although it did have some interest in helping the community, this group had more focused goals as well. Consisting of a few members of the rising female business elite, primarily directors of enterprises in Kirov, organization head Tatiana Protopopova (herself the director of a toy factory) claimed the group provided a base of support and understanding for its members in facing the chaotic Russian business environment.29 Serving partly as a business organization and partly as a club, they were also in the process of setting up a hair salon for their personal use. On areas of broader public concern, they periodically met with political leaders to express their business needs and provided some financial donations to other women’s organizations.

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Clearly, these three organizations have very different roles, although the first two appear to be more similar in scope and purpose. Arguing that the Regional Council of Women was largely an independent group, Stepanova claimed that her group’s funding did not come from the state. She eventually acknowledged, however, that while they did raise some funds as an organization, the oblast’ administration provided an office in the central administrative building, a phone, press access and some money for a secretary. While most of the members of the organization were volunteers, the organization itself was closely connected to local political resources. An elected deputy in the oblast’ legislature, Stepanova worked in the administration as the Chief Specialist for the Affairs of the Family, Women and Children. In the campaign for the legislature, volunteers in the organization had canvassed door-to-door for her candidacy. This was an organization benefiting greatly from political patronage in the new system, befitting the pragmatic reform cultural type. The Congress of Soviet Women, just as clearly fitting the traditional conservative type, was totally removed from the connections typical of Stepanova’s group. Without state funding and other sponsors, this group had no financial means. Unfortunately for the organization, Sushkova had no ideas how the group might raise funds itself. Comprised of ageing communists yearning for the past, members were unsure (and unable) as to how they might develop a successful strategy of action in post-Soviet Russia. As reform entrepreneurs, the Organization of Business Women understood how to function in the new system and its members actively participated in promoting their political interests. A kind of female chamber of commerce, this group maintained close connections with the political leaders, yet had little need for state resources other than access to certain political processes. Despite her status, Protopopova expressed real nostalgia for the past and supported the continuation of state social guarantees, arguing that the state needed to actively control the development of business in Russia. Protopopova was compassionate; her primary worry was for the future of the children. How this concern might have been translated into action, however, was unclear. Ecology Claiming nearly 1000 members (of which 200 were quite active), the movement called Ecology and Health of the Vyatka Region (krai) was the most active and potentially the most successful of all the


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groups I contacted. Typical of reform entrepreneur organizations outside the economic realm, the movement’s weak financial and organizational situation spelled little success in achieving policy goals. Director Marat Frenkel’ claimed that declining industrial and state funding hampered the environmental movement. In fact their group had been formed out of several ecological concerns to combine dwindling resources. 30 The primary focus of the organization during this period was upon the safe destruction of the chemical weapons stored in the Kirov oblast’ and neighboring Udmurtiia. According to Frenkel’, almost 50 per cent of Russia’s chemical weapons were being stored in these two regions. Frenkel’ argued that only pressure from voluntary associations would result in destroying these weapons. Unfortunately, even with an active and respected membership (including scientists and doctors), problems attributed to governmental secrecy and a lack of money and technology were slowing progress. Because the local group lacked the money, knowledge and means to implement their plans, the high degree of organizational activity did not bring commensurate results. Frenkel’ hoped to ally with Western groups that could provide needed organizational knowledge and funding. A Deputy in the local legislature, Frenkel’ was searching for direct contacts with international agencies. Unlike the organizations discussed earlier, Ecology and Health of the Vyatka Region targeted a specific goal, yet one that was so immense that it was difficult, if not impossible, to achieve. Although well organized, the group was limited in its effectiveness by the lack of broader financial and organizational ties. Political parties Both reform and conservative political parties were developing slowly in Kirov. Where some groups could attract members with their relatively narrow goals, political parties offered a basket of policy positions with the ultimate goal of acquiring some measure of power. The parties examined here ranged from the staid, yet reformed, Communists to the recently elected Party of Russian Unity and Accord (PRES) and the enigmatic, almost satirical, Beer Lovers Party. Of these, only the Communists claimed to have a local following. As if to emphasize the changes to the Communist Party of the Russian Federation, Director Vladimir Kazakovtsev was also the director of a joint-stock company.31 When this (then) unexpected link between a capitalist enterprise and a communist came to light,

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Kazakovtsev took pains to separate the modern Communist Party from its Soviet predecessor; he claimed that the party had returned to the needs and desires of the simple people, ridding its membership of the political functionaries who had long dominated the CPSU. The Communists at that time appeared to be reform entrepreneur in approach, while more traditional conservative in terms of goals. Adopting a program designed to draw Russia out of its crisis, Kazakovtsev called for reform that would both return power to the people through the recreation of a system of popular councils and re-energize domestic industry. Further differentiating the group from the communists of old, Kazakovtsev claimed that new communists supported private property. Efforts to differentiate the Russian communists from the CPSU were not successful. With older generations dominating – 60 per cent of the 4500 members in the oblast’ were over the age of 50 and only 10 members were in the 21–25 year old age bracket – arguing that it was no longer their goal to be a mass organization, he claimed the modern Communists needed to provide a direction for Russia. The party’s poor showing four months earlier in the local legislative elections of March 1994 (in which none of the Communist candidates were elected) did not seem to faze him: he argued that one-third of the 48 members of that body actually supported communist goals, which included the continued state provision of a social safety net.32 Renouncing revolutionary means for acquiring power, Kazakovtsev worked for reform from inside and optimistically predicted a Communist return in the next local and national elections.33 Even without funding, beyond donations from local members and little access to the press, he was patiently awaiting the popular recognition of the Communists as a viable political force. Whereas the Communist Party of Russia had a foundation on which to build, PRES and the Beer Lovers Party had only been introduced in the region in April and January 1994 respectively; neither of the two parties had much of a support base. As two largely independent, fledgling political organizations, both groups represented the reform entrepreneur cultural type. Arguing that people needed to stop viewing politics in a hierarchical fashion, PRES local director Valerii Ostretsov stressed the need for people to start realizing their personal roles (self-rule) in guiding the government. 34 Contending that local political officials largely ignored political parties, his initial goals were to familiarize people with PRES’s program while involving them in the electoral process. With only 40 official members,


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no source for funding and no easy access to the media, Ostretsov was searching for an evolutionary path of popular political education and development. Overall, he claimed that people should stop waiting for a ‘tsar’ to arrive and to start solving problems themselves. According to chapter Director Sergei Bachinin, the Beer Lovers Party stood for a number of serious issues, although their approach to politics was to mock the system.35 Basing their platform around the characteristics of beer, the party advocated environmental protection (good water is needed for good beer), stability, tradition and the family, all issues connected to the love of beer. Associating traditional Russian vodka drinkers with the aggressiveness of Vladimir Zhirinovskii, Bachinin equated beer drinking with peaceful, moral behavior. Himself a former member of DemRossiia, Bachinin did not see the Beer Lovers Party as a traditional party. Instead he saw the organization as a club attempting to influence political elections and decisionmaking, rather than to nominate its own candidates for office. In essence, he saw the group fulfilling the role of Socrates’ gadfly in Russian politics: ‘as though it (the state) were a large thoroughbred horse which because of its size is inclined to be lazy and needs the stimulation of some stinging fly.’36 Bachinin hoped to strengthen the party by attracting 400–500 members by the end of the year. As the editor of the local newspaper Vyatskii nablyudatel’, Bachinin could attract members while promoting the group’s political causes. Furthermore, the party had relatively good funding as the majority of members were businessmen. Developments in 1997: status quo ante? Developments in independent political activity and civil society carried some cause for optimism in 1994. However, the relative lack of change – or even regression – in this sector by 1997 can only undermine this outlook. In some ways, ‘official’ policy recreates the limitations on political activity of the Soviet era. The retarded growth of political pluralism in Komi is illustrative of the limited development of political parties. Constraints on party formation – and independent political activity, in general – went beyond simple developmental inadequacies, however, to the juridical basis of Komi politics. First, Article 7 of the Komi Law on Executive Authority requires the Head of the Republic to suspend all membership in political parties or other socio-political organizations. As a result, there has been no naturally developing political alliances within a ‘presidential’ party, nor the

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commensurate development of political opposition parties. Instead, the Komi system has evolved around Spiridonov’s personality rather than competitive pluralism. Second, at that time the Head’s authority to appoint 20 Heads of Administration, who had a natural advantage in election to the State Council, contributed to this ‘cult of personality’ in Komi politics. Pluralist development was further dampened by the election of officials in the executive branch to seats in the State Council. Going back to the Constitution’s formation in 1994, Spiridonov was able to limit the development of healthy political competition by insisting that the State Council should not be a professional legislature. The body only meets twice a month,37 thereby limiting the institutional ‘competition’ of executive and legislative branches so common in Western presidential systems. The combination of these factors has led to a legislature much dependent on the executive authority of the Head. Another politico-institutional hindrance to the development of pluralism and political parties has been the irregular schedule for elections.38 The first election for the Head was in May 1994 and is scheduled to occur at four year intervals (1998, 2002 and so on) into the future.39 The first elections to the State Council occurred in January 1995 and are also scheduled at four year intervals (1999, 2003 and so on). Furthermore, neither of these elections coincides with the federal elections to either the presidency or the State Duma. In this way, there is little scope for political parties to develop a base and/or momentum for development in Komi. Given the conditions described above, the lack of development in Komi political parties is no surprise. During summer 1997, the local leadership of the political party Democratic Choice of Russia, Igor Bobrakov, and the socio-political movement Women of Russia, Olga Seviastanova, each only claimed approximately 30 members in Syktyvkar. Bobrakov argued that years of Communist Party rule had engendered fear of all parties, whether democratic or not. Furthermore, he claimed, democratic parties were particularly underdeveloped due to a lack of competition between parties that was partially attributable to the absence of local political officials from membership rolls. Additionally, although the Communist Party had the strongest local organization, their absence from official political power in Komi helped explain the absence of democratic opposition. Without a communist target, it was hard to mobilize democratic groups for action. 40


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The local affiliate of Women of Russia carried greater promise for the republic, however. Only founded in February 1997, the group had 400 members spread among 18 of 20 regions. It is concerned with four issues: economics, public health, public security and politics. The fact that the organization is not of a solely political nature may help explain support from the Komi authorities, including a two-room office in a government building.41 Furthermore, their social welfare orientation was not a significant threat to local political power. As an opposition party, Russia’s Democratic Choice is seen as a threat. Rather than take a neutral stance toward the party, Komi political officials have actively sought to eliminate Bobrakov’s influence on Komi politics – linking his party leadership to his affiliation with the local opposition newspaper Molodesh Severa. Thus, on two occasions the Komi government revoked his journalist’s accreditation. In both cases, however, a campaign by the newspaper led to his reinstatement.42 Interference by local political authorities in opposition activity is common across Russia and in Kirov as well. Similar to Bobrakov, Sergei Bachinin has been targeted by regional political authorities for his political and journalistic activism. Having partially departed from his ‘gadfly’ role as the leader of the local Beer Lover’s Party, Bachinin became a minor force in local politics, having run (and lost) the March 1997 mayoral contest. During the campaign, Bachinin wrote under a pseudonym in his paper (now named Vyatskii Nablyudatel’ 2) to promote his candidacy. Also during the campaign, local authorities purportedly attempted to smear Bachinin, depicting him as one of Kirov’s ‘godfathers’ in another local paper. In autumn 1997, Bachinin was arrested for dealing drugs after marijuana was found in his office. According to Bachinin’s deputy, the marijuana had been planted by local police attempting to limit his political activities and publication of articles detailing local authorities’ corruption. 43 As for Bobrakov, this was an apparent attempt by these local authorities to limit ‘unsanctioned’ opposition. A weak phenomenon Civil society development is often seen as a necessary component in the evolution of a civic culture. Yet, searching for evidence of that development raises questions of how long a society lacking a civic tradition might take to create such a tradition. Robert Putnam argues that in 20 years of Italian reforms in regional government, regions that had political practices historically based on traditional

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lines of political patronage – irrespective of economic circumstances – were more likely to continue along those lines. 44 With an even stronger authoritarian tradition than that of Italy, development of an independent civil society in the Russian case is in more doubt. While it is without question that significant variation exists in the opportunities for civil society development across Russia, the groups examined here do allow some means for gauging the developmental possibilities for Russia in general. Of particular interest is the degree to which these organizations were independent of the state, or met the criteria of reform entrepreneurs. While some groups did meet these criteria, those meeting pragmatic reform criteria were generally more successful, having developed strategies linking them to influential political patrons. While autonomy is not as important an issue for the development of a group working on social issues, such as the Regional Council of Women in Kirov and Women of Russia in Komi, the dependence of politically oriented groups, such as KROK, could have a detrimental impact on democratic prospects. Groups without any form of political patronage, however, were at a clear disadvantage in trying to develop stronger organizational bases. These groups were in the difficult position of competing for attention from the public, while that public directed most of its concern toward everyday survival issues. Of course, whether local authorities permit opposition groups to function at all will have as much to do with their survival as any organizational or economic impediment. There were also signs that augured well for the further growth of independent organizations. It is important to note that these groups existed at all. Regardless of their degree of activity or relative dependence on a patron, they are the potential for public activity in the future, activity that could become more widespread if conditions allow Russians to devote greater attention. While these conditions did not exist in 1997, of the groups examined in 1994 there were some that approached the political arena on a relatively independent basis. Most notable was the Beer Lovers Party that acted more like an interest group than a political party. Local communists also exhibited signs that they had dropped a number of ideologically driven platforms that guided the CPSU and were willing to peacefully agitate for the policy interests of their members. Given the greater organizational strength of the communists since 1994, both locally and nationally, it is open to debate whether that is still the case.


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Conclusion In spite of some positive signs for the development of a politically aware and participatory population, conditions in Russia in 1994 militated against such possibilities. In a society suffering from comprehensive trauma, the fact that people were constructing strategies of action focusing on their private lives rather than becoming involved in public affairs was not unexpected. Given development of local and national political institutions and processes, there was little optimism among respondents that civic involvement in public affairs would have any sort of influence. Furthermore, there was evidence that the very instability of the political power struggle kept people from becoming involved; people had no stable resting place upon which to develop an ‘activist’ strategy. In reasserting traditional political tools, respondents understood that there was too much to risk if they gave support to losing candidates. Many people had turned their backs on politics and were focusing on the issues that they could control in their personal lives. By 1997, although the political struggle had largely quieted (particularly in Komi), additional external constraints might prove an added obstacle to popular political activity. In many ways, the political practices of the post-Soviet elite extend from the Soviet era. Because the populace has such a limited role in policy making, the political future of the country will likely be decided by a minority group working in the interests of its own members. Given the alternative of continued chaos amid the struggle for power, such a course actually carries concrete possibilities for a population weary of its own personal struggle to stay afloat. Looking for external direction, the reassertion of traditional values could emerge in the convergence of behavioral cues and strategies of action that would be particularly supportive of unified leadership – almost irrespective of the direction that leadership might take. In this respect, important aspects of the traditional political culture are recreated.

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8 Russian Relations with Authority: the Call for Strength and Unity in Leadership

A people that has been accustomed to live under a prince preserves its liberties with difficulty, if by accident it has become free. Niccolo Machiavelli1 While 20th-century Russia differs from Machiavelli’s 16th-century Italy, the struggles surrounding the establishment of republican government continue to be relevant. As the unity of the powerful Soviet state has disappeared, many contemporary Russians have reacted against state enforced collectivity. As if old modes of community are anathema, individuals have focused on personal protection and survival to the detriment of the collective society. This has left the construction of the new society to the ambitions of the political and economic elite. Unfortunately, there is neither unity of purpose among the elite, nor agreement on the composition of the society between the elite and the mass public. In looking for a solution, the Russian lack of familiarity with instability found the broadly conservative population searching for stability, generally without ideological concerns, through the reinstitution of some observable form of strong central authority: for where the body of the people is so thoroughly corrupt that the laws are powerless for restraint, it becomes necessary to establish some superior power which, . . . with full and absolute powers may put a curb upon the excessive ambition and corruption of the powerful.2 176

Russian Relations with Authority

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While even most conservative Russians were not calling for the wholesale return to past practices, the perceived failure of democratic modes of government was leading many to search for a more unified and decisive form of leadership. For a population tired of experimentation, both Soviet practices and images of pre-revolutionary Russian political tradition were acquiring greater salience. Whether real or imagined, memories of a co-operative Soviet political environment became a powerful force in the face of the ‘corrupted’ Russian political environment. These memories have led people to call for the return of a strong state and stronger, more unified political leadership, able to carry Russia forward in a confident and consistent fashion. This chapter investigates the Russian ‘demand’ for more traditional modes of political authority through an examination of popular conceptions of leadership and the state. Returning to the focus on behavioral cues, I found that the long-term attachment to hierarchical and paternalistic modes of government had been re-emerging in public discourse, and had a significant impact on the way Russians wanted to be governed. I also have discovered, however, that certain aspects of support for representative institutions are intimately linked to this traditional attachment. Nevertheless, the Russian representative institutions that emerged out of the Soviet period were being pushed aside with popular disgust. Along with the Supreme Soviet forcibly disbanded by President Yeltsin in autumn 1993, many saw the parliament emerging from December 1993 elections as a continuing hindrance to consensus in policymaking. This perception emerged in a popular desire for the strong (necessarily consensual) leadership of an individual. To the dismay of liberaldemocrats, however, the rejection of representative institutions was a response to a system that did not appear to represent popular interests. Overall, contradictory popular hopes place in question whether the ‘super-presidential’ system developed under Boris Yeltsin is congruent with Russian political culture patterns, particularly as developed in the post-Stalin era. By separating the executive from the legislative authority, Yeltsin institutionally created a conflict zone in Russian politics that does not coincide with the need for consensus expressed by a conservative majority. While institutional structure is not examined here, the popular perception of the struggle for power in central governmental institutions was an important component of the fears and uncertainties that dominated views of society. In

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striving for a return to stability in 1994, residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov perceived their interests to be better represented by a hierarchical structure more akin to Soviet practices than Western democracy. This chapter is organized into five sections: first, I briefly examine authority relationships in Russian political culture theory. Second, the empirical analysis examines popularly constructed Russian leadership types and their view of individual leadership roles.3 Third, I examine popular expectations of the state. Fourth, I look at popular relations with authority through national level electoral results in Komi and Kirov after December 1993 founding elections. Fifth, I briefly examine center–periphery relations and expectations of authority across levels of government.

Authority in Russian political culture Political culture scholars often characterize authority relationships on the relative adaptability of culture. These views have very different implications concerning the future development of Russian politics. Anthony Cohen draws on historical, cultural practices and extends them into the present.4 While not assuming a mechanically predetermined end, many of these practices would continue to be in evidence. Whereas political structures may change quickly, the basis of political behavior will not. Thus, tsarist and Soviet history impact present cultural manifestations. And, despite a need to critically evaluate pre-Gorbachev era research, conclusions made at that time continue to hold a degree of validity. Robert Tucker and Stephen White drew parallels between the tsarist and Soviet political systems, focusing on the political centralization of each, and characterizing the population as a passive or subject political culture. They contend that Soviet citizens functioned in concert with the doctrine of democratic centralism, particularly the passive policymaking ‘role’ of the populace.5 Frederick Barghoorn claimed that Soviet citizens accepted their personal ‘subordination to superiors in . . . bureaucratic chains of command’ in which orders came from the top and local officials and citizens implemented them. 6 Even as the hierarchical view of authority relationships held sway, research emerging in the 1980s claimed that these relationships were changing. Soviet citizens were becoming more resistant to central directives and more independent of leadership. 7 The ‘new’ elite– mass relationship was linked to modernization processes and changing


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Soviet demographic patterns within the Soviet Union.8 Mass survey results from the mid-1980s showed sectors of the population pulling away from state-sponsored activities. 9 By the 1990s the Soviet population exhibited a declining attraction to hierarchical modes of authority and expressed affinity for liberal orientations toward authority. 10 Some argued that Russia’s movement toward democracy is based on a ‘latent democratism and non-statist tradition’ found in Russian history.11 The debate about Russian/Soviet authority relationships has been heated, perhaps best exemplified by three ‘competing’ studies described in Chapter 3. This debate raises cultural malleability issues, in particular about the possibilities for Russians to adapt to a more Western orientation toward personal responsibility. I believe that traditional, strong state orientations will continue to carry significant influence. While the changing elite–mass relationship significantly influenced the collapse of the Soviet Union, claims that contemporary elite–mass relations are similar to those found in Western, representative democracies are not likely. 12 Dissatisfaction with the Soviet system does not signify that long-term authority patterns will simply disappear with the regime itself. Although change is occurring, the euphoric moment of the Soviet collapse eventually progressed into broad popular disillusion, particularly as hopes of a quick transition were undermined by ineffective reforms. In his ongoing examination of political culture development in Yaroslavl’, Jeffrey Hahn saw an ‘erosion of support for democratic values’ by 1993.13 In a sort of thermidor, people have looked to strong leadership to pull them out of the contemporary crisis. Unless we accept rational choice propositions that human behavior and attitudes are quickly malleable to the environment, old elite–mass behaviors and attitudes surely continue to interact in contemporary Russia. Furthermore, especially with the hardships attributed to new political institutions, traditional behavior and attitudes are often reinforced, whether explicitly as before or in more nuanced fashion, for they provide the illusion of security. Ultimately, even if signs of a democratic tradition exist in Russian history, the strong authoritarian influences of tsarist and Soviet regimes are apparent in post-Soviet Russia. How Russia Votes by Stephen White et al. is a well-researched analysis into the historical and contemporary forces that are fueling Russian political development, and does an excellent job of exposing the volatility of Russian political reform.14 While this volume covers

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a broad spectrum of reform issues, White et al. also investigate several issues described here, particularly popular perceptions of political leadership. Much of their data is contemporaneous to my own, making for an interesting comparison. Overall, White et al. describe a popular leaning toward strong state authority, although they stop short of characterizing the Russian people as authoritarian. They find a population that is divided in its support for a political system based on either a strong president (25 per cent) or a strong parliament (22 per cent), yet with a plurality taking a position in which these institutions would be evenly balanced (39 per cent).15 Russians were also found to be evenly split on whether they believed a strong, decisive leader was more important than parliament and elections. Despite the still significant support for stronger presidential rule, however, they found that anti-authoritarians outnumbered pro-authoritarians by more than three to one. 16 Evident in their findings, however, was a deep popular uncertainty about the political system and widespread dissatisfaction with living conditions. Russians neither trusted President Yeltsin and many governmental officials and institutions – including the newly elected parliament –17 nor were they satisfied with their current lifestyles, with nearly 50 per cent of those asked uncertain as to whether things would improve in the future. In fact, a large, nostalgic majority believed that the socialist economy was far preferable to the economy of 1994.18 Nevertheless, respondents had little desire to return to the Soviet system.19 This varied look at Russian views of authority leads well into my discussion. While I support several of their findings, the qualitative approach of my research provides the nuance that is not available to many other studies. Thus, the findings presented here show variation of a sort that carry significantly different implications. In addition to areas of similar coverage, this chapter goes on to discuss other important issues, including perceptions of local political figures and respondent conceptualizations of the state role. Contrary to White et al., a large proportion of respondents in Syktyvkar and Kirov expressed a desire for strong leadership and a dominant state. Initially, respondent perceptions were in line with the ‘delegative democracy’ concept theorized by Guillermo O’Donnell to describe certain states involved in the transition from authoritarianism to democracy. During such a transition, the institutions and rules of presidential democracy are followed, yet the elected


