The Sea of Identities PDF

The Sea of Identities

A Century of Baltic and East European Experiences
with Nationality, Class, and Gender.
The essays in this collection present research on national,
class, and gender identities in the Baltic Sea Region and The Sea
Eastern Europe being conducted by researchers based at the
Institute of Contemporary History, Södertörn University, of Identities
Stockholm. The contributors focus on transnational flow as
they explore Danish, Estonian, Finnish, German, Lithuanian,
Moldovan, Polish, Russian, and Swedish instances, and the
region at large. The studies examine fluid identities in a
historical perspective and show how notions of identity have
been naturalised in specific contexts.
This book is issued in conjunction with the fifteenth anni-
versary of the Swedish Institute of Contemporary History.
By bringing to the public the most current findings in Baltic
and East European studies and offering an overview of work
done by the institute’s researchers, it hopes to demonstrate
the fruitfulness of opening contemporary history to broader
regional and transnational approaches.
Dr Norbert Götz is professor of history at the Institute of

Contemporary History, Södertörn University, Sweden.
Norbert Götz
Edited by
Norbert Götz
Distribution:
(ed.)
Södertörn University
Library www.sh.se/publications
SE-141 89 Huddinge [email protected]
The Sea
of Identities
A Century of Baltic and
East European Experiences
with Nationality, Class, and Gender
Edited by
Norbert Götz
©The Authors
SE-141 89 Huddinge
Cover image: Bundesarchiv, image 167-3916B, by Alfred Paulus

Cover: Jonathan Robson
Layout: Jonathan Robson and Per Lindblom
Printed by Elanders, Stockholm 2014
Södertörn Academic Studies 60

ISSN 1650-6162
Samtidshistoriska frågor 31
ISSN 1650-450X
ISBN 978-91-87843-00-6
In memory of our colleague
Åsa Casula Vifell

(1976–2014)
who was to be one of the

contributors to this book.
Contents
Abbreviations 7
1. Introduction: Collective Identities in Baltic and East Central Europe 11
Norbert Götz
Part 1: National Identities

2. Fluctuating Dynastic and National Affiliation: The Impact of War
and Unrest on Bornholm, Åland, and Saaremaa 31
Janne Holmén
3. The Nordic Threat: Soviet Ethnic Cleansing on the Kola Peninsula 53
Andrej Kotljarchuk
4. An Unimaginable Community: The SS Idea of a ‘Greater
Germanic Reich’ and the German Minority in Denmark 85
Steffen Werther
5. The Ambiguity of the West: Objectives of Polish Research
Policy in the 1990s 109
Sofia Norling
Part 2: Labour Identities

6. Lost Worlds of Labour: Paul Olberg, the Jewish Labour Bund,
and Menshevik Socialism 139
Håkan Blomqvist
7. From Fordism to High-Tech Capitalism: A Political
Economy of the Labour Movement in the Baltic Sea Region 173
Werner Schmidt
8. Solidarity and Diplomacy: Sweden and the Democratisation
of Poland, 1980–1989 193
Klaus Misgeld and Karl Molin
Part 3: Gendered Identities
9. Gender Equality Policies: Swedish and Lithuanian
Experiences of Nordic Ideas 225
Eva Blomberg, Ylva Waldemarson, and Alina Žvinklienė
10. Group-Work on Gender Equality in Transnational Cooperation:
Raising Feminist Consciousness or Diminishing Social Risks? 247
Yulia Gradskova
11. Young Moldovan Women at the Crossroads: Between
Patriarchy and Transnational Labour Markets 269
Kristina Abiala
Part 4: Environmental Awareness

12. Waves of Laws and Institutions: The Emergence of National
Awareness of Water Pollution and Protection in the
Baltic Sea Region over the Twentieth Century 293
Simo Laakkonen
List of Illustrations, Maps, and Tables 319
Contributors 323
Abbreviations
AFL-CIO American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial

Organizations
AIC Arbetarrörelsens internationella centrum (International
Centre of the Swedish Labour Movement) and its archives
ARAB Arbetarrörelsens arkiv och bibliotek (Labour Movement’s
Archives and Library, Stockholm)
ÅSUB Ålands statistik och utredningsbyrå (Åland Islands
Statistical Agency)
Aug. August
BA Bund Archives
BSR Baltic Sea region
ch. chapter
CEEC Central and Eastern European Countries
CIA Central Intelligence Agency (USA)
Dec. December
DGB Deutscher Gewerkschaftsbund (Confederation of German
Trade Unions)
DN Dagens Nyheter (a Swedish daily newspaper)
DNSAP Danmarks National Socialistisk Arbejder Parti (Denmark’s
National Socialist Workers’ Party)
doc. document
ESFA Essingeöarnas socialdemokratiska förenings arkiv
(Archives of the social democrats of Essinge islands in
Stockholm)
EU European Union
EUR Euro (currency)
Feb. February
FM Foreign Ministry
FMG Foreign Ministry of Germany (Auswärtiges Amt)
7
THE SEA OF IDENTITIES
FRG Federal Republic of Germany

GAMO Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Murmanskoi oblasti (State
Archives of the Murmansk oblast)
GARF Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv Rossiiskoi Federatsii (State
Archives of the Russian Federation)
GDP gross domestic product
GDR German Democratic Republic
GF Grafiska fackförbundet (Swedish Union of Graphical
Workers)
ICFTU International Confederation of Free Trade Unions
ILO International Labour Organisation
IPA Independent Polish Agency
ISB International Socialist Bureau
ITS International Trade Secretariats
Jan. January
KBN Komitet Badań Naukowych (Research Committee;
Poland)
KOR Komitet Obrony Robotników (Polish Workers’ Defence
Committee)
LAA Landsarkivet for Sønderjylland, Aabenraa (Provincial
Archives of Southern Jutland in Aabenraa)
LO Landsorganisationen (Swedish Trade Union
Confederation) and its archives
MDL Moldovan leu (currency)
MID Military Information Division (USA)
NAD National Archives of Denmark (Rigsarkivet)
NAS National Archives of Sweden (Riksarkivet)
NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organization
NB 8 Nordic–Baltic 8
NEP New Economic Policy (Soviet Union)
NGO(s) non-governmental organisation(s)
NKVD Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del (Soviet Secret
Police)
Nov. November
NSDAP-N Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiter Partei –
Nordschleswig (National Socialist German Workers’
Party of North Schleswig)
Oct. October
OPZZ Ogólnopolskie Porozumienie Związków Zawodowych (All-
8
ABBREVIATIONS
Poland Alliance of Trade Unions)

p(p). page(s)
PK Politikommandørens arkiv (Archives of the Police
Commander)
PDK Predel’no dopustimye koncentratsii (Soviet maximum
permissible concentration standards for water)
PKB Den parlamentariske kommissions beretning (Report of
the parliamentary commission [on Denmark under
German occupation])
POA Paul Olberg’s archives
PZPR Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza (Polish United
Workers Party)
R&D Research and development
RGAE Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv ekonomiki (Russian State
Archives of Economics)
RGASPI Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv sotsial’no-politicheskoi
istorii (Russian State Archive of Social-Political History)
RSFSR Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
RUB Ruble (Russian currency)
SD Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS (Secret Service of
the SS)
SEK Swedish kronor (currency)
Sept. September
SIKiS Solidaritets Informationskontor i Stockholm (Solidarity’s
Information office in Stockholm)
SK Sturmkolonnen (Para-military organisation of the North
Schleswigian Nazis)
SKIF Sotsyalistishe Kinder Farband (Socialist Children’s Union)
SPD Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands (Social
Democratic Party of Germany)
SS Schutzstaffel (paramilitary organisation of the German
Nazi party)
SvD Svenska Dagbladet (a Swedish daily newspaper)
SYKE Suomen ympäristökeskus (Finnish Environment Institute)
TCO Tjänstemännens Centralorganisation (Swedish
Confederation of Professional Employees)
TsUNKhU Tsentral’noye Upravleniye Narodno-Khozyaystvennogo
Uchyota (Soviet Central Statistical Office)
TV Television
9
UN United Nations
UNDP United Nations Development Program
US(A) United States (of America)
USPD Unabhängige Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands
(Independent Social Democratic Party of Germany)
USSR Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
VoMi Volksdeutsche Mittelstelle (SS Ethnic German Liaison
Office)
YAF Yidisher Arbeter Froy (Women’s organisation of the
General Jewish Labour Bund in Lithuania, Poland and
Russia)
YIVO Yidisher Visnshaftlekher Institut (Institute for Jewish
Research)
ZAGS Zapis Aktov Grazhdanskogo Sostoyaniya (Soviet Civil
Registry Office)
10
1. Introduction: Collective Identities in Baltic
and East Central Europe
Norbert Götz
After a preoccupation with collective identities culminated in the mass

destruction of the Second World War and the Holocaust, and after the post-
war remapping and resettlement was enforced, ethnic identity was ‘out’ for
many decades as a political vehicle or a proper topic of research.1 The ideas
of the behaviour of the individual and his or her gentle civilisation in the
spirit of enlightenment took its place. Personal affiliation with a group was
regarded as a functional piece in a greater puzzle of general progress;
stronger types of identification that did not harmonise with the rationality
of light bonds were believed to be doomed to vanish. Such modernism
existed in a capitalist and a communist variety, with greater emphasis on
the individual and the universal dimension respectively (in its communist
version the universalism was a class-based projection). The suggestion that
Sweden represents a ‘third way’, with a political culture that has been lauded
as ‘statist individualism’ (Trägårdh 1997; see also Berggren and Trägårdh
2006), highlights the country’s peculiar status at the time of the Cold War (see
Bjereld, Johansson, and Molin 2008). The lack of independent societal forces
has given rise to a conformist, single norm-oriented Nordic Sonderweg
(Stenius 2013).
During the Cold War, both historical materialism and modernisation
theory gave meaning to a bipolar world with its two competing universa-
lisms aiming at humankind at large.2 There was an intellectual distance,
1
As a research concept, ‘identity’ was not in use until after the Second World War.
Earlier, however, there was a widespread scholarly discourse that would now be
associated with identity issues such as national character, race, profession and class
status, or women’s rights.
2
On the affinity of modernisation theory and capitalism, see Thompson (1991: 267,
272).
11
even isolation, of scholarly communities. There was also a clash of ideas, the
‘sacred drama’ of a deliberative confrontation of different strands of
thought at the United Nations (O’Brien and Topolski 1968; Götz 2011), and
a number of proxy wars on the periphery. However, there was no actual
clash of identities among the dominant cultures. The Baltic Sea, divided by
the Iron Curtain with military forces stationed on either side, could appear
as a ‘Sea of Peace’ in Soviet propaganda. Moreover, a convergence of the
two types of political economy was anticipated not only in Marxist eschato-
logy, but also by the champions of Western modernisation theory (e.g.,
Rostow 1960). Under the circumstances of prevailing universal ideologies
and the nuclear-conditioned need for peaceful coexistence identity re-
mained a non-issue.
Things changed in November 1989 after the fall of the Berlin Wall, an
event I first witnessed in the neighbourhoods of Wedding and Prentzlauer
Berg (see Götz 2012), and later when I became involved with its repercus-
sions on the geographical imagination of the 1990s. It prompted the re-
making of Scandinavian studies at Berlin universities from a philology
dealing with Scandinavian languages and literatures to a broadly defined
field of Northern European studies that reached out to the current affairs of
the wider Baltic Sea area, including a dose of ‘future studies’ (see Götz,
Hecker-Stampehl, and Schröder 2010). However, by 1989 Gorbachev’s
Perestroika had already stimulated independence movements in the Baltic
Soviet Republics and political initiatives for an intensified cooperation
across the Baltic Sea (Gerner and Hedlund 1993; Lieven 1993; Williams
2007). In Poland, which had exemplified the potential transformation of
Eastern Europe throughout the 1980s, the independent trade union
Solidarność (Solidarity) had been re-legalised in April 1989 (see the contri-
bution by Misgeld and Molin in this volume; also Eriksson 2013). In the
early 1990s forces that had been set in motion led to the dissolution of the
Warsaw Pact and the Soviet Union, creating a radically new geopolitical
situation.
In Sweden, with its history of a Baltic empire, long coastline, and central
position at the Baltic Sea, but also its supposed neutrality and its own
version of a blurred ‘socialist’ capitalism during the Cold War, the tur-
bulence in the region was closely watched (Lundén and Nilsson 2008;
Nilsson and Lundén 2010). In the field of academia the inception of the
Foundation for Baltic and East European Studies (Östersjöstiftelsen) in 1994
and the creation of Södertörn University in 1996 were perhaps the most
conspicuous developments (Konnander 1998; Gerdin and Johansson 2005).
12
1. INTRODUCTION: COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES
In this environment, the Swedish Institute of Contemporary History

(Samtidshistoriska Institutet), established in 1999, was formed with a
thoroughly international research profile. In addition it was commited to
fulfilling its mission as a monitor of recent Swedish developments (Gerdin
and Östberg 2004). In this the Institute differed from its sister institutions
in other countries, which, by what appears to be a contemporary history
paradox, often retain a stricter focus on their own nation than what other
branches of history do. The current volume documents some of the inter-
national studies conducted by the Institute’s researchers, with an emphasis
on issues related to national identities, labour orientations, and gender
perspectives.
The issue of identity reappeared as a driving force in the processes
accompanying the end of the Cold War. Devout Catholicism and a political
culture of romantic patriotism made Poland a natural starting point for
questioning the matrix of Yalta (Davies 2001 [1984]). The native popula-
tions of Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania opposed not only the political
Sovietisation of their republics, but also the demographic Russification and
environmental degradation to which they were exposed. They expressed
their discontent in a ‘singing revolution’, mobilising cultural assets to rein-
vigorate national identity and ultimately independence (Vesilind, Tusty,
and Tusty 2008; Škapars 2005). The East Germans went from shouting to
their rulers Wir sind das Volk (We are the people) to being courted by the
phrase Wir sind ein Volk (We are one people). The latter phrase was in-
vented in Leipzig to persuade those in power not to resort to violence
against demonstrators. Eventually the expression was reframed as a pan-
German slogan suggesting the reunion with West Germany (Winkler 2000:
520, 558). In all these cases identity became an instrument for solving issues
connected to the definition and the empowerment of a sovereign.
Not only did the Baltic Sea region become a space for the reconfiguration
of national identities: it became much more of a contact zone than in pre-
vious decades, and was sometimes conceived of as a laboratory for the post-
national forging of identities (Olesen 2012). There arose the question of
what the lifting of the Iron Curtain meant for Nordic cooperation and
whether the latter arena was to include countries like Estonia, Latvia, and
Lithuania (Joenniemi 1997; Lehti and Smith 2003). An epistemic com-
munity of intellectuals working in think tanks and academia imagined the
Baltic Sea region as an identity project in analogy to the nation building of
the nineteenth century, although one to be achieved in a multi-layered ‘neo-
medievalist’ fashion (Neumann 1994: 67; see Wæver 1991). Hence, an early
13
attempt to draw on traditional layers of identity for Baltic Sea cooperation

was its political promotion by the slogan Neue Hanse (New Hansa). One of
the problems of this “neo-liberal double” (Stråth 2000: 204) of the notion of
the ‘Sea of Peace’ was that in many places it was conceived of as referring to
an epoch of German dominance. After all, the past of the area is perhaps
most concisely encapsulated in the observation that “throughout history,
the Baltic has been a sea of conflicts and dividing lines” (ibid. 199).
Although the claim is sometimes made that the cultural substrate for a
common Baltic Sea identity exists as, for example, in its brick architecture
(Henningsen 2008: 34), the question has frequently been answered in the
negative with regard to whether such an identity was actually in place or
whether it emerged after the Cold War (Wulff and Kerner 1994: 17; Reuter
2004; Engelen 2006: 89; Henningsen 2011). Nonetheless, the ‘Balticness’
project of the Latvian presidency in the Council of the Baltic Sea States
(2007/08) and the journal published under the same name between 2008
and 2010 show that a Baltic Sea identity continues to be a current political
issue. In accordance with the motto ‘If it did not exist, it would have to be
invented’, there is interest in “BSR [Baltic Sea region] branding and identity
building efforts” from a commercial, regional development point of view
(State of the Region Report™ 2013: 76).
The discursive or at times nominalistic approach of the region builders is
evinced in the perplexing assertion by a political scientist that the three
Baltic republics were “very much the apex of identity” of the Baltic Sea
region-at-large (Wæver 1992: 39). Ironically, as was stated by a local re-
searcher a decade later, “the ‘Baltic’ identity of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania
is arguably the best known and the most politically significant, but also the
least appreciated among the Baltic states themselves” (Paulauskas 2005: 52).
The term ‘Baltic’ is mainly associated in these countries with a common
history of subordination by Russia and the Soviet Union. The three
republics were also similar as neighbouring small states with the shared aim
of NATO and EU membership (Miniotaite 2003: 211–12; see also Brügge-
mann 2003). Another difficulty with the term ‘Baltic’ is its aura of “oligar-
chic ‘regionalism’” due to its roots in the former German ruling class of
what today are Estonia and Latvia (Rebas 1990: 415). The formal co-
operation of the three Baltic republics – such as in the inter-parliamentary
Baltic Assembly – was the outcome of incentives to copy Nordic co-
operation and with the prospect of occasional collaboration in the ‘5 + 3’
and, later, ‘NB 8’ framework; but this has only been a surrogate for full
14
membership in Nordic bodies that has been the actual goal of the Balts.3 In
this connection Estonians, both politicians and scholars, tend to dissociate
themselves from their peers in Latvia and Lithuania as they regard them-
selves as having the strongest claim to membership in the ‘Nordic club’ for
cultural and historical reasons (Piirimäe 2011; cf. Lagerspetz 2003).
The model for such a reframing comes from Finland. During the inter-
war years it was regarded together with Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania as
one of four Baltic states. Despite the attempt of Finnish politicians to
distance their country from its southern neighbours and, in the second half
of the 1930s, adopt a Nordic profile, Finland was still addressed as Baltic in
the secret protocol to the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact. Finland’s continued
independence, its admission to the Nordic Council in 1955, and its de facto
role as part of a ‘Nordic balance’ of Cold War security policy contributed to
the Nordic profile Finland sought after the Second World War.
More promising than searching for a joint identity in the Baltic Sea area
or among the three Baltic states is the prospect of acknowledging a plurality
of identities within the larger regional perimeter, including hybrid and
transmigrant identities. The same applies to an envisioned East European
identity, a term so associated with backwardness that those to whom it is
applied tend to reject it (Lemberg 1985; Wolff 1994). Thus, only upon
accession to the European Union and NATO was the Estonian government
willing to join the UN East European electoral group to which it belonged
according to the current regional definition (Götz 2008: 360). Apart from
Estonia and Latvia with their Northern European orientation, terms
preferred by those living in large parts of the former Soviet hemisphere are
‘Central Europe’ and ‘East Central Europe’ (Kundera 1984; Szücs 1988
[1981]; Halecki 1952). These concepts are markers of distance from Eastern
Europe, as well as umbrella identities in their own right. In Russia the
concepts of Europe and Eurasia are also preferred over Eastern Europe (see
Steiner 2010). The volatility of regional labels with far-reaching implications
for understanding heritage and destiny illustrates that identity is a matter of
choice, and that self-conceptions and images held by others may diverge.
Evidently, any identity claim has to anticipate its assessment of plausibility.
3
In the 1990s, the operative formula for Nordic–Baltic cooperation was ‘5 + 3’, meaning
a collaboration of the collective of Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway, and Sweden on
the one hand, and the group of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania on the other. Since 2000,
the corresponding term is ‘NB 8’, the Nordic–Baltic 8. This terminological change
suggests greater homogeneity and equality of partners. At the same time, the Balts
continue to be kept at a distance, as the combination of Nordic and Baltic confirms the
existing spatial division.
15
The geopolitical shift of 1989 was preceded by the cultural shift of 1968, a
turning point symbolising the emergence of a post-materialist lifestyle with
an emphasis on individual self-expression and its repertoire of autonomous
contextual identities (Gassert and Klimke 2009; Inglehart 1977). Thus, the
relatively coherent collective identities of the industrial age, such as the one
provided by the labour movement, was displaced by more voluntaristic
forms of identification and joint action (Beck 1983). Hippie-culture, ‘new
social movements’, and environmentalism emerged, and the idea of
assimilating minorities and immigrants was replaced by the vision of a
multi-cultural society. For the first time, the gendered division of labour
and its biased power relations was seriously called into question by the
women’s movement. Human rights issues came to the fore, were codified
on the eastern side of the Iron Curtain through the 1975 Helsinki Final Act,
and contributed to undermining the legitimacy of communist regimes
among their citizens (Eckel and Moyn 2013; Saal 2014). Eastern European
dissidents began to rediscover and cultivate the idea of civil society as an
autonomous public sphere beyond the authority of the state (Keane 1988;
Hackmann 2003).
By 1989, these identity-related developments together with processes of
individualisation had been going on for two decades, undermining the
bipolar world paradigm, and contributing to its ultimate demise. When the
spell of the Cold War ended, it not only unleashed the issue of national and
regional identities; rather, the patchwork of individual lifestyle preferences,
identity choices, and ‘othering’ distinctions also gained significance. These
processes were subject to such intersectional and socio-economic over-
lapping as that of gender, as well as Western versus post-communist back-
grounds (Lindelöf 2010). In addition, civilisational and religious identities
increasingly functioned as sources of meaning in a world that had recently
been freed of its axiomatic conflict (Huntington 1996). The Baltic Sea
region is today a meeting place or fracture site between the three main
Christian denominations. There is potential for cooperation and conflict in
the attempt to assume a joint Baltic Sea identity stemming from the mutual
engagement of the Lutheran and Catholic worlds, with the exclusion of the
Orthodox component (Kreslins 2003).
The belief that humanity would rise above particularistic identities in the
spirit of modernity and tolerance was shown to be an illusion after the end
of the Cold War. Neither had capitalism and communism converged to any
considerable extent, nor did the ‘homo oeconomicus’ become the blueprint
of human behaviour. Primordial identities were not phased out and volun-
16
taristic identities did not become unalianable assets of the individual that
were taken for granted. On the contrary, a new age of identity had begun in
which traditional categories like distinctive nations, sex, and religion once
again clashed with one another and with postmodern orientations including
transnationalism, a variety of gender roles, and lifestyles. Collective and
individual identities remained more relevant than ever for policy makers.
This book concentrates on national, labour, and gender identities. Each
topic is represented by three to four chapters, and the volume concludes
with a chapter on the development of environmental awareness. Identity
and ‘awareness’ or ‘consciousness’ are related concepts (see Giesen 1991;
Berding 1994; Bråkenhielm 2009), the former expressing conformity with
an ideal type, and the latter referring to the acknowledgement of a problem.
Hence, it is awareness that gives identity direction and turns it into a
political force that merits attention. All contributions to this volume discuss
identities correlated with different states of awareness and as factors in
problem-solving processes. The period addressed is contemporary history
since the 1930s, with a few excursions into earlier years and particular
attention to the era since 1945. The span of years chosen shows that the
Institute of Contemporary History stands for a wider approach than its own
programmatic definition of the field as the era since 1945. Contemporary
history is a moving target about which living historical witnesses may be
consulted (for an international overview of the many attempts to delimitate
contemporary history, see Metzler 2012).
While the Institute of Contemporary History was begun with a grant
from the Bank of Sweden Tercentenary Foundation (Riksbankens Jubi-
leumsfond) and is indebted to a number of funding institutions for its
activities over the years, most contributions to this volume have resulted
from projects supported by its present main sponsor, the Foundation for
Baltic and East European Studies. This book is an expression of our
gratitude for the generous on-going support they have given us. Unless
stated otherwise, the contributions to this book and the projects mentioned
in this introductory chapter are based on grants by the Foundation for
Baltic and East European Studies.
The present chapter contains preliminary reflection on “Spaces of
Expectation: Mental Mapping and Historical Imagination in the Baltic Sea
and Mediterranean Region”, a recently launched multi-disciplinary, bi-
lateral project with our long-term cooperation partner Ca’ Foscari
University in Venice. It is scheduled to run from 2014 to 2018. The larger
project analyses in six historical and political science case studies the
17
meaning attached to the Baltic and the Mediterranean, investigates the

mental maps correlated to historical representations, compares the imagin-
ations of the two regions, and studies their involvement with each other.
Our aim is an improved understanding of how historical trajectories have
been attached to two maritime areas that are critical to European inte-
gration. Other researchers at Södertörn University engaged in the project
are Janne Holmén, Jussi Kurunmäki, and Vasileios Petrogiannis; and
Deborah Paci and Rolf Petri at Ca’ Foscari University.
Chapter Two, Janne Holmén’s “Fluctuating Dynastic and National
Affiliation: The Impact of War and Unrest on Bornholm, Åland, and
Saaremaa”, shows that national identity is far from self-evident, as com-
monly believed. A counter-factual potential for national identification (or
even independence) exists for all three Baltic islands that he examines.
Holmén summarises aspects of the larger project “Islands of Identity:
Identity Building on Bornholm, Gotland, Åland, Saaremaa and Hiiumaa,
1800–2000”, which explored the connection between regional history
writing and identity. It was conducted from 2010 to 2013 with the partici-
pation of Erik Axelsson and Samuel Edquist.
In the third chapter, entitled “The Nordic Threat: Soviet Ethnic Clean-
sing on the Kola Peninsula”, Andrej Kotjarchuk discusses preliminary
findings of his ongoing project “Soviet Nordic Minorities and Ethnic Clean-
sing on the Kola Peninsula”. He analyses the politics of identity as a
collective attribution by state agencies, including mapping the ambiguity of
some early measures with emancipatory intentions and repressive potential.
Drawing on genocide studies, Kotjarchuk reconstructs the process of
violence from the registration of minorities through deportation and state-
sanctioned killings to the politics of amnesia. Kotjarchuk’s research, which
will undoubtedly arouse interest beyond academic circles, began in 2013
and will run for three years.
Chapter Four, Steffen Werther’s “An Unimaginable Community: The SS
Idea of a ‘Greater Germanic Reich’ and the German Minority in Denmark”,
summarises some of the findings of his dissertation on the impact of Nazi
ideology on the German-speakers of Southern Denmark during the Second
World War (Werther 2012). It shows how national and racial policies
diverged, disarraying the relation of the Reich with a German minority
abroad. At the same time the article illustrates another way in which the
Foundation for Baltic and East European Studies facilitates research at
Södertörn University by financing the Baltic and East European Graduate
School (BEEGS). The Foundation is one of the few Swedish research
18
underwriters that continues to provide full funding for doctoral candidates,

something gratefully acknowledged by all those interested in Södertörn
University as an exciting site for ‘young research’. This offers a window of
opportunity for promising academic talent from the wider Baltic Sea region
and elsewhere, and for the Swedish scientific community to become more
actively engaged with perspectives from abroad.
Sofia Norling’s chapter “The Ambiguity of the West: Objectives of Polish
Research Policy in the 1990s” also draws on a doctoral dissertation, one that
was based at the Institute of Contemporary History (see Norling 2014). It
examines how science policy was remade from an instrument of societal
progress under the communist regime to one recognising the autonomy of
academia, and later reconfigured as a tool serving the development of the
market economy and Poland’s accession to the European Union. Her study
was a part of Teresa Kulawik’s project “Knowledge, Politics and the Public
Sphere in the Baltic Sea Region”.
The sixth chapter, “Lost Worlds of Labour: Paul Olberg, the Jewish
Labour Bund, and Menshevik Socialism” by Håkan Blomqvist, explores the
rich biography of a Swedish social democratic publicist with a background
in Tsarist Latvia, revolutionary Russia, Weimar Germany, and the Jewish
labour movement. This mosaic of formative experiences, identity anchors,
and contemporary responses to world events from the Bolshevik revolution
up to 1960 goes beyond the scope of Blomqvist’s ‘larger’ project “Bund in
Sweden 1946–1954: A Jewish Labour Movement at the Crossroads”, which
has been underway since 2013 and will conclude in 2015.
The seventh chapter, “From Fordism to High-Tech Capitalism: A Poli-
tical Economy of the Labour Movement in the Baltic Sea Region” by Wer-
ner Schmidt, shows how working-class awareness eroded, giving way to a
strategic paralysation and competitive corporatism in the 1970s. It explains
the macro-economic shift behind this development – which led also to the
breakdown of the Soviet system – in the light of regulation theory and a
neo-Gramscian perspective. The article is the initial outcome of the third
part of “The Labour Movement in the Baltic Sea Region”, the longest run-
ning research endeavour at the Institute of Contemporary History. The
project was started in 1997, making it older than its host institution. The third
and concluding part of this project is subtitled “A New World of Crises and
Insecurity (1970–2010)”. Other scholars exploring this topic between 2013
and 2015 are Kjell Östberg, Lars Ekdahl, and Håkan Blomqvist.
Klaus Misgeld and Karl Molin are co-authors of the article “Solidarity
and Diplomacy: Sweden and the Democratisation of Poland, 1980–1989”.
19
They show how working class solidarity led to the engagement of Swedish
civil society and officials in the Polish struggle for democracy in the 1980s.
This development was at odds with the Swedish Cold War profile of acting,
on the one hand, as a ‘world conscience’, and, on the other, of pussyfooting
on issues involving nearby dictatorships. Paradoxically, this profile and the
formal policy of neutrality enabled Sweden to get more actively involved
than might otherwise have been the case. Thus, Misgeld and Molin’s study
illustrates at various levels, including those of unintended consequences, the
formative power that particular identities may have for political action. The
article describes the outcomes of the project “Sweden and the Polish
Democratic Movement, 1980–1989” that was financed from 2007 to 2010
and also involved Paweł Jaworski and Stefan Ekecrantz, the latter being the
Institute of Contemporary History’s first PhD (see Ekecrantz 2003).
Chapter Nine by Eva Blomberg, Ylva Waldemarson, and Alina
Žvinklienė, “Gender Equality Policies: Swedish and Lithuanian Experiences
of Nordic Ideas”, analyses how the linkage of human rights and gender
equality has altered the normative parameters of policy making, and how
international organisations such as the Nordic Council and the Nordic
Council of Ministers use the ‘Nordic gender equality model’ for branding
purposes. Moreover, the article deals with the institutionalisation of the
equal opportunities ombudsman in Sweden and Lithuania. It results from
the project “Mourning Becomes Electra: Gender Discrimination and Human
Rights”, which has been conducted since 2010 with grants from the Swedish
Research Council (Vetenskapsrådet) and the Foundation for Baltic and East
European Studies.4
Another outcome of the Mourning Becomes Electra project (its Swedish
Research Council-branch) is Yulia Gradskova’s chapter “Group-Work on
Gender Equality in Transnational Cooperation: Raising Feminist Con-
sciousness or Diminishing Social Risks?” In analysing a trilateral cooper-
ation between Finnish, Lithuanian, and Russian organisations from 2006 to
2012 that aimed at improving gender equality education through group
4
Technically speaking, these are two independent projects, both entitled “Mourning
Becomes Electra: Gender Discrimination and Human Rights”. They have a slight
variation in their English second subtitle “Altered Relations among International
Organs, States, Collectives and Individuals from a Nordic and Eastern European
Perspective 1980–2009”. The italicised word is not part of the subtitle of the project
supported by the Swedish Research Council. Whereas the work of Eva Blomberg (in
addition to that of Yulia Gradskova) has been funded by the Swedish Research Council,
Ylva Waldemarson and Alina Žvinklienė have been grantees of the Foundation for Baltic
and East European Studies.
20
work, the article provides insights into the dynamics of transnational net-
works. While gender equality was the common denominator of the three
collaborators and the funding institution, each organisation combined its
engagement with different side-issues that were at variance with the over-
arching goal.
Kristina Abiala’s chapter “Young Moldovan Women at the Crossroads:
Between Patriarchy and Transnational Labour Markets” is an interview-
based sociological study of attitudes and experiences toward gender in-
equality, and of personal dreams about the future among school and
university students. The article explores the ways in which various deter-
minants have an effect on the negotiation of a gendered identity in a society
with traditional values. It identifies openings for change, especially with
regard to women’s participation in higher education, and in migration as an
option with repercussions on the Moldovan home country. Abiala’s study is
the result of a research project entitled “Global Capitalism and Everyday
Resistance at the Intersection of East and West”, which she conducted from
2007 to 2013 in collaboration with ethnologists Mats Lindqvist and Beatriz
Lindqvist.
The book concludes with a chapter on “Waves of Laws and Institutions:
The Emergence of National Awareness of Water Pollution and Protection
in the Baltic Sea Region” by Simo Laakonen, a chapter the completion of
which was also supported by the Helsinki University Centre for Environ-
ment (HENVI). Showing how urban-industrial water pollution has been
discussed and handled in Sweden, Finland, the Soviet Union, and Poland
from the late nineteenth century to the end of the Cold War, the study
challenges the prevailing assumption that environmental awareness only
emerged in the 1960s. The article is an outcome of “Driving Forces for
Environmental Policy-Making and Capacity Building in the Baltic Sea
Region”, a project that began in 2011 and will continue until 2015, and also
involved Åsa Casula Vifell.
The projects represented in this book are not the only ones at the
Institute of Contemporary History relevant to its topic. Members of the
project “The Sea of Peace in the Shadow of Threats” were preoccupied with
finalising major monographs and were therefore unable to contribute to the
present volume. Project members Fredrik L. Eriksson, Piotr Wawrzeniuk,
and Johan Eellend have worked together from 2009 to the present, studying
the security situation in the Baltic Sea region in the interwar period,
particularly the self-image and threat perceptions among the Swedish,
Polish, and Estonian armed forces.
21
The recent projects, “The Roma Genocide in Ukraine 1941–44: History,

Memories and Representations” and “The Moral Economy of Global Civil
Society: A History of Voluntary Food Aid”, were still in their early stages
and not ready to present their findings when this book was made. The
Genocide Project with researchers Piotr Wawrzeniuk, Andrej Kotljarchuk,
and David Gaunt studies Nazi policies towards the Roma in the Ukraine
during the Second World War, and examines the memory work of the
Roma, on the one hand, and official commemoration policies, on the other.
The Food Aid Project is funded by the Swedish Research Council and
includes Norbert Götz, Steffen Werther, Katarina Friberg, and Georgina
Brewis. Werther’s study on relief to the Ukraine in the famine of 1921/22
focuses on Eastern Europe, although the scope of the project as a whole is
wider. The project is also interested in identities and seeks to develop the
concept ‘moral economy’ as a tool in their analysis.
‘Internationalisation’ has become a buzzword in Swedish academia over
the past decade. At Södertörn University and at the Institute of Contem-
porary History we practice an internalised form of ‘internationality’ on a
daily basis. It arises from a genuine academic interest, a way of looking at
things, and as a matter of multinational social and scholarly backgrounds.
This may be seen in the topics addressed and the researchers involved in the
present volume. About half of the staff of the Institute of Contemporary
History have Swedish roots; the other half represents a smorgasbord of
German, Finnish, Belorussian, and Polish-Ukrainian backgrounds. In addi-
tion, the institute’s projects employ British, Italian, Lithuanian, Russian,
and US scholars. What collaborative work on the basis of such different
experiences means for the identity of the Institute may be summarised by
the term ‘Swedish-Baltic cosmopolitanism’.
In 2014 the Institute of Contemporary History celebrates its fifteenth
anniversary. The present anthology combines the task of presenting current
Baltic and East European studies conducted in Södertörn University’s
strong research environment with the scholarly ambition of using case
studies to explore how identities and the awareness of a spectrum of
problems have influenced political choices. The political history of the
Baltic Sea region and Eastern Europe is congenial with the twentieth
century as an ‘age of extremes’, making it a fruitful region in which to study
identities and their impact on political solutions.
22
Above: The Berlin Wall at
Zimmerstraße, 25 June 1984
(Bundesarchiv, Bild 210-0506 /
Photographer: Philipp J. Bösel
and Burkhard Maus)
Left: Police from West- and

