Socialist Revolutions in Asia: The Social History of Mongolia in the 20th Century

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Socialist Revolutions in Asia

Contemporary Mongolia is often seen as one of the most open and democratic societies in Asia, undergoing remarkable post-socialist transformation. Based on original material from the former Soviet and Mongolian archives, this book is the first full length post-Cold War study on the history of the Mongolian People’s Republic. Socialist Revolutions in Asia covers in detail the turbulent period from the start of the revolution in 1921 to the end of the first five-year plan in 1952 and gives an overview of the post-socialist socio-political transformation, looking in particular at Kh. Choibalsan’s political cult, the role of the military and the impact of Second World War on Mongolian society. In a critique of post-modernist approaches to the study of identity and its impact on political change the author explores power models and the role of Mongolian nationalism in the decisions to ally with the USSR in the 1920–30s and to choose the democratic path of development at the end of the 1980s. This book will be of interest to students of sociology and political science and to all scholars interested in the modern history of Central and Inner Asia, socialist societies and communist parties in Asia, as well as the USSR’s foreign policy. Irina Y. Morozova is lecturer at Moscow State University, Institute of Asian and African Studies. Since 2003 she has been a research fellow in Central Asian history at the International Institute for Asian Studies, Leiden University, and since 2007 she has been a Humboldt fellow at the GIGA Institute of Middle East Studies in Hamburg.


Central Asian Studies Series

1 Mongolia Today Science, culture, environment and development Edited by Dendevin Badarch and Raymond A. Zilinskas 2 Turkestan and the Fate of the Russian Empire Daniel Brower 3 Church of the East A concise history Wilhelm Baum and Dietmar W. Winkler 4 Pre-tsarist and Tsarist Central Asia Communal commitment and political order in change Paul Georg Geiss 5 Russia’s Protectorates in Central Asia Bukhara and Khiva, 1865–1924 Seymour Becker 6 Russian Culture in Uzbekistan One language in the middle of nowhere David MacFadyen 7 Everyday Islam in Post-Soviet Central Asia Maria Elisabeth Louw 8 Kazakhstan Ethnicity, language and power Bhavna Dave

9 Ethno-Nationalism, Islam and the State in the Caucasus Post-soviet disorder Edited by Moshe Gammer 10 Humanitarian Aid in Post-Soviet Countries An anthropological perspective Laëtitia Atlani-Duault 11 Muslim-Christian Relations in Central Asia A. Christian van Gorder 12 The Northwest Caucasus Past, present, future Walter Richmond 13 Turkmenistan’s Foreign Policy Positive neutrality and the consolidation of the Turkmen Regime Luca Anceschi 14 Conflict Transformation in Central Asia Irrigation disputes in the Ferghana Valley Christine Bichsel 15 Socialist Revolutions in Asia The social history of Mongolia in the twentieth century Irina Y. Morozova

Socialist Revolutions in Asia


The social history of Mongolia in the twentieth century

Irina Y. Morozova


First published 2009 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2009. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”

© 2009 Irina Y. Morozova All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Morozova, Irina Y. (Irina Yurievna) Socialist revolutions in Asia: the social history of Mongolia in the 20th century / Irina Y. Morozova. p. cm. – (Central Asian Studies Series) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Mongolia–Politics and government–20th century. 2. Democracy– Mongolia–History–20th century. 3. Revolutions and socialism–Mongolia– History–20th century. I. Title. DS798.4.M695 2009 951.7’3–dc22 2008034233 ISBN 0-203-88280-6 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 978-0-7103-1351-5 (hbk) ISBN 978-0-203-88280-1 (ebk)

Downloaded by [INFLIBNET Centre] at 05:11 29 August 2012 To my dear husband Arno



Contents

List of illustrations Acknowledgements Introduction

viii ix 1

1

Mongolia’s socialist history historiography: A sketch

11

2

1921–24: Theocratic monarchy and revolution in Mongolia

26

3

1925–28: The birth of the Mongolian People’s Republic

44

4

1929–32: Old and new Mongolian terror

63

5

1933–39: Between Russian Communism and Japanese Militarism

83

6

1940–45: The Mongolian Arad and the Second World War

102

7

1946–52: Socialist nomadism

118

8

Conclusion

134

Notes Bibliography Index

143 160 169


Illustrations

2.1 2.2 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 8.1 8.2

The first socialist market of the working people (the beginning of the 1920s) MonTsenKop (the 1920s) City ambulance (1930) The cars’ column (1929) Commission on confiscation (1929) Commune-building (the 1930s) Khashaa for the cattle (1956) Studying Mongolian script (1930) The trial of the ‘people’s enemy’ (1933) Kh. Choibalsan at trainings (1938) Training (the 1930s) The worker Baasan Members of the Central Committee at the Tenth MPRP Congress (1940) Preparing shoes for the Soviet front Tanks’ column ‘Revolutionary Mongols’ and Marshal Choibalsan Veterinary (1950) At the plant Mongolian National University in Ulaanbaatar (1950) Kh. Choibalsan, B. Shirendyb, J.B. Lkhagvasuren and others (1945) Zoo-technician Galsan (1956) Radio, TV transmission station ‘Orbita’

34 41 66 67 72 78 87 91 93 96 97 99 103 111 111 127 128 130 131 136 138

All photos courtesy of the National Museum of Mongolian History, Ulaanbaatar


Acknowledgements

This book, developed in its better part from my PhD dissertation, is above all the result of kind advice and support by many good scholars, to whom I would like to express my deepest gratitude. As a PhD student at Lomonosov Moscow State University, Institute of Asian and African Studies, I had the luxury of pursuing Mongol studies in the finest tradition of the Russian school. I am and will remain irrevocably indebted to my supervisor Prof. Mark Isaakovich Golman for encouraging me in all my scientific endeavours, providing me with his most valuable consultations and critiques on all the parts of my dissertation and at all the stages of its preparation. I learnt a lot from my colleagues at the Institute of Oriental Studies Russian Academy of Science: Prof. S.G. Luzyanin and Prof. S.K. Roschin had been working on topics related to mine and always granted me time for discussion. I enjoyed moral and organisational support in addition to academic input from my teachers and colleagues at Moscow State University, Prof. V.A. Dolnikova, Prof. L.A. Friedman, Prof. Z.G. Lapina, Prof. M.S. Meyer, Dr. I.A. Grabar, Dr. A.E. Kirichenko, Dr. R.T. Sabirov and many others. Above all, I considered myself fortunate to have an opportunity to consult Prof. A.I. Fursov on the theory and methodology of Asian Studies. In my field research in Mongolia I relied on Prof. J. Boldbaatar of the History Department of the National University in Mongolia, for overall assistance and receiving permission to work in the archives. In that Department and at the Institute for History of the Mongolian National Academy of Science, I met many colleagues whose thought-provoking discussions helped me to generate ideas and revise certain parts of this book. I am thankful to the Director Acad. B. Enkhtuvshin and staff of the International Institute for the Studies of Nomadic Civilizations for supporting me in my research and while living in Ulaanbaatar. My special gratitude goes to Dr. D. Purevjav for assisting me with the photograph selection from the National Historical Museum and to my friend Ms. M. Naranchimeg for all her kindness and assistance. The creative energy of my Mongolian language teacher, Prof. Ts. Sarantsatsral, stimulated me to promote my research and ideas. I will always remember my enlightening conversations with Prof. S. Jambaldorj, who is unfortunately no longer with us.


x

Acknowledgements

In this short acknowledgement I cannot mention all the scholars in Russia, Mongolia and other countries with whom I communicated and whose expertise and insights allowed me to improve many parts of this work. I made the decision to prepare the manuscript for publication in 2006, and since that time all the chapters, particularly the historiography, introduction and conclusion, were revised or rewritten, first at the International Institute for Asian Studies at Leiden University, where Dr. Manon Osseweijer gave me her moral support, and later at the Institute of Middle East Studies, German Institute for Global and Area Studies, where my academic sponsor Prof. Udo Steinbach provided me with assistance. I am most grateful to the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation for granting me the project fellowship that contributed to part of this book. All the photographs in this book are sourced from the National Museum of Mongolian History, Ulaanbaatar.


Introduction

The history of Mongolia in the twentieth century is one of colossal strain. From the 1920s to the 1990s significant social transformations took place and new political systems, groups and elites emerged. Thus, from the end of the Qing Empire in 1911, the theocratic monarchy formed rapidly. After ten years it underwent the revolutionary uprising and became a republic in 1924. In the 1940s, the country irrevocably stood in the way of building socialism, and after enduring its crisis transformed into an open society that many observers believe to be one of the most democratic in Asia. At first glance, the speed of change appears to be amazing. Mongolia’s participation in major historical trends of the twentieth century (the Asiatic Renaissance and socialist revolution, civil and world wars, building its socialist state and its painful collapse, democratisation processes and the shock therapy of transition to a market economy) is evident. However, careful study of Mongolia’s history and thoughtful analysis reveal a pattern among all these changes. Events, however contradictory they may seem, are related and the past can be seen in the present. Russia has partly written off, partly restructured the debt of the Mongolian People’s Republic (MPR) to the former USSR, being motivated by its strategic interests in the region, and China has searched for possibilities to restore its pre-socialist dominance over the Mongolian economy and elite, while in Mongolia the Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party (MPRP) has managed to maintain and consolidate its rule with a new democratic rhetoric. This book on the twentieth century history of Mongolia depicts sociopolitical change in the socialist period with a special focus on the continuity of the social system and power models and the transformation or reconfiguration of social structures in crisis. My main approach is of a historian aiming at a longue durée vision and testing her findings with the instruments that recent discussions in social, political and behavioural sciences can suggest. These discussions deserve broader consideration by scholars in Mongol studies, which comprise key issues in the field and will be covered in the Historiography Sketch. The first decades of the socialist revolution are viewed as a transformation period with various outcomes and analysed in particular detail. Within just


2

Introduction

about thirty years (1921–1952) the Mongolian revolutionaries went from a tactical alliance with lamas and nobles (the noyon) to liquidating them as a social stratum, while the sharp struggle between ‘leftists’ and ‘rightists’ within the MPRP resulted in political change from monarchy to republic and led further to Kh. Choibalsan’s dictatorship and the reorientation of society from ‘non-capitalist development’ to building socialism. An explanation of how that rapid conversion actually took place would help us to understand the no less radical recent change in Mongolia, when at the beginning of the 1990s the country adopted a new Constitution and became a parliamentary republic, launching drastic reforms of reorienting the state to democratic and market economy institutions. By 2000, the MPRP had reconsolidated power; at the same time, along with democratic parties, it shaped nation-building policies and Mongolia’s new international image. At present, the country’s prospective participation in the East Asia energy and resource game may speed up the political system’s shift to a presidential republic and change the current balance of power, as well as the course of social reform. While studying these captivating periods of twentieth century Mongolian history, I was preoccupied with a number of fundamental questions. How to determine continuity and change? What social structures and power models to outline? How far back in history to go to find the roots of elements notably present in twentieth century Mongolian society? What, if any, systemic preconditions make radical reform possible? Does reform destroy the social relations’ matrix? Instead of a schematic identification of ‘old’ and ‘new’ elements in Mongolian society, I start with an assumption that revolutionary change and transfer to the ‘non-capitalist way of development’ in the 1920s–1940s did not have an essentially novel character, but resulted from the merger of traditionally systemic and external factors. The integrity of Mongolian society provided by constant systemic elements (and firstly by nomadic pastoralism) becomes the key focus in my analysis. Acceptance, integration or rejection of external influences (for instance, Bolshevism) depends on various stabilising and destabilising factors latently present in the social structure. As far as the systemic balance was broken in the 1920s under the influence of fluctuating and random elements, fertile ground was created for the external innovations to take root in Mongolia and finally restructure the entire system. I endeavour to identify what external factors caused the strongest reaction among the internal ones that led the system to its structural transformation. In defining internal factors (and constant systemic elements) I tried not to go into discussions of ‘traditional society – modernisation’ or Asian ‘underdevelopment’, to avoid qualitative characteristics. I concur with theoreticians who call for more interaction between structure and agency. I view the social system and its agents first in terms of dynamics and second in historical perspective. By the 1960s, Mongolian society had been framed according to the USSR pattern, and the national nomenklatura was created. Evidently, such social change was not feasible


Introduction

3

without individual contributions by the distinguished personalities of those times. The MPR had its own ‘heroes’ who provoked active social change during the whole twentieth century. Although the portraits of Mongolian revolutionary activists are important, they are not the main object of my analysis, since those individuals were in most cases produced by the society itself: sensing social potential and public trends, they were often capable of anticipating the direction of change and sometimes acted against the existing order. This book does not focus on whether and how those figures could influence the idea of reform and national development and frame the loyalties of social groups, and my critique of applying post-modernist discourses to the long-term historical process will be elaborated in the Historiography Sketch. I searched for the preconditions for social change in the dislocation of Mongolian society’s structural elements and try to depict the most complete picture of diverse tendencies, identifying the key line of transformation. I use the approach briefly described above to analyse the original historical data extrapolated from the former Soviet and Mongolian archives1 and to a lesser extent statistical committees and field interviews.

Mongolian society and power models in historical retrospective Central Asia, especially its eastern part (present Mongolia), played a consistent role in the history of founding practically all great Asian Empires and in their subsequent decline. In its vast space various tribal configurations and polities were established, and change was always reflected in the region’s social and cultural transformation. Great migrations of peoples began in the Mongolian steppes, which also gave birth to the nomadic empires. These empires and their semi-legendary chiefs aspired to establish control over the famous trade routes that spanned Central Asia, connecting East and West. The immutable feature of Central Asia is its centrality: a special ‘central’ geographical location determined the strategic importance of the region since time immemorial. Nomadic pastoralism had been the basis of the economic and social life of Central Asian peoples since ancient times, even though agriculture, and even irrigation, was known to them. The climatic change in the centre of Eurasia2 determined the economic change, and by the thirteenth century, the golden age of the Great Mongol Empire, Central Asia was a belt of steppes, semi-steppes and deserts, alternated by mountains – the zone of nomadic pastoralism as a prevailing type of economy. Production changes in the nomadic economy were determined by ecological and biological factors and had little to do with human input. Consequently, technical underdevelopment and non-differentiated economic specialisation were common in such societies.3 This type of economy formed the matrix of the nomads’ social system. Yet at the same time, it acted as a highly destabilising factor, which can be traced to the existence of an open, vulnerable system rooted in a periodically acute


4

Introduction

necessity to explore and conquer territory,4 and to a model of government based on kinship and clan structures. In contrast to this, the cohesive force exerted by a powerful ruler served to stabilise the nomadic society. Under pressure from external forces and limited domestic resources, these opposite tendencies overlapped, a new nomadic empire was born and its semilegendary chiefs overthrew the neighbouring dynasties and polities. This new empire was dominated by customary law and a military system of administration. Strong autocratic power and tight control of its subjects are two of the key features of Eurasian nomadic empires in general and of the Mongol Empire of the thirteenth century in particular. Trade with neighbouring sedentary peoples was, nevertheless, a cornerstone of the nomadic economy. Strict hierarchies of political elites, with aristocratic families at the top and the nobles of conquered and assimilated peoples at the bottom, were typical for most polities and tribal confederations of the Eurasian steppes.5 Some scholars look to the progressive development of the nomadic economy and society to explain the advancement of socio-political institutions and the resulting establishment of nomadic empires;6 others consider external factors, like trade policy in neighbouring sedentary states, to be the key precondition for the consolidation of nomadic society and its evolution into an aggressive military empire.7 The cult of the qan, the apex of a system of kinship hierarchies mandated by heaven, had existed among Central Asian nomads since time immemorial. One of the meanings of the Turkic-Mongolian word qan is ‘master’. Loyal and honest service to one’s master, or ‘natural qan’, was the key principle of the nomads’ social structure, which was based on customary law. At the same time, allegiance to the qan was not motivated by thoughts of selfpreservation alone. The qan guaranteed the loyalty of his people by distributing the spoils of war and sharing the captured tribes’ people. Even before completing the subjugation of the other tribes, Chinggis Qan had reorganised the military into units of 10, 100, 1000 and 10,000 men. Along with the men came their families and herds, so that eventually the whole population was organised along military lines. Every adult male was a soldier as well as a participant in the battue hunts which were a regular feature of Mongol life. As many scholars have observed, the nomads would use methods adapted from these hunts in combat. The huge armies of the neighbouring sedentary peoples were often defeated by the far less numerous, but highly mobile Mongolian troops, who made use of surprise to overcome their enemies. The army was well equipped and led by skilful generals. In appointing generals and counsellors, Chinggis rejected the prevailing practice of relying exclusively on one’s kin or tribe.8 The peoples that have inhabited the centre of the Eurasian continent since ancient times constantly demonstrated continuity in social structures.9 The reorganisation of the Mongolian army in the thirteenth century into units based on the decimal system, and its administrative division into wings, can be traced to the Xiong-nu, while the decimal system itself is noted by some


Introduction

5

analysts in the local administrative division in the present Mongolian Republic.10 Socio-political institutions had their origins in the first and second Turkic Qanates, eventually finding their way to the Mongols via the Khitan. Some scholars consider the twelfth-century Turkic and Mongolian tribes of Central and Inner Asia to be direct successors to the Turkic el’ (state).11 All ancient and medieval polities formed in Central and Inner Asia exhibited a tendency towards autocratic rule and rigid military structures.12 The leaders of the Mongolian Empire were not concerned about the legitimacy of their rule,13 nor did they care much for bureaucracy. They maintained order with the help of the army, strict discipline, customary law and well-defined social roles. Some scholars argue that the Mongolian tümen (‘thousand’) was not just a military force, but also a building block of the Mongol state. The chapter of the Secret History entitled ‘Awards and payments to fellow fighters. Reorganisation of the guards. In praise of the army’, tells how Chinggis redistributed certain positions and duties among his people. In §219 it says that Chinggis conferred the title of darqan upon Sorqan Shira – who saved his life when he was captured by the Tayyichi’ut tribe – and his sons. As darqans they were also granted land in hereditary ownership. Although many researchers characterise the darqan as a forerunner to the class of noyon (hereditary knights), the Secret History does not describe the darqans as a distinct social institution. Chinggis asked Sorqan Shira and his sons to live on the land, use it for grazing and govern its inhabitants. One of the central debates among historians of this period is whether the Yeke Mongqol ulus (Great Mongol State, Mong.) and the Mongolian Empire established by Chinggis Qan should be regarded as a state, and if not, how this special type of nomadic empire should be defined. In support of the statehood argument, most scholars point to the empire’s administrative division into wings and ulus (people, state)14 and the boundaries of the kinship lands, which were determined by winter pastures. (Some argue that these borders were permanent, others fluid.) During his life, Chinggis Qan gave his four sons by his first wife Börte large sections of the conquered lands (referred to as ulus in the sources). These uluses (domains), including the defeated agrarian population, were given to the princes as a share of the spoils.15 The administrative structures of the uluses, the legal code and the status of the princes were all in flux throughout the thirteenth century: control of the agrarian population and urban wealth in China and Persia changed the character of Mongol power in these regions.16 In a famous dictum, Yelu Chucai, a descendant of the Khitan royal family and astrologer and adviser to the court of Chinggis Qan, urged the Mongols to change their attitude to the sedentary peoples they had subjugated: ‘One can conquer the world on horseback, but one cannot govern it on horseback.’ In time, the Mongols inherited the statehood traditions of the conquered peoples: thus, the uluses evolved into the new Yuan dynasty in China and the Il qans in Persia.


6

Introduction

Sources from China leave no doubt that the Mongols adopted Chinese administrative and bureaucratic traditions. The Meng Ta Bei Lu (the Complete Records of the Mongol Tatar) tell of Jin officials who left their home country and went into the service of the Mongols, bringing with them new recordkeeping techniques.17 It is interesting to note that the Chinese character guo (state) is widely used in the Secret History, for instance, to describe darqan lands. Chinggis Qan is believed to have introduced the Jasa’ (jasaq (Mong.): edict, law) in 1224–1225 upon returning from his Central Asian campaign. The Great Jasa’ of Chinggis Qan is often mistakenly perceived as a system of legislation; yet no written copies of it have ever been found. The Jasa’ can be best described as a set of decrees governing the relationship between lords and their subjects within the Qan’s empire. As a type of customary law, the substance of the Jasa’ seems to have been transmitted orally from generation to generation. As the uluses continued to develop, other legal codes were introduced, some of which were adapted from the existing codes of the sedentary Muslim societies of Persia and Central Asia, as well as those of China. The conquered lands were ruled by appointed officials who preserved the clans’ hierarchies and genealogies. The Mongols, Chinggis’s descendants, functioned as hereditary rulers, supported by a highly educated bureaucracy, variously of Uighur, Khitan, Tangut, Persian, Arab and Russian origin, who in turn governed the local population as imperial subjects. Together with the local chiefs, the imperial administration was responsible for collecting taxes, the lion’s share of which were destined for the Mongol qans. This tribute system was supported by a strong army, which drew recruits from all over the empire. The army controlled regional and local administrators, assisting them in collecting the tribute and performing other duties. Of course, the military was also responsible for defending the territory from foreign threats. Nevertheless, the chief task of the army was to maintain strict order in the empire to ensure the smooth collection of tax revenues. The Persian historians Juvaini and Rashiduddin, two court chroniclers of the Il Qanate, produced the official history of Chinggis Qan and his descendants. Their writings describe the Mongol regime as wholly legitimate and lavish praise on autocratic rule. The Chinese chronicles of the Yuan (Yuan Shi) dynasty and its successors tended to portray Qubilai Qan as a Chinese emperor, glossing over the Mongolian contribution to Chinese history. The collective memory of the conquered peoples casts Chinggis Qan and the Mongols in a much more negative light, not only because of the atrocities perpetrated in the various wars, but also because of the onerous tribute system they imposed. However, the high taxes were just as much the fault of the local chiefs as the Mongols. Yet, not surprisingly, blame was placed squarely on the shoulders of the powerful foreign invader and not the representatives of local clans. In the Middle Ages, and particularly since the seventeenth century, the Mongolian peoples, clenched between two growing Empires – Russia from


Introduction

7

the north and China from the south – could not consolidate into a military polity as in former days. Even large-scale migrations of tribes practically stopped. However, in the twentieth century social integration along military lines once again became actual, albeit not on a global or regional scale, but on a local scale. ‘What is the secret that keeps this state from falling apart?’ a Comintern agent once asked about Mongolia in the 1930s. The brief quintessence of the agent’s answer was: ‘Because its army is organised in our way.’ What could ‘our way’ mean in this context? Beyond supremacy in technique and organisation, the Comintern agent implied first the overwhelming political control over the military troops, based not purely on ideology, but also on fear. The Soviet and Mongolian cadres’ policy was particularly active in the army. However, the Comintern agents could have been corrected: the army was organised not only in ‘our way’, but also in ‘your way’ – in the Mongolian, nomadic, Eurasian way. Some historians went even further, suggesting that Mongolian ‘despotism’ took root in Russian soil as early as the thirteenth century,18 and the Muscovy Rus0 became the direct successor of the Horde model.19 Without going into discussions with these authors about their implications of ‘despotism’ and the similarities of power models in the Mongolian and later Russian Empires, I would, nevertheless, note that the MPR was also fully formed and established, after overcoming political crises and people’s uprisings, only under the reign of Kh. Choibalsan, in parallel with the mass repressions initiated by him. Do we have a charismatic and brutal despotic ruler, holding tightly in his fist the fate of the people, as a cyclic, repeatable episode in Mongolian history? Charismatic features are continuously invented and constructed by later historiographies, chronicles or just epic creativity. In general the Mongols have tended to overlook the tyrannical features of Chinggis Qan, emphasising his achievements as a political leader, chief among them the consolidation of the scattered Mongol tribes. The Mongolian Buddhist historical tradition, for its part, focused on Chinggis’s role as a lawgiver. Even the most predisposed chronicles cannot fully convey the meaning of Chinggis Qan to the Mongolian people. For centuries, stories and poems about him have been passed down in oral and written form. In the twentieth century, Sükhbaatar, the commander of the Mongolian Red Army – but, as the sources nowadays tell us, not the main player in the revolution – became a symbol of revolution not only due to a conscious decision by policy-makers, but also because of semilegendary stories about his courage and strength. Not only was the monument of Sükhbaatar not demolished in the 1990s; neither was Choibalsan’s. Neither the Mongolian Empire in the thirteenth century nor the Soviet in the twentieth led their people to economic prosperity; rather, they led whole sections of the population to the margins.20 After the stabilising factor – strong autocratic power – faded, the system’s elements fluctuated and social chaos ensued. To overcome this instability, and to search for new stabilising factors, the Mongolian qans observed the ‘Tibetan model’ – the pattern of relationships


8

Introduction

between the religious tutor and the secular ruler.21 Strictly speaking, such an alliance between the qans (as political actors) and Buddhist sangha (Buddhist clergy and believers) was not originally a Tibetan invention. This type of strategic partnership was an old tradition with roots in India. For Qubilai Qan in the thirteenth century, as well as for the Altan Qan in the sixteenth, the agreements with the Tibetan Buddhist hierarchs were primarily attempts to strengthen supreme central power. Buddhism appeared as an additional source of legitimacy and leadership that could present a chance to neutralise the destabilising element in Mongolian society and contribute to the creation of a unified administrative system. However, the ‘Tibetan model’ was also a competition among political clans and religious schools, so it contained a number of destabilising factors, potentially contradicting the principle of a strong centralised qan power model. Since the seventeenth century Buddhism, originally thought of as an integrating factor for Mongolian society, became a means for Qing to deconsolidate the Mongolian elites. The Manchu managed to bring the interests of different social groups into conflict with each other, provoking continuous strife between the lamas and the noyon in their quest for power. Besides the political function of Buddhism, the Mongols adapted the corporate system of administration and economy. Its essence, it was in symbiosis with local secular and religious authorities based on economic relations: taxation and the exploitation of the population. By creating local bureaucratic institutions these ‘corporations for centuries preserved their selfmaintenance, choosing and appointing their religious hierarchs and administration apparatus and also attaching the population to land, while the labour of the population not only supported them, but also provided trade surpluses’.22 As P.K. Kozlov rightly pointed out, monasteries in Mongolia played the political and social role of cities, for they were ‘not only the centres of public worship, but often also public, trade and administration centres’.23 The strong corporate management of monasteries at the local level cemented the pastoral economy of the nomads, keeping them in line in front of the lamas. Religion penetrated all spheres of life; families appealed to it in case of illness, death, birth or at any other significant occasion or decisionmaking.24 This constant element of the Mongolian social system (as the Comintern agents complained, was a ‘periphery in anabiosis’) held back the centrifugal tendencies within the system and did not work for the creation of a consolidated religious elite. Contact among the monasteries was also not intense.25 Disintegration and isolation of the masses from political life in the capital Urga helped the Soviet and Mongolian revolutionaries to conquer the city in 1921. The establishment of new institutions at the local level was unsuccessful, pushing the revolutionaries at the beginning of the 1930s to the unprecedented step of launching a campaign of expropriation of monastic property, and in the middle of the 1930s, repressions targeted the common rural population of aimags and sums. However, even after such tough measures were introduced to break down and eliminate all elements of the


Introduction

9

monastic corporate system, the Mongolian arad (people, Mong.) maintained respect for the elders and trust in the lamas. The tendency towards unity and the integral function of Buddhism in Mongolia were forcefully suppressed by Manchu policy. At the same time, the Manchu played a unique role in separating the Mongols from the Chinese in socio-economic and cultural aspects. Here we are coming to another key factor that determined twentieth century history in the Mongolian steppes – the idea of national independence. Mongolian nomads, whose epic consciousness preserved the images of heroic baatars26 and semi-legendary great qans, could not easily find peace with the lack of equal rights in the dialogue with neighbouring powers. Some Mongolian tribes, such as the Western Mongols, resisted Manchu rule for a long time and never gave up the idea of rebellion. At this point, I can identify four key constant elements of Mongolian society as it stood at the start of the twentieth century: nomadic pastoralism, a local corporate system, a latent tendency toward unity under a strong leader, and a drive to political and cultural sovereignty from powerful neighbours. These factors in many ways contradicted each other or overlapped; however, they determined the course of Mongolia’s socio-political development in the twentieth century. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the Mongols, being at the very periphery of the world system, experienced only indirect influence from Western ideologies. It was the distraction of its powerful neighbours Russia and China that made it possible in 1911 for the Khalkha Mongols (who identified themselves as ‘the main body of Mongolian stock’)27 to establish a specific form of autonomous theocratic monarchy with the Bogdo Gegen at its head in Urga. The vision of unity of all Mongolian peoples under the banner of that polity remained impossible to realise owing to the lack of unity among all Mongolian tribes. Thus, the Western Mongols did not join the Khalkha autonomy and later were the last to be integrated into the MPR. The Mongolian strong qan power model had been suppressed by the Manchu for a few centuries, so only the religious institution was able to suggest any consolidation pattern. In 1911 the Khalkha Mongols united under the charismatic Buddhist leader – the eighth Jebtsundamba Khutagt (Bogdo Gegen), whose annual Buddhist festivals became a symbol of Mongolian unity under the banner of the Buddhist faith. Anti-Chinese notions only sharpened the religious feature of emerging Mongolian nationalism, and many people in Urga thought that their capital and the Bogdo Gegen, but not Lhasa and the Dalai Lama, had to assume political leadership in the world of Gelug28 Buddhism. The ‘national revolution’ of 1911 was also an unsuccessful attempt at religious reform: the Bogdo Gegen immediately tried to take revenge on political competitors and imposed repressive economic policies, while the oppositional noyon approached the Chinese against him. The secular government attached to the Bogdo Gegen was a strange mix of Asian and Western political structures. The mechanism of good communication


10

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between the high bureaucratic apparatus and local authorities was not formed and the various Mongolian groups did not show a tendency for unity. The ‘authors’ of the Mongolian modern national idea were the Buryats. At the beginning of the twentieth century this Mongolian people within the Russian Empire possessed a necessary element – an intellectual elite educated according to the Western model.29 The other side of the developing national idea was Inner Mongolia. The southern and eastern Mongols were the first to be colonised by the Manchu and after 1911, they demonstrated some tendencies to unite with the Khalkha, albeit without a clear concept of development. Their leaders tried to oppose the Indo-Tibetan-Mongolian religious tradition against the Chinese (the role that in the 1930s would be played by the Japanese).30 When Bolshevism penetrated Mongolia, its society was already in flux: the tendency toward unity was opposed by administrative–political disintegration, the consolidating role of Buddhism vanished owing to the resistance of local corporative structures, and Western political ideas looked more lucrative against the background of mass discontent over accelerating Chinese colonisation. The appearance of new external actors, such as the Soviet Union and the Comintern, at the beginning of the 1920s marked the start of the restructuring of Mongolian society.

1

Mongolia’s socialist history historiography


A sketch

The goal of this historiography sketch was originally rather ambitious: to identify the status quo of Mongol studies in the field of twentieth century history. With time, as a few years passed since the first version of this text was written, I became even more determined in my aim. Concerned about the future of Mongol studies, I decided to point out the main theoretical, methodological and conceptual omissions in the current discussions among Mongolists. Containing a great deal of criticism towards my teachers and colleagues (a manoeuvre not very popular in the world of Mongol studies), this sketch aspires to continue discussions on the problems mentioned below. It was not my intention to mention all the published works dealing with the twentieth century Mongols, but rather to concentrate on those that illustrate most achievements and gaps in our knowledge.

Original Sources Until recently the scholars conducting research on twentieth century Mongolian history were deprived of original data that was stored in the USSR and the MPR archives as secret documentation. These archives became available at the beginning of the 1990s, providing us with a unique opportunity to shed light on the events of Mongolia’s recent past, Soviet–Chinese– Mongolian relationships and many other intriguing subjects of East Asian history and geopolitics. This research is primarily based on data extrapolated from these sources during my more than seven years working with documents of the Comintern and the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party of Bolsheviks (RCP(b)) in the Russian State Archive of Socio-Political History (Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Sotsial’no-Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI)). Some results have already been published in the form of a book on Comintern activities in Mongolia1 and as separate articles.2 I accumulated and systemised materials on the MPR’s history of the 1920s–1950s from two archival Funds: Fund 495 ‘The Eastern Secretariat of the Comintern’ and Fund 17 ‘The RCP(b) CC Propaganda and Agitation Department’. Fund 372 ‘The Far Eastern Bureau of the RCP(b) CC’, Fund 532 ‘Communist University of


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the Working People of the East’ and Fund 493 ‘Siberian Bureau of the RCP (b) CC’ were also of great help. Schedules 154 and 152 from Fund 495 were of special interest. Schedule 154 contains such documents as the minutes of the meetings of the Mongolian–Tibetan Department’s Board of the Section of the Eastern Peoples, which was the part of the Siberian Bureau attached to the RCP(b) CC, the meetings of the Political Secretariat and its Presidium (Schedule 2) and the Mongolian Commission of the Executive Committee of Communist International (ECCI) (Schedule 3), informational telegrams, correspondence between the Comintern agents and the Mongolian revolutionaries (Schedule 3), the minutes of the MPRP, as well as the Comintern Congresses; personal particulars, files and reports, resolutions of the ECCI Far Eastern Secretariat on the ‘Mongolian question’, the reports by the Comintern agents on Inner Mongolia, and various selections and translations. Schedule 152 contains the protocols of the ECCI internal meetings on the situation in Mongolia, the protocols of the ECCI meetings with Mongolian delegations, agreements and draft agreements between the ECCI and the Mongolian representatives on organisational matters and future revolutionary activities; reports, letters and telegrams by the Comintern delegations and agents, working in Mongolia, as well as resolutions and instructions on the ‘Mongolian question’ by the ECCI Eastern Department (Schedule 3). The documents of these Schedules were processed by me to cover the period of the 1920s–1930s. For the 1940s, I used the files of Fund 17 Schedule 128, which hold protocols of the MPRP CC Plenums and the MPRP Congresses. The documentation by the local authorities in the MPR for the period 1921–1931 from the State Central Historical Archive of Mongolia (Ulsyn Tüühijn Töv Arhiv, UTTA) in Ulaanbaatar, Funds 72, 132, 168, 169 and 170 provided me with information about social transformation at the aimag level. This archive also contains the selection of documents on famous Mongolian revolutionary activists, such as A. Amar (Fund 35, Schedule 1), Kh. Choibalsan (Fund 25, Schedule 1), D. Sükhbaatar (Fund 2, Schedule 1) and many others. The availability of documents in the former Soviet and Mongolian archives interested a number of scholars in Russia and Mongolia and spurred joint projects between the RGASPI and UTTA, which after the merger with other central Mongolian archives was called the National Central Archive (Ündesnij Tüv Arhiv, ÜTA). The result of one of these projects was the volume The Comintern and Mongolia;3 prepared and published in Ulaanbaatar, it contained a selection of documents, some of which were translated from the original Russian into Mongolian. I examined materials of the State Archive of the Russian Federation (Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii, GARF), particularly Fund 200 ‘The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the City Omsk’ on Mongolian and Buryatian nationalism in the 1920s; and the Russian State Military Archive (Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Voennyi Arhiv, RGVA) Fund 16, Schedule 3 on the White Russians captured on the territory of Mongolia during the civil


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13

war, and the correspondence between the Bogdo Gegen government and the first Mongolian revolutionaries. Some information on the communications between the Buryatian and Mongolian revolutionaries was extrapolated from the National Archive of the Buryatian Republic (Natsional’nyi Arhiv Respubliki Buryatiya, NARB) Fund P-477. The archives in Moscow and Ulaanbaatar contain detailed accounts of political, social and economic conditions in the MPR. The data was collected to provide Mongolian and Soviet policy-makers with reliable information from the field. Special care should be taken in approaching this documentation. First, only processing massive data helps to identify certain tendencies and distinguish between a mainstream and a random event. Second, working with different departments’ materials reveals the competition among them, as well as their agents, that a watchful observer over time learns how to perceive by reading between the lines. Third, the real motives of Soviet–Mongolian disputes can be poorly documented and even lost in the archival structure (for instance, in the RGASPI, the departments’ meeting minutes and resolutions are kept in different schedules and even different funds). Fourth, besides the views of the Soviet and Mongolian leadership, the collections contain reports and documents authored by local figures. These papers illustrate their understanding of the political processes then underway. At the same time, these petitions were often composed to achieve certain goals in relation to the political centre and the local leaders were not necessarily sincere and objective. The political struggle within the local elite is reflected in the documents. The files contained in the former Soviet and Mongolian archives also lack in-depth information on the cultural and religious backgrounds of local politicians and their activities. More importantly, the data selected by organisations such as the Comintern or the RCP(b) was meant to frame the ongoing social processes in a certain way to create a working concept for the prospective reforms. One could argue that Soviet archival documentation presents a vision, a directive for the re-modelling of society, more than it presents a source truthfully reflecting processes in that society. Unfortunately, discussions on the approach to the archival data have not been developed in the domain of Mongol studies, despite the general recent improvement of archival research. The Mongolists still have to examine the recently published scholarly works of another regional focus.4 Apart from the original archival materials, I used collections of decrees and resolutions by the Mongolian revolutionary government and the MPRP published in the MPR and the USSR.5 The selected works and reminiscences by the Buryatian communists who worked in Mongolia (some of them, like E-D. Rinchino, were also Comintern agents) became another valuable source on political and social change in the 1920s. To analyse the social effect of the battle of Khalkhin Gol in 1939, I addressed the documents published by a group of Mongolian and Russian researchers in the collected volume The War at Khalkhin Gol: sixty years later.6 To track the change in


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the MPR’s social composition after the Second World War, I used statistical data from the volume The MPR People’s Economy.7 While depicting the times of Kh. Choibalsan and Yu. Tsedenbal, I applied discourse analysis to their writing and speeches. In addition to written original and secondary sources, I made use of information from my field interviews in Mongolia. A few informants of mine who directly witnessed the course of reform in their country in the 1920s– 1940s have already passed on. For a scholar spending most of the time in the archives, those informants’ personal reflections on how revolution and social change had been perceived by people provided me with an alternative, more ‘anthropological’ view on the data. Interviews with present Mongolian politicians and conversations with scholars born and raised during the socialist period (most of them preferred to remain anonymous) provided a valuable perspective on the 1970s–1980s. At the same time, since I have been conducting field research in Mongolia regularly for the last eight years, I have to admit that the personal views and interpretations of past events of these people have been in constant flux, reflecting the recent transformation. Some ideas on the 1990s to the present day I will share with the reader at the end of this book.

Literature Mongol studies as a modern scientific discipline emerged and developed during the Cold War. The key question is whether or not the Cold War produced Mongol studies as a kind of ‘luxury’ research, to which a limited number of Soviet and Western scholars (‘elite studies’) could devote their lives, deserving recognition as a Mongolist. The current decline of Mongol studies in Western Europe probably signals that there were, indeed, political preconditions for the growth of the field. This, however, does not automatically imply the prevalence of conventionalism in the works by Mongolists. On the contrary, the most prominent scholars went beyond politics and, though experiencing certain pressure from political officialdom and the academic milieu in their countries, tried to minimise if not to avoid politicised definitions and interpretations in favour of one block or another. By definition, that was not a really ‘luxurious’ position; in addition, it frequently resulted in the conscious decision to skip any theoretical discourse. In any case, the Cold War substantially framed the discussions within Mongol studies, particularly on modern history, and the legacy of certain conventional concepts tends to be rather strong even at present. That is why I am going to concentrate on Cold War Mongol studies in a significant part of this sketch.

Mongol Studies in the USSR and the MPR The sketches on Mongol studies in the USSR and MPR are united in one block, since the emergence of historical science in the MPR was parallel to


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15

and closely connected with the formation of the official, state- and partyapproved Soviet scientists’ approach to the world historical process.8 Based primarily on the Marxist theory of socio-economic development and focused on identifying the dominant type of production and labour relationships, it depicted nomadic pastoralism as a degraded productive economy. As the analysis by Soviet scholars was deemed to indicate a way for future development, the keystone of research was the transition to socialism. Socialism as a formation was supposed to bring nomadic Mongols to social and economic prosperity, skipping the stage of capitalism, which, according to the Soviet Marxists, the Mongols, as well as many other Asian peoples, never experienced. The discussion in Soviet academia of how to approach Asian history – whether to characterise Asian society and its economy as an ‘Asiatic mode of production’ or ‘Eastern feudalism’ – echoed in Mongol studies as well: the ‘father’ of Soviet Mongol studies, B. Vladimirtsev, introduced the concept of ‘nomadic feudalism’. Soviet Mongol studies also inherited a great deal from pre-revolution Russian Mongol studies and the works of N.Ya. Bichurin, V.P. Vasiliev, K.F. Golstunski, G.E. Grum-Gryzhimailo, Ts.J. Jamtsarano, P.K. Kozlov, V.L. Kotvich, A.M. Pozdneev, G.N. Potanin, N.M. Przhevalski, V.V. Radlov and others. Their Soviet disciples conducted research in philological disciplines, source studies and archaeology and significantly contributed to the development of world Mongol studies.9 The advantage enjoyed by Soviet and Mongolian historians writing on twentieth century history was the systematisation of factual material, to which they had access. This also allowed me to operate with some statistical and factual data from their works. Thus I used the detailed surveys of revolutionary events in the 1920s by B. Shirendyb,10 as well as the works by A.D. Kallinikov,11 B. Tsybikov’s data on the Red Army’s activities in Mongolia,12 as well G.S. Matveeva’s work on the Union of Mongolian Revolutionary Youth (URY).13 To analyse the politics of revolutionaries towards the Buddhist monasteries and lamas, I used the works by S. Purevjav and D. Dashjamts.14 With special interest, I approached the works of Soviet authors, who were direct witnesses of events in the 1920s and 1930s: G.Ts. Tsybikov, S. Natsov and N.V. Burdukov. In a joint fundamental work, The History of the Mongolian People’s Republic, edited by a number of well-known scholars of the Soviet and MPR Academies of Science, namely A.P. Okladnikov, Sh. Bira, Sh. Natsagdorj, S. D. Dylykov, I.S. Kazakevich and H. Perlee, there is, above all, some concrete data on the MPR’s economy, state administration and stages of social reform throughout the twentieth century.15 The general layout of the book had to exhibit the merits of socialism to Mongolian society; consequently, the data was also manipulated accordingly. For example, a group of Soviet and Mongolian scholars (G.F. Kim, Yu.F. Vorobev, I.S. Kazakevich, M.P. Makareev, S.K. Roschin, T.A. Yakimova, P. Luvsandorj, T. Namjim, B. Dolgormaa, N. Mishigdorj, V. Natsagdorj, M.


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Hasbaatar), in a collective work entitled The History of the MPR’s Socialist Economy, provided a survey of the people’s economy in 1925–1940, outlining economic growth and the increase of livestock.16 The authors explained decreasing revenues from agriculture by way of the increased revenues from industry, transport, communication and trade. The reader could very well conclude that the country’s economy was gradually growing, and that there was no decline during the jas campaign17 in 1930–1932. With the same inconsistency, the authors tried to illustrate the increase of workers at the beginning of the 1940s by pointing out the total increase in the numbers of workers and officials18 without mentioning their proportions. If the proportions had been indicated, an actual insignificant increase of workers would have ruined the thesis of the Mongolian proletariat’s growth. To give another example, the books by a well-known Soviet Mongolist, I. M. Maiski,19 to which present scholars in Mongolia still refer, suggests a survey of Mongolian society in the early twentieth century that draws a picture of disastrous conditions for human development – the population’s ignorance caused by the lamas’ dominant positions, epidemics, sexual dissoluteness – everything there was to be horrified about regarding the society’s fate at the beginning of the twentieth century and that would make one appreciate the achievements of socialism. The definitions suggested by Soviet and Mongolian authors to characterise the processes underway during the socialist period of Mongolian history had the most negative effect on twentieth century Mongol studies, by discouraging those with a critical attitude to conduct research. For instance, the already mentioned G.S. Matveeva tried to set up a periodisation of the MPR’s history, characterising the period of 1921–1940 as a ‘general democratic stage of the people’s revolution’.20 The author wrote that within the 1920s–1930s, the ‘liberated Mongolian nomads transformed into free producers and, liquidating the class of feudal lords, formed their alliance with the workers’.21 Even a distant observer is unlikely to find an authentic proletariat in Mongolia, while the noyon could hardly be identified as feudal lords. More than this, the facts used by the researcher do speak to the qualitative improvement of arad living conditions. The titles of the Soviet authors’ monographs were very suggestive as well. For instance, V.V. Graivoronski published a book entitled From a Nomadic to a Settled Way of Life (the MPR’s Experience), in which he was tempted to prove that in 1921–1960 an ‘objective and expected process of the nomads’ settling down during the period of non-capitalist development’ took place.22 The above-mentioned scholars are only a few of a whole range of others forced to search for a proletariat as a vanguard of the Mongolian revolution, juggling with definitions of democracy, capitalism and non-capitalism (I.Ya. Zlatkin, L.M. Gataullina, D. Dorjgotov, Yu.V. Kuzmin, P.P. Staritsina, V.I. Titkov, F.S. Tsaplin, B. Ligden, P. Luvsandorj, E. Ochir, B. Tudev, B.B. Tsybikova, A.S. Zheleznyakov, D. Dashjamts, B. Tseden, M. Sandorj, S. Norovsambuu,

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Ts. Namsrai, A. Minis, G. Lkhamsuren and others). In the 1990s, many of them radically changed scientific paradigms, but without reflecting on the previously created discourses, neglecting the fact that some of their apologetic definitions are still in use, for instance, in remote Universities of Mongolia, where history is being taught mainly according to the Soviet textbooks of the 1960s–1980s.