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president is able to rule in an authoritarian manner because institutions, such as a legislature, are not provided sufficient authority to limit presidential policies. Occurring in a society with a tradition of weak legislative institutions and a severe socio-economic crisis, the president in a delegative democracy is given a constitutionally legitimized ‘free hand’ to solve societal problems.20 Russia has been placed in this category,21 and according to the interview data presented below, in the first half of 1994 conservative Russians appeared to support heightened presidential authority. Yet, there is an important qualification for the Russian version of delegative democracy: although legislative institutions are juridically weak in the Russian constitutional framework, historical patterns of ‘rule by the soviets’ and the underlying desire for these institutions presents a contradictory image. Whereas people expressed a tendency for a strictly parliamentary system, disappointed respondents looked toward individual leadership. Thus, out of continued formlessness was emerging a more coherent strategy. Nevertheless, both limited by context and shared political tools, the political strategy of action emerging in popular passivity lacked the dynamic basis of the civic culture embodied by American voluntarism. 22

A call for authoritative methods Respondents in Syktyvkar and Kirov expected their political leaders to be strong, honest and active individuals who are decisive while willing to work with others in implementing their decisions. While such generically positive qualities would characterize public expectations in many societies, Russian views were quite complex and often described ideal individual leaders as portraits of strength and unity. This section examines two qualities of leadership: (1) the affective criteria respondents use to evaluate concrete leaders; and (2) their conceptualization of the responsibilities of specific political positions. Leadership Overall, respondents were disenchanted with Russian political leadership in 1994; the majority of comments characterized the individual leaders in a negative light. Nevertheless, in the discussion below, the commonalities are noted – with data presented by White et al. concerning the qualities Russians desire in their president. Listed in their study by descending order in strength of popular support,

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the idealized president should meet the following criteria: highly educated, decisive, of Russian nationality, not connected to the nomenklatura, a clean personal life, male, never been a member of the Communist Party and a believer in God.23 The capabilities of the individual leader were the most common characteristics discussed. Unsurprisingly, respondents maintained that politicians need to be intelligent (umnyi) and competent (kompetentnyi, gramotnyi), often claiming that certain contemporary politicians lacked these characteristics. A conservative 41-year-old unemployed woman said, ‘I am not impressed by [Mayor] Mikheev. He is like Yeltsin, our Mikheev, clearly not a bad person, a family man, and so on, but he does not solve anything.’ (Kirov, 6) Respondents concerned about corruption also hoped their politicians would be virtuous: someone in whom they could trust, respect or hold a belief in his/her good intentions. A marked trend among these concerns emerged in strong negative feelings, even antipathy, toward the politicians. Requiring that leadership build a stable base for the society to advance, many respondents called for a decisive leader and argued that leaders at that time were indecisive and/or weak. Overall, leaders needed to exhibit certain personal characteristics to garner popular support. Beyond being honest, fair and reliable, some argued that a positive image of a politician’s interpersonal relationships was important; and, the majority of those looking for that image described contemporary politicians as uncultured boors. A conservative 38-year-old female teacher argued that Kirov Mayor Mikheev needed to behave in a more cultured fashion, and have greater ‘internal culture’. (Kirov, 19) Such descriptions include the boorishness of a politician’s rhetoric and behavior, as in the case of Yeltsin’s periodic public inebriation. Concerns about a politician’s public behavior often focused on nationalist Vladimir Zhirinovskii, who was described variously as psychologically ill, a fascist and an adventurist. Furthermore, both he and Aleksandr Rutskoi were negatively described as crude soldiers (soldafon) or dismissed for being too militaristic, as expressed by a 52-year-old female professor, characterizing Rutskoi as ‘a soldier. And, I do not think that a soldier should be president.’ (Kirov, 30) Expectations of the future were accompanied by and clouded by a rejection of the past. While a few respondents called for progressive, forward-looking leadership, the larger trend exhibited concern


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that politicians fulfil their promises. While not necessarily harkening back to Soviet 5-year plans, people hoped politicians would be personally more accountable for their lofty promises and exaggerated political rhetoric. Still, some did express a conservative desire for a definite deadline to reforms. They referred to a discarded reform plan from the late Gorbachev era: . . . that program ‘500 Days’ when I personally learned a little about it, I thought that the program was good. (Kirov, 5) Well, [Yavlinskii] is very highly educated in economics. I liked his 500 Days program, which he prepared with others in its time. I consider that it was for nothing that they refused this program. (Kirov, 6)24 Given Kirov’s industrial base, concerns about effective planning and management were more acute than in Syktyvkar, where raw material production was less dependent on central policy. Yet, the clear goals of the plan mirrored the defined 5-year plans. In this vein, Michael Urban discusses the tendency to embrace sweeping, absolute solutions that dissolve practical problems and real responsibilities, and a counter tendency to discard these same solutions just as readily as they were embraced when individual utilities so dictated, because their actual function has never been to compel belief but to provide a hiding place for the self. 25 A large number of comments concerning desirable leadership characteristics were immediately dismissive of individuals who were tainted by contemporary or past Communist affiliation. While rarely receiving positive evaluations in any case, Communist Party of Russia leader Genadii Zyuganov was rejected by some simply on the basis of his continued Communist affiliation: ‘We already lived our fill under the communists, and I do not want to return to [that system]. Zyuganov is totally responsible for this [possibility].’ (Kirov 7) Apparently, carrying the Communist label in 1994 may have been all that was necessary to disqualify a candidate. Urban succinctly describes how Russians construct their identity in contending with Soviet failures:

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For one’s own association with the discredited past, one’s own responsibility for the calamity that has befallen Russia, can be canceled via the projection of past/discarded identity onto the other. The exculpation would be then completed by the other’s annihilation. 26 The denigration of many Communist officials raises contradictory images. On the one hand, respondents, and Russians in general, have expressed a particularly high level of intolerance for particular political groups and positions, including the Communists.27 On the other, conservatives and reformers were also nostalgic for conditions under the Soviets.28 Nevertheless, in consonance with White et al., few respondents recommended a return to the Soviet system. 29 Communist affiliation is a complex variable as so many contemporary leaders were at one time Communist Party members. Oddly, Yeltsin’s and Chernomyrdin’s Communist pasts were rarely discussed. A conservative 40-year-old male technician remarked, ‘They are all, as they say, “communists” [who are all] now “democrats”, nothing has changed. . . .’ (Syktyvkar, 9) Those who had rejected their past leaders, were in the paradoxical situation of having to choose from among them for current leadership. Exemplifying confusion in Russian politics, the rejection of what was outwardly Communist, like failed political leaders, by no means signified that Russians had rejected earlier values and ideals. The values ascribed to leadership do project a relatively simple set of hopes and expectations. Competence and intelligence should be manifested in action, in a fair and honest fashion. Instead of the uncultured behavior and corrupt practices newly publicized in Russian politics, Russians desired a strong leader of whom they could be proud in the realm of both domestic and international political affairs. For Russians accustomed to a flattering representation of Soviet political leaders, expanding media coverage of post-Soviet political behavior proved to be a shock. 30 As a result, the desire for a decisive and reliable leader, already heightened by the hardships that had arisen since Gorbachev began the reform process, were being further heightened by the Russian media portrayal of the political crisis. Stressing the balance between strength of will in leadership and collegiality that has been attributed to Soviet management theory, 31 a traditional conservative retired factory head and former Party member described her ideal president:

Russian Relations with Authority Table 8.1

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Political functions

SYKTYVKAR

What do the following terms mean?

What should politicians be engaged in at the following levels of the state?

President Deputy

National: Russian President Russian Parliamentary Deputy Local: Komi Supreme Soviet Chairman Head of the Komi Government Mayor of Syktyvkar

KIROV

President Deputy

National: Russian President Russian Parliamentary Deputy Local: Governor of Kirov Mayor of Kirov

That person should be well-rounded: cultured, intelligent, prepared for professional work, . . . work experience, demanding, kind, iron-willed and this person ought to be genial. Not of this world. (Kirov, 26) Aspects of this comment underlined Russian hopes for a leader: that person should exhibit strength of decision and a willingness to work co-operatively in policy formation and implementation. Leadership functions The public understanding of the functions to be fulfilled by specific leadership positions on local and national levels has broad significance. In contrast to the discussion above, responses to my questions carried less emotional energy. Table 8.1 contains the primary terms and functions employed in this analysis. Because of the differing political structures in a Republic and an oblast’, the particular posts are somewhat different for each locality. Furthermore, where appropriate, comments have been drawn from other sections of the interview, as indirect questions often produce the most productive responses. Executive positions include all terms and questions presented in Table 8.1, with the exception of ‘Deputy’ and ‘Russian Parliamentary Deputy’. This discussion is separated into three

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parts: (1) expectations of executives; (2) expectations of legislators; and, (3) comparative analysis of these expectations, including an examination of the cultural underpinnings for Russian delegative democracy. Executive positions The differences between the Kirov oblast’ and Komi Republic in the Russian political hierarchy emerged in varying responses. In general, the citizens of Kirov were more desirous of an authoritative, if not authoritarian, leader. Still, a majority of respondents in both cities expressed a preference for a decisive leader who could provide leadership largely independent of other political institutions. This finding is in contrast to contentions that Russians generally preferred a balance between the president and parliament.32 Comments ranged from the extreme to the more moderate and described past, rather than ‘present’, ideals. A conservative 32-year-old male factory worker proposed a solution to Russia’s problems: I think that we need a strong dictatorship. . . . This is because Russia has always been supported in this way, only by . . ., you could say, by the Tsar, by the monarchy. And Stalin also . . . supported everybody with the fist. (Kirov, 4) Broadly in line with the White et al. findings, this type of comment expresses a minority opinion, although a minority that was not insignificant. Meanwhile, a 44-year-old reformer was more measured: ‘The problem [in Russia] is a problem of power. . . . We need the kind of ruler who could help carry the country out from chaos and difficulty.’ (Syktyvkar, 16) As a mechanic in a co-operative enterprise, this individual was profiting from the new system. Nevertheless, in trying to plan for the future the unstable environment could not guarantee continued good fortune. As for many businesses, future success required stable laws and policies. Ultimately, support for a stronger leader and negative perceptions of many of President Yeltsin’s challengers did not necessarily transfer to support for Yeltsin himself. Instead, as described above, there was definite concern about some of the behavior and character of President Yeltsin. In fact, White et al. found popular distrust in the President. Trust would continue to decline following Yeltsin’s December 1994 decision to forcibly bring the rebels in Chechenya into line. 33 While Yeltsin’s reelection in 1996 may be seen as a rise


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in public confidence in the President, his success may be more a result of even lower levels of confidence in the main challengers. Overall, it was difficult for any specific candidate to meet the idealized expectations of leadership found in the populace’s shared political tools, particularly when confronted with continuing economic decline and political struggle. The differences between the two cities become apparent when comments are more closely examined. Of the respondents describing strong leadership preferences in Syktyvkar, one-third referred to the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet in Komi, although the remainder still focused on the Russian presidency. In Kirov, however, the interest in a strong leader was almost exclusively directed toward the Russian President, with almost no discussion (5 per cent) of the Governor. Komi’s quasi-independence from the center helped explain the differences and signified a certain shift in attention away from the center toward the most senior local leader. Of course, respondents in Kirov did not (and may still not) have a clear image of the Governor’s responsibilities given the position’s recent addition (1991) to the political system. Furthermore, although Desiatnikov had served as Governor for over two years at the time of the interviews, Spiridonov and Khudiaev had been active at the top reaches of Komi Communist Party politics since the mid-1980s. Hence, it was easier for Komi residents to place confidence in local leadership than it was for their counterparts in Kirov. Even more revealing than the almost single-minded focus of Kirov residents on the presidency was the varying degree to which respondents in both cities described the need for executives to be co-operative and work within their functional limits (as a member of a hierarchical organization). A passive conservative 30-year-old female editor said, The basic role is state guidance. The president is out to fulfill this both internally and externally. His principal function is [to make sure] the laws are executed, keeping abreast of the legislation, and the execution of that legislation. Making sure the constitution is followed. The Constitution is our fundamental law. This is, of course, most important. (Syktyvkar, 3) Whereas respondents in Syktyvkar were more likely to describe executives as members working within the limits and functions of a larger entity, in Kirov respondents were far less likely to place

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limits on a hypothetical leader at the top of Russian politics. Yet, rather than explaining Kirov as less oriented toward political consensus, the support of Kirov respondents for strong central leadership was an affirmation of this support through hierarchical government. Ultimately, the acuteness of the local economic crisis magnified Kirov’s dependence on the guidance of a strong, unconstrained personality at the head of the Russian state. Several respondents envisioned the position of the Komi Supreme Soviet Chairman to be endowed with quasi-presidential powers. However, through the popular rejection of a December 1993 referendum designed to create a local presidency, Komi residents showed that they were not interested in disrupting the center–periphery relationship. In fact, a number of Syktyvkar respondents did place limitations on the Chairman’s functions. This was further emphasized by the lack of independence ascribed to the Head of the Komi government (Khudiaev) and Syktyvkar’s mayor, for not a single respondent described either as an independent figure. These figures were described less as the makers of policy than as the implementers. Local politicians were frequently labeled as interdependent participants in the hierarchical Russian political system. Furthermore, several respondents in Syktyvkar described their local politicians as bureaucrats exhibiting links to democratic centralism. Many expected these individuals to implement the policy that was handed down from above, often the only degree to which decisionmaking powers were delegated from central to regional authorities during the Soviet era. 34 In this sense, the hierarchical structure represents both the decisiveness and consensus of the past system. As for many Americans, Russians often expected local officials to carry out housekeeping chores, such as public works, rather than make local policy. It was when local politicians in post-Soviet Russia failed to achieve their tasks that the people were especially disappointed. For, even as the Soviet system declined, it was more efficient than its post-communist political descendent. Fitting well into the ‘housekeeper’ categorization, one general trend was the expectation that benevolent political leaders would care for and protect the people. Such a broadly conservative, dependent attitude existed following more than 70 years in which the Party was unwilling to relinquish its vanguard position. Because much of the Soviet administrative structure still existed, many continued to cling to past expectations and expressed affinity for the leadership’s caretaker role. A majority of respondents in both cities called for


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particular political figures to take care of the population. Furthermore, respondents became more specific in their discussion of public need as they descended down the levels of leadership. Whereas the president was deemed to be responsible for solving the broad economic, political and social issues, the mayor was expected to provide clean streets, cheap food and more housing. Popular representatives While discussion of executive positions only exhibited brief flashes of apathy and frustration, respondents displayed widespread disillusionment with their elected representatives and legislative institutions.35 This disillusionment was clearly tied to past expectations. Unlike views of executive positions, there were broad commonalities in the views of the two communities regarding legislative institutions. For this reason, the responses from both cities are discussed together. A traditional conservative 23-year-old sums up attitudes toward post-Soviet parliamentary deputies: In the Russian understanding, we have this word (deputy) – it [describes] talkers who aspire to power for the sake of personal profit, who simply need attention, money, and glory. (Syktyvkar, 17) Respondents focused much of their dissatisfaction and frustration on the lower house of the national parliament, the State Duma. Yet, in spite of respondent dissatisfaction with their representatives and degree of attachment (especially in Kirov) to the individual leader, in neither city did many argue that the parliament was unnecessary. To refine this perception, the direct question, ‘Is the parliament needed?’, was added to the interviews in Kirov, with results still showing strong support for the institution. Reflecting White et al.’s findings, the residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov were clearly struggling over the issue of which branch of government could lift Russia from the abyss.36 That this disillusionment did not directly lead to calls for disbanding parliament and the inception of individual rule was a tribute to the socialization of the Soviet system. Unlike their pre-revolutionary predecessors, Soviet citizens were raised with a clear concept of an elected, representative council designed to transmit the needs of the electorate to the central authorities. When numerous references to the deputy were examined, a full 75 per cent of respondents conceived of the Deputy as the representative of the electorate’s

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interests. Russians were particularly dismayed that contemporary Deputies neither represented popular interests nor fulfilled their legislative functions. While a small group viewed legislators as simple ‘fulfillers’ of executive policy, most saw legislative functions as important. Further disappointing Russians holding the latter position, it was evident early in 1994 that the new Duma had not diverged from the uncooperative path of its predecessor. 37 Echoing the importance of the council in Soviet times, however, a conservative 39-year-old female daycare worker proposed limiting presidential power: You know, I don’t get involved in politics, but it seems to me that maybe we don’t need purely presidential power right now, but some kind of compromising power, where there would be many, a council of some kind. Because one mind is good, and a lot are better. (Kirov, 27) For researchers looking for signs of democratic tradition in Russian politics, popular support for legislative institutions in the abstract is such a sign. While it is debatable whether popular councils gained their foothold in Russian society toward the end of the 19th century or came of age following the Bolshevik Revolution, I contend that the tradition of popular councils that Russians currently understand emerged from the Soviet period.38 Furthermore, following a passive strategy of action, conservative Russians considered themselves to be participating through their representatives.39 People did, however, view the policymaking process as a two-way street, depicting aspects of democratic centralism: representatives carry local needs to the center, a policy is formulated in the center, and that policy is carried back down to local levels for implementation. Whether this view was tied more to Soviet propaganda than reality is less important here than the fact of its presence. For all the faults of the old system, citizens perceived that the Soviet bureaucracy did transmit citizen needs from local levels to the center. For many, this bureaucratic role no longer met past standards. As a result, post-Soviet Russians were particularly unsure of who could be trusted in their political system. 40

The single leader versus the representative council While it could be argued that the institutional structure of contemporary Russia broadly meets the criteria for ‘delegative democ-


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racy’,41 popular acceptance of that model is far from clear. Indeed, there was underlying popular opposition to such a structure – demonstrating the strength of traditional tools – which may have ramifications for the development and possible consolidation of the Russian political system. What complicates the picture is the perceived failure of legislative institutions. In part because of their disappointment with the national representative (both the former Supreme Soviet and the State Duma) institutions, people gave greater support to stronger individual rule. The perceptions of residents in these two cities were leaning more in the direction of an unconstrained individual leader than White et al. found for Russia as a whole.42 As reasonable as popular support for individual rule may be during such a chaotic period, Russian political views were infrequently straightforward. Constructed on the idea of the soviet, or council, the Soviet state socialized its population to accept the elected council. Of course, popular acceptance of the council did not signify that the Soviet system met the standards of Western, representative democracy, particularly when one considers the limited number of candidates (one until 1988) from which a voter could choose in the one-party state. Nevertheless, Soviet citizens were accustomed to their roles in choosing delegates to their representative institutions and did so with the understanding that their representatives would carry their needs to the levels of decisionmaking. 43 White et al. may have mistakenly interpreted their data showing Russian support for an equal balance between president and parliament out of distrust for too strong a state; support for this balance, these researchers hypothesized, would limit state power through the gridlock that could arise from such an institutional relationship. 44 While it is argued here that support for stronger presidential leadership had actually come to prevail in Syktyvkar and Kirov, the underlying hope for a balance between the two institutions continued to exist. Yet, rather than emerge from distrust of the state, support for a balance could just as easily have arisen out of socialization that stressed co-operative policymaking within and between institutions. Furthermore, as discussed below, respondents in Syktyvkar and Kirov did express support for a strong state. Rather than seeing legislative institutions as an obstacle to the executive, Soviet propaganda was quite explicit in describing the co-operative nature of these institutions. In essence, the Soviet system attempted to achieve Rousseau’s general will: through the distillation of popular needs, discussion and debate, the best policy for the

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society would emerge. Whether the Soviet system ever achieved the general will is less important, however, than that the people could envision the ideal of co-operative policymaking, a view that performed the role of a myth that sustained the Soviet system.45 It is also important to note that the General Secretary of the Communist Party was a member of the publicly co-operative council(s) (the Politburo and the Secretariat), rather than the head of a separate institution. Furthermore, it was only at the end of the imperial era that the tsar was subject to meaningful limitations upon his authority.46 In both systems, as far as the public knew policymaking was a largely peaceful affair. It is logical, therefore, that popular perceptions of instability in post-Soviet Russia have been fueled by the contentiousness of newly formed political institutions. In this respect they would truly hope for some sort of balance between institutions. Russians are historically accustomed to two forms of government that actually share a similar logic. While the tsarist system focused on the individual leader, the Soviet system formally focused on the council – while functioning on the initiative of a mini-tsar in the person of the general secretary. Both systems were highly centralized. In neither case were decisions arrived upon in an openly contentious atmosphere. Indeed, decisions made in periodic meetings of the main governmental legislature, the Supreme Soviet, were consistently unanimous. In a simplified form, in Russia edicts were perceived to come from the Tsar, while in the Soviet Union decisions were seen as being handed down from the Politburo, with the general secretary as the leader. Furthermore, with press restrictions in evidence in both periods, contentious moments were hidden from public view. Thus, while society may have had its disruptions, the policymaking process did not. With the often expressed need for Russian unity (‘like a fist’), the contentiousness of postSoviet Russian parliaments had re-directed the hopes of many toward the most decisive political force available, the individual leader. In this case, hope for aid from a strong Russian state was driving support for presidential rule. The immediacy of this choice arose out of the need to overcome the extreme economic and legal chaos in a society accustomed to stability. With the decline of positive economic rights and state protection, people grasped for stability where it could be found. Popular approval of the Russian Constitution in 1993 elections is a case in point. While the constitution itself institutionalized the


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delegative democracy that had already been forming (as exemplified by the president’s dissolution of the Supreme Soviet on 21 September 1993), voters were less driven by the contents of Russia’s fundamental law, and more focused on the stability they believed the constitution might provide. 47 Thus, the symbolism of strong leadership carries greater resonance than form or content, reflecting the juncture between continued cultural formlessness and the emergence of a coherent resting point upon which to found a functional strategy of action. Political and economic chaos provided the impulse for popular cravings for a strong leader. While people actually approved the existence of representative institutions as they had in the Soviet system, many preferred that the institution co-operate with the leader, producing an atmosphere of collegiality often deemed important for successful governance,48 rather than act as a check on that leader. Drawing on tradition, therefore, it is likely that Russians would be significantly more supportive of a parliamentary system, with the head of state emerging from the parliament itself, rather than being separate from parliament as is currently the case in Russia. The very fact that the choice of a Prime Minister must come from compromise within the legislative body of a parliamentary system comes closer to the co-operative norms that are the Soviet legacy. 49 (This, of course, begs the question of whether such an institutional structure could function in a highly contentious political environment, particularly one without a well-developed party system.) Ultimately, despite desire for a ‘strong hand’, a strengthening delegative democracy would not be congruent with underlying Russian popular political preferences, and actually would tend to undermine the possibilities for the emergence of a representative, pluralist democracy. In this way, we may be seeing a space for long-term political culture reformation in which the political culture tools of authoritarianism would be strengthened at the expense of the existing tools of democratic tradition.