East-Berlin at the Berlin Wall,
improvised border crossing
point at Potsdamer Platz, 15
Nov. 1989 (Bundesarchiv, B 145
Bild-00008581 / Photographer:
Klaus Lehnartz)
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28
Part 1: National Identities
2. Fluctuating Dynastic and National Affiliation:
The Impact of War and Unrest on Bornholm,
Åland, and Saaremaa
Janne Holmén
Experiences of war and foreign occupation have often been used to

strengthen national identity, both during the actual conflict and in later
history writing. This chapter illustrates how the geographic location and
insularity of three islands in the Baltic Sea – Bornholm, Åland, and Saare-
maa – have caused the islanders to experience the conflicts of the nine-
teenth and twentieth century differently from the populations in the main
parts of the states to which they today belong: Denmark, Finland, and
Estonia. The islanders’ isolation and their particular experience of history
have contributed to making the construction of national identity and its
relationship to regional identity problematic. Because of specific geo-
graphic, historical, and political preconditions, this issue has been handled
differently on each island. However, in all cases, the construction of identity
has been characterised by an underlying quest for security.
Scholars have argued that islands are ideal geographic locations for the
formation of a common identity among their inhabitants. Geographers,
anthropologists, and social scientists have maintained that island popu-
lations share a feeling of belonging and affinity that is a consequence of
‘islandness’, the specific characteristics of islands – isolation and boundedness
(e.g. White 1995: 4; Olausson 2007: 29; Hay 2006: 22; Royle 2001: 11;
Baldacchino 2004: 272f). Islandness is often used as an alternative to the
negatively connoted term ‘insularity’.
However, the sea does not only function as a natural delimiter, it is also a
means of communication and transport. Today it is a common assumption
that “connectedness describes the island condition better than isolation”
(Hay 2006: 4f). Their small hinterlands forces islands to trade in order to
31
PART 1. NATIONAL IDENTITIES
gain access to vital goods; the smaller the islands are, the more dependent
they tend to be upon trade. The extent to which an island is isolated or
connected is not exclusively a consequence of geographical factors. Political
and historical circumstances influence the balance between the separating
and the connective properties of the surrounding sea. Border changes, custom
regulations, and developments in shipping affect the islanders’ possibility and
propensity to interconnect with the surrounding world.
War is perhaps the factor that has the greatest potential to disrupt and
alter existing patterns of trade and communication. During periods of war
and unrest islands have often become more secluded from the mainland –
due, for example, to piracy and privateering, travel restrictions, or mine-
fields. The geographical situation makes the islanders’ experience of war
different from that of the mainlanders. Fortifications, foreign occupations,
and a great influx or outflow of refugees have affected islands in particular
ways. These experiences have played a vital role in the formation of regional
identities on the islands.
It has been claimed that small island states are exceptionally vulnerable
to unconventional security threats; there are several examples of islands that
have been captured by a few dozen mercenary soldiers (Bartmann 2007:
300). However, small military forces on islands are equally vulnerable to
popular uprisings, and such uprisings have, in turn, affected the formation
of regional identities.
This chapter investigates how war and unrest have contributed to the
formation of regional identities and how they have affected the relationship
between regional and national identity in the three Baltic island regions of
Bornholm, Åland, and Saaremaa. Referring to the islands as regions
emphasises that they constitute – or have until recently constituted – pro-
vinces or counties, units of administration directly under the state. The
method of research used is an investigation of regional history writing from
the three islands, that is, of publications either written by an inhabitant or
former inhabitant of the island, or published with the help of an institution
on the island. Regarding content, regional history writing is understood as
publications that cover the history of the entire island region, rather than
only single municipalities or secondary islands. This selection of sources
provides a picture of how leading groups and individuals on the islands
perceive their history and use it to construct a regional identity.
32
2. FLUCTUATING DYNASTIC AND NATIONAL AFFILIATION
Bornholm
Bornholm is part of Denmark, and with a few interruptions has been so
ever since the late tenth century, although this contention has been highly
contested. In the Middle Ages, Bornholm was the scene of a power struggle
between the Danish kings and the archbishops of Lund in Scania. From
1525 until 1575 the island was leased to Lübeck, and in 1658 it was ceded to
Sweden. An uprising in December that year brought the island back under
the control of the Danish king. Scania and the rest of eastern Denmark,
however, were permanently lost to Sweden, which meant that Bornholm
became situated far (135 km) from Denmark, while Sweden was only 35 km
away. From 1940 to 1945, the island, like the rest of Denmark, was under
German occupation. In contrast to the rest of the country, Bornholm also
experienced a year of Soviet occupation from May 1945 until April 1946. In
2012 the total population of the island was 41,000, and it is steadily
shrinking (Statistics Denmark). Bornholm was a Danish county (amt) until
1 January 2007, when it became part of Region Hovedstaden, which
comprises Copenhagen and parts of Sjælland.
Regional history writing on Bornholm portrays the islanders as a breed
of devout Danes, who have repeatedly been let down by the Danish crown
in times of crisis. In 1525 Frederick I leased the island for 50 years to
Lübeck, which in return promised to leave Gotland that it had invaded in an
attempt to remove Christian II from the Danish throne. In the opinion of
the Bornholmian physician and amateur historian Marius Kofoed
Zahrtmann, who published an extensive history of the island in 1934–35,
this meant that Fredrik I traded Danish Bornholm for Swedish Gotland,
thus selling the islanders to their worst enemy. During the peace negotia-
tions in Brömsebro, 1645 Christian IV was faced with a similar dilemma.
The Danish Council was in favour of ceding Bornholm to Sweden, and Carl
Gustaf Wrangel of Sweden invaded the island in order to increase the
pressure. However, the Danish king preferred to cede some Norwegian
counties and the two “un-Danish” islands of Gotland and Saaremaa rather
than Bornholm, according to Zahrtmann (1934: 111–14, 237–9, 251). His
eagerness to differentiate between Bornholm and un-Danish areas within
the Danish realm was fuelled by his conviction that for long Bornholm had
mistakenly not been considered part of Denmark proper.
In the treaty of Roskilde in 1658, Denmark ceded Bornholm to Sweden.
The peace did not last long as the Swedish king Charles X Gustav attacked
Denmark again later that year. The Bornholmians remained loyal to their
33
new masters until the Danish king encouraged them to attempt an uprising.
A conspiracy to kidnap the Swedish governor, Johan Printzenskiöld, failed
as Pritzenskiöld was shot in the head while trying to escape. This forced the
conspirators to launch a full rebellion, and 9 December 1658 the Swedish
garrison of 60 soldiers at the medieval castle Hammershus capitulated (Ras-
mussen 2000: 97, 102f, 116, 121).
When the Bornholmians were in control of their island they sent a
delegation to Copenhagen to formally return it to the Danish king. This is
one of the most central points of regional Bornholmian history writing: the
islanders were Danes by their own choice and efforts, and they were there-
fore the most Danish of all Danes (e.g. Jørgensen 1900: 255; Zahrtmann
1934: 298; Rasmussen 2000: 125; Bøggild 2004: 140). Since the Danish king
promised the Bornholmians never to hand over their island to Sweden and
promised the Swedes never to give it to any foreign power, Zahrtmann (1934:
299f) concluded that the uprising in 1658 forever tied Bornholm to Denmark.
The confidence in Denmark’s willingness and ability to defend Bornholm that
Zahrtmann displayed in 1934, however, was soon to be shaken.
The most important difference between the Bornholmian authors who
wrote before the Second World War and the ones active after it is that the
latter group continuously repeat that Denmark abandoned Bornholm, a
tendency which has been exacerbated in the last decades. Both the journalist
Hansaage Bøggild and the teacher Ebbe Gert Rasmussen, who had written a
doctoral dissertation on the uprising, lamented that Denmark at the turn of
the millennium withdrew all military from Bornholm, which they describe
as the most Danish and defence-friendly part of Denmark. To Rasmussen,
1658 was not the year when Bornholm was forever tied to Denmark. Instead
he stressed that the generation of 1658 knew Bornholm could manage itself,
and acted accordingly. In his book about the 1658 uprising, Rasmussen also
mentions the Russian bombings in 1945 as an example of how Denmark
again turned its back to the island (Bøggild 2004: 42f; Rasmussen 2000:
159–61). The bombings seem to have meant the end to the enthusiastic
patriotism and faith in 300-year old royal promises expressed by
Zahrtmann and his contemporaries.
Bornholmian history writing has for centuries elaborated upon the
privileges which the Danish king Christian IV granted as reward for the
successful uprising. Only in the late 1900s did Ebbe Gert Rasmussen (1982:
274) complement this picture with the notion that the king also used the
opportunity to establish autocracy on the island two years earlier than in the
rest of Denmark. According to Rasmussen, the Bornholmians did not
34
understand the implication of the fact that they had given Bornholm to the
king as a personal, hereditary gift.
Another problem with the privileges was that Christian IV did not
specify their exact nature, or whether they should apply to all islanders or
only to active participants in the uprising. This led to centuries of disputes
between the monarchy and the islanders until the last remnants of the
privileges disappeared in 1867. In 1770, the Bornholmians’ refusal to pay
taxes almost prompted the Council in Copenhagen to send armed forces
against the islanders (Zahrtmann 1935: 180f).
The most important privileges were the reductions on certain taxes and
the right of Bornholmians to do military service on their home island. The
latter meant that the islanders became members of the Bornholmian militia,
which was supposed to defend the island and could not be forced to fight
elsewhere. As a consequence, the Schleswig Wars in 1848–51 and in 1864,
which were major events in Danish history and became important con-
stituents of Danish national consciousness, involved Bornholm only tangent-
ially. Nationalist Bornholmian history writers highlighted, however, the
Bornholmian volunteers, primarily the war hero Johan Ancher, and used
their actions as proof that the Bornholmians supported the Danish war effort
(Jørgensen 1901: 282–4; Zahrtmann 1935: 238; Klindt-Jensen 1957: 315).
After the Bornholmian militia was dissolved in 1867, the islanders
received military instruction in central Denmark. Bornholmian history
writers who witnessed this change were quite positive towards its effects;
Zahrtmann believed it brought the island closer to the motherland, while
the teacher and amateur archaeologist J.A. Jørgensen (1901: 306) claimed it
allowed the islanders to widen their horizons. He was of the opinion that
the militia’s officers understood the need for military training, and that the
end of absolute monarchy brought enlightenment, something that made the
Bornholmians willing to accept the change rather than referring to Born-
holm’s privileges, as had always been the case in the past. According to
Zahrtmann (1935: 238f) a more Danish and less Bornholmian generation
grew up on the island after 1867. Between the Schleswig Wars and the
Second World War Bornholmian history writing was more permeated by
Danish nationalism than at any other time. During this period it was
evidently believed that greater integration with Denmark could alleviate the
negative effects of the isolation from which the island had suffered.
A consequence of the Bornholmian uprising in 1658 was that it had
increased the island’s isolation and made it a distant outpost of the Danish
realm. The island is situated close to Scania, which together with Blekinge
35
and Halland had formed Eastern Denmark from the early middle Ages. It
was to these areas the island had its strongest economic and cultural ties.
But while these areas were permanently conquered by Sweden in the wars of
the mid-1600s, the Bornholmian rebellion against Swedish power made the
island a last remnant of Eastern Denmark, detached from the rest of the
Danish kingdom.
This isolation contributed to the fact that the Second World War in
many respects became a different experience for the islanders than for most
Danes. The Germans on Bornholm were not under the same command as
the troops in Denmark, and Bornholm was not included when the German
forces in Denmark capitulated on 4 May 1945. The island’s strategic loca-
tion was vital in the German attempts to rescue their refugees from the
eastern front, and therefore leading officers on the islands were instructed
to keep up resistance against Soviet troops for as long as possible. This led
to the Soviet bombings of Bornholm on 8 and 9 May 1945, after which
almost a year of Soviet occupation followed. Research in Soviet archives
after the end of the Cold War has revealed that the occupation was
motivated by political considerations and the strategic location of the island
(Jensen 2000).
The fact that Bornholm was bombed while the rest of Denmark cele-
brated the end of the war – and particularly the fact that the local resistance
movement was unable to get the ministers in Copenhagen to answer the
telephone while bombs were falling over Rønne and Nexø – led to strong
feelings of abandonment on the island. Considering that regional history
writing, in general, stresses the island’s Danish patriotism, the depictions of
the 1945 bombings illustrate how rapidly dramatic events of war might
affect expressions of affinity and identity. Several history writers state that
the islanders were so disappointed with the Danish government’s inability
to help during the Soviet bombings and occupation of the island that they
were contemplating joining Sweden. This brief shift of sentiment was
influenced by the fear that Bornholm would become permanently occupied
by the Soviet Union (Kure 1981: 17; Barfod 1976: 327).
The memory of the uprising in 1658 was used by both the underground
resistance and the regional authorities during the Second World War. The
illegal newspaper, Pro Patria, first published in January 1944, featured a seven-
teenth century freedom fighter on its front page. In March 1945, Bornholm’s
amtmand (governor), Paul Christian Stemann, admonished the German
commander Gerhard von Kamptz to handle the local population gently, as the
islanders had once shot a Swedish commander (Barfod 1976: 237).
36
Still today, regional history writers describe Bornholmians as the most

Danish of all Danes, but nonetheless easily forgotten by Denmark due to
their geographic location. They use the traditional model to interpret what
they perceive as new errors of neglect by Copenhagen, and continue to
maintain that Denmark neither understands nor cares about the needs of
Bornholm. One example cited is transportation, an area claimed to be
handled without understanding by the Danish authorities (Bøggild 2004:
16f, 41f; Rasmussen 2000: 159).
Åland
Åland is an autonomous province (landskap) in Finland. The main island is
situated 70 km from the Finnish mainland, and 36 km from the Swedish.
However, the main island of Åland is connected to mainland Finland by an
archipelago with the highest density of islands found anywhere in the world
(Depraetre and Dahl 2007: 71). The Åland islands are composed of nearly
7000 islands larger than 0.25 ha, 60 of which are populated. If even the
smaller islets and skerries are counted, Åland has around 27,000 islands,
with a total land area of 1552 square kilometres. Åland had 28,500 in-
habitants 31 December 2012. Åland and Finland were integrated parts of
Sweden until 1809, when they came under Russian sovereignty. In 1921,
Åland became an autonomous province of the now independent Finland,
and this autonomy has since been extended on several occasions. The
official language on Åland is Swedish, the mother tongue of 90 per cent of
Åland’s population, but spoken by only 5 per cent of mainland Finns
(ÅSUB 2012).
The past two centuries of Åland’s history have been dominated by inter-
national conflicts brought on by the island’s strategic location. However, in
the seventeenth century, Åland was located at the centre of the Swedish
realm, was not subject to hostilities, and did not occupy a particularly
important strategic position. The efforts of Czar Peter I to transform Russia
into a maritime power made Åland accessible to Russian galleys, which
advanced through the archipelago. The majority of Åland’s population fled
to mainland Sweden between 1714 and 1718, when the island was occupied
by Russian troops. During the war between Sweden and Russia in 1742–43,
the pattern was repeated, but the number of inhabitants that fled was
smaller.
In the winter of 1808, Åland was again occupied by Russian troops. This
time it was not Russian galleys that conquered the island, but army units
37
who crossed the ice between Finland and Åland. In spring, the ice generally
melts earlier over the open waters between Sweden and Åland than in the
archipelago between Åland and Finland. In the days before motorised ship-
ping there was a period in spring when Åland could be reached by boat
from Sweden while melting ice still obstructed travel to Finland. When the
Russian troops realised this in April 1808, they feared that they might be
attacked by the Swedish navy without hope of escape or assistance. They
ordered the population to hand over their boats and clear the ice in the
harbours within 24 hours – or their ears would be cut off and they would be
sent so Siberia. According to Bomansson, an Ålander who later wrote Fin-
land’s first doctoral dissertation in archaeology and would become the first
head of the Finnish national archives, the islanders took the threats literally,
although the Russians had probably intended them only as a scare tactic.
The fact that the Russians ordered the islanders to gather in the harbours
made it easy to organise an uprising (Bomansson 1852: 44–9). Many
Russians were caught by a surprise attack. The rest were defeated in one
battle on the main island of Åland and one in the Archipelago, with small
Swedish naval ships aiding the insurgents in the latter battle.
In the twentieth century the 1808 uprising was claimed to be a mani-
festation of the Ålanders’ Swedish patriotism. However, during recent
decades, local identity on autonomous Åland has developed in the direction
of a national identity, which has been paralleled by a more Ålandic and less
Swedish interpretation. The 1808 uprising is now seen as an example of the
islanders’ preparedness to take their destiny in their own hands (Hakala
2006; Holmén 2009b: 34).
During the Crimean War, French and British troops destroyed the
Russian fortress in Bomarsund on Åland, and the islands became de-
militarised. This was the first time the Åland islands achieved any form of
exceptional status. The demilitarisation was confirmed in later peace
treaties in the twentieth century and was complemented by a declaration of
neutrality. As a consequence of Åland’s law of autonomy, military service is
not mandatory for the islanders. Since military service has been an impor-
tant vehicle for promoting nationalism, this exception has probably made it
more difficult for Finnish nationalism to gain a foothold on Åland. In the
twentieth century, especially in the late 1930s when there were plans to
fortify Åland, regional political leaders used anti-militaristic rhetoric. Their
major fear, however, was that an influx of Finnish military personnel would
threaten the islands’ monolingual Swedish status, which was the raison
d’être for Åland’s autonomy (e.g. Eriksson and Virgin 1961: 83). However,
38
since the 1980s, demilitarisation has become more ideologically and

symbolically significant on Åland (e.g. Eriksson, Johansson and Sundback
2006: 108 f).
According to the Swedish historian, Martin Hårdstedt, who was assigned
to author part of the volume about the nineteenth century in the series, Det
åländska folkets historia (History of the Ålandic People), the island’s
strategic location was a curse, and he claimed that disputes about what state
Åland should belong to have been a characteristic trait of Åland’s history in
the past 200 years. From having been located at the centre of the Swedish
kingdom, in 1809 the islands became the western outpost of the Russian
empire. On the Finnish mainland, the separation from Sweden caused
debates about language, but these debates did not initially greatly affect
Åland where the transition manifested itself mainly with regard to the
housing of Russian troops and the construction of the fortress of Bomar-
sund (Kuvaja, Hårdstedt, and Hakala 2006: 140–2, 207). The large military
presence was heavily taxing on the local population, and according to
Martin Isaksson, an Ålandic politician and amateur historian, this was the
reason why demilitarisation after the Crimean War was perceived as such a
relief. Isaksson (1981: 213) is of the opinion that it is impossible to under-
stand åländskhet (Ålandicness) without taking this into consideration.
The most important war for the formation of Ålandic identity was
arguably the First World War, which led to the revolutions that ended the
Russian empire. On 6 December 1918 Finland declared independence from
Russia. However, Åland had been isolated from the developments on the
mainland during the war, and even earlier that autumn, leading Ålanders
had initiated a process to reunite the islands with Sweden. It is believed that
it was not until the winter of 1918 that the majority of Åland’s population
came to support the thought of reunification with Sweden (Högman 1986:
126–8). An important factor behind this shift of loyalty was that the
regional newspaper Åland had switched from espousing Finnish nation-
alism, and now took a pro-Swedish stance. A dispute over Åland between
Sweden and Finland followed, with each side claiming that the islands had
historically been considered part of its country. However, since what is now
independent Finland had been a fully integrated part of Sweden until 1809,
the question was anachronistic, a fact pointed out already by contemporary
historians such as Harald Hjärne (Nordman 1986: 154f).
To appease the Ålanders, Finland offered the island autonomy, something
the population initially refused to accept. However, in 1921, the League of
Nations granted Finland sovereignty over Åland, on condition that the lan-
39
guage and culture of the inhabitants would be protected. The islands were
thus granted autonomy in line with the earlier Finnish proposal.
The few Ålanders who had written history before the First World War,
such as Bomansson and Reinhold Hausen, had done so from a Finnish
nationalist point of view. Some members of the provincial government that
was formed on Åland realised the importance of history writing in shaping
the identity of the islanders. As a consequence of this, in the early 1930s, the
regional authorities hired an archaeologist, Matts Dreijer, who came to have
a profound influence on Ålandic history writing in the twentieth century.
Initially, he portrayed Åland as a province closely tied to Sweden, in line
with the arguments put forward by Swedish historians in the struggle for
Åland in 1918–21. After the Second World War, when hopes of reuni-
fication with Sweden finally disappeared and local politicians started to
focus on developing Ålandic autonomy, Dreijer began to accord Åland in
the Viking and Middle Ages a more significant and independent role. He
downplayed Åland’s ties to ancient Sweden, and suggested that Åland had
been a base for Danish crusades to Finland in the twelfth century. His
theories were fully developed in the first volume of Det åländska folkets
historia (Dreijer 1979). In recent decades regional history writers have
distanced themselves from Dreijers’ attempts to construct an ancient
foundation for Åland’s present autonomy, as they maintain his grandiose
interpretation of scarce historical and archaeological sources has damaged
the reputation of Ålandic history writing. (Holmén 2009a: 313f, 319f). The
latest volume of Det åländska folkets historia, the multi volume work that
was initiated by Dreijer, is also critical of his perspective (Kuvaja, Hårdstedt,
and Hakala 2006).
During the period of the peace movement in the 1980s, some writers saw
Åland’s demilitarisation and neutrality as something more than just a
means of protecting the island’s autonomy and monolingual status. For
example, Salminen (1979: 181) claimed that pacifism had become second
nature to the Ålanders, while Eriksson, Johansson, and Sundback (2006: 78)
considered the settlement of Åland’s status by the League of Nations an
example of successful conflict resolution that should be exported to other
disputed zones. The Åland Island Peace Institute, the publisher behind
Eriksson, Johansson, and Sundback’s book, indeed tries to export “the
Åland example”, for example by hosting visitors who want to study Åland’s
autonomy, demilitarisation, and neutralisation. This line of thought is
connected to a relatively positive view of Åland’s relationship to Finland.
40
Such interpretations implied a break with then dominant hegemonic

perception, which still prevails, that Åland’s gains were the result of a hard,
continuous struggle against the reluctant, and sometimes hostile, parlia-
ment in Helsinki. In the late 1990s, politicians who held a negative view of
Finnish attitudes towards Åland founded a party that favours complete
independence. This party, Ålands framtid (Future of Åland), however, has
failed to garner more than 11 per cent of votes in regional elections, and all
other parties are in support of continued autonomy as part of Finland.
Saaremaa
Saaremaa is an Estonian county (maakond) with a surface area of 2922
square kilometres and a population of 34,527, down from around 40,000 in
the early 1990s. The county constitutes 6.5 per cent of Estonia’s land area
and is home to 2.6 per cent of the population of that country. This makes it
the island in this study with the largest area relative to the total area of the
state to which it belongs. Prior to the Second World War, 60,000 persons,
representing 5 per cent of the country’s total population, lived on Saaremaa.
In addition to main Saaremaa and adjacent small islands, the county
consists of the sizeable island of Muhu and more distant Ruhnu in the Bay
of Riga. Kuressaare is situated on the southern coast of Saaremaa and has
had good connections to Riga, which was the centre of Livonia. The
distance from the southern tip of Sõrve peninsula on Saaremaa to Latvia is
less than 30 km. Today 98 per cent speak Estonian on Saaremaa, but
German was common until the Second World War. It was the language of
the landed aristocracy and of the merchants in Arensburg (modern day
Kuressaare). Ruhnu had a Swedish speaking population that deserted the
island for Sweden during the Second World War. 1
Saaremaa was invaded by German crusaders in 1227, and the island, like
Hiiumaa, was divided between the Brothers of the Sword (known as the
Livonian Order after 1237) and the bishopric of Oesel-Wiek, which also
comprised present day Läänemaa on the mainland. In 1559, Saaremaa
became tied to Denmark, which handed the island over to Sweden in 1645.
In 1710, Russian troops gained control over the island, and it remained part
of the Russian Empire until the end of the First World War, when Estonia
gained independence.
1
The population statistics for Saaremaa and Hiiumaa have been determined by searches
of the of Statistics Estonia database (http://pub.stat.ee) for 2012.
41
While successful rebellions play an important role in Bornholm’s and

Åland’s regional history writing, the historians of Saaremaa tell a tale of
uprisings that have been bloodily put down. Due to its geographic location,
Saaremaa was the last Estonian province to be conquered by German
crusaders. In the Middle Ages there were several uprisings, such as the
Great Uprising in 1343, which left the island in the hands of the rebels for
almost a year. History on Saaremaa in the nineteenth century was written
by Baltic Germans like Pastor Martin Körber who saw these rebellions as
something indicative of the freedom-loving islanders, whom he considered
superior to the Estonians and Livonians on the mainland (Körber 1885: 54).
However, twentieth century professional Estonian historians, such as Enn
Tarvel (2007: 96–8), instead stressed the island’s links to mainland Estonia.
For example, they considered the Great Uprising on Saaremaa as part of a
larger uprising on the Estonian mainland.
In the sixteenth century, the Estonian and Livonian mainland was
ravaged by wars that involved Polish-Lithuanian and Russian troops.
During the battles between these land-based powers, Saaremaa functioned
as a refuge at sea, and the influx of refugees fuelled the development of a
town around Arensburg castle.
Saaremaa then underwent periods of Danish, Swedish, and Russian rule.
As a consequence of developments on the Eastern Front during the First
World War, the island was invaded by German forces in October 1917.
According to Kersti Lust’s article in the post-Soviet anthology, Saaremaa 2,
the Germans restricted personal liberty and stressed the importance of the
German language in schools. The pupils were educated to revere the ruling
German class and the German army. The Baltic German nobility on
Saaremaa wanted to tie the island to Germany as soon as possible, and after
the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk the Livonian nobility tried to join Germany as
an independent duchy. This caused the animosity on Saaremaa against the
Germans, which was further increased by the quartering of troops, in parti-
cular as the harvest of 1918 had failed (Lust 2007: 239–40). The com-
bination of these factors caused an explosive situation on the island.
The new Estonian government tried to conscript troops to fight the Red
Army, whose advance westwards was perceived as a serious threat against
the young country’s independence. In February 1919, a rebellion broke out
on Muhu among men from Saaremaa drafted for military service. They
marched towards Saaremaa’s main city, Kuressaare, recruiting followers
primarily from Muhu and eastern Saaremaa. However, since it was
February and the straits were frozen, the government in Tallinn managed to
42
send troops over the ice. They massacred the rebels to ease their entry into
Kuressaare.
Before the First World War, all regional history writing on Saaremaa had
been penned in German by members of the Baltic German elite. The most
prominent Baltic German history writers were Johan Wilhelm Ludvig von
Luce, Peter Wilhelm von Buxhöwden, Jean Baptiste Holzmeyer, and Martin
Körber. After Estonia’s first independence, the regional authorities became
dominated by ethnic Estonians, but it took some time before this resulted in
Estonian-minded regional history writing on Saaremaa. The only major
work from the inter-war period was the volume about Saaremaa in the
monumental series Eesti, which covered entire Estonia. There the uprising
was mentioned very briefly (Luha, Blumfeldt, and Tammekann 1934: 348–
9), probably because this conflict between Estonians was difficult to har-
monise with the nation-building intentions of the work. In 1940 Estonia
was annexed by the Soviet Union, which lost it to Germany in 1941 but
regained it in 1944. In the 1950s, a new strand of regional history writing
started to emerge, in which the 1919 uprising was used to illustrate the
revolutionary spirit of the islanders. In exile, Baltic Germans and nationalist
Estonians gave different versions of the event. Thus, there exist three
fundamentally different interpretations of the uprising: the Communist
perspective, the most prolific proponent of which was Vassili Riis, the Baltic
German perspective of Baron Oscar von Buxhoeveden, and the national
Estonian perspective adopted by writers in exile during the Soviet era and at
home during Estonia’s periods of independence. Riis and von Buxhoeveden
lived on Saaremaa as children at the time of the uprising. Riis’s father was
among the insurgents and two members of the Buxhoeveden family were
among the first to be killed by the rebels. Riis was a leading figure in the
local secret police (NKVD) during the Soviet occupation of 1940–41, and
was responsible for the mass executions committed towards the end of this
period, while von Buxhoeveden lived most of his life in Germany (G.
Buxhoeveden 2009; Postimees; Saaremaa ülestoust 1919: 210).
Riis was of the opinion that the uprising was directed against German
landlords and capitalists, and that bourgeois Estonia was the successor of
the Germans. According to von Buxhoeveden, this version of history was a
deliberate falsification intended to place blame on the Baltic Germans. He
saw the uprising as a premeditated Communist attempt to create a Soviet
republic, and believed it was enabled by the lack of communication between
the Baltic Germans and the Estonian authorities, as well as by problems
caused by the rapidity with which new Estonian institutions replaced the
43
old institutions of the nobility. According to the Saaremaa Defence League’s

(Kaitseliit) history writing, the rebellion broke out when a drunken crowd
from the most unstable parts of the island came under the influence of
agitators. In his article in the post-Soviet anthology, Saaremaa 2,2 Jüri Ant
argued that sailors and soldiers who had returned from the war were
unwilling to be mobilised again; they had seen great empires collapse and
had difficulties believing in the feasibility of Estonian statehood
(Buxhoeveden 1969: 91f, 94, 102; Riis 1960: 43, 54, 121, 138–40, 184, 308;
Kaitseliidu 1998: 11–13, Ant 2007: 268–9).
The latest and most detailed study of the uprising, Piret Hiie’s 1919:
Aasta mäss Muhu- ja Saaremaal, based on her Masters’ thesis, claims that
the lack of land reform on Saaremaa was a major reason for the rebellion.
Hiie (2010: 49, 112–14), however, also believes that the economic problems
following the German occupation, and the weakness of the regional
government contributed to the uprising, as did Bolshevik agitation and the
island’s isolation from the mainland, which resulted in a lack of accurate
information.
The uprising of 1919 has been a highly divisive issue. Buxhoeveden and
Riis were writing from the respective viewpoints of the Baltic Germans and
the rebels. The Defence League’s account from 1998 was closely tied to
another one of the parties in the conflict, the Estonian government. In the
book, Saaremaa 2, published in 2007, and in Hiie’s work in 2010, the parties
were no longer portrayed as heroes or villains. Instead, the whole course of
events is described as a terrible accident brought on by extreme circum-
stances. This is similar to how the event is portrayed by Blumfeldt (Luha,
Blumfeldt, and Tammekann 1934: 348–9) and by the ethnologist Gustav
Ränk (1979: 223–37). This strand of moderate national history writing,
however, is also supportive of the Estonian government’s version. The
supposition that the islanders rebelled due to having received incorrect
information implies that had they only been correctly informed they would
have acted as good patriots. National identity is thus still seen as a natural,
rather than a constructed, phenomenon.
In 1939 the Estonian government was forced to permit Soviet military
bases in Estonia, including on Saaremaa. When Germany attacked the
Soviet Union in 1941 and approached Estonia, the Soviet authorities started
mass executions of political prisoners. These killings continued longer on
2
Like Saaremaa from 1934, the two post-Soviet volumes, Saaremaa 1 and Saaremaa 2
were written and published through a combination of regional and national efforts.
44
Saaremaa than on the mainland, since it took time for the Germans to con-
quer the island, in part because their naval ships were too large to navigate
the surrounding shallow waters. Among the units that eventually liberated
the island was a Finnish motor boat expedition. In 1941, Finland recon-
quered territory it had lost in the Winter War 1939–40 and occupied
additional land in Karelia. Circles among the extreme right in Finland had
for decades nurtured ideas of a ‘Greater Finland’ that would include
territories outside the country’s borders. Some of these plans also included
Estonia. The advance of Finnish troops in 1941 made the idea of a Greater
Finland seem more realistic.
This idea was not without support on Saaremaa. A secret society named
Suur-Soome Riik had been organised already in the spring of 1941
(Saaremaa 1940–1941 1996: 5). The German police estimated that one to
two per cent of the island’s population supported a Communist society,
while three to five per cent was in favour of a union with Greater Germany.
However, 80 per cent of the islanders were estimated to support joining
Greater Finland (Meripuu 2007: 324–5).
The idea had surfaced earlier under similar political circumstances.
Gustav Ränk (1979: 216) recalled in his memoirs that his father heard talk
about a merger between Estonia and Finland during the German
occupation in 1917–18. As illustrated by Zetterberg (1984: 519), these plans
were associated with the idea that a union with Finland was the only
alternative for Estonia to achieve independence without tying the country to
Germany or Russia.
In a time when great powers repeatedly overran smaller nations, the
relative security provided by a supposedly strong Greater Finland seemed
attractive. Unlike the brief Bornholmian flirt with the thought of joining
Sweden in 1945, and the Ålandic quest for reunification with Sweden, the
attraction of Greater Finland on Saaremaa was probably not unique to the
island but shared by many mainlanders as well. At least German leaders
were worried that Finnish propaganda would affect the Estonians (Werther
2012: 139).
Conclusions
The memory of how islanders through collective action liberated and briefly
took control over their own islands has played an important role in the
construction of regional identity on Åland and Bornholm. It has been used
as a manifestation of the islanders’ patriotism and their self-determination.
45
In contrast, the uprising on Saaremaa in 1919 is today considered to have

been a tragic accident. During the period of Soviet rule, however, Com-
munist history writing used the incident to illustrate the revolutionary spirit
of the islanders, and interpreted it as a result of their identification with
fellow peasants and workers in the Soviet Union.
The comparison between the three islands illustrates how feelings of
loyalty towards a nation-state might be altered in times of war, if that state
seems incapable of providing security. When Finland seemed to be slipping
into civil war and Bolshevism, Ålanders turned their eyes to Sweden, as
some Bornholmians did when Danish authorities seemed to have aban-
doned the island during the bombings in 1945. After Estonia was erased
from the map in 1940, Greater Finland seemed attractive to many on
Saaremaa. Of these shifts in allegiance, only the Swedish orientation on
Åland had permanent consequences. The most important explanation for
this is no doubt Åland’s acquisition of autonomy within Finland in 1921.
Although autonomy was forced upon the Ålanders against their will at the
time, as most were in favour of joining Sweden, it did create regional
authorities with some real influence. The elected members of these political
bodies attempted to defend Åland’s autonomy by developing the islanders’
regional identity, and they intentionally used history writing as a means to
this end. Through this processes, the sentiments of 1918 – and the view of
history with which they were associated – became firmly rooted in Ålandic
society.
Åland’s intermediary position between Sweden and Finland has contri-
buted to its acquisition of autonomy. An interpretation close at hand is that
the autonomy is a result of the fact that Ålanders, contrary to what is the
case on other islands in the Baltic Sea, speak a language different from that
spoken by the majority population on the mainland. However, it was rather
the strategic aspect of Åland’s location that aroused the attention of the
European powers who decided the island’s fate in the League of Nations in
1921. They legitimised their decision in the Wilsonian principles of national
self-determination, which was then the prevailing ideology. The initially
unwanted autonomy gradually developed into the backbone of Ålandic
identity, no doubt aided by the fact that it has helped Åland avoid the
negative economic and demographic developments experienced by other
islands in the Baltic Sea. Since this autonomy was devised as a protection of
an ethnic minority, Ålandic history writers have supported it by
emphasising the islanders’ cultural and linguistic Swedishness.
46
Bornholm, Åland, and Saaremaa, due to their strategic locations, have been
fortified in times of war. During the First World War, Åland and Saaremaa
were isolated from the mainland due to travel restrictions imposed by the
military. It is possible that this relative isolation during the nationally
formative period that preceded the Finnish and Estonian declarations of
independence might have contributed to the fact that islanders from Åland
and Saaremaa found themselves on a collision course with the new national
governments in Helsinki and Tallinn, respectively. The stress caused by the
quartering of troops has been raised as an important factor in the develop-
ment of Ålandic identity, as well as an underlying cause of the 1919 uprising
on Saaremaa.
On Åland and Bornholm, exemption from military service (and on
Bornholm, reintegration into the national military in 1867) has affected
regional and national identity. Resentment towards military service also
played an important role in the outbreak of the uprising on Saaremaa in 1919.
The military history of these three islands in the Baltic Sea illustrates how
identity has been formed in interplay between geographic and political
factors. Although identity on the islands is influenced by their insularity –
which has imposed a certain isolation that has been heightened in times of
war – identity is by no means static. Expressions of identity and national
affiliation have been heavily influenced by the islanders’ shifting security
concerns. Bornholmian history writers have applied a dual strategy. On one
hand, they refer to the islanders’ patriotism in order to garner increased
support from Denmark, while on the other hand, they remind the Born-
holmians that through their history, they have repeatedly been forced to
take responsibility for their own island in times of crises. Ålandic history
writers underwent several shifts of national identity in the twentieth
century, abandoning Finnish nationalism in favour of Swedish nationalism,
when the Russian Revolution and the Finnish Civil War raised concerns
about the island’s security as a part of Finland. After the Second World
War, Swedish nationalism was replaced by a more independent Ålandic
interpretation of history, which is ripening into a kind of Ålandic
nationalism. After the end of the Cold War, when the security threats in the
Baltic Sea appeared smaller than for centuries, some Ålanders even started
to advocate independence, denouncing the idea that their islands needed
any support from a larger nation state.
While Ålandic and Bornholmian history writing have their own
character and have developed on somewhat different paths as compared to
mainland history writing, on Saaremaa the development of history writing
47
in the twentieth century has followed the same pattern as on the mainland.
A Baltic German interpretation of history was succeeded by a national
Estonian, Soviet Age and then a second wave of national Estonian, history
writing, just as on the mainland. This is probably partially a result of the fact
that Saaremaa predominantly shares its experience of twentieth century
history with the Estonian mainland, although the island’s slightly detached
position has delayed or exacerbated certain trends and events. The greatest
anomaly, the 1919 uprising, was swiftly resolved, aided by the island’s
relative proximity to the mainland. However, the locations of Åland and
Bornholm as strategic outposts in relative proximity to other nation states
have resulted in experiences of war that are qualitatively different from the
national commemoration of the same events – as the feeling of abandon-
ment that the bombings of Bornholm caused and the international inter-
ventions that gave Åland autonomy and demilitarisation. Since integrating
these events into the larger Danish or Finnish national historical narratives
is associated with insurmountable difficulties, Bornholmian and Ålandic
history writing have acquired an independent characteristic – something
that, in turn, has most likely contributed to a strengthened regional identity.
48
The Baltic Sea and its islands (Image: base map from Wikimedia Commons, edited by Janne
Holmén)
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52
3. The Nordic Threat:
Soviet Ethnic Cleansing on the Kola Peninsula
Andrej Kotljarchuk
It’s the hidden enemy, whom we don’t know, who is dangerous.