Mongol studies in the West The distinction I make between Soviet and ‘Western’ Mongol studies demonstrates the still existing idea of separateness of research domains. Previously, research on the opposite block’s scientific achievements became a way to narrow the gap of knowledge and understanding between the two worlds, and a platform for ideological debate. The Western ‘capitalist’ block represented by such well-known names as O. Lattimore, Ch. Bawden, G. Friters, R. Rupen, J. Murphy, A. Sanders and J.R. Krueger was well studied and described by a famous Soviet scholar specialising in historiography, M.I. Golman,23 who after the end of the Cold War went on systemising data on world scientific centres for Mongol studies.24 Here I will not cover in detail all the nuances of the Western scholars’ interpretations of twentieth century Mongolian history. The contribution by O. Lattimore to setting up US Mongol studies is crucial to acknowledge. However, Lattimore’s input to the field of Mongol studies came from his expertise in Chinese studies. This tendency of developing Mongol studies out of the Chinese periphery’s research25 is rather typical and a number of very prominent scholars, such as H. Franke, became pioneers in Inner Asian and Mongolian academic studies. The general approach to twentieth century Mongol history by G. Fritters, J. Murphy, A. Sanders and R. Rupen was predominantly based on a negative characteristic of Soviet influence in Mongolia. Practically all Western scholars shared the concept of the Soviet satellite. The term itself dates back to the mid-1940s, when it was first formulated by O. Lattimore, although his personal vision of the Soviet contribution to Mongolia’s social development was rather positive.26 In the 1960s–1980s it developed into an instrumental concept of intellectual and physiological cold war. Admittedly, some Western scholars, such as Ch. Bawden, representing a left liberal view, did not unreservedly accept the satellite lexicon. Other drawbacks of Western historians were their lack of knowledge and access to original sources. From the end of the 1930s, the MPR became practically closed to scientists from the capitalist world, pushing them to search for data in available works by Soviet and MPR authors. ‘Borrowing’ information from socialist authors, they unavoidably entered into ideological discussions with their colleagues from the other side of the Iron Curtain. Since Western scholars were in a more critically minded position towards their Soviet colleagues (it was Soviet politics in Mongolia that was to be


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criticised, and not the other way around), they also sometimes reached more ample conclusions. For instance, in The Mongols of the Twentieth Century, R. Rupen suggested a very positivistic approach to the MPR’s socio-political course and, consequently, more realistic interpretations of anti-lama policy in the 1930s27 and the country’s international status.28 Ch. Bawden in his fundamental work, Contemporary History of Mongolia, gave a comprehensive periodisation of Mongolia’s twentieth century history, singling out the Seventh MPRP Congress of 1928 as a turning point in determining future development under the USSR and Comintern leadership.29 According to Bawden, before the Seventh Congress Mongolian politicians had enough room to manoeuvre, while the population’s way of life had not undergone any significant change. The author called the confiscation campaigns and the leftist extremism of 1929–1932 a ‘socialist fiasco’.30 What exactly that fiasco was, who benefited from the left’s experiments, and what was particularly socialist about them the author left unsolved. Bawden, following his Soviet colleagues and, in fact, concurring with them, identified the revolutionary social reform as the ‘destruction of the former feudal order’. Concerning the next stage of the MPR’s development, the scholar opposed the official Soviet historiography and defined the country of the 1940s as a totalitarian state and Kh. Choibalsan’s regime as a dictatorship. In the Introduction, I have already dwelled upon the historical–social systems and power models in Mongolian history, and in subsequent chapters I will analyse in detail the nature of supra-legal organs in the MPR that carried out the implementation of sociopolitical reform. Mongolian twentieth century realities and, most importantly, the quintessence of development do not fit the schematic definition of totalitarianism that is still accepted and used in political science. Paradoxically (and we still have to consider why it happened), in the 1990s, many scholars from the former Soviet Union and the MPR started using the outdated concepts of their ex-ideological opponents and continued to analyse the socialist history of Mongolia in terms of totalitarian and authoritarian political systems. Bawden, nevertheless, acknowledged the positive aspects of socialist modernisation in Mongolia that had started with the first five-year plan (1948–1952).31 Still, his mistake was assuming that the USSR forcefully prescribed a socialist scenario with a centralised party dictatorship. Newly available original sources, which Bawden had no access to, draw a much more complicated picture of Soviet–Mongolian inter-elite communication. A rather deep analysis of the Buddhist sangha status quo in Mongolia at the beginning of the twentieth century is presented in the works of L. Moses. Like some other Western researchers, criticising their Soviet colleagues but actually working in the same scientific paradigm, Moses used the class approach and identified high lamas as the only group that had clearly defined economic and political interests.32 His most famous book, The Political Role of Mongol Buddhism, depicts how the deconsolidated Manchu administration apparatus, the absence of the top national Mongolian bureaucracy


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and the strong authority of Buddhist monasteries at the local level let the revolution develop rapidly and successfully.33 The author suggested a thoughtful periodisation of the People’s government politics towards the lamas in the 1920s–1940s. However, his thesis about the vanishing cultural– civilisation role of Buddhism in Mongolian society by the 1970s certainly looks outdated. O. Lattimore also wrote about the absence of centralised management within Mongolian Buddhist sangha,34 comprehensively analysed monastic corporate rule35 and suggested his interpretation of the lama–revolutionary alliance: ‘identifying the interests of their class with nationalism, they wanted to defend Mongols from being subjugated to Chinese culture’.36 This quotation is very characteristic: theoretically and methodologically, Western Mongolists contributed to the same discussions on class, nationalism, national liberation and Sino-Mongol cultural opposition as their Soviet counterparts did. I used D.M. Rosenberg’s Political Leadership in a Mongolian Nomadic Pastoralist Collective, which is based on the author’s field research on the cooperative movement in the MPR in 1972–1973. Based on his field interviews, Rosenberg concluded that although the pastoralists may not have liked some darga, practically all of them supported socialism in the form it had been practised for the previous fifteen years.37 (Interestingly, according to the results of most polls conducted in Mongolia at present, the population may not be satisfied with the activities of some parliamentarians and parties or government members, but they do approve the general course of democratic development.) From the same book, I also used the reminiscences and travel dairies of foreigners who had visited Mongolia in the 1920s and 1930s: Ma Ho-t’ien, A.L. Strong, F.A. Larson, L. Forbath and others.

Post-Cold War Mongol studies Historiography in the Republic of Mongolia The Mongolian authors were naturally the most active in rewriting their recent history. Nationalistic tendencies, actively reproduced and framed by certain politicians, and internal and external groups against the background of social disarray and marginalisation at the beginning of the 1990s, reflected in academia as well. The proximity of Mongolian academia to the political elite placed additional pressure on scholars to contribute to the nationbuilding processes that were underway. The idea of a Mongolian state that originated with Chinggis Qan’s Yeke Mongqol ulus appeared to be vital for the new Republic of Mongolia. Statehood, as well as nomadic culture (or as some suggested, nomadic civilisation) and ‘traditional religions’, especially Buddhism, also had to be placed in the context of twentieth century developments. Culture and religion, together with free thought, were said to have


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been suppressed during the socialist period, but the state re-emerged and Mongolia’s independence was internationally recognised. Mongolian policymakers, most of whom were representatives of the former socialist elite, could not blot out all their previous socio-political experiences, but a populist tendency to blame the Soviet dictatorship for all the misfortunes endured by Mongolian society in the 1920s–1940s prevailed. Bearing the Soviets a grudge for rapid (especially economic) withdrawal in the early 1990s provoked a negative revisionism about the USSR’s role in Mongolian history. In the public domain, Soviet and Mongolian schools suffered owing to insufficient development of the humanities and social sciences. Some Mongolian historians either accepted their socialist ancestors’ assumptions and interpreted the newly discovered facts in the old-fashioned way, telling tales about the MPR’s independence achieved with active Soviet assistance,38 or underestimated the USSR’s role in Mongolia’s development, completely ignoring the influence of such organisations as the Comintern.39 One of the most famous Mongolian scholars, who also enjoyed recognition in the West, is B. Baabar, one of the first Mongolian democrats. Originally educated in the hard and natural sciences, but possessing a publicist’s talent, Baabar quickly filled in the empty public domain of popular scientific interpretation of the Mongols’ role in world history and modernity. His The Mongols of the 20th Century40 has become a bestseller, is translated into a few languages and is still in print, despite a number of negative reviews. With explicit nationalistic rhetoric, Baabar defines the MPR of the 1920s as a Soviet republic and writes emotionally about the ‘penetration of communist hysteria in Mongolian society’. Being enthusiastically accepted by many in the West, Baaabar is criticised in Russia. S.K. Roschin, for instance, is hesitant about the provability of Baabar’s idea of Mongolia being a polygon for the USSR and Japan to demonstrate their military potential at the battle of Khalkhin Gol.41 G.S. Yaskina exposes Baabar’s conventional character in depicting Soviet–Mongolian relationships42 in another work of his, Do not forget! Otherwise – we will perish!43 Mongolian researchers, who rushed into the newly opened archives, first focused on the rehabilitation of repressed politicians and biographies of prominent Mongolian figures of the twentieth century. L. Bat-Ochir wrote a few books about Kh. Choibalsan and D. Bodoo. S. Ichinnorov published a book on P. Genden and S. Dovchin, Z. Lonjida, O. Batsaikhan and D. Dash devoted their works to S. Danzan. J. Boldbaatar studied the activities of A. Amar; P. Shagdarsuren focused on Kh. Choibalsan; and Ts. Jambalsuren on Yu. Tsedenbal. Denouncing the old socialist myths, for instance, about the leading role of D. Sükhbaatar in the revolution, the Mongolian authors created new ones, such as portraying P. Genden as a fearless fighter against Stalin’s ambitions to impose Soviet policies upon the Mongols. More systematising and conceptualising collective works, such as Mongolia of the 20th century. A historical survey44 by L. Bat-Ochir, S. Otgonjargal and edited by M. Sanjdorj, or The Mongols of the Twentieth Century. A Historical


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Sketch45 edited by J. Boldbaatar, carry an educational and methodological rather than research objective. Alternative research is presented by D. Dashpurev (in co-authorship with Sh. Soni) in his well-known book Reign of Terror in Mongolia.46 Dashpurev openly depicts the activities of Mongolian revolutionaries without placing all the blame on the Soviet Union and its leaders. The author uses materials from personal archives and reminiscences of famous public figures and commoners in the 1920s–1940s. Dashpurev analyses political competition within the Mongolian elite, describing in detail the establishment of such repressive organisations as Dotoodyg Hamgaalakh Gazar, or Internal Defence Office (IDO),47 and the Ministry of Domestic Affairs (MDA). Recently, more fundamental research works on the first part of the twentieth century appeared in Mongolia, among them: H.J. Urangua’s Mongolian state at the beginning of the 20th century48 and the fifth volume of History of Mongolian State edited by J. Boldbaatar, M. Sanjdorj and B. Shirendyb.49

Russian historiography Russian scholars’ greatest achievement in the 1990s was using previously unavailable archival sources. The most active were S.G. Luzyanin and S.K. Roschin. Luzyanin studies international relations in the Far East and Inner Asia with a focus on the first part of the twentieth century. His book Russia – Mongolia – China in the first part of the 20th century. Political Interaction in 1911–1946 is authentic archives-based research, still not completely known to the international audience (despite a number of Luzyanin’s articles being published in English) and not extremely popular among the Mongolian audience (although the book’s chapters were published in the Ulaanbaatar Russian newspaper Novosti Mongolii). Luzyanin thoroughly and chronologically depicts the previously unknown nuances of Mongolia’s de jure and de facto international status.50 In 1920–1924 the Soviet leadership changed its policy on Outer Mongolia’s status and its role in Sino-Soviet relationships. Finally, in 1924, motivated by the Chinese revolution, the Soviet Union rejected the former trilateral system and recognised China’s sovereignty over Outer Mongolia. ‘Outer Mongolia, not recognising the SinoSoviet treaty of 1924, had no way out but to follow the strategic course on rapprochement with the USSR and the Comintern, which remained the only guarantors of its independence.’51 The period 1925–1932 was marked by mutual Mongol–Soviet political adaptation.52 The author defines the elements of the revolutionary-class approach in the USSR – MPR – China relationships in 1925–1927. After 1928, when the plans for Chinese revolution collapsed and the international climate in the Far East changed, all three countries became more consistent in strengthening their national security.53 Analysing the Sino-Soviet conflicts at the end of the 1920s,


22

Historiography

Luzyanin suggests that Beijing did have a plan to use Japanese activities in the region as a pretext to invade Outer Mongolia: ‘The Japanese aggression in Manchuria objectively liquidated the threat of Chinese military invasion of the MPR, which by all means had existed’.54 Luzyanin provides solid argumentation, quoting from original sources. His approach is very positivist, while any discussion in international relations theory lies beyond the author’s focus. Luzyanin has excellent knowledge of the Mongolian files kept in the former Soviet archives, including the Archive of the Foreign Policy of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation; however, he tends to follow the lexicon of the sources without an attempt to distinguish between the reality and its interpretation by Soviet policy-makers. Another important contribution to the rewriting of twentieth century Mongolian history was made by S.K. Roschin, who scrupulously studied RGASPI Mongolian materials. In his monograph Political history of Mongolia (1921–1940), he sheds light on the MPRP’s formation and evolution. Roschin details all the conflicts of Comintern policy in Mongolia and tracks the connection between its policy and the cadres’ rotation within the MPRP’s top circles.55 Particularly strong is his portraiture of Mongol revolutionaries and Comintern agents. However, working with the same documents as Roschin, I come to different conclusions. For example, Roschin considers that the leftist course taken after the Seventh MPRP Congress happened as a result of the Mongolian leaders’ political inexperience. I assume that the logic of revolution and political and party struggle was stronger than the individual will of the agents involved, and that despite a considerable degree of independence among Mongolian politicians in 1921– 1928, they could not oppose the main Comintern line of cultivating, promoting and manipulating national Mongolian revolutionaries. Roschin argues that the ‘right deviation’ was ‘brought to life by objective reality itself ’.56 I think it was invented by political officialdom: the active position of the ‘rightists’ before and at the Seventh Congress was simply an additional pretext for the ‘leftists’ to forcefully implement their course. I can hardly accept Roschin’s usage of political science terminology: like other Russian and Mongolian researchers, he juggles with the concept of democracy, which he somehow applies to Mongolian society of the 1920s–1940s. Roschin also writes about the ‘renaissance of Mongol national statehood’ without reflecting sufficiently on the idea of statehood and modern nationbuilding processes in Asian countries. I also cannot agree with Roschin that a compromise was possible between the ‘right nationalists’ and the Comintern’s radical approach to remodelling Mongolian society. All Russian Mongolists endeavoured to renew their approaches to the study of Mongolian twentieth century history and some collectives even came out with volumes of selected articles such as Russia and Mongolia. New view on the history of relationships in the 20th century,57 to which V.V. Graivoronski, S.G. Luzyanin, S.K. Roschin, E.V. Boikova, Sh.G. Nadirov, G.S. Yaskina, V.V. Oknyanski and M.I. Golman contributed. E.A. Belov


Historiography

23

devotes his works to Russian and Mongolian foreign policy and panMongolism in the first quarter of the twentieth century,58 which are the same the topics chosen by scholars from Buriytia, such as L.B. Zhabaeva, L.V. Kuras and B.V. Bazarov. Particular scholarly interest was piqued by the odious Baron R.F. UngernSternberg.59 The best book on Baron Ungern’s life and the people who surrounded him was written by a famous historian, journalist and writer, L. Yuzefovich, Qan of the steppe. The phenomenon of Baron R.F. UngernSternberg’s life. The author studied all available archival documents, as well as those from the Hoover Institution Archives at Stanford, and presented the reader with a work of art, sharing his personal reflections on pan-Asiatic movements and East–West cultural interactions. Among other popular science works on extraordinary personalities in Mongolian history, M.I. Lomakina’s The head of Ja Lama should be mentioned. An amazing story about the relationship between Tsedenbal and his Russian wife A.I. Filatova and its connection with Mongolian history is found in the book by wellknown journalist Leonid Shinkarev.60 Certain episodes of Mongolian history were even reflected in belletristic literature by V. Pelevin and the above mentioned Yuzefovich. The growing public interest in Tibetan and Mongolian Buddhism also stimulated research in these fields. Mongol studies in the West Since the disintegration of the international socialist system, Mongol studies have undergone a visible decline in the West: minimisation of funding, reduction of research centre staff and closing educational programmes in Mongol studies. Paradoxically, despite the immediate demand for rewriting Mongolia’s history and reconceptualising modernity (to the contrary of what happened in the Central Asian studies’ domain, where this demand spurred a rush of publications), very few scholars were willing to pose new historical and methodological questions about Mongolian socialist history and its turbulent present. If in Central Asian studies the lack of specialisation and small number of historians resulted in publications of inconsistent quality (though with the intention of formulating discussion for future research), Mongolists, with their narrow specialisation, appeared to be ‘landlocked’ in their small circle like Mongolian pastoralists between two great continental powers. The new field of Central Asian or Central Eurasian studies is still very much in flux, and, so far, scholars have not reached a consensus on a concrete definition of the region. Within Central Eurasian studies, Mongol studies play a marginal role. A few sociologists and economists approached Mongolia as a case study among examples of post-socialist countries shifting to a market economy.61 The concepts of transitional economy, democratisation and civil society development were actively supported by international financial institutions and human rights organisations that came to Mongolia


24

Historiography

in the early 1990s. The academic critique of transitology did not echo in discussions within Mongol studies. Moreover, only now do the Mongolian democrats themselves (many of them with an academic degree and conducting research) conclude that not all market economic and democratic reforms in their country in the early 1990s were thoroughly considered and adequate.62 The lack of post-colonial and post-modernist discourses in Mongol studies is also evident. In order to guarantee the continuity of their traditions, Mongolists need to broaden the scope of their research by applying other regional and area studies in terms of theory, methodology and comparison. A few attempts have already been made in this direction, most of them initiated by ‘outsiders’: for instance, the contribution of an anthropologist not originally trained in Mongol studies, Ch. Kaplonski, reformulated questions of what the Mongol state is, what people think of the socialist past and the present democracy, and what historical figures form people’s identities.63 However, for an anthropologist, a deeper acquaintance with Mongolian nomadic realities could be expected; aside from the Ulaanbaatar intelligentsia’s reflections, Kaplonski could have asked what the image of Chinggis Qan or Sükhbaatar meant for common people. This question has already been addressed in works by such outstanding anthropologists as Jacques Legrand and Caroline Humphrey, which are beyond the scope of this historiography sketch. A project on the socialist campaigns in Central Asia is underway at Humboldt University, Berlin. Mongolian case is studied by Ines Stolpe and reveals that real change and identity reformulation in these societies happened only with the introduction and spread among the population of such cultural innovations as cinema, science, literature, technology and medicine.64 Among scholars using original sources on Mongolian twentieth century history, Udo Barkmann has been particularly active. Living in Mongolia, the scholar published a variety of articles and a number of books on international relations and the political history of Mongolia in the twentieth century. In his work History of Mongolia or the ‘Mongolian Question’. The Mongols on the Way to Nation-Statehood,65 the author views Mongolia as a dependent player in the major powers’ geopolitical game (China, Japan and Russia). Considering Barkmann’s field experience, I would expect a more profound authorial view from the inside, as well as personal reflections on Mongolian society, its structure and agent loyalties. Although the MPRP’s history is a prescient topic, considering the party’s current leading position, Barkmann is practically the only Western scholar to choose it. In one article, Barkmann briefly dwells upon the MPRP’s long political development from the ‘left’ nationalist party into a broad organisation, similar to the CPSU in structure and ideology, and into a ‘national-democratic’ party in the 1990s.66 However, the main sources the scholar refers to are confined to the party’s programme documents. Admittedly, he efficiently uses the latest Mongolian publications. Another Barkmann article is devoted to the MPRP’s renewal in


Historiography

25

the early 1990s and the party’s failure during the 1996 parliamentary election, which he ties to the contemporary international situation.67 I used a number of Barkmann’s articles in covering the relationships between the MPRP, the People’s government and the lamas. A topic that has really fuelled scholarly enthusiasm and attracted wider attention is Chinese–Soviet–Mongolian relations. Encouraging attempts to define Mongolia’s place in Cold War geopolitics have been made by Sergei Radchenko68, Balázs Szalontai69 (also an ‘outside’ view by a political scientist not originating from the Mongol studies’ domain), an Indian researcher Sharad Soni70 and Barkmann. In terms of theory and approach, the articles by Szalontai and Radchenko71 appear very promising, and I would certainly anticipate their future research developing into works as fundamental and thorough as S. Luzyanin’s. In covering Chinese and Inner Mongolian politics, Christopher Atwood’s Young Mongols and Vigilantes in Inner Mongolia’s Interregnum Decades, 1911–193172 has been certainly the most fundamental work. Dealing with another intriguing issue of modern Mongolian history – nationalism – Atwood describes how the Inner Mongolian revolutionary movement emerged from opposition to the Qing system. Criticising post-modernist trends in covering Asian nationalism, he provides empirical evidence to back up his statement that Inner Mongolia’s new intelligentsia originated from a ‘quasi-religious cause’ and a desire for an alternative career path. Particularly illuminating, I find, is the author’s view of the Japanese contribution to ideas on the modern Mongol state, pan-Mongolism and Inner Mongolian intelligentsia consolidation under Japanese military-sponsored governments. Atwood published a number of other important works, such as on the restoration of Buddhism in the present Mongolian Republic. Uradyn Bulag’s Nationalism and Hybridity in Mongolia suggests another, rather subjective, perspective on Mongolian nationalism and the complex relations between the Mongols of Inner and Outer Mongolia, as well as on Soviet and Chinese influence over Mongol identity development.73 Morris Rossabi has dwelled upon the socialist input to Mongolian society in a few publications, while his book Modern Mongolia: From Khans to Commissars to Capitalists74 up until now is the only one on the democratic transition. Based on US Department of State documentation a PhD dissertation by Alicia Campi on Mongolian–US relations in the 1910s–1920s75 interestingly depicts how the Mongolian dimension was overlooked by US diplomats during the first quarter of the twentieth century. This dissertation has not yet been published.

2

1921–1924


Theocratic monarchy and revolution in Mongolia

As I have already discussed in the Introduction, a structural analysis of Mongolian society at the beginning of the twentieth century reveals its unbalanced state: the Manchu administration, which tactically caused a clash of interests between the noyon and lamas, was becoming less and less effective and stable relative to the new modernist ideas of Mongolian nationalism. In different parts of the country strong leaders appeared from the local elite, and their influence, supported by local corporations, created obstacles to centrifugal tendencies for unity. The 1920s were times of change: conditions emerged that simultaneously spurred marginalisation and increased the potential of quick promotion up the social ladder. In this period of political disarray and social instability, new political tendencies had a chance to greatly influence the restructuring of the society. One of these tendencies was Russian Bolshevism. In Soviet Russia, the party of professional revolutionaries had undergone its evolution and developed into a broad bureaucratic oppressive organisation that pervaded and controlled all layers of society. The Bolsheviks’ tactics of seizing power was easily adopted by certain Mongolian activists. The appearance of such socially engaged activists occurs regularly in nomadic society, and they become particularly entrenched during periods of political chaos and undoing of the ruling elite. They can be characterised by openness, intense activity, readiness to break down the existing order, and a constantly increasing desire for success and power. These energetic people most frequently hailed from the unprivileged or marginalised strata, which were the breeding grounds of the early Mongolian People’s Party (MPP), the People’s government and their ‘sympathising elements’. Let us draw attention to a few biographical details of Mongolia’s pioneer revolutionaries1 that illustrate their social background: the urton2 station servant Damdin Sükhbaatar worked as a typesetter at the State Printing House in Urga; the arad-khamjilgaa and horse thief Soliyn Danzan worked his way up the ladder in the Ministry of Finance; Dogsomyn Bodoo, a lama from a poor arad family, was a clerk and editor at the Russian–Mongolian printing house. Such revolutionary activists as Ambaagiyn Yapon-Danzan, and Sundui came from the lower classes. The intellectual B. Tserendorj was


Theocratic monarchy and revolution

27

of arad origin. The MPP also included secular and religious (the Shabi) officials: Namsraijav-gun, Dorjmerin and Maksarjav. The future party leaders’ activities on the eve of the revolution were similar in that they did not occupy high positions (some of them were in the opposition), but had a talent for appearing at the right place at the right time. Specifically, they had the opportunity to communicate with Russian White emigrants, revolutionaries, and Buryat public activists, and to read the Soviet press, thus receiving information about events in Russia. Even before the revolution, the leaders of the two political groups in Urga (called the Urga and the Züün-hüree revolutionary societies in Soviet and Mongolian literature) were under the influence of Bolshevism. Interest in Bolshevism among Mongolian activists was inspired mainly by geopolitical motivations: caught between ‘hammer and anvil’, Outer Mongolia could not ignore the emerging power of revolutionary Russia, whose intelligence service monitored the entire Soviet–Mongolian border. Against repressive Qing policies (the abolition of Outer Mongolian autonomy in 1919 and the actions of General Hsu Shu-cheng in Urga), the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic’s cancellation of unequal treaties with Mongolia and China induced the Mongols to heed the advice of Soviet communists. Mongolian revolutionaries took their first steps under the close guidance of the Section of the Eastern Peoples of the Siberian Bureau of the CC of the RCP(b) in Irkutsk, whose functions fell under the jurisdiction of the Far Eastern Secretariat of the Executive Committee of the Communist International (ECCI) at the beginning of 1921. It was this organisation, more commonly known as the Comintern (which underwent periodic changes in structure and suffered the drawbacks of the USSR’s communist state-building3), that led Mongolia’s social transformation of the 1920s–1930s. Under the Comintern’s leadership, a very weak, diffuse, ill-matched, inconsistent People’s party took shape in Mongolia. The merging of the two political groups in Urga on 25 June 1920 marked its birth. From the very beginning, MPP representatives endeavoured to copy Soviet structures and methods of acquiring and maintaining power; their successors did the same, while dealing with problems caused by the socialist development strategy. The international situation and the traditional tendency to side with the strong were not the only factors that pushed the Mongols to so vigorously borrow from the Soviet social experience. Among representatives of the various layers of Mongolian society, internal discord – which had existed for centuries and increased during the long period of Manchu rule, the ruling strata’s disintegration, the separatism in many parts of the country, and the lack of centralised management – provoked social transformation in the framework of the traditional struggle for power. For Mongolian activists, Soviet Russia and the Comintern were a new, effective way to conquer political rivals and acquire power. From the very beginning the Comintern planned to organise the MPP using the RCP(b) as a model. Generally speaking, the politics and course of the MPP (and later MPRP), its composition, growth, strengthening influence,


28


and internal struggles mirrored social change in Mongolia throughout the twentieth century. The MPP’s goals formed the basis of its organisation and structure: acquiring and maintaining power, and providing the party ranks with social welfare. The party’s tactical aims changed at different stages of its establishment and development, as did its social composition, nominal and actual leaders and hierarchy. The participants of the Urga groups – S. Danzan, D. Bodoo, D. Sükhbaatar, D. Doksom, M. Dugarjav, O. Dendev, D. Losol, A. Jigmiddorj, D. Chagdarjav and Kh. Choibalsan – represented the party core. In 1921–1922, without any concerted effort, party and CC membership increased. The MPP of that period was later called the ‘coalition between herdsmen, arad and the mass of Mongolian national feudalists for the struggle against the Chinese and imperialism’.4 This description demonstrates the MPP’s obvious tendency to adjust the concepts and terms of communist ideology to Mongolian realities: first, ordinary arad were not able to consciously participate in the party’s establishment and formation; second, they did not perceive resistance to Chinese colonisation as a struggle against imperialism, and the term ‘imperialism’ itself was foreign to them. Following the negotiation process in Irkutsk in August 1920, the Mongolian delegation described MPP members as hailing from the ‘working intelligentsia’, stressing that it was a ‘particularly Mongolian organisation’, ‘not considerable in numbers, but compact and intellectually advanced’.5 The support of ‘wide sections of the population’ was necessary to increase party membership and successfully penetrate all structures of society. The arad, as a social strata, were passive and did not play a significant role in politics (despite all the postulates of communist ideology). Party members initially focused on acquiring power in the capital, where the political climate was determined by the high lamas, the noyon and a small number of secular officials. However, questions remained: Whom to join – the lamas, the nobles or the officials? How to use the intrigues of the Bogdo Gegen court in the most advantageous way? On whom to rely? Whose influence to use? Secular officials, mainly nobles without property, were weak and suppressed by the Qing administration. Those nobles possessing some property were too few in number.6 Complicating matters, the Manchu repeatedly tried to provoke conflicts between the noyon and the high lamas. By the beginning of the twentieth century, the lamas were the biggest, richest and most privileged strata, the most experienced administrators, educated officials and politicians, and the spiritual leaders of the arad. In addition, in the first quarter of the twentieth century, Outer Mongolia was generally associated with the figure of the Bogdo Gegen. Considering all these factors, Mongolian revolutionaries paid special attention to Buddhist sangha in their fight for power. In 1920, Bodoo and Doksom wrote to the Mongolian–Tibetan section of the Secretariat of the Eastern Peoples: considering the disputes between the nobles and the lamas … the MPP (up to 500 members) might unite with the party of officials (up to 1,000


29


members) … however, upon the instructions of Soviet Russia … [the MPP] will form an agreement with the ruling circles of the Shabin department … in order to eliminate the hereditary nobles … and the opposition will only be a small-numbered group of the Shabin department’s ruling circles.7 The Declaration of the Outer Mongolian delegation at the Congress of the Peoples of the Far East stated: ‘We enjoy the support not only of common people, but the well-off classes as well, and these elements are ruled by the instinct of national self-preservation.’8 The instinct of self-preservation made it impossible for Mongolian revolutionaries to abandon the monarchic form of governance immediately, since the population worshipped the Bogdo Gegen as a living god. To this point, the Mongolian revolutionaries had followed the instructions of the Soviet communists and created an alliance with the lamas. Realising the impossibility of neglecting the ruling circles of the Shabin department, the MPP allied with them. Using the influence and power of the Shabi, the MPP expected to achieve the overthrow of Chinese rule and, proclaiming Khutagt [Bogdo Gegen] a constitutional monarch, eliminate the inherited nobles, enforcing at the same time popularisation of the people’s revolutionary ideas among the masses while spreading among them European culture and thus preparing the basis for our further actions in order to break the current order completely [to dispose the representatives of the Shabin department themselves].9 At that stage the tactics of the united front were proclaimed and the slogans of class stratification and struggle implied by Soviet Russia were postponed until better times. The court of the Bogdo Gegen was internally weak and Soviet advisers influenced some of its members to their own advantage. As early as July 1920, the Comintern agent S.S. Borisov endeavoured to establish contacts with the influential Urga court high lama Jalkhanz Khutagt, who helped Borisov obtain the well-known ‘Open letter from the nobles and monks of Outer Mongolia to the representatives of the Russian government’, complete with the Bogdo Gegen’s signature and seal. The letter stated: We would like to establish an independent small state and elevate the Bogdo to the throne, trusting him to rule over the faith and the state … we ask you to take this into consideration and to render indispensable assistance and protection.10 In other words, ecclesiastic circles were eager to restore the autonomy they had enjoyed in 1911 and hoped to restore it with Russia’s help. The Bogdo

30



Gegen was not very resistant to his subjects’ flirtation with the MPP, which was itself a challenge to the living Buddha. This was reflected in the Bogdo Gegen’s statements regarding the People’s party: in the region around Kyakhta Sükhbaatar, Danzan and others called themselves a people’s revolutionary party without any directives from the government; from the bordering khoshuus they mobilised representatives and the tsirik … Those officials and common people … from the very beginning had a sincere intention to liberate [the Mongolian people] from the Chinese and re-establish the Mongol state.11 He also stated, My convictions contradict those of party members not because my views are true and theirs are false, or vice versa, but because every century has its own convictions and views. Let the people of the new century realise their new mission, while it is time for the people of the old century to consider the matters of the next world.12 Thus some lamas and nobles recognised the MPP and became loyal to it. Before the death of the Bogdo Gegen, the party and the lamas practically formed a political coalition, a historical fact that was subsequently buried. The alliance between the Comintern and the lamas lasted from 1921 to 1924, during which no campaigns by the revolutionary government against the lamas took place. The Bogdo Gegen remained a customary symbol of the Mongol state. On 7 July 1921, the revolutionary detachments marched into Urga, and members of the People’s party and the lamas worshipped the Living Buddha.13 On 1 November the People’s government and the Bogdo Gegen signed the ‘Treaty on Oath’: a constitutional monarchy was declared and unlimited rights in religious matters were left to the Jebtsundamba Khutagt, while all political authority passed into the hands of the new People’s government. Its members were required to report to the Bogdo Gegen about new laws and important events, but he had no power to repudiate or annul them.14 For the USSR, the Comintern and the majority of key MPP members, the Bogdo Gegen became a puppet, while for the Mongols he remained the main religious and political leader and the symbol of the independent Mongol polity. The revolutionaries exhibited less tolerance towards the noyon and secular officials. Humiliated by the ‘people in power’ in times past, some party members started straightaway and with pleasure to expose the ‘class essence’ of the old regime’s officials, ‘who like dogs nuzzling up to their master’s legs had gotten used to surrendering like slaves’.15 Instead of the ‘old enslaving governmental structure’, the Soviets advised the Mongols to use the new revolutionary system. Comintern directives pointed out the usefulness of the ‘whole nation’s organ’ – the government (on 16 July 1921 the ‘Provisional



31

People’s government’ was renamed the ‘People’s government’) – however, its functions were determined as ‘nominal and demonstrative’, since ‘all the practical work should be concentrated in the hands of People’s party members’.16 This quotation exhibits the quintessence of the communist sociopolitical approach, which in the 1920s was still not fully developed in Mongolia. Before 1924 Outer Mongolia was associated with the Bogdo Gegen and the government but not with the MPP, about which the population of distant regions had a rather shaky idea. The party was fragmented and ‘too distant from the people’. The situation might have looked like an ordinary coup d’état but for the war that had accompanied the new power-holders’ first reforms. The meaning of war in nomadic society can hardly be overestimated. The war consolidated nomads, as military action was a way of integrating different social strata (during the period of war).17 It was the war, the common enemy (the Chinese or Baron von Ungern-Shternberg), the martial spirit and victory that united the Mongols, who created epic legends about the People’s Army and the hero Sükhbaatar. The image of a charismatic commander, uniting people and bringing them to victory, was even more desirable. However, in the 1920s there was still no urge to build up such a man. The communists well understood the integrating function of war to the society. In the Mongolian steppes, the Russian Bolsheviks exploited the method of ‘combined war’: a combination of ideological propaganda and military action. The Soviet and Mongolian Red Armies were used as a force for agitation to further the interests of the People’s party and the government. The tsirik were encouraged to become party members. The fighting squads were comprised preferably of party members and their supporters; party members were appointed commanders of partisan detachments in which they tried to create party cells.18 As early as 3 August 1921 the commission of military specialists of the Fifth Army completed the organisation of the military system. They approved the territorial principle of levies, the existence of a permanent regular army and the establishment of an institution of Soviet military instructors with a Head of Staff. The Comintern considered Soviet military assistance to be a decisive factor in the complete defeat of Baron Ungern and in the MPP’s accession to power in Urga.19 Red Army soldiers, who came to the Mongolian steppes only after Ungern had repelled the Chinese, had the clear objective of conquering the remains of his army;20 they won prestige among Mongols against the backdrop of the Bloody Baron’s atrocities and launched an open agitation campaign. In their ‘free time’ Red Army officers and soldiers were responsible for involving the local population in political meetings, which Mongols, who liked entertainment, attended mostly because of the concerts at the end of the programmes. Red Army soldiers were forbidden from humiliating the nomads’ national or religious feelings. Thus, in the ‘Instructions’ published before the military’s march to Urga, there were quite clear commands, such as ‘loyalty to religious policy’: ‘Mongolian monasteries,


32


temples, spiritual leaders … religious groups … must not be touched’.21 There were five NKID Commissioners attached to Red Army troops in Mongolia, who were entirely responsible for ‘regulating the relations between the Army moving on the foreign territory and the aborigines [tuzemnoe naselenie, Rus.]’.22 The Buffer troops, however, which had no such institution, earned a very bad reputation. Actually, the method of ‘combined war’ was successfully realised only in Khalkha, as most forces were directed towards the capital. In contrast to Khalkha, in Western Mongolia there were more Chinese of the old regime and White Army officers and soldiers under their patronage; anti-Chinese sentiment was strong. In this respect the Comintern recommended the Mongolian government use the method of ‘combined war’ in the west as well, ‘taking advantage of the population’s anti-Chinese movement … It is necessary to frame this movement, to insert a social content into it.’23 The struggle against the Chinese (mainly, their influence in Mongolian economic life) and other ethnicities (Buryats and Barguts), as against the ‘class enemy’ that required physical liquidation, would carry on from the 1920s to the 1940s. As Mongolian history had included the slaughtering of entire ethnic groups according to the customs of tribal rivalry, the principle of class struggle might have been in a certain way acceptable to the Mongols. On 1 August 1921, the open meeting of aimags’ representatives and members of various strata of the population resulted in support for the establishment of a unified national front to fight the White Army (and other class enemies).24 On 23 August the commission in charge of the ‘investigation of Ungern’s atrocities’25 was formed, and the Mongolian tsirik started being recruited into the police. In doing so, the new regime was trying to control and suppress subversive political tendencies among the masses. The same year the Ministry of Defence declared mobilisation of the population to fight for the revolution.26 The ensuing military action, whose goals were the ‘liquidation of the White bandits’ and achieving the ‘unity of the country under the power of the People’s government’, continued until the end of 1922. Imposing administrative order through military means was once again in vogue on the Mongolian steppe. In 1921, the Ministry of Defence was even in charge of food supplies.27 In distant regions, food and goods were running short. In 1921 wheat crops failed in some regions, resulting in a severe bread shortage and price increases the following year.28 A bureau to assist the starving population was established in Urga in September 1921, but the new, rudimentary administrative system was unable to fulfil the government’s instructions on supplying food to the population. Migration increased to ‘areas made more suitable by climatic conditions’.29 In the summer of 1921, the draft report on the administrative organisation of autonomous30 Mongolia was published. The CC of the MPP established a committee of MPP commissioners, whose responsibilities included ‘bringing to trial people guilty of disrupting revolutionary order’ and ‘protecting the



33

poor from oppression’.31 Giving party commissioners such rights and responsibilities led to arbitrariness and encouraged local party organs to act repressively. To establish order in the administrative management of the population, a census that would take account of age and property ownership was planned.32 Fulfilling such a task in a nomadic country was not easy, and the census was conducted only in 1925. To the present day, correct statistical data is rather difficult to collect in Mongolia. Despite the ‘alliance’ with the lamas, the new revolutionary order was quick to suppress its allies’ rights, especially to eliminate the Shabin department by absorbing it into the aimag administration. The decision to ‘equalise the rights of the Shabi and the khoshuu administration’ had already been made in 1921,33 but its many opponents delayed its institution until 1923. In Urga, the ministries of the new People’s government tried to take control of the previous government’s assets and property (‘to expropriate the expropriated’). On 31 October 1921 the new Ministry of Finance and the Economy began functioning; in charge of all strategic products and raw materials, it monitored stocks of cattle and wheat and purchased hay, firewood, furs and wool, steam mills, two tanneries, a turpentine plant, coal mines and an electricity plant.34 The Ministry issued decrees that regulated the work of the aimag and khoshuu administration, but was unable to fulfil them. The enactments of the decrees, however, spoke for themselves: they aimed to nationalise hay production, ‘to confiscate the nobles’ surpluses under the jurisdiction of the Ministry by means of hired captives’; to register leased lands in excess of 1,000 dessiatinas (1 dessiatina = 2.7 acres), and to place crops from these lands ‘into the hands of state organs’.35 Misfortunes never come singly: at that time plague was ravaging some regions and the new Ministry struggled to supply ambulances and veterinary stations.36 In 1921, the government mismanaged a financial crisis: in Urga the slump in paper dollars led to the ruin of foreign, primarily Chinese, firms. The government tried to buttress Russian currency by fixing its exchange rate in accordance with the weight of pure silver contained in the coins, thus restraining speculators in foreign currency. The unofficial ‘black market’ exchange rate nevertheless existed, and some banknotes were completely unacceptable in the markets.37 Among the other ‘peaceful’ and ‘democratic’ reforms of the new revolutionary government, two were of principal importance: the establishment of the Union of Revolutionary Youth (URY), on 10 August 1921; and of the Dotoodyg Hamgaalakh Gazar, or Internal Defence Office (IDO), on 30 June 1922. The first was initiated by Kh. Choibalsan, the second by the Buryatian communist E. Rinchino.38 The URY and IDO had completely different goals and characters, but revolutionary and repressive activity in 1921–1924 united them, demonstrated most tellingly by the Soviet and Comintern advisers who stood behind the ideology of both organisations. Under the leadership of Choibalsan, as well as G. Gursen, N. Jadambaa and S. Buyannemekh, the URY played a vital role in political and social


34


Figure 2.1 The first socialist market of the working people (the beginning of the 1920s)

change, launching vigorous extremist activities. Among other tasks, its agents were charged with creating identical mini-unions in Mongolia’s peripheries, where the government’s power was still poorly established. Young, zealously revolutionary URY members expressed their dissatisfaction with the MPP’s ‘slowness’ on many issues, including its policies towards lamas. URY activists insisted on forcing the ‘internal stratification’ of lamas39 and inflicting ‘a blow to the prestige of Buddhism and theocracy’.40 The young activists suggested that instead of studying Buddhism, the arad should study European natural science, about which the revolutionaries themselves had a rather vague idea. The population, whatever the times were, rarely saw ultra-leftist, radically minded youths who called for abandoning traditional social values and norms in a positive light. The URY, above all, discredited itself through the foolish campaign that forced women to take off their plaits and hair decorations as a demonstration of their new place in a free progressive society.41 MPP members and the government did not speak highly of the URY, but the organisation was supported by an influential donor: the Young Communist International (YCI). In 1921–1924 the YCI representative, A.G. Starkov, was working in Mongolia. Incredibly, the Comintern did not have a regular representative until 1924, and the first URY and MPP Congresses took place only in 1922 and 1923, respectively.42 The Comintern harboured more serious plans behind the URY’s ‘success’: at that time the Comintern was playing a double game in the Mongolian arena: supporting and leading the MPP on the one hand, and preparing and stimulating its eventual successor – the URY – on



35

the other. The URY was oriented toward seizing power and consequently transforming itself into a ruling party. Comintern agents thought the success of reforming (in their lexicon) the ‘patriarchal society’ and Mongolia’s backward economy depended on the URY’s development. Much was spent on this experiment. Comintern agents later recognised that without proper knowledge of Mongolia they had from the very beginning wrongly addressed the question of how to ‘raise the URY up in the spirit of struggle against the MPP’, were overly concerned with seizing power and created ‘mistakable leftist slogans, such as the Europeanisation of culture’.43 The political confrontation between the URY and the MPP in 1921–1924 reflected the political conflict framed by the Comintern during this period. The Mongolian political elite was divided into two camps (or at least the concept of such a division occupied the minds of Comintern analysts working in the field): power-hungry ultra-left extremists (the URY and part of the MPP), and ‘national-progressists’ whose priority was Mongolia’s independence (certain MPP members and the government). The first camp was in favour of a transition to a republican form of governance, while the second wanted to preserve monarchic rule. The YCI representative, Starkov, characterised by his colleagues as ‘a revolutionary with youthful ardour’, figuratively described the YCI as a ‘party of nomads’ and the MPP as a ‘party of settled and aristocratic strata’.44 By popularising this artificial dichotomy, Starkov tried to add fuel to the fire of political struggle. Nevertheless, the context of such slogans should always be observed with caution: nomadism here can be interpreted allegorically as a special social type of mobile, enthusiastic individual perceptive of new trends, capable of abandoning tradition (or at least of declaring this abandonment), eager to participate in political life, strive for power, and overcome all existing boundaries and social morals. Perhaps teenagers exhibit such social ‘nomadism’, but what was the average age of URY (and MPP) members? To find someone over 30 was a challenge. Comintern and YCI agents working in Mongolia in the 1920s ‘seriously counted on young, brave, strong and energetic’ people, ‘helped them out’ and taught them ‘to raise themselves up and adapt’.45 The general scenario of coup d’état often, and in some cases repeatedly, occurred in the twentieth century history of many polities. However, in the Eurasian context, as argued by a number of scholars, the incidence of coup d’état can hardly be assessed as temporary or occasional, but rather as more systemic and even evolutionary. Could it be that Russia borrowed this social–political model from Central Asian nomads, and thus Russia’s political and cultural traditions are rooted in the Mongolian steppes no less than in Byzantium? The continuity of political traditions of the Golden Horde and Muscovy Rus0 has been stressed by many historians,46 some of whom go so far as to suggest that the ‘despotism of the Soviet state in the twentieth century is to a considerable extent the logical culmination of its most important roots, the despotism of the Mongol empire, which in the thirteenth century established itself on Russian soil’47. Would this speculation


36


help us to answer the question of why the principle of redistribution of power and property by means of large-scale terror implemented by the Bolsheviks found new impetus in Mongolia? Would it be appropriate to assume that Russia ‘returned’ Mongolia to its original state – to that principle of political life and the societal functioning (‘the integration of a large population, dispersed in vast steppes, into one united military–political mechanism’ under a strong ruler)48 that the Manchu had temporarily taken away? By no means does such historical parallelism form a hypothesis, and in this work I do not aim to develop one. However, I firmly believe that longue durée approaches should contribute more to our understanding of the particularities of integration in nomadic society and could shed light on the nature of the MPP and the URY. The Internal Defence Office (IDO) showed its purpose rather soon. On 29 July 1922, ‘for the public’, the People’s government published the Declaration on Spreading Rumours, in which it intimidated the noyon, lamas and officials by instituting ‘laws and means’ aimed at ‘all the thoughtless and class-consciousness-lacking men … who stood in the way’ of reason.49 The IDO fabricated the prosecution of 15 people who were subsequently condemned to death and shot on 30 August 1922. Among them was the main target of this first instance of political repression by the new government: its own first prime minister, D. Bodoo (revolution devours its heroes). Other fighters also fell on the revolutionary battlefield: D. Chagdarjav, O. Dendev and Da Lama Puntsagdorj, among others. The political struggle inside the party has already been comprehensively covered in the works of S.K. Roschin and D. Dashpurev. I would like to point out another aspect. The documents show that S. Danzan was the main initiator of the campaign against Bodoo. Why did these two leaders fail to compromise? Bodoo fell first, but Danzan’s turn would come, and the same scenario of liquidating former comrades would be repeated again and again. Did it correspond to the inter-party struggle in the Soviet Union? Or could we find other similar episodes in Mongolian history: the revenge of Chinggis Qan over powerful competitors and former loyal friends, for example?50 Such historical parallelism is likely to raise fair criticism. At the same time, historiographers have not been adequately critical of the common view that the USSR is to blame for importing all the terror of communist repression into twentieth century Mongolian history. In this work I speculate whether eliminating competitors (and allies) on the way to power is deeply rooted in the structure of nomadic society,51 and whether the politics of the USSR and the Comintern only sharpened and reinforced these tendencies. Soviet and Comintern agents taught Mongols new, modern methods (or ‘technologies’, as we now say) of state ideological propaganda. In the autumn of 1920 the first issue of ‘Mongolian Pravda’ (Mongolyn Ünen, Mong.) was published, and in the summer of 1921 the weekly newspaper of the CC of the MPP (in Mongolian) was launched.52 Soviet revolutionaries encouraged their young Mongolian comrades to gather for meetings and celebrations: on 8 September 1921 in Urga, a large



37

meeting took place, at which Danzan ‘exposed the Ungern atrocities and called upon the Mongols to become educated’, and on 7 November about six thousand people gathered at the capital’s main square to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution.53 Regular gatherings (khural) are rather common for nomads. While the URY was able to summon Mongols for a festivity, it experienced significant public resistance when it tried to prevent people from attending Buddhist temples and cult and ritual performances. Moreover, traditional socio-economic relations proved persistent: the arad continued to fulfil their duties and pay taxes to the noyon and monasteries. The courts were run in accordance with old legislation and included the use of torture and physical punishment. (That was one reason why the Soviets wanted to exclude common jurisdiction and taxes from the Mongolian draft law on the extra-territorial status of Russians.54) During the first years of the revolution Comintern agents, seeking a wider platform for their young successor – the MPP – did not see any alternative to preserving the titles of the noyon and high Buddhist hierarchs, consulting them regarding administration, participating in their internecine rivalries, using them to strengthen the MPP’s position and popularity. Mongolian high lamas and the influential noyon, meanwhile, perceived Russia as an ally in the fight against China. The majority of the noyon and lamas (with the exception of some MPP members and the government) seldom knew much about public life in Russia and the October 1917 revolution; only occasional rumours reached them, usually picked up in conversations with travellers, traders and Buryat Buddhists, or, to a lesser extent, from occasional books and newspapers published in Mongolian. Commoners saw close relations with the Soviet Union as a normal alliance during a difficult period (although many Mongols could not comprehend the tsar’s murder), while the MPP was perceived as a new political group, albeit rather bizarre. The country’s disintegration and strong monastic corporations encouraged revolutionaries’ activities in the capital. The upholding of power by the People’s government in Urga became possible owing to the generally neutral attitude of the noyon and the lamas of the four aimags. Occupied mainly by domestic affairs, habitually perceiving life in the capital as secondary and temporal, they failed to understand what actually happened at the beginning of the 1920s and what changes were awaiting them. The reaction of many noyon to the revolutionary power had a characteristically passive character (such as that of the noyon of Tuschetu Khan aimag Darkhan tsin van). Some noyon calmly and even indifferently accepted the new government (Shirin-Damdin and Namsrai). Many, inspired by the proscription of Chinese from their lands (as was the hereditary noyon Tsetsen Khan), expressed a desire to assist and support the activities of the People’s government that periodically called for the khutagt and the noyon to come to Urga (Batu Suri Khubilgan). The new Urga rulers managed to come to an agreement with some noyon, to buy others or receive money from them. Government officials struck personal and business (financial) deals with certain