The state in Russia Writing during the early 1960s, Robert Tucker conceptualized an ‘image of dual Russia’. He conceived Russia as a double entity: Russian State and Russian society. On the one hand, there is vlast’ or gosudarstvo, the centralized autocratic

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state power. . . . On the other hand, there is the population at large, the society, nation or people (obshchestvo, narod ) . . . [that] came to be conceived as a separate and distinct Russia with a life and truth of its own.50 Much has changed in Russia, but the underlying meaning of the quote above continues to carry significance. While the Khrushchev and Brezhnev eras contributed to the growth of a relatively more individually oriented and efficacious population,51 the Soviet collapse and Russia’s precarious reform have created a sense of anomie. As many Russians are being left behind by reform, the sense of removal from the developing Russian state is particularly acute. The duality of ‘new’ Russia becomes more evident in the absence of the security provided under Soviet socialism. Furthermore, a ‘diminishing’ duality that had once permitted popular political activity during perestroika has actually been counteracted by this dwindling sense of security, as exemplified in the collapse of state-provided social programs. Very much linked to declining efficacy, popular insecurity emerged in perceptions of a growing rift between state and society. This section examines how the state is envisioned in contemporary Russia along a spectrum with two extremes: (1) the state as a dominant, patrimonial institution that provides goods; and, (2) the state as an institution that maximizes individual freedoms by non-interference in individual lives. The analysis focuses on two issues: (1) how respondents envision state activity and, (2) which societal responsibilities they allocate to the state apparatus. Responsibilities of the state An underlying tenet of the Soviet system was the principle of political, economic and social equality. Whether this principle was truly implemented in practice, the fact that most contemporary Russians were socialized with such values complicates the popular transition to a more competitive, less state-guided environment. While the reform minority welcomed the opportunity to acquire greater wealth, the conservative majority had not been able to construct a strategy to take advantage of these opportunities. Confronted with rising inequalities, the latter portion of the population asserted its political culture tools more in line with the continued security of the Soviet social system. And, just as the people of Kirov gave clearer support to strong leadership than their counterparts in Syktyvkar, they also gave greater support to the functioning of a strong Russian state.


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As for Brym’s findings for Russia in 1995, the residents of both cities agreed that the state should occupy a strong role in guiding society and ensuring popular well-being.52 Looking at various views of state responsibilities, the analysis shifts to a series of questions concerning the state relationship with both citizens and society. The most important group of questions appears below: Question: (a) What obligations should the state have for its citizens? (b) What should the state be engaged in? (c) Which functions once fulfilled by the Soviet regime can be transferred to citizens and the private sector? (d) What is your opinion about the ideal balance between the state and private interests? 53 An initial examination of answers to these questions displays a general desire for a strong state role. Two conservative respondents provided broadly representative responses: (a/b) To supply normal life activity. This should be normal pay for labor, pension provision, stipends for students and scholars in order for them to be able to study. (c) People should have private property. Especially of land. [The state] should develop the life of the peasantry. . . . They should [be able to] supply themselves. (d) There should be equality. If there is no equality there will be an imbalance. The state must help private individuals and private individuals should help the state. There ought to be equality. (Syktyvkar, 2) (a) [D]efend its citizens in all situations and supply work and a subsistence wage in order for a person to work . . . in order for a person to be able to live peacefully in his state. (b) Should not touch personal life. (c) Currently enterprises are being given away . . ., being auctioned . . ., but we don’t feel it yet, we are not able to restructure our psychology. For so many years we grew up under one system and now we are making the transition to private property. (Kirov, 1) Responses were often more nuanced, providing individuals with greater freedom within the realm of state responsibilities. A traditional

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conservative 35-year-old female college teacher mirrored her conceptualization of freedom quoted in Chapter 5: (a) The state should carry these obligations. It ought to supply [people a] free existence. That is, the possibility for each person to choose for themselves a place to live, a path of life, a profession and to live independently. (Kirov, 16) The broad trend among respondents in both cities was to support the concept of a leading state: a state that requires social order and discipline while providing focused guidance to the populace. Again, although support for a leading state was stronger in Kirov, residents of Syktyvkar held similar views. A traditional conservative 23-yearold teacher described the ideal balance between state and private interests, a balance that is actually quite symbiotic: It is when the state is responsible to the interests of each person, but these are just the same as [the state’s] as seen in the general well-being, and, of course, in the interests of each. . . . i.e. the free development of the private self should exist, but not to the detriment of the state. (Syktyvkar, 17) A conservative 45-year-old metal worker described the president’s role as a part of the state endowed with unlimited resources to ensure that his edicts were being performed. (Kirov, 17) The residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov viewed the state as holding clear obligations to the popular well-being. While more respondents in Kirov discussed the state subsidy role, respondents in Syktyvkar were marginally more vocal about the responsibilities of the welfare state. A conservative 50-year-old female nurse argued that, ‘The state should provide work, all the social demands and work.’ (Kirov, 10) Yet, although half of all respondents raised the issues of state obligations, the results were misleading as numerous respondents vaguely described the ‘state’s need to take care of the people’. Such comments indicated a broad popular desire for the state to watch over them. The role of the welfare state constantly appeared in every day conversation, and was an area of concern as people watched education, medicine and other important social services decline. Overall, respondents did not describe a particular interest in a concrete communal contract of mutual responsibilities between the state and the population. There were few who made comments


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alluding to some sort of a collective will in society. Because respondents were more likely to look to the state to provide public goods, while ignoring their own responsibilities to society, some may argue that communist, collective values were ephemeral.54 While the everyday life of Russians appeared to support such a view, it has been difficult to test such a complex issue in light of the turbulence of post-Soviet society. As Rousseau argued, the collective interests of a society are the most difficult to maintain, especially when conditions require that individual interests take precedence.55 Collective issues were no longer part of the everyday experience for Russians; and people looking for crisis solutions from others are less likely to examine their own roles in the community. Where individuals felt increasingly weak in the face of ‘runaway’ events, people were looking to state services to supply a certain subsistence while they focused on managing their own, increasingly unconnected, lives. Most importantly, any contract that once existed between central authority and citizens had been abrogated with the perceived decline of representative institutions and broad leadership failure. It is in this way that the people’s mistrust of the state described by White et al. becomes most evident, although less out of fear of state power than disappointment in its failure. Because people did not feel their needs were being represented, the community had become atomized. The schism between the powerful elite and the general populace was a strong sign of the system’s decay and corruption, and responses exhibited the atomization of Russian life and the lack of influence of certain communist ideals: people were clearly more concerned with private, rather than collective, goals. In this sense, the dual Russia becomes more evident. What were the perceived limits of state power? While comments related to this topic were unfocused, broadly reform entrepreneur type comments did hold some hope for advocates of liberaldemocracy. In contrast with perceptions of the state’s obligation to uphold positive rights, or the right to be given a job, medical care and education, responses falling into this category focused more on negative rights, or freedom from government control. These respondents discussed limits on state influence in the economy, over taxes and over police powers. Instead of the state providing goods, and often intruding in people’s lives, several respondents focused on the state as a regulatory body especially in economic areas. A reform entrepreneur 22-year-old male student described state economic responsibilities:

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Regulatory. Regulatory in the sense that it should follow economic developments and periodically grease the [economic] mechanism. It (the state) should not interfere, because that was in the past, it should not regulate everybody and everything, but gradually . . . continually take the pulse [in case the old system] develops. (Kirov, 9) In looking for a path out of Russia’s crisis, a reform entrepreneur 23-year-old female bank worker argued, . . . in order for there to be market relations in the market, severe centralized methods are unnecessary. Of course, state regulation should exist, but not to the degree that there was . . . five to seven years ago. (Syktyvkar, 8) Reform entrepreneurs like these respondents preferred individual choice, with a state that ensures that other individuals cannot abuse their personal freedoms. In line with Miller et al., 56 it should not be surprising that the two respondents quoted above were young and relatively highly educated. Nevertheless, demographic patterns were not always so easily discernible. Among those making similar comments no significant patterns emerged, with respondents having varying ages and levels of education. The broad results of this discussion show that Russians expected the state to maintain a significant role in their individual lives. More conservative citizens believed the state should provide the positive rights of medical care, education and, at times, a place to work. The reform portion of the population supported a focus on negative rights, or a release from state intervention. The lines of division between these positions were not clearly drawn, however, as many of the respondents placing limits on the state also made one or more comments in support of a strong state. Other respondents appeared to hold contradictory positions in supporting both a limited and a leading state. Of course, while this murkiness reflects the chaos of contemporary Russian politics, in general the broadly conservative Russians felt a close attachment to the traditional, strong state apparatus. For this population, failure of the contemporary Russian state to live up to this ideal underlies the continuing relevance of a dual image of Russia.

Russian Relations with Authority Table 8.2

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Comparative Electoral Results KOMI (% of total)

KIROV (% of total)

1995 Parliamentary Elections57 Voting by Party List LDPR KPRF Our Home is Russia Women of Russia Yabloko Agrarian Party

17.5 13 12.9 7.6 5.5 ⬍2.5

17.3 15.1 5.9 7.8 6.8 9.8

1996 Presidential Election58 (second round) Yeltsin Zyuganov

64.4 28.9

50.7 41.6

Relations with authority: ballot box conservatism Despite their apparent differences, the people of Syktyvkar and Kirov have shown remarkable similarities in the issues and candidates they support in national elections. That is, they both tend to vote conservatively. The two national elections compared here are the 1995 State Duma elections and the 1996 presidential election. The election results summarized in Table 8.2 are for the Komi Republic and the Kirov oblast’. Whereas elections in Sytkyvkar broadly mirror republic-wide results (excepting less conservative results in 1993 parliamentary elections), voting in the city of Kirov is generally less conservative (thus, more reform-oriented) than for the entire oblast’. 59 In this case, an extremely conservative rural population tends to skew results. Conversely, total support for the main reform-oriented parties was generally below 25 per cent both nationally and locally.60 Following the trend in 1993, in the single-member district elections of 1995 the voters of both cities elected broadly anti-reform deputies to the State Duma. Both the Syktyvkar Deputies emerging from the two elections, Nikolai Gen and Rita Chistokhodova, have been described as communists by local intelligentsia. In Kirov, the Deputies were Mikhail Vakulenko and Vladimir Sergeenkov. Vakulenko was a member of LDPR, while Sergeenkov would join Nikolai Ryzhkov’s Popular Power faction following election. 61 Sergeenkov, of course, would go on to be elected to be Kirov’s governor in autumn 1996.

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The interesting contrast with this seemingly conservative trend is the voting for Boris Yeltsin in 1996, an election that would initially seem to turn back the tide of conservatism. While voting was more conservative in Kirov than in Komi, voters in both regions did support his candidacy. There are many ways these results can be interpreted. They might indicate the maximum level of the population that will commit itself to a communist candidate. Also, given the extremely negative views of Yeltsin earlier in 1996, it may be the case that he was simply the better of two bad choices for a swing vote that went his way. It may simply be the case that the more predictable outcome of a Yeltsin victory (versus a Zyuganov victory) continued to represent a certain stability for a sufficiently large proportion of the population that had not reasserted the interpretive tools more associated with the substance of Soviet-era policy. Perhaps confounding the first two interpretations, and supporting the third, Yeltsin improved his chances for re-election by using the power of incumbency to pay all backwages. While no single factor can explain Yeltsin’s victory, this bestowal of ‘pork’ certainly played a role, just as it would in a Western democracy. 62 That wage arrears quickly rose again following the election does not, however, fulfil the Russian desire for stability. Trying to interpret the meaning of this election is quite complicated and underlines the difficulties of interpreting the preferences being expressed at a single point in time, particularly in such a tumultuous environment.

Regionalism Center–periphery relations are often viewed for evidence of political reform. This section looks at respondent views of these relations, in order to expand the explanation of popular views toward authority. A pragmatic reformer, the 36-year-old geologist sums up his view of this relationship: The problems of Russia and the republic are strategically different. Consequently, different types of leaders are needed. On the regional level: there is some [need for the] embodiment of priority and stability. [On the level of] Russia there is basically an unstable economy. This is basically a principle of administration. Principles of administration should be done by new, capable people. On the level of the regions (territorial economic units) it is possible to employ the old cadres. . . . Any break [at the local level], a revolution is paralysis, a step back. (Syktyvkar, 1)


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This comment alludes to the Russian hierarchical nature and the popular belief that local political leaders have significantly less influence on political issues, even on the local level, than do national politicians. It illuminates how the ideal of co-operation spreads from the center down the state hierarchy and how important it is that there be a consistent base constructed for the implementation of higher decisions. If local politicians do intend to develop their own policies, the process should be carried out in a way that is not disruptive at that level, nor should they contradict the central policy. While the reality of Russian politics find positions at either extreme of regionalism (advocating secession from Russia or calling for stronger ties to the center), Syktyvkar and Kirov were calm. Responses from the two cities were similar when discussing regional political independence issues. There was a strong attraction to the decisionmaking and resource provision of the central government. A majority of respondents looked to the center for broad decisionmaking to solve both national and regional problems. Included in these responses, specific comments focused on the need for central authorities to provide technical and financial assistance to local social and economic institutions. A conservative 37-yearold female economist made her feelings known: As to the local level, I heard how they live in Ukraine (friends called me) and decided that we live better. Therefore, I have no pretensions to local rule. (Syktyvkar, 6) Differences between the two cities arose when focusing on shared decisionmaking across levels of government. As expected, Syktyvkar respondents were much more likely to envision either a balance between the local and national level in decisionmaking or believe their region should receive limited independence. Yet, only a small minority in both cities pushed for a limited transfer of political decisions to the local level. Of those who did, only a few respondents did not make a tempering comment elsewhere that paradoxically focused on the need for centralized decisionmaking. In general, residents of both cities support a hierarchical political relationship between the center and the periphery. The differences between the two cities were most noticeable in the realm of economic development. The capital of the mineralrich Komi republic was prima facie more independent than Kirov, a city dominated by a defense industry that was being scaled back. As several Syktyvkar respondents argued, Komi was in a position to

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survive as an independent economic entity. Kirov, however, was in no such position. A clear majority of Syktyvkar respondents supported Komi acquisition of sole, or majority, control of the economic production in the republic. In Kirov, however, only a few individuals discussed economic independence and their comments did not approach the scope of the proposals in Syktyvkar. Relating the greatest problem in Komi, a 35-year-old female music teacher argued, Perhaps, in some sense [the biggest problem is] actually sovereignty from Russia. . . . It seems to me [this is] because the riches of the republic are wasted through orders from the top that are not always well thought over. (Syktyvkar, 24) In neither case were residents pushing for much independence. This was especially unsurprising in Kirov because of the city’s clear dependence on the center for its economic well-being. Yet, this result was not especially surprising in Syktyvkar, either. There was no strong basis for a challenge to the center on ethnonational grounds, as the indigenous Komi population makes up only 34 per cent of the city’s population and constitutes only 23 per cent of the Republic’s population. The lack of such a movement in Komi was notable in the face of independence movements at that time in other republics, like Tatarstan and Chechenya. Additionally, even as Syktyvkar’s residents pushed for greater control over the republic’s natural resources, there was a clear understanding that they still lacked the means for refining most of their resources and, further, that Russia was the primary consumer of all that they produce. Thus, the calls for economic independence, which were mostly born out of frustration, were often tempered by the acceptance of necessary relations with the center. Respondents from Kirov and Syktyvkar did not envision their local leaders challenging central decisionmakers. Just as they were concerned about the conflictual nature between the president and the parliament, respondents hoped for peace between the center and the periphery. In their desire for stability to replace current chaos, respondents often viewed local leadership as functionaries in a unitary system, or bureaucrats in a large bureaucracy. Ultimately, the center continued to provide, or offer the promise of, the social safety net of the Soviet era. Although respondents may have wished for better conditions in their respective regions, they would have preferred consensus in center–periphery relations rather than risk conflict for


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independent prosperity. The uncertainty of greater independence made people question whether prosperity was achievable without strong relations. Regionalism in Komi: the elite in action The first Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic to declare sovereignty from the Soviet Union in 1990,63 Komi continues to be active in trying to carve out its political niche. The development of center– periphery relations for Komi in the period since 1993 has occurred on varying fronts. On one level, the government of Yuri Spiridonov has avoided compliance with central directives, particularly those disadvantageous to the Head’s political power. On another, he and his government have sought to cultivate relations with central authorities, often with the direct goal of expanding local powers and control over resources. Komi was a signatory to the 1992 Federal Treaty, which recognized national republics as state entities, providing the republics with complete legislative and executive authority over their territories.64 With the events of October 1993, however, attempts by the Komi leadership to develop the republic’s sovereignty were interrupted by Yeltsin’s ‘recommendation’ to dissolve all regional soviets (including the Komi Supreme Soviet) and the eventual publication of the Draft Russian Constitution in November 1993. The draft did not carry the same degree of regional independence found in the Federal Treaty. As described in Chapter 6, attempts by Yeltsin to assert federal control over the regions led Spiridonov to delay the dissolution of the Supreme Soviet to set up his own power base. This tactic lasted until January 1995 elections to the new Komi State Council. In the interim, he was able to: (1) legislate the inclusion of the ‘Head of Republic’ position in the 1994 Komi Constitution, a post he won in May 1994; and, (2) use the Constitution and the 1994 Komi Law on Executive Authority to ensure the election of a State Council dependent on his rule. Thus, in resisting central policy for 15 months, Spiridonov positioned himself and future Heads close to being the sole political influence on Komi policy toward Moscow. This did not mean, however, that difficulties in relations with Moscow were suddenly resolved. In recognizing that neither the Russian, nor Komi, constitutions fully settled the differences between Syktyvkar and Moscow, authorities at both levels followed the lead of Tatarstan and other regions by signing a bilateral treaty to codify their federal relationship. The

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Table 8.3

Power Sharing Agreements

Agreement No. 1–8 between the Government of the Russian Federation and the Government of the Republic of Komi about the demarcation of authority in . . . . 1. the area of socio-economic development 2. the area of international and foreign trade ties 3. the branches of the fuel–energy complex 4. the solution of socio-labor questions, the provision of employment for the population and regulation of migratory processes 5. the area of the agro–industrial complex 6. the area of public secondary, primary professional and secondary professional (pedagogical) education 7. the area of the protection of the surrounding environment and use of natural resources 8. the area of budget (inter)relations

treaty codified federal recognition of practices that were already in effect in Komi (tax collection, foreign business relations and so on).65 In this way, it actually provides respondents in 1994 with the measure of local control they sought. Signed on 20 March 1996, by the Russian Federation and the government of the Komi Republic, the treaty concerns the ‘demarcation of authority’ of each governmental entity and includes a series of eight agreements that more explicitly spell out the rights and responsibilities at each level of government. These agreements vary across a spectrum of issues and primarily focus on economic development (see Table 8.3). Most aspects of the agreements describe the mutual responsibilities of both levels of government for the development of various economic sectors. Still, there are clearly some areas where Komi authorities have acquired greater responsibilities. This is particularly the case for the Komi economy and the production of Komi’s natural resources. Of particular interest are the second, third, and eighth agreements. The second agreement is an example of central Russian attempts to reassert some measure of control over the international policies of its subject regions. This agreement recognizes the de facto Komi practice of carrying out independent international trade policy, but requires that Komi be more responsive to federal trade policies and activities. Among other provisions, Russia will direct international investors toward the Komi fuel–energy industry and allow Komi representatives on international trade missions affecting the republic’s interests.


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The third agreement focuses on the development of Komi’s natural resources. It calls for expanded collaboration across levels of government to search for natural resources and attract investors to help develop oil production. Along with several of the other agreements, this one deals with the difficulties of providing for the shifting employment base. It provides for federal aid in transferring workers out of the harsh environmental and working conditions of the far north. This is particularly important in consideration of the declining profitability of the coal mines stretching as far north as Vorkuta in the Arctic Circle. Finally, the eighth agreement requires Komi to pay its share of taxes. In return, the Russian government is to provide monthly payments for the realization of an economic development program in Komi. Furthermore, Komi is to be classified under federal revenue distribution categories as either ‘a region in need of help’ or ‘a region especially in need of help’. This classification is designed to ensure Komi a larger share of federal revenue distributions. Finally, the Komi government, in agreement with the Russian Ministry of Finance, is allowed to determine the amount of taxes to be levied against local enterprises and other contributors to the federal budget. This agreement represents a significant increase in the republic’s control over its own affairs. Overall, Komi relations with the center have been both in line with (gaining greater local control of resources) and against (not always working in a collegial fashion) popular hopes. Commentators in Komi provide a mixed evaluation of Syktyvkar’s relationship with Moscow, in general, and the effects of the power sharing treaty, in particular. As already mentioned, some local officials argued that practice had simply been codified into law. Yet, for others the now defined legal relationship actually placed a constraint on past practices. Others argued that Moscow’s unwillingness and/or inability to pay state wages and disburse tax revenues to Komi were in clear violation of the agreement. Partially explaining why a ministry in Komi would have to resort to bartering, Moscow’s debt contributed to popular dissatisfaction. Yet, economic troubles were a double-edged sword for Komi. On one side, it meant that certain industries and services were underfunded and unproductive, only prolonging economic and social hardships. On the other, Moscow’s problems were a bonus for Komi political leaders. They were in a position to deflect the popular attention away from local reform failures and any evidence of ethical lapses in economic management toward the failures of central authorities.66

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Conclusion For the contemporary liberal-democrat, the findings of this chapter are discouraging. Experimentation with democracy was undermining the institutions and foundations of society. With the evolution of a delegative democracy, the Russian political structure encourages a strong leader to come to power. In exchange for hopes of greater stability, Russians moved away from the representative norms of their political culture toward the more authoritative individual leader institutionalized in the 1993 Constitution. In this way, people were readapting their strategies of action to the post-Soviet political environment. While there is a certain democratic undercurrent in Russian political tradition, recent political practices, institutional structures and society-wide crises place in doubt democracy’s resilience under challenges from the authoritarian side of that tradition. Simply put, under these conditions people had a greater capacity to employ their authoritarian, rather than democratic, tools. In 1994, whether the representative side of Russia could eventually become more efficacious was uncertain, although experiences in Latin America and Southern Europe would indicate such a possibility. 67 Many argued that the state was obligated to see to the popular well-being. Such a state would have a strong influence in and over the lives of its citizens. While there were other voices calling for freedom from the intrusion of the state, they were drowned out by those holding the strong-state perspective. Nevertheless, in the face of the weakly developed civil society, liberal-democrats should see the very existence of views supporting a limited state as a hopeful, if not positive, sign for the future. When compared to the White et al. study, the nature of these findings raises continued questions about research in Russia. Although findings were quite similar across these two studies on several occasions, there were also a number of important differences. For example, there is clear agreement about an underlying popular desire for a balance between the president and the parliament. Yet, where White et al. interpret this to mean Russian mistrust for state power leads to hopes for its limitation, I view this more as a popular need for a consensus among the political institutions of a strong state. Furthermore, despite our agreement about popular hopes for a balance between these institutions, I found that residents in Syktyvkar and Kirov were expressing growing support for individual rule that arose out of disappointment that consensus had not developed between the president and parliament.