We know all the people [in this report] and have files on them.
The day will come when we’ll settle accounts with them.
Stalin (cited in Bazhanov 1990: 93)
Access to previously unavailable sources from Soviet archives has brought

to light a little-known history, namely ‘national operations’ of the Soviet
secret police (NKVD) and the deportation of minorities, one of the central
features of Stalinist repression (Samuelson and Sorokin 2007: 739–56).
Local studies have already provided a deeper understanding of the nature
and mechanism of this repression (Vatlin 2004; Kotljarchuk 2012a). How-
ever, most previous studies have been concerned with large minority groups
(Iwanow 1991; Mann 2005; Dönninghaus 2009) or with the deportation of
minorities during the Second World War (Nekrich 1978; Sword 1994;
Poljan 2004). This chapter focuses on the inter-related phases and dimen-
sions of state-run violence in a short-term and long-term perspective and
on a case uncharted by previous research. Investigating local material in the
broader context, it examines Soviet large-scale violence towards Nordic
minorities of the Polar area as a gradual process of ethnic cleansing. It also
reconsiders the ways in which the Soviet state dramatically changed the
population structure of the Kola Peninsula and fully integrated this region
into the ‘pure’ Russian context.
Historians have put forward many explanations for the mass repression
of various ethnic groups committed by the Soviet Union; two approaches
are particularly relevant. Most scholars focus on the security dilemma in the
border area, suggesting the need to secure the ethnic integrity of Soviet
53
space vis-à-vis neighbouring capitalistic enemy states. They stress the role of
international relations and believe that representatives of ‘western minori-
ties’ were killed not because of their ethnicity, but rather because of their
connection to countries hostile to the USSR and the fear of disloyalty in case
of an invasion (Werth 2003: 215–39; Mann 2005: 318–28; Kuromiya 2007:
141–3). Other scholars argue that the Soviet terror against minorities was
actually genocide based on ethnic criteria (Nekrich 1978; Nahaylo and
Swoboda 1990: 79–80; Kostiainen 1996: 332–41; Naimark 2010; Snyder
2010: 92–108). However, previous historiography usually analyses the Great
Terror, deportations during the Second World War, administrative and
cultural discrimination, and the cleansing of cultural landscapes separately.
The main idea in the present study is the use of the theoretical frame-
work of Holocaust and genocide studies for analysing Soviet state-run
repression on the Kola Peninsula and examining this as a continuing
process, with a particular concern for ethnic violence. As Norman Naimark
(2010: 11) has pointed out, “implicit in any evaluation of Stalin’s mass
killing of the 1930s is our knowledge and understanding of the horrors of
the Holocaust”. The theoretical model developed by the author for this
study is based on the ethnic violence approach – the investigation of differ-
ent phases and dimensions of genocidal strategy (Chapman 1994; Martin
1998; Dulić 2005; Naimark 2001; Jones 2011). This model sees ethnic
violence as a gradual political process that is divided into the following
phases and dimensions:
Diagram 1: Phases of ethnic violence
54
3. THE NORDIC THREAT
The first phase concerns the preparation and conceptualisation of state-run

mass violence. The crucial question is how an ideology of hatred is formu-
lated by the political leadership and then mediated to the local authorities
and the broader public through official documentation and mass media.
The second phase relates to the technology and short-term effects of mass
killing and deportation. The last phase bears on the long-term results of the
destruction, the cleansing of cultural landscapes, the official politics of
forgetting and its consequence for the affected ethnic community. The
present article covers phases one and two.
Historical background
The Kola Peninsula has long had strategic importance for the Nordic
countries and is historically considered a part of Norden (Skogan 1992).
The natural resources and the demographic and socio-economic structures
of the western part of the Kola Peninsula were similar to the Norwegian
Finnmark and Swedish Norrland in the beginning of the twentieth century.
Here Sami reindeer herders coexisted with Finnish, Norwegian, and
Swedish farmers, fishermen, and hunters of Barents Sea animals. A relative-
ly mild northern climate created possibilities for agriculture and milk
production.
The Peninsula’s indigenous Sami population has roots that date back to
medieval times. In 1868, the imperial government in St. Petersburg decided
to invite to Russian Lapland new settlers from neighbouring Sweden-
Norway and the Grand Duchy of Finland. This decision led to a rapid Scan-
dinavian colonisation of the Peninsula (Shrader 2005). In the late nine-
teenth century, there were more than 1000 settlers from Sweden-Norway,
making up 8 per cent of the population of the Kola Peninsula (Thorsen and
Thorsen 1991:14). Colonists founded a dozen Finnish settlements, Nor-
wegian (Tsipnavolok, Kildin, and Terebirka) and Swedish (Murmasjö,
Kovda, and Kosoi vorot) colonies, and several settlements of Northern
Sami. The Nordic newcomers chose an isolated lifestyle and usually
preferred not to mix with the local Russian population (Volens 1926: 11–13;
Saeter 1992; Carlbäck 2000: 75–6; Leinonen 2008; Orekhova 2009).
Unlike many European countries where ethnic minorities faced discri-
mination, the Soviet Union proclaimed a policy of support of cultural and
linguistic rights for all ethnic minorities. In the 1920s, the Bolsheviks
systematically promoted the national consciousness of minorities (Martin
55
2001). In the Russian North, the historical experiment of multinationalism

included the establishment of dozens of autonomous territories, the train-
ing of native cadres and the introduction of a native system of education
(Slezkine 1994).
The Soviet administrative rebuilding of Russia was prepared by the
collection of data on nationalities.1 The first all-Soviet census of 1926
counted 1919 Finns, 1708 Sami, 715 Komi, 168 Norwegians, 108 Nenets,
and 12 Swedes living in the Murmansk region.2 148 residents were foreign
citizens, most probably immigrants from Sweden and Norway. The total
population on the peninsula at that time was 22,858 persons. Therefore
Nordic minorities (without foreign citizens, Finno-Ugric Komi, and Uralic
Nenets) made up approximately 16.7 per cent of the entire population and
about 29 per cent of the rural population of the Murmansk region.
A number of national units were created on the Kola Peninsula with
native-language media and schools. In 1930, a Finnish national district with
Polarnyi as the centre was founded, including the Norwegian national
council of Tsipnavolok. The same year Sami autonomy with its centre in
Jokanga and a Lappish national district with its centre in Kola were estab-
lished (Routsala 2005). About 44.6 per cent of the population of the
Polarnyi district at that time were Finns. Together with Sami, Norwegians,
and Swedes, they made up the majority – 57 per cent of the population
(Orekhova 2009: 208).
The Nordic settlements on the Kola Peninsula played an important role
in Soviet propaganda abroad. The Kremlin sponsored the emigration of
Nordic workers to the Polar area (Gustafson 2006; Kotljarchuk 2012a). The
legal communist press in Norway and Sweden described the successes of the
Soviet nationalities policy towards Scandinavian minorities (Wretling 1931:
18–19; cf. Jentoft 2001: 87–114; Kotljarchuk 2012a: 78–99).
1
The statistical data of the present chapter is based on the official results of the 1926 and
1939 Soviet censuses and on published or digital databases on the victims of Soviet
terror, where ethnicity and place of residence are mandatory criteria. Among them are
the Kniga pamiati (Memory Book: List of the Names of Persecuted People on the Kola
Peninsula, 1997), the database of Memorial with over 2.6 million names of victims of the
Stalinist terror, the regional database of North-Western Russia “Recovered Names” and
the database “Repressed Russia” with over 1.4 million names.
2
The real number of Swedish immigrants was probably higher. Many settlers from the
northern part of Sweden declared their Finnish ethnicity in the 1926 census. In 1938, the
Swedish colony of Kovda (previously in Karelia) was included in the Murmansk region.
The number of Swedish citizens increased in the 1930s as a result of the emigration of
Swedish leftists and workers (the so called Kirunasvenskar) to the Soviet Union.
56
Nordic threat: A case of continuity?

Fifteen years after the start of Nordic colonisation, the government of
imperial Russia raised the alarm. In 1881, the Ministry of Internal Affairs
prepared a secret report “Materials for the Solutions Related to the North of
Russia, Murmansk, and the White Sea Ports”. The government recognised
that emigrants from Sweden-Norway and the Grand Duchy of Finland had
built within a short period of time a prosperous economic zone in the
tundra. However, the 100-page document regarded the Finnish-Swedish-
Norwegian colonisation of the Murmansk coast a huge political mistake,
resulting in “the peaceful conquest of our West coast” (Materialy dla
razrabotki voprosov 1881: 43). A number of countermeasures were pro-
posed: administrative reform (elimination of the special colonist district),
development of infrastructure in order to reorient the colonists from
Sweden-Norway to Russia, attracting native Russians to settle at the Barents
Sea coast, and finally Russification of the colonists (ibid. 41–53). As Jens
Petter Nielsen points out “this process was motivated less by a desire to
Russify than by the wish to preserve the unity and integrity of the Russian
state” (Nielsen 2005: 22).
Imperial authorities noted that the second generation of Nordic colonists
and Sami did not study the Russian language. In order “to Russianise the
younger generation of colonists and Lapps” a special boarding school was
established in Aleksandrovsk/Polarnyi where all subjects including the
Lutheran religion were taught in Russian (Obshchezhitie dla detei
kolonistov 1902).
The Soviet regime on the Kola Peninsula was established in 1920 after
three years of civil war. The remote Northern periphery was terra incognita
to the Soviet leadership, whose personal experience was urban and linked to
the industrial milieu (Toulouze 2005: 140–1). The Soviet nationalities policy
was based on the contradistinction between the past Empire of the Ro-
manovs and modern Soviet Russia (Kotljarchuk 2012a: 24–30). Lenin and
his party stressed that imperial Russia had been a “prison of nations” where
an “exhaustive suppression of national minorities” prevailed (Drabkina
1930; Natsionalnye menshinstva 1929: 35–61; Lenin 1962: 69). Therefore,
with the help of a favourable policy of ‘indigenisation’, the Bolsheviks aimed
to attract people like the Nordic colonists and Sami to take their side
(Kotljarchuk 2012b).
The concepts of the nationalities policies of the Russian empire and
Soviet Russia were entirely different. Tsarist Russia decided on cultural
57
Russification; the Soviet state declared full support for minority rights and
administrative autonomy. The Bolsheviks anticipated, in line with the
Marxist doctrine, that Nordic colonists belonging to the poorer farmers and
fishermen would be loyal to the new nationalities and socio-economic
policy (Bogatstva Murmanskogo kraya 1934: 99). The government regarded
reindeer herders of the North in a positive way as “primitive communistic
groups” (Slezkine 1994: 220–1; Leete 2004: 28–30; Kotljarchuk 2012b). The
main aim of the nationalities policy towards the Sami was “the elimination
of the age-old backwardness”, that is, to help them catch up with other,
“more advanced” minorities, but at the same time to reinforce their ethnic
identity (Natsionalnye menshinstva Leningradskoi oblasti 1929: 35–6). The
positive class evaluation of the Kola-Nordic communities gave an additional
confidence to the authorities in the attainability of the goals of the new
nationalities policy. However, not all local Bolsheviks believed in the
progress of indigenisation. In 1929, the planning commission of Murmansk
district discussing the future demographic development of the region made
the following analysis:
Murman was largely colonised not by Russians, but by Finns and

Norwegians, something that certainly has a negative effect, in particular
it was one of the reasons for the ceding to Finland in 1920 a part of our
territory of the Western Murman.3
Therefore, the Murmansk planning commission proposed to move 2000

households of ethnic Russian fishermen to the Barents coast. Local Soviet
authorities perceived Nordic settlements as a security problem.
Registration
The all-Soviet census of 1926 – the first complete census in Soviet history –
included 188 ethnic categories classified around numerous linguistic
groups. Alongside this census, the government initiated a special Polar
census in which a highly detailed survey of indigenous groups and minor-
ities of the Barents Sea area was collected (Thorvaldsen 2011). One of the
3
Докладная записка Мурманской окружной плановой комиссии ”О переселении в
1930-1931 гг. 2000 семейств рыбаков колонистов на мурманское побережье
Баренцева моря”. State Archives of Murmansk oblast (GAMO), fond R-132, opis’ 1,
delo 322, pp. 28–9. According to the 1920 Treaty of Tartu, Soviet Russia ceded the
Petsamo area to Finland. In the years 1584–1919, this territory had been a part of the
Arkhangelsk region of Russia.
58
official aims was “solving the national question” by mapping compact

minority areas and producing scientific grounds for establishing national
autonomy (Blum and Mespoulet 2003: 204–11). While part of the author-
ities used the collected data for the support of minority rights and
facilitating social-economic transformation, the secret police analysed the
same data for surveillance of different social groups that were considered
suspicious (Holquist 2001).
The Soviet secret police was involved in the activity of the Central
Statistical Office (TsUNKhU). The chief staff at the central and regional
level were approved by the secret police and each branch of TsUNKhU had
at least one police officer posted for duty. On the request of the secret
police, the Central Statistical Office reported statistical data (Zhiromskaya
1999: 148–52). The NKVD had a special eighth department of statistics with
detachments in every region that counted members of various suspicious
social groups from foreign citizens to former White army soldiers
(Tinchenko 2011–12). In 1934, the Civil Registry Office (ZAGS) was inte-
grated into the Soviet secret police.
In 1925, by the initiative of Felix Dzerzhinsky, the Research Institute of
the North (Institut Izucheniya Severa) was founded and already by the
following year scholars from this institute published a socio-demographic
investigation of colonists of Western Murman (Volens 1926). In 1927, an
ethnographic map of the Murmansk region was prepared at the Soviet
Academy of Sciences with description of the settlements of Sami, Finns, and
Norwegians.
The role of Soviet scholars in the mapping of the Russian North and in
collecting ethnic data has been discussed in previous studies (Eidlitz
Kuoljok 1985; Kuropiatnik 1999). In his book on ethnographic knowledge
and the making of the Soviet Union, Francine Hirsch drew attention to the
role of statistical and anthropological mapping of minorities in the Soviet
terror (Hirsch 2005: 273–308). Holocaust studies show the significance of
anthropology and eugenics in the mapping of potential victims (Müller-Hill
1998; Gretchen 2004). Nevertheless, the link between Soviet anthropologic
and demographic research and preparation of national operations of the
NKVD is largely understudied.
In 1929, the Murmansk branch of the Central Statistical Office prepared
a statistical report of the region, based on the all-Soviet and Polar census. It
contained details on the ethnicity of the population of the Kola Peninsula,
with data for all settlements. The survey included information on the
“dominant ethnicity” of inhabitants, the number of their families, and
59
certain ethnic groups’ share of the village population (Murmanskii okrug

1929).
During the ‘national operations’ and deportations, the collected ethnic
data was supposed to help identify suspicious nationalities (Blum and
Mespoulet 2003: 219). The 1940 NKVD secret order on the “Resettlement of
foreign nationalities from Murmansk and the Murmansk region” was based
on the precise knowledge of citizens to be deported, their place of residence,
gender, professional, and age profile (Kisilev 2008: 118–22). As Peter
Holquist (2001: 133) noted, “with macabre precision the Soviet state
indicated region-by-region target victims”. Unfortunately, the limited
access to internal documents of the NKVD in Russian archives is an
obstacle to gaining more thorough knowledge on the role of registration in
the preparation of the Great Terror and Soviet deportations.
Isolation as instrument of covert policing actions

Studies of the Holocaust have shown that segregation and the international
isolation of the German-Jewish population played a crucial role in the first
steps towards genocide (Longerich 2007: 29–129). The question is, there-
fore, whether socio-geographic and international isolation facilitated the
mass operations of the NKVD on the Kola Peninsula. On the eve of the
Great Terror, all leaks abroad were unwanted. Reactions of the Scandi-
navian and Finnish press and diplomatic intervention would have signi-
ficantly complicated the NKVD practice of mass repression. The illegal
escape of potential victims was also an issue in the sparsely populated
Soviet–Finnish–Norwegian borderland. One of the first steps of the govern-
ment in isolating Nordic colonists and citizens was to limit their access to
diplomatic missions. By 1937–38, Scandinavian diplomats worked under
tremendous pressure. For example, the Soviet side denied visas to newly
appointed Swedish diplomats, violated the principle of inviolability of the
diplomatic bag, and arrested Soviet citizens belonging to the technical staff
of Scandinavian missions. The NKVD also secretly installed listening
devices in diplomatic apartments. These actions paralysed the consular
service (Ken, Rupasov, and Samuelsson 2005: 114 note 87).
The next step was the liquidation of all diplomatic representation outside
Moscow. The vice-consulate of Sweden in Arkhangelsk was closed in 1935,
with the interests of Sweden in the Barents Sea region being represented by
Norway after that. However, in 1937, the NKVD conducted the mass arrests
of “persons affiliated and associated with the Norwegian consulate” in
60
Arkhangelsk, the latter being accused of being “a nest of espionage”. During

the special operation, 63 individuals were arrested (including a Kola
Norwegian merchant venture, Martin Ulsen), the consulate was closed, and
Norwegian consul Albert Viklund who had grown up in Russia was forced
to leave the Soviet Union (Ovsiannikov 1994). The Norwegian consulate in
Arkhangelsk had been a traditional place for asking for help among Kola
Norwegians and Swedes (Jentoft 2001: 110). In autumn 1937, the Soviet
government demanded the closure of the Swedish consulate in Leningrad.
At that time, the Murmansk district was a part of the Leningrad region.
After the preparatory work and the evacuation of the property in January
1938, the consulate ceased to exist. In December 1937, at the request of the
Soviet government, the consulate of Finland in Leningrad was likewise
closed. Therefore, by January 1938, not a single representative of the Nordic
states was based in north-western Russia.
On 28 October 1937, at the height of the ‘national operations’, the
NKVD issued order 00698 “On combating counter-revolutionary espio-
nage, terrorist, subversive activities of the staff of embassies and consulates
of Germany, Japan, Italy, and Poland”. The order created a new concept in
the Soviet repressive dictionary, namely, ‘consular ties’, which meant the
criminalisation of any contact between Soviet residents and diplomatic
missions. The order did not define the punishment, thereby opening the
opportunity for mass violence. A new NKVD directive from 1 February
1938 equated ‘consular ties’ to other crimes of espionage, something that in
practice implied the death penalty. The 00698 order also covered the
embassies of Nordic countries. Paragraph 7 provided for the intensification
of “surveillance of the other missions, through which the Japanese, German,
Italian, and Polish intelligence services conduct counter-revolutionary work
in the Soviet Union, namely Finnish, Austrian, Balkan and Scandinavian”
(Bilokin 2000: 27). The diplomatic corps in Moscow discussed the shocking
arrests of embassy visitors provided by the Soviet government. The Swedish
Ambassador William Winter informed Foreign Minister Rickard Sandler of
the impotence of diplomatic missions of the Nordic countries to help their
compatriots.4
4
“Den främlingsfientliga rörelsen i Sovjetunionen.” Winther to Sandler, 26 May 1938.
National Archives of Sweden (Riksarkivet, henceforth NAS), Kungl. Utrikesdeparte-
mentet (henceforth FM), HP 514, vol. 62.
61
Strengthening of border control

The demarcation made as result of the 1920 Tartu Treaty between Finland
and Soviet Russia divided Scandinavia and the Kola Peninsula with a 300-
kilometres straight-line boundary under Finnish and Soviet control. For the
first time in history, a well-guarded border between two hostile states
isolated Russian subjects in the High North from their western kinsmen.
The new border broke family ties. In tsarist Russia, Kola Norwegians and
Finns had free contact with residents of nearby Norway and the Grand
Duchy of Finland (which was still under Russian control). The port of
Aleksandrovsk and the Norwegian town of Vardø were connected by a
regular ferry. In Vardø, Kola Norwegians, Finns, and Swedes usually
baptised and confirmed their children and bought necessary goods, in-
cluding fishing equipment, boats, and coffee (Volens 1926: 20). The Sami
people moved freely in the tundra between Finnish and Russian Lapland.
However, in the mid-1920s Soviet authorities imposed a ban on the output
of the Kola colonists to the port of Vardø and tightened their control over
meetings between Russian and Finnish Sami.
Starting in the 1920s, a special ‘border zone’ was erected (Martin 1998:
830), dividing the Nordic colonists and Sami of the Kola Peninsula from
Finland and Norway with a 22-kilometre wide border strip. Every Soviet
citizen, including locals, were required to have a special NKVD-border
guard permission in order to enter the border zone. Entering the territory of
the zone without identification documents was forbidden.
In 1934, fortified border areas were introduced and starting in 1935 a
special programme to create a politically reliable squad within the popu-
lation of the border area was realised. NKVD officers were ordered to
deport to the inland all unreliable individuals and every village council in
the border area was to have a police officer. The local party organisations
were instructed to increase the number of communists and Komsomol
members (Ramanava 2007). As a result, by 1937, the local party branch in
the Norwegian colony Tsipnavolok included 12 members (Jentoft and Gon-
charova 2008: 94), among them no Norwegians.
Increasing economic restrictions made smuggling a survival strategy of
the colonists and Sami. The centre of smuggling was the Rybachy Peninsula
(Fiskarhalvøya/Kalastajasaarento). Before the Second World War, this
peninsula was divided between Soviet Russia and Finland. On the eastern
shore of the peninsula were Tsipnavolok, as well as some Finnish farms and
settlements of Norwegian Sami. On the west coast of the peninsula close to
62
the Soviet border, the Finnish village of Vaidaguba was situated. As a result
of strict border control, colonists had to meet their compatriots illegally
during fishing and hunting sea animals in the Barents Sea. However, the
establishment in 1933 of the Soviet Northern Navy and of the base of the
maritime border guard in Polarnyi led to a significant limitation of the
meetings on the sea and in the tundra.
Propaganda of hatred
Unprecedented in Soviet history, state-run terror demanded mass pro-
paganda of hatred. Genocide Studies show that the Holocaust was prepared
through a governmental campaign that was filtered to society through mass
media (Glass 1997: 129–45; Herf 2006: 17–49; Jones 2011: 487–98). As Leo
Kuper has shown, it is not the social conditions within a society that cause
genocide, but rather a situation where the powerful make the decision to
exterminate a group of people (Kuper 1982: 40–56).
The ideological orchestration of ‘national operations’ included two main
aspects. First was the concept of the new round of mass repressions directed
this time against suspicious nationalities, then the conceptualisation of
terror and its implementation in society. At the end of March 1937, the
newspaper Pravda published a speech Stalin gave at the Plenum of the
Central Committee of the Communist Party on 3 March 1937, titled “On
the errors of party work and further steps to eliminate the Trotskyite and
other hypocrites”. The full text appeared as a separate edition and was
reprinted by the local press. In this speech, Stalin formulated the “essential
facts” that laid the ideological foundation of the Great Terror. If in the
beginning of the 1930s repressions were directed against certain social
groups (i.e., kulaks and priests), now the dictator warned about the total
cleansing of Soviet Union. According to Stalin “sabotage and subversive spy
work of agents of foreign states hit the Soviet state and our organisations
from top to bottom” (Stalin 1997: 151). Nevertheless, Stalin announced a
thesis of the permanent nature of class struggle in the USSR. In 1937, the
media dictionary of Soviet newspeak was enriched by a number of new
terms (Pöppel 2007). The formula of ‘capitalist encirclement’ meant a
dramatic turn of Soviet domestic and foreign politics. For the first time,
Stalin did not make any exception and all the neighbouring countries
entered the list of enemies (Stalin 1997: 151–73). The idea of international
solidarity with the working class and Western communism was abandoned
in favour of the isolation and distrust of foreigners. In the orders to the
63
NKVD, Stalin and the party leadership emphasised that the mass operations
against Poles, Latvians, Germans, Estonians, Finns, Greeks, Iranians,
Chinese, and Romanians applied to both foreign and Soviet citizens.5
In the summer of 1937, publications on the activities of foreign intel-
ligence agents were one of the hot topics in Soviet press. On 11 July 1937,
the chief of the fourth secret political department of the NKVD for the
Leningrad and Murmansk areas, Petr Korkin, published in Leningradskaya
Pravda an article titled “On the subversive activities of foreign intelligence
services in the rural area”. The author claimed that even the remote areas of
northern Russia had become “an active field of intelligence services of
capitalist encirclement” (Kotljarchuk 2012a: 122–34). A number of prints
published in hundreds of thousands copies were talking about the
destructive espionage of capitalistic states against the Soviet Union and
their internal agents. The publications were addressed to all groups of
society: from the NKVD officers and party officials to kolkhoz pro-
pagandists, librarians, and pioneer leaders (see Zakovskii 1937; Shpionam i
izmennikam 1937; Shpionazh i razvedka 1937; Zilver 1938). As Oleg
Khlevnyuk (1992: 170) has pointed out, Soviet writers and journalists
produced easily recognisable stories during the Great Terror suggesting that
mass purges were justified and that the country was full of spies.
The Soviet Union had stable diplomatic, economic, and political
relations with Sweden and Norway. Unlike Finland, these neutral countries
were not on the list of primary Soviet enemies. The Kremlin evaluated the
relationship with these Scandinavian countries as always correct
(Chubar’ian and Riste 1997: no. 191, Ken, Rupasov, and Samuelsson 2005:
33–4). For the Kremlin leadership, it was significant that unlike in Finland
the Communist parties in Sweden and Norway acted legally. The fact that
these countries did not have a common borderline at that time with the
Soviet Union also played a role. However, the spiral of the Great Terror
changed this positive image and from 1937 numerous articles were
published depicting Norway and Sweden as the main bases of espionage
against the Soviet Union (see Hôtes inopportuns 1937; Tarle 1937; Nor-
vezhskaya diplomaticheskaya 1937; Gribov 1938). Soviet publications
5
Постановление ЦК ВКП (б) от 31 января 1938 года ”О продлении до 15 апреля
1938 года операций по разгрому шпионско-диверсионных контингентов из
поляков, латышей, немцев, эстонцев, финн, греков, иранцев, харбинцев, китайцев
и румын, как иностранных граждан, так и советских поданных, согласно
существующих приказов НКВД СССР.” Russian State Archive of Social-Political
History (RGASPI), fond 17, opis’ 166, delo 585, p. 27.
64
became a matter of great concern for Swedish diplomats in Moscow who

realised that the Kremlin consciously built a negative image of Sweden.6
The thesis of active espionage suggested a wide network of domestic
agents, and according to the Soviet press, the agents were members of
numerous minorities. In 1937, the readers of Polarnaya Pravda, the leading
official newspaper of the Murmansk region, learned that local Soviet cadres
of the Polar district were “Finnish nationalists who despise the Russian
language, incite enmity between Finns and Russians, and undermine the
Soviet kolkhoz system” (Razgromit’ burzhuaznykh 1937). The newspaper of
the national Polar district “Polarnoin kollektivisti / Polarnyi kollektivist”,
which appeared both in Finnish and Russian published a series of articles
against “Finnish bourgeois nationalists who usurped the political power in
the district” (Paikallisesta nationalismista 1937; see also Mitä tekee 1937;
Natsionalisticheskie nastroeniya 1937; Otkazalas’ razgovarivat’ 1937; and
Bystree likvidirovat’ 1937).
Many publications were about meetings at which the workers of the
country unanimously supported the elimination of ordinary spies and sabo-
teurs (Edinstvenno spravedlivyi 1937). The judgment of the state was
presented as a verdict on behalf of the entire society. The largest children’s
daily newspaper Pionerskaya Pravda published a number of articles about
foreign countries’ espionage and children helping the police to catch the
spies. The article “Exposing the conspiracy” was about the arrest of a spy at
the door to a Norwegian consulate (Pionerskaya Pravda 1937: 20).
Through propaganda, the population and local authorities were pre-
pared for the mass cleansing of certain minorities. This was important for
two reasons. First, the national operations and the deportation of minorities
were secret; their progress was not reported by the Soviet media (unlike the
Moscow trials). Second, to hide mass arrests in rural areas was not possible,
and the exact number of captured people became known next day. The
state-organised propaganda campaign reached its goals. NKVD documents
of 1937–38 show that the simple reference to the ‘foreign origin’ of an
arrested individual convinced witnesses of the guilt of the accused person.
For provincial policemen, the official newspapers served also as information
sources that helped to elaborate the design of ‘national operations’ (Vatlin
2004: 49).
6
“Med artikel över Sverige.” Eric Gyllenstierna to Sandler, 14 Oct. 1937. NAS, FM, HP
514, vol. 61; Nils Lindh to Hans Beck-Friis, 15 Nov. 1938, ibid., vol. 62.
65
Organised massacre
In July 1933, Stalin visited the Kola Peninsula together with the head of the
Leningrad region Sergei Kirov and defence minister (people's commissar for
military and navy affairs) Kliment Voroshilov. Stalin was the first leader of
Russia and the USSR to visit this region. By a Politburo decision, the
Northern Navy with 12,000 military personnel was established in the centre
of the Finnish national district of Polarnyi.7 Industrial development was
promoted in conjunction with further militarisation of the peninsula.
Geological exploration, which started in the 1920s, led to the development
of a number of mines. According to the second five-year plan for the Soviet
economy, a number of large strategically important factories and facilities
were built on the peninsula. Thus, over a short period of time the Kola
Peninsula transformed from a nature reserve into an area of high military
significance (Shashkov 2000; Mikoliuk 2003; Kotljarchuk 2012b).
The new strategic importance of the Kola Peninsula for the totalitarian
regime turned the Nordic minorities into a perceived threat. In 1937, the
NKVD started top-secret mass operations in order to execute members of
several ethnic minorities (Werth 2003; Savin 2012). At a meeting of the
Politburo on 20 July 1937, Stalin initiated the first operation by writing “a
proposal” that “all Germans working in our military, semi-military, and
chemical plants, and in electrical power stations and building sites, in every
region, are to be arrested” (Repressii protiv sovetskikh nemtsev 1999: 35). In
all, 56,787 Germans were arrested, 41,898 of whom were shot. Only 820 of
them were citizens of the Reich (Okhotin and Roginskii 1999: 70–4). The
second operation was “Polish”, leading to the arrest of 139,815 Soviet Poles
and the execution of 111,071 of them (Repressii protiv polakov 1997). A
number of other operations were organised after these models, concerning,
for example, people of Greek, Latvian, Iranian, Afghan, Bulgarian, and
Finnish nationality. According to official statistics, altogether 335,513
people were arrested in these ‘national operations’, 247,157 of whom were
shot (Werth 2003: 232; Savin 2012: 43).
Sami, Norwegians, and Swedes were not officially covered by these
campaigns and therefore not included into the official data. However, the
state-run violence against them was designed in accordance with the
principles of other ‘national operations’ (Kotljarchuk 2012b). In 1937–38,
the NKVD fabricated a number of ‘underground organisations’ on the Kola
7
Протокол Политбюро ВКП (б) № 139 от 15 июня 1933 года. RGASPI, fond 17, opis’
3, delo 924, p. 18.
66
Peninsula. Kola Norwegians were accused of spying for Norway and

Germany as members of a fictitious espionage organisation, the “Blue Cross
or the Order of Rosicrucians”.8 Finns were supposed to be agents of
Finland’s General Staff and the Petsamo bureau of the Finnish secret police
Valpo (Mikaliuk 2003: 101–2; Savilova 2008). Dozens of Sami were accused
of being members of an underground rebel organisation, the alleged aim of
which was to establish an independent Sami state (Kotljarchuk 2012b).
The Sami underground rebel organisation was a falsification of the
NKVD and already in 1940 a number of policemen were arrested and sen-
tenced to prison for “violations of socialist legality during the investigation
of the Sami case” (Kiselev 1999). Einar Laidinen and Sergey Verigin (2004:
168–9) found the names of 179 actual agents of Finland, of whom 89 were
natives of the Karelian and Kola borderlands, but among whom were no
Sami. Among those arrested in the course of the Nordic operations were
also ethnic Russians. For example, Vasiliy Alymov, the director of the
Murmansk museum and a leading researcher of Sami culture, was accused
of being the designated president of a future Sami state. His wife and adult
son were also arrested and shot. The NKVD used the correspondence of
Alymov with Swedish, Norwegian, and Finnish scholars regarding the Sami
as “evidence of the international network of a Sami underground organ-
ization” (Kotljarchuk 2012b).
Altogether, 694 Finns, 68 Sami, 23 Norwegians, and 6 Swedes were
arrested in the Murmansk area in 1937–38, approximately one fifth of the
adult population belonging to these nationalities (Mikaliuk 2003: 62–3;
Kotljarchuk 2012b). Most of the victims were shot. The executions were
decided by a so-called troika – a three-man meeting of the local police chief,
the local prosecutor, and the party secretary. The death rate of the arrested
during the Great Terror among Kola Norwegians was 77 per cent, a higher
figure than the 73.8 per cent average for all victim groups of the NKVD’s
‘national operations’. The death rate of the arrested Sami was 64.7 per cent
(Kotljarchuk 2012b: 69). Many of those who had been sentenced during the
Great Terror by a troika to “ten years incommunicado” were also mur-
dered. Thus, the final number of Nordic victims might be even higher.
The Great Terror and mass arrests caused a deep economic crisis of
previously prosperous Finnish, Norwegian, and Sami kolkhozes. In January
1939 the local government of the Polar district stated that the production
8
Дело контрреволюционной шпионско-повстанческой организации ”Голубые
кресты или Орден Розенкрейцеров”, 1938 год. GAMO, fond P-140, opis’ 3, delo 3153.
67
plan of 1938 was fulfilled by only 20 per cent and that most of the fishing
boats were not staffed (K lovu 1939).
A number of features distinguish the ‘national operations’ from other
parts of the Great Terror, making them similar to genocide. The murders
were conducted secretly on a mass scale. The suspicious ethnicity was one
of the determining criterions for most of the arrests. The victims were killed
under cover of night and buried en masse in unmarked places. Large-scale
places, for example in Levashovo, were guarded by the secret police until
the time of perestroika.9 In many other smaller places, the NKVD sought to
conceal all traces of mass murder. The arrested people disappeared and
relatives did not get to know what really happened to them until the fall of
the Soviet Union. Among the victims – supposed members of Nordic and
Sami ‘nationalistic’ organisations – were also people of other ethnic
backgrounds (Russians, Komi, Latvians, etc.). This is one of the differences
between the Soviet mass murder and the Holocaust. However, all those
arrested by the Murmansk police were connected in some way to Scandi-
navia and Finland, or had close personal relations with Nordic families.
Another difference as compared to the Holocaust is that the direct victims
of the Great Terror were adults only.
Deportation
An argument for the Soviet regime to use mass violence against Nordic
minorities in order to secure the Murmansk region was the Winter War. In
January 1940, the Soviet Foreign Office accused Sweden and Norway of
supporting Finland and planning a large-scale war against the Soviet Union
(Vneshniya politika SSSR 1946: no. 395). In his speech at the Supreme
Soviet on 29 March 1940, the head of government and Foreign Minister
Viacheslav Molotov explained for the Soviet elite the reasons for the Winter
War and blamed Great Britain, France, and Sweden for supporting Finland
against the USSR. According to Molotov, the Great Powers intended to use
Finland, Sweden, and Norway as a springboard for a future war. Therefore,
he claimed, the Soviet occupation of the Petsamo area aimed to protect the
Murmansk region and railroad (Shestaya sessia Verkhovnogo 1940: 26–37).
9
The Levashovo forest in the neighborhood of St. Petersburg is the largest mass grave of
the victims of the Great Terror in Russia. Here many of Kola Finns, Sami, Norwegians,
and Swedes were murdered in 1937–38. In 1989, the mass graves of Levashovo were
opened to the public. Since that time, dozens of memorials have been erected to the
memory of different ethnic groups, among them Finns, Norwegians, Estonians, Poles,
Germans, Italians, Lithuanians, and Assyrians.
68
As a result of the Winter War, the Soviet Union occupied Finland’s Pet-
samo area, which until 1920 had been a part of Russia. Finland lost its
access to the Arctic Ocean and a new state border between the USSR and
Norway emerged. In addition to this, large border territories in middle and
southern Finland were incorporated into the USSR.
In the course of preparation for the Winter War, on 16 September 1939,
Murmansk was given a special status as a closed city. As part of this
decision, the Politburo ordered the NKVD to deport from the city “500–700
suspicious people, especially Finns and Estonians”.10 To protect the new
state border, 10 NKVD border guard regiments were sent to the Karelian
and Murmansk sector, totalling 7000 soldiers. Like in eastern Poland, the
NKVD began to ‘cleanse’ the new territory of former citizens. However, 312
Finnish citizens of the Petsamo area were repatriated to Finland, and not
deported and interned like the Poles (Savilova 2008: 142–3). That this was
not seen as a solution to the security dilemma is evident from the order of
NKVD’s chief Lavrentiy Beria in July 1940 that all Finns, Norwegians,
Northern Sami, and Swedes of the Murmansk region be deported. The de-
portation included 6973 Finns, Norwegians, and Swedes living on the Kola
Peninsula as well as a small number of Balts who were forcibly relocated
from the Kola Peninsula to the inland of north-western Russia.11 Russian
Sami were not included in this list. Those of them who lived in the borderland
had already been forcibly resettled by decision of the local government in
February 1940 to the inland of the Peninsula (Stepanenko 2002).
Unlike, for example, the deportation of Soviet Koreans from the Far
East, which was justified with reference to Japanese espionage (Gelb 1995),
the regulations and instructions of the Murmansk deportation do not
contain any reasons for the resettlement. The threat of the Nazi German
advance to the Russian Arctic after the occupation of Norway in May of
1940 was not reflected in official documents because the USSR and Nazi
Germany had to act as allies after the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact.
10
Постановление политбюро ЦК ВКП (б) ” О переводе города Мурманска на
режимное положение”, 16 September 1939. RGASPI, fond 17, opis’ 162, delo 26, p. 5.
11
Приказ народного комиссара внутренних дел СССР [Л. П. Берия] № 00761 ”О
переселении из гор. Мурманска и Мурманской области граждан
инонациональностей”. 23 June 1940. State Archives of Russian Federation (GARF),
fond R-9401, opis’ 2, delo 1, pp. 207–09; Инструкция народного комиссара
внутренних дел СССР [Л. П. Берия] ”О порядке переселения граждан иностранных
национальностей из города Мурманска и Мурманской области”. 23 June 1940. Ibid.,
pp. 210–12.
69
Another reason was the new dimension of violence during the Second
World War that resulted in the transition from terror to large-scale deport-
ations of certain minorities. Starting in January 1940, the NKVD carried out
extensive deportations of Poles from western Belarus and Ukraine. On 5
March 1940, the Politburo under the chairmanship of Stalin adopted a
secret resolution on the execution of all Polish soldiers and officials
captured in 1939. As a result, at least 21,736 Polish nationals were killed in
the Katyn forest and other places of the Soviet Union.
Destruction of economic, cultural, religious and family life