38


noyon and khutagt and could even promote lamas to new administration positions. Thus, in 1922, Dugar-beise from Tsetsen Khan aimag, the protégé of Bodoo and Choibalsan, occupied the post of commander and dignitary of the border detachment in Dariganga.55 Choibalsan, meanwhile, tried to endorse his URY candidates for the aimag administration (the military general of Tsetsen Khan aimag, the son of Khatan Baatar van, was his main man). Some hereditary noyon and high Buddhist hierarchs acquired party membership but remained the party’s downright and direct ideological opponents (practically everyone was in hidden and indirect opposition), such as Lamjab gun, appointed dignitary of the Uliastai region. There were other noyon, khutagt and commanders with strong instincts and an ability to foresee the coming changes; they quickly joined the party and new government to become its local messengers. For example, the former commander of the south-western border detachment Damdin was appointed military general of Tushetu Khan aimag in 1922 and became one of the founders of the first party unit in Erdeni Dzu. According to E. Rinchino, that party cell was particularly active and ‘consisted of poor and middle class arad’.56 Lamas also went into the business of establishing local party units (Tsordj Lama Sanjab Jansan), and in such cases the revolutionary propaganda had remarkable success, delivered to the nomads by their teachers, spiritual tutors and doctors – the lamas. Some quick-witted office-seekers among the noyon and khutagt tried to penetrate the upper circles of the new government by becoming its servants. The non-hereditary noyon, Dugar-beise, who under the Manchu had been a border dignitary in Kyakhta, transformed himself into a passionate adherent of revolution, performing public speeches, and sharply criticising and accusing theocrats. He worked as an IDO investigator, was a manager in the CC of the MPP, held chairs in ministries and, in 1922, was appointed chairman of the Seim of Sain Noyon Khan aimag. Like many other ‘agents’ of the new government, Dugar-beise had the reputation of being a pilferer, which at the time did not embarrass party ideologues. Rinchino succinctly characterises the mutually beneficial ‘cooperation’ between Dugar-beise and the party: ‘The party in its upper circles spoils him as long as he serves it’.57 Dugarbeise’s activities in his new administration posts reveal the shortsighted egoism of the noyon and religious hierarchs of serving the revolutionary government and the MPP: the former elite saw the revolutionaries as temporary partners in achieving private, minor goals. Thus, Dugar-beise made use of his authority for his own sake in the old lawsuit with one khoshuu noyon. His rivals argued that ‘his desire to obtain the title of hereditary noyon was the only motive for his participation in the revolution’.58 There were the noyon who greatly feared the new order’s political repression and power to court marshal (especially after Bodoo’s execution). For instance, the noyon of Sain Noyon Khan aimag, Dalai Choin Khor, had already been quite unpopular because of his pro-Chinese views and became even less admired after a number of eccentric actions: he dismissed his



39

household labourers and servants, started behaving as a commoner, walked in torn furs and himself collected argal for the fire.59 Through these deeds, Dalai Choin Khor tried to demonstrate his agreement with the revolutionary government and ideas of social equality. However, such equality in no way corresponded to customary Mongol law, age hierarchies, ethics and the normative order that a noyon was supposed to observe. At the same time, this odd noyon reached his goal of becoming recognisable: his name was placed on a special list in the People’s government and the IDO, meaning that he was under observation and – though he didn’t realise it – would be among the first to be repressed in a new purge. Some representatives of sangha recognised the MPP platform in order to spite their competitors (there had been much theological argument, intrigue and personal strife in the Shabin department). Darad Nbandid Gegen from Sain Noyon Khan aimag even wrote a brochure under the title ‘On the blessed truth of democracy’, in which he attacked the Bogdo Gegen, portraying him as one of ‘the powerful of this world’ who caused the sufferings of the poor.60 The loathing that some Buddhist hierarchs felt towards the Bogdo Gegen, who was known for a lifestyle far from holy, pushed them to cooperate with the People’s government to the extent of supporting the Republic. In any case, as long as the Bogdo Gegen remained Mongolia’s nominal ruler and the lamas possessed seats in the government (Jalhanz Khutagt from Zasagtu Khan aimag replaced Bodoo as prime minister), the majority of hereditary spiritual leaders (Darab Nbandit Gegen, Dilba Khutagt, Batu Suri Khubilgan and others) could still hope that they would not be neglected and eliminated. The highly rebellious individuals of Mongolian society, however, such as Ja Lama,61 were physically liquidated by the new government. Upon achieving military control of the territory of Outer Mongolia, in 1923, the People’s government began to reform the old socio-administrative system. In general, geographic–administrative divisions were preserved until 1931. The smallest administrative unit, called an arban (as under Chinggis Qan), contained ten gers (nomadic tents); a bag contained 50 gers; and a sum contained 150 gers. Sums were grouped together to form khoshuus, and khoshuus into aimags. The borders of the four main aimags – Zasagtu Khan, Sain Noyon Khan, Tushetu Khan and Tsetsen Khan – remained the same but the aimags themselves were renamed Khan-Taishir-uul, TsetserlegMandal-uul, Bogdo-Khan-uul and Khan-Khentei-uul. From the Kobdo region the fifth aimag, Chamdman-uul, was formed, for which, as well as for Dariganga, special conditions were worked out. Exceptions were made for the Shabin department as well; however, already in 1923 the ‘Conditions on the Shabi’ was issued, according to which the Shabi’s rights were equal to those of the sum arad, eliminating the Shabi’s right to roam freely. The law on local administration was the Mongolian revolution’s political volte-face. On 5 January 1923 the People’s government ratified two related decrees – the ‘Decree on local administration’ and the ‘Conditions on the rights of the hereditary and non-hereditary noyon’. These documents aimed to


40


eliminate the rule of the khoshuu noyon by replacing them with an institute of elected local chiefs, whose candidates had to be approved by the centre. The candidates were to be promoted at arad gatherings, or khurals. To establish such new institutions of local power and make them function under the conditions of the corporate system and nomadic economy was extremely complicated. In 1924, the local khurals had mainly nominal, symbolic power. The nationalisation of the new power apparatus continued. Limits on foreign trade were introduced and Russian companies received market advantages. On 1 November 1923, the State Trade Department was opened. In 1924, the decision to establish a state credit organisation was made, and the circulation of Chinese banknotes was forbidden. In the tax sphere, socalled ‘income-progressive taxation’ was created to destroy the economic power of the noyon and rich arad. The monasteries were also taxed, although with certain reductions. Following the example of Soviet Russia, Mongolian revolutionaries decided to counter foreign (predominantly Chinese) capital by establishing a national cooperative. The Mongolian Central Cooperative (MonTsenKop, Rus.) was established as early as December 1921 with 70 member–shareholders. In 1921–1924 the cooperative experienced some growth, its capital increasing mainly due to governmental loans, but MonTsenKop did not bring sufficient results or gain in market share as quickly as desired.62 In 1924, Moscow granted MonTsenKop the right to transport imported goods via Soviet territory. Goods imported from Russia were sold in Mongolia at lower prices than those in the producing countries.63 The USSR also assisted the Mongols in creating a trade–industrial bank on joint-stock capital. In general, the Soviet Union’s financial assistance to the Mongolian political elite was one of the main reasons for the success of the USSR and the Comintern in Mongolia. The Bolsheviks abrogated Outer Mongolia’s debt of five million roubles to the Russian tsar and granted loans to the revolutionary government through a secret amendment to joint agreements. Paying them off (in the form of Mongolian products) took many years. The above-mentioned measures of the People’s government did not reduce the gap between the party and the government on one side, and the people on the other. The common people’s living standard did not improve via the ‘strengthening of the government and establishment of state control’.64 The increase of customs tariffs had a negative effect on most households. Although the government issued a decree abolishing mutual responsibility in cases of robberies and repayments by insolvents,65 bribery and violence during tax collection persisted. The government officially abolished the rights of the former secular and religious elite (van, gun, taiji and lamas) to possess household slaves and use the arad as a coerced labour force. However, the term ‘slave’ (khamjilgaa, Mong.) was still in use in government documentation, and some high-ranking lamas kept seals (certificates) of possession of khamjilgaa,66 which implied that exploitation of khamjilgaa was still practised. In the 1920s, the corporate structures of the Buddhist monasteries that



41

Figure 2.2 MonTsenKop (the 1920s)

exploited the greater part of the population remained practically untouched. Limitations on the urton duty did not make it easier for the arad. Nomads continued to pay taxes and dues to the noyon and monasteries. At the same time, the arad’s petitions and applications to the party and new administration often resulted in obligatory membership fees (which translated into significant revenues for local party cells and revolutionary unions’ budgets).67 All social and economic changes in Mongolia occurred against the backdrop of sharp political struggle between the MPP and the URY, between ‘nationalprogressists’ and ‘revolutionary youth’, between adherents to theocratic monarchy and those who supported the Republic, between Comintern opponents and its followers. The strategy of transforming Mongolian society by gradually reducing the political and economic influence of the privileged classes (which included their prospective physical elimination), ‘stratifying lamas’ and educating the arad was already on Soviet and Comintern agendas. The reforms of 1921–1924 were half-measures, which were all that were possible under the circumstances, while elitist speculation about Mongolia’s future were much more serious. In general, the internal party struggle had a negative impact on the course of reforms. At the beginning of the 1920s, the new political and social realities imposed on Mongolia by Soviet and Comintern strategies only insignificantly and superfluously transformed society. From the very beginning the URY, the IDO, the new government, and even the MPP did not have a revolutionary image, but were rather viewed as if just an ordinary political shift happened in the centre, and Mongolia was liberated from the Chinese and all those were temporary, ephemeral changes. Increased social


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exploitation at the local level reflected this situation. The inevitability of the ongoing changes gradually became apparent to the Mongols under increasing pressure from the Soviet Union and the Comintern. During negotiations with Soviet representatives on weapons supplies and long-term loans, Mongolian delegates sometimes directly asked, ‘What do we owe you for this?’, and received a reply extolling the assistance as disinterested aid to the working people of Mongolia.68 However, both sides were far from naïve. The internal reports of some Soviet agents in Mongolia (especially URY representatives and the IDO’s informal consultant E. Rinchino) had a selfconfident tone, as if they were the bandmasters of Mongolian politics. Recruiting the noyon and the lamas, the reactionary ‘classes’, into the new revolutionary government, they justified such inconsistency, claiming that it was done on purpose to instil ideological confusion and chaos in the minds of the masses, who could then be manipulated: ‘so that on the basis of this mix and the shift in the people’s ideology we could set up a new revolutionary ideology’.69 Although these words, written by Rinchino in 1924, were in essence a political play against his opponent T. Ryskulov, they nevertheless contain a bit of truth. Rinchino was wrong in one respect: that there were Soviet agents who created the ‘mix and chaos’ in Mongol minds. The conditions of social instability and systemic imbalance were typical of Mongolia in the first quarter of the twentieth century, while the politics of the Soviet Union and the Comintern were an external factor that played the decisive role in the restructuring of Mongolian society. Most evident, ‘neither a noble nor a saint’, joining the agreement with the new revolutionary government, could foresee a quick outcome of their alliance, although the forthcoming reprisal had already announced itself in Bodoo’s execution. They might have hoped that the alliance with Soviet Russia was a temporary measure, a ‘historical necessity’ in times of change, but only at the end of the 1920s would they realise that those times could last for a century and transform Mongolian culture and values. Important events occurred in 1924. On 20 May the Bogdo Gegen died, ‘demonstrating all the perishability of this world’ (Soviet departments did not present condolences upon the death of Mongolia’s spiritual leader and ruler). On 3 June, the CC Plenum took place, at which republican rule was established. And on 4 August, the Third MPP Congress eliminated Danzan’s ‘worn out’ group (in 1922 Danzan had been among the first activists who had spoken in favour of the Republic). The Congress accepted the Soviet strategy of ‘non-capitalist development’. The Third MPP Congress put an end to the political struggle between the URY’s left wing (headed by Starkov and S. Buyannemekh) and the People’s Party’s right wing (Danzan). The third force, the MPP’s left wing, came out as a winner. The Third MPP Congress demonstrated the crisis within the party, which was not as ‘revolutionary’ as the Comintern wanted it to be. The Comintern labelled Danzan’s attempt to shape the party in a sort of nationalistic way, to ‘turn back’ from non-capitalist development, as a ‘leftist threat’. Thus the new discourse and methods of political struggle were



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introduced into Mongolian public politics: in the forthcoming years the accusation of deviating to the ‘left’ or ‘right’ would become the first instrument to eliminate the opponent. At the Third MPP Congress, simultaneously with the victory of Tserendorj’s group (the future ‘right’), opposition to this group was formed: ‘the young wing of the MPP’ (the future ‘left’).70 On 13 June the People’s government issued a decree on the introduction of republican rule and a statement on the Statute of the State Khural. On 26 November, the Great People’s Khural adopted the first Constitution of the Mongolian People’s Republic (MPR). The first Mongolian Constitution comprised various decrees, declarations and People’s government decisions on reforming the administrative management system and limiting the rights of the noyon and the lamas. Thus, it affirmed the previous government’s activities. The document consisted of an introduction proclaiming that the Republic would not have a president, and six subsequent chapters. The first chapter, ‘Declaration of rights of the Mongol folk’, contained general statements on the MPR’s independence, the rule of the people, the Great People’s Khural, the Small Khural and the government. The second chapter, ‘On supreme power’, outlined the responsibilities and structure of the Great People’s Khural, the Small Khural, the Presidium of the Small Khural and the government. The third chapter was devoted to institutions of local government; the fourth to the election rights;71 the fifth to budget law; the sixth to the state seal, emblem and flag.72 The Contents of the Constitution, its structure, and the organisation of the MPR’s politicaladministrative system were largely borrowed from the USSR. In general, the first Constitution was regarded as the main law of the country only on paper; in the hödöö (countryside, Mong.) some people never even heard of it. The new state was, in a sense, given a new capital when Urga was renamed Ulaanbaatar in November 1924. The events of 1924 became crucial to the history of Mongolia in the twentieth century: the new ‘socialist’ state, the MPR, appeared on the map. The transition from monarchy to republic appeared to be a dramatic process in Mongolian political history, and occurred due to the active roles of the MPP, the URY and the IDO, which were guided by the Comintern and the YCI against the backdrop of war and in coalition with the high lamas. The latter, whose administrative skills and influence on the population were co-opted by Mongolian revolutionaries and the Soviets in the first stages of their sociopolitical campaigns, would later be sacrificed for the revolution. The transition to republic in 1924 seriously narrowed the political interests of lamas, and the Constitution deprived the hereditary noyon of political power. Nevertheless, the laws and decrees of the People’s government, the proclamation of the Republic and the adoption of the Constitution did not significantly influence Mongol social life and culture. There was still a long way to go before these changes were felt at the local level.

3

1925–1928


The birth of the Mongolian People’s Republic

The systemic destabilisation of Mongolian society reached its peak by the end of 1924, at which point the power model introduced by the Soviet Union and the Comintern was adopted by the Mongolian elite. As a result the world’s second socialist state, after the USSR – the Mongolian People’s Republic – appeared on the world map. State institutions established by the first Constitution were a blurred copy of Soviet structures. On paper, it looked like supreme state power belonged to the people, who expressed it via the Great People’s Khural, the Bag Khural, and the Presidium of the Bag Khural and the government. In practice, however, real political power was in the hands of the MPP’s leaders, who exerted influence over the government’s course and prepared their cadres for the Bag and Great Khurals. The Comintern, meanwhile, manipulated, framed and supervised internal MPP politics. However, not everything in Mongolian socio-political life was under Soviet control. General dissatisfaction with Comintern politics and party and government opposition to some active Soviet agents became particularly acute in the summer of 1924, after the USSR and China signed the 31 May treaty that determined the status of Outer Mongolia as an ‘integral part of the Chinese Republic’.1 The MPR government did not recognise this Soviet– Chinese treaty, but had little choice but to ‘follow as usual the strategic course to ally with the USSR and the Comintern that happened to be the only guarantee of the Republic’s independence’ from China.2 Consequently, 1925–1927 was a period of fluctuation in the Mongolian elite’s allegiances – from the Comintern to Japanese agents, from pan-Mongolism to the Guomindang. At that time, nationalist tendencies within the party (the so-called right wing) intensified and the Buddhist sangha, which had been weakened by the Bogdo Gegen’s death, showed signs of restoration and counter-revolution. Despite crucial changes in the system of governance in 1924, conflicts among elite groups did not diminish but rather rapidly intensified. The old political elite, represented by Buddhist hierarchs and the former noyon integrated into the new administrative apparatus, already realised the real and serious threat to its existence and began to fight for survival. They could be more persistent owing to a supportive party and government members.


The Mongolian People’s Republic

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The MPP gradually split into two camps: ‘old rightists’ (B. Tserendorj, Ts. Dambadorj, N. Jadamba, G. Gelegsenge and others) and ‘young leftists’ (P. Genden, Ts. Jigjidjav, O. Badrakh, Z. Shijie, J. Humbe, L. Laagan and B. Eldev-Ochir). The ‘leftists’ were inspired by the Comintern and the CIY, which had no intention of retreating from Mongolia and were determined to direct the new socialist state. Within the URY the first signs of extremism appeared (criticised by the Comintern), such as opposition to the MPP on the demagogic basis that the URY was the ‘more revolutionary and vanguard political organisation of the Mongolian Republic’.3 The radicalism of these ‘revolutionary and vanguard leftists’ would eventually lead to their collapse, as described in the next chapter. Still, as early as the mid-1920s, Mongols perceived ‘leftists’ as the orchestrators of the country’s (particular negative) socio-political changes, and as the new order’s dictators (the first bells of repression had already rung).4 Disappointment and disillusion followed the period of ‘revolutionary romance’ (1921–1924): the Mongols, who fought for their national hero Sükhbaatar, inspired by ending Chinese rule over their lands, occasionally noticed that the newly appointed local administrators profited from their positions in the same way as their predecessors, were guided by strange ideas, created obstacles to performing rites, and tended to disrupt the normative social order and ethics of nomadic society. For instance, they showed disrespect to the elderly and the lamas, and in general stood in some kind of opposition to tradition and the common people. For the arad these new darga had not done anything worthwhile except introduce a new tax system. They surrounded themselves with ‘green’ youths (party cells) who ‘longed to run everything’, disgracing traditional socio-age hierarchies and recruiting by force. Both the elite and the common people had reason to dislike the ‘leftists’, especially URY members. The mass dissatisfaction might have caused even more hazardous consequences, such as people’s protests against the new order, the government, the MPP and any form of Soviet interference. Thus, the Comintern faced a serious challenge in 1925 and tried to maintain its position using complex tactics across the political spectrum: struggling against the old order, opposition and restoration tendencies (particularly pan-Mongolism and the lamas) on one extreme, and restraining the ultra left tendencies among revolutionaries on the other.5 The People’s government, under the Comintern’s supervision, tried to secure the social–administrative reforms of 1924. To successfully reform society (implanting new structures in place of the old ones), a careful preliminary preparation of cadres for the new administrative apparatus was necessary. In practice, even in the late 1920s, lamas and shamans occupied the important posts in the capital. The majority of ministry and printing press personnel had religious affiliations. Families still preferred to send their children to study in Buddhist monasteries rather than to the new secular schools. As G.Ts. Tsybikov noted during his trip to Urga in 1927, the clergy was ‘that part of the intelligentsia capable of work that required education and knowledge’.6


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In 1924, the Ministry of Education faced the complicated task of improving low education and literacy standards. As in the Soviet Union, the propaganda campaign for abolishing illiteracy was often a substitute for real education. According to Tsybikov, six organisations that possessed printing presses – ‘the Government, the Ministry of Education, the Commission on Education (Uchkom), the CC of the MPRP, the Revolutionary Union of Youth and the Military Department’7 – were busy printing and reprinting congressional resolutions, governmental and party bulletins, and military newspapers but did not publish the necessary textbooks8 and other literature. The new educational system, as well as other innovations, was spreading among the people along party lines. In 1925, the Young Pioneer Organisation was established. The young pioneers were attracted by fun and entertainment: they participated in demonstrations, attended concerts and performances, enjoyed sing-along bus rides in Urga. Female organisations also formed, but were in reality nominal and symbolic. The modern legal system was underdeveloped. Court reform began at the end of 1925 and remained unfinished at the beginning of 1927. During that period the general courts (Supreme Court, aimag and khoshuu courts) and special courts (military and temporal courts for processing principally dangerous state crimes) were established; and criminal, civil and procedure codes were adopted. Considered ‘democratic’ and universalistic throughout the country – from Kobdo to Dariganga and applicable to all members of the population – this new legal system did not function well in the 1920s. Characteristically, in all new structures and organisations, the Mongols tended to preserve their former loyalties. The situation with trade unions was especially typical: they were established not along industrial (as no industry existed) but ethnic lines, rendering Mongolian, Russian and Chinese sections. Each section had its ‘unique national colour’ (to use the Soviet advisers’ lexicon): the Russians, considering themselves to be responsible for the younger communist brother–nomads, tended to command and play a leading role in every endeavour; the Chinese managed to waste considerable sums of trade union money; the Mongols operated through petty squabbles. There was continuous conflict between sections.9 If that was the situation in Urga, at the local level the realisation of the new administration’s principles and governance looked even more like a distant goal, and the establishment of new state structures was merely ostensible. After 1925, the consolidation of the party apparatus and enlarging party organs became vividly apparent. Party cells were united to form committees that were monitored by the party and government representatives or their supporters. These ‘controllers’ of the local administration were testing out repressive methods by means of party cells that at that early stage were already recognised as the driving force behind maintaining revolutionary power.10 Party and Union of Revolutionary Youth cells were usually granted a public ger (yurt) to use for serious political propaganda and a ger for entertainment; donations were collected from the population for holding local party congresses.11



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The resolution of the Collegiums of the Eastern Sector of the ECCI of 13 August 1925 recommended the following: ‘strengthen the activities of the party and the union [Union of Revolutionary Youth] in trade unions and cooperation among cadres and provide firm leadership for cadres, using factions’; ‘the CC must prepare for the Great Khural such activities that provide systematic monitoring of the local power structures’; ‘to strengthen ties with the local power apparatus’; ‘to strengthen the authority of the Bag Khural as the supreme legal-control governmental organ’; ‘to follow a strict class approach in the courts, to protect the arad and proletariat’; ‘to prepare monetary reform, strengthen the Mongol Bank, fight against usurious capital, conduct a purge of the MonTsenKop’.12 That was what centralisation of power in Mongolia looked like, with the central idea of consolidation around the party and the CC. In 1925, it was really only a draft for local party organs. The MPRP did not operate in every hödöö and its social composition was rather diverse.13 Party and government members were more interested in political games in the capital than in working with the hödöö population. ‘Right nationalists’ also attempted to consolidate. Pan-Mongolist tendencies among the elite became more implicit as the Comintern’s interest in panMongolism waned. The Comintern entered a new phase of ‘friendship’ with the Guomindang and did not desire the establishment of a ‘direct connection’ between the CC of the MPRP and the CC of the People’s Party of Inner Mongolia (PPIM).14 At the same time, the new ‘leftists’ were in a hurry to establish their order and promoted anti-religious and atheist propaganda against the lamas and sangha. The implementation of such measures might have resulted in the mass revolt of a population that had practised Buddhism for a few centuries. Comintern advisers understood very well that such a development would have ruined the ‘leftists’ and played into the hands of right nationalist elements. For that reason, the Comintern tried to constrain the ‘leftists’ and exercise ‘cautious politics’ in the CC of the MPRP.15 Among the ‘rightists’, some lamas and ‘right nationalists’ considered reforming Buddhism in order to ‘adapt it to the new realities’. Reformist movements inside the Buddhist sangha occasionally appeared (and were based on the non-existence of a God–Creator and the presence, as some argued, of ‘the source of the Theory of Relativity – the basis of modern thought’16). Scholars also characterise the period 1924–1928 as the panBuddhist era.17 However, pan-Buddhist ideas and the ideological struggle against lamas seemed secondary to leftist Mongolian revolutionaries and their Soviet instructors. The growing new political elite’s main concern was the capital of sangha. Statistics for 1924–1927 showed an increase in livestock belonging to lamas.18 Life in the monasteries for the most part remained as in the past. Still, the lamas, already deprived of many political rights, could afford only ‘half of their former privileges’. Tsybikov noticed ‘artificially good manners and obligingness of the lamas’, and their ‘humility’, as they ‘still did not know how to adapt to the new life’.19


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The Bogdo Gegen’s death in 1924 forced the lamas to deal with two pending questions: first, how to achieve the required new forms of unity; second, how to redistribute the Bogdo’s property. The new government and the party led by the Comintern assumed these problems as their own. There was no common opinion within the CC: the ‘rightists’ supported transferring the property to sangha, the ‘leftists’ to the state treasury. The Fourth MPRP20 Congress was assigned this ‘slippery’ problem and a special commission was organised, headed by ‘the left’ reporter Choibalsan.21 The Congress, held in September 1925, resolved to transfer two-thirds to the state and the remaining third to sangha. An amendment to the resolution declared that cult and ritual objects remained sangha property. At the same time, the Fourth Congress vividly demonstrated how strongly ‘the left’ longed for power, through radical proposals against the lamas. For instance, Rakcha came out against admitting lamas to the party.22 The ‘right nationalist elements’ in the CC of the MPRP united around the conflict between Rinchino and Ryskulov, which caused a row and resulted in Moscow’s recalling both of them. Mongolian political leaders expressed their dissatisfaction with attempts to infringe on the USSR’s interests in Mongolia and prevent its absorption into the Soviet orbit. The Mongols decided to decelerate the rapprochement with their northern neighbour. Their actions were directed at the main pillars of Soviet influence in the MPR – the army, financiers and the IDO. In 1925, under pressure from Mongolia and China,23 Soviet troops withdrew from MPR territory. Next, the Mongols accused the IDO of spying for the USSR, and replaced its former head and formed a commission to revise its activities, demanding a reduction in the number of Soviet instructors from five to two. In addition, accusations were directed against the Mongolian Central Co-operative for ‘not serving the Mongols’ and giving advantages to Soviet trade organisations. Finally, the Ministry of People’s Economy and the Ministry of Finance prevented the Soviet state insurance company from entering the Mongolian market, even though the venture could have earned the Mongolian treasury 20 per cent of the profits. The Russian currency was heavily taxed (20 per cent) at the border.24 In 1925, the old debts to China were still not liquidated.25 The USSR intended to ‘redirect trade routes from south to north’26 and to get rid of ‘the wonderful, ideal trade apparatus of the Chinese’.27 In 1925, the MPR’s government (following the USSR) took an important step toward reforming the economy, introducing the gold standard and a national currency, the tögrög. However, implementation turned out to be a long process: it took years for the government to convince its population to accept the gold standard,28 since for centuries the Mongols had been using silver and perceived gold as a pure commodity. Collection of state taxes and the completion of private transactions were both long and tedious procedures: ‘massive silver bullions were loaded on camels or yaks, and caravans went for a thousand miles’ journey. As a result, it took many weeks to make transactions, while the collectors of taxes spent most of their time



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travelling.’29 In addition to this, at the beginning of the 1920s silver prices rapidly declined in India and China. Although the reform was significant and progressive, it did not go smoothly. While the tögrög was gradually stabilised, the Chinese dollar (Yanchan) continued to circulate. On 1 April 1928, the government decided to withdraw Yanchan and silver bullions from circulation and to leave the tögrög as the only legal currency. However, even after that, Chinese silver served the Mongolian market for some time. The tendency to strengthen the state’s role in the economy gradually became stronger. After 1925 MonTsenKop experienced relative growth, the Mongolian Construction Cooperation (Mongolstroi, Rus.) was established, and the government opened the Mongol Trade-Industrial Bank. The same year customs taxes for foreign firms, predominately Chinese, were also appreciably increased. From that time onwards, special permission was required to open a new trade unit. Duties on all commodities except firewood were imposed in Ulaanbaatar. By the spring of 1927, the daily taxes on goods from China sometimes reached 20,000 roubles.30 Vast restraints were introduced on the export of Mongolian horses and suckler cows. All these economic changes were closely tied to the USSR’s political line in Mongolia and the expropriation of the former elite’s property. All economic measures suggested by the Comintern (including significant credits and loans) were of a pro-Soviet character. Very often in life, those who have borrowed and are not able to pay it back blame or even hate their creditors. The question of the USSR’s financial investments in Mongolia has always been rather tricky. During the entire twentieth century, the Mongols tended to blame the Soviet Union for exploiting their national resources. In 1926, Choibalsan claimed that there was no need to have a Mongol Bank if it favoured Russians.31 In general, the opposition demonstrated by some Mongolian leaders, albeit indirectly through intrigues and dirty tricks, alerted Moscow and the Comintern. Soviet instructors were ordered to prepare for the Fourth MPRP Congress by means of a purge that had to be organised so that elections to the Congress at the local level were run ‘under the vivid impression of the purge’.32 The goal was to eliminate theocrats and nobles and to guarantee the ‘predominately arad’ social composition of the forthcoming Congress. Together with the purge, the new administration, in the form of people’s khurals, reached the distant aimags and khoshuus (Durbet, Dariganga, Torgut, Kazakh and Uriankhai). Crucial changes also occurred in administrative–territorial organisation and in the Shabin department; the latter, on 20 March 1925, was reorganised in Delgereh-uul aimag. For the first time it was officially proclaimed at the Fourth MPRP Congress that ‘the party had been forced to make an alliance with the theocraticfeudal formation’. That statement became a kind of declaration of open struggle against the former noyon and high lamas. The ‘rightists’ did not want to forget the slogans and realities of the beginning of the revolution. Ts. Dambadorj, referring to the party’s platform, which consisted of ten items,

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tried to prove that the party had not originally identified with the arad masses, but his attempts were in vain. He faced firm opposition by N. Jadambaa, who was inspired by the support of the Comintern representative, M. Amagaev, and raised his hopes for the CC chair. Finally, the ‘leftists’ held the party members who were closer to the former (called ‘old’) elite up to shame and the resolution was adopted. The social composition of the Fourth MPRP Congress participants vividly showed what kind of party it was: The social composition of the Fourth MPRP Congress Social groups

Number of people

Arad Taiji Lamas Women Total

163 12 8 5 188

Source: The Comintern archive. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 31. L. 100.

Newer party members, according to the following annual membership increases, also dominated: The increase in the MPRP annual membership, 1921–1925 Year

Number of people who became party members

1921 1922 1923 1924 1925

6 36 27 71 48


Even the Presidium’s composition was characteristic of the new cadres’ policy: four members were from the capital and eight from the hödöö. So Dambadorj’s statement that the party was not an arad party was not entirely true, as a majority of Congress participants were arad. ‘Some of the rightists were expelled from the party right at the Congress, for example, Amar.’33 Amagaev’s reports ‘were listened to with great attention and in exceptional silence’.34 Amagaev’s colleagues in the Comintern congratulated him for successfully running the Congress but warned against supporting the ‘left wing’ too forcefully.35 They also recommended ‘restraining left extremists’ from crushing the lamas too rapidly: ‘counter-revolutionary elements’ could have ridden the wave of popular discontent over anti-Buddhist policy, pushed the ‘leftists’ out of the political leadership and questioned all Comintern ‘achievements’ in Mongolia. After the Fourth Congress, the



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‘rightists’ coined a slogan, ‘mongolisation of the apparatus’, which referred to their desire to eliminate Soviet instructors who had important positions (although not legalised) in the state administration. The ‘leftists’, in their fight for power, mainly appealed to the rhetoric of swiftly applying the ‘solution to the lama question’ (later it would be linked to pan-Mongolism and the activities of ‘Japanese agents’). After exposing their own tactics of cooperation with lamas at the Fourth Congress, the revolutionaries launched a course of open opposition to the political influence of Buddhism and sangha. On 3 September 1926, the law separating religion and state was adopted, containing a relevant article of the first MPR Constitution. The measure was driven by a serious attempt by the lamas to unite, supported by some ‘right’ CC members. An intense discussion on this issue flared up in November 1925 at the Second CC Plenum. Two contrary positions clashed. The group of Tserendorj, Amar, Maksarjav and others ‘silently supported’ the ruling circles of two leading monasteries in the capital – Gandan and Züün-Hüree – which called for an organisational meeting of the high lamas, naming it Bag Khural. At that meeting, they decided to establish a Central Church Administration and call for a Great Khural of the Buddhist sangha. Thus, the lamas were making a desperate attempt to regain their rights. Obviously, the ‘leftists’ did everything to ruin these plans: the special commission, which consisted of Dambadorj, Zhamtsarano and Amagaev, resolved that the proposed Khural should not take place.36 Despite all objections by the opposition (for instance, Amar said that ‘the lamas must have their administration, because they are not mere livestock’37), the CC majority voted for the speedy, complete and final liquidation of the remaining Shabi administration and for integrating its former members into the new aimags according to the territorial principle. In 1926, Delgereh-uul aimag was abolished and the former Shabi otogs (administrative unit, Mong.) were reorganised into khoshuus. The MPRP’s tactics – using the authority of the lamas – gave way to the strategic elimination of the former elite and administration, and in parallel, consistent preparation of the new cadres. The tough strategic course the Comintern adhered to (regardless of all internal disagreements on the ‘Mongolian question’) was based on restructuring the traditional Mongolian society and crystallisation of the new one by remixing the upper and lower strata of the population. ‘Old’ MPRP members, noyon and high lamas were amazed to observe that their successors were being recruited from ‘the dark and naïve arad’38 who took their lead from the Soviet Union, losing sight of and sacrificing Mongolian national interests. These suspicions were not baseless – the revolution had dictated a new strategy – and individuals employed all necessary means in their struggle for leading positions. The Comintern promoted new candidates to power: P. Genden, G. Gelegsenge, O. Badrakh, Zh. Damdinsuren, Dugar and V. Dorligjav, characterising them as ‘pure representatives of the population’s arad majority, untouched by the smart city life of Urga’, ‘with


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instinctive ambitions and great belief in the CC and the USSR’.39 In the previous chapter, I referred to the ‘instinct ambitions’ of Mongolian revolutionaries. The survival instinct in political struggles, the suppression of the population by means of extra-legal terror, using an external ally (USSR) to come to power – these were not new inventions but historical socio-political patterns of Mongolian nomad life. Mongolian leaders were obviously grateful to the Soviets for liberating them from the Chinese (as they had earlier been grateful to Ungern), but after some time they found it appropriate to part ways. The Mongolian elite were more inclined now to see the Comintern and Soviet control as temporary, and were even prepared to limit these influences. Mistakes, driven in part by a lack of knowledge about Mongolia by Soviet instructors, irritated both Mongolian revolutionaries and lamas who had already experienced first hand how firm directives from Moscow could be, and after 1924, they were eager to support any discontent against the Soviets. Throughout 1925–1927 the lamas were gradually losing political clout, however, since they were doing quite well economically and their capital even multiplied, they still had hope for revenge. Japanese agents endeavoured to support them, provoking and stimulating pan-Mongolist movements in Inner Mongolia.40 Among the lamas, a renaissance of pan-Mongolism and panBuddhism emerged in the form of the autonomy period and including the same ideas as in 1911. Enjoying great influence and authority among common people (Mongols continued to send children to study at monasteries) and possibly relying on Japanese support, playing on nationalist moods and tendencies toward supporting the unity of Outer and Inner Mongolia, the lamas as an institutionalised social group remained a serious threat to the still unstable reign of the revolutionaries. In the mid-1920s, the Comintern and other Soviet departments possessed the means to maintain revolutionary rule only in the capital. Elsewhere, especially in border regions, it was quite problematic. Brute force against lamas was prohibited by the government; otherwise, the Mongols could have united against the external enemy, the USSR, on the wave of nationalist sentiment stirred up by prominent and respected lamas. In that case, the coup d’état might have occurred and the pan-Mongolists of the ‘right’ would have eliminated the ‘leftists’ and pushed the Soviets out of Mongolia. In 1926, the ‘right’ Mongolian elite started seriously thinking about the choice of a new ally to achieve Mongol unity and considered Feng Yuxiang. Comintern agents somehow assumed that Feng, in his turn, would play into their hands.41 Generally, the revolutionary order had not spread its rule to border regions with China, where the Chinese exercised counter-propaganda, and in some regions of Inner Mongolia people thought that they lived under the Qing administration and went on paying taxes to the Amban, the Qing governor-general. The masses in Höh nuur did not have a clue about the revolution, telling bizarre fairy tales about the Khalkha, as if they killed all noyon and


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lamas, expropriated the property of the rich and redistributed it to the poor, about Russian occupation and so on.42 In 1925–1927 Comintern policy did not diminish the political and ideological gap between Inner and Outer Mongolia. Meanwhile, in Outer Mongolia, to promote the arad, the first wide-ranging public campaign was launched on 29 May 1926. Agents from Ulaanbaatar were sent to the hödöö,43 where they had to recruit the population into the party by force, since the arad continued their usual way of life and only had the vaguest idea about the Republic (which terribly irritated the Comintern advisers). After the Fourth MPRP Congress, party work activity was divided into two periods, winter and summer (in summer, life in the hödöö was not that tough),44 and a method of strategic planning was agreed upon, but its implementation was unrealistic in the 1920s: local party cells had no idea how to manage documentation and document decisions. Sometimes party members asked lamas to write down the decisions made at their party meetings in Tibetan.45 One can only guess who read those documents. So far, local party commissions experienced many complications in their working routine. As Soviet communists and Mongolian revolutionaries believed repression and purges motivated and increased productivity and efficiency in their executive branch, they resolved to establish a commission on the purge in the party apparatus right after the Fifth MPRP Congress in September 1926.46 This purge in late 1926 and early 1927 was also a counter-measure to the politics of ‘mongolisation of the apparatus’ that was eagerly supported by the ‘rightists’. Ironically, the slogan of ‘mongolisation of the apparatus’ had been originally created by Comintern agents and implied the training of national cadres to work in party and state structures. However, in different times Mongolian revolutionaries interpreted ‘mongolisation’ in different ways. In 1927, the toughest year for the Soviet presence in the country, ‘mongolisation’ was used against the party’s left wing that supported the interests of the USSR. In a Resolution of 17 January 1927, the Far-Eastern Secretariat of the ECCI expressed its view on the issue: Previous officials tried but could not preserve their positions, influence and role in the state apparatus and find a way to protect their interests that in the end would not contradict the revolutionary spirit of the time, but would formally reflect national interests. And this group of the former elite did find such a formula by misinterpreting the political line of the party in the policy of ‘mongolisation’ of the apparatus and those institutions in which Mongolian workers were a minority or played a submissive role (MonTsenKop, VetUpravlenie [Veterinary Office, Rus.]). They misinterpreted the correct party directive on the gradual ‘mongolisation’ of the MonTsenKop apparatus and wanted to issue a general directive for the whole state apparatus.47


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Regardless of all the dogmatism of their ‘revolutionary’ views, Comintern agents correctly perceived the political realities: the right wing represented an attempt by the former elite, if not to preserve their positions, to at least remain involved in policy-making. In addition to this, the right wing was also working indirectly on behalf of the ‘leftists’: a radical transformation of society was possible only in crisis periods of social instability and with the presence of active political opposition. In other words, the ‘right threat’ was an impetus for the return of repressive actions. Soviet policy-makers’ highly cautious attitude towards Mongolian politics in general and ‘mongolisation’ in particular could be better understood in the context of the policies of korenizatsiya (rooting power in ‘indigenous nationalities’, Rus.) in Central Asia, where European Bolsheviks supported Central Asian ethnicities and proclaimed Uzbek, Tajik, Kyrgyz, Kazakh and Turkmen as titular nationalities in 1924. The korenizatsiya commissions in the newly established Republics received money from the special fund for cultural korenizatsiya, and were responsible for implementing ‘direct replacement of Russian employees with natives’.48 Korenizatsiya in Central Asia, though it experienced ups and downs according to the political situation, was never viewed as a threat to Moscow’s position in the Republics. Soviet advisers assumed that 1927 was not the year to launch mass repression in Mongolia. Additionally, Soviet agents regretfully noted ‘some decline of Revsomol [Union of Revolutionary Youth, Rus.] activities’.49 The URY, weakened by purges, did not represent a radical revolutionary organisation capable of competing with the MPRP. The Mongolian Revsomol gradually occupied the same niche as the Komsomol in the Soviet Union, and its main purpose thereafter was to prepare cadres for the party. The prospective development of socialist institutions was already visible in 1925–1928, at least in Ulaanbaatar. State and party structures and social– administrative reforms were all mere copies of the Soviet model. Even the atmosphere in Mongolian party institutions was typically Soviet. Tsybikov reflected on this in his diary: I visited the CC. Organisation is the same as ours. In one building the CC, in another the CC of Revsomol, in a third the trade union bureau. In the last, there are four unions: the state officials’, the workers’, the traders’ and the transportation workers’. Two tables are surrounded by clients: workers and traders. Outside, at the entrance of the building, four people from Ispravdom [the house of public punishment, Rus.] are cleaning the street: collecting garbage and putting it on a carriage. Two policemen are watching them. They are dressed in the same uniform as our policemen.50 Obviously, a copy doesn’t always mimic the original; an analysis of the essence and functioning of the MPR’s party structures, governments and ministries in the late 1920s would reveal a rather contradictory mixture of traditional and revolutionary features.



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Everyday life in Ulaanbaatar was also a remarkable mixture of old and new, of a traditional economy and imported European culture. New means of transportation and communication appeared. Planes flew regularly from Verhneudinsk and Kyakhta to Ulaanbaatar. In the capital, ‘next to the pack camels and bullock carts automobiles and cabs passed by’.51 Some city Mongols exchanged their horses for bicycles. During demonstrations, military armoured cars patrolled the main square. All of these changes, however, were merely cosmetic expressions of the more fundamental transformation that had yet to take hold of the public consciousness. Although at the First May celebration in 1927 ‘party members, Revsomol members, trade union members, representatives of women’s organisations, pioneers, schoolchildren and even kindergarten pupils’ could be seen, it was obvious that very few of them really knew the celebration’s purpose and meaning. Evenings of international song were held in Ulaanbaatar’s Chinese theatre, but Mongols, who did not have a tradition of indoor secular performance, paid little attention to what was happening onstage and instead ‘laughed loudly, talked to each other about their own topics, smoked, threw garbage on the floor, etc.’52. About ten years’ later stage performances would win the hearts of the public and policemen would escort debauchers from the hall. In 1925–1928 the public was just beginning to be indoctrinated toward an appropriate perception of the political theatre. In this regard, the government established the goals of ‘eliminating technical illiteracy among party members’, ‘organising ger-libraries, red corners [recreation areas] in hödöö’, ‘utilising radio communication’ and attracting women53 to public life. ‘The potentially incapable’ actors and public were excluded from the very beginning: it was announced that the revolutionary order should never give power to ‘politically hostile elements (Russian Whites and others) who agreed to work with Mongols for only a piece of bread and always remained capable of betrayal [in 1927 three Russian veterinary doctors escaped to Manchuria]’.54 As early as 1923–1924, in order to prepare national cadres for Mongol– Russian collaboration, it had become common to send young people to study in the USSR, as well as to create courses, schools, and people’s universities in the capital and aimag centres. D. Dashpurev, in his already mentioned book, highlights three main institutions that prepared Mongolian cadres for building a socialist society: the Communist University of the Working People of the East (KUTV), the Military School in Tver and the Party School in Ulaanbaatar. In these institutions, Soviet instructors taught Mongols communist theory and practice, and trained students about the party’s work. By the beginning of the 1930s, it was quite impossible to find a party agent without some background at these institutions. In 1927, 130 people, including 30 women, studied in the Ulaanbaatar Party School, whose only admission requirement was literacy. The general course lasted one year and a special course lasted a year and a half.55 Such periods were considered sufficient to train and educate a party agent or political activist.