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Later surveys administered by White et al. show a population moving further from support for an unrestrained president toward a greater parliamentary role as a check on the president. While they attribute this shift to greater popular mistrust of the state and fear of a more powerful president,68 I in contrast contend that this change represents a shift of the population toward its more ‘natural’ support for government by committee. Still, such a shift could also be a sign of popular uncertainty spurred by the fact that earlier support for individual rule was not rewarded with successful reform. People sought a resting place in societal turmoil upon which to construct a new strategy. Whether this is a sign of democratic leanings is still unclear, however; lest one forgets, the model of consensus with which the majority of the population was socialized is that of a hierarchically structured system founded on the soviet (council). Popular support for strong state leadership is problematic in a poorly institutionalized democracy. Support for a particular leader (that is Hitler, Peron, and so on) can undermine an already weak system. Yet, a weak democratic regime has greater resiliency than a weak nondemocratic regime. Widespread knowledge of the popular ability to remove an ineffective government from power in a democracy insulates that regime from collapse, and voters are more tolerant of ineffective democratic regimes as they know that they have the electoral power to remove a particular government.69 Nevertheless, popular patience is not infinite and the lifeline of a new democratic regime may be confined to a second elected, but still ineffective, government before a return to a nondemocratic regime becomes more likely.70 While a military coup may not be in the offing in Russia, a popularly engineered coup through the very ballot box that anchors democracy is not far-fetched, particularly with strongmen lurking close to power, such as populist Alexander Lebed. Of course, this electoral result need not end in the collapse of democratic processes. Instead, it is also possible that existing institutional structures and practices may be sufficient to sustain an unconsolidated democratic regime despite the election of an authoritarian president.71 For Russia, however, these structures and practices need to be further developed. If the need for consensus in government carries as much weight as is argued here, however, Russians are unlikely to be satisfied at any point in the near future. While the situation in 1994 had become relatively more stable since the initial shocks of reforms in 1992, individual lives continued to be dominated by unaccustomed

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instability. At that time, residents of both cities often commented how they ‘did not know what would be tomorrow’. By 1997, a new mantra had developed surrounding the uncertainty of ‘paychecks’ in the face of rising wage arrears. With previously unknown media freedom broadcasting Russia’s situation across the country and beyond, in 1994 many sought a strong leader who could unite the population and lead Russia from its crisis. Several years later, the question remains: will media exposure and criticism realistically allow such a candidate to remain strong enough to lead in the eyes of the Russian people?

Formlessness and Cultural Recreation

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9 Formlessness and Cultural Recreation

Cultural change is a complex process of gradual and dialectical movement. Thus, Russia’s long-standing authoritarian mode of government seems to ensure the continuity of traditional patterns. With the Soviet decline, however, many Western researchers claimed that these patterns no longer held. Several scholars found that Soviet/ Russian attitudinal patterns were closer to those in developed or developing Western democracies.1 Some even argued that Russian political culture would not resist efforts to democratize. 2 Essentially denying the continued strength of authority relationships, these scholars focused on changing demographic patterns that indicated a more modern, democratically oriented, political culture. These arguments were a powerful indictment of political culture continuity theses. Generally based on mass surveys, however, the data that generated these findings provide little explanation of the complex relationships between popular attitudes and values in the chaotic post-Soviet transition. Trying to generalize, survey researchers could not look far past their statistical results to understand the underlying forces that influenced and gave broader meaning to their findings. This book has taken a different approach. Rather than strive for statistical generalization, I lean toward ethnography in combining comparative social science methods to explain the complexities and relationships of Russian political beliefs and behavior. The discoveries of this investigation in part reinforce and contrast with the findings of the survey researchers. Yet, even where general findings coincide, the richness of my data exposes the twists and complexities of Russian political culture that counter and qualify these moments of agreement. I conclude that contemporary Russian popular 209

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political culture does not facilitate the development of liberal democracy. Finding a mixture of attitudes that are generally more supportive of an authoritarian system, apparently pro-democratic attitudes mask underlying beliefs that militate against democratic developments.3 This is not to argue that there are no pro-democratic characteristics in Russian political culture, but rather that elements of authoritarianism outweigh these characteristics. My problem with contemporary Western survey research in Russia largely rests on the rational choice assumptions of cultural malleability that underlie much of that scholarship. These assumptions mask a more accurate depiction of a fragmented political culture. From a more culturalist base, I argue that doctrinaire authoritarian political cultures exhibit significant formlessness during severe contextual shocks. While there are numerous possible developmental paths for political culture during such tumult, the most likely significantly recreates the extant political culture – in this case a form of authoritarian rule. I attribute the disjuncture between survey research and my own project to the nuances of methodology. I recognize that my two cases would not normally support such a claim. Yet, the depth and complexity of this project permits broader extrapolation of results than the standard quantitative surveys. Of course there is variation across Russia, and not all findings are wholly applicable to other regions. Still, the general issues examined – and their relevance to the Russian transition – make the findings applicable beyond Syktyvkar and Kirov. In summing up this study, I begin by discussing my methodology and make several recommendations for the examination of political culture in Russia and transition environments in general. The second section returns to more substantive issues in developing the paired theoretical concepts – formlessness and recreation – underlying this study; it is presented in a generic fashion as a heuristic device for transition scholars. The third section applies formlessness and recreation to Russia. Rather than presenting the ‘discrete’ topics emerging from survey research, I tell the ‘story’ of Russian political culture in Syktyvkar and Kirov from September 1993 to August 1994. By drawing together the various findings discussed throughout this book, I show how views toward authority, participation, economic transition, and social change are intertwined and often emerge in contradictory attitudes and behavior that ‘clarify’ popular views.4 Ironically, this very


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summary effectively exhibits Russia’s political culture formlessness. I further stress the recreative aspects of political culture development that underlie formlessness and conclude with the possible developmental scenarios, particularly as relate to expectations of leadership and the state, and prospects for popular political participation. Additionally, I employ the four Russian cultural types to depict the complex, interactive nature of political culture change. Finally, I discuss the implications of Russian mass political culture for continued political reform in the period since my 1994 fieldwork. As shown, the Russian polity is not a static entity. Nevertheless, ‘changes’ since 1994 underline many of the findings of the original study.

Methodology and theoretical framing The narrative developed throughout this book exhibits the complexities attendant to a formless political culture that cannot be elicited from the narrowly focused, survey research data. While the findings of this project are not parsimonious, nor based on a large sample, I contend that they more accurately portray the popular political culture in Russia’s contentious political transition. The limitations of mass survey methods make them particularly clumsy for identifying attitudinal patterns in such an environment. It is testimony to the flexible research methodology used here that this story could even be told. While this project is not an ethnography in an anthropological sense, my year living in Russia combined with in-depth interviews served to produce a revealing picture of the Russian political landscape. Rather than being limited by methods that separate the researcher from those researched, the qualitative methods I employed allowed me to interact with and come to understand, the concerns and values of the populace. My interactive approach allowed me to acquire the contextual experience necessary for explanation. Rather than being a simply impressionistic collection of images, however, my observation process both supplements and builds upon the systematic collection and analysis of unstructured and structured interviews. Through these processes, I gained the flexibility to explain the interrelationships, contradictions and peculiarities that define a political culture. Given the flexibility and depth of this approach for investigating political culture, I offer it as an alternative to traditional mass survey approaches.

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Overall, I do not consider this approach revolutionary as interviews are widely used in political science and comparativists often argue for the indispensability of field work. Unfortunately, investigations into political culture often sacrifice in-depth explanation. When contrasted with the limited reach of quantitative survey methods, this approach has numerous advantages. Here I focus on two: first, these methods do not constrain the researcher as the number of responses to most questions is potentially limitless. This allows the respondent to express his/her beliefs in a comprehensive and relatively open fashion. Rather than limiting the respondent to the four or five response options of a closed question, the scholar can probe more deeply. Second, the analysis of findings is not limited to the content of one’s interview data, as is often the case when interpreting survey data that are abstracted from the research environment. Whereas mass surveys can tell little more than what statistical findings support, this method presents the opportunity to make clear links between responses on various topics. Going beyond a statistical correlation, the personal experience of the scholar enables him/her to explain the complex links between variables, whether causal or otherwise. The story that emerges from this research approach is a ‘thick explanation’, or a rich portrayal of the influences and forces molding and maintaining political culture.5 Particularly important during chaotic historical periods of history, the relaxation of positivistic evidentiary rules allows for the investigation of issues that are difficult to answer employing strictly circumscribed survey methods. For example, rather than simply test continuity, indoctrination and modernization theories as discrete categories as discussed in Chapter 3, this study explains the complexities of Russian political culture that encompass aspects of all three of these theories. This investigation waded through the contextual fluctuations to show the clash between haphazard forces for change and the ragged cultural boundaries that limit that change, a picture that begins to take form with open-ended questions. Furthermore, political culture goes beyond attitudes to include behavioral patterns. This approach allows researchers to see politics in action – beyond the extraordinarily difficult measurement of actual behavior through surveys – and explores the imponderables of political belief. It is a chance to see not only if certain attitudes fit together (to form a mind set, not a snapshot), but whether these attitudes are observable in political behavior.


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This approach is equally applicable, if not recommended, for research projects in other transitions, whether in the former Eastern Bloc or Latin America. As a complex phenomenon, culture is difficult to identify and explain in even normal circumstances. It is particularly challenging when trying to account for variables that go beyond normal developmental processes. In order to develop a contextualized understanding of such a society’s political culture, the initial investigation requires a rigorous, interactive approach to field work. The future for survey research in transition environments A flexible approach to research allows the scholar to construct an internally valid characterization of political processes at the microlevel. Many would argue that the small number of respondents precludes making generalizations. While this is true in a statistical sense, the wealth of understanding that comes from such research allows the scholar to interpret the underlying issues, events and relationships in the political struggles of other regions. Advocating this approach, however, is not to deny the utility of quantitative survey methods. Yet, it is to deny their utility in particular, unstable political environments. While the use of mass surveys in even stable environments risks misrepresenting popular attitudes, surveys are valuable when implemented on a proper base. To do so, we must step back from the rush to generalize broadly to begin at the bottom and inductively build contextual foundations. From these foundations, we will be able to develop testable, grounded theory. It is through the type of method employed here that such a foundation can be developed in order to ‘build up’ to the implementation of surveys. Nevertheless, if scholars hope to minimize the possible interaction effect of methodological failings and societal instability, they still must use surveys carefully. Scholars must attend to certain issues: (1) the long-term quest for grand theory should be delayed in favor of micro-level research; (2) survey questions should be less abstract and more connected to daily lives; (3) surveys should be limited to particular regions initially; and, (4) the ways in which ideological and conceptual biases might influence our research should be examined and corrected. While the initial investment of time and energy to build the foundation would be considerable, the results of such a concerted effort would reap benefits relatively quickly. In a few years, scholars could

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construct a research base pertaining to Russia (and other regions) that would be more amenable to Western survey methods.6 To bring structure to political culture research in Russia, scholars must be willing to delve below the surface.

Formlessness and cultural recreation Emerging from this research approach is a unique vision of political culture. This project raises issues concerning the process of political culture change in the transition of doctrinaire authoritarian societies and thereby goes beyond its application to Russia. Primary in this vision is the intertwined concepts of cultural formlessness and cultural recreation that provide the theoretical underpinning for cultural change in such a society. The cultural types of this investigation provide a basis for analysis of the Russian case. Although valuable as a means for comparison with other cases, the types are subsumed to the larger, all encompassing formlessness concept. For, in itself, formlessness is the expected result of a slowly adaptive political culture wracked by severe contextual shocks. Formlessness emerges where rapid change outstrips the popular ability to adapt new variables into the existing political culture framework, and individual capacities to employ political tools are ‘called upon’ to develop appropriate strategies of action. Political culture formlessness is initially evident in unsuccessful attempts to create functioning strategies using traditional political culture tools. For example, to whom does one look for local policymaking and guidance as the Party structure is replaced by independent regional entities in an inchoate and ineffective presidential system? Fully developed formlessness emerges out of the fragmentation of once relatively consistent strategies of action. As events progress, the interaction of cultural factors becomes increasingly chaotic as the population fails to reconcile traditional societal and personal tools with unfamiliar conditions that overtake familiar reference points. Strategies of action and behavioral cues lose coherence both within and between individuals across the society, creating a fragmented political culture that lacks evident consistency. Overall, formlessness is represented in a political culture in which the interactive components lose any clear measure of congruence. (see Figure 2.4) As a concept, cultural formlessness emerges from this research in a form that advances Eckstein’s conceptualization. Yet, what emerges out of formlessness? Just as a society will not remain unsettled

Formlessness and Cultural Recreation Figure 9.1

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Popular Reactions to Formlessness

Hardline Recreation

Recreative Reform

Uninhibited Reform

forever, a political culture will arrive at a stable resting place. While there are varying possible avenues of development, I contend that a political culture developed in a doctrinaire authoritarian society will show a significant level of recreation. In creating a generic picture beyond the Russian case, I construct a spectrum containing two extreme popular reactions to the fragmentation of their political environment and political culture. These are sandwiched around a more moderate third reaction. (Figure 9.1) These reactions represent the fragmentation of political culture expression in the formless environment and the ‘promise’ to provide a greater measure of coherence in continuing crisis and a more-orless stable resting place in the long term. While full formlessness is characterized by progressive political culture fragmentation as individuals fall farther away from old strategies and suffer a decline in their capacity to employ traditional tools, coherent reactions eventually begin to take form, somewhat in the fashion of Swidler’s ideologies,7 although these reactions spread beyond traditional groupings. The hardline recreation type encompasses those most tied to old cultural patterns. Incapable of adapting new contextual inputs into their political culture framework, people falling into this category will neither be satisfied with reforms, nor develop successful strategies of action to contend with the new system. They embrace bringing back much of the old system: a hierarchical party system, state planning, state enforced order and the security of state-provided social programs. While such a system would be popularly understood, dramatic external and internal contextual changes preclude such an extensive reversion. Coming closest to this category in contemporary Russia are traditional conservatives and many passive conservatives, although few are truly so rigid. Pragmatic reformers could also fall into this category if they individually saw such a path to be personally advantageous. At the other end of the spectrum, uninhibited reformers are those who appear to simply drop old cultural patterns and adopt flexible, changing strategies of action. Whereas many hardliners are likely to be older, uninhibited reformers are most likely to be young.

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They are those most capable of discarding their insufficiently socialized traditions to take advantage of the formless environment. This form of adaptation is most problematic as the interpretive framework is quite ephemeral because the adopted cultural tools lack the tempering and balance of historical development. Although those fitting into this category have the weakest socio-cultural foundations, the fragmented environment appears to give their route the greatest temporal impetus. This is noted in the sudden materialism of contemporary Russia. In the long run, such a society could come to be characterized by a form of social-Darwinism, in which society develops clear divisions between a small, powerful elite and the impoverished masses. 8 Of the three, the ‘success’ of this reaction indicates the longest period of formlessness as it lacks a coherent base. Coming closest to this category are the pragmatic reformers and some reform entrepreneurs who are the most adaptable. As will become clear, the most likely result falls somewhere in between the first two extremes. Recreative reform encompasses aspects of both extremes, emerging where individuals continue in their attempts to adapt new inputs into traditional tools, but begin to reassert these traditional tools as a balancing mechanism in the tumultuous environment. Through their behavior and attitudes, people recreate certain symbols of the past. In trying to employ their traditional tools, individuals identify cues in the new system to which they can attach traditional meanings. Institutions may change, but they are brought into the ‘fold’ of the familiar. For example, a number of respondents continue to conceptualize the role and function of the President in terms of their image of the General Secretary rather than in terms of new constitutional rules and the specific policies of that post’s occupant. Because the recreative reformer employs aspects of either extreme in reacting to change, the most important question is where on this sliding spectrum the societal reaction will fall. Unfortunately, there is no exact means of determining this. It depends on the specific society in question and the particularities of contextual change. Roughly speaking, one would expect that societies with the greatest experience under the doctrinaire authoritarian regime would show the greatest inclination toward the left edge of the spectrum, whereas those with less experience would be located more to the right. Thus, most of the countries emerging out of the Soviet Union would lean toward hardline recreation, whereas the Baltic


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Republics and other East European countries would be relatively closer to the uninhibited reformers. While similar to the normal process of cultural recreation in the doctrinaire authoritarian society, there is room for change in the political culture in an unsettled environment. Yet, the political culture only acquires coherence as the society settles. It is an iterative process in which the context and the remaining components of the political culture provide impetus to the other. In a more settled state, new capacities are developed and/or strengthened, while others become less viable for use. Counter-intuitively, however, the magnitude of cultural adaptation is not directly proportional to the magnitude of the contextual shock. In trying to adapt new forms into old tools, people strive to create understanding and grasp at glimpses of rationality that emerge at particularly coherent moments of development. In formlessness, that rationality only holds temporarily, however, as the system undergoes multiple shifts. In the recreative political culture the only apparent source of stability rests in the political culture framework. Although the popular capacity to employ its tools becomes circumscribed by sporadic changes, experience leads people to identify symbols in the new institutions and political processes that slowly expand this capacity. Largely as Cohen contends, however, there is a retrenchment behind traditional boundaries, as if falling into a protective womb.9 Unlike either the traditional conservatives or the reform entrepreneurs, who lean toward the creation of a particular system, passive conservatives best fall into this category. Due to their inherent inactivity, the symbolic construction of the environment is their most proactive means of applying cultural tools. The process of comprehending developments in former communist societies has been characterized ‘like trying to hit a moving target’. The combination of a formless political culture and unsettled society creates a dynamic in which the target is moving unpredictably as people try to employ their interpretive framework. Continued shocks in the society only serve to undermine any resting points. The quest for a durable resting place may be lengthy, yet throughout this process people become more flexible in using their cultural tools, particularly if stability begins to emerge. If society settles relatively early in the transition (the first several years), traditional tools become more evident in a behavioral domain leaning toward uninhibited reform. This seems to describe the Czech and Polish

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transitions. Yet, if turmoil continues, developing capacities combine with rising impatience to carry people beyond the symbolic representation of their environment towards more proactive recreation of cultural content found in hardline recreation. In the procedural democracy that emerges in reform, people use cultural tools to identify individuals (whether in power already or striving for power) who combine both the symbolic strength of past leadership and past policies. Whether a ‘new’ generation of leaders emerges, the translation of popular cultural capacities into public affairs engenders the reassertion of the state; this could include a stronger police presence and limits on individual activity, popular political participation, freedom of speech and more. Alongside greater state control come benefits, including universal health care, fewer economic shocks due to greater state control, and the comfort of predictability. What this means for democracy is unclear. The reaction could be manifested in greater political authoritarianism nationwide and/or at lower levels with the arrival of a strongman at the top or political clientelism below. Furthermore, the reaction need not be uniform across society. The tumultuous development of liberal democracy in a formerly doctrinaire authoritarian society facilitates political culture thermidor and, perhaps, its own institutional undoing, for it seems likely that recreative reform would probably emerge from elected leaders. I believe that the last of the three reactions described above is most probable for the majority in a formerly doctrinaire authoritarian society. It is a more balanced explanation, taking into account both contextual change and past patterns of socialization in the iterative process I have modeled. Hardline recreation envisions strict cultural continuity and ignores contextual variability; uninhibited reform ignores prior socialization for the power of contextual changes. Although I describe these reactions in terms of sub-types, it is unrealistic to predict their realization as the ascendant societal political culture adaptation. My formulation of recreation assumes a complex mixture of cultural continuity and change in the post-communist tumult. Where does this leave Russia? My research indicates that Russian political culture will continue a recreative reform process that will be leaning in the direction of hardline recreation. There is evidence of cultural adaptation with attributes of uninhibited reform, but the inertial tide of the majority of the population will significantly limit this form of overall development.