The radical change of nationalities policy resulted also in the abolition of all
Nordic autonomous territories on the Kola Peninsula and the abolition of
the native (Finnish, Norwegian, and Sami) school system in 1938. This was
justified by the Kremlin and local authorities in terms of the threat, for
example, that national territories “were established by bourgeois nation-
alists” and had become “a base for numerous spies” (Gatagova 2005: no.
132). Minority schools on the Kola Peninsula were said to have “become an
arena of anti-Soviet bourgeois influence on children” where the “Russian
language was ignored and discriminated against” (Gatagova 2005: no. 136).
Moreover, native newspapers and libraries on the Kola Peninsula were
closed, and textbooks in native languages were confiscated and destroyed or
moved to the so-called ‘special deposit’ (spetskhran). On 17 January 1938
the last issue of Polarnoin kollektivisti appeared in Finnish language. The
liquidation of the native system of education and press, and the linguistic
Russification policy was explained by the local authorities as serving the
colonists and their children’s future (Ivanov 1938). The 1940 deportation
led to the economic collapse of the western area of the Kola Peninsula. On 5
August 1940, the local government of Murmansk reported to the central
government in Moscow that because of the “relocation of foreign nation-
alities, many territories of our region, especially the Kola and Polar districts,
remained entirely without labour”.12 The deportation was followed by the
expropriation of property and destruction of material objects. The Lutheran
churches that had existed on the Peninsula since the end of the nineteenth
12
Докладная записка исполнительного комитета Мурманского областного совета в
Совнарком Союза ССР “О переселении в Мурманскую область 286 хозяйств из
других областей Союза ССР.” 5 Aug. 1940. Russian State Archives of Economics
(RGAE), fond 5675, opis’ 1, delo 330, pp. 46–7.
70
century and dozens of Sami Orthodox churches were destroyed (Berdieva

2000: 85).
After the Second World War, the Kola Peninsula as a Soviet borderland
to the NATO alliance became the most militarised and high-security area of
the country. Deported Nordic groups never returned. A number of depor-
ted nations were rehabilitated on a collective base and their national
autonomies were re-established after Stalin’s death. The case of Kola Nordic
groups is similar to Volga-Germans, Soviet Koreans, and Poles, who did not
receive permission after the war to return home and did not regain auto-
nomy. The punishment of these groups was collective, no matter what the
post-Stalinist rehabilitation offered on the individual level.
The Sami case is unique in Soviet history. Not only was Sami national
autonomy, which existed on the Kola Peninsula in the 1930s, never re-
stored, the forcible deportation of the Sami population continued until the
1960s. By 1965, almost all reindeer herders had been concentrated in the
four kolkhozes of Lovozero (Gutsol 2007). As a result, the Sami people lost
their indigenous rights to their nomadic lifestyle, along with most of grazing
lands and water resources in Russian Lapland. The balance between use of
natural resources and suitable development was destroyed (Kozlov 2008:
21–3). Population pressure led to the depletion of grazing lands and the
ecological destruction of the tundra. The population of reindeer declined
from 40,000 animals in 1964 to 25,000 animals in 2001. Unemployment and
alcoholism became spread among the Russian Sami and many of them left
their homes for major cities in north-western Russia (Kozlov 2008: 23–4).
The Nordic colonies and Sami settlements on the Kola Peninsula were
small with a fragile cultural heritage that could easily be destroyed. Today
most of the former Nordic villages have no indication of previous human
habitation, though on some of them military installations have been built.
The cultural landscape created during a century of Nordic colonisation has
been eradicated.
In 1995, the Norwegian government introduced a special repatriation
programme for Kola-Norwegians and their descents who had immigrated
to Russia and could not return after 1917. Through this programme,
approximately 150 people came back to their historic homeland. Finland
has a special individual programme of repatriation for Russian citizens of
Finnish and Ingrian descent.
The Great Terror on the Kola Peninsula had a disproportional impact on
men. The brunt of repression was directed against men of the age of sexual
reproduction (20–45 years old), something that contributed to the vulner-
71
ability of the population. The terror also had a great impact on men in the
age group of 46–72 years. This cohort reached adulthood before the
October revolution and was, as it was regarded as belonging to l’ancien
régime, seen as populated by potential enemies of the Soviet government.
The age profile of these victims also reflects the fact that elders who
traditionally occupied the leading position in the local communities
suffered most from the terror (Kotljarchuk 2012b).
The forced deportation of Nordic minorities in 1940 also contributed to
the prevention of a normal reproductive and family life. Deported people
were placed in special settlements under the direct control of the NKVD.
The food supply and economic situation in special settlements were often
worse than in the Gulag. Unlike the Gulag camps, the contingent of special
settlements (spetsial’nye poseleniya) was based on the family structure. This
contributed to the high mortality rate of children (Kotljarchuk 2011). The
special settlers (spetsposelentsy) were interned until 1954 and did not get
permission to return home afterwards. After the Second World War, the
Murmansk area remained a special regime area where former ‘criminals’
were not allowed to reside. As a result of this, the Nordic colonists were
spread over the entire Soviet Union and lost their connectedness.
Conclusion
There are several interacting links between the different phases of this
ethnic violence. Mass arrests and the disappearance of people in 1937/38
created an atmosphere of fear that helped the authorities in 1938/39 to
destroy without protest the administrative and cultural autonomy of
minorities and the native system of education. The Great Terror contri-
buted to the lack of collective resistance in the course of the forced
deportation of 1940. The deportation of Nordic minorities led to the
economic collapse of the western part of the Kola Peninsula and provides
evidence for Michel Foucault’s claim that it is meaningless to look for
logically structured economic purposes in the activities of political regimes
that prefer violence over dialogue and do not care about economic con-
sequences (Nilsson 2008: 83–91).
The present study confirms Alain Blum’s and Martine Mespoulet’s
(2003: 204–25) observation that, in the course of censuses and statistical
investigations, the Soviet government constructed different ethnic cate-
gories that were not only used for the support of minorities, but also for
cruel mass violence towards certain groups. The secret police collected
72
ethnic data for the domestic surveillance of citizens in many interwar states.
The U.S. military intelligence service (MID) used the New York City
registration data in order to keep track of immigrant groups (foreign-born
Jews) who, according to the MID, created a counter-intelligence problem
(Bendersky 2000: 158–282, 337–93). However, while such policies led to
unlawful surveillance and discrimination of minorities in democratic states,
it was a starting point for mass killing and ethnic cleansing under totali-
tarian regimes.
After having isolated the Kola-Nordic population from Scandinavia, the
Soviet authorities executed their repressive mass operations in silence and
avoided international protests. The changed nature of Soviet nationalities
policy remained unknown in Norden and for many Scandinavians, the
Soviet Union continued to be an inspiring example of a positive nation-
alities policy and a functional planned economy (Wråkberg 2013).
The main contributions of propaganda in the course of the Soviet terror
were the following: (1) creating a negative image of the at-risk groups, (2)
claiming that the members of certain national groups did not belong to the
loyal part of society, (3) creation of an atmosphere of uncertainty, fear, and
suspicion in the national districts, (4) creation of general fear of certain
ethnic minorities, (5) explanation of mass arrests, (6) glorification of infor-
mers and their collaboration with the secret police, and (7) neutralisation of
bystanders in order to change their behaviour to active or passive coope-
ration with the NKVD and non-resistance to on-going mass violence.
Like in Nazi Germany (Friedlander 1980), the Soviet bureaucracy mani-
pulated formal language in order to make its communication incompre-
hensible to bystanders. The NKVD orders, for example, used the following
definitions: ‘contingent’ (kontingent) for arrested jailed and deported
people, ‘first category’ (pervaia kategoriya) for those who were to be
murdered and ‘second category’ (vtoraia kategoriya) for those to be sent to
the Gulag. Instead of deportation (deportatsiya) or forcible relocation
(vyselenie), the party and NKVD edicts preferred to speak about ‘resettle-
ment’ (pereselenie). Such a use of language contributed to the dehumani-
sation of the victims.
The founder of the Soviet state, Vladimir Lenin, had believed that
instead of the capitalist state that he defined as “an apparatus of sup-
pression” the Bolsheviks would build a classless global community (Lenin
1969: 90–1). This utopia turned to the nightmare of mass killings and the
destruction of dozens of Soviet minorities.
73
Dividing the analysis of Soviet mass violence into different but inter-related
phases and dimensions makes it possible to investigate state-run violence
against minorities as a continuous political process. Future research should
investigate additional similarities and differences between Soviet crimes
against humanity and other genocides.
74
Top: Map of Russian Lappland, St. Petersburg, 1745 (Photographer: Andrej Kotljarchuk)
Bottom: Ethnographic map of the Murmansk region. Blue − Sami; deep blue − Finns; striped
red − Norwegians; red − Russians (Photographer: Andrej Kotljarchuk)
Front page of the Finnish-language newspaper Polarnoin kollektivisti, no. 92, 17 Dec. 1937
(Courtesy of Russian National Library in St. Petersburg / Photographer: Andrej Kotljarchuk)
Mourning ribbon in the Sami language over Petr G. Chaporov (executed in 1937 by the
NKVD in Leningrad), Levashovo Memorial Cemetery, St. Petersburg 2000 (Photographer:
Aleksandr Stepanenko)
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83
4. An Unimaginable Community:
The SS Idea of a ‘Greater Germanic Reich’
and the German Minority in Denmark
Steffen Werther
During the early decades of the twentieth century, the emergence of

scientific racial theory combined with the German Reich’s general
enthusiasm for everything Germanic and Nordic contributed to what in
Germany was termed the ‘Nordic Idea’ (Nordischer Gedanke). The concept
included the notion that the Völker of the ‘Nordic Race’ shared a com-
munity of fate. Leading National Socialists such as Heinrich Himmler,
Alfred Rosenberg, and Walther Darré seized upon the idea and developed it
further. Himmler transformed the SS into the most influential and con-
sistent advocate of the resultant ‘Greater Germanic Idea’ (großgermanische
Idee). The creation of a Reich of ‘Germanic Völker’ was among its primary
goals. This became a problem for the populations of countries which the
Germans, and, by extension, the SS occupied, not least because of Himm-
ler’s determination to recruit and educate other ‘Germanics’ in, for
example, Scandinavia, for his international Waffen-SS (Wegner 2006).
In terms of practical implementation the ideology was dependent on the
idea of ‘race’ as the unifying ground for the Greater Germanic common-
wealth. But the Greater Germanic Reich ran aground on the contradiction
between two fundamental national-socialist constructions: that of ‘race’
(Rasse), and that of the (national) sovereignty of a ‘people’ (Volk). Many
groups and parties in what were seen as Germanic countries found
national-socialist ideas attractive, but were worried about the Greater Ger-
manic Idea’s threat to national sovereignty. The supra-national aspect of the
project often led them to reject the offer of racial unification. They were
wary of what they saw as camouflaged German imperialism, a threat to their
nation’s independence.
85
This chapter examines the antagonism between Volk sovereignty and racial
community. However, the focus is not on the main subjects of this idea, that
is, the Norwegians and Danes – and first and foremost, Norwegian and
Danish Nazis – but on the only German minority group living in Scandi-
navia: that of Denmark’s North Schleswig.1 This minority, finding
themselves on the ‘wrong’ side of the German–Danish border after the
Versailles plebiscite in 1920, had long sought for a border revision – that is,
to move the border north again, allowing them to reunite with the Reich.
Ironically, the occupation of Denmark by the German army did little to
advance their cause. On the contrary: they were called on to suppress this,
their key demand. No revision of the border was made, even after the
German occupation in 1940.
The primary sources for this study are so-called Schulungsbriefe (a sort of
in-house didactic pamphlet) published between 1940 and 1945 by the
German minority’s National Socialist German Workers’ Party of North
Schleswig (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiter Partei – Nordschleswig
or NSDAP-N). The NSDAP-N, which was the minority’s only political
party, was led by veterinarian Jens Möller. The Schulungsbriefe contained
guidelines for the training and education of full party members. Such
(re)education had become necessary because some of the German minority
organisation’s fundamental political positions, such as those concerning
relations to the Danish National Socialists and the issue of border revision,
were being criticised by authorities in Germany. The German minority
leadership had been instructed by the local representative of the German
Foreign Office (Auswärtiges Amt) and the SS Ethnic German Liaison Office
(Volksdeutsche Mittelstelle, VoMi) that the NSDAP-N would have to induce
its member base to follow a new political course – otherwise, there would be
serious complications.
In this article, I analyse how the German minority leadership read,
challenged, and manipulated the SS’s concept of the Greater German Com-
munity, with particular attention to the use of the concepts race and Volk.
My thesis is that Denmark’s German minority was, in fact, placed in a
politically and ideologically difficult situation when the Germans occupied
Denmark and it became necessary to cooperate with the SS. Paradoxically,
the SS’s celebration of Germanic racial identity posed a threat to the
minority leadership’s political goals, to the minority’s identity, and, in the
end, to the minority’s existence. Minority leaders sought to maintain what
1
The Danish term for North Schleswig is Sønderjylland (South Jutland).
86
4. AN UNIMAGINABLE COMMUNITY
could be called a völkisch line, that is, a ‘we are Germans and because of that,
where we live is part of Germany – and should be within German state bor-
ders’. This was the only attitude that would not alienate their followers.
However, they were in no position to refuse outright the demands and
requests for alternative attitudes emanating from the SS. They had, as a
result, to show a certain amount of ideological and political flexibility.
The period of German occupation has always been a focal point of
Danish history-writing (for comprehensive overviews see, e.g., Poulsen
2002; Christensen, Lund, Olesen, and Sørensen 2005). The role played by
the German minority, including the matters mentioned above, has received
its share of attention. My source material, however, makes possible a more
detailed understanding of and hence provides insights into the close links
between, on one side, National Socialism’s political praxis and ideology and,
on the other, the very specific manner in how this relationship was handled
in the region.
In his pioneer study of the German minority and German border policy
between 1933 and 1939 Sven Tägil (1970) stressed that the National
Socialist ideal of ‘Nordic race’ affected the border policy. Because of this
ideal, Schleswig was treated as something of a special case, which made it
difficult for the ethnic-nationalist confrontation course preferred by the
German minority to assert itself. According to Tägil, ideological con-
siderations played a role here. So did the German Foreign Office, which,
entirely focused on foreign relations, was concerned with preventing a
deterioration of Germany’s relationship to Denmark, a rift of which
England could take advantage.
In a seminal text, Henrik Skov Kristensen (2004), who concentrates on
the border question in the days following the German occupation of Den-
mark, tries to answer why the border had not been changed. He points out
that the German acceptance of the otherwise despised ‘Versailles border’ had
been guaranteed in a German memorandum of 9 April 1940. In this memo-
randum, accepted “under protest” by the Danish government, Germany
promised to respect Denmark’s territorial integrity in return for the Danish
capitulation. Kristensen has also published a biographical article on the
German minority leader Jens Möller, in which he discusses, among other
things, Möller’s inner conflict – torn between wanting to pursue active
border-revision politics while being duty-bound to obey instructions to the
contrary emanating from Germany and especially the SS (Kristensen 2008;
for the political organisation of the minority, see Becker-Christensen 2003).
87
In his classic work on the history of the minority during the German
occupation of 1940–45, Johan Peter Noack (1974) also discusses the Greater
Germanic Idea. Noack claims that in fact there was sporadic evidence of
‘Greater Germanic’ fantasies on German decision-making, but that these
were limited to the period between New Year 1939 and Autumn 1940.
Noack assumes that the Greater Germanic Idea was, after the occupation of
Denmark and Norway, primarily used to obscure the power-political
violation. However, Noack does not underestimate the influence of the
Greater Germanic Idea when it comes to the SS. On the contrary, he
identifies this idea as key for recruitment of Danes to the Waffen-SS. Noack
believes that because the SS depended on the Danish Nazi party for its
Danish recruits, it often attempted to interfere in the politics of the minority
leaders. Again, the German minority might feel frustrated as its völkisch
border-revision policy, which would have harmed the SS’s cooperation with
the Danish Nazis, was routinely suppressed.
Background: The ‘Nordic minority’

In the plebiscite of 1920, codified in the Versailles treaty, 75 per cent of the
population of North Schleswig had voted for accession to Denmark. As a
consequence, about 30,000 German North Schleswigians became a minority
in Denmark. The highest goal of this group’s interest organisations was to
safe-guard ‘German culture’, German real estate (Boden), and to bring
about a border revision.
After 1933 the German Nazis had important political and military
reasons for not acting on this issue, but there were also ideological factors
inherent in the Greater Germanic ideology. From the perspective of race, as
defined by Nazi thinkers, the German border to Denmark was the only
Versailles border that divided two Germanic territories, and North
Schleswig held the only German minority living inside a ‘Germanic’
country. In Poland, Alsace-Lorraine and Czechoslovakia, Nazi propaganda
spoke of ‘foreign domination’. There, the German minorities (the so-called
Volksdeutsche, that is, ethnic Germans living outside of the Reich) were
surrounded by racial aliens. In Denmark, by contrast, the minority lived
among ‘racial brothers’. National economist and later National Socialist
Karl C. Thalheim had already 1931 written, in his work on the Grenz-
landsdeutschtum (border-land Germans) that:
The special character upon which the problem of Grenzlandsdeutschtum

in North Schleswig is founded – in contrast to the questions arising
88
concerning our east and west borders – is the fact that the German
Volkstum stands, here, in a border-struggle with a same-tribe, Germanic
Volkstum (Thalheim 1931: 41).2
This ‘special character’ at least partially explains why North Schleswig,

alone among the parts of former Germany lost at the end of the First World
War via plebiscite or decree, was never re-annexed or re-united with the
Reich, despite the fact that the annulment of the Versailles treaty was the
second point of the Nazi Party’s programme. In the eyes of the SS, in
particular, the German–Danish border constituted not a dividing line but a
surface of contact between two Germanic people, the Germans and the
Danes. It was a bridge to the North – destined, it was thought, to play a
special role in the development of the Germanic Reich.
Shortly after the German forces had marched into Denmark, the SS
instigated cooperation with two Danish parties: Denmark’s National
Socialist Workers’ Party (Danmarks National Socialistisk Arbejder Parti,
DNSAP) and the German minority’s NSDAP-N. Both were National So-
cialist; both competed for rather small memberships; both had their
organisational point of gravity in North Schleswig (Tägil 1970: 133; Ras-
mussen 2004: 141; Djursaa 1981: 59).3 On one point, however, they differed
fundamentally: While DNSAP found its supporters among those with Danish
sympathies, the NSDAP-N voters were members of the German minority in
Denmark.
The two parties had been in opposition since the early 1930s. The bone
of contention was the conflict between Danish and German minority
ethnic-national – in German völkisch – aspirations (Werther 2012: 69–127).
The leader of Denmark’s National Socialist Party, Frits Clausen, was a
native of the region. As a nationalist he supported the Danish view in issues
of borderland conflict, rebuffing the German minority’s demands for a
border revision (on the DNSAP see Lauridsen 2002). As a counter-move, he
made use of, among other things, the Nazis’ propaganda on behalf of the
Nordic Idea, according to which, he argued, no border revision would be
necessary: the German minority was already living in a Germanic country.
2
Volkstum is untranslatable, meaning, roughly the physical and cultural essence and
character of a given people.
3
In 1939 the NSDAP-N received 15.9 percent, or 15,500 votes, in the Danish province
Sønderjylland (i.e., North Schleswig). The DNSAP received 4.3 percent of the total vote
in Sønderjylland (and 1.3 percent in the rest of the country, 31,000 votes in total).
89
The Waffen-SS began to recruit volunteers from both Danish and German
minority nazi groups directly after the occupation in April 1940. They
propagated the Greater Germanic Idea among both the DNSAP, the Danish
National Socialists, and among the ‘ethnically German’ (volksdeutsche)
minority’s NSDAP-N. This is a significant difference in recruitment when
compared to East Europe. In the latter area, the Waffen-SS recruited
Volksdeutsche – that is, Germans living in foreign countries – primarily on
ethnic bases. In Denmark, to the disgust of the German minority, they were
recruited as Germanics – that is, not as Germans, but as representing a pure
Nordic racial type – a categorisation which put the minority on par with the
despised Danes who were considered as equally racially pure. A Foreign
Office statement mandated that the SS’s recruitment in North Schleswig
“should have nothing to do with Volkstum”. Rather, Himmler tried to
recruit especially “racially pure Nordic types” for the Waffen-SS.4
After the occupation, North Schleswig’s ‘racial’ particularity was
declared a guiding principle in German minority politics, not only by the SS
Head office (SS-Hauptamt) and the SS’s VoMi, but also by the German
Foreign Office. The closing remarks of a conference between the VoMi and
the Foreign Office are a good example:
Unlike the battle of Völker [Volkstumskampf] of south-eastern Europe,

the Volksdeutsche of North Schleswig face a racially and culturally equal
opponent. […] In attempting the overall settlement of volksdeutsche
matters in North Schleswig, one cannot proceed from local con-
siderations [that is, from what the German minority wanted], but must
take into account top-level political, especially Greater Germanic goals.5
This policy left the minority-German actors little leeway. NSDAP-N leader
Jens Möller tried to push border revision by arguing that SS’s much-
treasured designation of North Schleswig as a bridge between Germany and
Scandinavia was possible only if the ‘Schleswig issue’ (of border revision)
was resolved. Only as “one Schleswig under German leadership would this
country again finally serve its real purpose: to be a bridge to the North”.6
Möller thus tried to make the achievement of the SS’s idea of a general
reconciliation between all Germanics, North Schleswig as the bridge
4
Note from Foreign Office on the planned recruitment for the Waffen-SS in Denmark,
16 May1939 (PKB 1953: doc. 262).
5
Report from a volkspolitische Tagung of the Foreign Office and by representatives of the
VoMi, 1 Oct. 1941.
6
Report by Möller, 21 Oct. 1940 (PKB 1953: doc. 59, p. 687).
90
between “South Germanics and North Germanics”, conditional upon a

border revision. Soon, this strategy would be elaborated in the NSDAP-N’s
Schulungsbriefe.
In the meantime, until Autumn 1940, the party leadership of NSDAP-N
either opposed or ignored the Greater Germanic Idea. The fact that the SS’s
Greater Germanic propaganda was largely directed to Scandinavians, not
Germans, complicated the situation further. Few in the German minority
were attracted to the SS’s idea of Nordic racial supremacy, seeing that it
meant that they, who had German Volksangehörigkeit, would have to con-
tent themselves with being Danish citizens living in a Germanic country.
On the contrary: as a ‘ethnic group’ or Volksgruppe, they feared that the
Greater Germanic Idea would supplant the notion, very important to them,
of having special status, even in Germanic Denmark, as part of the German
Volksgemeinschaft (people’s community). After all, the only reason the SS
gave for telling the NSDAP-N to actively support a Greater Germanic line
was that by doing so the NSDAP-N would serve the ‘interest of the Reich’.
Finally, the NSDAP-N leadership found itself forced to take a formal
stance on the Greater Germanic Idea. It was not possible to staunchly refuse
to cooperate, but NSDAP-N leaders could propose their own reading. As
the SS ideology was quite vague in its formulation, there was room for
interpretation (Werther 2012: 128–173). The NSDAP-N’s reinterpretation
was particularly clear in the party’s Schulungsbriefe, which were produced in
order to communicate the new ideological line to the party’s followers, not
least by making ‘Germanic’ more digestible. Their interpretations of the
Greater Germanic Idea served, on the one hand, as arguments to use against
the SS’s unwanted demands, and, on the other, to pacify their own sup-
porters, who were deeply disappointed by the non-occurrence of a border
revision.
The Schulungsbriefe of the NSDAP-N

Starting in the fall of 1940, the NSDP-N Schulungsbriefe appeared at regular
intervals of about every one to two months. Spanning four to six printed
pages, they were meant for internal use, for making known the current
party position on various questions, and for recruiting to the party. The
publication was not, however, directed towards individual party members.
Rather, the Schulungsbriefe served the party’s propagandists, its local
leaders, speakers and educational leaders as an instruction manual for
91
teaching party members party ideology. Certain Schulungsbriefe also

provided concrete didactic remarks and instructions.
By issuing such Schulungsbriefe, the leaders of the German minority
wished to impose a homogeneous political and ideological direction upon
the NSDAP-N, so that party members would, in the future, act in concert, at
least on the most important issues, and so that conflicts with agencies of the
German Reich could be avoided. Through this “inner securing” of the party,
an “outer expansion” of the German minority group was to be achieved.7
Referring to talks with the VoMi in December 1940, the party leadership
formulated the goals as follows:
The political instruction serves a double purpose. It shall give party

comrades a weapon in their hands for the fight for their Heimat.
Secondly, it will open their eyes to the great tasks of a new Germanic
future and for the place of the Nordic neighbour Volk in this field of
action.8
The term ‘fight for the Heimat’ is a veiled allusion to border revision. Locals
– but hopefully not the SS – would know what was meant. Intimations, cir-
cumlocutions, and metaphors were important means of getting around the
proscription against alluding to the border question.
Like the party, the Schulungsbriefe were very concerned with the Greater
Germanic Idea. It was seen, at first, as an obstacle to a border revision. In
time, however, it was treated more sympathetically, in that it increasingly
served as a vehicle for actually advocating border revision in the teeth of
disapproval by the occupying German forces.
The author of the Schulungsbriefe was Asmus Wilhelm Jürgensen (1902–
72), who claimed the title Landesschulungsleiter (County Educational
Leader) and who as of Autumn 1940 was head of the Educational Bureau
(Schulungsamt) of the NSDAP-N. In 1943, Jürgensen took over the party’s
Bureau for Press and Propaganda. He was also active in Waffen-SS
recruitment in North Schleswig. Jürgensen came from South Schleswig; a
German citizen, he had moved to North Schleswig in 1930 as a teacher.
Here he began to write articles on border policy issues for the newspaper
Nordschleswigsche Zeitung, and participated actively in the political organ-
7
Quotes from a report of the German consulate on the Leergebietstätigkeit der deutschen
Volksgruppe. Lanwer to Gesandtschaft, 19 June 1941 (PKB 1953: doc. 72, pp. 708–9).
8
Report by the German minority North Schleswig dated Feb. 1941, National Archives of
Denmark (Rigsarkivet, henceforth NAD), Danica, Tyske arkivalier om Danmark,
Auswärtiges Amt (Foreign Ministry of Germany, henceforth FMG), 388.
92
isations of the German minority. His declared goal was a border revision;
his view of Danes was hostile enough to earn him not only the hatred of
Danes but the reprimands of German occupational forces.9
After the war, Jürgensen claimed that he had been entirely free to decide
on the content of the Schulungsbriefe, that he had not had to submit them to
the Party Council Meetings, and that only in isolated cases did he even
“familiarise” party leader Möller with the contents. This is questionable.10
After all, the contents of the Schulungsbriefe were meant to present the
party’s opinion on significant and sensitive issues, issues that could decide
the future of the German minority as Volksgruppe. However, even if Jür-
gensen had acted entirely on his own, the party leadership never expressed
criticism of the Schulungsbriefe, and so probably approved of their content,
at least after the fact.
The first positions taken

The first Schulungsbrief der NSDAP-N appeared in Autumn 1940. This
debut issue was entitled “Our Schleswig and the Germanic Work of Adolf
Hitler”, and explicitly discussed the Greater Germanic Idea.11
By the summer of 1940, experience had shown the minority leadership
that the Greater Germanic Idea was being taken more seriously than ever in
Germany. The leaders were also informed of, and very much worried about,
the Danish National Socialists’ cooperation with German agencies, such as
Foreign Office and the SS. After all, they knew all too well that the Danish
National Socialist leader, Frits Clausen, was hostile to border revision, and
therefore feared lest he gain power and influence. Possibly, the minority
leadership was also familiar with the content of a report by DNSAP-friendly
representative of the SS Secret Service (SD), Eberhard Löw, and Foreign
Office representative Gustav Meissner. This report had rejected a “terri-
torial reintegration of North Schleswig” as a death blow to “Germanic
9
Statement during interrogation by Larsen and Stehr, 21 Dec. 1945 (PKB 1953, doc. 174,
pp. 233–4); Lanwer to Kassler, 26 Nov. 1941 (ibid., doc. 77, p. 715); Lanwer to Kassler,
17 Dec. 1941 (ibid., doc. 78, pp. 716–7) and statement by Lanwer, 1 Oct. 1946 (ibid., doc.
175, pp. 234–5).
10
Statement by Jürgensen during interrogation, 20 March 1946. Landsarkivet for
Sønderjylland Aabenraa (LAA, Provincial Archives of Southern Jutland),
Politikommandørens arkiv (PK, Archives of the Police Commander), 221.
11
Schulungsbrief der NSDAP-N, no. 1, “Unser Schleswig und das germanische Werk
Adolf Hitlers.” Undated, but appearing before 21 Nov. 1940 (see Noack 1975: 59,
footnote 2). LAA, PK 324 (earlier 313) and PK 308 (published, in part, in PKB 1953: doc.
69, pp. 701–2).
93
policy”; it would bring to naught the work of German-friendly groups. In

the report, Löw and Meissner state that “a great task of the future” awaited
the German minority “from inside the Danish border”.12 Indeed, that
autumn, a NSDAP-N regional leader had openly campaigned for the
German minority’s conciliation with the Danish National Socialists (see
Paysen 1941). He had used the Greater Germanic Idea to justify his actions,
and furthermore did so with the support of the SS. It was clearly time for
the NSDAP-N to give its own interpretation to the Greater Germanic Idea,
before the political damage became egregious.
The Autumn 1940 Schulungsbrief, accordingly, opened by emphasising
the self-evident leadership of Germany in the “new Europe” and the
“Germanic space” – referring to what was termed Großraumtheorie (see
Kletzin 2002: 41; Herbert 2001: 271–98; Blindow 1999: 58–62). This is a
theory of geopolitical spheres of influence and interests developed by Carl
Schmitt before the war and picked up by National Socialist ideologues. It
explicitly contained a “right of Völker” and a “right for intervention on be-
half of Völker”, that is, intervention on behalf of members of one’s Volk
living abroad.
Schmitt’s theory could be used as a basis for advancing a Greater
German Reich based on völkisch rather than racial community (Blindow
1999: 58). We can see this in the Schulungsbriefe that show elements
plucked from the Großraumtheorie, not least as the concept was further
developed by SS member Werner Best (as völkische Großraumordnung, see
Herbert 2001: 277). These theories not only legitimised Germany’s but also
the minority Volksgruppe’s claim to leadership in the region, as part of not a
race, but a Volk.
The “new Europe”, so said the Autumn 1940 Schulungsbrief, was an
“organic whole under the leadership of Germany” in which other Völker
would be “integrated”. “The old cant of equality and equal rights of different
Völker” was thus a thing of the past, the writer argued: As each Volk would be
positioned differently, in the new order, according to its abilities and merit –
as are individuals within a human community – “unfailingly, in the new great
Völkergemeinschaften that arise there will be leaders and followers”. Germans,
unsurprisingly, were identified as the “leader Volk” in Germanic space.
Germany was “the largest Germanic unit in the new Greater Germanic space.
The right to leadership comes to Germany because of its size and merit”. The
12
Note from Meissner and Löw on the political situation in Denmark, 10 July 1940 (PKB
1954: doc. 63, pp. 126ff).
94
word “integrated” combined with the entitlement to “leadership” made it

clear that in the eyes of the German minority, the future ought to entail a
subordination of other “Germanic Völker” to Germany.
After having settled the question of leadership in Europe, the Schulungs-
brief devoted itself to the Heimat – that is, the region in which the German
minority lived – noting that the party comrades had a dual task: As German
North Schleswigians they had to “fight for a German Heimat” while as
German National Socialists they also had “to contribute to the remaking of
the Greater Germanic Empire”.
At first, it might seem that fulfilment of one task would exclude the
fulfilment of the other. Whoever fights for a German North Schleswig
steps into a battle position against the Danes and thereby harms the
Greater Germanic efforts. Whoever, on the other hand, takes a position
for the Greater Germanic idea must withdraw as a national adversary of
Danes in the border land.13
This astute analysis of the situation was, however, immediately repudiated.