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On 19 January 1928, the Mongolian Commission of the ECCI resolved to grant Mongols an opportunity to enter not only political but also ‘practical– technical–economic’ institutions of higher education in the USSR. In later periods, all Mongolian cadres were educated, re-educated and trained in the Soviet Union. From whatever point of view the socialist revolution in Mongolia is examined, the people’s path to socialism was neither direct nor smooth. In 1927 the MPR’s social reform was about to deviate from the planned course of ‘non-capitalist development’, when it was threatened by the growing wave of nationalist sentiment and demonstrations. Mongolian nationalist-reformers tried to find supporters in the continuously changing international situation in East Asia. In early 1927, the USSR, counting on Guomindang, agreed on the autonomous status of Outer Mongolia within China, following a policy of firm division between the two Mongolias, adjusting it accordingly and suppressing pan-Mongolist tendencies. ‘National-revolutionary movement in Inner Mongolia should not be under the direct leadership of the Outer Mongolian leaders, there is the independent People’s Revolutionary Party of Inner Mongolia (PRPIM) to guide this movement under Comintern supervision.’56 PRPIM activities were at the mercy of Chinese generals; intrigues, conspiracy and betrayals occurred among its leaders. The party never minded making friends with the noyon and both sides were of mutual use to each other. The chairman of the CC of the PRPIM, Bai Yunti (his Mongolian name was Tseren Donrov), was simultaneously a member of the CC of Guomindang and replaced Feng Yuxiang as Commissar on ‘the policy of appeasement of Inner Mongolia’.57 The Comintern saw him as the most loyal supporter of PRPIM interests, personally connected to generals close to Feng, and an opium addict. The government in Ulaanbaatar, as well as other PRPIM activists such as Mandaltu and Altan, did not trust him.58 Without going into the already well-established details of the complex relationships between the MPR, China and the USSR of that period,59 I will point out the highly contradictory attitude of Outer Mongolia’s political groups towards Mongols in China. The Khalkha had evident interest in Inner Mongolian pan-Mongolist sentiment, but they remained very cautious in approaching them. Outer Mongolia supplied Inner Mongols with weapons and provided instructions along the party line. PRPIM members had residences in Ulaanbaatar, and Feng had his representation there.60 Nevertheless, centralised political barriers for further rapprochement were obvious; Ulaanbaatar preferred to keep a buffer between itself and China, but also to preserve all trade, economic and kinship relationships.61 In the summer of 1927, the international situation changed drastically: after Chiang Kai-shek’s coup and Feng’s alliance with him, the Comintern’s East Asian policy was a fiasco. Against the backdrop of the failed revolution in China and Guomindang’s victory, nationalist sentiment spread among the ‘rightists’ of Outer and Inner Mongolia.62 In December, the Comintern,



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disappointed in Guomindang, began consolidating ‘communist elements’ within the PRPIM and planning their merger with the Communist Party of China.63 These events logically distanced the MPR from Inner Mongolia, making their unity even less possible, as the intervention of Chinese militarists was considered a real threat. A year later, in August 1928, the Bargut revolt under the leadership of Mersee, in preparation for which the Comintern had directly participated, was abandoned in the interests of Soviet diplomacy.64 In 1928, the revolt’s leaders were labelled Japanese agents. The Barguts, who preferred to immigrate to Outer Mongolia, albeit without expectations of a warm welcome,65 were brutally repressed ten years later. International affairs in East Asia in 1927 influenced the political struggle in the MPR. The Mongols were displeased with the inconsistent Moscow policy and ‘went right’. In May, the ‘rightists’ launched a number of serious attempts to crush the ‘left hödöö group’,66 and in March the CC of the MPRP voted for the platform of B. Tserendorj and Ts. Zhamtsarano on the ‘strengthening of Mongolian national roots’ and the ‘gradual relief from the USSR’s political influence’.67 The result of the Sixth MPRP Congress in September 1927 was along the same lines: the ‘rightists’ temporarily won. They were a majority at the Congress (despite the fact that among the 162 Congress delegates ‘there was no one single feudal lord or theocrat’ and ‘just nine prominent taiji and one lama!’),68 and the Comintern’s Congressional representatives’ status quo position69 pushed the hesitant centre to the right.70 Thus, the Comintern ended up supporting the ‘rightists’ at the Sixth Congress. Such an outcome was unsatisfactory for Moscow and the ECCI was forced to reconsider its tactics at the Sixth Congress and avoid deviating from the anti-rightists’ course in the future. At the same time, both the ‘leftists’ and the Comintern had to accept the decisions of the Sixth Congress, to find peace with the ‘rightist’ majority in the party apparatus and to avoid ‘open conflict against them in the future’.71 However, the dominance of the ‘rightists’ in the state apparatus did not seem to be that threatening considering the rather stable situation in the army. ‘Without the military’s support, this apparatus means nothing,’ Comintern agents noted, ‘and 50 percent of the army are party members’.72 As was discussed in previous chapters, military force was always a key factor of success in the steppes of Central Asia. However, the Far Eastern Secretariat of the Comintern had an additional resource: realising the ‘impossibility of ruling the world on horseback’, it had a strategic plan of ‘promoting lower social elements and surrounding the ‘rightists’ in the government with these elements’. Still, time was required to realise that strategy, and those ‘elements’ (the arad) were at the very first stages of learning the basics of the new political climate. Disappointed with the Guomindang victory, Moscow and the Comintern did not know what to expect after the Sixth MPRP Congress: What if a split between the MPRP and the USSR occurred? The Guomindang case and the


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ruined hopes for the revolution in China had taught the Soviet departments in foreign countries an important lesson.73 Despite discussions and differences of opinion within Soviet organisations, the majority spoke in favour of ‘intensive support for the leftists’ and attracting masses of the population for social campaigns. To calm the masses, a decision was reached to work out and launch a new economic programme as soon as possible. The circumstances were favourable: events in China in the summer of 1927, destroyed Chinese–Mongolian economic ties, closed trade routes in the south of the MPR and, consequently, increased the importance of northern routes. Thus far, the Guomindang coup and Feng’s betrayal had an impact not only on the MPRP’s right wing, but also, in a paradoxical way, opened new opportunities for the USSR’s economic interests in Mongolia. Evidently, Moscow was not inclined to pass up such a chance: the Comintern and the ‘leftists’ on one side of the spectrum, and the ‘rightists’ on the other began preparation for the MPRP Seventh Congress immediately after the Sixth Congress. At the beginning of 1928, Ts. Dambadorj maintained personal correspondence with the head of the Eastern Department, F. Petrov. The content of this correspondence gives a vivid picture of the inter-party struggle in Mongolia between the Sixth and Seventh MPRP Congresses and, in their respective political course and social programme, clearly depicts the difference between the approaches of the Mongolian revolutionary left and Comintern agents. ‘Leftists’ were concerned about the strong positions of ‘rightists’ after the Sixth Congress, especially since the Comintern seemed to maintain the status quo. Those young, active, forward-moving ‘social elements’ who had already tasted power were not going to step back. Alarmed by the right’s victory, they began pitting the Comintern against the ‘rightists’, insisting on the dismissal of Tserendorj from his post as prime minister and expressing their dissatisfaction with the nationalist sentiment within the CC of the MPRP. Dambadorj, in his letters, complained to Petrov that some CC members, such as V. Dorligjav, were trying to ‘create two factions in the party’ by sharply pitting old members against the new.74 Dorligjav agitated for ‘the total replacement within the elite of old party members with young ones, of Urga citizens with provincials’.75 Note that such statements were initiated by the Mongols themselves, not imposed by Moscow or the Comintern. The latter, on the contrary, tried to calm down the Mongolian elite. The CC Plenum in March 1927 committed itself to party unity but did not fully eliminate the split within it: unity existed only on paper, and not in reality. As Petrov’s answers to Dambadorj’s letters demonstrate, the Comintern indeed recommended that the MPRP follow a ‘consistent leftist course’, undertake an ‘energetic purge’, engage in ‘a struggle against the feudaltheocratic past’ and ‘bring more people from hödöö to the state and party organs’.76 However, in every resolution the ECCI stressed the gradual realisation of the chosen course by non-extremist methods toward which some young Mongolian party members seemed inclined.



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How could the Comintern fail to understand with what social ‘class’ it was dealing? How were its recommendations really perceived and implemented? The Mongols took all Comintern advice seriously, but also completely differently than expected: ‘In Mongolia there appeared to be people more zealous than the communists.’77 In 1927, the Mongols themselves suggested the establishment of the Mongolian Communist Party. In reply, the Comintern elaborated that ‘such a party was a party of the industrial proletariat’, and for that reason it was not possible in Mongolia.78 At the same time, communist parties became quite ‘possible’ among the peasants and pastoralists of Central Asia and in the most remote mountainous regions of the Caucasus, where the new elite was often nominally consolidated through the building of titular nations that did not even exist. Nation-building processes in Mongolia, on the other hand, had to be suppressed, absorbed by the Comintern’s party-building and universalistic ideology, while the idea of the Mongolian nation and the unifying symbols of its history were kept at a safe distance. The Mongols easily adopted Soviet methods of politically neutralising, and sometimes killing, political opponents, though they were sometimes too impatient to get rid of the ‘old comrades’. The implementation of the Comintern’s recommendation to ‘liquidate economic survivors of the feudaltheocratic past’ was especially shocking. The extremist interpretation of class struggle by Mongolian ‘leftists’ resulted in the expropriation of monastic and lamas’ property in 1930–1932. In 1927–1928 various tendencies existed in Mongolian political life and Mongols enjoyed a significant degree of independence in their domestic affairs. Sometimes they toyed with different approaches within the Comintern, pitting its agents against one another, or managed to make political decisions in the interests of some group by using the Comintern’s name without its approval. For example, Dambadorj used his correspondence with Petrov to wield influence in internal party struggles. Referring to Petrov’s letters, Dambadorj informed his party comrades that the Political Secretariat of the ECCI proposed to ‘take a number of concrete measures’ against the ‘rightist threat’, namely, ‘to confiscate the property of the monasteries, the noyon, officials and the new bourgeoisie’.79 The Political Secretariat categorically denied that it had ever instructed Dambadorj in such a way. In September 1928, the Comintern wrote that it was an ‘improper moment for the power transition solely to the left-hödöö opposition’.80 At the same time, the Soviet Consul in Ulaanbaatar, Vasiliev, was supporting Tserendorj in the government. Opposition between party leaders and government heads was increasing (in the form of opposition between the Comintern and the People’s Commissariat of Foreign Affairs, PCFA).81 The MPRP was still not very strong, it was not ‘the party of the masses’; in reality, it was represented by the ‘well known leading cell in the capital, and the rest was just a passive mass’.82 And even in that capital a sharp crisis had developed by the time of the Seventh Congress.


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The political struggle among the Mongolian elite reached its peak before and during the Seventh Congress. Both the right and the left acted very independently and were determined to fight for power, and if necessary to completely eliminate the opposing group. The ‘rightists’ did not let other party members know the content of a number of Comintern resolutions and launched a wide anti-Soviet and anti-Comintern propaganda campaign. Dambadorj did not tell his comrades about the real contents of Petrov’s letters. Just before the Congress convened, the left started arbitrarily arresting the right. At the Congress, the Comintern strongly condemned such ‘Mexican methods’.83 The political history of the Seventh Congress, the victory of the ‘leftists’ and their leftist reprisal against the ‘rightists’ have been comprehensively depicted in S.K. Roschin’s already mentioned monograph, but the events demand speculation on what drove them. What was really going on in Mongolia in 1927–1928 and how did society perceive it? I will try to answer this question without using terms and concepts implanted into Mongolian life by Soviet communists (left, right, party, etc.). For the Mongols there was nothing new about appealing for assistance from their northern neighbour Russia in 1921. That was a precondition for survival for a small polity of nomads wedged between great empires. However, in swiftly making new alliances and agreeing on cooperation, the Mongols a priori did not consider long-term conditions and consequences. They were open to outside influences, flexible in their contacts with foreigners and not necessarily loyal to the original chosen partner. From the Mongols’ perspective, an ally who had fulfilled his mission of support, as a roaming guest, ought to leave. He could not fail to leave and, in principle, did not need a reminder. Those who did not leave were occupiers, such as the Chinese (who by that time were already collectively perceived as such by Mongols), which broke the law of the shamanist cult of the Eternal Blue Sky (explained in the Introduction). The Mongols were grateful to the Russians for their assistance during the first years of the revolution, but after that, they wanted to lead their lives in their own way. The permanent presence of Soviet instructors, Comintern and CIY agents, their frequent tactless behaviour, arrogance and demanding tone obviously irritated the Mongols. Many public activists who predicted a future dictatorship initiated anti-Soviet campaigns: they published articles accusing the USSR and the Comintern and began to look toward political systems in other countries. ‘If Mongolia is an independent country,’ many thought, ‘why should it have only one ally, the USSR? Why should not it learn from the USA, Germany and France?’ But for the threat of militarist Japan, the Mongolian nomadic logic of ‘nobody owes anybody anything’ might have ruled the day. However, as argued by many Mongolian historians,84 the Japanese threat, and possibly the Chinese occupation in the 1930s, became the main reason Mongolian revolutionaries decided not to break with the Soviet Union and the Comintern. There was another, no less important reason. It had its roots in the logic of inner-party struggle, which the Mongols learned quickly and creatively.



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The strategy of attracting the lower strata and totally remixing cadres was strictly followed. Consequently, the victory of the ‘leftists’ at the Seventh MPRP Congress was easy to predict. The leftist Congressional delegates expressed remarkable curiosity about socio-political reform. They asked Comintern representatives direct and sometimes naïve questions: ‘Is it possible to switch to communism immediately in Mongolia?’; ‘Do you mean the immediate and complete confiscation of property belonging to the rich and the monasteries?’; ‘Should we organise the public cooperation campaign and establish kolkhozes by force?’85 Comintern agents preferred to interpret these questions as a demonstration of the left’s striving to build a new society in Mongolia. The Soviets drew conclusions from the Sixth and Seventh MPRP Congresses: the threat of the nascent political elite’s deviation from the original revolutionary social course and the risks spawned by the Far East situation in 1928 convinced the Comintern and RCP(b) to consider a new economic programme for Mongolia that could guarantee a ‘mass shift to the left’. This conclusion corresponded with the new Mongolian elite’s desire to expropriate the property of the old: the capital of the noyon and lamas, which had for quite some time attracted the attention of Mongolian revolutionaries. The People’s government’s economic programme was driven firstly by the need to reach some level of self-sustainability, and secondly by the necessity to win the sympathy of the masses. By the end of 1928 the ‘rightists’, who had supported trade and accumulation of capital86 and coined the provocative slogan ‘get richer’, were eliminated and the Guomintang events had stopped the flow of Chinese commodities into Mongolia. Where to find the means to sustain the Republic? This question was answered by resolutions of the Seventh MPRP Congress and the Fifth Great People’s Khural: from confiscating the property of ‘all reactionary feudal lords and officials’ and adopting the strategy of further economic rapprochement with the USSR. ‘The close economic ties between the Soviet Union and the MPR will become one of the former’s main sources of raw materials and the latter’s basis for developing the people’s economy.’87 This was not the quasi-colonial quintessence of Soviet economic politics in Mongolia, but rather a long-term programme that required substantial financial means. Simultaneously, as Stalin consolidated his reign in the Soviet Union, all state–party Soviet organisations, including the Comintern, came under revision. ‘Mistakes’ were found in its activities, and RCP(b) representatives declared their ‘complete readiness to find all the weak points in the USSR’s performance in Mongolia’.88 Soviet politics in Mongolia caused plenty of ‘mistakes’, as has been shown above: the young Republic’s poor socio-economic development, the decreasing living standards of the arad and the new revolutionary elite’s brutal practices. Additionally, cattle health, which is vital for a nomadic economy, was poor. Epidemics had not declined: plague, pneumonia, Siberian plague, sap and other serious diseases were very common. The reliability of cattle disease


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data from that time is understandably questionable, given that centralised diagnostics and statistics were just being introduced into Mongolian life by the Soviet veterinary service.89 More interesting is how the new elite consolidated a department as important as a centralised state veterinary service and used it even in foreign relations. The heads of veterinary branches did not properly fulfil their duties and continued taking bribes, letting infected cattle cross the border. This prompted the USSR to reorganise the MPR’s veterinary service and establish a special fund to finance border veterinary posts, to organise an Asian protection–quarantine belt with border disinfection stations, and to order the MPR’s veterinary service to issue special certificates authorising veterinarians to legal practice.90 All of this looked good on paper but differed from the ensuing reality. To the present day border posts (not only for cattle but people as well) do not guarantee security or efficiently prevent illegal crossings. Although the MPR’s socio-economic and political development did not stabilise in 1925–1928, and many reforms were perceived by the population as temporary, the coming of a new era could be clearly seen: the consolidation of the MPRP, the establishment of the party’s country-wide organisational network to control the population, the broadening of scope of repressive organisations, their activities, and state authority in all public spheres, a burgeoning centralised economy and a material–technical reliance on the USSR. By 1929, the transformation of Mongolian society through social reform was clearly in progress. At the end of 1928, the Seventh MPRP Congress and the Fifth Great People’s Khural made crucial decisions on liquidating the property of the noyon and lamas, which aimed to eliminate their power, if necessary by eliminating their persons. To replace them, the new government launched new institutions and prepared state–party officials, relying on the experience of Soviet advisers. The path to the upper echelons of the new revolutionary party and state structures was being closed to the former privileged members of the population, but opened to young activists from the arad, who proved themselves in public campaigns. These and other social tendencies touched on in this chapter signalled the Mongols’ acceptance of the Soviet model of societal transformation.

4

1929–1932


Old and new Mongolian terror

Thus far, the Seventh MNRP Congress and the Fifth Great Khural drew a distinction between two stages of social transformation in Mongolia. The defeat of the ‘rightists’ at the Congress and the standing ovation to the ‘left majority’ of the Khural signified the completion of the redivision of power among the Mongolian elite. However, as pointed out previously, a great gap existed between life in the capital and in the hödöö, while the situation in distant regions remained completely unchanged. Thus, the new left leaders needed to promote their programme among the masses, to ‘win hearts’, and by doing that guarantee the programme’s continuity and, consequently, their group’s future. Regarding ‘work for the future’, the Presidium of the CC of the MPRP and the government relied on the support, experience and instructions of the USSR, with which an alliance was absolutely indispensable to the MPR in light of the prospective threat of Japan. The years 1929–1932 passed in Mongolia to the sound of the slogans of expropriation and confiscation of the property of the former wealthy strata of the population, primarily, the noyon and lamas. Such moments in history are always accompanied by the suffering of all people and crimes by the executive branches. Witnesses and participants of these events typically do not like remembering them.1 Before analysing the situation in Mongolia in 1929–1932, I would like to speculate about the character of the Mongolian expropriation campaigns in a broader historical context. First, it should be remembered that the resources of a nomadic economy are limited, and an active exchange and trade with the sedentary societies are required for its sustainability. That is why, against the backdrop of the changing international situation, when all ‘peaceful’ means of acquiring essential means and goods had been expended, the nomads sparked economic expansion through the forced expropriation of resources and property and the military’s introduction of the tribute system. These were the preconditions of practically all ancient and medieval nomadic empires.2 Since the Manchu subjugation of the Mongolian tribes (in the seventeenth century), the subsequent development of this pattern became impossible. From an active, aggressive position, the Mongols had to retreat and assume a defensive position; their great hero–conquerors remained in


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epos, replaced in real life by hero–fighters for independence. Nevertheless, the nomads still were capable of conducting aggressive military campaigns. At the beginning of the twentieth century, they repelled the Chinese from their territory, using allies (first Baron Ungern, then the Soviet Red Army). In approximately ten years, by the beginning of the 1930s, the new authorities in Ulaanbaatar started to notice that their social and political problems had become especially sharp given their economic difficulties – they lacked the means for revolution. To solve these problems the new political elite began using ‘old’ repressive methods inside the country. If the military could not obtain resources during campaigns on foreign territory, then they could expropriate them from the people’s land by social terror. The militant expansionism of Central Asian nomads in the twentieth century thus turned inward and targeted the homeland. This model of maintaining power under the new circumstances was learned by the Mongols from the Soviet communists. From 1927, the Comintern, losing hope in the escalation of revolutionary movements in the West and East, increasingly became the object of criticism from Stalinist bureaucrats who had already tasted power. Contained in one country, communist ideologists created the famous myth about ‘the great common enemy’, which the Comintern actively exploited. In Mongolia, the Far Eastern Secretariat of the ECCI was tirelessly calling for a struggle against international imperialism, and tried to create an impression of a military threat and external enemies. And the ‘masked enemies’ turned out to be ‘Chinese traders, White Russian Officers, Japanese and German scientists and trade representatives’.3 This was who the communists portrayed as internal enemies as a direct incarnation of external ones. The only escape from this dangerous situation, the communists claimed, was unity around the MPRP,4 which, being motivated by political interest, was acquiring the unlimited possibilities to dictate its social and economic course. At the end of 1928 the hödöö-oriented (ohudovnivshayasya, Rus.) party finally verbally declared its intentions to expropriate the property of its ‘enemies’. The politics of expropriation in a single country is possible only in isolation from the rest of the world. Indeed, after the 1920s, Mongolia became a closed country, as it and the West lacked adequate information about each other. A sort of informational Great Chinese Wall was constructed in the East as well, dividing the Soviet and Japanese spheres of influence. In order to maintain this ‘balance’ the idea of pan-Mongolism was once again and forever sacrificed. Without denying the ‘prospect for Mongol unity in the future (on the basis of revolutionary power)’, the Comintern ‘put forth all possible warnings against risky agitation for unity at that particular moment, under the external threat’, since the ‘ideology of pan-Mongolism served as a tool of Japanese imperialism’.5 This gave pan-Mongolism a bad reputation and guaranteed the death of political careers based on it. The Mongols relied on their elder Soviet brother, completely turning away from the Chinese. By 1929, the MPR government had already adopted a



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number of laws that limited the entrance of foreigners from Inner Mongolia and their rights on the territory of the Republic. The expulsion of Chinese colonists began and their role in trade rapidly declined.6 The economic blockade of the MPR declared by Beijing in July 1929 and the incident on the Chinese Eastern Railway in August of the same year (when the Chinese seizure of the railway followed by immediate Soviet military intervention ended in the restoration of joint Sino-Soviet administration of the railway), finally and irrevocably cut off Outer Mongolia from China, pushing it into Moscow’s firm ‘communist’ embrace. In fact, Soviet specialists considered the MPR economic programme just before those events. In May 1929, a whole range of intergovernmental protocols on the issues of citizenship, customs, borders, etc., appeared, and on 27 June an agreement entitled ‘On the main principles of relationships between the USSR and the MPR’ was signed. The agreement was secret, and it formally confirmed the already chosen scheme of cooperation: the Mongols would supply the Soviets with raw materials while the Soviets would deliver equipment to Mongolia. Before that agreement the USSR had not had sufficient means to interfere in Mongolian economic life, most donations were transferred via party lines and directly for political affairs and campaigns, which did not always, as was shown in the previous chapter, give a green light to Soviet policy in Mongolia. Soviet positions in the Mongolian market were not yet stable, so the Soviets concluded overall economic assistance to Mongolia was necessary, since ‘without investments and lowering prices Soviet industry would not be competitive’.7 After the Seventh MPRP Congress and the Fifth Great Khural, against the backdrop of international isolation and conflicts with China, the USSR penetrated and soon dominated the Mongolian market, while the new Mongolian political elite used economic measures to spur social reform. Changing the focus of socio-political campaigns from the elite to the lower strata reflected the concern of Soviet and Comintern specialists about their ‘positive popularity’ among common people. Soviet advisers decided to approach the ‘Mongolian question’ in a more fundamental way, to search for possibilities to ‘penetrate deeply into the population of the country’, to spread ‘the spirit of trust, friendship, and loyalty’ among the arad8: ‘we should invent such forms of our activity there, so that we create public moods in favour of the Russians’.9 The Soviets intended to construct their authority in the sphere of public health, supplying good doctors and medicines to the Mongolian hödöö. The Soviet government had begun sending expeditions of medical doctors to Mongolia in 1925, first to the capital, then to other parts of the country. Ambulances were established in 1927, and in 1928 the first hospital was built in Ulaanbaatar. Soviet scientific medicine acquired strategic meaning, as it was in political and cultural opposition to traditional Tibetan medicine and gradually had to replace it. In October 1930, Tibetan medicine stopped being financed by the state government (a step well within the course of anti-lama policy); simultaneously the MPR


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Department of Public Health was reorganised into the Ministry. To follow up this progress, new USSR advisers were immediately sent to the newly established Ministry: I.V. Baevski and Ya.L. Grossman (the latter was a successful ChK officer with, obviously, little knowledge of medicine). The new Ministry issued 1.5 million tögrög for the development of scientific medicine, and from 1 June 1930 began financing Soviet medical expeditions. At the same time, the USSR continued issuing grants to Mongolians, for instance, for vaccinations at the anti-plague laboratory.10 In Moscow, some politicians concluded that instead of sending regular expeditions of Soviet specialists (of whom there was always a shortage) to Mongolia, inviting Mongolian youth to study in the USSR would be more effective. Young Mongols would see the achievements of the fraternal Soviet people and aim to build the same prosperous society in their motherland. The method seemed to actually work: after some twenty years, it was difficult to meet a specialist of any kind in Mongolia who had not received his education or completed an extended qualification course in the USSR. All Mongolian party elite studied in the Soviet Union. However, a subsequent recall to the USSR (for an educational course or medical treatment) could mean removal from their posts or exile (which happened to P. Genden and Yu. Tsedenbal). The decision to reserve places for Mongols in the Soviet health resorts and sanatoriums was also made in 1929. The construction of

Figure 4.1 City ambulance (1930)



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Figure 4.2 The cars’column (1929)

resorts in Mongolia, in the area of arshan (hot and mineral streams, Mong.), was planned.11 Considering the previous mistakes, Moscow wanted to take more vigilant control over the activities of Soviet and Comintern agents in Mongolia. On 27 December 1929 the Instruction for USSR Advisers and Instructors in the MPR was published, which clearly stated the goal of Soviet organisations in Mongolia: ‘to prepare the Mongolian cadres to be capable of running the branches they were in charge of in the centre and the low-level apparatus’.12 It was stated further in the text that Soviet comrades had to ‘play the role of assistants to the Mongols, within whose direct subordination they worked, using the method of conviction’.13 Analysing this quotation one cannot fail to notice the contradiction it contains: on one hand, Soviet instructors gave the Mongols ruling positions; on the other, they were under their ‘direct subordination’. This Instruction was typical of all Soviet propaganda in Mongolia and not as dubious as it might have seemed at first glance: the socialist social campaigns were meant to encourage individuals while simultaneously suppressing them. In this context, the USSR’s image as an elder brother had something in common with the ancient symbol of the Chinese emperor, the Son of the Sky, condescending to the barbarians of the four sides of the world. Nevertheless, a few diplomatic amendments were introduced into the Soviet–Mongolian relationship, and Soviet instructors had to undergo more rigorous testing. Some specialists had to pass exams on Mongol studies before leaving for the MPR. Later, strict control of all Soviet citizens in Mongolia was introduced; Mongolian customs even inspected personal


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letters, in which any disrespect toward the Republic could result in punishment and even recall from the country.14 Generally speaking, however contradictory, the arad in the hödöö often had a negative attitude towards the new darga from their own communities (which was rather understandable: the former marginalised groups saw themselves as a strata higher than the noyon and lamas) and didn’t hide their complacent feelings from Soviet agents, who periodically visited them. Being far from the capital and lacking information about the political events there and the international situation, the arad were glad that representatives of the great neighbouring country paid them a visit, talked to them, showed an interest in ‘how they lived’, ‘what problems they had’.15 ‘Right’, ‘left’ – the arad still could not grasp those words, that were the unfamiliar lexicon of the political games in the centre, run by the party and the government under the control of the ‘real military assistance’ of the Soviet Union. At the same time, the arad saw that their living standards had not improved during the years of revolution. The tax burden had not diminished. The Comintern noted this fact, suggesting that ‘the exploitation of the Mongolian nomad was not less than the taxation put upon the Soviet peasant’.16 The social benefits issued by the government were often nominal. These included the 1926 law on the unification of the tax system, which lifted the tax burden inflicted upon the poorest nomads, and the state credit system introduced in 1927, designed to target the rich and high to middle income nomads rather than help the poorest of them. These policies did not lead to an improvement in living standards. Attempts to reduce taxes on the poor not only provoked a bad stereotype of the non-profitability of being rich, but also caused losses for the government. It was calculated that allowing households that possessed less than 20 bodo (long-horned cattle) not to pay taxes deprived the Mongolian treasury of 80,000–100,000 roubles. Nevertheless, the government undertook these measures after receiving special loans from the Soviet Union.17 Still, the local monastic corporate structure remained untouched. The nomads, as in former days, continued paying taxes to Buddhist monasteries, although formally this tax had been abolished.18 The expenses of the MPR’s budget (6–7 million tögrög) was spent predominantly on maintaining the new elite groups in power – strengthening the army, consolidating officials – while the arad received only insignificant shares.19 The ways different Comintern agents adjusted to fieldwork in Mongolia are interesting to compare, as they marked the middle ground between the more or less successful USSR representatives in the MPR and those who failed. For example, the CC of the MPRP’s scandalous recall of such wellknown Comintern agents as T. Ryskulov and M.I. Amagaev. In fact, none of the leading representatives of this organisation enjoyed much sympathy from Mongolian politicians. However, the Ulaanbaatar elite’s attitude toward the Comintern did not spread to the hödöö. If a nomad knew that a Comintern existed, his attitude towards it was as though it were a ‘mythical personality’.20 In the remote regions of Mongolia, Soviet instructors had to ‘deviate



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from the party line’ and conduct independent politics. In the steppe, the Comintern could not claim a leading role, but rather became dependent on normative social relationships in Mongolian society. For instance, when the revolutionaries failed to collect the nomads for a party meeting or an agitation gathering, they had to appeal to the lamas for assistance.21 The latter retained all their social, economic and spiritual status and prestige in the eyes of the arad. Sometimes the lamas were the first to approach the newly arrived darga from the centre to secure their positions. Without too much emotion, exhibiting Buddhist tolerance, treating all messages from the revolutionaries with some curiosity, the lamas could easily hide the anti-imperialistic and Bolshevik posters under their prayer boards.22 At a meeting on Mongolia in the Eastern Secretariat of the ICCI on 7 January 1929, the Comintern agent Tereshnikov characterised the previous four years of social change in Mongolia as: ‘there [in Mongolia] we can see if not complete stagnation in the sphere of social legislation and social composition, then just regress’. From the perspective of the Comintern and the Soviet Union, the social success in Mongolia could be provided by broadening and consolidating party structures, multiplying party cells and incorporating all social strata into party activities. Control over public and private life should have been primarily exercised via the broad network of the party apparatus. By the beginning of the 1930s, the quality of this apparatus in Mongolia was far from perfect: local party cell leaders did not work together effectively, vanguard party members were famous only in the centre, and ordinary members were passive and not proactive.23 The party’s underdevelopment was blamed for the success of the ‘rightists’ in 1925–1928. That ad hoc accusation once again stressed the real meaning of the course on ‘aradisation [providing for the arad majority] of the party’, which had been formulated in the resolutions of the Fourth MPRP Congress. After eliminating the ‘right threat’ at the Seventh MPRP Congress, Soviet instructors became even more cautious about any expression of nationalist moods within the Mongolian elite and tried to instantly condemn them. For this purpose, the MPR’s public figures were isolated from their counterparts in Inner Mongolia and paradoxically from the Soviet Buryatia, creating various obstacles for the Buryats who travelled to Outer Mongolia. The members of the RCP(b) and the Comintern did not trust the Buryatian intelligentsia who immigrated to Mongolia, since that ‘slim layer’ promoted nationalist ideas and possessed certain influence over the Mongolian government. Comintern agents did even not try to mask their position: ‘Our Soviet Buryatia has a counter-revolutionary effect on the Mongols’; ‘[the Buryats] are the only cultural people in the non-cultural country, which makes them very dangerous’.24 This telltale quotation reveals, in addition to the vulgar Comintern view on tradition and culture, a well-known principle of restructuring society, also used for building socialism in one country: attaining the desired level of elite consolidation based on ideology and common political identity required getting rid of the previous


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generation of intellectuals. The destructive effect of one educated person, capable of independent judgements, on the aggressive–obedient majority could hardly be overestimated. Thus far, the IDO, under the MPRP’s leadership, prescribed to definitively purge these ‘cultural people’ (the Buryats), as well as ‘all the rest cultural’ (non-Buryats).25 Still, in 1929–1932, the antiintelligentsia campaign did not have the highest priority for the new government, because it faced major social and economic problems. By the end of the 1920s, a visible misbalance existed between ‘the widely spread social diseases and the limited resources in the possession of the Mongolian government’.26 The ‘leftists’, in the position of winners after the Seventh MPRP Congress, suffered from a lack of funds. The programme on economic assistance to Mongolia proclaimed by the RCP(b) in 1928 required huge investments, and the special Commission attached to the ECCI was calculating the unavoidable losses the USSR had to undertake.27 The Mongolian government clearly realised that to provide the new elite with the means of sustainability and simple survival, in addition to Soviet donations it had to rely on the country’s internal resources. Considerable material wealth was still in the possession of lamas, the noyon and Chinese traders. In order to eliminate the tendencies of lamas to consolidate and the possibilities of ‘all reactionary elements to unite around them’,28 the Seventh MPRP Congress adopted the decree on cancellation of the ‘living gods’ or, according to the Soviet public science definition, of ‘the institute of reincarnations’. This was a serious political step that immediately blocked any endeavour to promote an alternative public figure from religious circles: the government announced to its people that the reincarnation of the Bogdo Gegen did not exist. Thus ended the political freedom of Mongolia’s Buddhist hierarchs. Nevertheless, the lamas still possessed their own domains – monasteries – and Buddhist ideas on the universe shared by Mongols did not undergo essential changes. Against the background of political defeat and a decrease in numbers (up to 12 per cent), the lamas still prospered economically: their wealth remained at a pre-revolution levels.29 Concerned about the appearance of ‘capitalist elements’30 in Mongolia, Comintern agents discussed the ‘process of concentration of capital in the hands of the lamas’. The Chinese capital and trade apparatus also attracted discussion. Thus, Amagaev considered the Chinese position in the Mongolian market to still be strong: ‘In their hands they have primary trade, small retail trade, purchases of pastoral economy products. The Mongols do not have a primary trade apparatus. It is Chinese.’31 Amagaev’s position was criticised by Tereshnikov, who assumed that ‘the question of exploitation by Chinese capital had been resolved for the MPR’: ‘Nowadays we have cases where a Chinese gives tea to a Mongol and is not sure if he receives money for it or not. And in former days he would have received it with a percentage.’32 Such an argument could hardly be deemed satisfactory. First, the lack of well-regulated market relations and commitment to pay debts was not the solution to economic hardships; and second, before the revolution the Mongols could have



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dispersed into the steppes without paying. Tereshnikov was right about just one point, in which he concurred with another Comintern agent Yudin33: the Chinese debts were cancelled. At the same time, Comitern informants found data on the recent growth of Chinese capital. Comintern agent Radyar talked about the merger of capital by officials and the Chinese: ‘Some government and CC members possess certain capital, which we all know, and they put them in Chinese shops. The officials invest their capital in transport.’34 Comintern agent Konyaev was completely on his side: ‘Chinese capital did not decrease, but it just changed its form, taking a huge part of the domestic market.’35 Indeed, even in 1929 tögrög was used for only 50–60 per cent of domestic trade in Mongolia; Chinese silver accounted for the rest.36 It was not only the Chinese who accumulated and invested capital, lamas, former noyon, former and new officials, and even MPRP and government members were involved in this ‘non-socialist’ business. To avoid tax payments, former noyon sold their property.37 In addition to all this, many rich arad saw no reason to possess cattle only to have it taxed, and sold it. ‘Where they keep [the money saved from selling the cattle] … it is impossible to trace’,38 Konyaev complained. In any case, lamas and former noyon remained the well-off members of the population; they were practically the only ones who could afford to pay for technical equipment and veterinary and other services.39 According to Comintern agents’ ideas about the MPR’s social stratification, the country’s national wealth in 1929 was redistributed among the main social groups in the following way: The MPR’s social stratification and national wealth, 1929 Population groups (%)

National wealth (%)

Lamas (13) Feudal lords (7) Others (80)

More than 30 30 30


The incorrect typology, artificial constructivist terms and vague data are obvious. Nevertheless, this table is a projection of the essential concept of the future activities of the ‘left’ Mongolian government in 1930–1932. The table clearly illustrates who is to be blamed (lamas and feudal lords) and what to do (expropriate their wealth). Otherwise, the revolution would not be complete. Based on the decisions of the Seventh MPRP Congress and the Fifth Great Khural, in September 1929 the People’s Government together with the Presidium of the Small Khural adopted a declaration on confiscation of property, movable and immovable possessions of so-called feudal lords (the noyon, van, gun, khutagt and khubilgan). The property for confiscation was assessed in conventional units, khuv’ (1 khuv’ = 30 tögrög) and had to exceed


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100 khuv’ (including ger, household utensils, clothes, cult possessions and a small number of cattle). A central commission on confiscation was established and headed by the Chairman of the Presidium of the Small Khural, Kh. Choibalsan. Government representatives were sent to the aimags and khoshuus to supervise the work of local commissions. The key actors, nevertheless, were MPRP and URY members recruited into the commissions. They were the ones who listed people whose property had to be expropriated, registered possessions (or proceeded without any registration) and executed expropriation. The arad were unsurprisingly not consulted about these lists. Confiscation was a forced campaign executed by young party members. The party structures took the main initiative, peremptorily, in a revolutionary way, claiming to run all administrative tasks. Such executors of course received little welcome from the population. Autumn 1929 to winter 1930 was the period of mass confiscation, during which more than 600 households valued at approximately 5 million tögrög were expropriated from 427 ‘secular and monastery feudal lords’ and 302 officials. The campaign continued in 1931–1932, and by April 1932, 1,100 households valued at 10 million tögrög had been expropriated.40 Confiscated cattle were transferred to the rapidly formed kolkhozes. But anyone who has ever visited Mongolia can only guess whether collectivisation was ever possible there, given its small population (according to Comintern data, 800,000 at the beginning of the 1930s)41 and its majority – nomads – living up to 300 kilometres from one another. By the 1930s there were 624 kolkhozes registered in the MPR (65 per cent were artels, 27 per

Table 4.3 Commission on confiscation (1929)



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cent agricultural associations, 8 per cent communes, albeit without any real difference among them).42 Kolkhozes included around 29 per cent of all poor and middle-income households. The kolkhozes consumed the cattle they had and then dissolved quickly. Members of those short-term collective farms received the same rations regardless of their contribution to collective work, which completely defeated the purpose of working to increase the number of cattle. Instead, there was a fear of hunger. It is commonly known that during the expropriation campaigns possessions of wealthy, well-off arad were also expropriated, and the arad were deprived of the right to vote, heavily and unfairly taxed and refused veterinary service. Obstacles were created for private transport and trade. The Mongolian kolkhozes were badly organised consumer co-ops; for example, nomad military detachments lived on the expropriated lots. Forced collectivisation led to a sharp decrease in the number of cattle, a Chinese economic blockade led to a shortage of commodities, and neglecting social norms and failing to respect the aristocracy and Buddhist clergy led to general dissatisfaction with the new authorities. The first counter-reaction came from freedom-loving Western Mongolia: in March 1930, the Durbet rebelled with the slogans ‘Down with confiscation and the party!’ and ‘Protect religion and the nation!’ The rebels hid in monasteries, using them as shelters, and conducted anti-governmental military operations. This all brought them nothing but defeat. Some rebels were shot, others imprisoned.43 Despite the fact that the Durbet rebellion was completely suppressed, policymakers in Ulaanbaatar decided to monitor that region’s political climate in the future. Parallel to the confiscation, the question of foreign capital was also solved in a radical way. In 1929, the state monopoly on purchase and export of tarbagan fur was introduced, and on 12 December 1930, the government imposed a state monopoly on foreign trade. Subsequently, the export and import of any goods required the special permission of the Ministry of Trade and Industry and had to be carried out in accordance with the plan and norms approved by the MPR government. Dizzy with the success of collectivisation, the Eighth MPRP Congress took place in February 1930, at which the left managed to promote the course on all-round collectivisation. The Congress promoted the new ‘leftists’ who actively participated in the confiscation campaign: Z. Shijie, Ts. Jigjidjav, L. Laagan, L. Dendev, G. Demid and D. Luvsansharav. Biographies of those premature politicians had much in common:44 practically all of them were arad by origin, could not boast a decent education but rather attended the ‘classical school’ for revolutionary cadres, studied either in the Ulaanbaatar party school or in the USSR, and also demonstrated ‘correct’ behaviour (as the ‘left arad’) at the Seventh MPRP Congress. The ‘new leftists’ encroached on party structures at all levels: at the beginning of the Eighth Congress, the party had 12,000 members; at the end, there were 30,000 (the total population was 700,000, among which 90,000 were lamas). Delegates addressed the

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Eighth Congress in the name of the struggle against religion and confiscation of untaxed monastic property (jas, Mong.). They became pioneers of the notorious jas campaign of 1930–1932. The notion to launch such a campaign in Mongolia had a long history. The Comintern first came up with the idea in the middle of the 1920s. Some Comintern agents (Raiter) called for the expropriation of monastic property on the grounds that it was necessary to ‘strike while the iron was hot’.45 These Soviet agents thought that it was appropriate to use the same methods in Mongolia as in the Soviet Republics. In the near future we will have to launch [in Mongolia] a confiscation similar to the confiscation of church property in the USSR in Povolzhye, however with reservations: this confiscation is likely to be of such a character … not like that confiscation when we captured fabrics and plants immediately after the October revolution. We have to be careful. Let the Mongolian CC report to the Comintern 3–4 times per year. The Comintern representative should go to the regions to collect complaints.46 The Comintern agents were mistaken: first, what had been possible in St. Petersburg right after the revolution became feasible in Mongolia only by the end of the 1930s; second, the Mongolian CC was not so willing to report to Moscow – the jas campaign was to be a purely Mongolian matter. The Mongols did not take into consideration Soviet resolutions on the ‘improper moment’ and the risks connected with the confiscation of monastic property. Comparing perspectives on the expropriation policy in Mongolia with Soviet Central Asia, the Comintern agent Mamaev pointed out: ‘Expropriation in Mongolia is ten times more difficult than in Soviet Turkestan.’47 He implied a smaller degree of Soviet influence over the population and the general involvement of the masses within revolutionary processes. Still, the methods of communist cadres’ politics were strictly observed everywhere: in the five Soviet Central Asian Republics, in Mongolia and in Xinjiang.48 Mongolian leaders finally decided to put into practice the idea of forced collectivisation and expropriation of monastic property after completing confiscation during autumn 1929 to winter 1930. As early as April 1930 the ECCI was convincing the MPRP CC of the risks of nationalising jas property, suggesting a different target – a gradual stratification of lamas – ‘to split middle- and low-rank lamas from the wealthy spiritual hierarchs’. Obviously, Moscow was concerned not about the position of lamas, but about possibilities of mass protests against those repressive measures.49 Given the overall discontent with MPRP policy, the lamas had a legitimate chance to consolidate their forces and fight for their incomes, property and position. The early 1930s was a crisis period in Mongolia’s history, when the new elite faced the challenge of entrenching themselves in order to guarantee the prolongation of their rule. The impossibility of two systems’ co-existence had become evident to everyone: in the long term, the revolutionary government



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could not flourish alongside the powerful Buddhist sangha. The campaign of expropriation of monastic property became an ultra-left attempt to radically and rapidly solve that problem. Despite all the warnings from Moscow, the ‘new leftists’ who came to power after the Eighth MPRP Congress launched the jas campaign. In June 1930, the MPRP CC and the MPR’s Council of Ministers adopted the required resolution. As already covered in the historiographical sketch, in recent literature a number of populist assessments have appeared that speculate about the essence and goal of the ‘left campaign’ in Mongolia. Discussions on alternatives in history continue: Would the expropriation of jas property and the march against Buddhism have taken place but for Choibalsan? First, participants in this discussion should remember that wishful thinking is not a prerogative of history. Second, at the beginning of the 1930s Choibalsan was not yet an indisputable party leader (and even stepped back and played secondary roles after the crash on the ‘rightists’ at the Seventh Congress), and the decisions were not made in an authoritarian way. The most accurate point of view was provided by D. Dashpurev50: the jas campaign and the ‘left exaggeration’ were wellplanned actions by MPRP members within the bounds of prospective social– economic and political reforms. Party and URY members’ disregard of religious feelings and desecration of objects of worship during the expropriation of monastic households51 could only provoke a huge wave of mass protest all over the country. The lamas began struggling openly, which became a pretext for a broader campaign of terror and a new stage of repression. At the same time, the jas campaign was designed as part of the party’s development. Party structures, incorporating new members, were full of longing to run the country and control the government. In 1929–1932, the party wielded more influence and its structures’ dictatorial style was reminiscent of wartime rule. The jas campaign was a logical stage of the revolution. As has already been elaborated, monastic households were local corporate structures and an everpresent force in Mongolian society.52 Without overcoming them, social reform was hopeless. Thus forced expropriation of monastic property and repressive measures against lamas aimed at shattering the centuries-old social order. To successfully execute the jas campaign, 150 party and government agents were sent from the centre to the regions. The IDO played a special role in confiscation and the fabrication of political cases. Owing to its activities, which provided the MPRP CC with special reports on how confiscation was executed, a number of houses were confiscated based on accusations of political crimes. According to Dashpurev’s data, the IDO arrested 430 people (mainly lamas and former hereditary noyon). In a letter addressing the MPRP CC Plenum of 10 December 1930, the Comintern pointed out ‘the original mistakes of spontaneous protests – extremes against the middle class, harmful neglect of special work with the poor’53: one remembers the fatal mistakes of the ‘march to the village’ in the USSR. However, all warnings were in vain, because the ‘leftists’ were not


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going to deviate from terror and plunder in the hödöö. Mongolian revolutionaries began to liquidate the jas in an unexpectedly cruel way. The question of what to do with the expropriated cattle was often solved in a war-like way: it might be given to other property owners, even the rich; especially those who sided with the new regime and helped rob monasteries. The arad did not receive much, as the expropriated cattle were habitually given to them under extremely unprofitable conditions.54 Inhabitants of kolkhozes, where a considerable part of the expropriated monastic property was kept, simply ate the cattle. The kolkhoz was nothing but a label. In reality, the chaotically gathered arad led by an extreme leftist had vague ideas about collective management and socialism. The total number of livestock declined, while social discontent increased. According to S. Roschin, on 1 November 1931 in the MPR there were 717 kolkhozes, among which there were 503 artel, 174 tovarischestva and 40 communes; 12,000 lamas ‘left’ their monasteries; not less than 15,000 people escaped to China, while the party demonstrated extraordinary growth from 12,000 to 40,000 members.55 These figures tell us a lot: the winds of change blew over Mongolia in 1930–1932. To successfully complete the left experiment, in 1931 administrative–territorial reform was launched. The smaller administrative units became larger: the former khoshuus disappeared (the former bags had been abolished in 1927), and the number of sums decreased (from 515 to 306). However, the biggest administrative units were divided into smaller ones: instead of five aimags (the territorial division that had existed in 1924–1929), thirteen were formed. Obviously, such a reorganisation coupled with mass expropriation was a double blow to the local administration and social relations. The increase in the number of aimags supported the centre, strengthened its influence at the local level and weakened local corporations, while abolishing the khoshuus and enlarging the sums played in favour of local party organisation, broadening their rights and functions. The 1931 reform made the technology of decision-making easier and created new possibilities for the centre to interfere in local affairs and for party cells to execute power at will. This new territorial organisation aimed to stimulate centrifugal tendencies and create conditions for the development of a party bureaucracy. Further subdivision in the territorial–administrative system and ramification of local party organisations would lead to their adaptation to the ‘natural field conditions’ – the creation of a sort of ‘symbiosis’ of nomenklatura hierarchies and normative social relations. Expropriation and new administration reform were the beginning of the restructuring of longestablished elements of Mongolian society. The final reloading of the system would not happen at once and not at the beginning of the 1930s. The reforms of 1931 were ultra-left and faced practically unanimous resistance. Lamas rebelled: the Ulaangom rebellion was a conspiracy of high lamas such as Manjushri and Egozyr.56 In some regions (Gurvan Saikhan and Tsetserleg) the arad sided with the lamas against the MPRP.57 The jas campaign



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in the Chinese border regions became especially dangerous. As rightfully noted by D. Dashpurev, protests occurred not solely on economic grounds, but also on cultural ones: the arad were outraged not only because their property was expropriated (which they had already resigned themselves to), but because Buddhist objects of worship were profaned by MPRP and URY members. The ‘left’ demonstrated an almost instinctive tendency to eliminate and destroy the foundation of the former privileged group of the population – the lamas. In 1932, even an action as outrageous as imprisoning 13,000 high lamas in a concentration camp could take place.58 Most of these actions were, paradoxically, committed not by Comintern agents and Soviet communists but Mongols who not long ago used to appeal to lamas on important occasions. And now they produced a slogan of ‘struggle by lead’, meaning bullets. ‘The tsirik, who shot the lamas, did not suffer from any Buddhist fear, the hand did not tremble, but even with great pleasure targeted’ their victims.59 Yesterday they were Buddhists; today communists. Moscow’s call for a gradual stratification of the lamas appeared to be in vain. While Moscow advisers recommended ‘secularising low-ranking lamas and granting them a part of jas’,60 the violent process of the redistribution of monastic property continued, and it became impossible to stop it. For the development of the system that had already passed the fracture point, the further scenario seemed almost predictable. In Moscow, there were high expectations of Mongolian party cell reorganisation during the campaign, rising from hopes fuelled by the likes of the following: big progress in the sphere of inter-party work, shift to industrial, kolkhoz, fabric and other cells, systematic promotion of new cadres, enlivening of the work of party cells, organisation of Marxist–Leninist propaganda that was practically absent, systematic work with the new members who joined the party at the Eighth Congress, strengthening the guiding party organs, development of inter-party democracy, self-criticism and collective leadership, etc.61 But out of all of this only the ‘enlivening’ took place. Although the party was growing amazingly fast, quantity did not result in quality. Soviet instructors recommended systematically guiding new members (who were streaming into the party from all directions), and promoting leaders. In other words, the USSR wanted to see in Mongolia the party organisation according to the CPSU pattern with its own obedient apparatchiks, bureaucracy, and leaders (albeit that the process of nomenklatura formation was not complete in the USSR at that time either). At the beginning of the 1930s, instead of an integrated and strong party, a gang of ‘leftists’ was at work in Mongolia, inflicting pogroms on monasteries. Revolutionary changes already penetrated life in the capital, the small territory of Ulaanbaatar, while in the vast space of the rest of the country, equal in size to


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Figure 4.4 Commune-building (the 1930s)

England and France combined, the population was not controlled by the new administration. A threat of ‘overdevelopment’ of the left experiment emerged: expropriation of monastic property only deepened the gap between the MPRP and the population. The idea of collectivisation still remained current (there were even calls for the development of agricultural goskhoz (state collective farms) and the creation of a Mongolian proletariat),62 but the necessity of finding new work methods urgently appeared on the agenda. How to prepare Mongols for work in kolkhozes and goskhozes? How to involve them in economic activities, such as ‘competition for the best haircut of a sheep or goat, or for the construction of warm khashaas’?63 At that moment, the method of ‘combined war’ re-emerged. Political propaganda in the army was the most successful sphere of Comintern and Soviet activity in Mongolia. As if planned in advance, an international conflict burst on the scene – the Japanese militarists’ threat, which prompted calls to strengthen the army, spread military knowledge and skills among the population, and conduct military training of party and URY members. Gathering the poor, the middle class, kolkhoz workers and farm labourers to make them undertake special physical training was suggested. During military training, the left administration had the opportunity to influence the population, control and infiltrate it with the ‘correct’ concepts about the party and government. Yet, in the heat of expropriation at the beginning of the 1930s, such ‘thorough’ engagement with the population was unrealistic. Later, however, the conflict at Khalkhin Gol (covered in the next chapter) presented an opportunity. The results of mass confiscation were tragic. In 1931–1932 the number of livestock diminished by 32 per cent from its 1930 level (23.5 million). Shortages of commodities spread across the country. Old transport services were destroyed before new ones were created. In April 1932, mass resistance erupted in rebellions in Western aimags, Hövsgöl, Arkhangai, Övörkhangai



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and Zavkhan. Uprisings began in South Gobi and Altai aimags. According to IDO reports, rebels ‘robbed, destroyed cooperatives, kolkhozes and other revolutionary organizations’ and ‘activists were captured and killed’.64 From the Soviet Union earnest recommendations arrived ‘to firmly fight administrative command methods and leftist exaggerations’.65 On 10 June 1932, the Comintern representative in Mongolia, Okhtin, received a telegram directive from Moscow: ‘push the leftists away’; ‘instead of them promote to ministerial positions people capable of launching the new course’; ‘the renewed Mongolian CC had to publicly declare that it had made mistakes in the sphere of domestic politics (economy, religion)’.66 By this time, the Mongols themselves realised that the continuation of the leftist campaign would not lead to a positive end and it was high time to get rid of the ‘leftists’. The logic of social terror dictated the liquidation of the left’s initiators and executers after the filtration of society was complete. The left’s excesses were blamed when social–economic life seemed to be completely destroyed. Seventy percent of the country’s population participated in the revolt; the five mostly densely populated aimags, with up to 60 per cent of all livestock, were all involved in the mutiny.67 In June 1932, the Third Extraordinary Plenum of the MPRP CC took place and condemned the ‘left policy’ and ‘left deviators’. Jas campaign leaders Z. Shijie, O. Badrakh and L. Laagan were removed from their posts, forced to retire (which was not the extent of the punishment of the left) and the party leadership was renewed. Riding this wave, P. Genden first came on the scene (at the Plenum, he tried to place all responsibility for the ‘left experiment’ on Comintern agents). The Plenum’s Resolution stated: The work of the Small Khural’s government and the local organs is discredited; the party’s CC and local party organisations run the whole country’s life, as a result of which people do not know their authorities. State power is discredited in the eyes of the people, it does not have authority.68 This quotation reveals the next stage of strengthening administrative structures and correcting their relations with party organs; in the competition between the government and the party the former appeared to be winning. In the period that followed (up to the Ninth MPRP Congress), direct interference by the party in government affairs was prohibited and made impossible. ‘Left’ party cells were quickly and easily dismissed, as they were unstable and the population’s attitude towards them was highly negative. New party cells were formed. The Third Plenum characterised the all-round collectivisation and jas campaign of the beginning of the 1930s as ‘extremes’ and established the socalled New Course. However, there was nothing new in this course, as the main directive of social politics remained the ‘decisive fight against the counterrevolutionary feudal lords and reactionary high lamas, separating working


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arad, as well as its wealthy layers and low-ranked lamas from the counterrevolutionary elements and creation of strong national army’. (The last item appeared owing to the establishment of Manchuguo). A certain relaxation of socio-economic policy was visible, such as in the ‘encouragement of private economic initiative, gradual, careful implementation of the simplest cooperation and collectivisation forms’. Private and cooperative trade was allowed. The slogan ‘get richer’ acquired a second wind and was now actively promoted by the temporary winners in the cadres’ war – P. Genden and A. Amar. Following the results of the Third Plenum, on 10 July 1932, the Seventeenth Extraordinary Session of the Small Khural took place. The session eliminated some organisations established during the ‘left exaggerations’, such as a state union of engineers, an arbitrage commission, the headquarters of a cultural campaign, etc. Afterwards, no real action to ‘correct leftist exaggerations’ began. In July, the MPRP artificially organised an arad conference by forcing 400 arad to participate. Thus, the party tried to create at least some semblance of unity with the people. Still, mass rebellions were the true indicator of the relationship between the party and the people. Analysing the reforms of the last quarter of 1932 is intriguing: they were advertised as softer measures to contrast with the tough course chosen by the party and government, yet they conformed to the course and even strengthened it, creating conditions for a new round of repression. Thus, the responsibilities of the court organs and the Office of Public Prosecutor were broadened and changes were introduced to the criminal and civil codes. In August, the Office on Statistics, Planning and Regulation was created at the Union of Ministers. Simultaneously, party groups were attached to all state and public organisations. In August 1932, a new law on monastic tax was introduced, according to which only livestock, and not the monastic property, was to be taxed. This reform might have looked like an ‘indulgence’ to lamas if anything worth being taxed had been left after the jas campaign. Grazing of monastic cattle by the arad was allowed ‘on a free basis according to the treaty’. Encouragement of cooperation went hand-in-hand with pressure on the private entrepreneur. A number of failing kolkhozes and communes, in accordance with the Union of Ministers’ Resolution of 5 August 1932, were reorganised as simple cooperatives. Under the Statutes, approved by the government on 21 October, these communes had to represent the unions of arad for agriculture, hay-cutting, cattle-grazing, goods trafficking, hunting, construction of enclosures, etc., while cattle and other property were not collectivised. According to the new law on nomadic and agricultural tax, for households that built warm enclosures for cattle, the tax was reduced by 10–20 per cent; for those that repaired old wells, by 5 per cent; for those that built new wells and successfully raised cattle, by 20 per cent. Poor households were completely tax exempt. Characteristically, the commissions from the centre were observing the implementation of the law. Under their control, elections to local administration were held at the end of the year.69 Thus, the ‘encouragement of private economy initiative’ by the Third Extraordinary Plenum was strictly fixed and controlled by the centre.