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Burrowing under formlessness: the Russian recreation The broad findings of this study are not optimistic for the nearterm democratization of Russia. While there were certain signs of Western democratic modes of behavior, the conservative majority does not augur well for the development of substantive democracy. For passive conservatives, the question of whether Russian political culture would resist democratization can be examined from the other direction: is it an obstacle to the development of an authoritarian polity? The simple answer to such a question: no, it is not. In many ways Russian political culture is ideal for such a development. Separated from the elite struggle to guide Russian transition, ordinary Russians have been forced by unstable economic and social conditions to focus on ensuring their subsistence needs to establish some measure of stability in their personal lives. While attitudes have altered somewhat since, in 1994 the quickest road to stability held priority over the policy content to achieve that end. In this respect, the passive strategy of action taken by passive conservatives meant the country was ripe for the reassertion of authoritarianism. While the minority of reform entrepreneurs offer some hope for the development of a civic culture, most of the population could clearly be classified as a subject culture. 10 Russians often express support for civic culture attributes in the abstract, but when discussing concrete issues, subject orientations erode support for the processes of democratization that are associated with the civic culture. In the difficult transition, personal and familial needs overrode concerns of the broader community. Respondents expressed little tolerance for behavior by others that they did not understand or threatened to destabilize further their personal lives. Lacking trust in political figures, people ‘burrowed’ into their personal lives. Reflecting their limited capacity to employ their political tools, people’s strategies of action and behavioral cues were intertwined, even if not always obvious, in a popular search for an individual and national identity. With the sudden collapse of the Soviet collective identity, people became atomized as they were released from the bounds of state control (albeit state control that had been weakening for decades) and lost the support of Soviet social services and guarantees. Thus, whereas the norms of society had a particular form during the Soviet period, the disintegration of the state structure coincided with the functional debility of the cultural tools that

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people had used to guide their everyday lives. Where once had existed a popularly understood system, there was now a vacuum left by the collapse of official state atheism, the declining state caretaker role, and the loss of a hierarchy of labor values. To fill this void, people originally sought to construct functioning strategies of action based on their traditional, personal capacities as they confronted the arrival of foreign and indigenously developed novelties. Yet, the onrush of new ideas has gone beyond the capabilities of established cultural norms to adapt these ideas in a functional way. The result has been cultural anomie. In this combination of traditional tools and contextual change we find formlessness. Unable to successfully employ their cultural tools, people have sought very different means to create rationality in their vision of Russia. Representing Swidler’s assertion that ideological identities come to the fore during unsettled periods,11 the expansion of religious activity filled a niche for many searching for structure. Yet, as Boris Yeltsin acknowledged in 1997, the arrival of the market economy has had a profound effect on people’s value systems. 12 For the many who were unable to ground themselves in more traditional institutions, the arrival of the consumer culture into Russia offers a partial solution. Unfortunately, market values have not been balanced out as people (especially the young) begin to see the world in strictly material terms, as manifested in the uninhibited reform reaction. Thus, where Soviet propaganda had taught Russians to respect people before objects, the new society has an evaluative monetary overlay in which the most remunerative jobs are prestigious, even when these particular jobs are illegal. A tired and confused population, especially those aged over 30 in 1994, now worry about their children’s future. The search for immediate gratification and the expansion of business also undermines the traditional lure of secondary and higher education as the means for popular advancement. Thus, the dangers of relative adaptability in the young emerges as a problem for future Russia as strategies of action develop that are not solidly founded on traditional tools. Respondents falling behind the rush of change looked back at much of the support provided by the Soviet system with nostalgia. Nevertheless, people did not reminisce about the limits that the Soviet system had placed on their movement and speech. In this respect they were supportive of the democratic changes. Often equating freedom with the ability to do and say what one wants, freedom of speech was central to conceptualizations of the term


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democracy. By inference, regardless of the positive rights of health care, a guaranteed job or a free education, people argued that the Soviet system had not met the standards for democracy for lack of the negative right to speech. Consequently, acquiring freedom of speech and the forms and legal basis of Western democracy had fed much of the euphoria in the waning years of Soviet rule and the rise of the Russian state. This euphoria was partially sustained, however, by the continuing existence of Soviet social and economic guarantees during Gorbachev’s liberalization period that declined drastically following the dissolution of the USSR. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the institution of ‘shock therapy’ in 1992 the acquisition of these negative rights became less vital. While people still valued these rights in the abstract, they increasingly counterposed them with the more immediate, lower order concerns of earning a wage and feeding one’s family. In an ironic twist, the movement toward a market economy has altered the Russian vision of democracy. Rather than the world of ‘milk and honey’ people had anticipated, democracy appears remarkably similar to the manner in which Soviet propaganda had long depicted the liberal-democratic West. As if fulfilling the message of that propaganda, the Russian version of democracy was beset by rising crime and unemployment rates, declining medical care, an expanding division between the rich and the poor, inflation, political corruption and a leadership out of touch with the people. Adding to popular confusion about the new Russia, however, was the ironic outgrowth of the democratic freedom of speech, which brought on a sudden explosion of media, particularly television, that now consistently and conscientiously informs the Russian people of their plight. Thus, whereas people may have been unofficially aware of official corruption and privilege under Soviet authority, the national media had rarely broadcast that information. Combined with the shock of now seeing Russia’s failings daily on the news, the importation of Western movies and television shows continued the attack on the Russian self-image. No longer limited to negative visions of the West, the Western entertainment programs exhibited lives of carefree wealth and ease. While Russians could intellectually identify the fantasy aspect of this world, Russian television documentaries showed a stable, Western middle class that lived at levels of comfort beyond the imagination of most Russians. In hoping that Russia would eventually achieve such conditions, many had been willing to endure the hardships of transition, while

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supporting the reform-oriented officials who had promised to take them there. In a strategy founded on patience, the passive conservative traits of many respondents were most evident, drawing on tools that placed popular well-being in the hands of authority. For those holding more traditionally conservative views, however, democracy is a failure in Russia; it is inappropriate for the Russian people. Rather than patiently waiting for reform leaders to carry the nation forward, they were calling for greater congruence between Russian culture and political processes. In comparing the stability of Soviet conditions with the instability of post-Soviet Russian conditions, there is much to recommend the past. Whereas the Soviet Union had seemed the quintessentially stable system, one that had planned almost its entire economic performance over five year periods, the sudden reform changes led to the perception that people ‘did not know what would be tomorrow’. For individual Russians the inability to plan – to create effective, stable strategies of action – is closely correlated with the atomization of the Russian population in general, and has a significant influence on how people characterized society. In this respect, it also contributed to the degree to which they participated in politics and hoped for guidance from figures in authority. Political participation A hallmark of the civic culture used to describe Western democracies is a citizenry that views itself as an important part of both political decision making and policy implementation. 13 In 1993–94, the residents of Syktyvkar and Kirov felt powerless to influence the course of reform, describing themselves like ‘grains of sand’ on the beach. People in neither city actively participated in either public organizations or political activities. General passivity included reform entrepreneurs, who, although active in their own affairs, avoided political activity. As reform entrepreneurs are the natural models of such activities, this is a weakness underlying the fledgling civil society. Where participation did exist, it was generally limited to voting and labor responsibilities, the latter reflecting a Soviet notion of fulfilling political responsibilities in the work place. Yet, while some argued that voting did affect the policymaking process, almost the entire body of respondents felt they had little external efficacy. Pointing to structural limits on their access to policy makers, respondents believed they had little influence on officials during


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policymaking. To the contrary, people had ample evidence of their lack of influence. For example, politicians such as Spiridonov, Desiatnikov and Yeltsin easily bypassed laws and popular votes to implement the policies they individually preferred. Again, in recreating Soviet participatory patterns, Russians were best able to influence policy during the implementation stage.14 In spite of changing legal restrictions on public participation de facto resistance in the policymaking circles counteracted de jure tolerance for popular roles in public. To have access to the policy generation required the position of a pragmatic reformer, tied to the fortunes of a political patron. As such, one had to have something to provide that patron whether in services, expertise, or financial support. The low levels of participation in public life rested as much on what was missing from society as what might be impeding access. In particular, whereas Soviet policy had been to initiate participation in public life administratively, 15 the collapse of the Soviet Union had suddenly left a void that only individually initiated activity could fill. Without an external force directing collective behavior, popular participatory activity became fragmented into the selfinterested struggle for personal subsistence. Overall, the shared tools of society do not provide many Russians with the capacity for selfinitiated political activism. Of course, for more motivated Russians, particularly the pragmatic reformers, political activity was the means for achieving one’s needs. Yet, alignment with a particular political patron offered both the hope of profit from a patron’s success, and the risk of losing all access to power circles if the patron were to be defeated. For others, self-interest, or self-preservation, kept the potentially influential from entering the policymaking fray. For potentially active traditional conservatives and reform entrepreneurs, the risk that came with losing kept some ‘neutral’ and removed from political intrigue. Caution, even avoidance, characterized the political strategies of action pursued by these individuals and groups. For those respondents who did involve themselves, the most common link was former membership in the Communist Party. Most able to employ cultural capacities for political activity, they were a group that signified some continuation of Soviet modes of political behavior. Trained and accustomed to functioning in the Soviet environment, these individuals were likely to carry forward many of the participatory patterns characterizing Soviet times, whether they did so under the banner of democracy or not. Of course, despite

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broad apathy among the respondents, there was hope for reform that arose out of general feelings of internal political efficacy. While respondents who felt individually competent rarely were active, there were those groups that provided some spark for the development of popular group activity. Yet, as generally exhibited by low membership totals or clear links to political patronage, it was difficult to be optimistic about these groups’ long-term prospects for success. Funding was scarce for those organizations that appeared most like Western interest groups, often resulting in little impact on policy making circles. Most Russians were active in their own subsistence environments. Since their individual activities were not succeeding in significantly alleviating the hardships caused by reform, many respondents looked for a solution to personal problems from state leadership. Rather than envisioning one’s personal role to help achieve change, many exhibited the hardline characteristics of recreative reform in hoping for some unified and directed political power to unite the population and stabilize the country. Authority patterns Russian relationships with political authority and leadership figures again exhibited the complexities of the transition. Tired of the conflictual environment at the apex of politics, Russians were increasingly supportive of individual, unified leadership in the person of the president. True to their roots, Russians emerging from the Soviet period were in favor of parliamentary-style rule that more closely mimicked images of Soviet practices. Yet, the corruption and acrimony in the former Supreme Soviet and the new State Duma were leading people to support the presidential institution that promised the greatest unity and direction in policy. Yeltsin’s delegative democracy, placing most policymaking authority in the hands of the president, offered the most decisive leadership.16 In contrast with continuity theory’s expectations, respondents in this study were not initially concerned that a leader approximate Russian/Soviet tradition. Their primary concern lay in quickly achieving some measure of stability. Many conservative respondents supported the candidacies of reformers, despite the fact that their professed policies went against conservative social and economic preferences. Hoping that the shocks of reform would end, Russians often supported the officials in power as those people closest to a possible solution. In this respect, a limited capacity to employ societal


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tools focused on the symbolism of stability rather than the content of policy. Out of the preference for reform politicians, a paradox arose in popular preferences for leadership: support for officials advocating policies seemingly opposite to popular preferences was contrasted by the general rejection of leaders who advocated economic and social policies that seemed more in the popular interest. In this respect, people rejected officials who continued to maintain links to the reconstituted Communist parties of Russia or had inextricable links to the failure of the Soviet Union.17 Although these officials held the social and economic values that were more in line with popular desires, people attempted to dissociate themselves from Soviet failures. Nevertheless, as the ‘demons’ of the past lose a clear connection to that period, the cultural tools that underlie the earlier system are reasserted in a way that fulfills both symbolic needs and policy expectations – leading to broad congruence in both components of the behavioral domain. Popular opinion exhibited a similar paradox when the strength of support for conservatives in parliamentary elections in December 1993 partially contradicted support for reformers in the executive branch. Preferences for stability were also contradicted by a number of respondents calling for a new generation of reform-oriented leaders. People did seem willing to give up a degree of potential stability by bringing in new politicians. However, this willingness was not evidence of changing cultural preferences, as the goal remained the achievement of stability; these people assumed that bringing in more capable reformers would result in a more rapid end to reform. Furthermore, people often rejected the ‘repainted’ generation of post-Soviet leaders. Because many post-Soviet officials were intimately associated with Soviet methods, respondents thought this group of politicians incapable of adapting to new realities. While continuity theorists might argue that the desire for decisive, individual authority was an artifact of autocratic traditions, the cause of this desire was more complicated than a fixation with individual rule. Instead, the movement toward individual rule is better understood as an expression of disappointment in the contentious nature of presidential–legislative relations. Russian historical perceptions of policymaking had not included the struggle between separate institutions. Authority had been unified in either the hands of the tsar or represented in Soviet political councils practicing democratic centralism. Contentious moments had been minimal, especially in

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Figure 9.2

Russia’s Formless Political Culture NATO Expansion, War over Kosovo, IMF Demands, Near Abroadt

Circumscribed tools Popular passivityt

*

Economic turmoil Distant corrupt leaders Declining social programst

➾

Contextuality driven behavior Low political participationt

+

Desire for Authoritative Leadershipt

(t +1)

* ➾

= confronted by = yields

t = time t +1 = feedback into next iteration

terms of what state censors allowed the populace to see. Yet, the delegative democracy instituted by the 1993 Yeltsin Constitution focused most authority on the presidency. People saw the parliament as an obstacle to presidential authority and internally contentious. The ‘natural’ tendency for popular support would be toward the unified position of the president. Thus, support for the presidency was the means by which societal tools framed behavioral expression, both electorally and attitudinally. While the political object supported (the president) was not truly consistent with political culture tradition, the symbolism underlying the support was. While post-Soviet Russians are inclined toward centralized authority, the institution that most meets their traditional hopes for Russian government is the legislative body, not the presidency. Whether a product of the pre-revolutionary zemstvo or emerging from the Soviet hierarchy of councils, Russians preferred authoritative decisionmaking to occur in representative institutions.18 As one respondent claimed: where one mind is good, many are better. Again, fueled by media coverage, popular dismay with the national parliament drove people to support individual rule. Yet, ideally, they still supported some form of parliamentary system. Thus, the institutional structures of the delegative democracy are not congruent with the greater capacity of Russian political culture for legislative rule, albeit a highly centralized form of legislative rule. As modeled here, some of the complexity of Russia’s formless political culture appears as in Figure 9.2.


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Recreation in Russia: developments beyond formlessness Table 9.1 summarizes the characteristics and possible development of each cultural type. Individually, these are relatively self-explanatory. At either end of the spectrum of popular reactions to formlessness (see Figure 9.1) are traditional conservatives, who strongly lean toward hardline recreation, and reform entrepreneurs, who lean toward uninhibited reform. Yet, like the passive conservatives between them, there are many factors that pull the society toward recreative reform. Of course, the pragmatic reformers are ‘free agents’ in this process, seemingly able to lean any particular direction. Yet, while we can look at each of the four types individually, putting the four together to identify an overall direction for Russian political culture and Russian society is far more complex. Fundamental to my overall argument for Russia has been the contention that the tumultuous environment has driven people, the passive conservatives in particular, to search for stability above all costs. While reformers are less focused on stability – although the reform entrepreneurs feel particularly hampered by unstable laws, especially commercial laws – the overwhelming majority of conservatives act as an inertial weight on the reform minority. True, the reform entrepreneurs and pragmatic reformers could work with a reform elite in drawing forward the passive conservatives over time. Yet, could a liberal democracy (the supposed goal of reformers) actually provide the substantive stability (that is health care, income, strong police control of corruption and crime and so on) that is congruent with this group’s political culture capacities? As political culture recreation emerges out of formlessness in a continually contentious environment, I do not believe that such a political development is likely. Furthermore, policymakers on all levels have shown little commitment to democratic practices, a factor that helps to fuel recreation. Overall, my investigation indicates that hardline-leaning recreative reform is evolving in Russia’s ongoing struggle. Of course, continued contextual developments (including IMF stabilization loans) will influence the long-term evolution of Russia’s political culture and political system. In trying to predict the direction of Russian political developments, there are two basic questions to be considered: (1) what is the system that would be congruent with a political culture undergoing recreative reform?; and, (2) what will the contemporary context allow, particularly when considering the political

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Russian Cultural Type Development

Cultural Type

General cultural capacity

Cultural reaction

Political strategy of action

Potential ‘allies’

Developmental possibilities

Passive Conservative

Limited adaptability (followers)

Recreative reform toward hardline recreation

Passive limited to ‘accepted’ leadership

All of the groups (followers)

Adaptable to directed leadership with time

Traditional Conservative

Limited adaptability (potential activity)

Recreative reform strong leaning toward hardline recreation

Semi-active: framed by state socialism

Passive conservatives & pragmatic reformers

State socialism or social democrat with significant state regulation

Pragmatic Reformer

Adaptive (personal advantage

Variable

Realist: lack set framework

All of the groups

Adaptable to context/ clientelism

Reform Entrepreneur

Adaptive (personal/ advantage/ voluntarism)

Recreative reform leaning toward uninhibited reform

Cautious: passive/active framed by economic liberalism

Passive conservatives & pragmatic reformers

Adaptable to context/lean toward social democrat with market emphasis


Table 9.1


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elite in power? The first question is simpler to answer. The conservative majority in Syktyvkar and Kirov indicated a preference and need for centralized political authority at the apex of Russian politics. This sort of political strongman or strong-group would have the ability to institute counter-reforms, to strengthen state control over social programs and the economy, while limiting the destabilizing effects of political dissent. This would include the assertion of central control over the regions, causing regional leaders to lose a great deal of autonomy. Within this more rigid environment, traditional cultural tools would function more effectively allowing for the construction of more consistent strategies of action. Nonetheless, many aspects of reform would persist, including certain recently acquired freedoms in economic matters and some areas of speech. In this respect, civic-minded reform entrepreneurs will be limited in their political activities, although many could adapt their strategies to focus solely on personal economic development rather than political affairs. The police would re-acquire greater control functions, although they would be expected to function within the framework of stable laws. Elections would continue, but the ideological spread of candidates would be significantly narrowed. At its most democratic such a regime could be characterized as ‘elected authoritarianism’. Overall, the greater centralization of authority would recreate some aspects of the past (note the absence of ideology), while including certain aspects of reform. The now settled political culture would return to normal processes of adaptation, albeit processes that would be more flexible than the erstwhile doctrinaire authoritarian regime. While this ‘ideal’ depiction represents the realization of recreative reform in Russia, the reality of Russian politics influences this evolution. The scenario described above rests on the revival of many aspects of state paternalism. Yet, the reassertion of centralized authority may be very difficult to achieve given the relative autonomy of Russia’s 89 regions. Thus, while people could vote for a stronger president, the rise of regional clientelism may be a more realistic result in which goods would be distributed by a closed, regional elite instead of a hierarchically structured central elite. Although many of the substantive results described above would be in effect, regional authorities would fulfill the directive functions. While the regional ability to distribute goods without central help is still limited, this last scenario may be coming to fruition under Spiridonov and Sergeenkov in Syktyvkar and Kirov, respectively. The means for

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achieving stability nationwide may be through regional alliances with the center, an authority structure being realized through bilateral treaties between the center and individual regions. The continued lack of stability in post-Soviet Russia does not lend itself to definite conclusions. Still markedly formless in nature, political culture recreation remains in the early- to mid-point of development. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that the political system will become more congruent with the societal political culture. As we saw in Chapter 6, Komi political authorities remain aloof from many popular concerns and have focused on establishing personal political and economic power. Such an eventuality would only serve to maintain political culture formlessness for an extended period of time, making it even more difficult to predict a long-term resolution.

The present and future for Russia The speed of political events since the completion of the original study have carried the population past several possible cultural resting points. The point at which the political culture rested in 1994 focused on the strengthened nature of the single Russian leader and his ability to carry forward political and economic reforms. Yet, as Yeltsin drew Russia into the war in Chechenya in 1994, Russians questioned their support for a more powerful individual leader. While still calling for strength and unity in leadership, popular uncertainty was leading to a rise of more traditional political preferences. On a superficial basis, this cultural movement was underlined by the December 1995 parliamentary elections that resulted in a more conservative legislature. In addition to the war, it seemed that the continued failure of the reform politicians to alleviate the popular plight saw Russians moving back toward ‘earlier’ values. In this fashion they were more likely to vote for the ‘old ways’ represented by the communists they had earlier rejected. Reform promises of a quick ending of the pain were even less trustworthy than before, a conclusion underlined by the August 1998 economic crisis. Thus, the unwillingness to disrupt the unity and direction provided by reformers has become a victim of impatience as Russians lost a certain antipathy toward the past. Yet, even as prognosticators in the West feared the return of communist power, popular support for Yeltsin in the 1996 presidential race provides another superficial indicator of popular preferences – exemplifying the inconsistencies of expression in a formless political culture.


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In the all-encompassing instability of 1994, local conditions led to variability in cultural development across Syktyvkar and Kirov, although the people of both regions still exhibited inclinations for recreative reform. While residents of both cities called for strength and unity in leadership, Kirov’s more dire situation led to support for a strong leader with fewer restrictions on authority than the people of Syktyvkar would accept. Residents of Syktyvkar were supportive of strong leadership, although the region’s economic wealth led to calls for greater independence in the production, refinement and sale of its resource riches – a goal that was at least legally met with the signing of the power sharing agreement in March 1996. In 1994, Kirov residents were more closely attached to the hierarchical authority relationship with Moscow, while Komi’s greater independence was developing into a minor fiefdom. Since 1994, Spiridonov’s authority in Komi has increased. In this respect, clientelism is a visible and important attribute of developments in Komi politics. Although Komi politics have followed a broadly defined linear path of development, Kirov political development has sharply diverged from 1994 with the inception of elections to the governorship in 1996. The election of Vladimir Sergeenkov has seen a decisive shift in local political practices – following the general path of Komi. The Russian delegative democracy threatens the development of pluralist democracy, particularly when looking at developments in the provinces. Making for an interesting contrast, political developments in the Komi Republic more accurately represent Yeltsin’s goals for Russia in action than those Yeltsin has actually achieved nationwide. Spiridonov has set up a political system in which he is able to dominate the State Council and the administrative regions of Komi. While dealing with a much more disparate population, Yeltsin constructed a system with a weak parliament and presidential representatives (in the form of governors) to ensure the implementation of presidential directives. Even at that point, the Soviet collapse left many regions beyond the easy control of the center, particularly as Moscow could not fulfill its social and economic responsibilities to the provinces. As a result, many regional leaders defied Moscow’s leadership and built their own power bases.19 While Kirov was not one of these regions in 1994, the election of governors in 1996 increased certain centrifugal forces in the provinces that drew authority away from the federal government.20 With a largely passive Russian population, some might argue that elite commitment to democratic processes would draw the people

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forward in the development of a civic culture. Even if such a commitment were evident in Russia (and there are significant variations in behavior), this is a questionable proposition, particularly in the near term. The existence of a civic culture assumes congruence between a participatory culture of democratic citizenry and state political structures.21 The problem for developing a participatory culture, however, rests on the need for citizens to feel both internally and externally efficacious. While some respondents indicated a certain degree of internal efficacy, state structures and actors have done little to provide an avenue for independent political participation. As exemplified by elite political behavior across levels of government, activity within recently adopted ‘democratic’ structures represents traditional authority patterns. A population that was long accustomed to externally directed forms of participation has reacted by withdrawing from political affairs. 22 Thus, despite the existence of reform entrepreneurs active in constructing civil society organizations, most Russian attitudes and behavior do not meet the criteria for a civic culture. In many ways, the activity of reform entrepreneur interest groups is similar to the unconventional activities present in the Soviet era.23 Also consisting of educated members, these groups have little influence on official policy unless willing to sacrifice independence for resources from and, therefore, access to, political patrons. Those that are truly independent, however, as discussed in Chapter 7, have been the targets of official ‘persecution’. Simply, the political elite holds a virtual monopoly in the policymaking realm. Ultimately, behavior in these two sectors carries many similarities with past practices, much as Putnam found in continuing clientelism in southern Italy following twenty years of institutional reforms.24 The recreation of traditional cultural patterns and political practices is by no means the final word in the possible democratization of Russia. Nevertheless, it is certainly a hindrance. Events since 1994 in Komi and Kirov have continued to militate against the development of a liberal democratic polity – offering little optimism for the near-term development of an indigenous civic culture. While it might be the case that the reform entrepreneur minority is a potential for eventual democratic developments, political authorities in neither region appear willing to allow these groups much of an opportunity to grow as a viable opposition. As evident in 1994, signs of support for reform hold a tenuous place in the formless political culture and often mask the more traditional attitudes of centuries


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past. As the shock of the Soviet collapse continued to reverberate, traditional patterns of belief and behavior were initially hidden as people tried to adapt new political realities to their cultural grounding. With time, however, the shock has worn off and these traditional forms have re-emerged in public, both at elite and mass levels, reflecting the difficulties of the democratic transition.

Appendix General respondent characteristics: Syktyvkar

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Interview no.

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2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Age Sex Nationality Education Profession Marital CPSU Believer Cultural type

36 M R H P M Y N R

45 F S M W W N Y C

30 F R H P D N Y C

28 M K H P S N Y R

63 F R M O D N Y C

37 F K H P D N Y C

31 M R H P D N N –

23 F K H P S N N R

40 M R M W M N Y C

47 F R M O D N N C

21 M R S S M N N R

33 M R H P M Y – C

38 F R H P M – – C

36 M R H P M N N –

43 M S M W M N Y C

Interview no.