The text continued: “This conception is fundamentally erroneous. It can
only be argued by someone who does not know our Heimat”. In that
sentence, the NSDAP-N Schulungsbrief rejected the judgment of any
outside powers (including the SS) on the irreconcilability of these two ideas,
for it held that outsiders lacked the knowledge necessary to appraise the
North Schleswig situation. The Schulungsbrief went on to emphasise that
each minority leader had obligations towards the German North Schles-
wigians, “whose whole longing and whose whole hope [was] the Reich”,
that is, for a border revision. This, one could not deprive them of. At the
same time, however, there were obligations to the Führer. As his followers,
one must keep in sight and fight for the “great task of our time” (that is, the
Greater Germanic Reich).
The obvious impossibility of fighting both for making North Schleswig a
part of Germany and the “creation of the Greater Germanic Reich” was
vehemently denied. On the contrary, the writer claimed, “the fulfilment of
the one task is necessary in order to fulfil the second”, for the “road to the
North […] always [has gone] through Schleswig, never around Schleswig”.
The Schulungsbrief writer followed SS doctrine in describing the military
occupation of Denmark as necessitating a further ideological conquest:
13
“Unser Schleswig und das germanische Werk Adolf Hitlers” (note 11).
95
If the Greater Germanic community under German leadership is to

come into existence, then this world view must be victorious also in the
North. It is no use to integrate these Völker merely on the surface; they
must also be won over inwardly.14
The necessity of executing a border revision before going on to the Greater

Germanic community was justified by arguing that the ‘Schleswig Question’
poisoned the relationship between Germans and Danes. In the Schulungs-
brief it was argued, that only if a solution to this problem was found – and
here, only a “German solution” (border revision) was conceivable – could
the North be brought to believe in a “Germanic community”. North Schles-
wig had always been a “bridge between the Germanic south and the
Germanic north”, the Schulungsbrief continued, and if it was to fulfil this
function again, a border revision was mandatory. The völkische work of the
German minority was therefore, the author claimed, in fact, “in a great
measure a service to the Greater Germanic Reich of Adolf Hitler”.
There was, thus, no attempt to launch a complete rejection of the Greater
Germanic Idea. Instead, the NSDAP-N tried to portray itself as an advocate
of the idea while imbuing it with its own political goals. In order not to be
forced to give up the demand for a border revision, the Schulungsbriefe
redefined the German minority’s ultimate goal, claiming that border
revision was only an (unavoidable) way-station towards the Greater
Germanic Reich. The party could thus keep its original goal, yet still appear
as openly faithful, Germanic-thinking National Socialists striving for
Greater Germanic fulfilment.
In a subsequent Schulungsbrief, the party rank and file was appeased with
the promise that the NSDAP-N would not lose sight of the role of what it
termed the “every-day German völkisch detail work in the border land”
despite “larger political contexts”. This alludes to the German minority’s
self-defined role as the protector of Germanness (Deutschtum) in the border
region. It was even understandable, it was emphasised, if, “in light of the
general situation” the man-in-the-street Volksgruppe member often had
difficulty understanding the leadership’s position. But the writer was
adamant on one thing: the new direction was “no about-turn”. Rather, the
party was “placing an old task within [the scope of] a greater, far-reaching
responsibility. We revive the old German task within a greater project”. The
NSDAP-N-leadership had, it was claimed, merely “raised the narrow
14
Ibid.
96
Schleswig question to the breadth of future Europe”, thus uniting “the

development of our own position […] with cooperation for the creation of a
community of fate that included all German Völker”. The Volksgruppe
would not shirk this greater, double task.15
This is a clear example of how party publicists attempted to reconcile SS
policy with the party’s own goals, and justify a political-ideological shift in
position to party supporters. After the war, a former NSDAP-N official
stated that what he now called his “policy of reconciliation” had, in fact, led
to “a rather fierce [negative] reaction within the minority”. He had, indeed,
been forced to explain himself at various party educational evenings, the so-
called Schulungsabende.16
‘Völkisch hierarchy’ rather than ‘Germanic equality’

With the slogan “without [border] revision, no German–Danish under-
standing”, the Schulungsbriefe made a clear qualitative distinction between
Volk and race. This distinction they turned into a rhetorical tool, repeatedly
emphasising that, although the Danes were indeed the Germans’ racial
equals, they were still inferior as a Volk. It is probably because of their
investment in the distinction between Volk and race that the NSDAP-N
neither publicly, nor in its communications with the SS, took advantage of
being the only German minority that also had a ‘Nordic affiliation’, and
thus a very high racial status. Perhaps an open endorsement of the SS racial
theory’s description of them as a ‘Nordic minority’ might have brought
them substantial benefits. After all, the maps of the SS racial scientists
showed a high concentration of ‘Nordic blood’ in North Schleswig, which
confirmed the racial superiority of the minority not only over many so-
called Volksgenossen from the Reich, but also and especially over German
minorities in east and south-east Europe.
Of course, the NSDAP-N also brought up ‘race’ and ‘racial equality’.
After all, the concepts were essential to the Greater Germanic Idea. Each
time the term occurred, however, the Schulungsbriefe would immediately
tack on an explicit reference to the category of Völker. This was, in fact, the
minority’s ideological last-ditch position. Not even the SS could breach its
ramparts. The Schulungbriefe thus advanced the Volksgemeinschaft to
counter the SS’s (imagined) racial Germanic community. Only this would
15
Schulungsbrief 2nd Series, no. 1, “Die Revolution der Grenzlandhaltung.” LAA, PK 221.
16
Statement during interrogation by Jürgensen, 20 March 1946. LAA, PK 221.
97
allow them, as Germans, to escape the embrace of the hated racial confreres,
the borderland Danes.
Accordingly, Volk appears again and again. As a key NSDAP-N formu-
lation puts it, “National socialism is the natural recognition of the
Volksgemeinschaft”. The latter was defined as a “God-given unity”17 and the
“cornerstone of a new world order”.18 A later Schulungsbrief even speaks of a
“völkischen era”, in which the “Volk […] is the first and decisive factor”.19 By
declaring the primacy of the Volk, further, the NSDAP-writer could explain
why, despite the demands of the SS, when it came to the “German task in
North Schleswig […] nothing [has] changed”.20 For this task meant, above
all, holding fast to the position of Deutschtum. According to the author, the
victory and breakthrough of National Socialism was dependent on the
strength of the German Volk. For this reason, no “position must be lost,
even vis-à-vis a blood-related Volk” (i.e., the Danes). The German minority
was, in short, to continue its völkisch crusade. This would have to be done,
the author claimed, as long as Greater Germanic unity was not yet “reality”
– that is, not in the foreseeable future.21 In the meantime, according to
NSDAP-N:
Humans as individuals are equal. Germans and Danes have the same
blood in their veins. What made them distinctive, today, in terms of
value, as well, is the [relative] strength of the völkischen community to
which they belong.22
In Schulungsbrief no. 2, which has the title “Volkstum als tragende Kraft”
(The Fundamental Power of Volkstum), the NSDAP-N position is expressed
with exceptional clarity.23 The Schulungsbrief took up other areas re-
conquered and formally re-annexed by the Germans, such as the Saarland,
Sudetenland, Memelland, and Danzig. All of these were seen as models for
North Schleswig. In these areas, although re-annexation lay with Hitler, the
ground had been laid by the extensive efforts of the local German
minorities, the writer claimed. “The German minority prepares for the de-
17
Schulungsbrief der NSDAP-N, no. 2, ca. Dec. 1940, “Das Volkstum als tragende Kraft.”
LAA, PK 308.
18
“Die Revolution der Grenzlandhaltung” (note 15).
19
Schulungsbrief 2nd series, no. 9, “Zwischen Winter und Sommer.” LAA, PK 308.
20
21
22
Schulungsbrief no. 7, “Das deutsch-dänische Verhältnis”, undated, appeared in mid-
1941.
23
“Das Volkstum als tragende Kraft” (note 17).
98
cision through their völkischen efforts, the Führer makes the decision”. It
was “therefore idle to talk” – at least, at present – “about border-revision
plans and border-moving deadlines”. Rather, the North-Schleswig problem
had to be brought to a state of “völkischer Reife” (völkisch ripeness). The task
of the German minority was therefore to “consolidate and carry forward our
Volkstum”. In this, unsurprisingly, the party was to function as the “exter-
nally tautly organised and internally unified and aligned elite troop” of the
German minority.
The hope for a border revision was thus explicitly nourished (“the fight
for Schleswig goes on”) and tied to party discipline (“obedience toward the
party leader”). If this could be made to sound convincing, even those who
disliked the Greater Germanic Idea would stay with the NSDAP-N –
indeed, party leaders hoped to expand party membership.
The relationship to the Danish national socialists

The next step for this second Schulungsbrief was to deal with the notion,
inherent in the Greater Germanic Idea, that the NSDAP-N should
cooperate with the Danish National Socialists. Here, the writer continued to
emphasise the differences between ‘race’ (which would put Danes on par
with Germans) and Volk (which would not), again claiming that borderland
leadership fell naturally to the German minority.
Our struggle is for all the people living in our [North Schleswig] Heimat.
They are all of the same blood. The theory of [different] German and
Danish blood is a fairytale. There is no such thing as German and
Danish blood. We are racially alike and therefore equal in value. The
equality thus refers to race, not to Volk. As Volk we are superior to the
Danish Volk. Our Volksgemeinschaft is greater, younger, more vigorous,
and has more growth potential, that cannot be denied. Our relationship
to the Danish National Socialists is thus given.24
It was given, this means, that the German minority NSDAP-N could never
simply join the ranks of Scandinavian Nazi parties. Supposed racial equality
was overridden by a hierarchy of Völker. This was, in fact, an entirely ‘un-
Germanic’ interpretation of SS ideology; the SS held that common race was
exactly what would overcome traditional ethnic and national conflicts
between all Germanic tribes. Nor could the SS support the claim to völkisch
24
“Das Volkstum als tragende Kraft” (note 17), italics in the original.
99
superiority; it would end any Danish attraction to the glamour of the SS

idea of a single Greater Germanic Reich (and also, incidentally, end the
recruitment of Danes to the Waffen-SS).
However, the NSDAP-N’s idea of a leading position for Germans within
the Germanic Reich had, in fact, wide currency. Even within the SS,
Germany and the Germans were often visualised as being, at least, a sort of
‘nucleus’ of the Greater Germanic Reich. This idea recurred in later
Schulungsbriefe, which explicitly argued that the German minority in North
Schleswig should take a clear leadership position.25
As the author of the second Schulungsbrief put it, a völkische distinction,
even within National Socialist movements, between Danes, Norwegians,
Germans, etc., would always remain.
There is no international National Socialism. National Socialism is

völkisch-specific. It [National Socialism] is indeed possible, even neces-
sary, for all Germanic Völker. But each Volk will then shape National
Socialism as political reality according to its own völkisch characteristics.
That is, there will then be [distinctive] German, Danish, Dutch National
Socialist Volksgemeinschaften, each with its own völkisch imprint.26
Here, the writer establishes the existence of ‘völkisch variations’ within

National Socialism, a distinction entirely consistent with the above quote’s
definition of the relationship between National Socialism and Volk. From
this it follows, in turn, that the various Germanic National Socialist Volks-
gemeinschaften are far from equal in value or status: “They [the other
Völker] are in a Germanic space under the leadership of Germany. The
German National Socialist Volk is the Führervolk in the Greater Germanic
space.” At this point, finally, a reference was made to North Schleswig: “To
this National Socialist German Volk we belong.” “Who,” the writer con-
cludes, would, under these circumstances, “give up their place among the
Führervolk in order to be integrated in the ranks of a Volk that marches as a
follower of us.” The omission of a question mark at the end of this sentence
anticipates the answer. No member of the Führervolk would ever desert
ranks to join Frits Clausen’s Danish Nazi party. Quite the contrary: “The
25
See, in this context, Schulungsbrief der NSDAP-N, no. 3, “Der Norden und Wir”
(undated, probably published Feb. 1941), LAA, PK 308. For dates, see the “Bericht der
deutschen Volksgruppe North Schleswig”, Feb. 1941, NAD, FMG 388.
26
100
stronger had the right to lead” and “strength comes not from the numbers,
but depends on völkisch power and vigour”. 27
The quality trumps quantity argument was, of course, particularly useful
to Germans living in North Schleswig. They were, after all, a very small
minority. Germany’s leadership role in the Greater Germanic Reich had
been justified (by the same author) by references to, amongst other things,
“the size of its Volksgemeinschaft”. But in North Schleswig, quality was what
mattered:
All Germanic National Socialists who with us and through us fight for a
new Europe are our comrades. We reach out our hand to them for
common fight and victory. But we do not thereby forget that we are part
of the Führervolk.28
The degeneration of the North

The innate, qualitative superiority of the German minority to the Danes was
explained, not only by referring to the high-quality völkisch essence of the
minority, but to the degeneration from an earlier Germanic high-mark
status by the Danes, as well. An alleged “Germanic alienation” had taken
place in Denmark. The entire North had come “under the influence of the
liberal West” and lost “its Germanic face”. This is why so many Scan-
dinavians – so lectured a Schulungsbrief – fallaciously held that “Nordic
character and democracy were one and the same thing”, thus disclaiming
the “real Nordic world”. As a result, there was a “battle between liberal-
Jewish influence of the West and the real Germanic North”. The German
minority, part, evidently, of the “real Germanic North”, was fighting the
Danish “democratic leaders” because these were “knowingly hindering the
reshaping of the Germanic space”. While the “degenerative Jewish forces
were allowed official advantage” north of the German border, “the vigorous
powers of the Germanic space” found a refuge and Heimat in Germany.29 A
minority Waffen-SS volunteer wrote in a reader’s letter to the minority
magazine Der SK-Mann that “certainly the soldier spirit is anchored in the
blood of the Germanic Völker, but the example of our Danish neighbours
clearly shows that it perishes if it is not cared for” (Ein Brief 1943).
27
28
29
“Der Norden und Wir” (note 25).
101
Now the “North’s Moment of Fate” had come, as the title of yet another
Schulungsbrief put it.30 Denmark must follow the example shown by Nor-
way’s Quisling, turn away from England and abandon pan-Scandinavia-
nism. The latter was a failed movement, degenerate not least because it
excluded Germany. “In the storm of the present day, the pale shadow of a
150-year-old Scandinavianism is wiped out.” Thus, the German minority’s
battle of Völker, the Volkstumskampf against the Danes, was vindicated even
from a Greater Germanic point-of-view. The very willingness of Germans
to accept the idea of a Greater Germanic community showed their völkisch
superiority to their blood brothers.
The Danes considered minority Deutschtum as “artificially fostered”
(according to the Schulungsbrief entitled “The North and Us”).31 The
Germans, by contrast, were willing to accept the fact that
the two Volkstum, divided for more than a thousand years, have grown
on Germanic-common land. Germans and Danes are thus, with respect
to race and history, equal and have equal rights to the Schleswig land.
The Germans’ ability to propagate this, it was argued, showed “the great
moral superiority of the German position”. Even when working against
Danes in the “battle for the [North Schleswig] Heimat”, the German mino-
rity was conscious of the “common history of all Germanics”. Thus, they
admitted to “equal racial rights”, but at the same time – and here a central
thesis is repeated – claimed, by dint of that very admission, “great völkisch
superiority”.32
The Danes had, as a Schulungsbrief put it, continually sabotaged German
attempts to raise German–Danish competition to a dignified, chivalrous
level, a struggle between near-equals. Long before the German occupation,
the author claimed, younger men among the German minority had ad-
vanced the idea of equal rights between Danes and Germans, attempting to
raise the tone and nature of the border contest to the level of a “knightly
contest”. But the Danes had, according to the writer, ignored these over-
tures. As a result, blame could not fall on the German minority for the
Danish–German divisions within the North Schleswig Heimat.33
30
Schulungsbrief der NSDAP-N, no. 12, “Die Schicksalsstunde des Nordens”, LAA, PK 308.
31
See note 25.
32
33
102
In this manner, three birds were shot with one logical arrow. First, the
völkische superiority of German minority North Schleswigians could be
derived from its alleged Germanic attitude and the Germanic ideology.
Second, the accusation that the minority had divided the Heimat was not
only repudiated, but turned back against the accusers. Third, the Volkstums-
kampf was legitimised. It was, perhaps, fought against Germanics, but
against degenerate Germanics who did not act in a Germanic manner. The
minority, by contrast, had made the Germanic Idea into a guiding “prin-
ciple for their practical conduct”: they had “abandoned any discussion of
the border” and instead “concentrated on the inner [spiritual, cultural]
work”. They had started “a free cultural competition between the two
Völker”. By contrast, the Danes’ Volkstumspolitik was wholly “negative”, its
objective “absorption” of the German minority – that is, “elimination by
finer means”.34
The high culture of the ‘real’ Germanics was further elaborated. Unlike
the Danes, for instance, the German minority had always possessed the
“secure anchor in their völkische identity” necessary to appreciate, for
example, really valuable Northern contributions, such as books by Knut
Hamsun. It was the minority that had held open the “door to the North”
despite conflicts in the Heimat. The German North Schleswigian, it was
claimed, acknowledged “as a matter of course, the racial equality of the
opponents and thus the Germanic blood brotherhood”.35 Possessing “the
broader outlook and finer sense of responsibility”, the minority was equal to
taking on the burden of leadership in the border land.36 This was not a
question of tyranny; rather, the rule of the sage, who reaches out and cares
for his spiritually backwards brother, showing him the way: “we do not wish
to repress our Germanic brother nations in the North, but rather to have
them ascend with us to new tasks and new grandeur.”37
Conclusion: The ‘unimaginable community’

In a new edition of his classic work, in an added chapter on the inter-
pretation of the National-Socialist state, Ian Kershaw brings up the fact that
recent scholars take National Socialist racial ideology seriously as a major
driving force. He sees this is as the most important paradigm-change in
34
35
36
37
103
research on the Nazis (Kershaw 1999: 394). This ‘primacy of ideology’ view
had already been advanced in the case of various parts of the SS (Wildt
2003: 863; Heinemann 2003: 18). Despite its absurdities and contradictions
the Greater Germanic Idea and the efforts to implement it cannot be
relegated to the land of fantasies. Michael Salewski admonishes us not to
give in to the impulse to ridicule: all this had, in fact, “deadly” impact
(Salewski 1991: 203).
In fact, in National Socialist praxis, the logic of racism, and the primacy
of racial ideology often successfully challenged the dictates of ‘political
rationality’. Racial ideology lay behind arguments for forced labour and
wars of extermination. Yet it did not suffice to convince a German minority
of the “historic necessity” of the Germanic racial community, even though
this minority in other respects willingly conformed to, or internalised, the
German Third Reich’s values and wishes.
The examples and analyses discussed above show why this might be; and
shows, as well, the creativity exhibited by minority ideologues when
pursuing their oppositional goals. The result was the elaboration of a new
ideological minority orientation which could conform to German demands
without giving up their fundamental commitment to border revision.
Politically, Himmler’s supranational Greater Germanic visions placed
the minority party in a dilemma, as national identity – that is, reunification
with Germany – was a constituent of their members’ self conception. The
supranational element of the Greater Germanic Idea was also the main
cause of resistance on the part of the minority-German National Socialists,
who refused the SS’s efforts to re-make them as Germanic – or worse still, as
Danish.
In contrast to Germans living in Germany, the minority was actually
forced to choose between Volk and race (this is at least how they experien-
ced it); indeed, a large part of the conflict between the German minority
and the SS was caused by a clash between an established imagined people’s
community (Volksgemeinschaft) and the imposed imagined racial com-
munity (Rassengemeinschaft). The nationalist devil could, it turned out, not
be driven out by the Germanic Beelzebub. The construct of a Greater Ger-
manic Reich was, for the Volksdeutsche of North Schleswig, in a refor-
mulation of Benedict Anderson’s (1983) famous phrase – an ‘unimaginable
community’.
104
(Above) German solders
passing hailing bystanders in
the city of Aabenraa, Denmark,
12 April 1940 (Photo:
Museum Sønderjylland, ISL
/ Photographer: Ludwig von
Münchow)
(Left) Publications of the

German minority in Denmark:
The “Schulungsbrief ” (Photo-
grapher: Steffen Werther)
Publications of the German minority in Denmark: “Der Nationalsozialismus … im Grenz-
land” (Photographer: Steffen Werther)
References
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Spread of Nationalism. London and New York: Verso.
Becker-Christensen, H. (2003) “NSDAP-N og Slesvigs Parti: Det tyske
mindretals virke under besættelsen.” Partie under press – demokratiet under
besættelse, ed. by Lund, J. Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 328–44.
Blindow, F. (1999) Carl Schmitts Reichsordnung: Strategie für einen
europäischen Großraum. Berlin: Akademie Verlag.
Christensen, C., Lund, J., Olesen, N., and Sørensen, J. (2005) Danmark besat:
Krig og hverdag 1940–1945. Copenhagen: Høst & Søn.
Djursaa, M. (1981) DNSAP – Danske Nazister 1930–45. Copenhagen: Gyldendal.
“Ein Brief an den SK-Mann.” (1943) Der SK-Mann 2 (11/12).
Elvert, J. (1999) Mitteleuropa! Deutsche Pläne zur europäischen Neuordnung
(1918–1945). Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag.
Hansen. H. (2001) “Mindretal og flertal i Nordslesvig omkring 1940.” Nationale
mindretal i det dansk–tyske grænseland 1933–45, ed. by Bohn, R., Danker,
U., and Kühl, J. Aabenraa: Institut for Graenseregionsforskning, 122–41.
Heinemann, I. (2003) Rasse, Siedlung, deutsches Blut: Das Rasse- und
Siedlungshauptamt der SS und die rassenpolitische Neuordnung Europas.
Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag.
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im Überblick. Reinbek: Rohwohlt.
Kletzin, B. (2002) Europa aus Rasse und Raum: Die nationalsozialistische Idee
der Neuen Ordnung. Münster: LIT Verlag.
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für Schleswig-Holstein 16, 155–69.
Kristensen, H. (2008) “Zwischen Hitler und Heimat, Volksgruppenführer Jens
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set med tyske øjne. Copenhagen: J.H. Schultz.
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108
5. The Ambiguity of the West:
Objectives of Polish Research Policy in the 1990s
Sofia Norling
For the part of Europe that was enclosed by the so-called Iron Curtain, the
autumn of 1989 represents the beginning of sweeping political changes.
During the 1980s the Soviet Union had adopted a liberalising approach
under the leadership of Mikhail Gorbachev, and subsequent political deve-
lopments meant that after four decades of authoritarian rule and planned
economy, the former state socialist Central and Eastern European Countries
(CEEC), altered their course towards democracy and capitalism. The surge
of liberalisation culminated in the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991,
and the definitive fall of the Iron Curtain.
One of the policy fields where these sweeping changes became visible
was research policy. The role of science and research for society had to be
renegotiated and the relationship between politics and science to be re-
defined. According to the Soviet model that had been adopted in the state
socialist CEEC, scientific activities depended on political protection. Both
applied research (technological self-sufficiency) and basic research (which
was meant to support ideological convictions) were seen as building blocks
in the state socialist body politic. Science historian Konstantin Ivanov
(2002: 319) describes the basic principle for the model as “the requirement
that the production of scientific knowledge be closely linked to the indus-
trial and economic needs of the society”.
One of the countries where such a research ideal was strongly imple-
mented and practised during the period of state socialism, was Poland.
However, the Polish transformation of research policy differs in a number
of ways from the rest of the CEEC. The reasons for these differences have
been discussed in the light of the country’s political history (Norling 2014:
88). A crucial aspect is the specific heritage of ideas on science and the role
109
of research in society. Many social science studies understand this heritage

as a consequence of Poland’s chequered political history.
The Polish state, even though established as early as the tenth century,
lost its independence in 1795 and was not re-established until 1918,
subsequently becoming a Soviet vassal state after the Second World War.
The country has thus endured long periods with a lack of full sovereignty.
This has in turn contributed to civil society and citizens being concept-
ualised in opposition to the government and the state administration. The
Polish political culture is therefore characterised by an attitude to state
power as being ‘external’, ‘foreign’, and ‘unauthorised’, without legitimacy
anchored in civil society (Gerner 2009: 221). Instead legitimacy was vested
in a social class called the intelligentsia (inteligencja), that is, a group of
individuals that possess social characteristics associated with higher
education. The intelligentsia played a crucial role in the formulation and
defence of the national identity and the creation of cultural, political, and
scientific values beyond state authority (Kennedy 1991: 238).
An important part of the philosophical tradition of the Polish intel-
ligentsia concerning science and research before the Second World War was
formulated according to the Humboldtian liberal model with its emphasis
on scientific freedom and independence of politics (Herczyński 2008: 15–
17). During the years following the end of the First World War, the Polish
research system and research policy were, to the extent they were formu-
lated, in line with a tradition of that kind (Kozłowski 1998: 90). Conse-
quently, when the Soviet model of research policy was introduced, it went
against the research ideal of the intelligentsia. However, when research
policy was reorganised after 1989, the intelligentsia’s ideal of the role of
science in society again became an important starting point for political
practice (Connelly 2000: 78), implying a break with the policy that had been
formulated by the Polish communist party PZPR (Polska Zjednoczona
Partia Robotnicza) in line with the Soviet model.
During the roundtable discussions held in connection with the transition
from state socialism to democracy in 1989, scientific autonomy and the
greatest possible freedom from political control were emphasised as part of
the framing of the new politics between the Solidarność trade union and
PZPR (Jabłecka 2009: 84–5). The scientific faction responsible for this issue
at the time formulated a policy model for research that was almost opposite
to the Soviet model. The ideal of scientific freedom and self-autonomy, and
the separation of politics from science were then realised in Poland. The
formulation of the role of science and research no longer lay in the hands of
110
5. THE AMBIGUITY OF THE WEST
politicians but with academics themselves, not unlike the model envisioned
by the intelligentsia in the inter-war years.
In practice this development meant that The State Committee for
Scientific Research (Komitet Badań Naukowych, KBN) became responsible
for the formulation of the new research policy and the organisation of the
research system. KBN was to function as a more or less autonomous body
in relation to the Polish government, and it not only dealt with research
grants but was also responsible for research policy at macro level in order to
safeguard the freedom of science from political control. This solution was in
several ways unique compared with how research systems and research
policy were structured in the other CEEC after the fall of state socialism.
Nowhere was the idea of scientific autonomy incorporated so clearly into
political practice as in Poland. The scientific production of knowledge thus
rapidly moved from resting on an ideal of societal utility to one that
acknowledged the intrinsic value of science. This ideal was also strongly
rooted in Polish political history, research policy traditions, and the culture
of the intelligentsia.
However, modifications of the new Polish research policy soon started to
take shape. The early 1990s were a time of crumbling economy, the need for
mobilisation of public resources for building up the market economy was
perceived as urgent, and subsequently the country’s entry into the EU had
to be prepared. All this contributed to comprehensive renegotiations and
reinterpretations of the anti-politics oriented model with academic self-
organisation as a basic choice (Norling 2014: 11–12).
This chapter examines these comprehensive renegotiations and reinter-
pretations, mainly by analysing Polish research policy discussions in the
journal Sprawy Nauki during the 1990s. The study uses the concepts of
‘boundary-work’ and ‘demarcations’ regarding science as introduced by
American sociologist Thomas F. Gieryn (1999), along with concepts of
critical transformation theory. Epistemologically the approach is a social
constructionist one, assuming that ideas about science and its demarcations
are historically, socially, culturally, and politically conditioned. The ques-
tion of what constitutes science is therefore seen as an empirical issue, not
one to be answered in general. By using concepts of critical transformation
theory, a strand of thought that has emenated from postcolonial studies,
emphasis will be given to the analysis of symbolic geographical positions for
the boundary-work. The study thus examines the notion characteristic of
European history and the present day of a ‘Western European’ identity that
is superior to other imagined symbolic European identities such as an
111
‘Eastern European’ or ‘Southern European’ one in terms of ‘modernity’ and

‘development’ (Andrén 2001: 35–7).
There is a significant difference between studies of a symbolic Eastern
European identity position in relation to a Western European one and the
‘Orientalism’ discourse examined by postcolonial studies. Here, rather than
studying an identity completely ‘beyond’ the symbolic Western European
identity, the research concerns an imagined ‘not really there’ identity, that
is, an identity that can ‘almost’ be likened to the symbolic Western
European, but which does not quite succeed – socially, culturally, economi-
cally, or politically (Lindelöf 2006: 72–4).
There are several explanatory models for how an East European symbol-
ic ‘almost identity’ of this kind arose. For example, sociologist Klaus Eder
emphasises (2006: 264) that the geographical proximity to ‘the other’ – in
the form of tsarist Russia and later the Soviet Union – played a crucial role
in the relationship between the imagined East and West. Another explana-
tory model discussed by the Hungarian historian György Péteri is that the
Iron Curtain contributed to a kind of de-Europeanisation of the now post-
state socialist countries, which characterised both notions of the East in the
West, and of the East in the East (Péteri 2010: 2). Again, however, this is not
about a symbolic identity position that completely ends up in the unknown
‘other’, but that instead means something in between, both included in the
Western European norm, and at the same time outside of it. Both Eder and
Péteri, therefore, call this position the telling ‘second other’.
A designation that, like ‘the second other’, is used to describe the
imagined distinction between ‘East’ and ‘West’, is ‘semiperiphery’, as op-
posed to the ‘core’. Instead of periphery, the symbolic geographical identity
position of the CEEC is here to be understood as something between the
periphery and the core. Like the identity position ‘second other’ it is thus
about an exclusion that is not complete (Blagojević 2010: 186). The discus-
sion on symbolic geographical identity positions that informs the present
study contributes to analysing the boundary-work in a more initiated way.
Concepts such as ‘semiperiphery’ and ‘core’ help to distinguish and under-
stand what forms of linguistic representation were possible and viable for
use in the boundary-work, as opposed to what forms were not.
An autonomous research policy is realised

January 1991 saw the launch of KBN, officially the actual basis for the new
autonomous Polish research policy model, according to Ustawa z 12
112
stycznia 1991 r. o Komitetcie Badań Naukowych (The Act of 12 January on

the State Committee for Scientific Research). At that time KBN consisted of
two units (commissions), one for basic research and one for applied
research. These became more clearly defined and formed part of a structure
of a number of special committees that were to be the guardians, each
within their own field, of the autonomy that would from then onwards
characterise scientific endeavours. Generally committee members were
academics, often professors with special knowledge in their particular field.
Those elected could also be replaced every six months in line with the idea
of openness and transparency in the new formulation of research policy.
This would mean that autonomy would always be assured and the research
world would have considerable influence on political developments con-
cerning research.
KBN was thus initially given the role of a guardian of the autonomous
scientific community. A new law was enacted by parliament that established
that KBN was to function as the highest authority regarding research policy,
and that its chairperson would not simply be of ministerial rank but would
also be a valid member of the government (Ustawa 1991). It also stated that
KBN’s tasks would include,
Providing the government and parliament with guidelines for Poland’s

research policy, including proposals for the proportion of GDP that
should go to R&D
Providing the government with proposals for plans and budget for R&D
Defining the focus of R&D
Distributing budgeted funds to institutions and research teams, and
following up on their use
Initiating and overseeing legislation and financial proposals regarding
research and technological progress
Signing international agreements on cooperation in technology and re-
search (ibid).
KBN had almost the entirety of the state research budget at its disposal, and
would fund all research activity and research institutions in the country. In
this way two roles were combined: that of a research ministry with duties
concerning strategic planning and activities and executive duties; and
responsibility for funding all research. KBN’s management team consisted
at that time of five ministers who represented the government, twelve
researchers, elected by the research community, and two representatives of
113
the subcommissions for applied and basic research. All decisions were made
based on a voting procedure, and KBN’s chairperson had a veto whatever
the issue (Jabłecka 2009: 88–9).
The reason for such a drastic reorganisation, giving KBN a status that
was decision-making rather than advisory, and eliminating “politicians
from the entire decision-making process”, as well as holding the entire
budget for funding research, can, according to science historian Jan
Kozłowski (1998: 94), be understood in the light of the fact that,
In the Polish reform, creating a new path and rejecting the past resulted
in a denial of every organizational and political principle, even if some of
these principles, such as research funding by various sectoral depart-
ments or the involvement of politicians in science policy formulations,
are common in democratic countries.
This new, almost utopian, research policy model, in which science in its
entirety was governed by representatives from their own sphere, is remark-
able, not least in consideration of the research policy development Western
Europe went through during the same period. There the situation was
instead characterised by a change process dominated by an ever greater
management spirit and a move towards centralised budgeting and planning
processes. The EU’s common research policy gained in significance, with
institutional arrangements in the form of research councils, new framework
programmes, and the Lisbon Convention, not least as an effect of the then
increasing management and control of the public sector. The Polish case
was thus detached from the trend towards increasing research policy
control in Western Europe during the period in question, despite the fact
that during the roundtable discussions the Poles had expressed their wish to
be included in the ‘Western European’ community.
Research policy reforms after 1989

The political situation immediately after the roundtable discussions of 1989
and the creation of KBN meant that General Jaruzelski occupied the post of
president of Poland and PZPR was still guaranteed a monopoly of authority
up until the first free presidential elections since the end of the Second
World War, in 1990. Lech Wałęsa took over the post of president after
Jaruzelski, and in the parliamentary elections the following year 29 parties
entered the Sejm. The political situation was characterised by rapid political
upheavals and instability, with constant changes of prime minister during
114
the first post-communist years (Raciborski 2003). Lena Kolarska-Bobińska

(2003: 91–8) has described this period as a time when new coalitions,
parties, and political leaders replace each other in a rapid stream, and
democracy was more imaginary than real. It is also in this political context
that the formulation of the new post-state socialist research policy took
place, that is, in a political landscape characterised by the transformation
process’s first, and largely chaotic, phase. Whereas they initially ensured a
relative distance from state policy events as a result of the requirement for
autonomy during the roundtable negotiations, the action plan at the start of
the 1990s was oriented around the fulfilment of the first strategic research
policy document prepared by KBN, “Principles for the Acts of Legislation
Concerning the Field of Science, Higher Education, and Research and
Development Activities”, which went into force 1991 and was published in
1993 (hereafter called Principles).
However, it soon became necessary to define in greater detail the some-
what vague guidelines in this document. Another strategy document was
therefore compiled by KBN on behalf of the new left-leaning government,
Założenia Polityki Naukowej i Naukowo Technicznej Państwa (The Basis for
the National Science and Technology Policy, hereafter called Basis). The
document was drawn up by a group of experts within KBN, and the text
stated that the research policy should result in the short term in making
social and economic development in the country easier, and in the long term
ensure financial growth and social development, through these areas being
given as much as possible of the resources set aside for research. Here the two
overall tasks of research are also described as to “acquire unique and
important results from the most attractive research fields in the world” and
to “acquire unique and important technologies and exploit their use in
technical collaboration within Poland and between Poland and the rest of
the world” (Basis 1993: 68–9).
The total scientific freedom, which in Principles had an almost utopian
nature, both for applied research and basic research, thus began in the
practical context of the reforms to be renegotiated, and the demarcations
surrounding science were reworked. This primarily affected applied re-
search, which in the document is ascribed a need for increased management
towards a social benefit-oriented context (through getting closer to state
policy and the business world). Science is ascribed other values, partly
through the introduction of Basis, and the most urgent task for research
policy is described as renewing and changing legal regulations for applied
research so that it matches the country’s economic development. This
115
becomes even more significant in a clarification of the priorities, which

states,
(a) that research in Poland must be on a high level, comparable with a

global standard; (b) that the results of research must have a crucial
importance and a meaningful effect on other research areas; (c) that it
must apply to fields that have an indisputable significance for civilisation
and the culture of society and the country; (d) that there must be a
measurable likelihood that the results will be useful and that they will
form the basis for adapted or new technology (Basis 1993: 66).
Although the positions in Basis differ considerably in terms of scientific

autonomy from what people had originally seen ahead of them when
Solidarność’s scientific faction sat down to negotiate with the communist
party about research policy in democratic Poland, it is clear how careful
KBN’s group of experts was about defined frameworks for what science is to
devote itself to. The discussions concerning the boundaries between science
and politics in this phase are thus to a great extent still about maintaining a
continued separation of spheres in line with the ideals of the roundtable
discussions, although the beginnings of a relaxation can be discerned. An
inclosure to the document also states that research area priorities should be
updated regularly with regard to research that is essential for the country’s
administration to function, living standards to be raised, the development
of the economy and competitiveness of goods and services, and the strength-
ening of democracy and the “social acceptance of a free market economy”
(Basis 1993: 70). Thus a certain displacement with regard to ideas and
expectations of, and requirements for, the role of science is brewing in the
reforms, where more benefit-oriented ideas get a foothold in the document.
Apart from this inclosure, two kinds of prioritised programmes are also
written into the document. The first of these, Strategic Government
Programmes (SPR), involved prioritising research of which the result was
important for the country and the other, Special Programmes and Research
Equipment (SPUB), was a research programme that formed part of inter-
national programmes, and where equipment costs were high. These
programmes hurried development on towards more comprehensive rene-
gotiations and reinterpretations of the autonomous research policy model.
However, this only applies to applied research, which was now clearly
defined as the engineering and architectural sciences, the chemical and
technical sciences, electricity and power measurement studies, and trans-
port studies (which had their home in KBN’s subcommission on applied
116
research). Basic research, which was classified as the humanities, juris-

prudence, mathematics, physics and astronomy, the biological and environ-
mental sciences, medical sciences and agricultural and forestry research,
was thus still outside the priority framework.
This distinction, which had previously not been as significant, was a
milestone for the continued development of Polish research policy. There
was still a surprising amount of freedom in science’s relationship with
politics, as well as with the business world, while at the same time the rene-
gotiations concerning applied research began to take off. Applied research
was seen more and more as being in need of politicisation, and thus clearly
distinct from basic research, which was still given a freer rein. The total state
budget for research during the first part of the 1990s was between 0.57 and
0.76 per cent of GNP, in relation to 1.3 per cent in 1989, and the non-state
portion of the funding was still very low. In the budget of 1993 about 45 per
cent of the funds were used for the statutory activity of research institutions,
18 per cent for grants, 13 per cent for targeted projects, and the rest for
miscellaneous items. Of the statutory funding, 60 per cent was expended by
the Committee for Applied Research and 40 per cent by the Committee for
Basic Research (Jabłecka 2009: 84–5).
However, the research policy scenario for basic research and its as yet
unmanaged nature soon came under pressure, in connection with the ever
stronger political demands for international cooperation, especially in
consideration of the Polish government’s ambitions in regard to European
integration.
Increased international cooperation

In the mid to late 1990s political development in Poland rested largely on
adaptations with a view to membership of the EC (EU) and NATO, which
created conditions for an increasing retreat from the initially prepared
research policy model in Principles. Back in 1990 the EC parliament had
adopted a resolution on cooperation with the CEEC with regard to R&D,
and the EC’s Third Framework Programme opened up the possibility of
funding new networks between its member states and these countries
(Framework 3C). Adjustments needed to be made before these changes,
which became clear fairly soon after publication of Basis. The almost
utopian approach to scientific freedom was renegotiated and reinterpreted
in the reforms. The public investigation in connection with the issue of EU
membership and research policy ordered by KBN and the government’s
117
European integration group (prepared by KBN-active academics and

published in the series White Paper, Poland – The European Union) states,
for example, that,
For developed countries, a typical strategy is to concentrate on high-tech

production or even on information processing technologies to maintain
the dominant role on increasingly globalized markets; such a con-
centration is possible only if the level of education increases in the soci-
ety. Thus science, education and technology become vital elements of
development strategies at the beginning of the 21st century; these ele-
ments will decide who will join highly developed countries and which
countries will be left on the periphery (Wierzbicki 1997: 2).
Thus here the comparison with the Western way of running research policy
is realised, and in consideration of the measures demanded, the concept was
articulated in relation to a new kind of view as to how the spheres of science
and politics in particular should relate to one another. During the round-
table discussions, the striving to be like the ‘West’, or the desire to be
absorbed into the ‘core’, was actually only a kind of symbolic opposition to
state socialism models. Instead of in relation to the ideal of freedom and the
idea of a self-governing intelligentsia, the West was now loaded with values
associated with more control and strategic prioritisation of research, that is,
a less clear demarcation between science and other spheres. This type of
approach to the ‘West’ in Polish research policy after 1989 was a highly
important element in the assertion of epistemic authority and crucial for the
results of the associated boundary-work. This is the most important
component in the repertoire that constitutes resources for the actors taking
part in the boundary-work.
Preparation in various social areas in a bid for EU membership, which
often required scientific expertise, meant that a number of state program-
mes for prioritised research were initiated. In relation to integration into the
EU, Basis was therefore not by a long stretch a sufficiently clear document
for directives on research policy strategies and efforts. Instead, therefore,
the document Dodatkowe Założenia polityki naukowej i naukowo-
technicznej państwa (The Supplement to The Basis for the National Science
and Technology Policy, hereafter called Supplement) was produced to
remedy the deficiencies in Basis. In concrete terms Supplement meant that a
greater and more clearly defined focus on research and research orien-
tations that concerned innovations within the country’s economic sphere
were to be adopted (Supplement 1997: 2). The introduction to the document
118
states that the starting point for choosing prioritised orientations for
research has been,
– development of the economy, particularly the increase of innova-

tiveness and competitiveness of products and services, as well as their
adaptation to international standards, especially to those obligatory in
the European Union,
– increase of well-being and security of people, as well as the increase of
environmental protection, maintenance and bringing up to date infor-
mation connected with the technological security,
– correct functioning of the State (its institutions and authorities, as well
as civil services (ibid. 2–4).
In this way the prioritised research areas now became clear, and compared
with Basis, where they were still open to interpretation, far better defined.
Each prioritised field was specified and explained, and rather than sug-
gesting there was one kind of science with uniform activity characterised by
‘scientific freedom’ a clear boundary between applied research and basic
research was drawn. The role of science was interpreted as a means of social
development and state benefit. Supplement was in this way also a turning
point for the ideas and expectations of, and requirements for, science in the
continuing reforms of Polish research policy.
Research policy discussion