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The New Course was announced, but the rebellions did not come to a halt. The government cruelly suppressed them, using Soviet techniques and employing army and IDO troops. About 8,000–10,000 rebels perished.70 The government also suffered losses in excess of 400. The Minister of Trade and Industry, G. Sodnom, was killed, along with other party and URY members, army and IDO officers.71 The battles ended only in October 1932. Simultaneously an active purge of party echelons was taking place. Leftist extremists had motivated recruitment from the top down.72 The left campaign presented an opportunity for various careerists and adventurers to penetrate top government positions. Everyone who wanted to be a state official had to be a party member.73 The first stage of the purge was an invitation to freely leave the party. An Appeal was published, which stated that ‘everyone who wanted could leave the party without any subsequent measures’. The intimidated population’s reaction came with lightening speed: 25,080 people quickly left the party. The second stage was the purge itself, after which out of 44,000 members only 8,000 remained (most were kicked out, some were killed).74 The party’s social composition was the following: The MPRP’s social composition, 1932 Social groups

Number of people

Arad Officials Workers Women Total

5051 2545 318 85 8000

The Comintern Archive. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 25.

The social typology reflected in the above table fundamentally differed from previous membership, reflecting the party’s new image and changes throughout society in 1929–1932. Although it represents the party’s, and not society’s, social composition, the essential transformation is evident. The old ‘classes’ disappeared and the new emerged (at least in the minds of the reformers): the columns for lamas and feudal lords were occupied by officials and workers. The ‘left experiment’ bore its fruit: the old privileged groups were eliminated and replaced by new ones. For four years (1929–1932) repressive organisations exercised supra-legal power not only in the centre but also at the local level; and the IDO broadened its sphere of activities. The key result of the period 1929–1932 was the completion of property redistribution. The property of the former hereditary noyon was utterly confiscated. The jas campaign destroyed the economic foundation of Buddhist sangha (what was left of monastic cattle would finally be confiscated in 1939). Comintern instructors pointed out that expropriation in Mongolia was carried out on an even bigger scale than in the Soviet Union. For the country’s economy, these experiments were detrimental, for its population,


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lethal. The confiscations enriched the party treasury, while a part of it landed in the pockets of ‘left activists’. The latter, however, did not have a chance to make use of the expropriated goods, since they would be physically liquidated (some of them sooner, others later). The ‘left experiment’ was a dry run for the mass terror of 1937. As is typical of this stage of redistributing property, the regime tried to hide its past mistakes while building plans for the future, and announced an amnesty: all rebels who surrendered, handed in their weapons and demonstrated submission were forgiven. Only the rebels’ leaders were accused: the CC and the government declared a relentless struggle against those ‘agents of Chinese and Japanese militarists’.75 Thus, the amnesty forgave and accused at the same time. Such amnesties usually augur further repressions, another stage of the population’s filtration. As the next chapter shows, this is exactly what happened in the second half of the 1930s.

5

1933–1939


Between Russian Communism and Japanese Militarism

After extensive expropriation and the left’s experiment with forced collectivisation in 1929–1930, the nomads’ country was ready for the next stage of social transformation, which had to occur according to the ‘non-capitalist development’ model. International conditions suitable for following this way of development were already present, and domestic ones were being created. While the threat of Chinese occupation and Japanese intervention from the south and the east was increasing, ties between Mongolian and Soviet leaders were becoming closer, and the USSR’s assistance was growing in all spheres. The new MPR’s political elite, after pushing away the formerly privileged groups, was establishing firm control over the economy and broadening the sphere of activity of its supra-legal repressive organisations (primarily the IDO). The extensive expropriation of 1929–1930 led to a general decrease in the population’s living standards and spread the seeds of dictatorship through local party organs. The left’s campaign was completed and afterwards officially condemned. The governmental reforms of 1932, conforming to the New Course proclaimed by the CC MPRP Third Extraordinary Plenum, demonstratively corrected mistakes made by the left’s experiment and stimulated further party building. Discussions about the Mongolian left’s extremes were rather popular at Comintern meetings, during which its leaders repeated an obvious truth: they were speculating on how ‘the Mongols – the nomad-individualists, lacking collective psychology’,1 had managed to ‘carry out collectivisation on a broader scale than in the USSR’. As early as the Eighth MPRP Congress, it was stated that what had been achieved in the sphere of collectivisation in the Soviet Union in three years was achieved in Mongolia in six months. Comintern agents could not allow themselves to openly announce the real reason for this fact, as already in the early 1930s a repressive atmosphere reigned: the crisis of the Comintern, owing to its Stalinisation, was already under way. The Comintern’s time in Mongolia was coming to an end, and contacts took place mainly at the party level – between the MPRP and the RCP(b). According to the guidance of the latter, Comintern agents had to agree with its conclusion regarding how to correct the destructive


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Russian Communism and Japanese Militarism

actions of the left’s extremes: ‘Now on the agenda we have direct socialismbuilding.’2 It turned out that after enriching the party treasury by means of expropriation and plunder, the time had come to cool emotions and start building a socialist society in a country of widespread nomadism. Here I would like once again to debunk the myth that confiscation and collectivisation were entirely imposed upon the Mongols by Soviet advisers as something alien to their society and culture. The MPRP’s ‘people’s’ power (as for any other party of the same type) was based on terror; this use of terror was not foreign to Mongolian history. Long before Chinggis qan, ‘the submissiveness of the steppe inhabitants had been maintained by cruelty’.3 In the 1920s–1930s the cruelty was grounded in the IDO’s and other similar structures’ repressive activities. At the same time, the mass revolts of the summer of 1932 signalled the opposite of submissiveness. Something was lacking to force the population to obey the power-holders. What could it have been? An autocratic ruler, a punitive despot, qan-father? The next few years passed in preparation for such a leader, and the second part of the 1930s became the period of Kh. Choibalsan’s rise to the top of the MPR. In 1933, however, Choibalsan (accused after the Seventh MPRP Congress of ‘right deviation’, and afterwards of supporting confiscation extremes) remained a background figure. P. Genden ascended to political leadership. He and A. Amar again promoted the slogan ‘Get richer’. It looked as if without that catchphrase, without swinging the pendulum to the right, it was impossible to restore the destroyed households of the majority of the population. ‘After forced collectivisation of 1930–1932 the only way out was cooperation.’4 That was why the New Course focused on the ‘support of domestic nomadic households with limited private and cooperative trade’.5 Soviet advisers, who targeted the Mongolian market, were the main consultants to the MPR’s government on following that course. At the beginning of the 1930s, commodities from the USSR could hardly reach the MPR’s population, since they were controlled by MonTsenKop, the remaining Chinese traders and commissioners. USSR–MPR trade networks were supposed to be maintained via cooperation. At the same time, Genden’s government6 declared its intentions to establish trade (and other) relationships with other foreign states. The intentions were not solely declarative: the open border stations appeared to exchange goods with the eastern countries of China and Japan.7 The ban on private trade was lifted and the number of legal entrepreneurs noticeably increased (from 28 traders in 1932 to 1,100 in 1934).8 In 1933, the Mongolian Transport (MongolTrans, Rus.) monopoly was liquidated, which led to a boost in carting transportation. Trade organisations and the arad negotiated formal trade agreements. Still, these government measures should not be mistaken for fundamental market reform: given the strict political regime, private trade did not have much chance to develop. The Mongol–Soviet joint stock enterprise ‘Mongolsovbuner’, established in 1933, was soon nationalised, in 1934. The same year state, sector and small-scale cooperation



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accounted for 80 per cent of total MPR trade turnover. Nationalisation was becoming total. The still turbulent rebellions pushed the MPR’s government to abandon leftist extremes and stimulate the economy. But the rebellions were not at all suppressed by economic means. The USSR provided military assistance to quash the revolt. In 1933, the detachment sent by K.E. Voroshilov quelled the upheaval in Tsetserleg,9 beginning a period of propaganda against the ‘Japanese threat’ and ties between ‘some counter-revolutionary layers of the Mongolian population’ (particularly the lamas) and agents of Japanese imperialism. In April to May 1933, the Mongolian press addressed the counter-revolutionary movement in Tsetserleg: Was it driven by ‘leftists’ or the Japanese? In order to create an ideological basis for their prospective penetration into the Central Asian steppes, the Japanese spread propaganda in the MPR, which aimed to rouse the left’s extremes, especially anti-lama policy10, and to escalate pan-Mongolist trends in Outer and Inner Mongolia.11 Thus, both the USSR and Japan tried to use all their influence in the region. The Mongols realised that the confrontation of these two powers – the USSR and Japan – would culminate on their territory. They also saw their inability to prevent that conflict. Although the MPR’s involvement in Soviet military operations in 1934 was unavoidable, public discussion on an independent foreign policy and the right to freely choose allies continued. The Mongols clearly recognised Japan’s human resources and economic potential, and a comparison of possible benefits did not unequivocally favour the Soviet Union. Still, the preservation of the Mongolian state by all possible means was desired by the elite who foresaw the ultimate loss of independence in the scenario of Japanese occupation and, as most Mongolian politicians suspected, this would be followed by Chinese rule. The new Mongolian political elite itself came to power and maintained its rule by means of the Soviet Union and the Comintern, which became key advisers. The Soviet military technique that quickly helped suppress the 1932 mass revolts once again demonstrated to the Mongols which neighbour was their true friend. Some members of the government, who before 1932 had made a habit of expressing their hesitation about the expediency of complete reliance on the USSR, calmed down and confessed that they ‘had made a mistake and the USSR was the only power capable of helping them’.12 However, as noted by Comintern agents, the idea of flexibility, of ‘with whom and how we could benefit remained deep in their minds’.13 Quasi nation-state concepts continued developing in the MPR in the 1930s, as there was still no repressive ideological policy to stifle them. The pressure from the Soviet side pushed some MPR activists to resist by interpreting Mongolian history in a nationalist way. Allusions to the ‘golden age’ of Mongolian history were typical in this respect. For instance, A. Amar wrote in The Brief History of Mongolia: ‘the Mongolian nation … had displayed its superiority from ancient times … but it had so happened that the clans that used to be under the leadership of our ancestors had begun to rule


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us’; ‘the life and economy of one nation, despite all its positive aspects, would not be appropriate for another nation’.14 Nothing was written about Soviet Russia and the Comintern in Amar’s book. In 1934, immediate repressive measures against such an author did not follow. In 1936, under the reign of Kh. Choibalsan, repressive measures would still not be taken against the writers, but they would against policy-makers. Anti-intelligentsia campaigns would be waged later. Parallel to discussions on the ‘Japanese threat’, the new power-holders were toughening their dictatorship and broadened the scope of their search for domestic enemies. In 1933, the IDO uncovered what became known as the ‘Lhumbe plot’, in which dozens of people were accused of spying for Japan. S.K. Roschin notes in his book that the characteristic feature of this completely falsified case was the change in the target audience: accusations were levied not against lamas and feudal lords as alien social layers, but rather against representatives of the revolutionary elite, young cadres.15 Still, this was nothing particularly special or unexpected: every new stage of political terror started with the elimination of those previously in charge of policy. As the New Course acquired strength, repressions like the ‘Lhumbe plot’ washed away recent memories: the ‘leftists’ had done their job and now had to vanish. Thus 1933 was the beginning of the next stage of social transformation, though it was no less brutal than the leftist campaign. Wealth acquired as a result of confiscation and the jas campaign and accumulated in the party treasury had to be spent on further party building. The arad were suggested to exercise personal initiative and had an interest in improving their living standards. Since the differentiating approach to the arad as a class was strictly followed, successful strong households faced a number of administrative obstacles, and collapsed. Thus, the New Course was not leading the Mongolian population to prosperity. In 1933, poor households (more than half of all MPR households) were exempted from paying taxes, and another one-third of all households received other tax breaks. In my opinion, this data does not indicate a less demanding tax policy but rather the liquidation of wealthy private households. To support the poor in at least some way, the state expanded the credit system, built heated enclosures, or khashaas, for cattle, dug wells, and purchased hay and fodder. Official statistics on economic growth was obviously falsified in the 1930s. The number of livestock was, indeed, increasing after the catastrophic decline of 1930–1932, but essential improvement in the economy remained just a dream. Labour and production (extensive nomadism) did not undergo any real change. Neither cooperation16 nor a few horse transportation stations and hay-cutting facilities built by the Soviet Union in 1937, which the arad considered a wonder, changed the mode of production. At the end of the 1930s, an attempt was made to create agricultural farms: the nomads were granted parcels of fertile land,



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Figure 5.1 Khashaa for the cattle (1956)

provided with seeds, taught some techniques, and given tax reductions and monetary credits.17 Still, those experiments did not come to fruition even in the 1940s. Nevertheless, the People’s government went on taking assets from monastic households, although not so forcefully as during the jas campaign, using the demagogy of differentiating approaches towards lamas and attracting their poor layers as ‘publicly useful labour’. The state treasury was filled with the ‘publicly useless labour’ of high lamas (taxes on their private livestock increased by 50 per cent). In 1932–1934 taxes on monastic households accounted for more than 1.5 million tögrög and a military tax on lamas of recruitment age totalled more than 1 million tögrög. The elimination of lamas as a political institution (1921–1928) by destroying its economic base (1929–1932) still did not translate into a final victory over them: the new power-holders were confronted with the great public popularity, cultural influence and indisputable authority of the lamas in the eyes of the people. In 1932, as in former years, Comintern agents had to admit that ‘lamas remained the cultural leaders of the Mongolian population: as teachers, the only doctors and craftsmen’.18 The statistics were alarming. By the beginning of 1934, the Comintern viewed MPR society in the following way:

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The MPR’s gender and social composition, 1934 Population groups

Number of people

Men Women Lamas Total

267,962 349,318 87,774 705,054


Source: RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 154. L. 42.

The MPR’s administrative system in 1934 Administrative units

Number of units

Sum Bag Ger Hit1

306 2,391 186,634 387

Source: RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 154. L. 42. 1 Hit (Mong.) – a type of monastery where monks permanently live. See: A.M. Pozdneev, Ocherki byta buddiiskih monastyrei i buddiiskogo duhovenstva v Mongolii v svyazi s otnosheniyami sego poslednego k narodu [Notes on the life of Buddhist monasteries and Buddhist clergy in Mongolia in connection with the relationships between the clergy and the people] (Elista: Kalmytskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo, 1993), 1–2.

In addition to lamas, who belonged directly to sangha (and thus lived in or around the monastery), there were the so-called black lamas, who lived among the common people in the hödöö. According to Comintern data, in 1934 there was approximately one lama for every seven arad. At the same time, for every 1,000 arad there was only one party member and he was confronted, on average, with 13 lamas.19 The revolutionaries clearly had to keep fighting the lamas. Interestingly, the number of lamas increased after 1932. After the difficult times of the jas campaign people were recuperating and returning to their usual activities. Some features of restoration started to appear: leading lamas continued building new temples, collecting taxes, putting corporal punishments into practice, reclaiming their titles and running handicraft businesses20; in other words, they resisted introducing new laws into everyday practice and establishing the new social order at the grassroots level.21 Countering these trends after the mass revolts was extremely difficult for the state. As the frontal assault on lamas had provoked a determined counterattack, the revolutionaries had to rethink their tactics once again. This time the assault was made on the ‘cultural front’. The ‘cultural’ struggle against the lamas sometimes even looked comic: for instance, Soviet representatives were expected to win over the people by showing them how to play football and chess and by ‘giving acrobatic concerts near the tsam22 performances’.23 However, that was not just a naïve sort of entertainment: Soviet football and



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chess, indeed the Soviet circus, all became the focus of a kind of cult to which people devoted their free time, the so-called ‘cultural way of recreation’. Nevertheless, this socio-cultural campaign failed to reach its ultimate goal: naadam24 remained the favourite Mongolian festival. Cultural influence was impossible to realise using acrobatics alone. Tibetan and Old Mongolian writing systems, which were the basic means of Buddhist teaching, had to be targeted. As long as the people continued reading and writing in these media, which could not express modern concepts, they would remain deaf to the cultural achievements of socialism. Beginning in approximately 1934, Soviet instructors planned to reform the Mongolian language. By this time, Mongolia was almost completely fixed in the Soviet orbit, while to the West the concept of satellite countries emerged. P. Genden’s official visit to Moscow in November 1934 marked even tighter rapprochement between the MPR and the USSR: a verbal gentlemen’s agreement was made on Soviet assistance to Mongolia, which included military aid. A subsequent range of agreements placed all further development of the economy under direct RCP(b) guidance, a decision that, for Ulaanbaatar, was difficult to make despite its profitability for the emerging Mongolian nomenklatura who received full support to maintain their rule over the country. In December 1934 in Ulaanbaatar, the following agreements were signed: the Agreement on Soviet–Mongolian joint ventures; the Agreement on the temporary exchange rate of the tögrög; the Agreement on advisers, instructors and specialists; and the Agreement on mutual payments in order to maintain the Soviet–Mongolian trade balance. The deal that stood behind these agreements was evident: next to the nota (official resolution, Rus.) on the conversion of Mongolian loans and the reduction of Mongolia’s debt in trade with the Soviet Union, Ulaanbaatar, in the person of the Chairman of the Mongol Bank, received directives on the temporary exchange rate of the tögrög directly from the Chairman of the USSR State Bank Board.25 This marked a new stage in USSR–MPR relations. The Ninth MPRP Congress that took place in September to October 1934 became very illustrative of the new firm political course. It put a stop to discussions on the government–party dichotomy. As I wrote in the previous chapter, during the time of leftist extremism the authority of the MPRP CC and local party cells had been fading, the party’s rule ‘discredited itself in the eyes of the population’26 and the party’s popularity seemed completely unrecoverable. After the Third Extraordinary Plenum, ‘suddenly the party’s role became insignificant, the CC Presidium did not gather for its regular meetings, the party Secretariat did not function, and all the power appeared to be in the government’s hands’.27 Rumours were rife: ‘The party became afraid of the circumstances of its own left policy’, ‘the party assumed a lesser role’,28 ‘the party disappeared!’ If ‘tendencies of the Kemal type as in Turkey emerged in Mongolia, some kind of dictatorship would be established and finally foreign and domestic policy would change’,29 worried Comintern agents, who by that time were already disillusioned with the idea of world


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revolution.30 Under RCP(b) control they altered the report by the MPRP CC Chairman for the Ninth Congress. For example, in the draft report composed by the Mongols, the party was given the role of agitation and propaganda, but Soviet censors corrected it as a leading role. Thus, the MPRP finally determined its leading role and opened the Ninth Congress declaring that it was ‘free of feudal elements’, ‘revolutionised from within’ and ‘nomadic-, arad-based’.31 No one remembered the URY problem of 1921–1924. On the contrary, the main task on the agenda was to enlarge that organisation and consolidate its members.32 Social composition of the delegates elected at the Congress was very peculiar. Comintern agents classified it in the following way: The social composition of the delegates at the Ninth MPRP Congress, 1934 Social layers

Number of people

Nomads Bureaucrats Total

90 138 228


According to this table, Comintern agents identified only two social layers in the MPR worth representation at the Congress: nomads and bureaucrats, and the latter were supposed to dominate. It is not clear with what social group Comintern agents associated 14 workers, 46 Red Army delegates and 61 former lamas who were also present at the Congress. As with many other tables on social composition composed by Soviet advisers for the public domain, the above typology did not reflect the actual state of society but rather the state that was desired. The category of bureaucrats appeared in the first half of the 1930s and signalled forthcoming changes in the structure of society and the emergence of a special privileged stratum – nomenklatura. Although such stratification was purely symbolic, the intent behind creating it was clear. In 1930, the MPR practically irrevocably chose the path of state- and society-building according to the USSR’s model. After suppressing the mass revolts, ‘broadening the foundation of socialist building’ became a priority: the MPRP had to confirm the revolution’s achievements, guarantee the sustainable development of all its structures and prevent counter-revolutionary tendencies. Another stage of reinforcing cadres’ policy followed: in order to build the firm basis for the national nomenklatura a strong leader capable of executing that new stage had to be found and promoted. Ninth Congress participants obviously did not completely realise what forms that new stage could take, how it would develop or its results. They raised questions about the bureaucratisation of the party apparatus and improving bureaucrats’ education levels. Comintern agents broke down the education level of Congress delegates in the following way:


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Educational level of the delegates at the Ninth MPRP Congress, 1934 Level of education

Number of people

Good Middle Bad None Total

30 104 81 27 242



One can hardly guess what precisely was hiding behind that classification. Still, knowing the realities of that time, it can be assumed that ‘middle’ meant knowledge of the alphabet, elementary reading rules and the ability to write one’s signature. ‘None’ meant illiteracy. The ‘struggle against illiteracy’, an expensive campaign, was on the language reform agenda. The Ninth Congress decided to expand school networks, invest in teacher training and intensify textbook publication. However, even in the 1980s, the MPR’s schools still did not have all the necessary textbooks.33 ‘Culture-building’ problems in the MPR, as well as in the USSR, resulted from cadre policy. As I pointed out in previous chapters, the concept of education was replaced by socialist propaganda or political agitation. The necessity to work in a collective was emphasised. The Ninth Congress paid special attention to trade unions. After the last purge, there were only two trade unions left (there had been twelve). As in former years, many trade

Figure 5.2 Studying Mongolian script (1930)


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union members were Russian or Chinese (1,309 Russians, 1,404 Chinese and 4,734 Mongols)34 and profited from their dominance. The total number of trade union members was 8,045, of which 1,911 were party members and 90 per cent were bureaucrats. The percentage of trade union members who were workers was extremely low, as was the total number of workers in the country (as the only significant and functioning industrial enterprise that could realistically employ workers was in Ulaanbaatar35). To improve the trade unions’ numerical indicators the government decided to attract poor arad. The Ninth Congress set a goal of ‘stimulating revolutionary competition to improve productivity’ among the arad. While in Soviet Central Asia the migration of the rural population to the cities at the end of the 1920s resulted in the transfer of social and ethnic conflict from the village to the town, such a migration in the MPR, on which too little data remain, led to the increase of marginalised criminal elements in Ulaanbaatar, particularly in the 1940s. Who would lead this new stage, the ‘completion of democratic transformation among the arad?’ Political struggle prevented the Ulaanbaatar elite from answering that question, but in Moscow a suitable candidate had already been chosen by Stalin. At the Eighth Great Khural, which immediately followed the Ninth Congress, Kh. Choibalsan became the MPR’s First Deputy Prime Minister, signalling the fall of P. Genden and the rise of Kh. Choibalsan. After Genden’s visit to Moscow and his individualism at the Ninth MPRP Congress, Soviet leaders finally became convinced of his unsuitability to be the Mongol people’s leader. He seemed too active and independent, openly criticised Soviet advisers and wanted to invite plenipotentiaries of different states, not solely of the USSR, to trade with Mongolia. Being the most popular person (as argued by many scholars) in the political life of Mongolia in 1933–1934, Genden periodically made announcements that could be interpreted in a nationalist way: for instance, during his trip through the USSR he noted that ‘Chinggis qan had ruled in many parts of Europe and in the Caucasus above all he left much blood of his and that was a very good blood’.36/37 Comintern delegation members at the Ninth Congress became worried when Genden did not appear to greet them.38 His long trail of ‘mistakes’ continued, but his authority and influence were significant and time was required to eliminate this outstanding figure and any memory of him. In the second half of the 1930s, many formerly prominent figures were prosecuted, while the concepts of such former social strata as the noyon or khutagt vanished from public consciousness. These years passed against the background of the political regime’s increasing despotism, the consolidation of power in the hands of one person and the launch of repressive organisations. The question of absorbing the IDO into the Ministry of Domestic Affairs (MDA) was placed on the agenda, but this ‘historical necessity’ was for a short time postponed by Genden, one ‘sin’ among others of which he would be accused in 1936.



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To increase the activity of extraordinary supra-legal organisations, an ‘external threat’ was fabricated: the idea that foreign enemies were ready to prevent the Mongolian people from building socialism. Domestic and foreign intelligence often coincided: the IDO was in charge of rooting out Japanese agents from among the population, and if it failed to do so, it ‘fabricated apprehensions’ to purge different social groups and prove the existence of the ‘external threat’. In general, the Mongolian IDO fabricated cases no less than the Soviet KGB did. In doing so, Mongolian activists even accused each other of counter-revolution and spying for Japan. Moscow was concerned about the international situation in the Far East: tensions around the MPR, territorial disputes, Manchuguo and Japan, frequent border conflicts and Japanese intelligence activities – all of which threatened Soviet security interests in the east and forced Moscow to put additional pressure on the Mongolian government. The USSR was afraid to

Figure 5.3 The trial of the ‘people’s enemy’ (1933)


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‘overlook’ Mongolia in the same way that it had overlooked, and lost, China in 1927. As a Russian proverb says, ‘Fear has big eyes’: accessible field reports in Soviet archives do not tell us much about what was really happening in the region and what existed only in Soviet agents’ imaginations. For instance, according to Comintern archival sources, in autumn 1934 the ‘numerous Kazakh bandits’, invaded the MPR from Xinjiang, openly declaring military slogans and that they would meet the Japanese, who were simultaneously invading from the east, in Ulaanbaatar.39 The bandits were liquidated, but what their real connection with the Japanese was and whether one even existed were questions for the IDO. The IDO head D. Namsrai and other employees stated that they managed to shed light on very little Japanese agent activity. Soviet organs did not receive enough evidence from their Mongolian counterparts. Soviet intelligence announced its suspicions of relationships between the Japanese and the lamas, as if they had authentic reports from agents monitoring Panchen Bogdo and ‘counter-revolutionary high lamas’,40 when in reality Moscow knew nothing concrete. Nevertheless, slight suspicion was enough to take extreme action: as the regime grew stronger, it prepared a new stage of wide-scale repression against the lamas and the Chinese. In December 1934, the Seventh Great Khural adopted a new law prohibiting the inheritance of high lamas’ property and the construction of new monasteries. A February 1935 law increased taxes on monastic households. The same year the government took the unprecedented step of interfering in sangha – that is, in the purely spiritual affairs of monastic life, claiming that the introduction of changes would ‘take into consideration the low-ranking lamas’ interests’. These included appointing to the monastic administration predominantly low-ranking lamas who were responsible for watching over the high lamas and their ‘counter-revolutionary intrigues’. Thus, probably for the first time in Mongolian history, secular power-holders gave the young and inexperienced low-ranking lamas the right to interfere in the appointments and dismissals of monastic spiritual rulers. The aim of this insidious policy was to create a new generation of lamas who were not beholden to the Buddhist spirits of compassion and humbleness, but rather cultivating in them a truly earthly neglect of tradition and lust for power. In other words, the true teaching of the Buddha and monastic ritual had to be perverted from within, by the Buddhists themselves. To reach this goal, among middleand low-ranking lamas, courses in literacy and Soviet medicine replaced monastic education and traditional medicine. An attempt was made to replace religious holidays and festivities with new secular ones, ‘organised evenings and public entertainments’, ‘working Fridays’. Naturally, such ‘innovations’ did not work even under the repressive regime: the monks did not want to violate monastic regulations and the Buddhist hierarchy and hardly ever did so of their own free will. In the mid-1930s, the attitude of lamas towards the revolution and party differed from their attitude a dozen years earlier. The higher ranking the lama, the better the education he received



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and the fiercer his opposition to the revolution. At the same time, the revolutionary government wanted complete submission and was not going to tolerate Buddhist resistance for long: if under Genden lamas could breathe, under Choibalsan they would suffocate and risk physical elimination. Second to the ‘lama question’, revolutionaries identified ‘Chinese counterrevolution’ as a major threat to the regime. In 1934 in Ulaanbaatar, there were approximately 10,000 registered Chinese.41 During Genden’s reign, the Chinese Chamber of Commerce continued functioning, but after just two years of Choibalsan’s rule, mass repression of Chinese began. MPR border tensions increased year after year. Soviet intelligence and counter-intelligence had to broaden its network and increase its activities. According to some agent reports, Outer Mongolia’s monasteries, despite all the government’s laws and resolutions, were home to quite an active political life, while some lamas even attempted to move to Tibet.42 Rumours circulated about Japan’s far-reaching intentions in Tibet,43 saying that the Japanese together with Panchen Bogdo had decided to conquer that mountainous land, planned a military campaign and in January 1935 organised a Congress in which 113 Mongolian noyon and lamas participated and condemned the ‘red threat’.44 In autumn 1935 Panchen Bogdo accumulated a huge stock of weapons in the Gumbum monastery, and 5,000–6,000 Mongols, who in 1929–1930 had migrated from south-eastern and south-western Mongolia, joined their fellow fighters.45 In the coming years, the government would put an end to this emigration and try to completely isolate the region from the outside world. A military–technological build-up was becoming more evident, as the People’s government increased its military spending: in 1934 it accounted for 34.7 per cent of the total budget; in 1938, it was 52.5 per cent. The obligatory military service period was extended from two to three years, and the military increased in number by 30 per cent. The USSR played the main role in providing for the MPR’s defence capability, fully supporting the Mongolian Red Army and investing in the economy. In 1935 and 1936, respectively, Soviet monetary subsidies to Mongolia totalled 6 million and 8 million roubles.46 The Soviet Union guided MPR diplomacy as well. In 1935–1936 the official Manchu–Mongolian conference was held, but did not lead to concrete results. Disregarding the 1924 Soviet–Chinese agreement, according to which Outer Mongolia was regarded as an integral part of the Chinese People’s Republic, on 14 March 1936 the USSR and the MPR signed a Protocol on mutual assistance. Simultaneously, in domestic affairs, irrevocable and fatal changes occurred. At the end of February Choibalsan was granted the title of Marshal and in March Genden was ‘replaced’: he was sent to the Soviet Union and later shot. The IDO was transformed into the MDA and Choibalsan became the Minister of Domestic Affairs. In January 1936, in response to the increasing threat of Japan’s military invasion, the Presidium of the MPRP CC asked the USSR to place military


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Figure 5.4 Kh. Choibalsan at trainings (1938)

troops on Mongolian territory. On 1 February the Soviet government agreed, and full-scale engagement of Soviet troops in the MPR took place in 1937. The same year Choibalsan launched an unprecedented wave of repression. The ‘Lhumbe plot’ came to the fore once more: a number of prisoners released in 1936 ‘in honour of the 15th anniversary of the revolution’ were imprisoned again. In August, Marshal G. Demid was poisoned during his trip to the Soviet Union, and the ‘Genden–Demid case’ was fabricated, producing a list of 115 people to repress. Repressions spread like wildfire among the political elite: MPRP CC Presidium members (D. Yandag), the Deputy Prime Minister, the Head of the General Staff, the Public Prosecutor,47 the Minister of Education and others were shot. The high lamas Yonzon Khamba and Deed Khamba, MPRP CC Presidium members (Kh. Luvsandorj, P. Mend, N. Elee) and the former IDO head Namsrai were prosecuted. Repressive politics penetrated all party–state structures: new courts began functioning and special amendments were introduced that broadened the range of cases in which the death penalty was applicable. The characteristic feature of this new wave of terror was its enormous scope, totality and targeting of all levels of the population. The repressions of 1937 were not just a coup at the top as in 1922, 1924 and 1928, when the lives of the political elite and common people rarely intersected; nor were they a ‘struggle against feudal survivors’ as in 1929–1932, when the former elite became economically paralysed; or a shuffling of old and new party



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cadres as in the purge of 1933–1934. The period of 1937–1940 was the culmination of a forced transformation of society, not just among the elite but at the grassroots level as well. Repression spread throughout the population and reached the most remote regions. The year 1937 marked the consolidation of Mongolian society, when the Mongolian polity (at that time a ‘non-capitalist’ nation–state) was facing a real external threat and could survive only within the Soviet orbit. The alliance with a strong northern neighbour and the consolidation of the whole population were conditions for the preservation of the Mongol state. Imperial integration in nomadic society was often achieved by means of terror and through the social–ideological cult of the great commander and ruler. In the twentieth century, this consolidation phase was the reign of Marshal Choibalsan. From a long-term perspective, Choibalsan’s terror was not a new episode in Mongolian history. In 1937–1940 mass prosecutions occurred all over the country. The new extra-legal organisation – the MDA – pursued ‘counter-revolutionary elements’ not only among the elite but also among all people. At the Third MPRP CC Plenum in October 1937 Choibalsan called lamas, Buryats, Barguts and Chinese the ‘No. 1 counter-revolutionary elements’ and ‘agents of Japanese militarism’. Repression against them approached the level of genocide. There were not enough prisons to hold all the arrested lamas. MDA departments that operated at the local level were ordered to arrest a certain quota of Buryats, Chinese and Barguts (repressive politics against each had its own

Figure 5.5 Training (the 1930s)


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history).48 If there were not enough members of those ethnicities to meet the quotas, the extra-legal organisations fulfilled it by arresting other citizens.49 Any nomad peacefully grazing his cattle, without any knowledge of politics, could have been arrested. Many nomads, returning to their winter pasture after summer roaming, were immediately arrested by local MDA agents.50 At the end of the 1930s, repressions were targeted against illegal Chinese migrants. Any foreigner who did not have official residence permission when he or she was checked, was imprisoned. The scope of these repressions is difficult to underestimate, for very rarely did party members and governmental officials have identification documents. Mongols used to freely roaming the steppes did not have a clue about the new regime and could not understand the necessity of registration documents. The authors of this policy were not naïve, however, and adequately assessed the reality. The arrests and executions were becoming something ordinary, an objective reality. To improve labour productivity and discipline within the MDA, revolutionary competitions were announced. Investigators gathered to declare verdicts on political prisoners so that their executions took place on the eve of holidays, such as the Day of the Great October Socialist Revolution or naadam.51 The male population was prosecuted more intensely than the female. Women, the most active workers of nomadic households, often had to survive all alone and work harder. However, representatives of supra-legal organs were predominantly, if not only, men. This situation further strengthened the traditional distribution of responsibilities in a Mongolian family: the husband, if lucky, was a lazy darga, while his wife did all the domestic work, produced or prepared food and household products, looked after livestock and took care of children. In 1937–1940 the number of MDA employees rapidly grew; most were young cadres and party members. According to Comintern agents’ general impression, local party cells ‘started moving a little bit around the country’ only by 1935.52 In 1937, in distant regions, the MDA recruited by force. This extra-legal way of establishing local MDA organs resulted in arbitrary rule, social terror and chaos. ‘Young, unprepared agents are too fond of power … or the leaders are awfully afraid of the masses, did not know how to firmly adhere to their position till the end. We can see the lack of ideology, minor intrigues.’53 The communists at the end of 1930s called such a situation a ‘crisis of human material’. That structural terminology embodied the quintessence of the upper party circles’ attitude towards others – as though humans were some material from which any type of society could have been made. Because of the mass repressions in the second half of the 1930s, a real ‘crisis of human material’ happened, which was fully reflected in extremely low demographic indicators. The total MPR population at the end of 1935 was 738,200.54 For the period 1935–1940 population growth was just 0.1 per cent (the lowest indicator for the whole twentieth century),55 and for 1937–1938 the population growth indicator was even negative. The male population greatly decreased relative to the female population (especially in Ulaanbaatar).56



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The number of homeless children in the capital grew.57 In addition to all this, unfavourable climate conditions worsened the situation: the winter of 1937 was especially harsh. The aimag population suffered from natural calamities and hunger. ‘In the western regions there were places completely depopulated.’58 In such a poor state, the country faced a real threat – it had to resist a strong and militarised Japan. The complete job on providing a defence system and improving its economic basis was made by the USSR. For the Soviet Union, the costs were high, but they would be greater if Japanese troops marched into Ulaanbaatar. In 1937–1938 the Soviets launched a large-scale programme of economic assistance to the MPR, which included brickworks, the construction of lime, cement and mechanical-repair plants, enlarging coal mines in Nalaikha and launching a range of scientific investigation projects. On 19 January 1937, the Soviet People’s Commissariat published a Resolution on constructing a narrow-gauge railway from Ulaanbaatar to Nalaikha, for which subsidies of 2.8 million roubles were issued. Later the costs were recalculated and increased to 20 million roubles. The Mongol Bank and TsentrVoenTorg (Centre for Military Trade, Rus.) functioned on Soviet loans. New Soviet specialists were sent to the MPR. The turnover with the Soviet Union increased. ‘The amount of Soviet subsidising, not counting credits to industrial enterprises, for which there was a separate article, reached 10 million tögrög in 1938.’59 The MPR’s

Figure 5.6 The worker Baasan


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success in creating a military–technical foundation and the victory at Khalkhin Gol in 1939 were possible owing to Soviet investment and overall assistance. As has been stated above and in previous chapters, the country’s militarisation, which had been increasing since 1935, played an important role in the social transformation. The ‘method of combined war’ was put into practice again: during military training and on war fronts the necessary ideological propaganda was instilled in soldiers, which would not be possible during peacetime. The ‘political and educational work’ at Khalkhin Gol was very carefully conducted, and played a part in uniting troops and leading them to victory. Khalkhin Gol became a kind of school for military and political cadres. Documents published in Ulaanbaatar by a group of Mongolian and Russian scholars60 show how the new ideology inflamed the minds of commanders and ordinary tsirik. The psychological impact of war on the nomads was crucial to the social transformation: military campaigns consolidated the Mongols, providing them with a feeling of unity and collective strength, especially in victory. The victory at Khalkhin Gol was associated with the name of Choibalsan and the cult of his personality (similar to the personal cult of Stalin in the USSR) reached its height. By means of repression, public prosecutions and eulogising the great leader of the Mongol people, Marshal Choibalsan, the nomadic society was mobilised and militarised against outside threats. In the spring of 1939, A. Amar was replaced as Prime Minister, expelled from the party and arrested. He was sent to the Soviet Union where, in 1941, he was shot. From March 1939 to the end of his life, Choibalsan would remain the Prime Minister. He was simultaneously Minister of Foreign Affairs. He was the only person from the group of 11 MPRP CC members elected at the Ninth Congress to ‘live’ to see the Tenth Congress in 1940, not only remaining in the CC but also winning over all its members and becoming the sole leader. Analysing changes in MPRP policy on its cadres introduced by Choibalsan, shows that the Second MPRP CC Plenum of 20 March 1936 produced regulations that made joining the party more difficult. Subsequently, ‘people were refused citizenship according to the Constitution’, ‘secular and yellow feudal lords’ and ‘people supporting the monastic–lamaist system’ were not allowed to become party members.61 The MPRP under Choibalsan was not an open organisation that recruited volunteers to enlarge its ranks (as it had done in the 1920s), but rather an ongoing and risky test of political loyalty (and, in 1937–1939, of survival) for any person desiring to penetrate the political elite. MPRP membership numbers in the second half of the 1930s show, on the one hand, that the party was constantly incorporating new members, and, on the other hand, that it was repeatedly purged.62 Some contemporary Mongolian historians believe that in Moscow Choibalsan received an ultimate order from Stalin to eliminate all lamas (a few years earlier, in response to the same order, Genden had slapped Stalin in the face).63 Documentary evidence in support of this claim is lacking, but Stalin’s firm position on the ‘lama question’ is indisputable. Nevertheless, as has



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been pointed out many times, the anti-lama policy at all its stages was mainly a Mongolian invention. In 1935–1936 amendments to the statute on the military tax on lamas of recruitment age were made, which not only increased the tax but demanded high lamas to pay a higher percentage. In 1936, a special tax on high lamas was introduced, and in 1937, as a state reform on militarisation of the economy, a new law on the military tax on lamas was introduced.64 All these steps marked the completion of the next repressive stage, to ‘solve the lama question’. Active Buddhist preachers were persecuted and accused of counterrevolution.65 At the same time, in Soviet Buryatia, the reformers of Buddhism were propagating a new interpretation in Mahayana schools, which further divided MPR Buddhists and Buryatia. To prevent possible contacts with Inner Mongolia’s monasteries, in 1936–1937 about 50 Outer Mongolian monasteries along the eastern and southern borders were moved to the north and partly liquidated. Children and teenagers under-18 were not allowed to become monks and monastery admission limits were introduced for adults. Monks were encouraged to secularise, and those who abandoned their spiritual oath were given money. In 1936, the first lamas’ industrial cartel was established, and by 1938, 100 cartels existed. In the same year, 760 of 771 monasteries were closed. In 1939, the remainder of monastic property was expropriated. Later, in Soviet and Mongolian textbooks, students would read: ‘The majority of low-ranking lamas, rightfully understanding the truly humanistic MPRP policy, left their monasteries and started various economic activities.’66 The MPRP policy was ‘truly humanistic’: according to some data by Mongolian historians, in the 1930s approximately 35,000 lamas were prosecuted.67 Some scholars claim that out of a total of 100,000 Buddhists approximately 90,000 were prosecuted in the 1930s.68 This was how the formerly monolithic monastic local corporations were ruined. In 1937–1939 the country’s population was filtered as though through a sieve. Structurally, Mongolia became a new society,69 but, economically it did not change significantly: nomadic pastoralism still determined the domestic life and communication of the people. To maintain and develop social reforms that had been launched and implemented over the 20 years of the Mongolian revolution required further institutionalisation and bureaucratisation of all the state–party structures. The Soviet Union would guide all subsequent MPR social policy. In March 1939 the Mongolian Commission attached to the RCP(b) CC Political Bureau was eliminated and a number of special Soviet departments took charge of decisions concerning various Mongolian affairs. Narkom VneshTorg (People’s Commissariat of Foreign Trade, Rus.) supervised trade and economic ties between the two countries, the People’s Commissariat of Domestic Affairs (PCDA) monitored domestic politics, the People’s Commissariat of Heavy Industry managed plant construction, and the People’s Commissariat of Transportation took over the railways. This departmental control over USSR–MPR relations would remain intact into the 1990s.