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30


44 M R M W M N Y R

23 F R H P S N Y C

38 F R M O M N Y C

51 F K M W M N N C

40 F R M O M N Y C

27 F K M O M N – C

25 F R M O M N Y C

27 F R M O M N Y C

35 F R M O M N N –

39 M R H P M Y Y C

30 M K M W M N N C

43 M R M W M Y Y C

43 M K L W M N N C

25 M K M W M N Y C

48 M K H P M Y N R

Code: Nationality: R- Russian, K- Komi, S- Slav, O- other; Education: H- higher, M- middle, L- lower, S- student; Profession: W- worker, P- professional, O-other, S- student; Marital status: M- married, S- single, D- divorced, W- widowed; Cultural type: C- conserv., R- reformer, – not classified

General respondent characteristics: Kirov Interview no.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15


48 M R M W M N N C

39 M R M W M N N C

23 M R S S S N Y C

32 M R M W M N N C

36 M R M W M N Y C

41 F S M W M N Y C

40 F R M O M N Y C

56 M R L W S N N C

22 M R S S S N N R

50 F R M O M N Y C

33 M R H P M N Y R

40 F R M W M N Y C

75 F R H P W Y N C

60 M R M W M N N C

32 M R S P M Y N –

Interview no.

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

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30


35 F R H H M Y Y C

45 M R M W M N Y C

25 F O M O D N Y C

38 F R H P M N N C

22 F R M W M N N C

23 F R M S S N Y –

67 F R M O M N N C

53 M R M W D N Y C

62 M R H P M Y N C

52 F R M W M N Y C

69 F R H P W Y N C

39 F R M O D N N C

36 F R M O D N N C

26 M R H P S N N C

52 F R H P M N Y –

Code: Nationality: R- Russian, K- Komi, S- Slav, O- other; Education: H- higher, M- middle, L- lower, S- student; Profession: W- worker, P- professional, O-other, S- student; Marital status: M- married, S- single, D- divorced, W- widowed; Cultural type: C- conservative, R- reformer, – not classified

235

236


Notes and References 1. Investigating Russian Political Culture 1 J. Reed, Ten Days that Shook the World (New York: International Publishers, 1967). 2 G. Almond and S. Verba, The Civic Culture (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1963). 3 See S. White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979), 22–63 and S. White, ‘Political Culture in Communist States’, Comparative Politics, Vol. 16, no. 3 (April 1984), 351–66. 4 C. Offe, ‘Capitalism by Democratic Design? Democratic Theory Facing the Triple Transition in East Central Europe’, Social Research, Vol. 58, no. 4 (Winter 1991), 865–92. 5 F. Barghoorn, ‘Soviet Russia: Orthodoxy and Adaptiveness’, in L. Pye and S. Verba, eds, Political Culture and Political Development (Princeton: Princeton, 1965), pp. 450–511. 6 This is particularly a problem when the scholars interpreting the data are unfamiliar with Russian society. 7 G. Marcus and M. Fischer, Anthropology as Cultural Critique: An Experimental Moment in the Human Sciences (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1986), p. 15. 8 H. Wolcott, ‘On Ethnographic Intent’, in G. and L. Spindler, eds, Interpretive Ethnography: At Home and Abroad (Hillsdale: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, Inc., 1987), pp. 37–57. 9 E. Walker, ‘Post-Sovietology, Area Studies, and the Social Sciences’, The Harriman Institute Forum, Vol. 6, nos. 6–7 (February–March 1993), 24–8. 10 H.R. Bernard, Research Methods in Cultural Anthropology (Beverly Hills: Sage, 1988). 11 B. Glaser and A. Strauss, The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative Research (Chicago: Aldine, 1967), pp. 101–15. 12 Ibid., p. 115. 13 Thirty subjects were chosen based on the month-and-a-half I had remaining in Syktyvkar. Based on experience, I allotted half the time in Kirov. 14 On the controversy over subjectivity and behavior, see A. Brown’s introduction in Brown, ed., Political Culture and Communist Studies (London: Macmillan, 1984), and S. Welch, The Concept of Political Culture (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993). 15 B. Ruble, Money Sings: The Changing Politics of Urban Space in post-Soviet Yaroslavl (New York: Woodrow Wilson Center, 1995), 27. 16 A. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community (New York: Ellis Horwood, 1985), 32–3. 17 R. Bendix, Nation-Building and Citizenship (New York: John Wiley, 1964). 18 Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community, p. 17. Cohen borrows heavily from Clifford Geertz’ ‘Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive 236


19 20 21 22 23 24

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Theory of Culture’, in C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (London: Hutchinson, 1975), p. 5. S. Verba, ‘Comparative Political Culture’, in L. Pye and S. Verba, eds, Political Culture and Political Development (Princeton: Princeton, 1965), p. 513. White, Political Culture, op. cit., p. 1. R. Erikson, N. Luttbeg and K. Tedin, American Public Opinion (New York: Macmillan, 1991). G. Almond, ‘Communism and Political Culture Theory’, Comparative Politics, Vol. 15 no. 2 (January 1983), 127–38. H. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory of Political Change’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 82, no. 3 (September 1988), 796. S. White, R. Rose and I. McAllister, How Russia Votes (Chatham, New Jersey: Chatham House, 1997).

2. Political Culture as a Research Agenda 1 G. Almond, ‘Comparative Political Systems’, Journal of Politics, Vol. 18, no. 3 (August 1956), 396. 2 G. Almond and S. Verba, The Civic Culture (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1963). 3 Ibid., p. 30. 4 Ibid., pp. 16–18. 5 Ibid., p. 2. 6 Ibid., p. 22. Also L. Pye and S. Verba, eds, Political Culture and Political Development (Princeton: Princeton, 1965). 7 L. Pye, ‘Introduction: Political Culture and Political Development’, in L. Pye and S. Verba, eds, Political Culture and Political Development, p. 11. 8 S. Welch, The Concept of Political Culture (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993). 9 Ibid., pp. 14–26. 10 A. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community (New York: Ellis Horwood, 1985), p. 36. 11 Ibid., p. 37. Cohen’s attack is reminiscent of E. Said’s concern about the Western invention of the ‘Orient’. See Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon, 1978). 12 R. Putnam, Making Democracy Work (Princeton: Princeton, 1993), p. 149. 13 Welch, The Concept of Political Culture, op. cit., p. 45. 14 See S. White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics (New York: St. Martins, 1979). Also see R.C. Tucker, Political Culture and Leadership in Soviet Russia (New York: W.W. Norton, 1987). 15 See J. Hahn, ‘Continuity and Change in Russian Political Culture’, British Journal of Political Science, 21 (1991), 393–421. See also J. Gibson, R. Duch and K. Tedin, ‘Democratic Values and the Transformation of the Soviet Union’, Journal of Politics, Vol. 54, no. 2 (May 1992), 329–71. 16 C. Friedrich and Z. Brzezinski, Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy (Cambridge: Harvard, 1956). 17 H.G. Skilling and F. Griffiths, eds, Interest Groups in Soviet Politics (Princeton: Princeton, 1971). 18 D. Tarschys, ‘The Soviet Political System: Three Models’, European Journal of Political Research, Vol. 5, no. 3 (September 1977), 287–320.

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19 S. White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics, op. cit. 20 S. White, ‘Political Culture in Communist States’, Comparative Politics, Vol. 16, no. 3 (April 1984), 354. 21 White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics, pp. 186–90. 22 White, ‘Political Culture in Communist States’, 354. 23 Tucker, Political Culture, op. cit. 24 A. Brown, ed., Political Culture and Communist Studies (London: Macmillan, 1984). 25 M. McAuley, ‘Political Culture and Communist Studies: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back’, in Brown, ed., Political Culture, pp. 13–39. 26 For such a study, see D. Bahry, ‘Rethinking the Social Roots of Perestroika’, Slavic Review, Vol. 52, no. 3 (Fall 1993); 512–54; and N. Petro, The Rebirth of Russian Democracy: An Interpretation of Political Culture (Cambridge: Harvard, 1995). 27 A. Inkeles and R. Bauer, The Soviet Citizen: Daily Life in a Totalitarian Society (Cambridge: Harvard, 1959). 28 J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work, and Daily Life in the USSR: A Survey of Former Soviet Citizens (Cambridge: Cambridge, 1987). 29 W. DiFrancesco and S. Gitelman, ‘Soviet Political Culture and “Covert Participation” in Policy Implementation’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 78, no. 3 (September 1984), 603–21. 30 P. Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation in the Leninist Development Strategy’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 83, no. 3 (September 1989), 859–84. 31 T. Friedgut, ‘The Soviet Citizen’s Perceptions of Local Government’, in E. Jacobs, ed., Soviet Local Politics and Government (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1983), pp. 113–31. 32 J. Hahn, Soviet Grassroots: Citizen Participation in Local Soviet Government (Princeton: Princeton, 1988). 33 S. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven: Yale, 1968); Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation’; and J. Gibson, R. Duch and K. Tedin, ‘Democratic Values and the Transformation of the Soviet Union’, The Journal of Politics, Vol. 54, no. 2 (May 1992), 329–71. 34 M. Lewin, The Gorbachev Phenomenon (Berkeley: University of California, 1988). 35 Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation’ and Hahn, ‘Local Politics and Political Power in Russia: The Case of Yaroslavl’ ’, Soviet Economy, Vol. 7, no. 4 (October–December 1991), 322–41. 36 Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory of Political Change,’ American Political Science Review, Vol. 82, no. 3 (September 1988), 789–804. 37 Petro, The Rebirth of Russian Democracy, p. 3. 38 Ibid., p. 2. 39 R. Sakwa, ‘Subjectivity and Order in Russian Political Culture’. Paper presented at the 27th National Convention of the American Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies, Philadelphia, PA, 1995, 36. 40 M. Urban, ‘The Politics of Identity in Russia’s Post Communist Transition: The Nation Against Itself’, Slavic Review, Vol. 53, no. 3 (Fall 1994), 733–65. 41 Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community, p. 12.

Notes and References 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67

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Ibid., p. 17. Ibid., pp. 20–1. Ibid., p. 40. Putnam, Making Democracy Work, op. cit. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community, pp. 44–59. Ibid., p. 91. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, op. cit., 796–801. J. Millar, Politics, Work, and Daily Life in the USSR: A Survey of Former Soviet Citizens (Cambridge: Cambridge, 1987); Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, 796. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, 796. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community, op. cit., p. 28. A. Swidler, ‘Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies’, American Sociological Review, Vol. 51 (April 1986), 275. Ibid., 277. Swidler uses a number of terms to describe the same phenomena, including un-/settled lives, un-/settled cultures. Ibid., p. 281. Ibid., p. 278. Ibid. This table could be expanded to include market-oriented, authoritarian regimes. While political culture development would likely be in between those of the two regimes above, these regimes (recently, Chile and Argentina), are beyond this study’s scope. Comparing transitions across varying societies is fraught with difficulty. See Valerie Bunce, ‘Should Transitologists Be Grounded?’, Slavic Review, Vol. 54, no. 1 (Spring 1995), 111–27. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, op. cit., 794–6. P. Sorokin, Social and Cultural Change (New York: American Book Company, 1937). Swidler, ‘Culture in Action’, op. cit., 280 and Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, op. cit., 797. I expand upon Swidler’s use of ‘culture shock’. See, ‘Culture in Action’, 275. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, op. cit., 796–7. Because of variability within generations, providing a clear dividing line between generations is difficult. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community, op. cit., p. 28. Swidler, ‘Culture in Action’, op. cit., 277. Putnam, Making Democracy Work, op. cit. J. Linz and A. Stepan, Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America, and Post-Communist Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1996).

3. Surveying Attitudes in Russia 1 Except where noted otherwise, as a matter of practicality I often use the terms Soviet Union and Russia interchangeably in this discussion. 2 J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work, and Daily Life in the USSR: A Survey of Former Soviet Citizens (New York: Cambridge, 1987). 3 S. White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics (New York: St. Martins

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4

5

6 7 8

9 10 11

12 13

14

15

16 17 18 19 20 21

22

Notes and References Press, 1979); and A. Brown, ed., Political Culture and Communist Studies (London: Macmillan, 1984). See L. Pye, ‘Introduction: Political Culture and Political Development’, in L. Pye and S. Verba, eds, Political Culture and Political Development (Princeton: Princeton, 1965), pp. 3–26. Also, see G. Almond and S. Verba, The Civic Culture (Princeton: Princeton, 1963). See P. Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation in the Leninist Developmental Strategy’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 83, no. 3 (September 1989), 859–84; and, M. Lewin, The Gorbachev Phenomenon (Berkeley: University of California, 1988). B. Silver, ‘Political Beliefs of the Soviet Citizen’, in J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work, and Daily Life, pp. 126, 132. D. Bahry, ‘Politics, Generations and Change in the USSR’, in J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work, and Daily Life, pp. 87, 89. S. White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics op. cit.; and, R. Tucker, Political Culture and Leadership in Soviet Russia (New York: W.W. Norton, 1987). Bahry, ‘Politics, Generations and Change’, op. cit., p. 85. H. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory of Political Change’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 82, no. 3 (October 1988), 789–804. J. Gibson, R. Duch and K. Tedin, ‘Democratic Values and the Transformation of the Soviet Union’, The Journal of Politics, Vol. 54, no. 2 (May 1992). Ibid., 329. These general findings were largely confirmed in 1990 and 1992 surveys. J. Gibson, ‘The Resilience of Mass Support for Democratic Institutions and Processes in the Nascent Russian and Ukrainian Economies’, in V. Tismaneanu, ed., Political Culture and Civil Society in Russia and the New States of Eurasia (New York: M.E. Sharpe, 1995), pp. 53–111. K. Tedin confirmed the finding on competitive elections. See ‘Popular Support for Competitive Elections in the Soviet Union’, Comparative Political Studies, Vol. 27, no. 2 (July 1994), 241–71. See also J. Sullivan, J. Piereson and G. Marcus, ‘An Alternative Conceptualization of Political Tolerance: Illusory Increases 1950s–1970s’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 74, no. 3 (September 1979), 781–94. Gibson, Duch and Tedin, ‘Democratic Values’, op. cit., 337–51. While illustrative of the findings, the table itself is not drawn from the article. J. Hahn, ‘Continuity and Change in Russian Political Culture’, British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 21, no. 4 (October 1991), 393. R. Inglehart, ‘The Renaissance of Political Culture’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 82, no. 4 (December 1988), 1203–30. Hahn, ‘Continuity and Change’, op. cit., pp. 406–19. Almond and Verba, The Civic Culture, op. cit. See also W. Reisinger, A. Miller, V. Hesli and K.H. Maher, ‘Political Values in Russia, Ukraine and Lithuania: Sources and Implications for Democracy’, British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 24, no. 2 (April 1994), 183–223. W. DiFrancesco and Z. Gitelman, ‘Soviet Political Culture and “Covert Participation” in Policy Implementation’, American Political Science Review,


23

24 25 26

27

28

29

30

31 32 33

34

35 36 37 38 39

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Vol. 78, no. 3 (September 1984), 603–21; and, Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation’, op. cit., pp. 859–84. D. Bahry and B. Silver, ‘Soviet Citizen Participation on the Eve of Democratization’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 84, no. 3 (September 1990), 821–48; C. Kaplan, ‘New Forms of Political Participation’, in A. Miller, W. Reisinger and V. Hesli, eds, Public Opinion and Regime Change: The New Politics of Post-Soviet Societies (Boulder: Westview, 1992), 153–69. Bahry, ‘Politics, Generations and Change’, op. cit., and Silver, ‘Political Beliefs’, op. cit. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, op. cit. A. Finifter and E. Mickiewicz, ‘Redefining the Political System of the USSR: Mass Support for Political Change’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 84, no. 4 (December 1992), 859–62. Tedin’s findings neither contradicted nor confirmed the Finifter and Mickiewicz position, showing no significant relationship between support for competitive elections and support for economic reform, a key component associated with support for individual responsibility. Tedin, ‘Popular Support for Competitive Elections’, op. cit., p. 254. A. Miller, V. Hesli and W. Reisinger, ‘Reassessing Mass Support for Political and Economic Change in the Former USSR’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 88, no. 2 (June 1994), 399–411. In a 1990 survey, Raymond Duch had similar findings. See ‘Tolerating Economic Reform: Popular Support for Transition to a Free Market in the Former Soviet Union’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 87, no. 3 (September 1993), 590–608. Miller et al., ‘Reassessing Mass Support’, op. cit., p. 399. Notably, Andrei Melville used the same data and had somewhat contradictory findings in concert with the arguments of Finifter and Mickiewicz. Melville, ‘An Emerging Political Culture? Ideology, Public Attitudes, and Political Culture in the Early 1990s’, in Miller, Reisinger and Hesli, eds, Public Opinion and Regime Change, op. cit., p. 64. R. Brym, ‘Re-evaluating Mass Support for Political and Economic Change in Russia’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 48, no. 5 (1996), 757. Ibid., 760. G. Denisovsky, P. Kozyreva and M. Matskovsky, ‘The Twelve Percent of Hope: Economic Consciousness and a Market Economy’, in Miller, Reisinger and Hesli, eds, Public Opinion and Regime Change, op. cit., pp. 224–38. J. Gibson, ‘Political and Economic Markets: Changes in the Connections Between Attitudes Toward Political Democracy and a Market Economy Within the Mass Culture of Russia and Ukraine’, The Journal of Politics, Vol. 58, no. 4 (1996), 967. Denisovsky et al., ‘The Twelve Percent of Hope’, op. cit., 225. Denisovsky and Kozyreva had in fact directed the fieldwork for both 1990 surveys. Ibid., 227. Ibid., 232–3. Duch, ‘Tolerating Economic Reform’, op. cit., 590, 603. S. White, I. McAllister and O. Kryshtanovskaya, ‘El’tsin and his Voters:

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40 41

42

43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50

51 52 53

54 55 56 57 58

59 60

61

62 63

Notes and References Popular Support in the 1991 Russian Presidential Elections and After’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 46, no. 2 (1994), 285–303. Ibid., 298–9. M. Wyman, S. White, B. Miller and P. Heywood, ‘Public Opinion, Parties and Voters in the December 1993 Elections’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 47, no. 4 (1995), 611. Ibid., 602. Michael Urban questions the Yeltsin government’s electoral practices, however. See ‘December 1993 as a Replication of Late-Soviet Electoral Practices’, Post-Soviet Affairs, Vol. 10, no. 2 (April–June 1994), 127–58. Gibson, Duch and Tedin, ‘Democratic Values’, op. cit. Wyman et al., ‘Public Opinion, Parties and Voters’, op. cit., p. 604. Tedin, ‘Popular Support for Competitive Elections’, op. cit. J. Gibson and R. Duch ‘Political Intolerance in the USSR: The Distribution and Etiology of Mass Opinion’, Comparative Political Studies, Vol. 26, no. 3 (1993), 286– 329. Ibid., 309. Reisinger et al., ‘Political Values in Russia, Ukraine and Lithuania’, op. cit., 203. Ibid., 215. J. Hough, ‘The Russian Election of 1993: Public Attitudes Toward Economic Reform and Democratization’, Post-Soviet Affairs, Vol. 10, no. 1 (January–March 1994), 17. Ibid., 11. W. Zimmerman, ‘Markets, Democracy and Russian Foreign Policy’, PostSoviet Affairs, Vol. 10, no. 2 (April–June 1994), 103–26. For similar views among elites see J. Hahn, ‘Attitudes Toward Reform Among Provincial Russian Politicians’, Post-Soviet Affairs, Vol. 9, no. 1 (January–March 1993), pp. 66–85. Zimmerman, ‘Markets, Democracy’, op. cit. Gibson et al., ‘Democratic Values’, op. cit. and Wyman et al., ‘Public Opinion’ op. cit. W. Zimmerman, ‘Synoptic Thinking in Post-Soviet Russia’, Slavic Review, Vol. 54, no. 3 (Fall 1995), 630–41. Bahry, ‘Politics, Generations and Change’, op. cit. and Silver, ‘Political Beliefs’, op. cit. S. Whitefield and G. Evans, ‘The Russian Election of 1993: Public Opinion and the Transition Experience’, Post-Soviet Affairs, Vol. 10, no. 1 (January– March 1994), 38. Ibid., 48–9. J. Hahn, ‘Changes in Contemporary Russian Political Culture’, in V. Tismaneanu, ed., Political Culture and Civil Society in Russia and the New States of Eurasia (New York: M.E. Sharpe, 1995), p. 133. J. Gibson, ‘A Mile Wide But an Inch Deep(?): The Structure of Democratic Commitments in the Former USSR’, American Journal of Political Science, Vol. 40, no. 2 (1996), 396–420. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory’, op. cit., pp. 789–93. See P. Converse, ‘Attitudes and Non-Attitudes: Continuation of a Dialogue’, in E. Tufte, ed., The Quantitative Analysis of Social Problems


64 65

66 67

68 69

70 71

72 73

74 75 76 77 78

79 80

81

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(Reading: Addison-Wesley, 1970), pp. 168–89 and J. Zaller and S. Feldman, ‘A Simple Theory of the Survey Response: Answering Questions versus Revealing Preferences’, American Journal of Political Science, Vol. 36, no. 3 (August 1992), 579–616. Reisinger et al., ‘Political Values in Russia, Ukraine and Lithuania’, op. cit., 183. Not discussed here is a problem of multi-collinearity that makes it difficult to separate these two theories, even with distinct questions, for regime indoctrination is an integral part of Russian historical development. Reisinger et al., ‘Political Values’, op. cit., 191. The regime indoctrination thesis is rejected in a similar fashion. Furthermore, it is difficult to determine at what point cross-national differences in length of life under authoritarian rule become significant. In the case of much of Ukraine, more than 300 years under Russian and Soviet rule may be sufficient to undermine an expectation of difference when compared with Russia’s often quoted 1000 year authoritarian tradition. Reisinger et al., ‘Political Values’, op. cit., 203ff. Whitefield and Evans, ‘The Russian Election of 1993’; Gibson, Duch and Tedin, ‘Democratic Values’; and, Hahn, ‘Continuity and Change’, op. cit. Finifter and Mickiewicz, ‘Redefining the Political System’, op. cit. Miller, Hesli and Reisinger, ‘Reassessing Mass Support’, op. cit. This is an instance when the very data used for this article were more productively employed than by Reisinger et al. Gibson, Duch and Tedin, ‘Democratic Values’, 344. Converse, ‘Attitudes and Non-attitudes’, op. cit., p. 176. Zaller and Feldman, ‘A Simple Theory of Survey Response’, op. cit., support this position. V. Shlapentokh, Public and Private Life of the Soviet People: Changing Values in Post-Stalin Russia (New York: Oxford, 1989). Converse, ‘Attitudes and Non-attitudes’, op. cit., 176. Gibson et al., ‘Democratic Values’, and Gibson and Duch, ‘Political Intolerance in the USSR’, op. cit. While respondents were given the option of producing a group not on the list, very few volunteered a name. The ‘least liked’ approach meets the recommendations made by other scholars, an issue that the authors acknowledge. Research by Sullivan et al., ‘An Alternative Conceptualization’, had shown that excessive researcher control of the political groups raised in questioning risked determining the answers. Zimmerman, ‘Synoptic Thinking in Post-Soviet Russia’, op. cit., 636. While Zimmerman does discuss the issue of actual ‘I don’t know’ responses, he does not acknowledge the problem concerning partial dis-/agreement to an absolute concept. Along with ‘phantom’ opinions, varying rates of ‘I don’t know’ responses generally go unreported and raise further questions about the strength of survey findings. See E. Carnaghan, ‘Alienation, Apathy, or

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82 83 84 85

86 87 88 89 90

91 92 93

94 95

96 97 98

99 100

Notes and References Ambivalence? “Don’t Knows” and Democracy in Russia,’ Slavic Review, Vol. 55, no. 2 (Summer 1996), 325–63. This question appears prominently in the two articles by Zimmerman that are discussed here. Gibson, Duch and Tedin, ‘Democratic Values’, op. cit., 351. Zaller and Feldman, ‘Survey Response’, op. cit., 586. White, McAllister and Kryshtanovskaya, ‘El’tsin and his Voters’; Whitefield and Evans, ‘The Russian Election of 1993’; and, Wyman et al., Public Opinion, Parties and Voters’, op. cit. Voter recollection for 1991 was higher (87 per cent) than the actual totals (74.7 per cent). White et al., ‘El’tsin and His Voters’, p. 291. Zaller and Feldman, ‘Survey Response’, op. cit., 608 and Converse, ‘Attitudes and Non-attitudes’, op. cit., pp. 176–7. Whitefield and Evans, ‘The Russian Election of 1993’, op. cit., 38, 43. Hough, ‘The Russian Election of 1993’, op. cit. There was a total of 187 items on the form. According to interviewers in the Komi Republic, however, several items were not employed in that region. Converse, ‘Attitude and Non-attitudes’, op. cit., p. 177. Zaller and Feldman, ‘Survey Response’, op. cit., 586. Hough, ‘The Russian Election of 1993’, op. cit., 8, 11. See also F. Fleron, ‘Post-Soviet Political Culture in Russia: An Assessment of Recent Empirical Investigations’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 48, no. 2 (1996), 225–60. Reisinger et al., ‘Political Values in Russia, Ukraine and Lithuania’, 215. To their credit, Miller et al., have since taken steps to remedy this weakness by asking an open-ended question about the meaning of democracy. See A. Miller, V. Hesli and W. Reisinger ‘Understanding Democracy: A Comparison of Mass and Elite in Post-Soviet Russia and Ukraine’, Studies in Public Policy Number 247 (Glasgow: Centre for the Study of Public Policy, 1995). Duch, ‘Tolerating Economic Reform’, op. cit., p. 590. Wyman et al., ‘Public Opinion, Parties and Voters’, op. cit. See M. Urban, ‘The Politics of Identity in Russia’s Post Communist Transition: The Nation against Itself’, Slavic Review, Vol. 53, no. 3 (Fall 1994), 733–65. E. Hoffmann, ‘Nurturing Post-Sovietology: Some Practical Suggestions’, Harriman Institute Forum, Vol. 6, nos. 6–7 (February–March 1993), 14. E. Walker, ‘Post-Sovietology, Area Studies, and the Social Sciences’, The Harriman Institute Forum, Vol. 6, nos. 6–7 (February–March 1993), 24–8.