In parallel with the reforms and the associated renegotiation and reinter-
pretation of demarcations surrounding science, throughout that period
there was a research policy discussion in the journal Sprawy Nauki (Science
Issues, during the initial period Bulietyn Komitetu Badań Naukowych,
Bulletin of the State Committee for Scientific Research), which in line with
what was described in Principles was to become an important element of the
new, transparent research policy activities within KBN. This would feature
detailed reports of research policy initiatives, decisions, proposed program-
mes, and any other information that could conceivably be produced from
activities within KBN, alongside discussions on development, in which
academics, politicians, and other stakeholders would be able to have their
say. It is therefore also in this journal that the first discussions concerning a
renegotiation and reinterpretation of the demarcation that preceded the
reforms in post-state socialist Poland came to be held.
119
As early as in the first few issues, it is clear that the journal played a major
role in the discussions on the organisation of the new research policy. These
discussions were conducted in connection with workshops, conferences,
and meetings led by KBN and were characterised by a Humboldtian
approach to the issue, in terms of autonomy and scientific freedom from
interference from political or commercial interests. It became important to
position oneself in the discussions in relation to the state socialist regime’s
outlook on science, and ideas concerning a closer relationship between
science and politics were presented with great caution.
The boundary-work’s linguistic representations thus dealt with a clear
distinction primarily between science and politics, and a defence of what
had been established during the roundtable discussions. A telling example
of this in Sprawy Nauki was when Prime Minister Jan Krzysztof Bielecki,
together with members of the Sejm and Senate, were invited to attempt,
together with KBN’s academics, to define a continued line for research
policy based on Principles. In a speech that was published in the journal,
Bielecki stressed the importance of maintaining a dialogue between politics
and science with regard to both applied and basic research, with the
emphasis on the fact that academics should almost be allowed to themselves
determine the future of research policy regarding the relationship between
science and politics,
We want to participate in our development as an at least partially

[srednio] industrialised country. Western countries have developed
quickly through investing at a medium level in both improvement
[przetworzenia] and research. I assume that these issues ought to interest
research. I, being responsible for the government, should have asked you
long before this for a dialogue and a formulation of questions such as
this. It is extremely important for there to be a bridge between those who
hold political power and those who have to set the best basic policy
conditions. I do not know if we can do anything about that, or if every-
thing has already been done, and that it is simply the case that we have
not had time to achieve a consensus on these issues? Communication
has not been at its best. Not least, this is about securing broad and active
participation from scientists in Poland’s transformation process (Bielicki
1991: 16).
In this statement science becomes a sphere whose right to self-deter-

mination seems inviolable, and it seems almost as if there hardly existed any
communication between politicians and politically-active academics within
120
KBN during the first years of the transformation. At the same time Bielicki’s
statement can be interpreted as a hint of the importance of maintaining
trust between academics and politicians and not sticking firmly to the auto-
nomous position of the roundtable discussions, in order to be able to get
closer to the industrialised core.
The caution expressed by Bielicki did, however, soon become increas-
ingly rare in the discussions. This development was initiated by the meeting
between the new research policy and the practical circumstances in the
form of a national economic crisis and, as a consequence, the fact that the
funds initially promised by the government for KBN’s use were cut
drastically. It is also in connection with this that the tone of the journal
changed and actors who expressed themselves there to an increasing extent
began to devote themselves to arguing for a renegotiation of the earlier
demarcations surrounding science. The research funding system demanded,
perhaps more than anything else in the formulation of the first framework
of the new research policy model, a meeting between politics and science.
Soon also the advertising of research funds according to the model created
in the light of the roundtable discussions’ maxim on total scientific freedom
marked the start of the more critical discussions surrounding the idea of
independent intellectual and autonomous thought. This criticism originated
in the requirements for greater efficiency when the ideas of free applications
came to nothing as a result of advertising funds where there were no
instructions as to what research should be focused on. A chaotic situation
(not unlike the general political situation) broke out when no practical
options were found for performing the work of checking the thousands of
applications that came streaming in. According to historian Antoni
Kukliński (1992: 10), at that time a newly-appointed KBN member, the first
application processes were characterised by the fact that,
The procedure was very important, intensively discussed and difficult to

prepare in document. It was to introduce principles of competition in a
community, which hardly knew the idea of competitiveness. Moreover,
the idea of financing of individual scientists had to be incorporated into
the system which for decades served as an instrument of constraint of
individual entrepreneurship. It had to be expected that numerous traps
would show up in the process of the first research grants competition –
from organizational and administrative problems to various conflicts of
interest, which could easily undermine credibility of the results.
121
Thus the striving for scientific autonomy suddenly collided with such things
as economic requirements, and the newly-won academic freedom ran into
obstacles. The shortage of computers, inability to employ a large number of
administrators, or simply the lack of copying equipment, paper, faxes,
etcetera also quickly became an acute problem, which contributed to the
gap between idea and reality. Kukliński (1992: 14–15) continues,
One week before deadline there were only few hundreds of applications
received. However, during the last days they were delivered literally on
trucks and piled high up in three rooms. Finally 9524 applications were
received in 48000 copies. The Committee had not had enough office
cabinets […] finally the committee received around 16000 reviews
(average 1.7 reviews per project).
This situation gave rise to a more critical discussion in Sprawy Nauki

concerning possibilities for realising the sought-after autonomy. It is also in
this context that the documents that came to replace Principles were drawn
up, and the continuing discussion and work on the boundaries surrounding
science took place. In Sprawy Nauki it now becomes clear that a greater
acceptance of politicisation, primarily in terms of drawing up strategies and
prioritising fields (mainly for applied research), begins to take off. The
roundtable discussion model was cautiously questioned (initially), and one
of the participants in the discussion, economics professor Cezary
Ambroziak (1992: 6), who was appointed to head the international coope-
rative effort on behalf of KBN, gave his opinion in an article that is
representative of this type of argument,
I would not turn my back to problems of scientific policy. One of the

tasks is to find the answer to the question, whether the state, providing
funds for scientific activity, should define priorities and if so where they
should be introduced. Right now I will say I opt for priorities although I
know that many would speak against them. I should like to emphasize,
however, that in my understanding of this question priorities do not
mean dispositions who should do what. There are not only topical
priorities, but also others, for example structural priorities which mean
preference given to some forms of cooperation between scientists,
research establishments and users of results of scientific research. There
are priorities at different levels – strategic, political, and operational.
This quotation illustrates how a re-evaluation and reinterpretation of how

to pursue and talk about research policy and views on demarcations sur-
122
rounding science were in the making, although Ambroziak discusses the

prioritised research fields in rather vague terms. A cautious rhetoric aimed at
dismantling the roundtable discussions’ autonomous ideal can thus be
discerned, although the statement implies that there is still support for the
requirement to maintain the boundaries between science and politics in
particular, in line with the roundtable discussions’ demarcations. This type of
argument becomes even more significant when Ambroziak goes on to state:
I am aware that defining priorities is a very complicated, difficult and

sensitive matter. However no government, especially the one operating
in the time of economic crisis, can afford distribution of money, even for
scientific research without at least an attempt to define in which areas
the technological, social and economic progress is most desirable.
Having limited financial resources at our disposal we would make
serious mistake if we had not indicated priorities. Even the richest
government of the United States has limited resources compared to the
possible scope and range of research (Space Programme, AIDS preven-
tion, SSA). No matter if we want it or not, the real setting of priorities
begins in the phase of general distribution of the total amount allocated
for research: for domestic research, for international scientific co-
operation, building investment and so on. Often those distributions and
proportions have been and are set up arbitrarily and mechanically
(Ambroziak 1992: 6).
Here Ambroziak uses arguments concerning the handling of research policy

in the Western world to defend politicisation of the research funding issue.
He also makes it clear how the politicisation and coupling together of social
benefit and science suddenly, and in contrast to the initial approach KBN
took to the relationship between politics and science, becomes part of what
is regarded as free, the Western, or American way of pursuing research
policy with implications for boundary-work. When Ambroziak (1992: 7)
continues, this becomes even clearer:
In Poland at present, besides the idea of privatization of industry, the

Government has no other clear policy regarding selection of priorities in
industry and agriculture, being the main basis for economic develop-
ment and the source of national income. Unless having no policy is the
policy. However this is not a secret that in highly developed countries
among priorities there are alternative energy sources, energy pre-
servation, microelectronics, new materials and biotechnology. All of
them, more or less, should be developed in Poland. At present the
problem of priorities is being discussed in depth within KBN bodies and
123
before the next contest for research grants the priorities will be
announced.
Pointing out what is the norm in highly developed countries becomes in

Ambroziak’s text yet another method for equating political control of
science with a sensible way of pursuing research policy. That the Western,
developed way had previously been at least partially equated with autonomy
and scientific self-governance then lost currency, through the statement
that Poland was attempting,
to follow the model (or rather one of the models) of research financing
that has proven its efficiency in the Western countries. In the West,
however, each foundation defines precisely its policy and topical
preferences while in our case we have committed a sin of childhood
advertising the contest in which everyone could present any application
for research grant, without any limitations and priorities being set up
(Ambroziak 1992: 7–8).
It is clear that Ambroziak considers East to be a category not worth striving

for. He thus himself reproduces Poland’s position in the semiperiphery, and
the West as the core. Equality between the concepts of development and a
Western research policy model with greater political control of science, as
well as the characterisation of the current Polish system as childish, also
indicate that the struggle for credibility on the view of the boundaries be-
tween science and politics is now present in the discussion. The boundary-
work Ambroziak performs is thus part of this struggle, with clear signs of
attempts to both assert epistemic authority through the argument about the
West, and discredit the former demarcations.
A number of articles from this period make similar arguments as
Ambroziak’s, and it becomes ever clearer how the change in tenor with
regard to values ascribed to the West is gaining ground. In the boundary-
work, the spatial concept thus functions as a tool for argument rather than
as a static idea. On the one hand, the West can thus be interpreted as only
synonymous with a break from state socialism, and characterised by anti-
statism, and in that sense used by advocates of an ideal that lies closer to the
roundtable discussions. On the other, the West is equated with greater
control in the research policy context and becomes part of the argument for
modernisation, and the dismantling of the roundtable discussions’ demar-
cations. The invoking of the West thus also functions, whatever the stand-
124
point, as a way of reproducing the notion of the East’s semiperipheral

position.
During 1992 the struggle for credibility in the boundary-work that takes
place among the actors becomes ever clearer. The issue of scientific freedom
and autonomy in relation to political control is discussed with emphasis in
Sprawy Nauki, and almost every text in the journal relates to the issue of
demarcations between science and politics. Despite the criticisms described
above, cautiously formulated by Ambroziak and others against the round-
table discussions’ ideas, the latter still come up to a relatively large extent,
although it is possible to discern a certain shift in the arguments. One of
several examples is when professor of history Henryk Samsonowicz (1992:
8), who had just been appointed chairperson of the commission’s basic
research section, responded to the question of how he sees the research
policy and scientific reform process so far:
I am satisfied that the system proposed by the scientific community a

long time ago has finally been put into operation. This was one of the
demands expressed by scientific societies during debates at the ‘round
table’ and even earlier. Administering the science by not always com-
petent officers and not by scientists themselves has always been causing
a lot of controversies, as far as the structure of science is concerned. Per-
sonally, being in favor of the idea of scientists administrating science, I
have always thought that we should at least try to make this idea alive.
The most difficult problem we are facing is connected with troubles
shared by the whole country, i.e. with very limited financial capabilities.
The wording Samsonowicz uses indicates a somewhat more subdued hope

that a research policy in the sense people saw before them during the
roundtable discussions would be realised. In the debate it is far from
obvious that the state, or the economy for that matter, would be able to
control the research community and the orientation of research. Samsono-
wicz (1992: 9) points this out by explaining,
The fate of science in Poland in this difficult period stays in hands of the
members of the Committee and its groups – elected representatives of
the scientific community, hundreds of members of branch sections and
few thousand reviewers. The best Polish scientists, including members of
Scientific Committees of the Polish Academy of Sciences are among
them. Science is a elitarian profession, where the best have the right. It’s
true, we all have the same size stomachs, but it does not apply to our
heads. Even a favourable budget for science will not permit rational
125
financing of more than half of our scientific base. It’s a duty of the State
Committee for Scientific Research to exercise all possibilities to assure
that this better and more needed half will be preserved.
It is remarkable how autonomous Polish research policy still was, and how
utopian it seemed in relation to research policy in Western Europe during
this period. This becomes clear in a characteristic article published by
Krzysztof Frąckowiak, in which he brings up the need to introduce regu-
lation of funding to an increasing extent, but at the same time calls for
caution when the demarcations surrounding science begin to change:
Financing, and not administration is an instrument of the scientific

policy of the Committee. However a large part of the scientific com-
munity expect more detailed recommendations than a simple statement
that the basic research should have high standards, and the applied
research should be justified by prospective users of their results. Some
clearly demand that areas of concentration of research should be
determined, although very few seem to be aware that they might find
themselves beyond such areas. […] We can only suggest, that when
reductions of the scientific potential are unavoidable, it’s better to select
directions of research than to apply so-called ‘horizontal cuts’ […] I wish
to warn clearly against sometimes observed misled interpretation of un-
reiterated principles adopted by the Committee (Frąckowiak 1992: 17).
Advancing positions
Soon, however, the more cautious tone, primarily on the issue of drawing
up strategies and prioritised research fields, began to disappear. This
discussion was then, in terms of time, in line with the framing of Basis. A
defence of greater regulation and the necessity for it gained ground. As a
result of this, international cooperation and comparisons with research
policy guidelines of EU countries also became something discussed to an
increasing extent in Sprawy Nauki. The whole time, however, the issue of
scientific self-governance and autonomy emerged as a constant theme,
often in references to informal debates, which illustrates the struggle for
credibility in the boundary-work between actors during the period. One of
several such examples is an article in which professor of biochemistry Stefan
Nawiakowski (1993: 6) asserts that the closer relationships between science,
politics, and the business community are problematic:
126
Often cooperation between research and industry falls between two

stools when it comes to scientific checks, and is instead checked by
administrators and lawyers. We must remember the difficulties of
recruiting doctoral students in a situation where educational levels are
constantly sinking.
The implementation of Basis did not, however, lead to any comprehensive

critical discussion, and the cautious deviation from the roundtable discus-
sions’ demarcations surrounding science was soon subject to less and less
comment. This is remarkable, particularly when the free competition that at
the start had been so promising now became limited through the govern-
ment’s prioritised programmes. At the same time, the reforms drawn up
were completely in line with a scientific common sense, according to which
applied research should primarily serve the interests of society. There was
thus often a considerable consensus among the actors during the late 1990s,
and the dismantling of the demarcations in the reforms during that period
was in general met with cautious confidence.
One of many telling examples of this is the ideas of chemist Marek
Borowiak in his article Nauka jako biznes (“Science as business”). He
suggested that the trend toward increased investment in, and control of,
applied research, and inclusion of market forces in the scientific world, was
in the interest of both the country and science, since more funds could be
obtained from private sources, thus strengthening the Polish scientific
sphere in terms of knowledge, while at the same time the state won
competition points on the international market. In his argument, the new
approach thus became by extension an asset for all academics, including
those from the sphere of basic research, which in the article’s summing up
resulted in a desire for “scientific business” to be managed macropolitically
as a resource, and thus invested in further (Borowiak 1993: 14–15).
Ascribing to science a utility value rather than, as before, an intrinsic value,
was thus now almost universal, and constituted a tool in the dismantling of
the roundtable discussions’ demarcations.
The turn in the discussion towards prioritised investments and control,
technical innovations, and the use of concepts such as social benefit and
closer relationships between science, politics, and the business world were
also often described by authors of articles as almost a natural stage of
development. Nevertheless in Sprawy Nauki the invocation of the need for
scientific freedom was also set in relation to the impossible in a research
policy based on a kind of apolitical scientific republic. It was claimed that
127
anyone who wants to be modern cannot persist with autonomy. In this way
the rhetoric was characterised by avoiding being part of the semiperiphery
and wishing to be accepted into the Western core. Now, in connection with
the political strivings to become a member of the EU, the significance of
what this West was began to shift away from meaning some kind of whole
that included late-capitalist countries in general, to Western Europe.
This argument was also clear in texts in a short series of publications
entitled KBN – Science and Government Series, in which active KBN
members and academics who were not linked to the political ruling process
documented the ongoing trend. Among other things, this became clear
when Kukliński (1991: 1) in his foreword to the first issue started by writing
about how important it is to defend autonomy, to then continue with the
following argument:
The autonomy of the scientific community should not accept the ivory
tower approaches. The development of science takes place in the
changing environment of political, social, economic, and cultural needs
of the society which, inter alia, are more or less efficiently and correctly
expressed by the government and its agencies. In turn, the majority of
governments in modern countries recognize that there is no develop-
ment without important contributions generated by innovative science
[…] The science policy must be formulated in the pragmatic field
situated between the Scylla of irrational and overextended governmental
intervention and the Charybdis of the XIX-century laissez faire
approaches.
As scientific autonomy has been such a sensitive issue in Poland, it had to

be mentioned and handled cautiously by all parties concerned. Pointing out
the social representativity of the state, or even of the political sphere,
opened up the possibility of a more politicisation-friendly approach, and an
argument consistent with the dismantling work. Here the state and its
political agenda became an inevitable requirement for the practice of good
research policy, with the best interests of society in mind. The boundary-
work was now based to an increasing extent on the spheres becoming closer
rather than on separation, with the help of arguments that the duty of
science now also encompassed social development and social benefit.
The work of dismantling the demarcations surrounding science becomes
clearer the closer we come to the initial preparations for Polish membership
of the EU, and the creation of the document known as Supplement. Prior to
implementation of the new strategies set out in this, the boundary-work of
128
the increasingly large group of dismantling-friendly actors became, in the

discussion, argumentatively focused on emphasising the need for inter-
nationalisation (often referred to as modernisation) of research policy,
according to the maxim ‘if you want to be able to compete with Western
European countries and become valid EU members’. The striving to be
accepted into the core was in this way still predominant, and also became a
rhetorical tool that aimed to convince the government to make major
economic investments in research generally. One example of this is when
professor of computer science, Kazimierz Kowalski (1995: 10) wrote that,
The changes in Polish science seem to be moving in the right direction,

although distressingly slowly. If we will be able to become more open to
the world than we are now and will succeed in traducing a policy
ensuring competition and elimination of inefficient teams, then the
financial means which must be found for science will be used to full
advantage and only then we will enter the road leading us to the
European Science.
Another example is KBN member and science historian Jan Kozłowski’s

thoughts on the extent to which effective competition in relation to the
Western world is today due to higher technological skills. According to
him, a lack of focus in these areas concerning applied research in terms of
state investment and prioritisation would become apparent in the future,
and investment in research should not be seen as anything other than an
investment. Research policy investments should therefore aim at the
creation of “scientific islands of high-tech research” (Kozłowski 1995: 54).
He concluded his argument by summarising, in two points, which science
policy targets prior to entry into the EU ought to apply, namely knowledge
development that links firms, scientific institutions, and state laboratories,
and encouragement of innovations in society. Now the cautious line had
moved forward somewhat, and increasingly close relationships between
primarily science, politics, and the business community were asserted by the
actors to be worth striving for. Yet another clear example of this was when
Kozłowski (2000: 111) wrote a few years later that the EU and OECD
countries “have reached the stage of social and economic development
where omnipresence of innovations together with their R&D components is
the key driver of their civilization advancement”. Political control of
primarily applied research can, according to his argument, be interpreted as
an element of modernisation and the good Western Europeanisation of
research policy, a political control that just a few years previously was, on
129
the contrary, part of a state socialist, criticised view of science. A dismant-

ling of the boundaries is thus again, but in a somewhat sharper argument,
given credibility through reference to “best practices” (ibid.) of modern
developed countries.
Conclusions
The general political trend in Poland in the early 1990s was strongly
characterised by the almost chaotic context arising from the initial phase of
the transformation process. For the research policy sphere, this period
particularly involved major reorganisations, restructuring and a ‘detox’
from the country’s state socialist heritage. The boundaries between state,
industry, and academia were in the research policy spotlight, and the clear
emphasis on autonomy that had been the guiding principle during the
roundtable negotiations, had a significant impact on how research policy
was organised.
Soon, however, there began a renegotiation and reinterpretation of the
roundtable discussions’ demarcations regarding science, partly as an effect
of the rapid awakening following the ‘shock therapy’ for the country’s
economy, when the need for public resources for building up the market
economy made itself felt. The earlier, almost utopian attitude in accordance
with the Humboldtian research ideal of the Polish intelligentsia was
increasingly called into question, and ambiguity arose. One of the areas
where this process became clear was the discussion on research policy in
Sprawy Nauki. The boundary-work done there was charactarised by the will
to modify the distinct demarcation between the scientific and political
sphere that had been established in connection with the roundtable
discussion. The visions promoted leaned towards a social needs-oriented
formulation of priorities and strategies for the Polish research policy. It is
obvious that the rhetorical tools these actors used to promote the change of
the roundtable ideals were based on the attractiveness of the symbolic West.
The dichotomy between East and West runs right through the discussions,
where a ‘Western European’ orientation stood for what was worth striving
for, and an ‘Eastern European’ orientation for what was to be abandoned.
The West did not represent any static value, but it was used, depending on
the actors’ aims for the boundary-work, to improve the impact of different
arguments.
With the help of this rhetorical tool the adovocates of the approach
seeking to dismantle the autonomy of science were able to renegotiate and
130
reinterpret the demarcations regarding science in discussions on Polish

research policy in Sprawy Nauki. As the discussants also were the ones in
charge of research policy, their framing had impact on the formulation of
innovation-oriented strategic programmes, a closer relationship between
industry and research in policy formulations, and increasing focus on
applicable research in steering documents. This is evident in connection
with the publication of Basis and Supplement with their increasingly
emphasised distinction of applied research and basic research, two fields
that were previously clumped together as one kind of research demanding
freedom and autonomy.
131
Poster for the Polish science event in San Francisco, 7–8 Nov. 2013 (© USPTC)
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135
Part 2: Labour Identities
6. Lost Worlds of Labour:
Paul Olberg, the Jewish Labour Bund,
and Menshevik Socialism
Håkan Blomqvist1
One of the darker sides of getting older, I feel, is that of having to outlive
so many people one has known. Even here in Rome or in Milan, or
wherever I happen to be, I recall those who no longer exist. Ever more
seldom does one meet those people to whom one can say: Do you
remember?
These words of the elderly Ukrainian Jewish socialist, Angelica Balabanoff

in Italy, were read out by Ture Nerman at the interment in Skogskyrko-
gården’s Jewish burial ground in Stockholm, one day in May 1960.2 Paul
Olberg was dead. He had been honoured from near and far with telegrams
and flowers of condolence. “In the socialist world we feel deep sorrow and
loss”, explained the Party Secretary of Sweden’s Social Democrats, Sven
Aspling. But in particular, continued Aspling, it was Swedish Social Demo-
cracy that owed a debt of gratitude to Olberg, for his unfailing contributions
to the socialist movement “in the country that was finally to become his
homeland”.3 It was here, in Sweden, through his loyal membership of the
party, that he became a dynamic participant in its activities and information
1
I would like to thank Dr Paul Glasser for the translations of YIVO-documents from
Yiddish and Nadezda Petrusenko for help with translations from Russian.
2
“Vid gravsättningen av Paul Olbergs aska den 29 maj 1960”, manuscript of Ture
Nerman, Arbetarrörelsens Arkiv och Bibliotek in Stockholm (Stockholm Labour
Archive and Library, hereafter ARAB), Paul Olberg’s personal archive 435 (hereafter
POA), vol. 25.
3
Graveside address on burial of Olberg, by the party secretary S. Aspling, May 1960,
manuscript of T. Lindbom, ARAB, POA, vol. 19.
139
PART 2. LABOUR IDENTITIES
work, by way of his numerous articles written for the labour movement
press and the lectures given over the years.
Swedish Social Democracy was on its way to reaching its zenith, with
record years of economic growth and the building of the welfare society (the
so-called People’s Home). But the praise from Balabanoff and others did
not come in the first place from successful welfare-builders and pillars of
state, but from the increasingly rare living memories of another cosmos,
from radical socialist movements which had long been crushed in the vice
of opposing forces – Soviet communism and capitalism, east and west – and
then diffused in exile milieux the world over.
To this lost world belonged remnants of Russian Menshevism which had
striven to survive as influential elements in the great social democratic mass
parties in the West, in the inter-war and post-war periods. They comprised
an aged and shrinking generation of orthodox Marxist social democrats
from the period before 1917. In the funeral cortege at Skogskyrkogården, an
observer noticed an almost exotic feature: Paul Olberg was followed to his
final resting place by his fellow members of the Jewish Labour Bund (Paul
Olberg död 1960). The same Bund – the once so powerful Jewish labour
movement – that in 1905 shook Tsarism in Russia to its foundations and,
through the uprising in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1943, showed the world that
the Jews would not go like lambs to the slaughter. Paul Olberg, Menshevik
and member of the Bund, through his long political life can help us now to
illuminate the socialist world that disappeared in the east between 1917 and
1945 as well as the varied political destiny of the remnants.
The purpose of this chapter is, by way of certain main features in Paul
Olberg’s biography, to sketch out a political landscape in the labour move-
ment that, once upon a time, was of great significance and that can contri-
bute to our understanding of ideological influences within Social Demo-
cracy during the inter-war and early post-war years.
Olberg as Menshevik
Paul, or Pavel Karlovitj, Olberg was born in 1878 into a Jewish family in the
Latvian town of Jakobstadt (nowadays Jekabpils) within the Russian empire.
As a seventeen-year old, he joined the growing Jewish labour movement
which in 1897 in Vilnius founded the Bund – or Der algemeyner yidisher
arbeter bund in Lite, Poyln un Rusland – as the name was in Yiddish (Lite
140
6. LOST WORLDS OF LABOUR
for Lithuania was added in 1901).4 The Bund was among the instigators of
the formation of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party the following
year. Olberg himself already had several years behind him of illegal activities
as participant in the underground kruzhki – worker circles – smuggling
Marxist literature during nighttime in the moorland tracts around Pinsk.5 On
account of this activity he was seized and imprisoned when twenty-one years
old. Like so many other radicals, the year in prison became, in Olberg’s own
words, his “literary faculty” (75-årige 1953). With Marx, Engels, Lassalle,
and Plekhanov in his intellectual baggage, he resumed his activities after his
release, participated in the first Russian Revolution in 1905, moved between
different places in the Russian Empire, and wrote for the socialist press.
With the split in the Russian Social Democrats in 1903, Olberg adopted a
position in support of Pavel Axelrod’s and Julius Martov’s Menshevik
faction. It was on the same occasion that the Bund also broke with the social
democratic Bolshevik majority when the Bund’s position as independent
Jewish organisation was questioned. On the reunification of Russian Social
Democracy, three years later in Stockholm, the Bund rejoined once more.
In the division that occurred between Bolshevists and Mensheviks the
members of the Bund, in general and after some hesitation, came subse-
quently to belong to the Menshevik side (Wolin 1974: 251, 272, 286, 311;
Sapir 1974: 375; Liebich 1997: 40; Minczeles 1999: 114).
Olberg belonged to the Russian Marxist exile milieu in Switzerland after
the defeat of the first Russian revolution and his first son, Valentin
Pavlovich, was born in Zürich 1907.6 Two years later his second son, Pavel
Pavlovich, was born in Helsinki where Olberg, among other things, partici-
pated in the Finnish cooperative movement. Via this movement he came
into contact with the Swedish Cooperative Union (KF) and contributed to
4
Biographical information in print on Olberg’s life occurs in newspaper articles
concerning birthdays and in death notices. Here the information has been obtained from
the articles: 75-årige 1953; Iz Partii 1958; En flyktingarnas vän 1958; Paul Olberg: Zum
1958; Paul Olberg 80 1958; Paul Olberg gestorben 1960; Paul Olberg död 1960; Pavel
Karlovich Olberg 1960; Old Yiddish 1960. Paul Olberg’s personal archive (ARAB, POA)
includes his passport, press cards, and correspondence that contributes to his life story.
Biographical information is to be found in S. Aspling’s graveside address (see footnote 3)
as well as in F.M. Olberg’s handwritten fragmentary and anecdotal biographical details
“Kogda moi muzj inogda raskazyval …”, ARAB, POA, vol. 30.
5
F.M. Olberg “Kogda moi muzj inogda raskazyval …”, ARAB, POA, vol. 30.
6
His wife writes in her biographical notes that Olberg went to Geneva already before the
Russian Revolution in 1905 to study historical materialism on behalf of the pioneer of
Russian Marxism, G. Plekhanov, see F.M. Olberg “Kogda moi muzj inogda raskazyval
…”, ARAB, POA, vol. 30.
141
the publication Kooperatören with articles on cooperativism and economic

conditions in Russia.7
In the wake of the Russian February Revolution in 1917, Olberg assisted,
through the Russian support committee, those political emigrants in Stock-
holm returning home, the onward transportation of the Russian exile milieu
who, from different corners of Europe, headed back to Russia via Sweden
(Björkegren 1985: 251). He also took part, together with Axelrod, in the
work of establishing an information bureau in Stockholm for the Russian
Petrograd Soviet which at this time was dominated by the Mensheviks (Kan
2005: 128–9). Amongst the group of comrades in Stockholm was the
Menshevik Bernard Mehr, a Swedish version of the name Bejnes Meyero-
wich. Like Olberg, his contemporary, Mehr originated from a Jewish family
in Latvia where he was involved with the emerging social democratic labour
movement but succeeded in reaching Sweden in 1905, having escaped from
political imprisonment (Elmbrant 2010: 18–20).
In Sweden, Bernhard met and married the young Bund follower Sara
Matles who, at about the same time, had fled from the city of Grodno (now in
Belarus) when Tsardom crushed the rebellious strike wave in 1905 (ibid. 15–
18). Bernhard and Sara Mehr constituted a hub in the support work for
Russian political migrants during the stormy revolutionary periods around
1905 and 1917. Much later, in another era, Paul Olberg and Sara Mehr were
to meet up again, this time in connection with a new help effort for refugees
from the east.
Together with Axelrod, Olberg participated during the spring of 1917 in
the preparations for the Stockholm Peace Conference, a failed attempt of
the International Socialist Bureau (ISB), through a Dutch–Scandinavian
working group to reconcile the different attitudes of European Social
Democracy on the peace question (Sitzung 1917; Ascher 1972: 325–33). In a
series of articles in Social-Demokraten Olberg defended the plans in
response to the criticism of the Russian Bolshevists and the Swedish Social
Democratic Left Party (Olberg 1917; Kan 2005: 131). Olberg belonged to
the Russian Menshevik milieu in Stockholm which, to begin with, did not
adopt a position in respect of the split in the ranks of the Swedish Social
Democrats the same spring.
7
Letter of recommendation by A. Gjöres, head of KF’s organisation department and T.
Odhe, editor of the periodical Kooperatören, Stockholm 28 May 1938, ARAB, POA, vol.
1. In the letter it is stated that Olberg in 1916 was recommended to the management of
Sweden’s KF publications by the Finnish cooperative movement’s representative,
Professor H. Gebhard.
142
Not only the Bolsheviks but also the Mensheviks sent fraternal greetings to
the newly formed Social Democratic Left Party of Sweden on the occasion
of its first congress in May 1917. During these spring months, with food
riots occurring even in Sweden, the different wings of Swedish Social
Democracy sought to bring clarity to the question of who represented what
amongst the currents of Russian socialism, whereas the Russian socialists,
conversely, sought to position themselves in response to the Swedish
movement.
Through Stockholm, which for a time became the meeting place of inter-
national socialism, there flowed a stream of revolutionaries and reformists,
internationalists and social patriots, pacifists and Leninists.
Here, Olberg not only belonged to the Menshevik circle but came into
contact with the leading figures of Swedish Social Democracy such as
Hjalmar Branting, Gustav Möller, and Arthur Engberg as well as figures of
the Social Democratic Left Party such as Fredrik Ström, Zeth Höglund, and
Ture Nerman. He got to know Angelica Balabanoff of the Zimmerwald
movement who, a couple of years later, joined the Communist Inter-
national, as well as many other prominent personalities of these revolu-
tionary years. However, he also developed contacts with wider circles who
were interested in developments in Russia.8
From the summer of 1917, Olberg was Stockholm correspondent for the
Menshevik newspaper Novaja Zhizn in Petrograd, with Maxim Gorky as its
most widely known writer (Kan 2005: 128).9 The newspaper was banned by
the Russian Provisional Government in September 1917 – that is to say,
during the stormy days when Kornilov’s troops marched on Petrograd to
suffocate the ever stronger Soviet power base in the Russian capital. The
publication of the paper was resumed from Moscow where, however, it was
finally stopped by the new Bolshevik proletarian dictatorship in July 1918.
It was also during the year 1918 that Olberg returned to Russia and
Petrograd for a time. In three articles for the Swedish Social-Demokraten, in
the autumn of 1919, on the subject “Soviet Russia in reality”, he criticised
the Bolshevik terror, corruption, misrule, and food shortages (Olberg
1919a). Bolshevism had, believed Olberg, established a regime “with which
8
From October 1917 to August 1918, he served for a period as editorial secretary for the
publication Shvedskii Eksport which was issued in Russian by the Swedish Export
Association (Sveriges Allmänna Exportförening), see letter of recommendation by Bengt
Ljungberger, Stockholm 19 Nov. 1919, ARAB, POA, vol. 26.
9
P. Olberg, press card for Novaja Zhizn, Petrograd 7 July 1917 in “Handlingar rörande
Maxim Gorkis tidning”, ARAB, POA, vol. 1.
143
the darkest times of Tsarism seem to pale in comparison.” This was not the
dictatorship of the proletariat but a dictatorship “over the proletariat” where
all the freedoms of the working class are repressed and the regime could
only rely on bayonets. “Time’s wheel has rolled backwards”, was Olberg’s
(1919a I) conclusion. The strongly Bolshevik-critical article series was
inspired by his diary-like Briefe aus Sowjet-Russland (Letters from Soviet
Russia) which was issued in pamphlet form in Germany the same year
(Olberg 1919b).
The articles were valuable for Swedish Social Democracy which, in 1919,
was under pressure from the Soviet Russian example. They were published
at the same time as Swedish Social Democracy was forced to meet the
challenge from the Communist International – the Comintern – which had
been formed the same spring and counted the newly formed Swedish Social
Democratic Left Party among its first member organisations. The large
Branting meeting in the Auditorium in autumn 1919, convened to declare
the social democratic rejection of the Bolshevik dictatorship of the
proletariat (Demokrati 1919), coincided with the publication of Olberg’s
articles. It was during the time when Yudenich’s military offensive had
started against Petrograd and bourgeois opinion nurtured hopes that Bol-
shevik power was near its end. For the Swedish Left Socialists, the circum-
stances demonstrated how the Menshevik Olberg, who during his time in
Russia “enjoyed all privileges”, had now come to exalt Tsarism and as an
“old, experienced newspaper man” knew how to write to “the full satis-
faction of Soviet Russia’s enemies” (M. 1919).
For Olberg, on the contrary, Branting’s hard line against Bolshevism was
proof that Swedish Social Democracy had risen to the challenge just as the
Mensheviks themselves had. Paul Olberg’s knowledge and documentation
from within the Russian revolution and the development of the crisis
became highly valued ammunition against the left leaning critics in the
Swedish labour movement that were drawn to the Comintern. Already
during the revolutionary year of 1917 and in the immediate post-war years
Paul Olberg thus became a contributor to the Swedish Social Democratic
press with a significant personal contact network amongst leading Swedish
Social Democrats as a consequence.
The Mensheviks in exile