6

1940–1945


The Mongolian Arad and the Second World War

The divisions in Mongolian society, marked by extreme tension between former and new power-holders, ceased to exist in the mid-1920s. By the 1930s, the new strategy of development was visible and by the 1940s the restructuring of constant elements partly took place. The nomads’ latent tendency toward unity under the leadership of strong and despotic ruler, a ‘qan-father’, came to the fore via the personal cult of Kh. Choibalsan. The corporate monastic system was broken and new party structures occupied the power vacuum in local communities. In addition, the Khalkhin Gol battle embodied the Mongol desire for independence. However, the process of social transformation was incomplete. Social terror at the end of the 1930s imposed fear on the population and led to a passive–conformist attitude towards the new administration but did not provide sustainable social development and improvement of exceedingly low living standards. Only in the 1940s did the MPRP and the People’s government start thinking seriously about improving living standard for all the citizens and launching an adequate social programme. The Tenth MPRP Congress’s decisions fully reflected this shift in social priorities. The Tenth MPRP Congress is an important landmark in the MPR’s history. Compared to previous congresses, the Tenth demonstrated political and ideological unity, and a complete lack of factions, deviations and competing groups. Preparation for the Congress began as soon as Choibalsan returned from Moscow at the beginning of the 1940s. During the preparation no contradictions or conflicting opinions appeared: all the major manifestos and resolutions were already approved by the leaders of the two peoples. Choibalsan was the undisputed Mongol leader,1 praised by all Congress delegates, and everyone assumed the Congress would go smoothly. At the Congress, much praise (as traditional Mongolian magtal2) was bestowed on the Soviet Union. Soviet advisers were so confident of a positive political outcome of the Congress that Comintern representatives, for the first time ever, did not even attend,3 nor did the official RCP(b) delegation. The Soviet representatives at the Congress were the Adviser for the People’s government, Yu. K. Prihodov; the Instructor attached to the MPRP CC, D.I. Sidorov; and the Secretary General of the Tuvinian People’s Revolutionary Party CC, S. Toka, and his


The Second World War

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fellow party diplomats. No participants anticipated any critiques of MPR foreign policy or suggestions to change the character of Soviet–Mongolian relations. On the contrary, the Congress began with unanimous approval of the MPRP CC and of the governmental course of ‘strengthening the unbreakable fraternal friendship with the Soviet Union’. Another characteristic feature of the Tenth Congress was the propagation of the mythical ‘theory of non-capitalist development under the banner of Marxist–Leninist teaching’. (The project of translating all of Marx’s works into Mongolian would be launched only in 1941.) In March 1940, the Tenth Congress adopted the new party programme of creating socialism in the MPR. Summarising the results of MPRP and government activities on building the new society, Congressional delegates announced that Mongolia was already ‘firmly standing on the rails of non-capitalist development’. To a certain extent, that statement was correct: however the country’s development was defined, it was clearly not capitalist. Delegates even believed that Mongolian society had already achieved a few stages of socialist development. The newly created myth was telling about the ‘revolutionary achievements hard-won by the working people in the struggle for their interests’. In reality very little was done in the interest of the common people (the arad). To support the myth that public welfare was a top priority and to guarantee a positive public attitude towards the MPRP, the Tenth Congress focused on economic problems and on increasing the number of livestock in particular. S.K. Roschin, in his book, illustrates this increase during the

Figure 6.1 Members of the Central Committee at the Tenth MPRP Congress (1940)


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1930s, from 19.6 million animals in 1933, to 26.2 million in 1940, to 27.5 million in 1941. The context of the given period, however, remains unclear. Additionally, compared to the livestock population before the jas campaign (23.5 million in 1930), the increase, in general, appeared to be relatively insignificant and occurred only because the New Course indulged private households and the first cooperatives. At the same time, as I pointed out in the previous chapter, nationalisation of the economy, political repression and militarisation did not serve economic growth. Expropriated resources were spent on party building and the military. The measures to increase the livestock population had not only an economic but also an administrative purpose: progress in cattle breeding was planned in close connection with the development of arad industrial enterprises under party control at all levels.4 The party was viewed as capable of introducing changes to the nomadic economy. The underdevelopment of nomadism was explained by ‘feudal remnants’ and socialism was believed capable of intensifying cattle production. When travelling in the hödöö nowadays and seeing vast valleys with freely grazing cattle, a ger or groups of ger separated from each other by dozens, sometimes hundreds, of kilometres, and the natural, non-mechanical mode of production among arad families, one wonders whether there is any social reform or political regime capable of changing this picture. Obviously, the so-called ‘non-capitalist way of development’ did not essentially change the nomadic economy as the dominant mode of production, so the matrix of the social system remained untouched. Socialism introduced certain changes to the system and tradition, however, without transforming the foundation. The new administration’s agents filled the systemic vacuum that appeared after the elimination of the privileged (the noyon and lamas), and simultaneously adapted to the power hierarchies and patronage relationships common among the nomads. The new generation of state and party officials adjusted to normative social stratification: a young 18-year-old man could not easily acquire a high position as he could have in the 1920s and 1930s; at the beginning of the 1940s, he had a chance to take his first career steps in a local party cell, then, as he was acquiring life and administrative experience, listening to his elder comrades, he could gradually navigate his way to the top of the power hierarchy. Strict subordination between older high-ranking and young low-ranking officials was always obligatory in society. At the Tenth Congress, Yu. Tsedenbal wrote a report on the state of agriculture.5 He was elected as a member of the Presidium and then Secretary General of the MPRP CC. The promotion of this ‘modest and quiet’ man was no accident. Most historians agree that Tsedenbal was Moscow’s candidate. Choibalsan, after making short work of all competitors and ‘old’ party members and acquiring full power (by the Tenth Congress he controlled the CC, the Presidium, the Small Khural, and various ministries and public organisations), was probably searching for a loyal assistant and possible successor. Soon after, in August 1940, Choibalsan left the post of Minister of



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Domestic Affairs. He gave his young protégés – Procurer General Jambaldorj and the Head of the Small Khural Tsedev – the task of initiating a number of political plots. In 1942, Choibalsan and Tsedenbal signed a secret resolution according to which the MDA was allowed to torture prisoners. Repressions occurred in 1940, 1941 and 1942. The Eighth Great Khural was prepared based on the outcome of the Tenth Congress and held on 22 June to 5 July 1940. The Khural became known for adopting the new MPR Constitution, which was a copy of Stalin’s USSR Constitution of 1936, a fact that Mongolian lawmakers at the Khural proudly pointed out in the draft. In composition, the new Constitution was a stronger document than the previous one of 1924; it pronounced changes in society and state management that had occurred between 1924 and 1940, and proclaimed the MPR an independent state (although the 1924 Soviet–Chinese agreement had not been cancelled) that had eliminated feudal lords and was on its way toward non-capitalist development ‘in the context of a smooth transition to socialism’. The Constitution reaffirmed the principle of nationalisation of land and natural resources, which were termed the people’s property, but also announced the existence of cooperative and private property. The new Constitution proclaimed the equality of all citizens in the domain of civil rights. The new Constitution reflected the MPRP’s evolution and the first stages of the nomenklatura’s formation. Article 95, in particular, was telling of party members’ standing as practically a new privileged social class, as it proclaimed the party’s leading role. Thus its adoption, in essence, precluded any hesitation or discussion about the MPR’s future development in accordance with the Soviet model. It was assumed that after the Tenth Congress and the Eighth Great Khural a stage of ‘directly building socialism’ began, and the previous period (1921–1940) was called ‘revolutionary–democratic’. To build socialism and encourage the working class to work for it, a number of measures were taken in the second half of 1940 and the beginning of 1941 that imitated Stalin’s 1939 reforms regarding strengthening discipline at work. In June 1940, the Presidium of the Small Khural replaced the six-hour working day with the eight-hour working day, and in December, the MPRP CC Plenum adopted one-year plans as part of its economic management strategy. In 1941, the Plenum also accepted the plan for developing the people’s economy and culture. In February 1941, at the 24th Session of the Small Khural, a new Law on Labour was passed, which regulated employee hiring and dismissal, working hours, salaries, employee rights and responsibilities, etc., and marked the establishment of strict government control over the emerging industrial enterprises, which, along with public organisations, were required to report their activities to the party. As the Law on Labour was adopted, labour books were introduced for workers and officials. Both groups (especially the workers) were absolute minorities in 1941; over time, the number of officials would increase, but a shortage of workers would always plague Mongolia.


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To consolidate state and party control over the economy, the State Administration on Planning, Registration and Control attached to the MPR Union of Ministers was founded in May 1941. Directed by the MPRP, it passed recommendations to the aimag administration, which in turn, together with local party cells, distributed plans on cooperative land use. The principle of social stratification of the arad was strictly followed: according to the tax laws of 1940 and 1941, state agricultural enterprises, cartels and poor households enjoyed considerable privileges, while big and successful households were labelled ‘exploitative’ and were highly taxed. Agricultural, hay-cutting and hunting households were untaxed. Although agricultural and hay-cutting households enjoyed the privilege of being untaxed, the crops were still poor; the only advantage was some additional hay for the cattle in wintertime.6 Cooperative members were exempted from urton duty, which remained obligatory for those employed in the private sector.7 As before the revolution, the arad were at the service of state officials. Some people (many lamas among them) quickly moved from the private to the state sector, as state policy drove the proliferation of cooperatives: 23 domestic craft cartels had existed in 1934 and 152 in 1940. The Second World War ruined plans for the peaceful development of the MPR’s economy and the increase of its citizens’ welfare. The question of ‘how to survive’ once again appeared on the agenda with extreme urgency. At the same time, the war became a convenient pretext for the party and government to decisively reinforce the policy of economic nationalisation, for instance by introducing a system that required industries (not only private) to provide obligatory supplies of raw materials and products, calling the process ‘reconstructing the organs in charge of trade and procurements’. In 1942, a law was adopted that required households to give meat to the state. Naturally, not all aimags immediately reacted favourably to state plans for procuring meat, wool, milk and other products. The planned amounts of products were expropriated by repressive methods under the pretext of a ‘wide agitation and bureaucratisation campaign’. The party issued decisions on using domestic resources for the production of food and consumer products, which kick-started the food industry. In 1940, a campaign on the increase of state purchases of wool was launched. The slogan ‘Wool is Gold’ was created and all aimags and sums received special wool procurement plans whose execution was controlled by party organs. In January 1941, a law on obligatory supplies of wool by the arad households to the state was adopted. The government increased the purchase prices on different types of wool and introduced regulations on exchanging raw materials for consumer goods. In this way, state purchases and plans replaced conscriptions for the noyon and lamas. The birth of a new Mongolian intelligentsia coincided with the closure of the ‘lama question’ and, by the Resolution of the MPRP CC and the Union of Ministers in March 1941, the introduction of a new Cyrillic-based Mongolian alphabet. This symbolic event could be characterised as the final blow to the disappearing sangha and the high tradition of Buddhist culture. Still,



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much work had to be done to teach people the new alphabet and to establish a Soviet style education system. For Mongolia, the beginning of the socialist period8 (1941–1945) was not only a difficult time, as the USSR was fighting world fascism and could not provide the MPR with appropriate material assistance,9 but also a crucially important stage of introducing and broadening party dictatorship at the local level. Comparing the MPRP Congressional and Plenum reports of the mid-1920s and 1930s with those of the early 1940s, shows that there are different social problems between the two periods. During the latter, there were neither ‘leftists’ nor ‘rightists’, nor passionate nationalists or vigorous revolutionaries. There was no conflict between the MPRP and the URY, as the latter appeared to be under the ‘delicate’ control of the former. No one was agitating for a counter-revolutionary uprising. The focus switched from the capital to the periphery; from Ulaanbaatar political life (which had already become less contentious and event-filled, more predictable and routine) to social and economic problems in the hödöö. Trying to imagine life outside the capital was no longer necessary, as more comprehensive reports on local conflicts and more accurate statistics became available. At the MPRP CC Plenums, people began discussing regulations on session organisation (which 15 years ago had seemed unrealistic) and the new, more detailed and factual reports. At the beginning of the 1940s, the party started developing its bureaucracy and launched campaigns to teach nomads how to deal with documentation and paper work. Obviously, Yu. Tsedenbal stood out as one of the few who had received a good secular education. In 1942–1943 a renewal of party member identity papers was held and 188 commissions were formed all over the country. All lamas and former noyon (who remained in the party) and ‘old’ members and participants in the civil war were expelled from the party. However, a few former high lamas somehow managed to keep their places in the party apparatus. Gradually, the party ranks were becoming entrenched and it was not easy to leave the party freely and without difficulty (in 1943, 5.7 per cent of party members left the party on their own initiative).10 The party’s social composition changed, and these components were categorised in a different, more functional way.

The MPRP’s social composition at the end of 1943 Social groups

% of total party members

Officials and labour intelligentsia Arad nomads directly working in their households Military members and industrial employees Others

41.5 29 24.6 4.9

Source: RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D.11. ll.10–11.

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This data was introduced by Tsedenbal in his report at the 1943 CC Plenum. Those who accounted for the 4.9 per cent labelled ‘others’ can only be guessed. Were they lamas, private entrepreneurs or homeless people? The number of military members increased as a result of the Khalkhin Gol battle. Special attention was paid to a party member’s social background. In 1943, MPRP members were classified based on their social background in the following way:


The MPRP members’ social background, 1943 Party members

Number of people

- of arad origin - of lama origin - of taiji origin

13,281 1,866 74

Source: RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 11. ll. 10–11. Social background of MPRP members admitted to the party in 1939–1944 Social layers

Percentage (%)

Military Officials Workers Arad

66.5 20.1 3.5 9.8

Source: RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 11. ll. 10–11.

The appearance of the category ‘social origin’ in party questionnaires signalled the broadening of party control over the population. The renewal of party documents was occurring too slowly in some aimags, particularly in spring and summer, when the nomads roamed. The arad could not understand the meaning of censuses, polls and documentation; filling in document blanks; supplying personal characteristics and autobiographical information, especially in a concrete and detailed way; and they often lost their party identity cards. At the time, Mongols working for state and party services developed a peculiar social illness called yadargaa.11 Symptoms included extreme tiredness, apathy, and a physical and psychological inability to fulfil work responsibilities. The arad, who had only recently been roaming the steppe, were unable to attend meetings and lectures or keep to the working day schedule. Soviet advisers in Mongolia did not understand the essence of yadargaa and complained that ‘many Mongols could not suppress their natural laziness’.12 Implementation of labour laws was a complicated task in Mongolia. Nevertheless, ‘political education’ and ‘party discipline’ became the slogans of that period. (The concept of discipline is ambiguous in present day Mongolia as well.) The ‘combination of economic and party work’ also



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became a difficult task,13 which only a few Ulaanbaatar officials could manage. The ‘party economy’ was another new concept.14 On one hand, it sounded rather strange to nomads, who only a short time earlier (after the confiscation and prosecutions) had learned what the ‘real force’ of the party meant, and could not fully comprehend their place in party building. On the other hand, the economic dimension brought the party closer to the people and made it easier to identify with them, since the profits of party membership were obvious. The party darga15 happened to be the same officials in power as in the past, but the option to embark on a career and join the elite became available to more citizens. Another concept that sounded strange, but in fact did not have any essentially new content, was ‘party task’ or ‘party assignment’. The population perceived these tasks as a means of labour conscription. Party documents explained ‘party tasks’ in the following way: ‘to find and collect for state purchase that amount of wool, sheep … by that date’.16 Under the family name of any party member in the local cell, a long list of such ‘debts’ could be found. What was really new in the management system in the MPR after 20 years of revolution? What really changed? Change occurred first in the administration system. By the 1940s, party leaders, formerly known only to citizens living in the capital, expanded their cults (and also the party’s tyrannical image, as had been done in 1937–1940) among the aimags’ darga, who had to react accordingly. The arad reacted to the change of bosses rather quickly, since it was happening in a familiar context: a transfer of political power in the capital followed immediately by the arrival of the new darga in the hödöö, who took revenge over the former darga, introduced new taxes and conscription, prosecuted some of the population – then life went on as before until the next round, when the very same thing happened. However, the new darga started interfering in the everyday life of Mongolians: they agitated against Buddhism. At the beginning of the 1930s, the population had reacted to the anti-lama policy with mass protests, but their resistance was suppressed. At the beginning of the 1940s, the people, frightened by executions, did not act openly and instead hid their resentments. The elderly were silently smoking pipes at meetings, demonstrating their internal resistance and non-acceptance of the new bosses, who encroached on their faith. Conflicts, nevertheless, were frequent: some people could not stand the new darga’s self-assured impudence, their familiar tone, and stood up against them. Sometimes a person was imprisoned for a few years as punishment for speaking against a boss.17 Difficult economic conditions caused by war on Soviet territory led to the consolidation of party structures at the local level. Local darga tried to control and redistribute, to their own advantage, the small amount of goods supplied to their aimags and khoshuus. Such elite corruption was familiar to Mongolian society. The famine of 1941–1945 did not provoke social protest owing to agitator propaganda that emphasised the sufferings and heroism of


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the Soviet people in the war. The nomads, who were traditionally fond of heroic epics, avidly listened to the agitators. Common Mongols created their own myths about the Soviet Union’s war against fascist Germany. Interestingly, even nowadays some old Mongolian men tell tall tales about their imagined participation in military operations on the Soviet–German front.18 Such personal histories are characteristic of an imagined direct involvement in the war and heroic struggle with the great northern neighbour against universal evil, which was an important factor in the consolidation of nomadic society. Today, collective memories of Mongol military glory in the past century are reflected in stories of the Second World War. The MPR’s assistance to the Soviets during the war is frequently the first topic Mongols mention in conversation with a Russian. To address this question is a challenge, first because both sides are extremely sensitive, and, second, because ideological myths have appeared that conceal the truth. In the best traditions of Soviet and MPR Mongol studies, it was usually a priori to accept the thesis of Mongolia’s assistance to the Soviet people: 11 trains of presents to the front; sales and transfer of horses and cattle as a gift; meat supplies; the column of tanks ‘Revolutionary Mongolia’; and the Escadrille ‘Mongolian arad’. All this assistance did in fact take place. At the same time, original archival documents tell us that the USSR provided the MPR with goods, equipment and medication,19 which is entirely logical: isolated and weakened, the Mongolian economy did not have a chance of survival without Soviet help; otherwise, domestic and foreign policies could have changed and even opened the far eastern Soviet border to the Japanese. Despite all the hyperbole, the Mongols’ romantic image of the Soviet people, who suffered and heroically fought fascism, is sincere. They really did try to help them with their limited technical and human resources. As mentioned above, at the end of the 1940s the first one-year plan was initiated in Mongolia. Attempts to increase the amount of livestock by introducing a planned economy had demonstrated positive results at the end of the 1930s. In 1941, the total livestock population was 27.5 million. It was expected to increase to 30 million in 1942, but in July 1942, it was only 24.3 million. That figure was alarming, as it recalled the poor condition of cattle in 1937–1938. Wartime and social terror were reflected in these statistics, but the weaker the economy became, the more often accusations of ‘poor party performance’ were heard. Some pronouncements were nearly comical: for instance, the infertility of matrix cattle in 1942 was explained by the party as the ‘non-fulfilment by party and state organs of the CC and government resolutions on inducing autumn cattle-mating’.20 In 1943–1945 crucial decisions on developing cattle breeding were made at the MPRP CC Plenums and sessions of the Small Khural. Special cabinets on cattle breeding were established at MPRP CC and aimag party committees. The party interfered with the Mongol nomadic household economy in the most inefficient way. Cadre rotations at local level were chaotic, resulting in the appointment of unskilled and inexperienced


Figure 6.2 Preparing shoes for the Soviet front

Figure 6.3 Tanks’ column ‘Revolutionary Mongols’ and Marshal Kh. Choibalsan


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people to leading agricultural posts. Many officials, particularly those who worked with personnel, perceived themselves as a new generation of taiji and determined wages so unsystematically that the arad were not receiving their salaries and becoming debtors. Thus, once again the new stage of the revolution did not improve the living standards of the arad, who remained an ‘oppressed class’.21 Unrealistic plans imposed by the central government upon the aimag, inflicted harm on the common people, who were obliged to obey and fulfil the plan until the sum darga corrected them in whatever way they saw fit. The arad often had neither basic equipment nor proper clothes and shoes. The transportation system was still carting, and urton duty had not been abolished. The difference in state purchasing prices of cattle for the cooperatives and for the arad, respectively, was not in favour of the latter. The nomads had to kill cattle to satisfy state meat purchases or to speculate in the market. Particularly during the war, the government needed a way to maintain its rule and, consequently, to support the economy, it did not prevent the private sector from functioning. Although this contradicted the concept of a socialist economy, the government pretended that there was no conflict: a private entrepreneur was supposed to be unable to compete with a kolkhoz farmer, since the advantages of a collective planned state economy were obvious to everyone. In reality, the MPR could not survive without a private sector during the war. Because cooperative development was still not fully functional at the beginning of the 1940s, and the arad owned the majority of cattle privately, the local administration had to take the latter’s interests into consideration in order to fulfil plans requested by the wartime regime. Local officials often ignored official governmental resolutions that were supposed to support cooperatives.22 Thus in 1942, a new Codex of Laws on Utilisation of Land was published, according to which cooperatives were allowed to select the best lands for cattle grazing (pastures had previously been available to everyone and nomads employed in the private sector had been pasturing their herds on land belonging to cooperatives).23 Nevertheless, nomads went on roaming freely and grazing their private cattle. The local darga would be punished for that later, after the war. During the war there were few cattle in the cooperatives, their members were poor24 and the state did not tax them. However, the newly formed cooperative systems let the local darga use cooperatives for their own profit in different ways. Embezzlements were frequent in the MonTsKopSoiuz (the Union of Mongolian Central Cooperatives, Rus.) and by 1942 it was left without working assets.25 In addition, cooperatives had to sell cattle for the state at a fixed price depending on the number of cattle. For private households purchase prices were fixed lower than for cooperatives. Illicit means of manipulating the economy were unprofitable for everyone but provided for the minimal functioning of the system. Hunger and poverty caused by unsuccessful management could always be explained by wartime misfortune.



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The Mongolian arad found themselves in a familiar position – abandoned in hard times, heavily taxed, exploited and suppressed by the extra-legal power of local administration. The cattle population declined by 6.2 million during the war. The increase in human population growth in 1940–1944 remained approximately at the same average level as in 1935–1940. According to the census, the MPR population was 743,800 at the end of 1940 and 759,100 at the end of 1944.26 In the early 1940s, the process of industrialisation in Mongolia stagnated. In trade and industry, bad management and misappropriation were common.27 The Mongols did not know how to manage a modern economy and did not have a clear idea of national welfare. In the absence of proper donations from the Soviet Union, revenues from vodka production were supposed to finance enterprises in other sectors, which never happened,28 as the alcohol industry was not booming in Mongolia: the nomads knew very well how to make excellent arkhi29 in their households. Because of these economic failures during the war, party leaders failed to win popular support. Submission and silent conciliation were motivated by fear, while protest was suppressed by the necessity to survive during hard times and poor living conditions. Thus the critical moment had come: the regime, after eliminating those who had stood in its way, had to improve the well-being of its poor citizens. Neglecting the arad and failing to improve their lives rendered the imposed ideology meaningless to them. Economic problems could have been explained by the war, but by 1945, the time had come to induce rapid change in the economic structure in order to sustain the party and state. New slogans appeared, such as, ‘We should provide every bag with a school, dispensary, veterinary dispensary, club, radio and electricity.’30 Many years would pass before those slogans would be fulfilled, but they inspired and raised expectations (against the backdrop of victories over fascism, which many Mongols perceived very personally), penetrating people’s hearts. Common citizens, tired of terror and war, needed hope. They authored their own myths about war heroes and illusions of a bright future. In reality, the regular stage of the MPRP’s evolution and social transformation was coming to an end. The new privileged echelon of party officials was being created. Party functionaries had their own hierarchy, but involvement even at the lowest level conferred social guarantees and, more importantly, career opportunities – gradual promotion up the social pyramid. A party member had a better chance of being appointed to a high post, a party member who was a military serviceman still better, and a participant of the Khalkhin Gol battle was in the best position. The last were Khalkhin Gol participants who had attended the party school and completed their political training in 1939. Some of them remained in service in 1945, while others had been demobilised. They were attracted to leading party and governmental positions. Thus, in 1939–1944, the MPRP grew by recruiting soldiers and a relatively young but rapidly expanding stratum of officials, the nomenklatura. Nomads accounted for only 10 per cent of all party members admitted during this sixyear period. In 1944 there were only 5,162 (26.6 per cent)31 arad party

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members, while the party included 19,843 members in all. In addition, they were more often denied membership.32 All the 1930s talk about creating the ‘arad party’, with an arad majority, had itself been mere propaganda. In the 1940s, the MPRP became a bona fide extra-legal regime like the RCP(b), transforming itself into the new ruling class, the nomenklatura. The party was the foundation upon which leaders accumulated wealth. Party members increased their herds and accrued personal property. Data on the personal possessions of MPRP members as of 1 July 1944 reflected the following: The MPRP members’ personal possessions, 1944 Number of bodo

Number of party members

None Less than 20 Less than 50 Less than 100 Less than 200 Less than 300 Less than 400 Less than 500 More than 500

2,483 6,986 6,805 2,497 575 59 9 4 3

Source: RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 20. ll. 24–25.

Party admission became more selective and took into account the candidate’s individual qualities. In order to prepare acceptable candidates, the party created a ‘broad circle of non-party activists’33 who, in order to gain party membership and the consequent integration into the new social elite, had to conduct themselves in a politically correct fashion. Subjected to such a competitive process, future party members realised all the potential advantages and what it was like to have nearly absolute power over the people in their hödöö. Obviously, the system of primary party organisations functioned poorly in the 1940s, as it had just begun to take shape. However, unlike it had been in the 1920s, now there was no chance to deviate from the determined socio-political course: while the majority of the population was frightened and simply wanted to survive, however, another group, the more involved minority, was looking to the future and seeing the advantages of their position. This was fertile ground for the formation of the Mongolian nomenklatura according to the Soviet pattern. The nomenklatura as a power system extended throughout all party and state institutions, consolidating them and recruiting from all social strata. It was, according to M. Voslenski’s definition, a privileged class with its own internal hierarchy and stages of promotion. However, the nomenklatura was not the whole society; it was linked to non-privileged groups insofar as society was a resource for the nomenklatura’s evolution (which was why Tsedenbal thought it was necessary to form a broad non-party activists’



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circle). Since the structure of socialist society assumed the most active role belonged to the nomenklatura elite, the non-party masses – the common arad, from whom neither a deep understanding of social and political problems nor initiatives to address them were required (despite all the propaganda of bringing knowledge to the masses) – were given a passive role. Mechanisms to recruit cadres from various social strata into the nomenklatura were put in motion: the most notable candidates, ready to become loyal executors of decisions from the top, using all possible means, could expect automatic appointments to certain positions. However, as the country gradually industrialised and socialist society developed, and as the nomenklatura accumulated wealth, the path became narrower, then practically closed to the common person. The means of social success was a network of useful acquaintances: the nomenklatura did not want to let random people into their ranks. However, the nomenklatura system would not fully develop until the 1970–1980s. In the 1940s, repression and educational work among the masses, the recruiting grounds for the nomenklatura, were common. As in Stalin’s USSR, the MPR under Choibalsan preferred to admit young people to the party. ‘Old’ party members were becoming dangerous in the eyes of the party’s leaders, as they remembered the first stages of the revolution and could not accept the abandonment of its original goals and slogans (such as, for instance, the elimination of the lamas and anti-religious policy). As of 1944, MPRP members, according to their years of membership, broke down as follows:34 The MPRP membership reflected in the years of party membership, 1944 Years of party membership


Less than 5 From 5–10 From 10–15 More than 15

8,792 6,262 2,456 2,333


Those who had been members for more than 15 years broke down as follows: The MPRP membership reflected in the year of admission to the party, 1944 Year of party admission


1921 1922 1923 1924 1925 1926–1930

39 74 105 217 243 1,655



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In 1941–1945 the main principles of the MPRP’s development (according to the RCP(b) pattern) were crystallised. The party totally controlled social policy and executed central government directives, made regular checks of local party and governmental employees and monitored their work.35 As usual, war provided additional opportunities to consolidate party control at all levels. The ‘method of combined war’ was once again in use. In 1943, instead of appointing its members to military commissar posts (which used to entail the same rights as military commanders), the party introduced deputy posts for undertaking the party’s political work in the army. The best political agitators were sent to the army. Soviet instructors watchfully supervised key military commanders and more Mongolian students were admitted to Soviet military academies and other high profile educational institutions. In 1944, 68.3 per cent of officers in the Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Army (MPRA) were party members or candidates to the party. This paragraph describes how political control was executed in the army by means of the party. During the Second World War significant structural–organisational changes occurred within the MPRA. First, the army increased in size four-to-fivefold, and the required duration of military service increased. Second, in 1944 the Law on Universal Military Obligation was adopted, requiring all men aged 18 and over to serve in the military. Third, the ranks of generals and officers, as well as other military ranks, were introduced. In the MPRA General Staff, different types of troops were run by special administrative bodies. Statutes on discipline during military duty and garrison guards were renewed. The Mongolian army finally acquired the structure and features of the Soviet Red Army, whose influence was so overwhelming (continuously providing military equipment, techniques and cadres) that it was impossible to separate the activities of Mongolian and Soviet troops during the war against Japan. Both armies were fighting under one leadership. In the mid-1940s, Soviet and MPR citizens existed practically under one united leadership: people shared the same leaders and cults, basked in the victory of socialism over fascism (and, as some agitators propagandised, over capitalism) in the war. The victory validated the chosen political course and changed the relationship between Asia and the Western world and the paradigm of international relations. At that moment, the question of Outer Mongolia’s legal status once again became an issue on the international agenda. De jure, the MPR remained a part of China, which was unwilling to give up territorial possessions. As S.G. Luzyanin writes, in January 1942 the Operative Command of the China’s Military Committee was considering a plan to eliminate the possibility of MPR independence and instead grant it some degree of autonomous status within China.36 However, the war created another possible solution. One of the conditions of the USSR’s participation in the war against Japan was the ‘preservation of Outer Mongolia’s status quo’, established by the Yalta Agreement of 11 February 1945. Further Soviet–Chinese negotiations on this question were blocked by disagreements on the definition of status quo. Beijing insisted that the term was used as a



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formality and in essence recognised Chinese suzerainty. Moscow, in turn, interpreted the term as de facto Mongolian independence. The result of negotiations was predetermined by the USSR’s politics in the Far East: the Mongols conducted joint military operations with the USSR against Japan (the MPR declared war against Japan on 10 August 1945, following the Soviet example) on Chinese territory, once again provoking the notion of unity among all Mongolian tribes in Inner Mongolia. After liberating Manchuria and Inner Mongolia from Japanese occupation, Soviet–Mongolian troops attempted to establish their influence over those territories. On 30 August, they marched into Kalgan, neutralising the Chinese communists already there. Chinese resistance to Outer Mongolia’s independence was broken and Beijing agreed to recognise the MPR as a sovereign state, though it also tried to ‘save face by placing a condition of conducting plebiscite’.37 On 14 August 1945, a Soviet–Chinese agreement on friendship and alliance was signed and, finally, on 20 October the plebiscite was carried out in the MPR. According to the Small Khural resolution of 21 September 1945, all MPR citizens enjoying the right to vote had to take part in the plebiscite, whose results were predictable: the Mongols (practically 100 per cent of all voters) voted for independence. Soviet and Chinese observers were present during the plebiscite. The Central Commission’s minutes on the process of voting was published and sent to Moscow and Beijing on 10 November. China accepted the plebiscite results and finally recognised the MPR on 5 January 1946. Independence was probably the most important event in the twentieth century history of Mongolia, as it provided liberation from the legacy of Manchu rule. Still the USSR later ceded Inner Mongolia to the Communist Party of China (CPC), which soon after completely suppressed the pan-Mongolist movement. Interestingly, the MPR was passive in that situation; hoping for the success of its application for UN membership (its first attempt to join in the summer of 1946 failed), Ulaanbaatar abandoned the Inner Mongolian question, preferring to strengthen its own newly acquired independence and separate itself from those Mongols who shared another future within the PRC. As R. Rupen writes, Soviet–Mongolian troops, when withdrawing from Inner Mongolia, took 15,000 Japanese prisoners, who subsequently performed the hard labour of constructing new urban infrastructure in Ulaanbaatar during the first post-war years.38 As the next chapter will show, the first five years after the war would entail economic and political hardship for the population: restoring the civil economy would take place alongside party expansion and a hardening of repressive domestic policy. However, these processes would continue against a different ideological and moral background, as the country was now de jure recognised, and its citizens were proud of that. During the war, Soviet civil and military instructors strengthened Choibalsan’s repressive regime and expanded state–party control over the population. By enlarging the official strata, the first stages of the Mongolian nomenklatura’s formation took place.

7

1946–1952


Socialist nomadism

Victory in the Second World War emboldened Mongolian society. As with many other peoples of Asia, the war forged a new collective identity among the Mongols as a people of a modern nation that opposed world fascism and won. The consequent increase of the USSR’s popularity in the international arena strengthened the Soviet–MPR alliance as well. The Mongols fully recognised their contribution as part of the socialist block headed by the Soviet Union and to the unifying victory of socialism over capitalism. (The 1940s in general were characterised by the growth of communist parties.) After the war, Outer Mongolia entered a period of international recognition. The main achievement was recognition by Guomindang China in January 1946 and the establishment of diplomatic relations with the Chinese People’s Republic (CPR) in October 1949. The MPR also established diplomatic relations with the Korean People’s Democratic Republic (KPDR) in October 1948; with the People’s Republic of Albania (PRA) in May 1949; and with the German Democratic Republic (GDR), the Polish People’s Republic (PPR), the People’s Republic of Bulgaria (PRB), the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic (CSR), the Hungarian People’s Republic (HPR) and the Socialist Republic of Rumania (SRR) in April 1950. After three centuries of international relations, Mongolia achieved official international recognition only in the middle of the twentieth century, thanks to the USSR’s promotion and support. The MPR became a fully legally established nation–state in the international arena, while at the same time Mongolian society was pulled into the Soviet orbit and Comintern and Soviet advisers brought the socialist experiment to the Mongolian steppes. Hardly any alternative ways of social development were open to the MPR in the second half of the twentieth century. Within the first five years after the war the social change that had begun in 1940–1941 continued: nomenklatura formation went on and social divisions among officials, soldiers, workers, arad and the intelligentsia deepened. Simultaneously, state control over the economy deepened and widened (including control over personal arad households) and pressure from new darga increased at the local level.


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In 1946–1952 Choibalsan’s dictatorship remained no less intransigent than it had been in the early 1940s. MDA troops prevented the hungry and poor from participating in social protest (directly or indirectly). At the start of the 1950s, MDA activities acquired not just an extraordinary, extra-legal character (suppression of rebellions, fabrication of cases in order to eliminate political rivals), but also dogmatic (imposing educational campaigns that stifled social protest). The creation of power structures and repressive organs was complete: the MPRP CC Presidium (as usual after a regular Congress or Plenum) proclaimed a new party course (which could be highly speculative and suitable for various interpretations); issued a number of resolutions on the basis of which the MDA launched the next wave of repression (the phrase ‘to get under the article’ known in the Soviet political lexicon originated from that scheme). The final formulations of the CC decisions and resolutions were implemented in mass media and ideological popular campaigns, while practical guidelines on how the course had to be implemented among the population were composed for special organisations whose secret status was already perceived by the majority of the population without additional questions. Thus, common citizens did not necessarily have to know everything and understand the state of affairs in their country, since the state was supposedly taking good care of them and the MDA protected them from criminals. In fact, right after the war MDA structures were still very unorganised and its departments were weak. Soviet advisers noted that the police in Ulaanbaatar performed poorly in 1947.1 This was caused in part by economic problems: post-war hardships reflected on the army, the material conditions of which were poor, and border guards in particular suffered from meagre supplies of products and fuel.2 An effective bureaucracy and sufficient control over cadres did not exist under such circumstances (Soviet advisers were trying hard to teach Mongolian colleagues the main principles of socialist management). Such a situation in the army (and in the police) was potentially explosive and although the Eleventh MPRP Congress in 1947 adopted a resolution on improving troops and instructor efficiency and broadening practical assistance to the army, the real practical solution to the problem arrived in the form of common repression. In 1947, a political scandal known as ‘Port-Arthur’ was fabricated under the pretext of an attempt to assassinate Choibalsan; 80 people were arrested and 42 of them were shot. While the case was in motion, the MPRP CC issued a special resolution on the struggle against the ‘increased anti-revolutionary temperament’, which served as the basis ‘to establish secret MDA representations’ all over the country. These representations provided for practical assistance and instructions. In such a way, repressive extra-legal organisations were strengthening, growing and multiplying. After the war the MPR, following the USSR’s example, gradually formed a social–economic basis for further non-capitalist development (or socialist


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Socialist nomadism

development). As the previous chapter indicated, after the political repressions of the late 1930s and the early 1940s, positive social reform was urgently called for. Speeches on low rates of agricultural development and the necessity to transform to a planned economy had been heard in the early 1940s, and the key promoter of that discussion was the USSR-trained comrade Tsedenbal. The war froze the Tenth MPRP Congress and the Eighth Great Khural decisions on developing the people’s economy. However, all these questions returned to the agenda after the war. The Second World War severely damaged the MPR economy. In 1945, the military campaign against Japan cost 200 million tögrög. Construction of the Ulaanbaatar railroad and industrial enterprises was postponed indefinitely. During 1940–1945 the total number of livestock decreased by six million. There was a shortage of material, financial and human resources. The labour shortage (particularly in construction in Ulaanbaatar) was partly compensated by Soviet specialists (though not many worked in Mongolia) and Japanese war prisoners captured in Inner Mongolia. Material and financial aid came mainly from the USSR, as previously, but the new socialist states also began contributing to Mongolia’s economy. After the war, the USSR returned to the idea of using Mongolia’s natural resources and building strategic industrial enterprises. Despite the hidden inequality of economic redistribution in the socialist block, the plan had a certain positive effect on the MPR’s development and provided urban and communication infrastructure and a number of well-developed industries. An agreement on economic and cultural cooperation, part of the new Treaty on Friendship and Mutual Assistance, was signed with the USSR on 27 February 1946. ‘To develop the country’s industrial forces’ and ‘to increase living standards and the cultural level of the working people’ were the new slogans of the party and government economic and cultural policy, backed up by state consolidation, extra-legal interference in the economy and education and new national cadre training. The MPRP CC Plenum of April 1946 addressed ‘conditions of the state and economic apparatus and measures for its improvement’. One of the key suggested solutions to the problem of control over the execution of government policy implied party organ interference in all economic activities. The party had to bring the ideas of world proletariat leaders on nomadic cattle breeding to every arad. Party building hastily continued and was the main indicator of Mongolian society’s socialist development. The party grew in numbers as never before: in 1934–1944 the total number of party members increased by 11,531 and in 1944–1947 another 7,916 were admitted. By the Eleventh Congress (December 1947) the party had 27,759 members and 904 cells. Some progress was achieved in increasing the educational level of party members, but in general it was still rather low. The educational level of participants of the Eleventh MPRP Congress was as follows:

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The educational level of the MPRP Eleventh Congress’ participants, 1947 Education level of Congress delegates

Percentage of all delegates (%)

Higher education Secondary education Professional education Primary education Illiterate

19.3 15.1 8.9 8.2 51.5


Source: RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D 20. L. 65.

The categorisation of the above table selected by the Congress organisers themselves is telling. The gradation of higher, secondary, professional and primary education did not previously exist; together with the relative increase in the education level of party members; it was the result of the introduction of the Soviet educational system in the MPR and demonstrated a certain improvement in education and cultural social spheres. The tendency to bring more young people into the party remained robust. The majority of party delegates at the Tenth and Eleventh Congresses were younger than 35. Women accounted for 14.3 per cent of Eleventh Congress delegates.3 There were also 479 arad and three taiji. The material possessions of Eleventh Congress delegates were also counted and presented in the following way: The MPRP Eleventh Congress’ delegates’ personal possessions, 1947 Number of bodo

Number of delegates

0 1–20 20–50 50–100 100–200

102 162 161 42 15

Source: RGASPI, RCP(b) Archive, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 393. L. 24.

Although these statistics do not provide us with an accurate picture of party members’ property, there are other facts that indirectly indicate improvement in their welfare. For instance, the considerable percentage of party members who were government officials implied social privileges connected to MPRP membership. By the beginning of 1948, the MPRP’s social composition was the following: The MPRP’s social composition, 1948 MPRP social composition

Percentage of total MPRP membership (%)

Nomads Officials Workers

54.1 41.2 4.7

Source: RGASPI, RCP(b) Archive, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 393. L. 25.


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The complete absence of the military, which had accounted for the highest percentage of members in 1944,4 demonstrates the country’s demilitarisation. The insignificant growth of workers reflects the launch of industrialisation projects. As mentioned above, the extra-legal activities of the party’s repressive structures gradually gave way to bureaucratisation. The MPRP CC not only eliminated unnecessary members as before, but published special resolutions (togtool, Mong.), which contained instructions on how to support the political course and certain social groups and individuals, or on how to collectively struggle against enemies. Party organs and governmental bodies were responsible for the introduction and execution of these resolutions and explaining their contents to every citizen so that he or she would not have any hesitation about their justification and would thus work toward achieving them. ‘Marxism is not a dogma, but a practical manual’, MPRP members liked to say, although they emphasised that those words ‘should not be interpreted literally’.5 On 31 December 1947 the Eleventh Congress adopted the MPRP Statute, in which, according to the RCP(b) model, all conditions for party admission and member rights and responsibilities were described in detail. The higher level of control over party members was evident: unlike previous years, in the 1940s it penetrated private life. ‘The morality and personal behaviour of a party member’ became an issue during discussions at party meetings, while accusations of ‘moral degradation’ were the new means of eliminating rivals and competitors. For instance, what was so special about the fact that government members Luvsan-Jamian and Baldan ‘took new wives as soon as they were appointed’?6 In 1924, 1928 and even in 1937 it would have hardly impressed anyone, but in 1946 they were put on the agenda of the MPRP CC Plenum. A few other typical accusations appeared, such as ‘too much bureaucratisation’ and ‘inertness’. Abstract and unprovable, they nevertheless were widely used in political purges. Such accusations, once made, were a signal that all others had to treat the accused negatively. At the same time, the myth of ‘internal enemies’ was prolonged, and the ‘enemies’ represented all harmful ‘survivors of the former, small bourgeois’.7 At the beginning of 1946 the Minister of Domestic Affairs, Shagdarjav; Minister of Trade, Luvsan-Jamian; Minister of Health, Shagdarsuren; and the Chairman of the Mongolian Union of Cooperatives (Monkopsoiuz, Rus.), Tsagaandorj were so accused.8 The mass terror of the late 1930s remained in the past and the number of prosecutions decreased, but the MDA, instead of political purges, gradually refocused on an ‘invisible fight’ against ‘thieves, peculators and hooligans’9 in Ulaanbaatar. By the mid-1940s the capital was, indeed, full of thieves and hooligans who robbed flats and, most commonly, committed street robberies. Walking in the city at night had become dangerous, and even in broad daylight a


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solitary traveller could have the money in his pocket stolen. Fifty years later, in the 1990s, against the background of economic decline, zud,10 malnutrition and unemployment, the marginalised would act similarly and crime in Ulaanbaatar would recall the post-war period. After the war the struggle against widespread yadargaa (expressed by absence from work, tardiness, chatting during the workday, laziness) continued.11 Even ministry employees dreamt of leaving the job and going to the hödöö ‘to live there peacefully without any worries’.12 Neither rewards nor encouragement helped. A trip to the Soviet Union sometimes served as a stimulus and was perceived mainly as entertainment rather than as a business trip.13 Ministerial officials also found amusement in fast driving. Traffic rules had not yet formed in the nomad’s mind; the police cited frequent cases of drunk drivers exceeding speed limits and causing accidents; even on Ulaanbaatar’s wide streets (and in the steppe), drivers left human victims in their wake.14 No authority existed to solve the problem of discipline on the roads; ministers simply wrote reports on each other, and the trouble-making atmosphere was common in all state departments. Local officials also tried to use repressive administrative measures against yadargaa. The following quotations from bag resolutions15 to the noncompliant arad demonstrate the tragic–comic essence of this senseless struggle: ‘our bag must appoint two persons to drive herds this year, the bag administration has decided to appoint you, so we categorically order you to come at once … otherwise … we will summon you to court’; ‘Why, despite our official requests, are you not reporting to the territory of our bag? Do you think that you can ignore administrative responsibilities without punishment? If you think in such a way, go on roaming as before’; ‘If you do not obey the order, you alone are to blame, as you would be brought to the penal court’; ‘If previously you referred to ridiculous reasons for which you did not have carts, then now you must realise that those false excuses will not be taken under consideration’. Such examples (and there were plenty of them) show the impotence of local authorities, their inability to pass administrative decisions and the lack of decision-making and decisionimplementing technologies. A planning and registration mechanism hardly existed at the local level. Some Soviet advisers thought that the reason for this was the ‘specifics of Mongolian geography’ (as the Comintern representatives at the beginning of the 1930s ironically noted at their meetings: ‘So far, we are collectivising those guys, living at a distance of hundred kilometres from each other!’). Although there was some truth to this, the main cause was rooted in the absence of elementary socio-economic welfare, which the authorities could not guarantee to the common arad driving their herds. In the post-war economic programme to restore the national economy, the party and the government relied on Tenth MPRP Congress decisions on the principles of a planned economy. A transition to five-year plans was


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considered a possibility for re-establishing an economy that had practically come to a halt after the war. The number of herds was continuously diminishing, the idea of creating ‘exemplary forage reserves on the basis of strictly scientific methods’16 collapsed, ‘only thieves and pilferers’17 were running the trade system, and the public medical service was extremely poor. The meagre infrastructure prevented further consolidation of the state apparatus: remote parts of the country were cut off, existing telephone lines were being cut and stolen and radios often failed to capture broadcasts.18 Together with the establishment of a planned economy, attempts were made to increase the arad’s interest in the results of their work by stimulating personal initiatives. Plans to increase the number of cattle (without considering quality) were drawn up. Contrary to expectation, it was detrimental to the economy. Local officials put pressure on cooperative members and misappropriated their property. Aimag, sum cooperatives and the centralised trade system functioned badly: commodities did not reach the population but were siphoned off by the darga, who ‘were irresponsible, undisciplined, and exploited the population’.19 Labour conscriptions were preserved. In 1947, the cooperatives were utterly weakened and 33 per cent of collective cattle were lost.20 In December 1947, at the Eleventh Congress, the MPRP CC reported, along with other painful questions, on the poor conditions of the cooperatives. At that Congress the first five-year plan in the MPR’s history was proclaimed. The decision to transition to a planned economy seemed suitable and even natural. The first article of Choibalsan’s Constitution announced: The MPR is an independent state of working people who liquidated imperialistic and feudal suppression, the MPR is an independent state and it is the state that guarantees non-capitalist development so that the country transitions to socialism in the future.21 In order to move along that path successfully, according to the Choibalsan’s speeches, it was necessary ‘to exterminate the concept of property’.22 Since that time all economic decisions were made solely for the benefit of large collective enterprises. Meanwhile, ‘the pace of cattle-breeding development lagged behind the pace of industrial and cultural development’.23 Forced industrialisation in post-war Mongolia – industrial and infrastructural development and the adoption of communist ideology and modernist mass culture – was a huge leap for the Mongols, while the dominant economic activity – nomadic pastoralism – remained essentially unchanged. Consequently, living standards in the politically active capital and in the hödöö were unequal throughout the twentieth century. The difference in lifestyle was dramatic. Choibalsan’s words about the slow growth in cattle breeding in comparison with industry and culture were fair to a certain extent. The administrative system did undergo change by the 1950s, but the heart of the economy did not.