4. Uncertain Conditions in the Russian Transition 1 C. Offe, ‘Capitalism by Democratic Design? Democratic Theory Facing the Triple Transition in East Central Europe’, Social Research, Vol. 58, no. 4 (Winter 1991), 865–92. 2 For an example of a macro-analysis, see J.M. Nelson, ‘Linkages Between Politics and Economics’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 5, no. 4 (October 1994), 49–62.


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3 Offe, ‘Capitalism by Democratic Design?’, op. cit., 873. 4 C. Leff, ‘The Triple Transition in Eastern Europe’, Swords and Ploughshares, Vol. VII, no. 2 (Winter 1992–93), 6–10. 5 M. Weber, ‘The Fundamental Concepts of Sociology’, in T. Parsons (ed.), The Theory of Social and Economic Organization (New York: Free Press, 1964), p. 156. 6 J.P. Nettl, ‘The State as a Conceptual Variable’, World Politics, Vol. 20, no. 4 (July 1968), 559–92. 7 R.C. Tucker, ‘Swollen State, Spent Society: Stalin’s Legacy to Brezhnev’s Russia’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 60, no. 2 (Winter 1981–82), 414–35. 8 J. Gibson, ‘The Resilience of Mass Support for Democratic Institutions and Processes in the Nascent Russian and Ukrainian Democracies’, in V. Tismaneanu (ed.), Political Culture and Civil Society in Russia and the New States of Eurasia (Armonk, New York: M.E. Sharpe, 1995), pp. 53–111. 9 T. Skocpol, ‘Bringing the State Back In: Strategies of Analysis in Current Research’, in P.B. Evans, D. Rueschemeyer and T. Skocpol, Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge, 1985), pp. 20–1. 10 This discussion does not explicitly include elite or (identifiable) criminal types. 11 A. Swidler, ‘Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies’, American Sociological Review, Vol. 51 (April 1986), 279–80. 12 This notation identifies the city in which the interview took place and the particular respondent. This quote is from the sixteenth respondent in Syktyvkar. See Appendix to learn more about each respondent. 13 D. Furman argues that communist era propaganda portraying the evils of capitalism underlies aspects of the corruption in Russia’s form of capitalism. See ‘Historical Materialism Turned Upside Down?’, Russian Social Sciences Review, Vol. 37, no. 3 (May/June 1996), 3–22. 14 T. Hobbes, Leviathan (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994), pp. 172–89. See also, J. Linz and A. Stepan, Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America, and Post-Communist Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1996). 15 Only for Kirov. Rutskoi was still in prison during the Syktyvkar interviews due to his role in the October putsch. 16 This is paradoxical as most of the leaders had once been part of the communist hierarchy. 17 See Chapter 8 for election results. 18 Only in summer 1995 did Chernomyrdin gain independent recognition during widely publicized hostage negotiations in the southern city of Budennovsk. 19 As if to punctuate this point, Desiatnikov was placed third in the autumn 1996 elections for the Governorship. 20 Swidler, ‘Culture in Action’, op. cit., 277. 21 See also V. Mikhalev, ‘Social Security in Russia under Economic Transformation’, Europe–Asia Studies, Vol. 48, no. 1 (1996), 5–25; and, L. Kosova, ‘Satisfaction with Life and the Intensity of the Reforms’, Russian Social Science Review, Vol. 37, no. 1 (January–February 1996), 37–42. 22 See also Furman, ‘Historical Materialism’, 12. 23 Environmental issues were dramatized by a huge oil spill in northern

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Komi in autumn 1994 that occasioned local and international outcry. 24 Another area of potential revenue would arise from gaining local control of the coal industry. Although now changing, the Russian government has generally managed coal production. 25 See also L. Gudkov, ‘Dynamics of Ethnic Stereotypes’, Russian Social Science Review, Vol. 37, no. 3 (May/June 1996), 54–65. 26 Mikhalev, ‘Social Security in Russia’, op. cit. 27 For an overview of demographic changes, see M. Lewin, The Gorbachev Phenomenon (Berkeley: University of California, 1988). 28 These fears come as strikes were then only beginning to develop as a means of social protest in post-Soviet Russia. 29 While this topic has been widely discussed in recent years, unstructured interviews did not show crime to be a major concern for the residents of Syktyvkar, although it may have been overshadowed by Yeltsin’s struggle with the former parliament. 30 L. Shelley, ‘Post-Soviet Organized Crime: Implications for Economic, Social and Political Development’, Demokratizatsiya, Vol. 2, no. 3 (Summer 1994), 341–358. 31 Mikhalev, ‘Social Security in Russia’, op. cit., 13. 32 E.M. Rybinskii, ‘The Position of Children in Russia’, Russian Social Science Review, Vol. 37, no. 2 (March/April 1996), 78–95. 33 A. Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1988). 34 ‘Yeltsin’s Radio Address’, Russian Information Agency Novosti (27 December 1997) as found in Johnson’s Russia List, #1452 ([email protected], 29 December 1997). 35 Rybinskii notes a marked rise in dropout rates. See ‘The Position of Children in Russia’, op. cit., 85. 36 This retrospective question was added to the Kirov interview. There is no comparative data for Syktyvkar, although the nature of responses in Kirov leads me to believe that responses would have been similar. 37 See also Furman, ‘Historical Materialism’, op. cit., 11. 38 One particular ‘orienting mark’ in the inflationary economy was comparing the ‘new’ ruble’s buying power with that of the Soviet era. During winter 1993–94, people claimed that 1000 rubles bought what one ruble would have in the past. 39 For elaboration, see A. Akhiezer, ‘The Values of Society and the Possibilities of Reform in Russia’, Russian Social Science Review, Vol. 37, no. 1 (January–February 1996), 43–59 and N.A. Kosolapov, ‘An Integrative Ideology for Russia: The Intellectual and Political Challenge’, Russian Social Science Review, Vol. 37, no. 1 (January–February 1996), 60–95.

5. Concepts in the Making 1 G. Kress and R. Hodge, Language as Ideology (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd., 1979), p. 63. 2 Discussion was almost entirely directed toward deputies in the national state Duma. 3 See also M. Urban, ‘The Politics of Identity in Russia’s Post Communist


4

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6

7 8

9

10

11

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Transition: The Nation Against Itself’, Slavic Review, Vol. 53, no. 3 (Fall 1994), 733–65. While Lenin adapted Marxist ideology to Russian political culture, it is debatable whether Soviet political institutions were an extension of that political culture or a negation. Nicolai Petro contends that the Soviets repressed the democratic political culture that had been developing in the imperial period. Ironically, while accepting that the Soviets had altered Russia’s political roots, Russian philosopher Nikolai Berdiaev conceded a connection between Soviet communism and Russian indigenous communist traditions. See Petro, The Rebirth of Russian Democracy: An Interpretation of Political Culture (Cambridge: Harvard, 1995); and Berdiaev, The Origins of Russian Communism (London: The Centenary Press, 1937). I may have inserted my own conceptualization in using this term. This occurred, however, after the questionnaire was thoroughly reviewed by a Russian sociologist and is an example of the difficulties in cross-cultural research. J.J. Rousseau, ‘Discourses on the Origin of Inequality’, in D.A. Kress, ed., The Basic Political Writings (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1987), p. 55. Rousseau claimed that the golden rule is a self-interested conceptualization of freedom. This person is tired of the excesses of free speech, from media coverage to the statements of political officials. Interview with Velena Pimenova, 23 October 1993, Syktyvkar. For a brief discussion of her husband, see A. Sakharov, Memoirs (New York: Vintage, 1992), pp. 314–18. For theoretical explanations of workplace democracy, see C. Pateman, Participation and Democratic Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge Press, 1970); and, P. and A. Botwinick, Power and Empowerment (Philadelphia: Temple University, 1992). Of course, many Westerners, particularly United States’ citizens, also see democratic modes of political organization inextricably tied to the market. A. Swidler, ‘Inequality and American Culture: The Persistence of Voluntarism’, American Behavioral Scientist, Vol. 35, no. 4/5 (March/June 1992), 606–29.

6. Activity and Apathy 1 During 1998, strikes had been particularly common in the coal producing regions throughout Russia. 2 I. Bobrakov, ‘Yurii Semyukov: NA RODDIISKII OLIMP YA PODNIMAT’CIA BOL’SHE NE SOBIRAYUS’ ’, Molodesh Severa (4 February 1994), 5. This may have been Semyukov’s attempt to become the Chairman of the Komi obkom himself. As an ethnic Komi Semyukov could have become the party leader to preserve the ethnic balance. 3 Interview with Boris Zavialov (Democratic Russia), 8 February 1994, Syktyvkar. 4 Bobrakov, ‘Yurii Semyukov’.

248 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

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Notes and References Third Congress of the Komi Nation, 3–4 December 1993. ‘Soobshchenie’, Krasnoe Znamia (17 December 1993), 1. ‘Soobshchenie’, Krasnoe Znamia (16 December 1993), 1. Zavialov interview, 8 February 1994. Interview with Nadezhda Mitushchova ‘We Defend Ourselves’, 5 February 1994, Syktyvkar. V. Chernitsyn, ‘Priniali za osnovu’, Molodesh Severa (17 February 1994), 12. V. Batishchev, ‘Budet u respubliki Glava’, Krasnoe Znamia (18 February 1994), 1. Giving credibility to the predominance of personality politics, opposition voting for each measure was often far below the approximately 60 votes that would represent the number of ethnic Komi deputies. Interview with Angelina Beliaeva (Komi Council of Ministers), 25 February 1994, Syktyvkar. V. Podluzkii, ‘GLAVnaia partiia’, Tribuna (25 February 1994), 1. Yu. Soldatova, ‘Soobshchenie ob itogakh vyborov Glavy Respubliki Komi’, Krasnoe Znamia (12 May 1994), 1. Interview with Igor Bobrakov, Assistant Editor (Molodesh Severa), 4 July 1997. In February 1999 elections, Spiridonov further strengthened his hold over the legislature. After a year of unemployment, Khudiaev joined Spiridonov’s ‘team’ as the Komi director of road construction, thereby modeling the pragmatic behavior of Komi politicians in which personal success takes priority over ideology or political commitment. ‘Spiridonov Continues as Governor of Komi’, IEWS Russian Regional Report, Vol. 2, no. 42 (4 December 1997). The article misidentifies the political position. Chapter 8 includes a brief comparison of the regional electoral results from 1993 until summer 1996. Nevertheless, Kirov’s 1993 results for parliamentary party list voting and the constitutional referendum appear in footnotes below. ‘Ofitsial’noe priznanie’, Krasnoe znamia (21 December 1993). ‘Naibol’shche populiarnost’yu u izbiratelei Komi pol’zovalis’ LDPR, “Vybor Rossii”, Yurii Spiridonov i Viacheslav Khudiaev’, Molodesh Severa (17 December 1993), 1. Kirov voters opposed the draft constitution 50.5 per cent to 49.5 per cent. See, ‘Kirov Oblast’, IEWS Russian Regional Report, Vol. 2, no. 39 (13 November 1997). ‘Ofitsial’noe priznanie’, 1. Komi Central Election Commission statistics (unpublished). This follows evidence that urbanized areas are more reform-oriented than rural regions. See R.W. Orttung and A. Paretskaya, ‘Presidential Election Demonstrates Rural-Urban Divide’, Transition (20 September 1996), 33–8. ‘Predvaritel’nye svedeniia o rezul’tatakh golosovaniia po obshchefederal’nym spiskam v Gosudarstvennuyu Dumu po Respublike Komi’, Molodesh Severa (24 December 1993), 5. The results for Kirov were strikingly more conservative, with 51.5 per cent of voters choosing the same three conservative parties and only 25.45 per cent voting for the reform-oriented parties. See, ‘Kirov Oblast’, IEWS Russian Regional Report, op. cit. ‘Troika liderov sokhraniaetsia’, Krasnoe Znamia (15 December 1993), 1.


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While these are preliminary results, they are broadly similar to the final counts. ‘Naibol’shche populiarnost’yu’, 17 December 1993, 1. Pavel Krotov, Director, Sociological Group of the Institute for Economic and Social Questions of the North, unpublished statistics (December 1993). Because of the uncertainties of the privatization process the distinction between state and non-state enterprises was not always clear. This particular question carries many of the vagaries that I discussed in Chapter 3.

7. Russians as Political Participants 1 T. Friedgut, Political Participation in the USSR (Princeton: Princeton Press, 1979). 2 D. Bahry, ‘Politics, Generations, and Change in the USSR’, in J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work and Daily Life in the USSR: A Survey of Former Soviet Citizens (Cambridge: Cambridge, 1987), pp. 61–99. 3 W. DiFrancesco and Z. Gitelman, ‘Soviet Political Culture and “Covert Participation” in Policy Implementation’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 78, no. 3 (September 1984), 603–21. 4 C. Kaplan, ‘New Forms of Political Participation’, in A. Miller, W. Reisinger and V. Hesli, eds, Public Opinion and Regime Change: The New Politics of Post-Soviet Societies (Boulder: Westview, 1993), pp. 153–69. 5 J. Hahn, ‘Continuity and Change in Russian Political Culture’, British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 21, no. 4 (October 1991), 393–421. 6 N. Petro, The Rebirth of Russian Democracy: An Interpretation of Political Culture (Cambridge: Harvard, 1995). 7 See also P. Roeder ‘Modernization and Participation in the Leninist Developmental Strategy’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 83, no. 3 (September 1989), 859–84. 8 ‘V Dume 47 Deputatov’, Vyatskii krai (26 March 1994), 1. Apparently the percentages of participation announced in initial returns was drawn from potential voters rather than registered voters. With almost universal registration, differences between the two counts would not be significant. As participation had been initially placed at 23.1 per cent (near the threshold), changing the method for identifying potential voters appeared to suffice for reaching the required level. 9 P. Converse, ‘Attitudes and Non-attitudes: Continuation of a Dialogue’, in E. Tufte, ed., The Quantitative Analysis of Social Problems (Reading: Addison-Wesley Publishing Company, 1970), p. 177. 10 Room for untruthful responses was limited in Syktyvkar by questions about particular candidates or ballot measures that required detailed responses. Still, respondents sometimes had problems identifying who or what they had voted for in a recent election. Because of these difficulties, I did not ask specific questions in Kirov about national or local elections. 11 A. Swidler, ‘Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies’, American Sociological Review, Vol. 51 (April 1996), 281. Swidler focuses on strategies of

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14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22

23 24 25

26 27

28 29 30 31

Notes and References action durability during settled periods. Yet, her discussion can be extended to unsettled periods as well. Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation’, op. cit. Anonymous behavior, such as elections, can be largely exempted from this caution. Additionally, most respondents were quite open with me. As an outsider, I was not seen as a threat. In allowing people to remain ‘anonymous’, I was privileged to hear numerous political and personal stories that would not have been revealed even to friends and family. Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation’. T. Hobbes, Leviathan (Hackett, 1994). Ibid. Plato, The Republic (New York: Vintage, 1991). DiFrancesco and Gitelman, ‘Soviet Political Culture’, op. cit. A. Swidler, ‘Inequality and American Culture’, American Behavioral Scientist, Vol. 35, no. 4/5 (March/June 1992), 606–29. Converse, ‘Attitudes and Non-Attitudes’, op. cit. See also J. Zaller and S. Feldman, ‘A Simple Theory of the Survey Response: Answering Questions versus Revealing Preferences’, American Journal of Political Science, Vol. 36, no. 3 (August 1992), 579–616. Interview with Boris Zavialov (Democratic Russia), 8 February 1994, Syktyvkar. Ibid., Litoshko was also the ‘model’ for the pragmatic reform cultural type. Litoshko was an example of the former communists who continued to be active in Russian politics. By 1995, he had become a top adviser to Spiridonov. Litoshko’s rise was shortlived, however, as he died in 1996 in a car accident. Interview with Dmitrii Sakharov and Dmitrii Litoshko (Komi Republic’s Public Committee for the Reform of Power), 10 January 1994, Syktyvkar. Interview with Nadezhda Mitushchova (We Defend Ourselves), 5 February 1994, Syktyvkar. In all there were 157 registered public organizations in Kirov in summer 1994. Of these groups, 17 organizations were politically oriented. As told to me by Elena Yushina, Office of the Mayor. Interview with Ludmila Stepanova (Regional Council of Women), 5 July 1994, Kirov. It is generally recognized that Russian women work two full-time jobs. They work at their income earning job and take care of the family. This is exacerbated by the absence of the many labor saving devices (dishwashers, clothes dryers, microwaves, vacuums and so on) that are common in the West. Without the widespread presence of supermarkets, shopping involves hurrying from one specialized food store to the next. Interview with Valentina Sushkova (Congress of Soviet Women), 7 July 1994, Kirov. Interview with Tatiana Protopopova (Organization of Businesswomen), 6 July 1994, Kirov. Interview with Marat Frenkel’ (Ecology and Health of the Vyatka Region), 8 July 1994, Kirov. Interview with Vladimir Kazakovtsev (Communist Party of the Russian Federation), 8 July 1994, Kirov.


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32 While people had overtly rejected the Communist Party, they had not rejected many of their economic and social policies. 33 Communist gains in December 1995 parliamentary elections and the gubernatorial election of conservative Sergeenkov in autumn 1996 lend validity to Kazakovtsev’s claims. 34 Interview with Valerii Ostretsov (Party of Russian Unity and Accord), 8 July 1994, Kirov. 35 Interview with Sergei Bachinin (Beer Lovers Party), 6 July 1994, Kirov. 36 Plato, ‘The Apology’, The Last Days of Socrates (London: Penguin, 1969), p. 63. 37 Interview with Valerii Potolitsin, Director of the Committee for Legislation and Deputy Ethics (State Council of the Komi Republic), 1 July 1997. 38 Peter Ordeshook, ‘Russia’s Party System: Is Russian Federalism Viable’, Post-Soviet Affairs, Vol. 12, no. 3 (1996), 195–217. 39 As described in Chapter 6, this schedule has been disrupted by Spiridonov’s maneuvering for earlier elections in autumn 1997. 40 Interview with Igor Bobrakov (Russia’s Democratic Choice), 4 July 1997. 41 Interview with Olga Seviastanova (Women of Russia), 7 July 1997. 42 Bobrakov interview, 4 July 1997. 43 A. Levinsky (Bryanskoe Vremya), ‘Political Intrigue Lands Kirov Editor in Jail’, IEWS Russian Regional Report, Vol. 2, no. 37 (30 October 1997). 44 R. Putnam, Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy (Princeton: Princeton, 1993).

8. Russian Relations with Authority 1 N. Machiavelli, ‘The Discourses’, in The Prince and the Discourses (New York: Random House, 1950), p. 160. 2 Ibid., p. 255. 3 See Tables 4.4 and 4.5 for a list of the political leaders. 4 A. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community (New York: Ellis Horwood, 1985). 5 See R. Tucker, Political Culture and Leadership in Soviet Russia (New York: W.W. Norton, 1987); and S. White, Political Culture and Soviet Politics (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979). 6 F. Barghoorn, Politics in the USSR (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1972), p. 23. 7 P. Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation in the Leninist Development Strategy’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 83, no. 3 (September 1989), 859–84 and W. DiFrancesco and Z. Gitelman, ‘Soviet Political Culture and “Covert Participation” in Policy Implementation’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 78, no. 3 (September 1984), 603–21. 8 M. Lewin, The Gorbachev Phenomenon (Berkeley: University of California, 1988). See also S. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven: Yale, 1968). 9 D. Bahry, ‘Politics, Generations, and Change in the USSR’, in J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work, and Daily Life in the USSR: A Survey of Former Soviet Citizens (Cambridge: Cambridge, 1987), pp. 61–99.