It was some time towards the end of 1918 that Paul Olberg left Russia and
travelled to Berlin, the city that was in the throes of the German Revolution
144
and the Spartacist Uprising in January 1919. An identity card, issued by the
Workers’ and Soldiers’ Council in Berlin in November 1918, indicates that
Olberg is in their service.10 He was, already at that time, a man of experience
and a political writer who, forty years old, had witnessed the Russian
workers’ movement birth and growth with all its ideological and political
conflicts, the Russian revolutions of 1905 and 1917, the seizure of power by
the Bolsheviks and the start of the Civil War. He had a wide network of
contacts in the Russian, Swedish, and European social democratic parties
and a wealth of experience as a socialist writer in several countries.
In the Berlin which he came to, the Social Democratic Party (SPD) had
split apart and not only owing to the revolutionary surge of Spartacism. In
the Independent Social Democratic Party (USPD), which was formed by the
opponents of war within German Social Democracy in spring 1917, there
were also party legends such as the ‘father of revisionism’ Eduard Bernstein
and the interpreter of orthodox Marxism, Karl Kautsky. For Olberg, his wife
Frida Markovna recalls, the articles he wrote for the German workers’ press
were literally “worth gold” and not just in political terms. “For the first
article in the party newspaper Vorwärts he received two gold coins of 20
marks from Karl Kautsky.”11 As a writer for the German Social Democratic
press and its leading organ Vorwärts, Olberg was able to get to know many
of the key figures; he stayed for a period with Bernstein and served as
Kautsky’s secretary during his trip to Georgia in autumn 1920, before the
Red Army invaded the country. The friendship with Kautsky and his family
would last all his life.12
When the majority in the USPD decided to affiliate to the Communist
International in 1920 the way back to the Social Democratic Party opened
up for those who opposed the Bolshevik dictatorship. Even the Russian
Mensheviks who identified with the USPD were to rejoin the SPD. It was
during the period 1921–22, after the end of the Civil War, when the leading
Mensheviks in Russia were forced to choose between banishment to Siberia
or going into exile. The party had joined the Bolshevik side in the Civil War
and operated legally in the new Soviet institutions but was subsequently
faced by an ultimatum to join the ruling party or be declared illegal. The
10
The card states that Herr Olberg “steht im Dienst des Arbeiter- und Soldatenrats.
Berlin, November 1918.” It was issued by “Der Ausschuß für öffentliche Sicherheit”,
ARAB, POA, vol. 1.
11
F.M. Olberg “Kogda moi muzj inogda raskazyval …”, ARAB, POA, vol. 30.
12
For Olberg’s extensive correspondence with Kautsky and his family, see ARAB, POA,
vol. 23; correspondence with Bernstein in ARAB, POA, vol. 20.
145
party leader, Julius Martov, had left for Berlin in 1920 and, in the emerging
Menshevik exile milieu, started the newspaper Sotsialistitcheskii vestnik –
the Socialist Courier – commonly called Vestnik. Under the leadership of
Martov and Rafael Abramovitch, in the Menshevik party’s evolving foreign
bureau, Vestnik was to form a mouthpiece for the Mensheviks, in practice
the party leadership, for thirty years and continued to appear for a further
decade. After Martov’s death in 1923, Fyodor Dan was appointed the party
leader while Abramovitch continued as Editor-in-Chief, right up to the last
edition of Vestnik in 1963. By then, the newspaper and party had moved
steadily westwards, both geographically and politically, from Berlin to Paris
in connection with Hitler’s accession to power, and from Paris to New York
on the German occupation of France in 1940.13
It was in the Russian Menshevik exile milieu in Berlin, as well as in
German and Latvian Social Democratic circles, that Paul Olberg was mainly
active during the 1920s. The Russian Menshevik Party rejected from the
start any plans to build up a new party in exile. Membership of the party’s
foreign organisation was only open to those who had joined before the
seizure of power by the Bolsheviks in November 1917, whether the person
was active illegally in Soviet Russia or in exile (Wolin 1997: 320–1). The
party’s members in exile during the 1920s may have numbered only a few
hundred, of whom a small number were from the former party leadership
of the years in Russia. Olberg never belonged to this leadership but had
been a member ever since the foundation congress of the Russian Social
Democratic Labour Party in 1898 and his background within the Latvian
Social Democratic movement was significant in this case.
During the Latvian independence process in 1918, a new Social Demo-
cratic party under Menshevik leadership was formed; this party was to
occupy a strong position in inter-war Latvia, up to the coup d’état in 1934,
when it was banned. Through the Latvian Mensheviks, among others, the
leadership in exile was able to establish close contact with supporters in
Soviet Russia for intelligence and sharing of information (Liebich 1997: 106,
128). Vestnik could thereby include detailed knowledge about the Soviet
developments that Olberg and other writers then communicated to social
democratic circles in Europe.
The strategy for the Mensheviks in exile was, after their attempt to
participate in the building of international cooperation through the so-
13
For a complete overview of Sotsialistitcheskii Vestnik’s publication, articles, and writers
down the years, see Liebich (1992).
146
called Vienna International in the early 1920s, to become members of the

mass membership social democratic parties in the West (Liebich 1997: 157–
63). There they could contribute knowledge about the Russian experience and
ideologically uphold what they saw as a Marxian perspective. As represen-
tatives of the Russian Social Democratic Workers Party, they were also
represented in the re-established Socialist International leadership.
Menshevism regarded itself, through its central interpreters in the
persons of Pavel Axelrod, Julius Martov, and his successor Fyodor Dan, as
orthodox Marxist revolutionaries in contrast to what they saw as the
utopian, voluntarian, and terroristic Bolshevism (Ascher 1972). Socialism
was, as they saw it, an unavoidable historical consequence of capitalism’s
development, but which could only come about, as Marx explained, when
capitalism’s productive forces broke the old shackles holding back the forces
of production. It was in the western world, where capitalistic industrial
development had come furthest, and where proletarian wage work was pre-
dominant, that the prospects were to be found for a socialist transform-
ation, not in backward Russia. Russian peasant society must first undergo
its industrial modernisation before the preconditions even existed for the
socialist phase. The task for Marxists in Russia, therefore, was, through the
revolution, to establish a parliamentary democracy where the productive
forces could be developed, an emerging labour movement strengthened and
the conditions prepared for social reforms and the future socialist trans-
formation (Sapir 1974: 364–89).
The Mensheviks believed that Bolshevism turned Marx upside down;
their proletarian dictatorship was a despotic camouflage for archaic hierar-
chies and backward economic conditions. An expression for this viewpoint
was the Menshevik criticism during the 1920s of the Soviet so-called New
Economic Policy (NEP) where they maintained that the Bolshevik-led
power of the Soviets was not in any way a proletarian dictatorship but, in
social terms, appeared to be developing towards a bureaucratic state
capitalist dictatorship (Wolin 1974: 245–9).
For Paul Olberg, therefore, his activities as journalist in Menshevik exile
circles and, above all, on behalf of German, Latvian, and Swedish Social
Democracy were central during his years in Berlin. But the personal net-
works within Russian Menshevism and European Social Democracy which,
on that day in May 1960, would be reflected in the bouquets and telegrams
that accompanied him to his final resting place, also included another
dimension: the Jewish Labour Bund.
147
The Bund
The Bund, after its formation in 1897, had developed into a Jewish labour
movement without peer in areas of Jewish settlement in the Russian empire;
from Vilnius in the north-west and down across Belarusian, Polish, and
Ukrainian communities where a Jewish proletariat emerged in the early
years of the twentieth century. The organisation built its movement into a
proletarian Jewish cosmos, based around a secular and socialist Yiddish
culture in the form of political clubs and trade union sections, children and
youth organisations, schools and orphanages, theatrical and cultural
activities, sporting organisations and self-defence groups (Blatman 2003;
Jacobs 2001; Minczeles 1999; Slucki 2012; Traverso 1997; Weinstock 2002).
Ideologically, the Bund differentiated itself both from the Marxists –
Bolsheviks as well as Mensheviks – who favoured Jewish assimilation under
the banner of universalism, and from the Zionist movement which was
born in Basel the same year that the Bund was formed. Through its
ideologues, with Arkady Kremer and Vladimir Medem as leading figures,
the Bund developed a view of the national dimension and national rights
that lay near the theoretical currents of Austro-Marxism, mainly formulated
through Karl Renner and Otto Bauer.14 In contrast to what was seen as
Zionism’s unrealistic utopianism and bourgeois nationalism, the Bund
propagated the message of doykait; that the Jewish working people should
struggle for their rights ‘in situ’ where they lived, ‘here and now’. Through
Jewish cultural autonomy within democratic civic states, the foundations
would be laid for mankind’s socialist liberation without the need for
repression and subjection.
Like the Austro-Marxists, the Bund developed its perspective in a multi-
ethnic empire and did not conceive that the liberation of the proletariat
would be achieved through separation into new national states. Here the
Bund was ideologically closer to the radical, more cosmopolitan Marxism
which, in the figure of Rosa Luxemburg and others repudiated all merely
national solutions (Hudis and Anderson 2004). However, unlike this cur-
rent which in the name of internationalism also rejected the building of
Jewish identity, the Bund was active in asserting, strengthening, and deve-
loping such an identity on the basis of socialist ideals. Yiddish as a linguistic
14
Renner (1870–1950) and Bauer (1881–1938) were leading Austrian Social Democrats
and Marxists. Bauer (1907) outlined his strategy in Die Nationalitätenfrage und die
Sozialdemokratie. For Austro-Marxim, see Olausson (1987).
148
and cultural, secular and socialist community came to emerge as the distin-
guishing feature of the Bund.
The Russian revolution of 1905 coincided with the Bund’s first heyday.
The second could have been the Russian February revolution in 1917 but
the movement was already then weakened by repression, ethnic cleansing,
and the downfall of the Russian empire. With the seizure of power by Bol-
shevism, the Bund was subsequently brought face-to-face, like the Menshe-
viks, with an ultimatum of being repressed or merging with the victorious
Bolshevik party. During the Russian Civil War, parts of the movement like
the Jewish population otherwise, had joined the Red Army and the Soviets
in self-defence against the ‘White’ side’s anti-semitic mass pogroms. Under
the designation Kombund elements of the Russian Bund were absorbed in
the Communist Party’s Jewish sections, jevsektsii (Gitelman 1972; Minczeles
1999: 260–2, 265–70, Weinstock 2002: 181–90, 233–8).
As part of Russian Social Democracy’s organisational sphere, the Bund
was to split apart during the Russian Revolution. While certain of the
movement’s leaders and elements followed Bolshevism, others came to
regard themselves as part of the Menshevik-led bloc which was driven into
exile. Among these was Paul Olberg and, as a Jewish socialist, he was far
from alone. Almost the entire leadership group in the foreign bureau of the
Mensheviks comprised intellectuals with a Jewish background (Liebich
1997: 12). But like so many other Russian and Polish Jewish Marxists –
from Leo Trotsky to Rosa Luxemburg – the majority did not cultivate any
Jewish identity per se but rather saw themselves as global revolutionaries in
the service of humanity. They opposed both nationalist, as well as what we
today would call ethnic oppression; they saw themselves as serving a greater
cause than merely being champions of the Jewish proletariat, and they did
not use the Jewish issue as a campaign banner. For supporters of the Jewish
Bund, however, matters were rather different.
Rafael Abramovitch was one of the historic leaders of the Bund who,
since the reunification of Russian Social Democracy in 1906, had repre-
sented the movement in the reunited party’s central committee. With the
split in the Russian Bund, Abramovitch and other Bund members followed
the path of the Mensheviks and went into exile (Minczeles 1999: 266–7).
Even though the Bund in Russia had been dissolved, Abramovitch re-
mained in the Russian Menshevik exile leadership and, as an experienced
publisher of Bund newspapers, became the editor of the newly started
Vestnik. Abramovitch was always a Bundist, above all else, according to
André Liebich in his history of Russian Menshevism in exile (1997: 26).
149
As writer for the Yiddish language Forverts in New York, the newspaper
intended for the growing Jewish working class in the United States,
Abramovitch represented, since the time prior to the Russian Revolution of
1905, a Socialist Yiddishkeit, a Jewish cultural identity on socialist foun-
dations. One could say that Abramovitch, in an ideological sense, acted as a
kind of shadow representative for the dissolved Russian Bund in the
Mensheviks’ exile leadership in Berlin, Paris, and New York during both the
inter-war and the immediate post-war period after 1945.
In a similar way, Paul Olberg belonged to the network of the dissolved
Russian Bund and was in close contact with Abramovitch and other exile
Bund members throughout his life.15 With the emergence of Nazism, the
new World War and the Holocaust, an exceptional role change took place
in this socialist exile milieu. From individual Russian Bund members be-
longing to the small Menshevik party in exile, they – as Mensheviks – now
belonged to the much larger Bundist world movement that was established
in the wake of the massive refugee flows arising from the World War.
It was outside Soviet Russia, in the newly independent Poland that broke
away from the former Russian Empire, that the Bund not only lived on in
the 1920s but gained increased influence in a growing Jewish working class
(Blatman 2003; Minczeles 1999: 271–330, Weinstock 2002: 205–25). With
union organisations for Jewish workers, the youth movement Tskunft, its
self-defence militia Tsukunft shturem (Future Storm) and the sports
movement Morgnshtern, together with the children’s organisation SKIF
(Sotsyalistishe Kinder Farband), and the women’s organisation YAF
(Yiddisher Arbeter Froy), the Bund created a world of Jewish, Socialist mass
organisations. Further to this, there was the building up of the secular
Jewish school system Tsysho, Kultur Liges, Yiddish theatre, artists and
authors, and a network of social arrangements such as camping activities,
kindergarten, and the famous, Bund-run Medem Sanatorium for the treat-
ment of Jewish children and youngsters suffering from tuberculosis. In the
Polish municipal elections in 1938, the Bund was the largest Jewish party,
gaining over 60 per cent of the Jewish votes in Warsaw (Minczeles 1999:
313–4).
15
An extensive correspondence between Olberg, Abramovitch, the Bund’s central figure
during and after the war E. Nowogrodsky, the movement’s historian B. Nicolaevsky, S.
Schwarz, and others is found in ARAB, POA, vols 20 and 22, and in YIVO (Yiddisher
Visnshaftlekher Institut, i.e., Institute for Jewish Research), 1400 Bund Archives (in the
following BA), ME 17, vol. 22 “Paul Olberg” and YIVO, BA, ME 18, vols 206–16 “Bund
in Sweden. Jewish Socialist. Workers Party in Sweden”.
150
In the struggle for the loyalties of the labour movement between Social
Democracy and Communism, the Polish Bund long chose to remain out-
side both the Communist International and the Socialist International, re-
established after the First World War. After its entry into the Socialist
International in 1930, the movement constituted an extremely radical com-
ponent, as well as an opponent to both what was considered a much too
pragmatic, establishment socialism and to Labour Zionism’s Poale Zion
which, it was believed, represented a bourgeois nationalism (Minczeles
1999: 297–8).
Outside Poland, the Bund did not exist as a party but only in the form of
a network and support groups in the different countries to which Jewish
socialists, in the first place those with a Russian background, had gone
(Slucki 2012). The individual Bundists normally joined up to the social
democratic parties, in particular after the affiliation to the Socialist Inter-
national. To be, for example, a German or French Social Democrat, a Bundist
and, at the same time, to belong to the Menshevik exile milieu was, therefore,
no contradiction. The Bund members in the USA were long the leading
power in the textile workers’ trade union organisations, as well as in the
American umbrella organisation, the Jewish Labour Committee, which at the
end of the Second World War encompassed over half a million members.
With the German invasion of Poland in 1939 and the new World War
the main element of the Bund in Europe was destroyed. During the Soviet
occupation of eastern Poland 1939–41 parts of the organisation’s leadership
were liquidated, of whom Henryk Erlich and Wiktor Alter, executed in
1943, were the most well-known representatives. During the Holocaust, the
movement’s mass base was pitilessly crushed. The uprising in the Warsaw
Jewish Ghetto in 1943 under the leadership of the Bundist Marek Edelman,
among others, constituted the movement’s ultimate great struggle in
Europe (Blatman 2003: 90–120).
Olberg in Sweden again

On Hitler’s accession to power in 1933, Olberg together with his wife Frida
Markovna came to Sweden with the support of Swedish Social Democrats.
This was the year following the Social Democrats’ great election victory,
with the launch of the crisis programme which would change the direction
of Swedish politics, and with the growing influence of the popular move-
ments in the development of society. After initially staying at different
addresses, and subject to provisional arrangements during the war, the
151
couple moved to a bedsit in the working class district of Stockholm’s Lilla

Essingen.16
As Menshevik socialist it was given for Olberg to join the social
democratic party wherever he happened to live. From being a member of
the German SPD during the 1920s, already on his arrival in Sweden in 1933
he joined the Social Democratic Party where he developed contacts with
leading party members.17 Here he met up again with Anders Örne, a leading
figure in the cooperative movement, who had managed to become both a
member of the Riksdag and director-general of the Swedish postal service.
Gustav Möller had been appointed Minister for Social Affairs after the
election of 1932 while Arthur Engberg led the Ministry of Ecclesiastical
Affairs. The Left Socialists Zeth Höglund and Fredrik Ström, who for a time
had led the Swedish Communist Party, had now returned to the social
democratic fold. Höglund, at the time of Olberg’s arrival, was chairman of
Stockholm’s Social Democratic party organisation (labour commune) and
Ström Editor-in-Chief for the daily Social-Demokraten. Olberg’s contact
network in Swedish Social Democracy extended to leadership levels in both
the press and the government.18 Through decision of the Social Democratic
Party, Olberg immediately became engaged in organising the Labour Move-
ment’s Refugee Relief. He was however soon forced to leave the mission after
a scandal with a Gestapo agent who managed to infiltrate the organisation.19
With the move to Lilla Essingen, he joined the district association of the
Social Democrats in Stockholm. He maintained his membership for almost
twenty years but occurs only exceptionally in the discussion minutes and as
opening speaker at only one recorded meeting.20 Instead, it was as a writer
for Swedish and international Social Democracy that he appeared on the
political stage. He contributed on a regular basis to the party press: Social-
16
The first lease on Lilla Essingen dates from 1942, ARAB, POA, vol. 30.
17
Olberg’s first membership card of Stockholm’s labour commune is from 1933, ARAB,
POA, vol. 1.
18
Among those sending congratulations on his sixtieth birthday in 1938, according to
Social-Demokraten 24 Nov. 1938, were G. Möller, Z. Höglund, F. Ström, the party
treasurer E. Wallin, and party secretary A. Nilsson, the lawyer G. Branting, the school
principal G. Hammar, and the social democratic priest B. Mogård, ARAB, POA, vol. 1.
19
Letter from the board of the Swedish Social Democratic Party to the board of
Landsorganisationen (the Swedish trade union confederation) 14 May 1933, introducing
the project and Olberg as its director, ARAB, SAP, E.I.II, utg skrivelser 1933. For the
scandal: Fult streck 1934, Nazistspionen 1934, Socialdemokratiska flyktingskommittén
1934.
20
Olberg gave a speech on 12 Oct. 1943 about “Poland and the Second World War”,
Annual Report 1 Feb. 1943 – 21 Jan. 1944, ARAB, Essinge Islands (Stockholm) Social
Democratic Association archive no. 1036, in the following ESFA.
152
Demokraten and later Morgon-Tidningen, Tiden, Frihet, Kooperatören,

Folket i Bild, and the Swedish trade union confederation (LO) journal Fack-
föreningsrörelsen. His contribution to the LO series of articles examined the
role of the trade unions in the Soviet Union and the trade union policy of
the Communist International (Olberg 1928; German edition 1930).
To the German Social Democratic press was added the Swiss press also.
This Switzerland where he belonged to the Menshevik exile milieu, where
his first son was born and his mother buried, in some sense was his second
homeland and he saw the neutrality, the militia system for national defence,
and local democracy as models. As Menshevik, he contributed to Vestnik
and as Bundist to the Yiddish Unser Stimme published in Paris. Together
with his writing activities, his extensive correspondence on political and
ideological issues, with influential international socialists, provides insights
in both the development of the Menshevik exile milieu and the Bund. Here,
Olberg belonged to social democrats with a strong socialist conviction that
through radical reforms it would be possible to abolish capitalism. At the
same time he strongly rejected Soviet communism.
“There was a melancholic, white-haired man in Stockholm called Paul
Olberg who had a past with connections to the Jewish Bund and German
Social Democracy”, wrote the Social Democrat Kaj Björk in his memories
from the 1930s (1984: 134). “For a few kronor I translated his long articles
for Social-Demokraten, where he eulogised old Kautsky’s ideas on war and
attacked the Soviet Union” (ibid.). At that time Björk himself, despite his
social democratic critique, regarded the Soviet Union as a positive factor in
world developments. For Olberg, however, there remained nothing of value
in the Soviet example, in fact quite the contrary. Ever since 1917, he had
warned about what he saw as Bolshevism’s tyranny. He was now obliged to
experience how everything he had fought for, since he was young, and
associated with socialism – his party, comrades, and ideals – were swept
away by the dictatorship.
During the terror of the Stalinist period his personal loss became
immeasurable also. “He practically never wrote or spoke about the frightful
misfortune that afflicted his family during the Yezhov era”, wrote Vestnik in
its obituary notice for Olberg (Pavel Karlovich Olberg 1960). Olberg’s two
sons had been drawn into the communist movement in Germany and
Czechoslovakia and had been recruited by the Soviet security service, the
NKVD. Having sought to infiltrate the Trotskyist opposition the elder
brother, Valentin Olberg moved to Soviet Russia and appeared as a main
witness against Trotsky in the first Moscow Trial in 1936. Together with the
153
other witnesses he was condemned to death and shot in August 1936. The
younger brother, Pavel, was arrested and executed in October of the same
year. Valentin’s wife Betty was sent to the Gulag but was handed over as a
result of the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact in 1940 to the German security
service and disappeared without trace. His first wife Sulamith, stenographer
and translator on the Comintern’s executive committee, was shot in
November 1937 (Bundesstiftung 2008; Nekropole 2013a; Nekropole 2013b).
Paul Olberg’s position in respect of the internal struggles that, during the
period leading up to the Second World War, split Menshevism was hardly
unexpected. The Pact between Hitler and Stalin in the summer of 1939
convinced many socialists, the world over, that the Soviet state no longer
represented, in any positive respect, the revolutionary development dating
from 1917. Large parts of the political middle ground between the Com-
intern and the Socialist International, which despite the Stalinist repression
defended the Soviet Union against both Fascism and Western Capitalism,
then drew the conclusion that Stalin’s Soviet system had now turned into a
new type of imperialism and fascism. This was an approach that was wholly
rejected by Fyodor Dan’s Novy Put (The New Way) which within the
Menshevik exile milieu did not only defend the Soviet Union’s existence but
also, despite its opposition, showed a certain understanding for Soviet
foreign policy (Liebich 1997: 260–70). The Abramovitch line from 1940
sought, instead, to combine a socialist ‘orthodox’ Marxism with a furious
resistance to communism and absolute opposition to the Soviet regime.
Even Abramovitch followers came to defend the Soviet Union during the
World War but, in the resistance to Soviet ‘totalitarianism’, to discount any
hope in respect of the Soviet regime’s views. For Olberg this was a self-
evident attitude.
Anti-semitism, the Holocaust, and refugee relief

In Olberg’s writing and engagement before the Second World War, Jewish
issues and anti-semitism occupied no central position. A report trip to the
Middle Eastern countries in the mid-1930s gave rise to several articles on
social developments and political conditions in the Middle East, including
the development of the Yishuv, the Jewish settlements. Here articles on the
Arab political parties alternated with articles on Jerusalem’s modernisation
and issues surrounding the division of Palestine (Olberg 1936; 1937; 1938a;
1938b). Olberg was naturally interested in the labour movements and, for a
period of time, was the Swedish correspondent for Davar, the newspaper of
154
the Jewish trade union movement Histadrut.21 However, he did not regard
the development primarily from the perspective of a Jewish state formation
but rather as a general modernisation of the Middle East in a democratic
direction. His idealised anthem to ‘The modern Egypt’ which was written
after the trip expressed a very hopeful view of the region’s future. Egypt
found itself, in Olberg’s judgement, on the threshold to the modern
breakthrough with growing national awareness, economic development,
democratic reforms, increasing freedom for women, and with the first signs
of a modern labour movement. The many ethnic groups and being at the
crossroads of world religions was, he believed, a source of strength not
disruption and Egypt was free from totalitarian ideas and the European
curse of anti-semitism (Olberg 1943: 26, 28, 46–8, 54).
Anti-semitism naturally belonged for Olberg to the crimes of German
Nazism. But his journalism and writing during the war years were not
dominated by his engagement for the persecuted Jews. It was, instead, in the
examination of Soviet Communism that his great knowledge of Russian
conditions found expression. In the book Rysslands nya imperialism
(Russia’s New Imperialism) from 1940 Olberg pointed out how Soviet
expansionism had characterised Bolshevik policy ever since the early 1920s.
The book, which was published after the Soviet attack on Finland, was for
Swedish readers an uncommonly knowledgeable and detailed depiction of
the Sovietisation of the Caucasus with Georgia and the Muslim areas in the
former Tsarist Empire (Olberg 1940).
The presentation of the Soviet Union as imperialistic – and the Com-
munist regime’s continuity with Tsardom – was in line with the sharpened
questioning of what the Soviet state really represented. Amongst the
Mensheviks, the Soviet Union had for a long time, in economic terms, been
characterised as a state capitalist system and the Stalin regime, during the
1930s, as ‘totalitarian’. However, like other socialist currents, the Menshe-
viks constantly wrestled with the question what the social order under the
‘new Tsar’ really represented. Even on the outbreak of the new world war,
the majority view in the Mensheviks’ foreign bureau was that the Soviet
state in key respects was a positive result of the great Revolution of 1917.
The task was to democratise, not to dissolve, the new order. Olberg was not
longer concerned by such distinctions.
Already, the following year, there was published in both Swedish and
German, Tragedin Balticum, where Olberg examined in detail the com-
21
Olberg’s press card for Davar issued in June 1940, ARAB, POA, vol. 1.
155
munist policies in relation to the Baltic states, from the time of the
revolution after the First World War up to the annexation in 1940 (Olberg
1941). This work represented, according to Anders Örne in the foreword,
an overview of “the practical implementation of Russian imperialism” (ibid.
7). Olberg’s authorship, at least for the Swedish public, came thereby during
the first war years to focus on Soviet excesses and become a powerful
argument in the period’s agitated anti-communism.
The years 1939 to 1942, in Sweden, were characterised by the internment
of communists, police raids, transport bans on the communist press, and
strong public condemnations. Zeth Höglund, who wrote the foreword to
Olberg’s Rysslands nya imperialism, had launched the epithet ‘nazi com-
munists’ after the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact and Social Democrats,
Syndicalists, and Left Socialists encouraged the purging of communists
from trade unions and popular movements. The terror attack against the
Communist newspaper Norrskensflamman in March 1940, which killed five
people, represented a violent peak of the anti-communist mobilisation in
the final phase of the Finnish Winter War.
Moreover, Olberg did not place the Jewish issue in the spotlight in the
review of Poland’s fate that he had long been working with (Olberg 1944).
Instead, the unavoidable impression is that the book is aimed at a patriotic
Polish and Polish-friendly opinion in line with the classic liberal nation-
alism that regarded Poland’s liberation as a bulwark against the East.
“Every Pole is born a revolutionary”, cited Olberg approvingly the words
of Karl Marx and conceived that Polish nationalism and democracy went
hand-in-hand, not least where Tsarist Russia’s Soviet heirs were concerned
(ibid. 126). In his history nothing is found with regard to the extensive
pogroms against the Jews, about the time of the Republic’s formation in
1918, or the Jewish Labour Bund’s struggles, during the 1930s, against an
aggressive Polish anti-semitism.
It was, instead, the Soviet occupation methods that, according to Olberg,
had been “of an anti-semitic nature” through deportations that hit the
Jewish population hard. Nevertheless, he believed, it would be incorrect to
equate the Russian and German occupation of Poland, above all owing to
the “attitude to the Jewish question”. Whereas the Russian regime, in
principle, rejected anti-semitism as a policy, the Nazi occupation launched a
war of extermination against the Jews with the object of “extinguishing the
Polish nation as such” (ibid. 103–4). Olberg was thus careful not to separate
the fate of the Jews from Polish suffering in general and, by way of
introduction he designated the million victims of the German occupation as
156
“Polish citizens” and those wiped out communities as “Polish villages”.

Subsequently one becomes aware from reading the book that the figures,
that already in 1944 were known, largely referred to the liquidation of the
Jews. No Polish anti-semitism is highlighted in Olberg’s history; only that
the young Polish nation in 1918 had had minority problems “which were
not easy to settle” (ibid. 56, 110). When Olberg, in the autumn of 1943,
spoke before the Social Democratic association in Essingen on the subject
“Poland and the Second World War” the focus was on the courageous
military resistance to superior force. The awful terror of the occupiers,
according to the meeting minutes, had cost the lives of 3.5 million Poles,
adding “of which 2.5 million Jews”. But in Poland there were no Quislings
and the Polish population stood united against the occupiers, was Olberg’s
conclusion.22
Nevertheless it was just here, in the final stages of the war and with the
immense Jewish catastrophe in Europe that Olberg’s engagement grew.
Even before the war he had attempted to assist individual, persecuted
comrades. The Kautsky family had fled from Austria after the ‘Anschlus’s in
1938 and the 84-year old Karl Kautsky had died on arrival in the
Netherlands. When Karl Kautsky’s elderly widow Luise, in 1942, begged
Olberg for help in coming to Sweden he contacted Zeth Höglund. Any
operation there to assist appears to have ended in failure; Luise Kautsky,
who was Jewish, was deported two years later to Auschwitz where she died
after arrival.23
The Bund in Sweden

Through the US Jewish Labor Committee, Paul Olberg contributed during
the last years of the war to provide contacts and help to Jewish camp
prisoners and refugees.24 From the autumn of 1945, and for the next couple
of years, he was the Committee’s paid representative in Sweden. He was res-
ponsible for establishing in Stockholm a committee to assist repatriation
and transmigration of war refugees.25 With LO Ombudsman Nils Goude a
22
Essinge Social Democratic Association, meeting minutes 12 Oct. 1943, ARAB, ESFA.
23
Postcard to Olberg from L. Kautsky, Amsterdam 16 July 1942. Copy of letter from
Höglund to Foreign Minister Ch. Günther 1942, concerning L. Kautsky. For L. Kautsky’s
death in Auschwitz Birkenau, see letter to Olberg from fellow prisoner L. Adelsberger 13
Oct. 1945. All documents in ARAB, POA, vol. 23.
24
Expense records 1943–45, YIVO, BA, ME18, vol. 205.
25
Letter from Olberg to the Swedish European Relief in Stockholm, 15 May (no year
given) ARAB, POA vol. 25. Olberg’s tax declarations show income from the American
Jewish Labor Committee amounting to SEK 1000 for Oct–Dec 1945, SEK 6000 for 1947
157
key figure, acting as a link to the trade union movement and thereby to
central and local authorities, this committee arranged work and housing for
Jewish refugees from camps in Poland, Germany, and Austria. It also helped
in contacts with the public authorities, medical care, and educational issues,
visas and all kinds of practical questions concerning finance, clothing,
tickets, and not least contact with relatives and friends around the world. In
practice, the committee comprised mainly Paul Olberg himself and Sara
Mehr who once again, as after 1905, was engaged in helping Jewish
socialists as refugees. In effect, the Jewish Labor Committee and Olberg’s
committee came to represent a support function for Jewish Bund followers
among concentration camp victims and refugees.
Already in 1945 a group of Jewish refugees from Poland formed a
Bundist group in Uppsala.26 The following year saw the formation of the
“Judiska Socialdemokratiska Förbundet ‘Bund’ i Sverige” (Jewish Social
Democratic Association ‘Bund’ in Sweden) which over the following years
organised local groups in almost a dozen Swedish towns and cities. Paul
Olberg held membership card no. 1; the chairperson initially was Sara
Mehr. The war’s end thus meant for Olberg that membership of the Bund
which, for him, had so long only involved correspondence with
Abramovitch and other Russian Jewish Bundists scattered abroad, was
reactivated again.
Now heading towards his seventieth birthday, Olberg initiated a febrile
period of activity to receive, place, and assist hundreds of Bundist refugees
in Swedish society – and help many on to the homes of friends, relatives, or
party comrades in the USA, Canada, Argentine, Australia, and, in certain
cases, Palestine.27 In addition to the great practical assistance there was the
political project to unite the separated Bundists again around their agenda
on Swedish soil. This involved basic work on behalf of the association:
forming local branches and working groups, choosing committees and
designating responsibilities, holding meetings and conferences, and, not
and the same amount for 1948 as well as SEK 7200 for 1949, information for 1946 is
lacking in the archive, ARAB, POA, vols 26 and 30.
26
A report from Uppsala states that a Bund group was formed in Jan. 1945. Minutes
from first national Bund conference in Sweden 14–15 Aug. 1948, handwritten notebook,
YIVO, BA, ME18, 206.
27
In the letter of 15 May to Swedish European Relief, ARAB, POA, vol. 25, which must
have been written around 1948, it is asserted that the Committee provides help for
purposes of repatriation and transmigration of refugees; it had helped five hundred
families to Sweden, half of whom travelled onwards to other countries. Sotsialistitcheskii
Vestnik maintained that this enabled around 2000 Bundists to travel onward to different
countries in the world (Iz partii 1959).
158
least, running political work in the first place on behalf of the Jews in
Sweden.
Most of the Bundists in Sweden arrived with the refugee transports from
Poland, some from exile in the Soviet Union.28 Besides supporting one
another after difficult experiences and in the new country’s unfamiliar
surroundings the activities involved arranging discussion meetings and
cultural events, marking May Day and celebrating Bund anniversaries as
well as days of remembrance of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Each Bundist
would subscribe to Unser Stimme, the Bund’s daily newspaper published in
Yiddish from Paris. In addition, there was the more theoretical publication
Unser Tsait, which after the war was issued by the Bund’s international co-
ordination committee in New York. A recurrent urge was that the local
Bundist groups should seek collaboration with, and integration into, the
ranks of Swedish Social Democracy. The Bund in Sweden presented itself as
part of the Social Democratic Party, the design of the membership cards was
copied, local contacts were established, Olberg was invited to the Social
Democratic party congress and a small Bund column marching behind its
own banner took part in the Social Democrats’ May Day demonstration in
Stockholm during the first post-war years. The language, however,
represented a major obstacle. Only Paul Olberg and Sara Mehr mastered
Swedish and toiled in their travel across Sweden to local events. Where no
Swedish speaker was available the sphere of contact with local party organi-
sations was reduced to a polite exchange of greetings.
In addition to the language obstacle, there was the deeper and more
distant question: What should the Bundists in Sweden really do there? Their
core tenet of doykait (hereness) referred to the struggle for a socialist
Yiddishness ‘in the here and now’. This would have been a natural approach
in Poland with large, dynamic Jewish communities. Matters appeared
differently in Swedish localities such as Alingsås, Vetlanda, or Eskilstuna
with just a handful of Jewish families. The Swedish refugee policy did not
permit those newly arrived to move to Stockholm or Malmö with their
larger Jewish communities. During the first year in Sweden a self-evident
starting point for several of the Bundists was their return to Poland where
the Bund was seeking to reorganise itself amidst the ruins of the Holocaust.
28
See question form for representatives at the Bund Conference in Stockholm 1948,
where several of representatives indicate ‘Soviet Union’ or ‘Russia’ as answer to where
they spent the war years. Minutes from the first national Bund conference in Sweden,
14–15 Aug. 1948, handwritten notebook, YIVO, BA, ME18, 206.
159
With the repatriation of hundreds of thousand Jews from exile in the Soviet
Union, it appeared for a time as if Polish Jewish communities could be
rebuilt once more. Pogroms in Kielce in 1946, and other anti-semitic
outbursts, served to persuade most Jews that any return was inconceivable.
When the Bund in Poland in 1948 was faced with the ultimatum to join
the ruling communist party, the history of the Bund in Poland came to an
end. The once upon a time so mighty Jewish labour movement was now
gone like the Jewish working class that constituted its mass base. At the
same time, its Zionist rival had launched the struggle for Palestine with the
goal of proclaiming a Jewish nation state. For the Bundists around Sweden
and elsewhere in the world questions of an existential nature were being
asked. What was the future for the Jewish socialist project for which their
comrades in thousands had lost their lives? The question loomed up during
those days when the world was gliding apart into the East and West of the
Cold War.
When the Bund’s international network of support groups, with around
ten thousand members in some twenty or so countries, met for the World
Congress in 1947, the previous opposition to Zionism was unchanged as
well as the opposition to the formation of a Jewish state in Palestine (Slucki
2012: 24). The movement distanced itself from both Soviet Communism
and American capitalism. Instead, what was essential, believed the inter-
national Bund, was to build a third Socialist force in world politics. This was
represented, according to the Bundists, by international Social Democracy
with the Labour Party’s victory in Great Britain in 1945 as foremost
example and Scandinavian Social Democracy as effective models. The inter-
national Bund also joined, as associated member organisation, the reorga-
nised Socialist International in 1951.
The Bundists in Sweden participated in the movement’s international
debates and united themselves with the majority positions. At the national
Bundist conference in Stockholm, in the summer of 1948, when the world
situation had once again deteriorated and the state of Israel had been
proclaimed a few months earlier, the assembled representatives of about
three hundred members or so adopted the international line.29 That Olberg
was the self-evident key figure and the veteran, almost twice as old as most
representatives, did not prevent him from being criticised for standing too
close to the “Western side”. On the other hand, he did not hear those re-
29
Minutes from the first national Bund conference in Sweden, 14–15 Aug. 1948,
handwritten notebook, YIVO, BA, ME18, 206.
160
presentatives who desired a more positive attitude towards the proclaimed

Israel.30 For those Bundists, who saw the British Labour government as the
most important example of the socialist ‘third way’, the armed Zionist
struggle in Palestine against the British mandate authorities represented an
example of reactionary nationalism.
The rapid Soviet and American recognition of the Jewish state – the two
big power blocs that the Bundists were opposed to – was also interpreted
negatively as was the support of communist volunteers and arms from
Czechoslovakia to the Israeli struggle. The murder of the UN mediator,
Folke Bernadotte in 1948, was condemned by the Bund in Sweden as a
crime of the “Fascist Stern gang” which had thereby lost any claim to be a
civilised force and provided the worst example of the Zionist movement’s
nationalism.31
Menshevism, the Bund, and the Cold War