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State ideologies often tend to explain existing economic problems to the population through the prism of state policy necessities and domestic and external security threats. If the political course is well-defined and substantial opposition is lacking to the extent that it becomes difficult to find or even to artificially create an opponent (for subsequent public elimination), then accusations are levied at ‘some reactionary officials’ who either share ‘old views’ or ‘wrongly interpret the party and people’s policy’. In Mongolia, in the second half of the 1940s, there were no ‘oppositional layers of the population’: no noyon or lamas who could have challenged the ruling regime. The new darga filled in the empty cells of corporative local powers. However, the authoritative methods used by them were not new and the criticism they received after the Eleventh Congress was accurate in many aspects: above all, the local officials were accused of ignoring the 1942 law on land utilisation and thus undermining the cooperative economy. As usual, party cells were in charge of dealing with these negative occurrences. In 1948, the pressure on cooperatives imposed by the darga was much less and some progress in cooperation was made.24 That marked the start of the first five-year plan, the political goal of which was strengthening the centralised state economy. In February 1949, the Ninth Great People’s Khural approved the five-year plan and the Law on State Planning of Livestock Increase, which was another measure to support cooperatives. That same year the system of annual livestock increase planning for every individual arad household was introduced. Private households had a few unprofitable obligations, like meeting state demand for livestock at prices lower than the market price, while (in contrast to the pre-1949 period) the amount of supplied livestock depended not on reality but on the planned purchases of livestock.25 As a result of that policy, the arad converted to cooperatives, transferring their livestock to collective possession. In 1947, the number of collective cattle increased by 10 per cent (and in 1952 it would grow by 23 per cent).26 The ideologists of the first five-year plan also expected to create a ‘new socialist attitude of the nomadic population to labour’. Private interest was supposed to be replaced by the spirit of socialist competition. To inspire the arad to aspire to the high production indicators was not an easy task and, by the end of the 1950s, entailed the development of the social sphere and the system of rewards and incentives. The first five-year plan generally failed, the main task was unfulfilled: there was no real progress in cattle breeding. In 1952, in comparison with 1947, the total number of livestock increased by a mere 8.7 per cent, mainly because of the pressure on private households.27 Nevertheless, during the realisation of the five-year plan national cadres appeared in a number of industries. The number of horse-breeding and haycutting stations increased five-fold, mechanised wells were constructed and the veterinary network was broadened. Revolutionary change happened in transportation: in 1948–1952 the urton duty was gradually abolished. Horse urtons were replaced by automobile


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transport stations. Auto transport bases appeared in aimag centres, and goods and civil transportation developed in the aimags and between aimag centres and the capital. According to Ministry of Transportation reports, the total number of motor vehicles in the country grew by 67 per cent within the five years, and expenses connected with various transportation (goods or civil) decreased by 18.4 per cent.28 Constructed with the USSR’s assistance, the Ulaanbaatar railroad became operational in 1950. Generally speaking, the MPR’s economic development of that and later periods became achievable due to Soviet and other socialist countries’ direct investments, and also as a result of Soviet specialists’ contributions. After the war, the USSR and the MPR became closer to each other, the latter more dependent on the former, but able to make use of all the assistance it received. The MPR–USSR foreign trade turnover was constantly growing; during the first five-year plan imports increased by 25.4 per cent and exports by 15.6 per cent. The assortment of Soviet goods imported to the MPR broadened. In 1940–50 the supply of Soviet consumer goods increased by 90 per cent, and industrial equipment and construction materials by 79.5 per cent. The MPR state treasury grew annually thanks to Soviet capital, and investment in all economic sectors increased. In 1948, 40.6 million tögrög were invested in the economy; in 1952 total investments reached 49.5 million tögrög. The total sum for the whole five-year period was 203.7 million tögrög. In 1952, investment in the agricultural sector increased ten-fold compared to 1947. According to official statistics, industry investment increased by 104.6 per cent. Based on the 1946 Agreement on Economic and Cultural Cooperation between the USSR and the MPR, a number of new enterprises were constructed in Mongolia during the first five-year plan. Seven new coalmines were developed in the Nalaikha region and a few old ones were restored. Ulaanbaatar’s heating and electricity plant was reconstructed. Industrial enterprise and mechanical plants in Ulaanbaatar were enlarged and equipped with new technology. Food-producing businesses multiplied, and a new, large meat-processing enterprise was constructed. Food, bread and alcohol-producing plants, as well as public canteens, were also created in aimags. Special effort was put into expanding and equipping state printing presses (the party’s directives had to be clarified to the masses) and small local printing presses were appearing in aimags (the party cells, in their turn, needed to be supported by media). A direct telephone line from Ulaanbaatar to Kobdo – 1,500 kilometres long – was constructed, telephone and telegraph lines were established in aimags and radio-transmission stations were established in sums. Building public housing commenced, which spawned the production of local construction materials. By 1951 dozens of industrial plants, schools, hospitals, clubs and flats were put into operation. Some of those buildings remain prominent sights in the capital to this day: the Mongolian National University, the State Drama Theatre, the cinema ‘Eldev-Ochir’, the State Public Library and others.


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Figure 7.1 Veterinary (1950)

More than one million square metres of housing were built during these years. Industrialisation and infrastructure development changed the Ulaanbaatar lifestyle. The urban population gradually increased. In 1944, 30,500 people lived in the capital; in 1950, there were 55,500. With the broadening service sector, the urban population increase accelerated. In 1950–1956 the Ulaanbaatar population grew by 100,000.29 Despite that, the hödöö population was still greater than the urban population. In 1956, 662,500 people (78.4 per cent) lived in the hödöö, while just 183,000 people lived in the cities (21.6 per cent).30 By the end of the first five-year plan the number of workers slightly increased. However, that fact did not automatically signal the formation of the Mongolian working class. In a (vaguely modernised) nomadic society, the whole idea of class stratification seemed totally unconvincing. Nevertheless, volumes were written about the Mongolian working class in Soviet and Mongolian historiographies. The statistics, presented in those books, appear feeble. For example, it was argued that the total number of workers and officials employed in industry and transportation was more than 70,000 in 1952.31 At the same time, exact data on the number of workers and officials in each industry is missing. Moreover, 70,000 is not a significant percentage of the total population of 750,000 (by the end of 1950).32 Although national coalminers, drill operators, locomotive drivers, tool-makers, turners, electricians, bricklayers, plasterers, tractor drivers and other specialists


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Figure 7.2 At the plant

appeared in the MPR, the industrial sector was created by Soviet professionals (and partly by Japanese prisoner labour) after the war.33 Party directive documents were producing a myth about the leading role of the Mongolian working class in socialist state building. Nevertheless, it was rightfully admitted that socialist welfare in terms of free hospitals, schools and clubs began spreading in the hödöö. In April 1950, the MPR Union of Ministers and the MPRP CC adopted a resolution to totally cancel the systems of rationing and providing goods for state purchases of wool and raw materials, and confirmed the transition to free trade of products and industrial goods. This signalled a partial overcoming of the post-war economic crisis. After May 1950, free trade at unified state prices was restored. The ‘black’ market probably remained rather substantial. However, due to limited information on its functioning, the black-market turnover can hardly be quantified (according to some official data, its share was only 6 per cent).34 To increase the share of state and cooperative trade, the party and the government had to systematically decrease retail prices in 1946, 1947, 1948 and 1951, which also implied the black market’s existence. The results of the first five-year plan were the strengthening of state monopolisation of the country’s economy; the simultaneous consolidation of party structures and repressive organs; the elimination of the private sector and increase in cooperation; and a relative improvement of living standards. Cultural developments became distinguishable.


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To impartially analyse state policy in the sphere of culture and education, the policy-makers’ social interests need to be clarified. All the innovations in that sphere obviously had to achieve the main goal of guaranteeing the MPRP’s overall control over the population. That goal predetermined the character of cultural development in the MPR during its socialist years: representatives of the intelligentsia and artistic circles continued to attempt to rise above the imposed ideology, framing their protest against party dictatorship (as was pointed out in previous chapters, education and ideology were practically one category in socialist societies). The same people who led the revolution and established the MPRP’s supra-legal power worked out and adopted the resolutions on education and culture policies. In 1921–1946 a rapid generational change took place. After the war, the dominant majority of MPRP members were people brought up during leftist extremes and purges. But the promotion of graduates of the Ulaanbaatar Party School or Soviet educational institutions was becoming visible. These graduates differed from the first generation revolutionaries in their knowledge of Marxist–Leninist theory. The system of political education was finally established in Mongolia in the 1940s, when Marx’s works in Mongolian translation began to appear. In 1947, Stalin’s work The Questions of Leninism was translated and published.35 Soviet ideology penetrated the minds of new Mongolian intellectuals. The rise of an intelligentsia was a typical stage of social transformation according to the socialist model. After political opponents and potential rivals were eliminated and the broader public suppressed and purged, the less numerous, but noncompliant elite group of intellectuals capable of independent decision-making appeared on the scene. In the 1950s, a modern Westernstyle educated intelligentsia was still a relatively new group in the MPR, which was to be expected: before the revolution high lamas used to be the elite religious intellectuals, but they were already eliminated. The MPR intelligentsia consisted of people educated mainly in the Soviet Union. Although education played a major role in the formation of concepts on society and development for Mongolian intellectuals, it in no way guaranteed their full loyalty or even mere conformity to MPRP rule. The intelligentsia was a thin stratum capable of critical analysis of socio-political realities, so the ruling political elite had to create an arena unfavourable to open (and hidden) criticism.36 In the second part of the 1940s, a number of steps were taken to bring about such conditions, among which were continued repressions and the establishment of special institutions of socialist culture. Evidently, Soviet organisations dominated the Mongolian cultural domain. The All-Union Society for Cultural Ties with Abroad (VOKS) had been operating in the MPR since 1946. VOKS was one of the departments formed as a reorganisation of Comintern structures. Soviet advisers assisted younger Mongolian colleagues in establishing the socialist management of culture and recruiting intelligentsia and artists in trade unions. The National University, the National MusicalDrama Theatre, the Union of Writers, the Mongolian Fine Arts (Mongolizo,


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Figure 7.3 Mongolian National University in Ulaanbaatar (1950)

Rus.), Cinema Studio, and the Chinese Theatre (a product of Sino-Mongolian rapprochement in the 1950s) appeared in Ulaanbaatar. The main task of these new cultural institutions was to cast the national identity of the Mongols in a friendly attitude towards the Soviet people and to approve of the Soviet Union’s assistance in post-war reconstruction and its international relations.37 From the present day, the long-term consequences of this cultural policy appear contradictory: while many people up until now harbour a certain nostalgia about Russian language, literature, music and cinema, others reject Russian culture and socialist development as a way of sociopolitical protest and claiming national independence. Cadre policy was also interfering in the cultural sphere: by means of VOKS, the new cultural institutions had to ‘supervise and promote certain science and culture activists’.38 In 1946, it was agreed to promote the following persons: the scholar and writer, Rinchin39; the actress, Erdenibatyn; the painter, Choidog; the University rector, Shirendyb; and the chairman of the Committee of Science, Dugersuren.40 VOKS activities in the MPR were not as systematic as they appeared to be on paper, and frequent rotation of VOKS representatives took place.41 The Soviet type of cultural institutions were established in Mongolia to reframe the former intelligentsia in a new way by eliminating the most prominent figures and to promote the new generation of intelligentsia supportive of the political regime. Special attention was paid to attracting former Buddhists to the scientific system of knowledge and the atheist outlook.


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Figure 7.4 Kh. Choibalsan, B. Shirendyb, J.B. Lkhagvasuren and others (1945)

It was a great challenge to introduce science as a social institution in Mongolian society. First, it was rather difficult to cultivate a democratic spirit in public discussions, as the authority of the bagsh (teachers, Mong.) and darga seemed indisputable. MPR scholars presented their works and suggestions ‘to the mercy’ of the darga, often being moved by personal motives rather than a scholarly search for truth. Second, many could not achieve the necessary scientific abstraction from the research subject and were weak in theoretical approaches. The Mongolian science of history adopted the worst Soviet features, such as dogmatism, manipulation of data and falsification of facts. The censorship of the first Mongolian scholars was part of their cultivation, which created a particularly tense atmosphere of mistrust and mutual accusations. In April 1946, Tsedenbal, addressing the MPRP CC Plenum, announced: ‘Nothing gets done in the Committee of Science in particular.’42 The formerly promoted chairman Dugersuren was accused of servility and a bureaucratic attitude. Severe criticism was directed at many employees of the new cultural institutions. Constant control of the collective social mood was vital to the maintenance of MPRP power and Choibalsan’s regime. Even a slight restoration of religious rites after the mass repressions and the war looked threatening to the ruling elite. The remaining lamas continued preaching and even suggested their own interpretations of international affairs. They went on foretelling the future and, in the communist lexicon, ‘propagandising among the population’. Naturally, the people maintained their religious beliefs (in the


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socialist ideological lexicon, ‘religious remnants’), many arad were praying and the party cells’ secretaries and the sums’ chairmen were leading religious rituals.43 Even the anti-lama terror campaign and their physical liquidation did not lead to radical change in popular religious beliefs. Probably, a different, more profound attempt in terms of education and ideology was required to make an atheist out of a Buddhist. New technologies were necessary to influence and penetrate the people’s minds. Consolidation of the nomenklatura at the local level was reflected in the way official meetings were held: with discussions about candidates for vacant positions and their personal qualities, which pushed forward the process of ideological propaganda among the masses. Establishing a new sphere of mass culture and education and cultivating a new national intelligentsia became keys to social transformation in the late 1940s. Mongolian leaders were keen enough to react to the potential for protests among the masses and regularly tried to brainwash the population to prevent the spread of any counter-propaganda. In South-Gobi aimag the lamas mimicked party propagandists and instead of Marxist–Leninist theory they propagated Shambhala44 teaching in an effort to convince people that Great Britain and the US not only desired to end the Mongolian–Soviet friendship, but also to prepare Shambhalijn-war, which targeted the destruction of all humanity. This was how the lamas might have interpreted the creation of nuclear weapons. Although the lamas correctly determined the enemies of socialist society, the new ideologists could not find peace with their religious concepts. They did not opt for political terror but rather another way of influencing people, the five-year plan. It was expected to make the arad work to build a bright future (a socialist Shambhala) and forget their former beliefs (about Buddhist Shambhala), while concentrating on fulfilling the congresses’ resolutions and the great leader’s precepts, as well as reporting to the darga. Nevertheless, the mass ideological campaign in a certain respect helped to eliminate illiteracy. By 1952, the prevailing majority adult population had learned to read and write. More secondary schools, new technical and higher education institutes were opened. Within five years the number of primary school pupils increased by 84.4 per cent and the number of seven-year secondary schools by 33.3 per cent; ten-year schools quadrupled in number; the number of students in technical–professional colleges rose by 27 per cent, and doubled in higher education institutes.45 The number of specialists with secondary and higher education increased all over the country. Despite its evident political–ideological character, the MPRP’s approach to increasing literacy produced positive results. By the end of the five-year plan, hospitals and dispensaries multiplied all over the country and the number of doctors and medical attendants increased. In the early 1950s, there was relative success in heavy and light industries, transportation and communication, construction, education and the medical service. Despite the fact that according to a number of indicators, above all in cattle breeding, the first five-year plan of 1948–1952 was a failure overall,


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the USSR and other socialist countries’ assistance after the Second World War contributed to the creation of a material–social foundation to further the MPR’s development. This helped to develop the new official elite, most of whom were MPRP members. Despite the increase in the elite’s number, the emergence of Mongolian workers and the formation of the intelligentsia, the prevailing majority of the country’s population were nomadic herdsmen. All of them, however, during 30 years of revolutionary state building, had lived through many social and cultural shocks: the jas campaign of the early 1930s, mass repression in the late 1930s, militarisation and malnutrition during the war. By the end of the 1940s, the arad had started getting used to the new authorities. Before the first five-year plan, social transformation had been achieved mainly through political repressive measures; from the beginning of the 1950s, economic stimulation slightly and slowly improved citizens’ wellbeing. That progress was not really sustainable and depended mainly on the international situation, the domestic political course and the amount of state investment in this or that industry. Second, industrialisation and new infrastructure building continued at a considerably faster rate in the cities than in the distant aimags and sums. Third, the MPRP still controlled the redistribution of resources among various strata of the population. The ruling party ranks tended to multiply regularly, and the party’s main function of ruling and controlling the entire population became more vividly clear. The lion’s share of social benefits was redistributed among MPRP members according to the inter-party hierarchy. Thus, during this period a new privileged social stratum emerged: the Mongolian nomenklatura. One more event signalled the end of the regular social transformation stage: the Ninth Great People’s Khural’s decision, in February 1949, to replace the general election principle of direct, open voting with the secret ballot. Such a reform became possible only when the party–state structures’ stability was sufficiently achieved and the population became more or less loyal to them. On the basis of this new election system, the June 1951 election to the Great People’s Khural took place and demonstrated ‘the moral-political unity of the Mongolian people, their consolidation around the MPRP and the people’s power’. In October 1951, municipal elections took place and their unanimous results showed that the leaders had acquired confidence in their power and believed that the people ought to elect only them. By the 1950s, the MPRP had become a complete copy of the CPSU: their goals, structure, strategic and tactical tasks were practically identical. As in the USSR, in the MPR the leader’s cult of personality was essential to convincing his people that they were engaged in ‘the bright programme of moving to socialism’.46 Marshal Choibalsan died in 1952, a year before his ‘elder comrade and tutor’, Stalin. His death and the start of Tsedenbal’s rule marked a symbolic end to the revolutionary era, but the post-1952 transformation would not disrupt the social matrix or offer an alternative to the Mongolian elite until the disintegration of the USSR and the world socialist system.


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Post-1952 social reform in the MPR The election system reform of 1952 reflected the self-confidence of the political elite. The Ninth Great People’s Khural bestowed equal election rights to all citizens, but due to the absence of choice, the right to vote was meaningless. On 13 June 1954, the MPR’s citizens ‘unanimously’ voted for the MPRP’s candidates promoted by the party itself to the new Great Khural. The Twelfth MPRP Congress in November 1954 adopted a new five-year plan for 1953–1957, emphasising the acceleration of arad household cooperation. To achieve this, it was vital to increase the attractiveness of all types of cooperatives and the reform of 1955 became a crucial step in this respect. According to the resolution of the MPRP CC and the Council of Ministers, an industrial specialisation was introduced in the goskhozes with an industrial brigade as a key form of labour organisation. Socialist collectivism was reaffirmed: without affiliation with a brigade, party cell or any other socialist institution, a person did not exist. Was there anything really new in these socialist collective practices for the Mongolian nomadic pastoralists? To attain a common social, socio-economic and political goal any society, group or polity rediscovers its common ground, especially during war, battue hunts or natural disaster. Over centuries, the Mongols had formulated mechanisms of consolidation (next to the principle of dispersal1). The normative social order and hierarchies in relationships (the social cult of bagsh, darga, ‘natural-qan’) did not dissolve during socialist times. In a certain way the new socialist structures and institutions, although imposed from above, did not essentially contradict the corporative system and patterns of social relationships in nomadic pastoral society. In 1955, the state and party structures reinforced their efforts to improve the pastoral economy, whose development they sought solely by supporting cooperatives. A quota on the number of cattle owned by one household was introduced and legalised only for cooperative members. A Common Statute on Agricultural Cooperatives was published. That document once again postulated the already known quintessence of the new socio-political order: party and state organs possessed the supra-legal power to interfere in ruling


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the economy. In 1954–1957 activist-volunteers recruited by urban party cadres were sent to the hödöö to increase agricultural productivity. Though those volunteers’ ‘village raids’ became regular,2 they still were not on the same scale as state-controlled urban–rural labour migration in the USSR. Mongolian ‘volunteers’ were often born in the hödöö and might have even desired to return to their homelands after completing their education in the city. The government started encouraging the realisation of industrial plans on a daily basis and organising competitions among working people. Pensions were introduced for the elderly and invalids. As a result of these measures, the quality of labour in the cooperatives finally increased after 1955 in parallel to their growing social prestige. Beginning in 1957, particularly successful employees were nominated for the ‘the MPR’s labour hero’ title; after 1959, the system of state rewards broadened and became more complex, so that in the mid-1970s annual courses were even organised for the arad to learn about all existing payments and awards. By the end of March 1959, 99.3 per cent of households were integrated into cooperatives.3 This number evidently taken by Rosenberg from the official sources should not be deemed precise. However, there is much more behind the numbers: the prevailing majority of the population received social guarantees, various rewards for their work and some access to social privileges. By the 1960s, the life of an average Mongolian arad had qualitatively changed. Loyalty to the existing political regime, party and local administration, and the motivation to work harder, were supported economically and by social moral norms of employment in the socialist sector of economy, the only legal sector in the MPR. Official recognition of achievements in work and social life in the form of medals, prizes and other awards became the driving force of the socialist system of the 1960s–1970s. People were now personally motivated and involved in supporting the collective economy. Beyond pure profit motives, they liked the idea of being important participants in the processes of social and economic development. Naturally, such ideas were a mere ideological product. Nevertheless, the loyalty to collective social ideals, however illusory, given the effectiveness of the MPRP ideological campaigns, already lived a life of its own, giving a new image to the society as a whole. That was social adaptation in socialist Mongolia in the twentieth century. (The extreme repressive political measures of the 1920s–1940s remained in the past, and after Choibalsan’s death, citizens did not experience such strong social shocks.) Social protests do not often emerge when people’s lives are improving, but that is what happened in the early 1970s. General material well-being increased. Medical, educational and other social institution networks spread throughout the country. The free veterinary service was particularly valued by the arad. Improved industrial technology and new equipment supplied by the USSR increased labour productivity. Gradually, the five-year plans (and the three-year plan of 1958–1960) became more concrete. The local darga and arad demonstrated their motivation not to fail and preferably to surpass the norms of production imposed


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Figure 8.1 Zoo-technician Galsan (1956)

on them from the top. More and more people were becoming involved in socialist competitions. The USSR and other socialist countries (particularly CSR, GDR and PPR) increased investment capital in Mongolian industries, especially oil and mines. The Soviet Union supplied Mongolia with machine tools, motor vehicles, agricultural equipment and airplanes, and guided the construction of airports and broad-gauge railways. By the end of the 1950s, the improvement of the trade and service sector was on the agenda of public discussions. New modern terms and concepts appeared, that 15 years earlier no one could have even foreseen, such as rationalisation and automation. In 1960, a new Constitution was ‘unanimously adopted’. It proclaimed the MPR as a ‘socialist state of workers, cooperative arad and working intelligentsia, based on the union of the working class and the cooperative arad’.4 That statement only reaffirmed the official falsification of twentieth century history. The vanguard proletariat was said to be the driving force in revolutionary change in the first part of the century. In reality, as described in previous chapters, a thin social stratum of workers was artificial, while the key contributors to revolutionary change in the early stages (1921–1928) were the ‘oppositional and reactionary class’ of the noyon and lamas.


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After the 1950s the so-called period of ‘requested lies in culture and science’ began: the party and the government requested young scientists, writers, musicians, artists and painters to exhibit socialist content in their professional work. However, the very appearance of this intelligentsia could be recognised as an achievement of late socialist well-being in Mongolia. The political repressions of Yu. Tsedenbal (1952–1984) were mainly targeted against this intelligentsia. A long exile was a typical punishment. Although the persecutions were not as bloody as in 1939, the methods of political suppression were no more humane. The ruling elite attained such tight control over the society that extreme terror was not even necessary. That control was not only imposed from the top, but took root in a society that became ‘positively’ engaged in building socialism.

What is our past? Legalising democracy and the MPRP Although the MPRP had been created in accordance with the RCP(b) model, it had never been given the name ‘communist’, despite attempts by Mongolian activists. When systemic changes flooded Mongolia in the 1990s, there was no pretext to rename it, and the party shifted to democracy under the old name, that was well known and still respected by many people. The absence of a ‘communist’ label served as an additional means for the first market reformers to escape the physiological burden of defeat in the Cold War post-communist regime and the disadvantageous international reputation, and instead portray themselves as victims of the Soviet experiment. Still, many Mongols kept on calling MPRP members ‘communists’, often with negative connotations. Nevertheless, the MPRP has proven to be a long-term major political party that takes the lead in ruling over the country’s population. Its members initiated the first discussions on political and social change in the late 1980s, and although they framed those discussions within the new perestroika party course, they prepared the public ground for the first democrats to step in. The latter, however, tended to neglect their ancestors’ contributions and attributed the key role in democratic reforms to themselves. In 1990, the MPRP quickly separated the party and the state and agreed to remove the paragraphs about the party’s vanguard role in society and Marxist–Leninist theory as a key paradigm for national development from the Introduction to the Constitution of Mongolia. The subsequent elections won by the MPRP are now seen as the first democratic elections and the epochal turn away from socialism and a planned economy toward democracy and a market economy. This view of the events of the early 1990s (the so-called White Horse Revolution) is shared by practically all representatives of the Mongolian intellectual elite, regardless of whether they recognise the MPRP’s role in the democratisation process and how they evaluate this role.5 Despite the fact that at the beginning of the 1990s the MPRP did not substantially differ from the CPSU, the positions of communist parties of the

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Figure 8.2 Radio, TV transmission station ‘Orbita’


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newly independent states continued weakening and their former members dispersed in the new vast political landscape, while the MPRP reconsolidated its forces. Both the MPRP and the CPSU did not legally secure their property rights. At the same time, if in Russia and other former Soviet Republics the nomenklatura elite had to give up party membership, become private entrepreneurs and through commercial operations renationalise the people’s property, in Mongolia the majority of MPRP members did not quit at all or only temporarily left the party. The new domestic democrats initiated most economic reforms and later were blamed by the MPRP for all the social destruction that followed. By 2000, the MPRP had begun to control the shares of the biggest companies. The tendency to preserve the privileges of governmental officials (or, in other words, maintaining them as a privileged social group) was continued by all presidents, beginning with P. Ochirbat. Promotion in the civil administration depended on party membership. At privatised enterprises MPRP members filled chief executive positions. Academicians at the head of scientific research institutes often combined their academic career with jobs in governmental organs and thus were in charge of creating a new concept of the Mongolian state and history. At present, as generational change occurs very quickly, many leading MPRP positions, especially at the local level, are being enthusiastically filled in by people in their early thirties. Current MPRP politics in no way compares with its former dictatorship. There are other players in today’s Mongolian politics, whose role may not seem as important as the MPRP’s, but they are considerable, as they provide for the balance of interests necessary for political manoeuvring and the development of society. Mongolian democratic parties can be viewed as oppositional parties conducting open politics and fully participating in the political struggle. Despite a rather successful strategy against their interests, the MPRP does not aim to eliminate these parties. As the recent parliamentary election campaign (June 2008) demonstrated, the strengthened Democratic Party (Ardchilsan Nam, Mong.) shares more common interests with the MPRP than it might have seemed before. The strength of a modern state (with democratic institutions) is in its variety of political representation or at least in the semblance of it. The presence of democratic parties also draws foreign direct investment and maintains the image of Mongolia as ‘one of the most open and democratic states in East Asia’ in the eyes of Western donors. The population’s absolute preference for the MPRP (after the ‘democratic boom’ of 1996–2000) is confirmed by all public opinion polls.6 The Democratic Party firmly occupies second place. From spring 2003 to spring 2004, its rating was steadily falling. The creation of the democratic coalition in 2004 aimed to secure the proper representation of the democrats in parliament, which subsequently happened, provoking world headlines vaunting the victory of democracy in Mongolia. But in less than a year, in 2005, the MPRP was leading again, collecting, according to the polls, nearly twice as


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many votes as all the others combined. At the presidential elections in May 2005, the MPRP candidate N. Enkhbayar won. Political parties in Mongolia are the most active groups of players regarding territorial and ethnic affiliations. The MPRP is winning the race: it is the most skilled and is firmly adhering to the right course. The programmes of the democratic parties seemed at first much more vague and inconsistent: combining the features of left and right policies, they seemed to have failed to identify their own electorate and opportunities. Thus, during the governmental crisis in January 2006, the pro-democratic movement’s ‘Radical Reform’ and ‘Healthy Society’ demonstrated in the streets of Ulaanbaatar, protesting against increased public transportation costs, and on 12 January their manifestation ended with a virtual siege of the MPRP’s office building. Some democrats in the Great State Khural (S. Oyun and R. Gonchigdorj) had to raise their voices against the dismissal of the government, including the ten ministers from the MPRP who had earlier declared their resignation.7 It looked as if the democrats justified the politics of the MPRP by asking its members to stay in the cabinet. The governmental crisis, as argued by many analysts, was artificially created by the MPRP in order to promote its candidates to key state positions, particularly to the vacant post of premier. Consequently, the democratic premier and political lifer Ts. Elbegdorj8 was dismissed just a few months before the end of his term and the vacant post was occupied by MPRP Chairman M. Enkhbold. Some Democratic Party representatives suggested boycotting the establishment of the new cabinet, which the MPRP called ‘the government of national solidarity’, resigning in opposition and even forming an unofficial cabinet. Nevertheless, on Tsagaan Sar9 eve the opposition was pressured to compromise, the new ministers from the MPRP and minor democratic parties were appointed just before the holiday. In a year-and-a-half, Enkhbold and his whole cabinet resigned, and the post of premier, as well as the MPRP Chairman, was taken by S. Bayar. Still, the democrats have also learned from their mistakes. By June 2008, the Democratic Party was the second major party, running an efficient parliament election campaign and guarding the high positions within its ranks. Its present leader, the above-mentioned Elbegdorj, used the momentum to reconsolidate his position and win more popularity. As the second most popular politician in Ulaanbaatar and the hödöö (after S. Bayar) he is a potential candidate for president. In the most widely circulated Mongolian periodicals, the eighty-year history of the MPRP is viewed as a hard road of accumulating administrative experience; the party’s continuous and unswerving concern for the state, law and religion is listed among its main achievements. Emphasis is placed on the well-known plenums of the Central Committee in 1932, 1956 and 1962, at which ‘the mistakes of the party’ were pointed out: ‘the left extremes’ connected with the forced expropriation of monastic property and the censure of Choibalsan’s cult. Today, the MPRP is supposed to learn from its


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mistakes; the right policy, internal democracy, representation and nationality are declared as the party’s key priorities.10 Discussions in the press weigh the possibilities of working out a concrete state policy while using various approaches,11 taking into consideration the particularities of Mongolian culture and history. It was the MPRP that created much of the new ideology of the national Mongolian state and that rewrote Mongolian history. The wide-ranging celebration of the 800th anniversary of the Mongolian state in 2006 is a vivid example of the nation-building process currently underway. Party programme documents contain many peculiar texts, such as one concerning ‘the historical turn toward humanistic democratic socialism’.12 Nor did the new democrats delve into the problem of establishing democratic legal institutions in a rural nomadic society with a socialist legacy. The hybrid conception of ‘democracy with national roots’ appeared, and some people argued that the first democratic principles had been introduced by Chinggis Qan in his Empire.13 Such paradoxical linking of the Mongolian present with the Chinggis past fuels nationalist feelings, giving people confidence in the country’s independent path. According to polls, the majority of the population supports the country’s democratic development and transition to a market economy. At the same time, a considerable percentage (and periodically the majority) is not entirely satisfied with the political system. Typically, criticism of the president is heard considerably less often than criticism of parliament, state structures and legal institutions, not to mention of political parties, dissatisfaction with which is rather high. At the same time, the cult of the president is distinctly absent (which is quite the opposite of the post-Soviet Central Asian countries). Polls show that the majority of the population, especially in Ulaanbaatar, considers the centralised state to be the key condition for continuing economic and legal reforms. Still, can centralisation tendencies (also reflected in discussions on the transition to a presidential republic) and nation-building policies become truly meaningful if they are not supported by local corporations? What would ‘capitalist seeds’, the new external factor, mean to Mongolian society as a whole? Would the accumulation of domestic capital and the penetration of foreign capital lead to a dislocation of internal resources and a change of the normative social order? If nomadic pastoralism, the matrix of Mongolian society, is destroyed, what would happen to the community and the individual? What kind of new social structures would replace the old ones? The last 18 years of new geopolitical arrangements in Inner Asia have already affected the landscape of Töv (Central, Mong.) aimag and especially Ulaanbaatar with its suburbs, where one observes a very strange picture of nomadic life: private houses and pieces of land closely bordering each other, fences in the empty spaces, traffic jams and air pollution as never before. Some, yet minor, features of new Asian mega-urbanisation are clearly visible, but future development is heavily endangered by the almost complete absence of urban planning, culture and proper city maintenance. The global


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problem of marginalised groups threatening world security is reflected in Mongolia’s capital as well: poor migrants from the hödöö are flooding the city in search of better social and economic opportunities. Far away from the communities they belong to, they are barely integrated into the city life style. What is happening to nomadic households? Do they fully benefit from being allowed to operate freely in the market without state regulations? As many of them certainly did accumulate wealth, is there a chance of a new noyon stratum forming? Can the development of nomadic households be sustainable in the absence of social guarantees, adequate medical service, kindergartens and infrastructure in sums? This book relates how socialist revolution became possible in Mongolia and the social disarray through which socialism was built and practised and finally how it affected social composition. How current world capitalist social, economic and cultural trends will reach this country of nomads and how they influence its society is the final open question with which I would like to end this book.


Notes

Introduction 1 The problems of interpreting archival documentation are covered in the Historiography Sketch, p. 13. 2 On the hypothesis of changing climate in the past see: E. Huntington and H. Milford, Civilization and Climate (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1915); Andre Gunder Frank, ‘The Centrality of Central Asia’, Bulletin of Concerned Asia Scholars, vol. 2, no. 2 (1992), 52. 3 N.N. Kradin, Imperiya Hunnu [The Xiong-nu Empire] (Vladivostok, 1996), 20–25. 4 See I.Y. Morozova, ‘Kitai – Mongoliya – Rossiya v 13 veke. Vzaimoproniknovenie obschestvennyh modelei’ [China – Mongolia – Russia in the 13th century: social models and exchange], Lomonosov-96 (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Moskovskogo Universiteta, 1996), 89–90. 5 S.G. Klyashtornyi and T.I. Sultanov, Gosudarstva i narody evraziiskih stepei. Drevnost’ i srednevekov’e [States and peoples of the Eurasian Steppes: Ancient times and Middle Ages] (St. Petersburg, 2004), 69–72. 6 E.I. Kychanov, Kochevye gosudarstva ot gunnov do man’chzhurov [Nomadic states from the Xiong-nu to the Manchu] (Moscow, 1997), 36–37. 7 T.J. Barfield, ‘The Xiong-nu Imperial Confederacy: Organization and Foreign Policy’, The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 41, no. 1 (1981), 45–60. 8 Baabar, History of Mongolia (Kaplonski, ed.) (Ulaanbaatar: Monsudar Publishing, 2004), 31. 9 Anthropologists also stress continuity of social structures (particularly kinship): Charles Lindholm, ‘Kinship structure and political authority: The Middle East and Central Asia’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 28 (Cambridge University Press, 1983), 338–343. 10 Interview with Prof. Guram Ochir. Ulaanbaatar, May 2008. 11 Klyashtornyi and Sultanov, 111–157, 183–208. 12 Joseph Fletcher, ‘The Mongols: Ecological and Social Perspectives’, HJAS, vol. 46, no. 1 (1986), 21. 13 H. Franke, From Tribal Chieftain to Universal Emperor and God: the Legitimization of the Yüan Dynasty (Munich: Verlag der Baerischen Akademie, 1978), 15–16. 14 Fletcher, 37, 48. 15 Thomas T. Allsen, Culture and Conquest in Mongol Eurasia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 45. 16 Peter Jackson, ‘From Ulus to Khanate: the Making of the Mongol States’, in Reuven Amitai-Preiss and David O. Morgan (eds), The Mongol Empire and Its Legacy (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 15–32. 17 Meng Ta Bei Lu (Moscow: Nauka, 1975), 52.


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18 See: Jacob Seiden, The Mongol Impact on Russia from the 13th Century to the Present: Mongol Contributions to the Political Institutions of Muscovy, Imperial Russia, and the Soviet state (PhD diss., Georgetown University, 1971) (volumes I–III). 19 A.I. Fursov and Y.S. Pivovarov, ‘Russkaya sistema’ [The Russian system], Politicheskaya nauka. Teoriya i metodologiya [Political science: Theory and methodology] (Moscow: INION, 1997), 186–189. 20 F. Tabak, ‘Ars Longa, Vita Previs? Pax Mongolica v geoistoricheskoi perspective’ [Ars Longa, Vita Previs? Pax Mongolica in geo-historical perspective] in Afroaziatskii mir: regional’nye istoricheskie sistemy i capitalism [Afro-Asian world: Regional historical systems and capitalism] (Moscow: INION RAN, 1999), 33–34. 21 Yu.N. Roerich, ‘Mongolo-tibetskie otnosheniya v XIII i XIV vekah’ [MongolTibetan relations in the 13th and 14th centuries], in Filologiya i istoriya mongol’skih narodov [Philology and history of Mongolian peoples] (Moscow, 1958), 338. 22 O. Lattimore and Isono Fujiko. The Diluv Khutagt (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1982), 8. 23 P.K. Kozlov, Mongoliya i Amdo i miortvyi gorod Hara-Hoto (1907–1909) [Mongolia and Amdo and the Dead City Khar Khot (1907–1909)] (Moscow, 1948), 63. 24 R. Rupen, Mongols of the Twentieth Century (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 1964), 82; F.A. Larson, ‘The Lamas of Mongolia’, Atlantic Monthly, vol. 145 (1930), 368. 25 L.W. Moses, The Political Role of Mongol Buddhism (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, Uralic Altaic Series, vol. 133, 1977), 132–134. 26 See: I. Morozova, ‘Epicheskoe tvorchestvo kochevyh narodov’ [Epic creativity of nomadic peoples] in Problemy istorii i kul’tury kochevyh tsivilizatsii Tsentral’noi Azii. Yazyki, fol’klor, literatura [Problems of history and culture of nomadic civilisations of Central Asia. Language, Folklore, literature], Vol. 3 (Ulan-Ude, 2000), 244–249. 27 O. Lattimore, Nationalism and Revolution in Mongolia (New York, 1955), 8. 28 Gelug (Tib.) – the leading Buddhist school in Tibet and Mongolia (the yellow faith) since the sixteenth century. 29 On the Buryats’ role in developing the Mongolian national idea and mediating between other Mongols and the Bolsheviks, see: I. Morozova, The Comintern and Revolution in Mongolia (Cambridge: White Horse Press, 2002), 70–78. 30 On the Inner Mongolian national revolutionary movement, see: Ch. Atwood, Young Mongols and Vigilantes in Inner Mongolia’s Interregnum Decades, 1911– 1931, Vol. 1, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 47–51. 1 Mongolia’s socialist history historiography: a sketch 1 Irina Y. Morozova, The Comintern and Revolution in Mongolia (Cambridge: White Horse Press, 2002). 2 See Bibliography, p. 166. 3 Komintern ba Mongol. Barimtyn emhetgel [The Comintern and Mongolia. The collection of documents] (Ulaanbaatar, 1996). 4 Adeeb Khalid, ‘Between empire and revolution. New work on Soviet Central Asia’, Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 7.4 (2006), 865–884; see also Ab Imperio, The History on Trial, 3 (2007). 5 See Bibliography pp. 160–161. 6 Khalkhyn Golyn dain: negen jarny tergeed. Barimt bichgijn emhetgel [The War at Khalkhin Gol: sixty years later. The collection of documents] V.A. Zolotarev (ed.) (Ulaanbaatar, 1999). 7 Narodnoe hozyaistvo Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki [The MPR people’s economy] (Ulaanbaatar, 1960).


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8 On the problem of establishing a social institution of science in the MPR, see Chapter 7 in this book. 9 Mongolistik, Ger., and mongolovedenie, Rus., as a combination of a number of humanitarian disciplines (studies on Mongol languages and sources on Mongolian history and culture) was originally formed at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries in two countries: Germany and Russia. 10 B. Shyrendyb, Mongol ardyn khuvsgalyn tüüh [The history of Mongolian people’s revolution] (Ulaanbaatar, 1969). 11 A. Kallinikov, Natsional’no-revoliutsionnoe dvizhenie v Mongolii [National revolutionary movement in Mongolia] (Moscow-Leningrad: Moskovskii Rabochii, 1926). 12 B. Tsybikov, Razgrom Ungernovschiny [The Crash on the Ungern Regime] (UlanUde: Burmongiz, 1947). 13 G.S. Matveeva, Mongol’skii revoliutsionnyi soiuz molodiozhi: istoriya i sovremennost’ [The Union of Mongolian Revolutionary Youth: history and present] (Moscow: Nauka, 1983). 14 S. Pürevjav and D. Dashjamts, BNMAU-d süm hijd lam naryn asuudlyg shijdverlesen n [The solution of the questions of monasteries and lamas in the MPR] (Ulaanbaatar, 1965); S. Pürevjav, Mongol dah sharyn shashny khuraangui tüüh [Short history of yellow faith in Mongolia] (Ulaanbaatar, 1978). 15 Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki [History of the Mongolian People’s Republic] (Moscow: Nauka, 1983). 16 Istoriya sotsialisticheskoi ekonomiki MNR [The History of the MPR’s Socialist Economy] (Moscow: Nauka, 1987), 22–23. 17 See Chapter 4 of this book. 18 Istoriya sotsialisticheskoi ekonomiki … , 116. 19 I.M. Maiskii, Mongolia nakanune revoliutsii [Mongolia before the Revolution] (Moscow: Vostlit, 1960). 20 See: G.S. Matveeva, Sozdanie material’no-tehnicheskoi bazy sotsializma v MNR [Creation of material-technical basis for socialism in the MPR] (Moscow: Nauka, 1978). 21 Ibid., 29–30. 22 V.V. Graivoronski, Ot kochevogo obraza zhizni k osiodlosti (na opyte MNR) [From nomadic way of life to settled way of life (the MPR’s case)] (Moscow: Nauka, 1979), 64–81. 23 M.I. Golman, Problemy noveishei istorii MNR v burzhuaznoi istoriografii SShA [Problems of modern MPR history in the US bourgeois historiography] (Moscow, 1970). 24 M.I. Golman, ‘K periodizatsii razvitiya mongolovedeniya na Zapade (50–90-e gody)’ [On the question of Mongol studies’ periodisation in the West (the 1950– 1990s)], Vladimirtsevskie chteniya 3 (Moscow, 1995), 51–56; M.I. Golman, Mongolovedenie na Zapade [Mongol Studies in the West] (Moscow: IVRAN, 2004). 25 T. Nakami, ‘New trends in the study of modern Mongolian history: What effect have political and social changes had on historical research?’ Acta Asiatica: Bulletin of the Institute of Eastern Culture, 76 (1999), 7–39. 26 See: Stephen Kotkin, ‘In search of the Mongols and Mongolia: A multinational odyssey’, in Stephen Kotkin and Bruce A. Elleman (eds), Mongolia in the Twentieth Century: Landlocked Cosmopolitan (New York/London: M.E. Sharpe, 1999), 12–14. 27 R. Rupen, Mongols of the Twentieth Century (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 1964), 227–244. 28 Ibid., 257–261. 29 C.R. Bawden, The Modern History of Mongolia (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1968), 239–240, 290. 30 Ibid., 290–328. 31 Ibid., 381, 394–408.


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32 Larry William Moses, Revolutionary Mongolia Chooses a Faith: Lamaism or Leninism (Indiana University, 1992), 85. 33 L.W. Moses, The Political Role of Mongol Buddhism (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 1977), 132–134. 34 Owen Lattimore, Nomads and Commissars (New York: Oxford University Press, 1962), 4. 35 O. Lattimore and F. Isono, The Dilov Khutagt. Memories and Autobiography of a Mongol Buddhist Reincarnation in Religion and Revolution (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassovitz, 1982), 10–11. 36 Ibid., 7. 37 Daniel Mark Rosenberg, Political leadership in a Mongolian nomadic pastoralist collective (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1992), 330. 38 See: L. Jamsran Hereed, Mongolyn türijn tusgaar togtnolyn sergelt [Mongolian state independence establishment] (Ulaanbaatar, 1997). 39 See: Khordugaar zuuny Mongol [The Mongols of the 20th century] (Ulaanbaatar, 1995). 40 B. Baabar, XX zuuny Mongol [The Mongols of the 20th century] (Ulaanbaatar, 1996). 41 S.K. Roschin, Problemy noveishei istorii Mongolii (1920–30 gody) [The Problems of the Modern History of Mongolia (1920–1930 gg.)] (Moscow: IV RAN, 1997), 306. 42 G.S. Yaskina, ‘Mongol’skaya istoricheskaya nauka (1990-e gody)’ [Mongolian history science (the 1990s)], Vladimirtsevskie chteniya 4 (Moscow, 2000), 149, 153. 43 B. Baabar, Buu mart! Marval sönönö! [Do not forget! Otherwise – we will perish!] (Ulaanbaatar, 1990). 44 L. Bat-Ochir and S. Otgonjargal, XX Zuuny Mongol dah’ törijn tüühen üil yavts [Mongolia of the 20th century. A historical survey] M. Sanjdorj (ed.) (Ulaanbaatar, 1996). 45 Boldbaatar, J. (ed.), Khordugaar zuuny Mongol. Tüühijn toim [The Mongols of the Twentieth Century. A Historical Sketch] (Ulaanbaatar, 1995). 46 D. Dashpurev and S.K. Soni, Reign of Terror in Mongolia 1920–1990 (New Delhi: South Asian Publishers, 1992). 47 See Chapter 2, p. 33. 48 H.J. Urangua, XX Zuuny Ehen Yeijn Mongol Uls (1911–1919) [Mongolian State at the Beginning of the 20th Century] (Ulaanbaatar: Mongol Ulsyn Ikh Surguul, 2006). 49 J. Boldbaatar, M. Sanjdorj and B. Shirendyb, (eds), Mongol Ulsyn Tüüh [History of Mongolian State], Fifth Volume, (Ulaanbaatar: Mongol Ulsyn Shinjleh Uhaany Akademi, 2004). 50 S.G. Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongolia – Kitai v pervoi polovine XX v. Politicheskie vzaimootnosheniya v 1911–1946 gg. [Russia – Mongolia – China in the first half of the XX century. Political relationships in 1911–1946] (Moscow: IDV RAN, 2000), 103–104. 51 Ibid., 121. 52 Ibid., 143. 53 Ibid., 142. 54 Ibid., 164–165. 55 Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya…, 151–153. 56 Ibid., 210. 57 Rossiya i Mongoliya. Novyi vzglyad na istoriiu vzaimootnoshenii v XX veke [Russia and Mongolia. New view on the history of relationships in the twentieth century] (Moscow: IV RAN, 2001). This is a joint project volume prepared by the Russian and Mongolian Academies of Science. The Mongolian scholars (N. Hushugt, S. Damdinsuren, O. Batsaikhan, D. Shurhuu, Ts. Batbayar, J. Boldbaatar, D. Ganzorig, A. Buyantogs) also presented their articles in the volume.