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10 J. Gibson, R. Duch and K. Telin, ‘Democratic Values and the Transformation of the Soviet Union’, Journal of Politics, Vol. 54, no. 2 (May 1992); 329–71 and J. Hahn, ‘Continuity and Change in Russian Political Culture’, British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 21, no. 4 (October 1991), 393–421. 11 R. Sakwa, ‘Subjectivity and Order in Russian Political Evolution’, paper presented at the 27th National Convention of the American -Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies, Philadelphia, PA (1995). See also N. Petro, The Rebirth of Russian Democracy (Cambridge: Harvard, 1995). 12 J. Finlay contends that increasing popular activity did not initiate reform in the USSR. Instead, reform was a state initiated activity that grew out of the stagnation caused by 70 years of Soviet policies. See Spontaneity by Command: Soviet State-Society Relations Under Gorbachev and the Emergence of the Russian Environmental Movement (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Illinois, 1995). 13 J. Hahn, ‘Changes in Contemporary Russian Political Culture’, in V. Tismaneanu (ed.) Political Culture and Civil Society in Russia and the New States of Eurasia (New York: M.E. Sharpe, Inc., 1995), p. 153. In the same volume, this finding contrasted with J. Gibson’s 1992 finding that values had not eroded. See ‘The Resilience of Mass Support for Democratic Institutions and Processes in the Nascent Russian and Ukrainian Economies’, pp. 53–111. In part, the differences may lie with the greater experience of Hahn’s respondents with the ineffective economic reforms that began in earnest at the start of 1992. 14 S. White, R. Rose and I. McAllister, How Russia Votes (Chatham, New Jersey: Chatham House, 1997). 15 Ibid., pp. 104–5. 16 Ibid., pp. 47–8. 17 Ibid., pp. 51–54, 170. 18 Ibid., pp. 61–3. 19 Ibid., p. 46. 20 G. O’Donnell, ‘Delegative Democracy’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 5, no. 1 (January 1994), 55–69. 21 P. Kubicˇek, ‘Delegative Democracy in Russia and Ukraine’, Communist and Post-Communist Studies, Vol. 27, no. 4 (1994), 423–41. 22 A. Swidler, ‘Inequality and American Culture: The Persistence of Voluntarism’, American Behavioral Scientist, Vol. 35, no. 4/5 (March/June 1992), 606–29. 23 White et al., How Russia Votes, op. cit., p. 165. These data were drawn from a 1993 Russian survey. 24 See also D. Furman, ‘Historical Materialism Turned Upside Down?’, Russian Social Science Review, Vol. 37, no. 3 (May/June 1996), 12. 25 M. Urban, ‘Politics of Identity in Russia’s Transition’, Slavic Review, Vol. 3, no. 3 (Fall 1994), 746–7. 26 Ibid., 747. Additionally, while not necessarily tied in the respondent’s mind to his Communist roots, Aleksandr Rutskoi is rejected by many for similar reasons – his military label. 27 J. Gibson and R. Duch, ‘Political Intolerance in the USSR: The Distribution and Etiology of Mass Opinion’, Comparative Political Studies, Vol. 26,


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50 51

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no. 3 (1993), 286–329; and, M. Wyman, S. White, B. Miller and P. Heywood, ‘Public Opinion, Parties and Voters in the December 1993 Elections’, Europe–Asia Studies, Vol. 47, no. 4 (1995), 591–614. R. Rose and E. Carnaghan, ‘Generational Effects on Attitudes to Communist Regimes: A Comparative Analysis’, Post-Soviet Affairs, Vol. 11, no. 1 (1995), 28–56. White et al., How Russia Votes, op. cit., p. 46. See also L. Belin and P. Rutland, ‘A “Socioquake” Engulfs the New Russia’, Transition (3 May 1996), 51. P. Lawrence and C. Vlachoutsicos, Behind the Factory Walls: Decision Making in Soviet and US Enterprises (Boston: Harvard Business School, 1990), pp. 67–8. White et al., How Russia Votes, op. cit., pp. 104–5. Ibid., pp. 170–3. Lawrence and Vlachoutsicos, Behind the Factory Walls, op. cit., p. 67. Based on 1995 survey results, White et al., came to a similar conclusion in How Russia Votes, op. cit., pp. 187–8. Ibid., p. 47. White et al., had a similar finding. Ibid., p. 170. See Petro, The Rebirth of Russian Democracy, op. cit. and White, Political Culture, op. cit. Petro criticizes views that institutions of representative democracy only began to develop with the 1905 Revolution. He finds development of legislative institutions back to Muscovy prior to the 16th century. See also Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation’, op. cit. and DiFrancesco and Gitelman, ‘Soviet Political Culture’, op. cit. White et al., How Russia Votes, op. cit., pp. 51–4, 170. Kubicˇek, ‘Delegative Democracy in Russia and Ukraine’, op. cit. White et al., How Russia Votes, op. cit., pp. 47, 104–5. See also J. Löwenhardt, The Reincarnation of Russia (Durham: Duke, 1995), pp. 55–6. White et al., How Russia Votes, op. cit., p. 105. C. Barner-Barry and C. Hody, The Politics of Change (New York: St. Martin’s Press), pp. 124–7. White, Political Culture, op. cit., pp. 26–7. This begs the question of whether voters were aware of the institutional outcome of the constitution. Prior to the election, popular awareness in Syktyvkar of the constitution’s contents was quite minimal. T. Baylis, ‘Governing By Committee: Collegial Leadership in Advanced Societies’, in A. Lijphart (ed.), Parliamentary Versus Presidential Government (Oxford: Oxford, 1992), pp. 236–41. As the June 1996 presidential elections approached, representatives of the Communist Party called for a more standard parliamentary system. Yeltsin defended the presidency, asserting an historical need for a ‘vertical power structure’ with one individual at the apex. See R. Orttung, ‘Yeltsin Defends Presidency’, Open Media Research Institute Daily Digest, no. 54, part I (15 March 1996). R. Tucker, The Soviet Political Mind (New York: Praeger, 1963), p. 70. Lewin, The Gorbachev Phenomenon; and, D. Bahry and B. Silver, ‘Soviet

254

52 53 54

55 56

57

58 59

60

61 62 63 64 65 66

67 68 69

Notes and References Citizen Participation on the Eve of Democratization’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 84, no. 3 (1990), 821–48. Brym, ‘Re-evaluating Mass Support for Political and Economic Change in Russia’, Europe-Asia Studies, Vol. 48, no. 5 (1996), 751–66. This last question proved to be too abstract and was not employed in Kirov. W. Reisinger, A. Miller, V. Hesli and K. Maher ‘Political Values in Russia, Ukraine and Lithuania: Sources and Implications for Democracy’, British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 24, no. 2 (April 1994), 183–223. J.J. Rousseau, ‘The Social Contract’, in D.R. Cress, ed., The Basic Political Writings (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1987), pp. 141–227. A. Miller, V. Hesli and W. Reissinger, ‘Reassessing Mass Support for Political and Economic Change in the Former USSR’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 88, no. 2 (June 1994), 399–411. For Komi, see I. Bobrakov, ‘Rezul’taty golosovaniia po Respublike Komi’, Molodesh Severa (28 December 1995), 4. For Kirov, see Isaichenko, ‘Nad Viatskoi – Sokoly Zhirinovskogo’. For comparative purposes, the results for the city of Kirov were: LDPR – 13.1%; KPRF – 11.6%; Our Home is Russia – 9.4%; Women of Russia – 8.5%; Agrarian Party – 1.9%. ‘Election Results in Russia’s North’, 1996 National News Service (http:// www.nns.ru/res2/res4-e.html). Conclusions for Kirov come from comparing regional data with city data for the party list voting in 1995 parliamentary elections. See S. Isaichenko, ‘Nad Viatskoi – Sokoly Zhironovskogo’, Viatskii Nabliudatel’, 22–29 December 1995. With clearly conservative groups garnering over 50% of the popular vote and over 50% of the seats in the state duma, it was difficult to foresee the continuing strength of the reform movement within the legislature. Clearly reform oriented groups managed less than 25% of the popular vote and no more than 25% of the seats in the Duma. L. Belin, ‘Electoral Commission Announces “Final Preliminary” Results’, Omri Daily Digest, Vol. 249, part I (27 December 1995). ‘Kirov Oblast’, OMRI Russian Regional Report (http://www.omri.cz/Elections/ Russia/Regions/About/Kirov.html), 1996. D. Treisman, ‘Why Yeltsin Won’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 75, no. 5 (September/ October 1996), 65–77. Interview with Valerii Potolitsin, Director for the Committee on Legislation and Deputy Ethics (Komi State Council), 1 July 1997. V. Shlapentokh, From Submission to Rebellion (Boulder: Westview, 1997), pp. 99–100. Interview with Igor Bobrakov, Assistant Editor (Molodesh Severa), 4 July 1997. J. Alexander, ‘Komi and the Center: Developing Federalism in an Era of Socio-Economic Crisis’, in D. Kempton, T. Clark and T. Resler, eds, Unity or Separation: Centre–Periphery Relations in the former Soviet Union (New York: Praeger Press, forthcoming). G. O’Donnell, ‘Delegative Democracy’, op. cit. White et al., How Russia Votes, op. cit., pp. 173–4. J. Linz and A. Stepan, Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation:


255

Southern Europe, South America, and Post-Communist Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1996), p. 79. 70 See A. Przeworski, M. Alvarez, J.A. Cheibub and F. Limongi, ‘What Makes Democracies Endure?’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 7, no. 1 (January 1996), 39–55. 71 See J. March and J. Olsen, Rediscovering Institutions: The Organizational Basis of Politics (New York: Free Press, 1989).

9. Formlessness and Cultural Recreation 1 J. Hahn, ‘Continuity and Change in Russian Political Culture’, British Journal of Political Science, Vol. 21, no. 4 (October 1991), 393 and D. Bahry, ‘Politics, Generation and Change in the USSR’, in J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work, and Daily Life in the USSR (New York: Cambridge, 1987), 61–99. 2 J. Gibson, R. Duch and K. Tedin, ‘Democratic Values and the Transformation of the Soviet Union’, The Journal of Politics, Vol. 54, no. 2 (May 1992), 329. 3 A. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community (New York: Ellis Horwood, 1985). 4 H. Eckstein, ‘A Culturalist Theory of Political Change’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 82, no. 3 (September 1988), 789–804. 5 E. Walker, ‘Post-Sovietology, Area Studies, and the Social Science’, The Harriman Institute Forum, Vol. 6, nos. 6–7 (February–March 1993), 24–8. 6 This research agenda does not preclude non-area specialists. Yet, it is to suggest that these scholars work in collaboration with area specialists who can carry out ethnographic-type fieldwork and add a broad understanding of the region. While work with Russian scholars is also recommended, I caution Western researchers that this may not be a proper substitute for an educated, outside perspective. 7 A. Swidler, ‘Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies’, American Sociological Review, Vol. 51 (April 1996), 278–80. 8 That Russia already appears to approximate such a society is an important causal factor in the recreative process. 9 Cohen, op. cit., 20–1. 10 G. Almond and S. Verba, The Civic Culture (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1963). 11 Swidler, ‘Culture in Action’, 278–80. 12 ‘Yeltsin Radio Address’, Russian Information Agency Novosti (27 December 1997), found in Johnson’s Russia List, #1452 (29 December 1997; [email protected]). 13 Almond and Verba, The Civic Culture, 16–18. 14 W. DiFrancesco and Z. Gitelman, ‘Soviet Political Culture and “Covert Participation” in Policy Implementation’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 78, no. 3 (September 1984), 603–21. 15 P. Roeder, ‘Modernization and Participation in the Leninist Developmental Strategy’, American Political Science Review, Vol. 83, no. 3 (September 1989), 859–84. 16 P. Kubicˇek, ‘Delegative Democracy in Russia and Ukraine’, Communist

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17

18 19

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Notes and References and Post-Communist Studies, Vol. 27, no. 4 (1994), 423–41. See also G. O’Donnell, ‘Delegative Democracy’, Journal of Democracy, Vol. 5, no. 1 (January 1994), 55–69. M. Urban, ‘The Politics of Identity in Russia’s Post Communist Transition: The Nation Against Itself’, Slavic Review, Vol. 53, no. 3 (Fall 1994), 733–65. N. Petro, The Rebirth of Russian Democracy: An Interpretation of Political Culture (Cambridge: Harvard, 1995). Yeltsin has even been forced to remove corrupt officials. P. Morvant, ‘Yeltsin Sacks Senior Officials’, Omri Daily Digest, no. 38, part I (22 February 1996). J. Alexander, ‘Komi and the Center: Developing Federalism in an Era of Socio-Economic Crisis’, in D. Kempton, T. Clark and T. Resler, eds, Unity or Separation: Centre–Periphery Relations in the former Soviet Union (New York: Praeger Press, forthcoming). Almond and Verba, The Civic Culture, op. cit., 30. Urban, ‘The Politics of Identity’, op. cit. D. Bahry, ‘Politics, Generations, and Change in the USSR’, in J. Millar, ed., Politics, Work, and Daily Life in the USSR: A Survey of Former Soviet Citizens (Cambridge: Cambridge, 1987), 61–99. R. Putnam, Making Democracy Work (Princeton: Princeton, 1993).

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264 Index

Index Entries in bold indicate references to figures or tables.

Almond, Gabriel, 18–21 authority, 87, 177, 178–93, 199–200, 206, 224–6 executive, 114–15, 177, 186–9, 190–3 leadership, 117–18, 147–9, 181–5 representative, 115–17, 189–93 Bachinin, Sergei, 171, 173 Bahry, Donna, 49, 56 Beer Lovers Party, 170–1, 173 Bilateral treaty, see Komi Republic Brym, Robert, 50–1, 195 change, 101–4 Chernomyrdin, Viktor, 83, 83, 86, 121 Chistokhodova, Rita, 142, 199 The Civic Culture, 19–21, 48 criticism, 20–1, 26, 28, 32 civil society, 162–74 Cohen, Anthony, 13, 21, 27–9, 30–1, 33, 36, 178, 217 communism, 84, 108, 131, 184 Communist Party, 84, 154, 169–70, 172, 183–4, 188, 223 continuity, see political culture Converse, Philip, 61, 63–4 corruption, 80–2, 99 crime, 98–9, 106 cultural change, 36–8 doctrinaire authoritarian society, 37 liberal democratic society, 37–8 cultural organization, 31–3 cultural periods, 32–3, 36–8 cultural recreation see recreation cultural types, 75–80 conservative, 77–9, 79, 81–2, 84–5, 91–2, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97–8, 101, 102, 106, 107,

109, 112, 113, 114, 117, 118, 119, 121, 123–4, 154–5, 156, 158, 160–1, 181, 183, 186–7, 189, 195–6, 199–200, 215–18, 219, 229 cultural type development, 228 reform, 76–7, 79, 79, 81, 84–5, 93–4, 98, 103, 105, 113, 116, 121, 122, 158–9, 170, 197–8, 215–16, 218, 219, 222 culture shock, 38–40, 42 delegative democracy, 180–1, 190–1, 206, 226, 231 democracy, 55–6, 127–32 and free speech, 127–30 and the market, 131 Democratic Russia, 1–2, 87, 139, 163–4 democratic-centralism, 93, 117, 190 Democratic Choice of Russia, see Russia’s Choice democratic rights, liberties and institutions, 48 democratization, 65, 219 Denisovsky, Gennady, 51 deputy, 115–17 Desiatnikov, Vasilii, 86–7, 88, 152, 187 DiFrancesco, Wayne, 24 doctrinaire authoritarian society, 37–8, 229 Duch, Raymond, 51–2, 54–5, 65 Eckstein, Harry, 25, 29–31, 33, 36, 37, 58–9 ecology, 168–9 economic environment, 74, 89–96, 183, 204 employment, 23, 90, 91, 92, 97–8 264

Index inflation, 72–3, 89–90, 107, 109, 142 West, 94–6 economic reform, 90–4, 144–6, 183 privatization, 94, 100 state role, 92–4, 95, 97 values, 105–8 elderly, 90, 110 elections, 138, 143–4, 199–200 comparative results, 199 employment, 23, 90, 91, 92, 97–8 environment, see ecology executive, see authority formlessness, cultural, 15–16, 29–31, 39–43, 214–18 fragmentation, cultural, 38–9 freedom, 124–7 free speech, 61, 125 and democracy, 127–30 Gaidar, Yegor, 83, 85 Geertz, Clifford, 27–8 Gen, Nikolai, 143, 199 generational change, 101–4, 109, 127, 157, 170, 220 Gibson, James, 47–9, 51, 54–5, 61 glasnost’, 5, 71 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 4, 22, 24–5, 40, 43, 47 government, 120–1 Hahn, Jeffrey, 48–9, 57, 179 Harvard Refugee Project, 45 Hough, Jerry, 55–6, 63 How Russia Votes, 179–81, 182, 206–7 inflation, see economic environment instability, 60, 73–5, 90, 92, 96, 98, 101–2, 104–10, 114, 118–19, 130, 224–5, 227, 230–1 Khudiaev, Viacheslav, 86, 87, 135–40, 147–8, 163–4, 187 Kirov, 7–9, 12, 72–3, 74–5, 85, 87–8, 90–1, 97, 98, 105, 134, 142, 166–71, 173, 183, 187–8, 191, 194–6, 199–200, 201–2

265

Kirov, Sergei, 8 Komi, the, 6, 136–7, 140–1 Committee for the Renaissance of the Komi Nation, 139, 164–5 Markov, Valerii, 139, 148, 165 Mitushchova, Nadezhda, 139, 165 Komi Republic, 5, 6, 87–8, 134, 135–43, 149–50, 171–3, 203 bilateral treaty, 203–5 constitution, 138–40, 141 power sharing agreements, 204, 204–5 resources, 94–5 State Council, 140–2, 172, 203 labor, 105–8 leader, 117–18 Lewin, Moshe, 24 Liberal Democratic Party, 143–4, 163 Maksimov, Valerii, 143 Markov, Valerii, 139, 148, 165 mass cultural types, see cultural types McAuley, Mary, 23–4 media, Western, 129 methodology, 10–13, 211–14 interpretivism, 25–7 site choice, 8–9 thick explanation, 10, 212 Miller, Arthur, 50 Mitushchova, Nadezhda, 139, 165 modernization, 59–60, 151 Offe, Claus, see triple transition overview, 16–17 participation, 121–4, 150–62, 222–4 active, 153–4 inactive, 154–7 voting, 152–3, 158 passive conservative, 78, 79 see also conservative under cultural types Petro, Nicolai, 25–7 Party of Russian Unity and Accord, 170

266 Index political culture, 2–3, 13, 35 adaptation, 37 attitudes, 35 authoritarian, 14–15, 25–6, 52, 55, 59–60 behavior: strategies of action, 32–3, 35, 41, 78–9, 89, 101, 150, 222; cues, 35–6, 41, 79 change, 34–9 continuity, 3–4, 22–3, 25, 46, 59–60, 224–5 democratic, 14–15, 25–6, 55 formlessness, 15–16, 25, 29–31, 39–43, 40, 57, 214–18 formlessness, reactions, 215 fragmentation, 38–9, 39, 215 history, 18–22 recreation, 3, 27–9, 43, 214–18 Russia, 22–7, 209–10, 219–30 Russian formlessness, 132, 226 Russian recreation, 219–22, 227–30 subject, 19–20 tools, 32, 41, 43, 89, 91, 113, 154, 217, 219, 222, 229 types, 20 Political Culture and Political Development, 21 political efficacy, 157–62 political environment, 74, 80–9, 144 political leaders, 83–9 rule of law, 80–2 political functions, 185 political leaders, 83–9 local, 86, 86–9, 147–9 national, 83, 83–6 political parties, 169–71 Popova, Ekaterina, 143 popular opinion, 144–9 Komi presidential preferences, 148 life perspectives, 147 political actors, 148 preferred era, 147 reforms, 145, 146 work preferences, 147 power sharing agreement, see bilateral treaty under Komi Republic

pragmatic reformer, 77, 79 see also reform under cultural types president, 114–15 privatization, 94, 100 problems, 74–5 local, 75, 75 national, 74, 74 Putnam, Robert, 28–9, 173 rational choice, 58–9 recreation, cultural, 3, 27–9, 43, 214–18 cultural recreation, Russia, 219–22, 227–30 recreative reform, 216–17 reform entrepreneur, 76–7, 79 see also reform under cultural types regionalism, 200–5 Reisinger, William, 55, 59–60, 65 religion, 108 representatives, see authority resting place, 41–2, 107, 217–18 Roeder, Philip, 24–5 rule of law, 80–2 Russia, western (map), 7 Russia’s Choice, 53–4, 143, 172–3 voters, 54 Rutskoi, Aleksandr, 83, 182 Sakwa, Richard, 26–7 Sergeenkov, Vladimir, 134, 142, 199 shock therapy, 43, 55, 89, 91, 221 Skocpol, Theda, 71–2 social environment, 74, 97–110 education, 99–100, 105, 107 elderly, 90, 110 employment, 23, 90, 91, 92, 97–8 housing, 97–8 labor, 105–8 medicine, 101 societal conditions, 72–3 Soviet Interview Project, 24, 30, 45–7 Soviet studies, 22–7

Index

267

Soviet Union, 1, 3–4, 5, 22, 43, 47, 65, 68, 88, 89, 97, 116, 120, 127–8, 129, 150–1, 188, 189–90, 191–2, 203, 221, 222 Spiridonov, Yuri, 86, 87, 135–42, 147–8, 163–4, 172, 187, 203 stability, see instability state, 70–2, 119–20, 151, 193–8, 219–20 State Council, see Komi Republic strategy of action, 32–3, 35, 41, 78–9, 89, 101, 150, 222 survey methods, 57–65, 213–14 critique: answers, 64–5; assumptions, 58–60; implementation, 63–4, 113; questions, 60–3 survey results, 25, 47–57 complexity, 49–52 democracy, 47–9 development, 52–7 How Russia Votes, 179–81, 182, 206–7 Swidler, Ann, 31–4, 36 Syktyvkar, 5–7, 9, 12, 72–3, 85, 86–7, 88, 90–1, 94–5, 97, 163–6, 183, 187–8, 191, 194–6, 197, 199, 201–2

Torlopov, Vladimir, 142, 148 traditional conservative, 78–9, 79 see also conservative under cultural types triple transition, 4, 68, 69–70 Tucker, Robert C., 23, 71, 178, 193–4

Yavlinskii, Grigorii, 83, 83–5 Yeltsin, Boris, 43, 52–3, 83, 83, 85, 86, 103, 137–8, 147, 177, 182, 186, 200, 220

terms, 112–32 summary, 113 thermidor, 15, 41, 43, 55, 179 thick explanation, see methodology

Zhirinovskii, Vladimir, 83, 83, 84–5, 143, 182 Zyuganov, Genadii, 83, 83, 84, 183 Zimmerman, William, 56, 62

Urban, Michael, 26–7, 183–4 values, 104–8 labor, 105–8 voluntarism, 32–3 Verba, Sidney, 13–14, 19–21 Welch, Stephen, 20–1 White, Stephen, 14, 22–3, 52–3, 62, 178, 179–80, 182, 191, 206–7 Whitefield, Stephen, 57, 62, 63 Weber, Max, 71 women, 143, 166–8, 172–3 Women of Russia, 143, 172–3 Wyman, Matthew, 53–4, 62

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