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58 E.A. Belov, Rossiya i Mongoliya v nachale XX veka (1911–1919) [Russia and Mongolia at the beginning of the twentieth century (1911–1919)] (Moscow: IV RAN, 1998). For other works by Belov, see the Bibliography. 59 See: Irina Morozova, ‘The Strategies of the Comintern and Baron Ungern in Central Asia’, Orient: History, Philology, Economics (Moscow: ISAA, MGU, 1999), 49–56. 60 Leonid Shinkarev, Tsedenbal i Filatova. Liubov’, Vlast’, Tragediya [Tsedenbal and Filatova. Love, power, tragedy] (Moskva – Irkutsk: Sapronov, 2004). 61 Ole Bruun and Ole Odgaard, (eds), Mongolia in Transition. Old Patterns, New Challenges, (Richmond: Curzon Press, 1996). 62 Author’s interviews, Ulaanbaatar, May 2008. 63 Irina Morozova, ‘Truth, history and politics in Mongolia’, IIAS Newsletter 34 (Leiden: 2004), 33. 64 Ines Stolpe, Schule versus Nomadismus? Interdependenzen von Bildung und Migration in der Mongolei (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang GmbH, 2008); Ingeborg Baldauf, ‘Tradition, Revolution, Adaption. Die kulturelle Sowjetisierung Zentralasiens’, Machtmosaik Zentralasien. Traditionen, Restriktionen, Aspirationen (Berlin: Osteuropa, 2007), 110–111. 65 Udo B. Barkmann, Geschichte der Mongolei oder Die ‘Mongolische Frage.’ Die Mongolen auf ihrem Weg zum eigenen Nationalstaat (Bonn: Bouvier Verlag, 1999). 66 Udo B. Barkmann, ‘Zum Politischen Selbstverständnis Der Mongolischen Revolutionären Volkspartei’, Asien, Afrika, Lateinamerika, Vol. 24 (1996), 475–496. 67 Udo B. Barkmann, ‘Die Mongolische Revolutionäre Volkspartei (MRVP) in Spagat Zwischen Demokratie und Geopolitik’, Asien, Afrika, Lateinamerika, Vol. 28 (2000), 265–309. 68 S.S. Radchenko, ‘Mongolian politics in the shadow of the Cold War: The 1964 coup attempt and the Sino-Soviet split’, Journal of Cold War Studies, Volume 8, Number 1 (2006), 95–119. 69 Balázs Szalontai, ‘Tsedenbal’s Mongolia and communist aid donors: a reappraisal’, IIAS Newsletter 35 (2004), 18. 70 Irina Morozova, ‘Mongolian foreign policy: the Chinese dimension’, IIAS Newsletter 46 (Leiden: 2008), 36. 71 Irina Morozova, H-Diplo Article Review on ‘Mongolian politics in the shadow of the Cold War’, JCWS 8.1 (Winter 2006). 72 Ch.P. Atwood, Young Mongols and Vigilantes in Inner Mongolia’s Interregnum Decades, 1911–1931. Vol. 1, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2002). 73 Uradyn E. Bulag, Nationalism and Hybridity in Mongolia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998). 74 Morris Rossabi, Modern Mongolia: From Khans to Commissars to Capitalists (Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2005). 75 A.C. Campi, The Political Relationship between the United States and Outer Mongolia 1915–1927: the Kalgan Consular records (PhD diss., Indiana University, 1987). 2 1921–1924: Theocratic monarchy and revolution in Mongolia 1 For detailed biographies and portraits of Mongolian revolutionaries, see: S.K. Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya Mongolii (1921–1940) [Political history of Mongolia] (Moscow: IV RAN, 1999), 53–78. 2 Transport connection in Mongolia was realised via different urton stations, at which messengers and travellers could exchange horses and receive other services. To pay for the post and transportation service was a civil duty. 3 G.M. Adibekov, E.N. Shahnazarova and K.K. Shirinya, Organizationnaya struktura Kominterna, 1919–1943 [Organizational structure of the Comintern, 1919– 1943] (Moscow: ROSSPEN, 1997).


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4 Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Sotsial’no-Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI) [The Russian state archive of social-political history], F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 10. 5 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 4. L. 24. 6 I.M. Maiski, Mongolia nakanune revoliutsii [Mongolia before the revolution] (Moscow: Vostlit, 1960), 38–39. 7 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 3. L. 4. 8 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 175. L. 134. 9 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 3. L. 2. 10 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 7. ll. 6–7. 11 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 24. 12 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 51. 13 B. Tsybikov, Razgrom Ungernovschiny [The crash on the Ungern regime] (UlanUde: Burmongiz, 1947), 126. 14 Revoliutsionnye meropriyatiya Narodnogo pravitel’stva Mongolii v 1921–1924 godah [Revolutionary decrees of the People’s Government of Mongolia in 1921– 1924] (Moscow, 1960), 31–33. 15 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 3. L. 2. 16 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 5. L. 9. 17 See Introduction, pp. 4–7. 18 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 5. L. 29. 19 S.K. Roschin, Problemy noveishei istorii Mongolii (1920–30 gody) [The Problems of the Modern History of Mongolia (1920–1930 gg.)] (Moscow: IV RAN, 1997), 40. 20 The Soviet tactic in the struggle against Ungern was to push him out of Urga to the Russian border, ‘so that he tired himself out’. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 9. ll. 10–11. 21 Tsybikov, 1947, 122. 22 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 9. L. 46. 23 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 141. 24 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 112. 25 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 78. 26 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 141. 27 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 54. 28 The National Archive of the Buryat Republic, F. P-477. Sch. 1. D. 84. ll. 8, 11. 29 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 54, 78. 30 In 1921 the term ‘autonomous Mongolia’ disappeared from official Soviet–Mongolian documents, and from then on was replaced by ‘free Mongolia’. In the agreement signed on 5 November 1921 between Soviet Russia and Mongolia, the articles on the international legal status of Outer Mongolia and its relations with China were not included at all. In the Soviet–Chinese documents, the status of Outer Mongolia was always interpreted as autonomous within China. For details see: S.G. Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongolia – Kitai v pervoi polovine XX v. Politicheskie vzaimootnosheniya v 1911–1946 gg. [Russia – Mongolia – China in the first half of the XX century. Political relationships in 1911–1946] (Moscow: IDV RAN, 2000), 103–104. 31 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 54. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. ll. 77–78. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 77. 37 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 128. 38 On Rinchino’s approach to the revolution and the tactics he employed while working in Mongolia as a Soviet agent, see I. Morozova, ‘Comparative historical analysis of pan-Asiatic social movements in Inner and Central Asia. Z.V. Togan

Notes

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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

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and E.D. Rinchino’, Journal of Central Asian Studies VII, no. 2 (spring/summer 2003): 2–19. ‘Internal stratification of lamas’ was the Comintern idea of class struggle inside the Buddhist sangha: the poor, low lamas, suppressed by the high lamas, had to rise up and rebel against the hierarchs. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 5. L. 29. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 141. Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya, 59. ‘Only in 1924 was the meeting of March 1921 in Kyakhta called as the first Congress, and the Congress of 1921 as the II Congress.’ Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya, 148. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 25. L. 8. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 25. ll. 10–13. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 31. L. 60. Some scholars have argued that the supra-legality of Russian communism was the continuation of the Russian autocracy that in its turn had resulted from the rule of Muscovite princes and the Golden Horde. Following this logic, the USSR represented a variation of the Eurasian empire. However hypothetical this approach might seem, it nevertheless suggests a methodological reorientation away from the analysis of the USSR as a state, classical empire or even as a political system, toward an analysis of the Soviet supra-legal organisations, and primarily of the CPSU, its structure, evolution, identity and policy. A.I. Fursov and Y.S. Pivovarov, ‘Russkaia sistema’ [Russian system] in Politicheskaia nauka. Teoriia i metodologiia [Political science. Theory and methodology], ed. Y.S. Pivovarov (Moscow: RAN INION, 1997), 186–189. Jacob Seiden, The Mongol impact on Russia from the 13th century to the present: Mongol contributions to the political institutions of Muscovy, Imperial Russia, and the Soviet state (volumes I–III) (PhD diss., Georgetown University, 1971), 1,005. N.N. Kradin, Imperiya Hunnu [The Xiong-nu Empire] (Vladivostok: Dalnauka, 1996), 15. For ‘The address on the spread of rumours,’ see Revoliutsionnye meropriyatiya, 39–42. E. Khara-Davan, Chingis-han kak polkovodets i ego nasledie [Chinggis Qan as a commander and his legacy] (Elista: Kalmytskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo, 1991), 32– 33, 47, 59. D. Dashpurev and S.K. Soni, Reign of Terror in Mongolia 1920–1990 (New Delhi: South Asian Publishers, 1992). RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. L. 76. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 106. ll. 83, 121. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 9. L. 50–51. E.D. Rinchino, ‘O lichnostyah nekotoryh rukovoditelei aimakov (Iz bloknota mongol’skogo rabotnika)’ [On personalities of some aimags’ leaders (From the notes of Mongolian agent)], in Elbeg-Dorji Rinchino o Mongolii. Izbrannye trudy [Elbeg-Dorj Rinchino on Mongolia. Selected works] (Ulan-Ude, 1998), 134–135. Ibid., 135. Ibid., 137. Ibid., 138. Ibid. Ibid., 138–139. On Ja Lama, see Inessa Lomakina, Golova Dja-lamy [The head of Ja Lama] (Ulan-Ude, St. Petersburg: Agentstvo ‘Ekoart’, 1993). S.N. Natsov, ‘Materialy IV s’ezda Mongol’skogo Revoliutsionnogo Soiuza Molodiozhi 17–22 oktyabrya 1925, doklad Natsova’ [The materials of the IV Congress of the Mongolian Revolutionary Union of Youth 17–22 October 1925, the report

150

63


64 65 66

67 68 69

70 71 72

Notes

by Natsov], in Revoliutsionnaya molodiozh’ Mongolii [Revolutionary youth of Mongolia] (Ulaanbaatar, 1925), 26. Ladislaus Forbath, as related by Joseph Geleta, The New Mongolia (LondonToronto: Heinemann, 1936), 221. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 21. L. 7. Revoliutsionnye meropryiatiya, 124–126. Ibid., ‘Postanovlenie ob iz’yatii u lam Velikogo Shabinskogo vedomstva pechatei na pravo vladeniya aratami-hamjilga’ [The decree on confiscating the seals on the right of possession of the arad-khamjilgaa from the lamas of the Great Shabin department], 104–105. Revoliutsionnaia molodiozh’, 62. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 4. L. 330. E.D. Rinchino, ‘K poslednim sobytiyam v Mongolii. Narodnaya partiya i Soiuz molodiozhi. O soglashatel’stve partii. Urga, 17 sentyabrya 1924’ [On the last events in Mongolia. The People’s Party and the Youth Union. On the party’s demagogic compromise. Urga, 17 September 1924], in Elbeg-Dorj Rinchino on Mongolia, (Ulan-Ude: 1998), 96. Ibid., 13. The Constitution deprived the former noyons and Buddhist hierarchs, as well as monastery lamas, of election rights. See Osnovnoi zakon (Konstitutsiya) MNR i prilozheniya: Mongol’skoe zakonodatel’stvo [The main law (Constitution) of the MPR and amendments: the Mongolian legal court], first edition (Ulaanbaatar, 1928).

3 1925–1928: the birth of the Mongolian People’s Republic 1 For details see: S.G. Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongolia – Kitai v pervoi polovine XX v. Politicheskie vzaimootnosheniya v 1911–1946 gg. [Russia – Mongolia – China in the first half of the XX century. Political relationships in 1911–1946] (Moscow: IDV RAN, 2000), 118. 2 Ibid., 121. 3 Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Sotsial’no-Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI), F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 46. L. 8. 4 Ibid., L. 13. 5 Ibid., L. 8. 6 G.Ts. Tsybikov, ‘Dnevnik poezdki v Urgu 1927 g.’ [Diary of the journey to Urga from 1927], in Izbrannye Trudy [Selected works] Vol. 2, (Novosibirsk: ‘Nauka’, 1981), 134. 7 Ibid., 131. 8 Ibid., 129. 9 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 46. L. 42. 10 Daniel Mark Rosenberg, Political Leadership in a Mongolian Nomadic Pastoralist Collective (PhD diss., University of Minnesota, 1992), 12. 11 Revoliutsionnaya molodiozh’ Mongolii [Revolutionary youth of Mongolia] (Ulaanbaatar, 1925), 62. 12 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 31. L. 56. 13 Ibid., L. 51. 14 Ibid., D. 46. L. 8. 15 Ibid., L. 9. 16 Some Buryatian reformers of Buddhism saw the basic ideas of the Theory of Relativity in the Buddhist concepts of nirvana and karma. 17 L.W. Moses, The Political Role of Mongol Buddhism (Bloomington: Indiana University, 1977), 175.


Notes

151

18 S.N. Natsov, ‘Natsional’naya revoliutsiya mongolov’ [National revolution of the Mongols], in Kommunisticheskii Internatsional [Communist International] no. 33– 34 (August 1928): 67–68, 71, 74. 19 Tsybikov, ‘Dnevnik poezdki v Urgu’, 151. 20 The Mongolian People’s Party (MPP) was renamed the Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Party (MPRP) in March 1925. 21 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 31. L. 79. 22 Ibid., L. 105. 23 Sharad K. Soni, Mongolia – China Relations. Modern and Contemporary Times, (New Delhi: Pentagon Press, 2006), 91–96. 24 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 31. ll. 61–65. 25 Ibid., L. 80. 26 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 31. L. 71. 27 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 391. L. 8. 28 Forbath, Geleta, The New Mongolia, 218. 29 Ibid., 218–219. 30 Tsybikov, ‘Dnevnik poezdki v Urgu’, 132. 31 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 46. L. 44. 32 Ibid., D. 31. L. 96. 33 Ibid., L. 106. 34 Ibid., L. 107. 35 Ibid., ll. 124–125. 36 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 46. L. 32. 37 Ibid., L. 33. 38 Ibid., L. 19. 39 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 46. ll. 14, 31. 40 Japanese agents had operated in Outer Mongolia since the mid-1920s. See Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongoliya – Kitai … , 132–133. 41 Ibid., 135. 42 Tsybikov, ‘Dnevnik poezdki v Urgu’, 130. 43 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 46. L. 66.; F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 46. L. 60. 44 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 51. L. 1. 45 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 387. L. 26. 46 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 51. L. 23. 47 Ibid., F. 945. Sch. 2. D. 70b. L. 259. 48 Terry Martin, The Affirmative Action Empire. Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union, 1923–1939 (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2001), 137–138. 49 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 297. L. 11. 50 Tsybikov, ‘Dnevnik poezdki v Urgu’, 128. 51 Ibid., 131. 52 Ibid., 142–143. 53 RGASPI, F. 945. Sch. 2. D. 70b. L. 263. 54 Ibid., L. 260. 55 Tsybikov, ‘Dnevnik poezdki v Urgu’, 146. 56 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 297. L. 24. 57 Ibid., L. 27. 58 Ibid. 59 For details see Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongolia – Kitai … , 136–146. 60 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 297. ll. 29–30. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 297. L. 207. 63 Ibid.


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Notes

64 For a detailed description based on sources available in the PRC, see Ch.P. Atwood, Young Mongols and Vigilantes in Inner Mongolia’s Interregnum Decades, 1911–1931. Vol. 1, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 853–887. 65 Ibid., 806. 66 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 46. ll. 140–143. 67 Luzyanin, Rossiya – Monoglia – Kitai … , 146. 68 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 51. ll. 2–3. 69 Ibid., L. 16. 70 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 70b. ll. 259–260. 71 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 46. ll. 10–11. 72 Ibid., L. 33. 73 Ibid., L. 34. 74 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 276. L. 196. 75 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 55. L. 17. 76 Ibid., L. 16. 77 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 56. 78 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 51. L. 10. 79 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 72. L. 31. 80 Ibid, D. 75. L. 444. 81 I. Morozova, The Comintern and Revolution in Mongolia (Cambridge: White Horse Press, 2002), 7, 10. 82 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 75. L. 18. 83 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 387. ll. 9–12. 84 Conversation with Prof. L. Jamsran, September 2001. 85 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 387. L. 24. 86 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 76. L. 266. 87 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 349. L. 13. 88 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 76. L. 267. 89 Public health statistics collected in Asian countries by Europeans, particularly by colonial medical services, or by the Soviets cannot be deemed objective, as argued in recent literature. See Alex McKay, Their Footprints Remain: Biomedical Beginnings Across the Indo-Tibetan Frontier (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2007). On hygiene campaigns in Mongolia, see Ines Stolpe, ‘Display and performance in Mongolian cultural campaigns’, in Conflict, Religion and Social Order in Tibet and Inner Asia (Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, forthcoming). 90 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 349. L. 13. 4 1929–1932: old and new Mongolian terror 1 Only two of ten elderly Mongolians acknowledged (though not during the first interview) that their living standards had declined in 1930–1932. 2 N.N. Kradin, Imperiya Hunnu [The Xiong-nu Empire] (Vladivostok: Dal’nauka, 1996), 25. 3 Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Sotsial’no-Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI), F. 495. Sch 2. D. 31. L. 22. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 56. L. 44. 6 In 1925 Chinese companies accounted for 60 per cent of total turnover; in 1929, it was 31.1 per cent. 7 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 391. L. 8. 8 Ibid., L. 52. 9 Ibid., D. 388. L. 3. 10 See A.S. Nemoi, Sovetskie mediki v Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respublike [Soviet doctors in the Mongolian People’s Republic] (Moscow, 1978), 79.

Notes


11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

153

RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 388. L. 4. Ibid., F. 17. Sch. 162. D. 3. L. 73. Ibid., L. 73. Information received from the informant, a Soviet specialist, who worked in Mongolia in the 1960s. Information from the informant. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 391. L. 60. Ibid., L. 49. Ibid., L. 14. Ibid., L. 61. Ibid., L. 68. Ibid., L. 71. Ma Ho-t’ien, Chinese Agent in Mongolia (Baltimore: J. H. Press, 1948), 133. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 391. L. 17–18. Ibid., L. 38. Ibid., L. 48. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 388. L. 3. Ibid., ll. 3, 5. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 3. D. 123. L. 350. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 391. L. 59. Ibid., L. 102. Ibid., L. 8. Ibid., L. 28. Ibid., L. 75. Ibid., L. 36. Ibid., L. 67. Ibid., L. 60. Ibid., L. 58. Ibid., L. 66. Ibid., L. 63. Figures are provided in Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki [History of the Mongolian People’s Republic] (Moscow: Nauka, 1983), 358–359. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 10. S.K. Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya Mongolii (1921–1940) [Political history of Mongolia] (Moscow: IV RAN, 1999), 247. Ibid., 242. For details, see ibid., 240–241. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 391. L. 42. Ibid., L. 50. Ibid., L. 56, 71. Ibid., L. 13. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 4. D. 73. L. 9. See Historiography sketch, p. 21. During the jas campaign low-ranking lamas were forcibly secularised. In 1930, despite Buddhism’s rejection of all violence, military conscription was introduced for lamas. See Introduction, pp. 8–9. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 4. D. 73. ll. 8–9. Ibid., L. 10. Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya, 252–253. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 4. D. 73. L. 8. Ibid., L. 9. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 50. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 154. D. 391. L. 65.

154


60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

Notes

Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 4. D. 73. L. 10. Ibid., L. 12. Ibid., L. 14. Ibid., L. 12. Roschin, Politicheskaia istoriya, 258. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 4. D. 73. L. 16. Ibid., F. 17. Sch. 162. D. 3. L. 188. Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 45. Ibid., L. 20. At the end of 1932, bags were restored as primary administrative units. One bag could include from 3 to 100 households (gers). RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 45. Information provided by the IDO head D. Namsrai. See Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya, 259. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 25. Ibid. Ibid. RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 162. D. 3. L. 188.

5 1933–1939: between Russian communism and Japanese militarism 1 Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Sotsial’no-Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI), F. 495. Sch. 2. D 188. L. 49. 2 Ibid., L. 51. 3 Inessa Lomakina, Golova Dja-lamy [The head of Ja Lama] (Ulan-Ude, St. Petersburg: Nauka, 1993), 55. 4 Daniel Mark Rosenberg, Political Leadership in a Mongolian Nomadic Pastoralist Collective (University of Minnesota, 1992), 23. 5 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 19. 6 P. Genden became Prime Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs in July 1932. 7 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 19. 8 Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki [The history of the Mongolian People’s Republic] (Moscow: Nauka, 1983), 376. 9 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 153. ll. 2–3. 10 Comintern agents believed the Japanese had not quickly understood how to use the leftist course, initiating it only in December 1932 and January–February 1933. 11 See: I.Y. Morozova, ‘Japan and its influence towards pan-Buddhism and panMongolism’, International Journal for Central Asian Studies 4 (1999): 146–161. 12 One of those who ‘made mistakes’ was Amar; see RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 48. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid., F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 154. ll. 24–25. 15 S.K. Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya Mongolii (1921–1940) [Political history of Mongolia] (Moscow: IV RAN, 1999), 272. 16 In fact, the most immune to cooperation in the 1930s (and also nowadays) were domestic handicraft cartels. 17 Rosenberg, Political Leadership … , 23. 18 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 30. 19 Hit (Mong.) – a type of monastery where monks permanently live. See: A.M. Pozdneev, Ocherki byta buddiiskih monastyrei i buddiiskogo duhovenstva v Mongolii v svyazi s otnosheniyami sego poslednego k narodu [Notes on the life of Buddhist monasteries and Buddhist clergy in Mongolia in connection with the relationships between the clergy and the people] (Elista: Kalmytskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo, 1993), 1–2.

Notes 20 21 22 23 24 25


26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

155

RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 44. Ibid., L. 30. Ibid., D. 154. L. 36. Tsam (Tib.), Buddhist theatrical public performance staged by the monks in the monastery. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 56. Naadam (Mong.), traditional Mongol nomads’ festival (Festival of the Three Games of Men) that includes competitions in racing, wrestling and archery. S.G. Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongolia – Kitai v pervoi polovine XX v. Politicheskie vzaimootnosheniya v 1911–1946 gg. [Russia – Mongolia – China in the first half of the XX century. Political relationships in 1911–1946] (Moscow: IDV RAN, 2000), 172. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 20. Ibid., L. 20. Ibid., L. 78. Ibid., ll. 20–21. In general, the Ninth MPRP Congress was the last activity managed by the Comintern in Mongolia. At the beginning of the 1930s, the Comintern continued observing politics within the MPRP CC and the Mongolian government, focusing on methods of forceful interference. However, it had transformed and stopped acting as an international organisation, as there was hardly any difference in the approaches of Comintern agents and RCP(b) CC members. By 1932, the post of the Comintern representative attached to the MPRP CC became outdated. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 11. Ibid., L. 26. Under the ‘leftists’ the total number of URY members was 8,000; after the purge, it was 4,000. Conversation with the academician Sh. Bira in September 2001. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 26. Among the achievements of the MPR’s industrial–technical development in the 1930s, one could mention the 1933 launch of the Khantagal wool-washing enterprise, the February 1934 opening of the central heating electrical station in Ulaanbaatar and of the Group of Industrial Enterprises in March the same year, and the creation of the first radio station. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 48. The myth of Chinggis qan’s blood still exists in Mongolia among the common people and intelligentsia. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 18. Ibid., L. 74. Ibid. Ibid., L. 75. Ibid., Sch. 152. D. 155. ll. 13–28. Until now no researcher has published objective data on Japanese agents’ activities in Tibet at that time. Japan obviously had strategic plans in that region, however, geography and politics prevented it from a broad invasive campaign. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 155. ll. 13–28. Ibid., D. 155. ll. 15, 27–28. Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongolia – Kitai … , 197. At the beginning of 1936, A. Amar and Dogsom suggested controlling MDA activities. Choibalsan was strongly against that. See Chapter II, pp. 221–222 and Chapter III, pp. 267–269, 271–273. D. Dashpurev and S.K. Soni, Reign of Terror in Mongolia 1920–1990 (New Delhi: South Asian Publishers, 1992), 40. Ibid., 41. Ibid., 39. RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 153. L. 3.


156

Notes

54 Ibid., D. 155. L. 41. 55 H. Tsedensodnom, Mongolyn hun amyn bairshilt dinamik ba gazarzujn orchin [The dynamics of the population settlements and geographical environment] (Ulaanbaatar, 1999), 13. 56 Ibid., 14. 57 D. Damjav, Ulaanbaatar hotyn hün am züjn lavlakh guravdugaar devter [The third book on the Ulaanbaatar city population] (Ulaanbaatar, 1998), 3. 58 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 160. 59 Ibid., D. 155. L. 42. 60 Luzyanin, Rossiya – Mongolia – Kitai … , 198. 61 V.A. Zolotarev (ed.), Khalkhyn golyn dain: negen jaryn terteed (Barimt bichgijn emhetgel). [The war at Khalkhin Gol: sixty years after (The collection of documents)] (Ulaanbaatar, 1999), 282–350. 62 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 155. ll. 63–64. 63 According to data for the period 1935–1936, approximately 3,500 people were expelled from the party. See: Roschin, Politicheskaya istoriya … , 296. 64 From a conversation with S. Jambaldorj in September 2002. 65 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 152. D. 155. ll. 23–24. 66 Ibid., L. 94. 67 Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki, 388. 68 Udo B. Barkmann, ‘Erste Benmerkungen zu einem traurigen Kapite mongolischer Geschichte – die dreißiger Jahre’, Asien, Africa, Lateinamerika, 6/1993. Vol. XX, 1045, 1049. 69 The figures presented by Dashpurev and Soni, Reign of Terror. 70 RGASPI, F. 495. Sch. 2. D. 188. L. 32. 6 1940–1945: the Mongolian arad and the Second World War 1 Only three members of the Presidium – Kh. Choibalsan, J. Lkhagvasuren and D. Dambaa – were present at the Congress. 2 Magtal (Mong.): poetic praising performed by Mongolian nomads in honour of a hero. 3 These were the Comintern’s final years. In fact, it had already ceased functioning after the German–Soviet Pact on mutual non-aggression was signed on 23 August 1939. The Comintern was disbanded in June 1943 and essentially replaced by the establishment of the Department of International Information above all other bodies in the RCP(b) CC. 4 By the 1940s, the cooperatives had their own party cells. 5 Surprisingly, management of cattle breeding was also the starting point of Choibalsan’s career. 6 Daniel Mark Rosenberg, Political Leadership in a Mongolian Nomadic Pastoralist Collective (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1992), 23. 7 Ibid., 24. 8 According to Soviet and Mongolian ideologists, the socialist period would last until 1960, after which a new stage of deepening socialist state building and cultural revolution would start. 9 In November 1942, the MPRP CC Plenum decided to reconstruct the people’s economy according to wartime conditions. 10 Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Sotsial’no-Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI), F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 11. ll. 10–11. 11 From the verb ‘yadrakh’ (Mong.), ‘to get tired’. 12 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 11. L. 53. 13 Ibid., L. 12. 14 Ibid., L. 17.


Notes 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38

157

‘Darga’ (Mong.), ‘boss’. RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 11. L. 25. Information from interviews (August 2001). Information from interviews (September 2001). RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 20. L. 46. Ibid., D. 11. L. 54. Ibid., ll. 259–260. Rosenberg, Political Leadership, 28. Ibid., 25. Ibid., 26. RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 11. L. 73. H. Tsedensodnom, Mongolyn hun amyn bairshilt dinamik ba gazarzuin orchin [The dynamics of the population settlements and geographical environment] (Ulaanbaatar, 1999), 13. In August 1943, the Small Khural Presidium adopted a resolution on protecting public property. The resolution also emphasised the necessity to ‘fight all manifestations of squandering, embezzlement and money-grubbing’. RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 11. L. 73. ‘Archi’ (Mong.), ‘vodka’. RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 20. L. 55. Ibid., L. 2. Ibid., L. 25. Ibid., L. 49. Ibid., L. 65. Ibid., D. 11. L. 30. S. Luzyanin, ‘Yaltinskaya konferentsiya i problemy mezhdunarodno-pravovogo oformleniya MNR nakanune i v gody vtoroi mirovoi voiny [‘Yalta Conference and problems of resolving the MPR international legal status before and during the Second World War’], Problemy Dal’nego Vostoka [The far east review], no. 6 (Moscow, 1995), 55. R. Rupen, Mongols of the Twentieth Century (Bloomington: Indiana University, 1964), 257. Ibid., 261.

7 1946–1952: Socialist nomadism 1 Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arhiv Sotsial’no-Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI) [The Russian State Archive of Social-Political History], F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 206. L. 59. 2 Ibid., L. 79. 3 Ibid., D. 393. L. 27. 4 See Chapter 6, p. 108. 5 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 393. L. 942. 6 Ibid., D. 206. L. 57. 7 Ibid., L. 40. 8 Ibid., ll. 40, 55, 56. 9 Ibid., L. 59. 10 Zud (Mong.) – a mass loss of cattle caused by harsh winter and lack of food. 11 See Chapter 6, p. 108. 12 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 206. L. 44. 13 Ibid., L. 46. 14 Ibid., L. 55. 15 Ibid., L. 41. 16 Ibid., D. 393. L. 83. 17 Ibid., L. 844.


158

Notes

18 Ibid. 19 Ibid., L. 65. 20 Daniel Mark Rosenberg, Political Leadership in a Mongolian Nomadic Pastoralist Collective (PhD diss., University of Minnesota, 1992), 27. 21 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 393. L. 27. 22 Ibid., L. 65. 23 Ibid. 24 Rosenberg, Political Leadership, 28. 25 Ibid., 29. 26 Ibid., 30. 27 MAKhN-yn Töv Khoroony 1953 ony guravdugaar saryn khurlyn iltgel, togtool [Reports and resolutions of the MPRP CC Congress of March 1953] (Ulaanbaatar, 1953), 11. 28 The numbers are presented from Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki [History of the Mongolian People’s Republic] (Moscow: Nauka, 1983), 463. 29 Dendevijn Damjav, Ulaanbaatar hotyn hün am züγjn lavlah guravdugaar devter [The third edition of statistical data on Ulaanbaatar population] (Ulaanbaatar, 1998), 68. 30 H. Tsedensodnom, Mongolyn hun amyn bajrschilt dinamik ba gazarzujn orchin [The dynamics of the Mongolian population settlements and geographical environment] (Ulaanbaatar, 1999), 13. 31 Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki, 465. 32 Tsedensodnom, Mongolyn hun amyn bajrschilt dinamik, 13. 33 See Chapter 6, p. 117. 34 Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki, 463. 35 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 619. L. 1. 36 In Soviet (and Mongolian) public life there even used to be a pejorative term for the criticism of mainstream policy, kritikanstvo, from kritik (critics), Rus. 37 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 86. L. 3. 38 Ibid. 39 D. Dashpurev writes in his book that Choibalsan wanted to prosecute Rinchin in 1939, but he later decided to apply Rinchin’s experience to the cultural revolution campaign. However, Rinchin managed to escape participation in the state cultural campaigns. The public campaign against Rinchin began in the late 1950s. The MPRP was especially displeased by the scholar’s criticism of the reductions in Mongolian grammar in the 1940s. 40 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 86. L. 4. 41 Ibid., L. 5. 42 Ibid., D. 206. L. 13. 43 Ibid., D. 393. L. 66. 44 Shambhala (from the Sanskrit): in Mahayana Buddhism, in Tibet and Mongolia, a teaching about a mystical hidden land of divine happiness, to which an enlightened man occasionally can find a way. 45 The numbers are presented according to Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki, 464. 46 RGASPI, F. 17. Sch. 128. D. 393. L. 83. 8 Conclusion 1 See: Jacques Legrand, ‘Nomadic pastoral societies – the importance of compromise in dealing with tension, conflict and security’, I. Morozova (ed.), Towards Social Stability and Democratic Governance in Central Eurasia: challenges to regional security (Amsterdam: IOS Press, 2005), 40–49.


Notes

159

2 Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki [History of the Mongolian People’s Republic] (Moscow: Nauka, 1983), 468. 3 Daniel Mark Rosenberg, Political Leadership in a Mongolian Nomadic Pastoralist Collective (PhD diss., University of Minnesota, 1992), 34. 4 Quotation from Istoriya Mongol’skoi Narodnoi Respubliki, 491. 5 N. Jambalsuren and Ts. Nüüdel, Mongolyn Tüüh (ereed on) [Mongolian history (from the very beginning)] (Ulaanbaatar, 1999), 22–26; D. Bayarhüü, Mongol Uls: kommunizmaas kapitalizm ruu [Mongol State: from communism to capitalism] (Ulaanbaatar: Monsudar hevlelijn gazar, 2004), 25–36, 85. 6 Here and below polling data is taken from: Werner Prohl and Luvsandendev Sumati, Voters’ Voices. People’s Perception of Mongolia’s Political and Economic Transition as Reflected in Opinion Polls from 1995 to 2007 (Ulaanbaatar: ‘MINKHIN USEG’ Co., Ltd.). 7 MONTSAME. 15.01.2006. 8 J. Boldbaatar, Mongol Ulsyn Zasgijn Gazryn Tergüün [Members of the Mongol State Government] (Ulaanbaatar: Mongolyn Uslyn Ikh Surguul, 2004), 250–260. 9 Tsagaan Sar (White Month, Mong.) – Mongolian New Year, according to the moon calendar, is widely celebrated in Mongolia. 10 Önöödör. 17.06.2005. 11 Önöödör. 23.06.2005. 12 MAKhN-yn Onts Ikh Khural [The MPRP Extraordinary Congress] (Ulaanbaatar, 1990), 60. 13 It is interesting to note that this idea of a ‘civilisational’ choice for democracy by the Mongols is still popular among Mongolian politicians and even academicians. Moreover, some Western scholars also share this approach: Paula L.W. Sabloff, ‘Why Mongolia? The political culture of an emerging democracy’, Central Asian Survey, No. 21 (1) (2002), 19–36. This article was criticised in the same journal by Andrew F. March, ‘Citizen Genghis? On explaining Mongolian democracy through “Political culture”’, Central Asian Survey, No. 22 (1) (March, 2003), 61–66.


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Index

aimag 8, 12, 32–3, 37–9, 49, 51, 55,72, 76, 79, 99, 106, 108–10, 112, 124, 126, 132–3, 141, 149 Amagaev, M. 50–1, 68, 70 Amar, A. 12, 20, 50–1, 80, 84–6, 100, 154–5, 162 ambulance 33, 65–6 anti-lama policy 18, 85, 101, 109 artel 72, 76 autonomy 9, 27, 29, 52 Badrakh, O. 51, 79 bag 76, 88,113, 124, 154 bagsh 131, 134 Bai Yunti 56 Bargut 57, 97 Bayar, S. 140 Beijing 22, 65, 116–7 Bodoo, D. 20, 26, 28, 36, 38–9, 42, 162 Bogdo Gegen (Jebtsundamba Khutagt) 9, 13, 28–31, 39, 42, 45, 48, 70 Bolshevism 2, 10, 26–7 Buddhism 8–10, 18–19, 23, 25, 34, 47, 51–2, 75, 101, 109, 144, 146, 150, 153–4, 158, 161, 166, 168 bureaucracy 5–6, 18, 76–7, 107, 119 bureaucratisation 90, 101, 106, 122 Buryat 10, 27, 32, 37, 69, 70, 97, 144, 148, 163–4, 168 Buryatia 69, 101, 162 Buyannemekh, S. 33, 42 capital: Chinese 40, 70–1; foreign 73, 141; Soviet 126 capitalism 15–16, 116, 118 Chagdarjav, D. 28, 36 Chiang Kai-shek 56 Chinggis Qan 4–7, 19, 24, 36, 39, 84, 92, 141, 149, 155, 164

Choibalsan, Kh. 2, 7, 12, 14, 18, 20, 28, 33, 38, 48–9, 72, 75, 84, 86, 92, 95–7, 100, 102, 104–5, 111, 115, 117, 119, 124, 131, 133, 145, 140, 155–6, 158, 160, 167 Cold War 14, 17, 19, 25, 137, 147, 166–7 collectivisation 72–4, 78–80, 83–4 colonisation 10, 28 commune 73, 76, 78, 80 Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) 24, 77, 133,137, 139, 149 confiscation 18, 61, 63, 71–5, 78, 82, 84, 86, 109 combined war 31–2, 78, 100, 116 communism 61, 83, 149, 154, 159, 162, 164 Communist Party of China (CPC) 57, 117 confiscation 18, 61, 63, 71–5, 78, 82, 84, 86, 109 Constitution 2, 43–4, 51, 100, 105, 124, 136–7, 150, 161 constitutional monarchy 30 cooperative 19, 40, 79–80, 84, 104–6, 112, 124–5, 128, 134–6, 156 corporate structure 40, 68, 75 corporate system 8–9, 40 coup d’état 31, 35, 52 customary law 4–6, 166 Czechoslovak Socialist Republic (CSR) 118, 136 Dalai Lama 9 Dambadorj, Ts. 45, 49–51, 58–60 Danzan, S. 20, 26, 28, 30, 36–7, 42, 163, 165 darga 19, 45, 68–9, 98, 109, 112, 118, 124–5, 131–2, 134–5, 157

170

Index


Dariganga 38–9, 46, 49 darqan 5–6 Demid, G. 73, 96, 163 democracy 16, 22, 24, 39, 77, 137, 139, 141, 159, 163, 165, 167 Democratic Party (Ardchilsan Nam) 139–140 democratisation 1, 23, 137 Durbet 49, 73 Dorligjav, V. 51, 58 Elbegdorj, Ts. 140 elite: political 4, 19, 35, 40, 44, 47, 61, 64–5, 83, 85, 96, 100, 129, 134; intellectual 10, 137; local 13, 26; socialist 20 empire: Asian 3; nomadic 3–5, 63; Eurasian 4, 149; Great Mongol 3; Russian 7, 10 Enkhbayar, N. 140 Enkhbold, M. 140 Executive Committee of Communist International (ECCI) 12, 27, 47, 53, 56–9, 64, 70, 74 expropriation 8, 49, 59, 63–4, 72–6, 78, 81, 83–4, 110 Far Eastern Secretariat of the ECCI 53, 64 Feng Yuxiang 52, 56 feudal 15–16, 18, 28, 49, 57–9, 61, 71–2, 79, 81, 86, 90, 96, 100, 104–5, 124 five-year plan 18, 123–8, 132–5 Genden, P. 20, 45, 51, 66, 79–80, 84, 89, 92, 95–6, 100, 154, 161, 164 Gelegsenge, G. 45, 51 Gelug 9, 144 ger 39, 46, 55, 72, 88, 104, 154 German Democratic Republic (GDR) 118, 136 Golden Horde 35, 149 goskhoz 78, 134 gun 40, 71 Guomindang 44, 47, 56–8, 61, 118 Hsu Shu-cheng 27 hödöö 43, 47, 50, 53, 55, 57–9, 63–5, 68, 76, 88, 104, 107, 109, 114, 123–4, 127–8, 135, 140, 142, 163 ideology 7, 24, 28, 33, 42, 59, 64, 69, 98, 100, 113, 124, 129, 132, 141 Il qan 5–6

industrialisation 113, 122, 124, 127, 133 Inner Mongolia 10, 12, 25, 52, 56–7, 65, 69, 85, 101, 117, 120, 144, 147, 152, 161, 163 institution: market economy 2; social 5, 131, 135, 145 intelligentsia 24–5, 28, 45, 69–70, 86, 106–7, 118, 129–30, 132–3, 136–7, 155 Internal Defence Office (IDO) 21, 33, 36, 38–9, 41–3, 48, 70, 75, 79, 81, 83–4, 86, 92–6, 154 Irkutsk 27–8 Ja Lama 23, 39, 149, 154, 162, 165 Jadambaa, N. 33, 50 Jalhanz Khutagt 29, 39 jas 74–7 jas campaign 16, 74–6, 79–81, 86–8, 104, 133 Jasa’ 6 Kalgan 117, 147, 162 Khalkha 9–10, 32, 52, 56 Khalkhin Gol 13, 20, 78, 100, 102, 108, 113, 144, 156, 161 Kazakh 49, 54, 94 khamjilgaa 26, 40, 150 khashaa 78, 86–7 Khitan 5–6 khoshuu 30, 33, 38–40, 46, 49, 51, 72, 76, 109 khubilgan 37, 39, 71 khural 37, 40, 49: Great People’s 43–4, 47, 51, 61–3, 65, 71, 92, 94, 105, 120, 125, 133–4, 140, 159–160; Bag (Small) 43–4, 47, 51, 71–2, 79–80, 104–5, 110, 117, 157 khutagt 9, 29–30, 37–9, 71, 92, 144, 146, 165 kinship 4–5, 56, 143, 165 Kobdo 39, 46, 126 kolkhoz 61, 72–3, 76–80, 112 korenizatsiia 54 Kyakhta 30, 38, 55, 149 Laagan, L. 45, 73, 79 leftist 2, 18, 22, 34–5, 42, 45, 47–8, 50–2, 54, 57–61, 70, 73, 75–7, 79–81, 85–6, 89, 107, 129, 154–5 legitimacy 6, 8 Lhasa 9 Lhumbe plot 86, 96 longue durée 1, 36 Losol, D. 28


Index Mahayana 101, 158 Maksarjav, H-B. 27, 51, 167 Manchuguo 80, 93 Manchu 8–10, 18, 26–8, 36, 38, 63, 95, 117, 143, 165 Manchuria 22, 55, 117 market economy 1–2, 23, 137, 141 Mersee 57 migration 3, 7, 32, 92, 135, 164 militarisation 100–1, 104, 133 militarism 83, 97 Ministry of Domestic Affairs (MDA) 21, 92, 95, 97–8, 105, 119, 122, 155 model: Horde 7; Tibetan 7–8; Western 10 modernisation 2, 18 monastic corporation 37 Mongol Bank 47, 49, 89, 99 Mongolian National University 126, 130 Mongolian people’s revolution 16, 29– 30, 145, 160, 163, 167 Mongolian People’s Revolutionary Army (MPRA) 116 mongolisation 51, 53–4 MonTsenKop 40–1, 47, 49, 53, 84 Muscovy Rus0 7, 35, 144, 149, 167 Moscow 13, 40, 48–9, 52, 54, 57–8, 65–7, 74–5, 77, 79, 89, 92–4, 100, 102, 104, 117 naadam 89, 98, 155 Nalaikha 99, 126 Namsrai, D. 37, 94, 96, 154 national independence 9, 130 nationalisation 40, 85, 104–6 nationalism 9, 12, 19, 25–6, 144, 147, 151, 162, 165 New Course 79, 81, 83–4, 86, 104 nomadic economy 3–4, 40, 61, 63, 104 nomadic pastoralism 2–3, 9, 15, 101, 124, 141 nomadism 35, 84, 86, 104, 118 nomenklatura 2, 76–7, 89–90, 105, 113–15, 117–18, 132–3, 139 non-capitalist development 2, 16, 42, 56, 83, 103, 105, 119, 124 Ochirbat, P. 139 Outer Mongolia 21–2, 25, 27–9, 31, 39–40,44, 53, 56–7, 65, 60, 95, 101, 116–18, 151, 162, 166

171

pan-Buddhistm 47 Panchen Bogdo 94–5 pan-Mongolism 23, 25, 44–5, 47, 51–2, 56, 64, 85, 117, 154, 166 parliamentary republic 2 Petrov, F. 58–60 People’s government 19, 25, 30–3, 36–7, 39–40, 43, 45, 61, 71, 87, 95, 102, 148, 161 People’s Party of Inner Mongolia (PPIM) 47 plebiscite 117 Polish People’s Republic (PPR) 118, 136 polity 7, 9, 30, 60, 97, 134 power: autocratic 4, 7; supra-legal 81, 129, 134; qan 8–9 power model 1–3, 7–9, 18, 44 presidential republic 2, 141 proletariat 16, 47, 59, 78, 120, 136 qan 4, 6–9, 84, 102, 134 Qing 1,8, 25, 27–28, 52 Qubilai Qan 6, 8 rightist 2, 22, 45, 47–51, 53, 56–61, 63, 69, 75, 107 Rinchino, E.-D. 13, 33, 38, 42, 48, 148–50, 166–8 Russian Communist Party of the Bolsheviks (RCP(b)) 11–13, 27, 61, 69–70, 83, 89–90, 101–2, 114, 116, 121–2, 137, 155–6 Ryskulov, T. 42, 48, 68 sangha 8, 18-19, 28, 39, 44, 47-8, 51, 75, 81, 88, 94, 106, 149 satellite 17, 89 Second World War 14, 102, 106, 118, 120, 157, 164–5 Secret History 5–6 Shabi 27, 29, 39, 51 Shabin department 29, 33, 39, 49, 150 Shambhala 132, 158 Shirendyb 15, 21, 130–1, 146 social composition 14, 28, 47, 49–50, 69, 81, 88, 90, 107, 121, 142 social group 3, 8, 50, 52, 71, 81, 90, 93, 207, 122, 139 socialist society 55, 84, 115, 132 social structure 1–2, 4, 141, 143, 168 social transformation 2, 27, 63, 83, 86, 100, 102, 113, 129, 132–3


172

Index

socialism 1–2, 15–16, 19, 56, 69, 76, 84, 89, 93, 103–5, 116, 118, 124, 133, 137, 141–2 socialist revolution 1, 37, 56, 98, 142 sovereignty 9, 21 Stalin, I. 20, 61, 92, 100, 105, 115, 129, 133, 161 Starkov, A.G. 34–5, 42 stratification 29, 34, 71, 74, 77, 90, 1104, 106, 127, 149 Sükhbaatar, D. 7, 12, 20, 24, 26, 28, 30-1, 45 sum 8, 39, 76, 88, 106, 112, 124, 126, 132-3, 142 taiji 40, 50, 57, 108, 112, 121 Tangut 6 theocratic monarchy 9, 26, 41 tögrög 48–9, 66, 68, 71–2, 87, 89, 99, 120, 126 Torgut 40 trade union 46–7, 54–5, 91–2, 129 transition 1, 15, 23, 25, 35, 43, 59, 105, 123–4, 128, 141, 147, 159, 162, 167 tsar 37, 40 Tsedenbal, Yu. 14, 20, 23, 66, 104–5, 107–8, 114, 120, 131, 133, 137, 147, 161, 164, 166–8 Tserendorj, B. 27, 43, 35, 51, 57–9, 167–8 tsirik 30–2, 77, 100 Turkic Qanate 5 tümen 5 Uighur 6 Ulaanbaatar 2–3, 21, 24, 43, 49, 53–6, 59, 64–5, 68, 73, 77, 89, 92,

94–5, 98–100, 107, 109, 117, 119–120, 122–3, 126–7, 129–30, 140–1 Ulaanbaatar Party School 55, 73, 129 Uliastai 38 ulus 5–6, 19, 143, 164 Ungern-Sternberg, R.F. 23, 31–2, 37, 52, 64, 145, 147–8,166, 168 Union of (Mongolian) Revolutionary Youth (URY) 15, 33–8, 41–3, 45, 54, 72, 75, 77–8, 81, 90, 107, 155 Urga 8–9, 26–33, 36–7, 43, 45–6, 51, 58, 148, 150 Uriankhai 49 urton 26, 41, 106, 112, 135, 147 van 37–8, 40, 71 Verhneudinsk 55 veterinary 33, 53, 55, 62, 71, 73, 113, 125, 127, 135 Xingjian 74, 94 Xiong-nu 4, 143, 149, 152, 162, 164–5 yadargaa 108, 123 Yalta Agreement 116 Yapon-Danzan, A. 26 Yeke Mongqol ulus 5, 19 Young Communist International (YCI) 34–5, 43 Yuan 5–6, 143, 163 Zhamtsarano, Ts. 51, 57 zud 123, 157

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