With the escalation of the Cold War and the loss of power by the British
Labour Party in 1951, the socialist ‘third way’ between East and West
melted away. In New York the last remnants of the foreign bureau of the
Mensheviks were in process of disintegration. The split with Fyodor Dan’s
Novy Put had only been deepened during the World War and was un-
bridgeable by the early days of the Cold War. Or rather, when Dan died in
January 1947 there was nothing really to hold the two wings together.
Whereas Novy Put adopted a position in support of the Soviet Union in
the growing conflicts between East and West, Abramovitch and Vestnik
placed themselves, as increasingly anti-communist in outlook, on the side
of the West.
The paradox, writes Liebich (1997: 288), was that the exile Mensheviks’
great, new political opportunity also became their ruin. The opportunity
offered by the moment involved the enormous Russian emigrant milieu
which brought together Red Army soldiers from the prison camps, slave
labourers, those driven into exile, and others who refused to return to the
Soviet Union. The now elderly Mensheviks threw themselves into this en-
vironment, in rivalry with old supporters of tsarism and former Nazi
collaborators, in an attempt to organise a democratic, Russian mass opposi-
tion. Their Marxist socialism, on the threshold of the 1950s and the escala-
30
Ibid.
31
Declaration from the Social Democratic Bund in Sweden, YIVO, BA, ME18, 206.
161
tion in the Cold War, was clearly not an asset amongst the Russian exiles
who shunned everything that could be associated with the term ‘socialism’.
Facing the immense problem of building alliances in the new exile milieu
– who could be regarded as friend and foe? – and the pressure to renounce
socialism, at least the terminology, the Foreign Committee was dissolved in
1953. Abramovitch continued to issue Vestnik for a further ten years,
together with his closest comrades up to his death, in an imagined con-
tinuity with the Russian Revolution’s Menshevik Social Democracy. The
combination of a furious anti-communism which placed Vestnik amongst
the Cold War hawks, with its profession of a socialist vision of the future,
had during the intensive years of McCarthyism an extremely limited
political space both in the USA as elsewhere. For the last Mensheviks who
had been fighting Bolshevism ever since 1917, indeed since the split that
divided Russian Social Democracy in 1903, the socialist vision subsequently
faded out to be replaced by the warnings against any compromise at all with
the Soviet regime. Like Olberg, many of these had suffered great personal
losses. Abramovitch’s son, for example, had headed for Spain as a volunteer
in the Civil War but was apparently kidnapped by Soviet agents and never
seen again.32
The international Bund too, like the Mensheviks, subsequently joined
the Western side against Soviet communism in the Cold War. For Paul
Olberg, this position did not represent any dilemma. Since 1917, he had
belonged to the hardest critics within the Menshevik ranks of the Soviet
system and communism in general. For almost forty years, as a writer, he
had fought to establish the anti-communist credentials of social democracy,
not least in the Swedish party. In particular, he had been involved in the
resistance of the Baltic States against annexation by the Soviet Union and
participated in the ceremonial occasions held by the Latvian Social
Democrats in Swedish exile.33 At the same time as the last Mensheviks in
New York attempted to bring together what – they hoped – constituted
32
Abramovitch never gave up trying to find the truth about the disappearance of his son,
Mark Rein (Liebich 1997: 261–2). S.D. Erlich, the widow of the Bundist leader H. Erlich,
executed in the Soviet Union, also belonged to the Mensheviks in New York but
followed the line of Novy Put (ibid. 275).
33
On, for example, Latvian Social Democracy’s fiftieth anniversary in Stockholm 1954,
the Bund was represented by Olberg (Lettiska 1954) as in the case of the first May Day
celebration in 1953 of the Östeuropeiska Socialistiska Samarbetskommittén. For the Baltic
Committee in Stockholm, together with T. Nerman’s brother, B. Nerman, he issued the
booklet Balticum: Fantasi och verklighet (The Baltics: Fantasy and Reality) (Olberg and
Nerman 1946) and, on his death, condolences were sent by the Estonian National
Council and other Baltic organisations, ARAB, POA, vol. 28.
162
democratic elements of the Russian exile community into a US supported

anti-communist movement for Russia’s freedom, he himself became a
member of the Swedish department of the CIA funded Congress for Cultural
Freedom.34 The movement whose purpose was to bring together intellectuals
behind the West in the Cold War had been formed in Berlin under the
leadership of leading Mensheviks, among others.35 In presentations of the
Jewish Labor Committee it was underlined where the Committee stood in
world politics and Olberg was welcomed at the US embassy.36
Within the Bund, the Swedish Social Democratic project could be seen as
a model, or perhaps rather as a last socialist example. Olberg himself was
keen to present Sweden as a genuine socialist social development for the
exiled Bundists he attempted to integrate into the Swedish labour move-
ment. Swedish socialism was slow but sure, he explained for countless
refugees in cold barracks while awaiting transit onwards. And the Bund’s
international coordination committee in New York sent greetings to the
Swedish Social Democrats’ party congress in 1952, in the form of a
telegram:
Our best wishes to the delegates of your party congress in their relentless
effort to create a genuine socialist welfare state – STOP – During the
cruel years of the Second World War your country shined as a haven for
all persecuted by the Nazi-hangmen – STOP – May the spirit of
international brotherhood which distinguished your great leader Hjal-
mar Branting lead you to further achievements for the cause of
socialism, democracy and a lasting peace – STOP37
“I cannot sufficiently underline how happy I am to be a citizen in a free,

democratic, and highly cultured country”, explained Olberg in autumn
1953 for the Social Democratic Morgon-Tidningen, in response to the jour-
nalist’s ingratiating question about his impressions of Sweden, after twenty
34
Olberg had membership card no. 52 of the Swedish Committee for Cultural Freedom,
issued 1955, ARAB, POA, vol. 1.
35
It was B. Nicolaevsky and S. Schwarz who represented the Russian exile organisation
Association for the Struggle for the Freedom of Peoples and the Mensheviks’ foreign
delegation (Liebich 1997: 298).
36
See, for example, the letter of introduction for Olberg from A. Held, chairman of the
Jewish Labor Committee in the USA to Honorable W.W. Butterworth, United States
Ambassador to Sweden, 16 Oct. 1950, ARAB, POA, vol. 30.
37
Telegram to the Party Executive Committee, Stockholm, Sweden, 4 June 1952 from E.
Nowogrodsky, World Coordinating Committee of the Bund, YIVO, BA, ME18, vol. 207.
163
years in the country of which almost fifteen as Swedish citizen. “Here are
the conditions of life which I dreamed of in my youth” (75-årige 1953).
The same year Olberg, at the age of 75, represented the Bund during the
re-instituted Socialist International congress in Stockholm. In actual fact,
most Bundists in Sweden had by then travelled onwards to family members
and comrades in other countries and only a handful then remained. Even if
those remaining continued to maintain contact and follow the Bundist
press, coherent activities had now dwindled. Olberg himself continued to
maintain contact with the international Bund – and to long use its letter
head – but his resurrection as a leading Bundist comprised a relatively
short-lived experience in the late 1940s and early 1950s.
Soviet anti-semitism
Even if Olberg did not publicly turn against Sweden’s neutrality policy, he
criticised the accommodation towards the Soviet Union and belonged to the
Swedish party’s most anti-Soviet circles. With the publication of his book
Antisemitismen i Sovjet (Anti-semitism in the Soviet Union) which branded
Stalin’s anti-semitism, his opposition to those he considered communist
fellow-travellers came to the surface (Olberg 1953a). In the Social Demo-
cratic newspaper Morgon-Tidningen, Nils Lindh (1953) criticised the book
for being too propagandistic and based on partly dubious source material.
In a furious rejoinder, Olberg (1953b) accused Lindh of using communist
polemical methods to confuse public opinion and, with the review of his
book, to have performed “a service for Moscow-inspired anti-semitism”.
Lindh, who was a contemporary of Olberg’s, had worked during the inter-
war years as press attaché at the Swedish embassy in Moscow and was a
member of Sällskapet Sverige–Ryssland (Swedish–Russian Society). During
the 1920s he wrote about the revolution and Soviet developments in Social-
Demokraten under the pseudonym Strannikov and was regarded as the
Social Democratic expert on the Soviet Union (Björlin 2003: 55). Olberg
was to complain to Hugo Valentin, the leading Swedish scholar on Jewish
history, about the fact that “the Social Democratic Party’s main organ had
been used to defend Stalin’s anti-semitic policy”.38
During his final years, Olberg had acquired a clear profile as the friend of
Jewish refugees and a bitter critic of anti-semitism in the Soviet Union –
even if his personal friend and principal of Brunnsvik Folk High School
38
Letter to Valentin from Olberg of 5 May [in error, should be June] 1953, ARAB, POA,
vol. 22.
164
(Dalarna), Alf Ahlberg, feared that in this respect his was a “voice crying in
the desert”.39 In actual fact, as we have seen, the issue of anti-semitism had
not previously dominated Olberg’s political involvement; at least where his
public profile was concerned. He had in his writings about, for example,
Poland and the Baltic States almost downplayed the domestic anti-semitism
there or referred to Russian “foreign rule” (Olberg 1944: 57). His irritated
reply to the Bund’s European office, which after the war sought information
on how the Swedish Bundists were responding to anti-semitism in Sweden,
was as follows: “I do not think we should look for anti-semitism where it
does not exist.”40
Without questioning Olberg’s sincere engagement on behalf of the
Soviet Union’s Jews, it is a short step to connect it with the more strategic
struggle against Communism. Ever since the Russian Revolution, Soviet
power in a broad anti-Bolshevik opinion had been associated with the Jews.
And for many Jews, the Red Army and Soviet power had represented a lesser
evil, both during the Civil War 1918 to 1920 and in relation to Nazism and
the Holocaust. However, with the Slansky show trial in Czechoslovakia, the
trial of the Jewish doctors (Doctors’ Plot) in Moscow, and the repression of
Jewish culture, Soviet Communism also played the anti-semitic card, as
Olberg saw it, as a way of attracting popular support in the East.
He was not alone. The Jewish Labor Committee in the USA, the inter-
national Bund, and other Jewish organisations openly attacked the same
development. Hereby the issue of anti-semitism in the Soviet bloc came to
be one of the Cold War’s interfaces. At the same time as it constituted a way
for Jewish organisations to win support from niggardly authorities in
Europe and the USA, it could also serve as a tool for the West in the Cold
War for winning support amongst the Jewish population.
That Israel’s position in world politics during this period shifted from
having a degree of support, at least for a time, from the Eastern bloc to
getting closer to the West was also significant for both the Bund and for
Olberg. In 1955 the International Bund finally adopted the position that
Israel “constituted a positive factor in the Jewish world community” (Slucki
2012: 173). Behind this change lay not least the American Jewish Labor
Committee which spoke out for Israel at an early stage. Rather than the
leading Bundists prompting the American mass organisation to follow the
Bund’s course, the pressure from the American workers finally came to
39
Letter from Ahlberg to Olberg, Brunnsvik 26 Sept. 1958, ARAB, POA, vol. 20.
40
Letter from Olberg to R. Ryba, 7 Apr. 1949, YIVO, BA, ME 18, vol. 206.
165
change the Bund’s attitude. Even though the Bund in this way came to
accept Israel, its negative view of Zionism was not changed.
After three quarters of a century of endeavour, under tumultuous
political circumstances, the once so revolutionary socialism of Olberg, the
Jewish Labour Bund, and the last Mensheviks had now morphed into a
strong loyalty to the capitalist West side in the Cold War against com-
munism. For Paul Olberg, in particular, the social democratic welfare
project he experienced in Sweden constituted the real and possible
socialism. For his old Menshevik comrades in the USA, Abramovitch,
Nikolaevsky, Held, Schwartz, and others, the struggle for socialism had been
transformed into the struggle against totalitarian communism where they
were welcomed as uncompromising ideologues. Several of the last, elderly
Menshevik leaders finally achieved successful, individual careers as writers
and lecturers amongst other hawks of the Cold War. Abramovitch even
went so far as to regret the American reticence to using the atomic bomb
(Liebich 1997: 300).
Epilogue
“Do you remember?” Indeed yes. In the flow of letters to Olberg’s widow
from the worlds of Menshevism and Bundism there were still those who
could answer Angelica Balabanoff’s question affirmatively, those who could
associate Olberg with Balabanoff’s words about “a good and faithful
socialist” who remained attached to the “cause of socialism”.41 When
Essinge Social Democratic association held its members’ meeting in May
1960, the new times however had begun to wipe away the traces of what had
been. The cheers for socialism at the close of the local association meetings
had fallen silent already at the beginning of the 1950s; roughly at the time
when meeting participants started to complain of lack of interest amongst
young people and show films from the US embassy.
So when the meeting – which the local party association chairman
opened by reporting on Olberg’s decease – drew to a close, it was not with
any memorial sketch of the political cosmos which, with the figure of the
aged Jewish Socialist, had now faded away. It was with the American
cartoon film “Woody Woodpecker Heralds Spring”.42
41
“Vid gravsättningen av Paul Olbergs aska den 29 maj 1960”, manuscript by T.
Nerman, ARAB, POA, vol. 25.
42
Essinge Social Democratic Association, meeting minutes 18 May 1960, ARAB, ESFA.
166
The young Olberg (Labour Movement Archives and Library, Stockholm /
photo: 22111878-05051960)
Olberg in his mature years (Labour Movement Archives and Library, Stockholm)
(Above) “Welcome – Long live so-
cialism”. Paul Olberg with bundists
in Sweden, 1946 (Labour Movement
Archives and Library, Stockholm /
Photographer: Bäckstrand)
(Left) ‘Bund’ at the First of May

demonstration in Stockholm, 1946
(Labour Movement Archives and
Library, Stockholm)
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Haimson, L.H. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 349–
89.
“Sitzung des Holländisch–skandinavischen Komitees mit Pavel Akselrod und
Paul Olberg, 15. Mai 1917” (1917) [online]. Available from
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Feb. 2014].
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(24 Nov.).
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172
7. From Fordism to High-Tech Capitalism:
A Political Economy of the Labour Movement
in the Baltic Sea Region
Werner Schmidt
The research project “The Labour Movement in the Baltic Sea Region”
(Arioso) has worked in a close-knit research environment at Södertörn
University since 1997. In different constellations but with a constant inner
circle, the project systematically has sought since then to understand the
outlines of the social development in the Baltic Sea region during ‘the short
twentieth century’ by examining the two competing branches of the labour
movement – social democracy and communism – and their endeavour to
gain influence and power over this development.
The project started the same year that the Swedish translation of Eric
Hobsbawm’s book Age of Extremes was published. The researchers affiliated
with Arioso did not yet have a common theoretical framework at the time,
but could all agree with Hobsbawm’s general characterisation of the
twentieth century. It corresponded fairly well with the results of their own
research. Hobsbawm described “the Short Twentieth Century” (1914–91) as
a triptych. ‘The Age of Catastrophe’ (1914–45), with its two world wars, its
economic world crisis, and the advance of fascist and totalitarian regimes,
was followed by about 25 years “of extraordinary economic growth and
social transformation”, which he called ‘the Golden Age’. The final period,
the one we still live in, is “a new era of decomposition, uncertainty and
crisis” (Hobsbawm 1994: 6) – accentuated by the economic world crisis that
started in 2007.
According to Hobsbawm (1994: 55), one of the constitutive factors of the
short twentieth century – especially during the catastrophic years 1914 to
1945 – was the conviction, the vague feeling or fear that “the old society, the
old economy, the old political systems had, as the Chinese phrase put it,
173
‘lost the mandate of heaven’”, and that humanity waited for a better
alternative. Up to the First World War such an alternative was mainly
associated with the social democratic labour movement. After the October
Revolution of 1917 – and failed revolutionary attempts in the West – the
Soviet Union claimed to be the embodiment of the one and only alternative.
It is this aspect of the ‘Age of Catastrophe’ on which the first phase of the
project mainly focused. Out of this research grew a common set of
problems, which found its condensed expression in the title of one of the
books resulting from this project, the anthology Kommunism – hot och löfte:
Arbetarrrörelsen i skuggan av Sovjetunionen (Communism – Threat and
Promise: The Labour Movement in the Shadow of the Soviet Union) (Blom-
qvist and Ekdahl 2003). The book treated different aspects of the ideologies
and the practices of the labour movement in their interplay with the power
emanating from Soviet communism.
The second period (1950–75) was the era of both the global con-
frontation of systems in the Cold War and different welfare regimes. The
vital impulse for the formation of the welfare regimes in the West was the
specific balance between different social and political forces – nationally
and internationally – that arose out of the victory over Hitler-Germany and
its allies. With the economic, social, and political crises of the 1930s still
fresh in people’s minds, there was a general consensus at the end of the
Second World War that, for social and political reasons, mass unemploy-
ment was not to be allowed to emerge again and that “a return to laissez-
faire and the unreconstructed free market was out of the question”
(Hobsbawm 1994: 272). Although this approach was transformed into a
material force through strong demands from below, an even more signifi-
cant factor for the willingness to reform was the fear that the influence of
the Soviet Union would spread westward. Partly because of the competition
between the two major political and economic systems during the Cold
War, mass consumption and the welfare state were elevated to hallmarks of
the bourgeois-capitalist system in the West. Hobsbawm (1994: 286)
characterised this period, the ‘Golden Age’, with good reason as the time
when “the most dramatic, rapid and profound revolution in human affairs
of which history has record” was initiated and “largely achieved”.
The project’s research on this period resulted in, among other pub-
lications, three biographies that attracted much attention in Sweden. They
dealt with representatives of different wings of the Swedish labour
movement who contributed to the creation of its Golden Age: The com-
munist leader C-H Hermansson (Schmidt 2005), the trade union economist
174
7. FROM FORDISM TO HIGH-TECH CAPITALISM
Rudolf Meidner (Ekdahl 2001 and 2005), and the social democratic prime
minister Olof Palme (Östberg 2008 and 2009). The Arioso project resulted
furthermore in the anthology Efter guldåldern: Arbetarrörelsen och
fordismens slut (After the Golden Age: The Labour Movement and the End
of Fordism) (Blomqvist and Schmidt 2012).
This chapter provides an analysis of the 25-year period of the Golden
Age by means of certain regulation and hegemonial theoretical tools. These
are the result of the analysis of Fordism; the latter are inspired by the
theoretical work of Antonio Gramsci. With hindsight, the short period
1950–75, the middle panel of Hobsbawm’s triptych, represents an excep-
tional historical period in the transition from one era of crises to another.
This article asks how the process can be explained that led from the golden
age of the post-war era to the present world of crises and insecurity. It also
examines how the labour movement acted and how it was affected in this
process. With the ongoing third phase of the Arioso project, “The Labour
Movement in the Baltic Sea Region – in a New World of Crises and
Insecurity” we intend to contribute to an understanding of this process.
This article revolves around this question, too.
Fordism – an international phenomenon with a Swedish variant

From a global perspective the period 1950–75 was characterised by the Cold
War, that is, the global confrontation and competition between the
capitalist system in the West and the state-socialist system in the East (cf.
Schmidt 2008). During this period, as Samir Amin (1999: 121) explained,
development became the most important goal of all regimes. Amin distin-
guished between three different projects: (a) the capitalist Fordist develop-
ment type in the West, (b) the Soviet system in the East with a special type
of Fordism (cf. Busch 2009), and (c) the rapid modernisation in parts of the
Third World (‘developmentalism’).
The following figures on the annual increase of the gross domestic
product (GDP) in different world regions (Table 1) confirm the notion of a
golden age and show that development was not only a high priority, but
also an achievement across the world:
175
Table 1: Annual increase of GDP per capita in per cent, different world regions (Bladh
1995: 336)
1913–50 1950–73 1973–89
Western Europe 1.0 4.2 2.0
Eastern Europe* 2.2 3.6 1.2
Latin America** 1.5 3.3 0.9
*
Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and the Soviet Union.
**
Argentina, Brazil, Chile, and Mexico.
A common trait in the Swedish historiography of the post-war era is that it

exaggerates national uniqueness or – in other words – it underestimates the
over-determining importance of the international context.1 In fact, the
development in Sweden is a variation on an international phenomenon, a
variation with distinctive national features.2
As in the other capitalist industrialised countries, the period from the
end of the Second World War to the early 1970s was an exceptionally
successful era for the Swedish economy (see Magnusson 1996: part IV).
Although the annual increase of the gross domestic product (GDP) from
1870 to 1980 was on average 2.5 per cent, it climbed to 4 per cent during the
Fordist period, reaching its peak during the ‘record years’ 1960–65, when
the increase was on average 5.3 per cent annually. Industrial production
increased by more than 6 per cent each year and tripled in inflation-
adjusted real value during the Fordist period. Workforce productivity
within the industrial sector increased annually by 6.5 per cent, that is, faster
than production. The industrialisation of Sweden was completed during
this period. In 1950 about one-fifth of the population earned its livelihood
from agriculture; by the 1970s this number had dropped to 5 per cent. The
number of industrial workers reached a maximum of almost one million
during the 1960s and then slowly started to decline, losing workers mainly
to the service sector. Because of rapidly increasing productivity, the value of
the total industrial production continued to grow nevertheless, increasing
threefold in real value between 1950 and 1974.
Unemployment decreased rapidly in Sweden after the end of the Second
World War and remained steady at about 2 per cent until the 1970s –
1
This is to some extent also true for the rest of Scandinavia (cf. Torfing 1997: 227).
2
In Swedish research the term Fordism is mainly used by economic historians in the
sense of a technical-economic paradigm. Here it is used as a tool to analyse society as a
whole, encompassing its different spheres and their internal relations (cf. Tanner 1999).
176
despite a growing population (which increased by 15,000 per year through

net immigration) and a vastly increasing number of women in the
workforce. In the interwar period it was mainly unmarried women who
worked outside the home. Among married women, only one out of ten was
in paid employment in 1930; the number more than doubled (from 15 to 36
per cent) between 1950 and 1964. In the 1960s and 1970s half a million
women entered the workforce. From the 1960s the expanding public sector
played a decisive part in the increasing number of women in paid employ-
ment, because the number of women working in the industrial sector did
not grow at all after the mid-1960s.3
The exceptional and sustained economic growth both enabled and, in
turn, was enabled by a consumption that doubled between 1950 and 1970.
Private consumption increased by just under 2 per cent annually during the
1950s and by 3 per cent annually during the 1960s. A characteristic trait
during this period was that private consumption increased at the same time
as public spending expanded rapidly, growing even faster than the former.
An increasing part of the newly created resources was reserved for redistri-
bution to the economically and socially less fortunate. The revenues of the
state almost tripled in the ten years following the Second World War. The
public sector, defined as the part of the GDP that passes through any public
budget, reached one-quarter in the beginning of the 1950s. Twenty-five
years later it had increased to one-half. Of this, 20 percentage points were
used for the redistribution of resources between different social and
demographic groups through public budgets.
In 1945 half the Swedish population lived in rural areas. Many did not
yet have access to electricity. A majority of families in towns and urban
areas lived in one or two rooms with a kitchen. They did not have access to
indoor toilets or warm water. In the 1946 fifteen-year plan for housing
construction, quantitative goals were set: two rooms and a kitchen (meeting
strictly specified standards) for every family with two children. With the
help of municipal planning and the regulation of the capital market, the
building rate was propelled from 40,000 apartments annually to double that
3
As Lars Magnusson (1996: 444) has emphasised, although it is correct that the equal
pay principle took effect during the 1950s and 1960s, “women were mainly given low
paid jobs – thus becoming overrepresented among low-income earners. […] Similarly
the proportion of women was higher in industries with lower wage levels, e.g. the textile
and food industries. The percentage of women within the badly paid sector of national
or municipal health care was also very high. […] All in all the 1950s and 1960s saw a
huge step towards better conditions for women. But there was a long way left to a more
equal position in working life and in society.”
177
by the mid-1960s, two-thirds of which were multi-unit homes. Housing

standards had improved dramatically.
The Fordist period became the so-called ‘harvest time’ of publicly
administered welfare. The national and municipal welfare sector afforded
comprehensive social services from cradle to grave. In 1946 all political
parties endorsed a state retirement pension raise. The strictly means-tested
child benefit, which had existed for ten years, was replaced in 1947 by a uni-
versal benefit. The Annual Leave Act of 1951 increased statutory vacation
from two to three weeks a year. Working hours decreased gradually to 40
hours a week, and Saturday became a day of rest. The school system was
extended and modernised: in 1950 comprehensive schools replaced the old
parallel school system, and in 1962 a nine-year compulsory school was
introduced. In 1955 a mandatory publicly financed health insurance was
established, and Parliament agreed to a more comprehensive insurance for
accidents at work. To replace the old poverty relief laws, a new social
security act was passed in 1957. Gradually a complex system of building
subsidies and housing benefits was created. In the early 1970s reforms of
part-time pensions along with more comprehensive health insurance and
parental leave completed the picture.
As Lars Magnusson has emphasised, most of these reforms were almost
unanimously supported in Parliament. When it came to the introduction of
occupational pensions, however, a conflict erupted between the labour
movement and the bourgeoisie. The contention was the future of the uni-
versal, as opposed to the selective, welfare system (Magnusson 1996: 459).
The rapid increase in private and public consumption formed a new
Sweden and a new Swede. The subsistence of the wage labourers, which
earlier had been precarious and at the mercy of recessions, became more
secure and more long-term. The nuclear family, the spatial separation of
work, home, and shopping, the standardised home, mass consumption of
cars, electric household machines, and other capitalistically produced
lasting consumer goods became the hallmarks of the new way of life. This
led to not only a marked rise in the wage labourers’ living standards but also
to a complete transformation of their socialisation pattern, that is, to the
formation of a specific “Fordist social character” (cf. Lüscher 1985). Gender
relations were determined by the dominance of the male industrial worker
at the same time as women’s unpaid domestic work was of central impor-
tance for the reproduction of the workforce, “for its psycho-physical
balance, for leisure, health, child raising” (Haug, F. 2003: 616).
178
Social regulation and hegemony

Regulation theory assumes that the economic reproduction process is not
self-regulating but politically mediated. Only with the help of the state can
the rival groups dominating the economy enforce relatively consistent
politico-economic strategies to shape the social reproduction process.
Political regulation (though not necessarily by the state) is a prerequisite for
a relatively crisis-free reproduction process. Institutions, social norms, and
forms of individuality shape individual and collective conduct to become
compatible with the conditions of the economic accumulation process. This
regulation consists of a combination of force and necessity, contract and
social control, internalised values and patterns of conduct – it is an actor-
driven process, but without a ruling subject. The transmission and arti-
culation of different interests and strategies are finally condensed into a
hegemonic project.
In contrast to the state socialist regimes, the political power in the
bourgeois capitalist system does not rest mainly on dominance through
violence but rather on social hegemony or – as Gramsci expressed it – on
consensus armoured with force. We understand social hegemony as
economically, politically, ethically, culturally, and intellectually leading and
creating influence. Established social hegemony does not mean that
conflicts are eradicated but that they are given a certain form, a form that
rarely resembles a stable, unchanging order. Social hegemony is a general
consensus on a certain direction of development in order to come to terms
with existing or emerging conflicts.
The hegemony is materially rooted in certain ways of production, work,
and living and in corresponding socialisation patterns, social characters,
and gender relations. Thus, a mutual and relatively coherent connection
between these material elements, on the one hand, and political consent and
ideological accord, on the other, is created. Through economic, social, and
political practices a sort of “social concrete” (Poulantzas) is mixed out of
ideas and conceptions, customs, and lifestyles. A hegemony created in such
a comprehensive way and rooted in the everyday life of the people can rest
confidently on the popular ‘common sense’.
For modern societies the economic sphere together with the civil and
political society are woven into a hegemonic historical bloc. Such a bloc
achieves an always contradictory yet functioning social unity, an active and
activating interplay of different social groups that drives society into a
certain direction. A historical bloc always has to be “based on the decisive
179
function exercised by the leading group in the decisive nucleus of economic

activity” (Gramsci 1971: 161). During the Fordist period industrial capital
groups were this nucleus. However, into the bloc of these capital fractions
and other leading groups some subordinate, dominated groups were also
incorporated, mainly the industrial workers. The historical bloc of Fordism
is therefore a bourgeois–proletarian industry bloc. This compromise
between the classes took the institutionalised form of the corporatist tri-
angle of state – capital – trade unions.
The increasingly homogenous working conditions of the industrial wage
labourers led to a growing awareness of their shared problems and common
living conditions. The relatively strong trade unions could use this ‘organic’
form of working-class awareness to gain a crucial influence over the
formation of social labour during the Fordist industrialisation process. The
correlation between productivity gains and raised wages constituted the
basis for the Fordist class compromise. The labour movement, building on
this compromise, succeeded in combining conflict strategies on the
company level with regional and national regulation of social labour.
Through the extension of welfare state arrangements, a partial decom-
modificiation of the workforce was achieved.
The third panel of the triptych opens

What at first looked merely like an economic crisis in the mid-1970s in
actual fact started a profound process of change in all areas of society. The
Fordist development type dissolved and with it eroded also, as Frigga Haug
put it, “the protest potential, which we had up to then recognised as soli-
darity, labour movement, the community of male workers, risen from
Fordism, Taylorism, mass production” (cited in Tanner 1999: 586).
The new development type that arose out of the eroding Fordism has not
yet taken its final shape, something that also explains the difficulty of
finding an adequate term for it. It has become increasingly common to
identify the main traits of the predominant politics as neoliberal, but these
politics are still disputed and their long-term hegemonic potential is
questionable. Regarding a general characterisation of present-day society,
there is so far only a consensus as to what it is not or is not any more. We
seem to live in a post-society: in a post-Fordist, postmodern, post-demo-
cratic, post-national, or post-industrial society. I prefer as a provisional
term ‘high-tech capitalism’ (cf. Ohm and Haug, F. 2004; see also Haug, W.F.
2003a). The choice of this term is based on the understanding that the new
180
development type requires that we take the starting point in an analysis of

the relationship between the changing capitalist means of production and
the new material and human productive forces.
The erosion of the capitalist Fordist development type started with the
economic world crisis of 1974/75. Like the depression in the 1930s, this was
no ordinary crisis following a recession, but an ‘organic’ or structural one
(Gramsci). In this kind of crisis different critical processes are condensed and
interwoven, leading to conflicts and obstructions in the existing historical
bloc and eventually to a rearrangement of this bloc. Thus, an organic crisis
cannot be solved within the framework of the existing development type;
instead it triggers a longer period of economic and social restructuring and
results in a complete transformation of the mode of production and living.
Within the bourgeois capitalist social system, the political transfor-
mation process that the crisis results in always takes the form of what
Gramsci termed ‘passive revolution’. Passive refers to the transformation
and integration of the interests and aspirations of the subaltern groups in
such a way that they remain dominated while their intellectual and leading
groups are absorbed into a new hegemonic historical bloc. According to
Gramsci, a passive revolution does not consist of a strategic frontal assault
on the subaltern groups and their organisations. Instead it takes place
‘behind their backs’ in a process of silent undermining of the existing power
structures.
Such a transformation process moves through several phases and at
different speeds, depending on specific national or regional conditions. Al-
though an organic crisis always has its epicentre in economic conflicts, the
nature and course of the crisis can be shaped by political disputes and
phenomena. Examples are the protests of 1968 with their criticism of
certain aspects of the Fordist development and civilisation type and their
individualistic tendencies (that were later rearticulated and then integrated
into the neoliberal project), Pinochet’s coup d’état in Chile which resulted
in a neoliberal social experiment, Thatcherism, and Reaganomics, and, last
but not least, the implosion of state socialism.
As Gramsci (1971: 184) emphasised, organic crises in themselves cannot
“produce fundamental historical events; they can simply create a terrain
more favourable to the dissemination of certain modes of thought, and
certain ways of posing and resolving questions involving the entire
subsequent development of national life”. The transition from the Fordist to
the neoliberally influenced development type is therefore not the replacing
of the old type by a new and completely developed social type in its final
181
form. Out of the crisis process itself and as a complex result of certain crisis
resolution measures and methods, a new social development type eventually
evolves. An important aspect of this transformation method, which Bob
Jessop terms “conservation-dissolution effects” (2001: 12), is that earlier
social relations, institutions, and discourses are transformed and sublated
into a new context through the incorporation of selected parts thereof into
different relations, institutions, and discourses.
The petrification of the communist labour movement

According to Hegel, the owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the
falling of dusk – history must have completed its work before it can be
judged wisely. Gramsci (1999: 2191) expressed a similar thought about the
labour movement. In his view it is not until “the end of a historical cycle”
that its actions can be judged. This cycle, the historical period during which
the labour movement developed and proved its emancipatory potential,
seems to have reached its end with the crisis and erosion of Fordism.
It is quite obvious that the implosion of state-socialism in the years
1989–91 marked the end of the historical cycle of the communist labour
movement. Whereas the bourgeois capitalist systems succeeded in dealing
with the crisis by self-transformation (with the passive revolution as a
method), the crisis in the East proved insoluble within the framework of the
repressive political system. It imploded and along with it went the
communist labour movement.
In the German Democratic Republic (GDR), starting in the early 1960s,
several attempts were made to reform the socio-economic system in order
to make it compatible with the changes that were there called the ‘scientific-
technological revolution’. However, to break the command structure that
resulted in passivity, irresponsibility, and a general atmosphere of suspicion,
not only economic but also political and cultural reforms would have been
necessary – a complete change of the intellectual climate in society.
The fundamental problem for the ruling power bloc in the GDR was its
hegemonic weakness. Since the ‘workers’ rising’ of 17 June 1953 – a
traumatic experience for the workers’ party – the power of the SED rested
on a kind of compromise between the party officials, the ‘new class’ (Djilas
1983[1957]), and the class of manual labourers. Through this compromise,
construction and factory workers gained a privileged position in the socio-
economic system, with social security and a reduced workload.
182
This favoured position was accentuated furthermore, as the sociologist

Wolfgang Engler (1999: 173–208) has pointed out, by the fact that the East
German society was culturally and socially marked by the workers; he calls
the East German society arbeiterlich (workerly). But the price the workers
had to pay for their social advancement was the surrender of their political
self-determination to the party bureaucracy and ultimately to its highest
leadership: the Politbüro (the executive committee of the ruling party, the
Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands [Socialist Unity Party of
Germany], SED). Analogous with the Fordist historical bloc in the West,
the state-centred Fordist historical bloc in the GDR was therefore a
Politbürocratic-proletarian-industrial bloc.
The result of this compromise was ambiguous: On the one hand, it led to
a relatively high material living standard for the working masses; on the
other, it restrained innovation and slowed the increase in productivity and
efficiency. The hindrance of innovation and the repressive hostility towards
the emerging ‘cultural left’ (the new cultural, environmental, civil rights, and
peace movements) were crucial elements in the inability of the state-socialist
system to self-transform.
The ‘de-Fordisation’ of the reformist labour movement

In the mid-1970s a book was published containing letters and conversations
by three leading European social democrats: Willy Brandt, Bruno Kreisky,
and Olof Palme. The book documents the labour movement’s lack at the
time of a plausible concept for how to transform the crisis-ridden Fordist
development type and a widening credibility gap the social democratic
parties faced. Kreisky pointed out, almost unintentionally satirically:
As long as everything went swimmingly this capitalist order was termed

social market economy [soziale Marktwirtschaft], and the social
democratic parties, too, were quick to take refuge under the roof of this
social market economy (Brandt, Kreisky, and Palme 1975: 121).
But now that the capitalist market economy grew less and less ‘social’, the
leaders of the social democratic labour movement no longer knew where to
turn.
As Mario Candeias has pointed out, the transition of the German Social
Democratic Party to neoliberal positions, “has to be seen in the context of
profound structural transformations of the party’s class and social
structure” (2004: 22–3). He focused in this connection on the salient point
183
for a Marxist or materialist understanding of both the ideological impact of

neoliberalism and the adaptation of the social democratic movement to it.
There is a danger of ‘structural idealism’, that is, of viewing society upside-
down, formed and regulated by ideas or ideals, when the latter are really a
consequence of the existing material conditions. It is insufficient to ridicule
neoliberalism as merely a set of beliefs that are out of touch with reality,
cherished by the ‘seriously rich’, to explain the neoliberal conversion of
social democracy as the result of a ‘coup’ or to portray the return to the
Swedish welfare state as a simple act of volition (see e.g. Josefsson 2005: 12–
21). Rather, a scientific analysis needs to focus on the actual transformation of
social conditions and has to take as its starting point the alteration of the
productive forces and the means of production. Although it is true, as W.F.
Haug has pointed out, that with such an approach we still do not understand
everything, “without it we certainly understand nothing” (2003b: 173).
The long period of full employment and the wage labourers’ faith in
Keynesian growth and employment policies gave them in the early 1970s –
in a general climate of radicalisation – an unusually strong position in
relation to capital. Capitalists perceived a wave of strikes and other actions –
not only for higher wages but also for better working conditions and
participative decision-making – as a threat to their own position of power.
In connection with this labour offensive, the capital accumulation problems
that had arisen some years earlier became increasingly apparent. Capital
intensity had increased, and full employment had driven up wage costs. But
the key reason for the crisis of Fordism was that, under the existing
conditions (that is, with the means of regulation of the Keynesian welfare-
state), the productivity reserve within the Fordist accumulation model was
insufficient to guarantee the long-term stability of capital profits. The
Fordist-Taylorist work process rested heavily on the separation of living
labour from the knowledge of production and its incorporation into the
machine system. This type of work process had exhausted its potential by
the late 1960s. The increase in productivity slowed, the organic composition
of capital rose, and profits declined (see, e.g., Röttger 2010).
The crisis of Fordism became apparent. Its resolution did not follow a
predetermined plan, but the measures taken followed a certain direction of
development. The productivity problem was solved partly through the im-
plementation of a new technology: the automation and computerisation of
production. This demanded a greater ‘responsible autonomy’ for the direct
producers, the incorporation of their intellectual capacities and their
voluntary cooperation with management and engineers. The flexibility
184
necessary for this led to the individualisation of work tasks and demanded
adaptability and mobility.
During the last third of the twentieth century, automated work pene-
trated almost all parts of the production and reproduction process. Thus
monotonous-repetitive, standardised mass work was reduced to a subordi-
nate position, while work relations characterised by communication skills
and independent thought and group work became increasingly important.
The combative power of the workers fell during that period, victim to mass
unemployment. The destructive side of this crisis claimed the attention of
the left to such an extent that the constructive aspects and possibilities of
the transformation process were left almost exclusively to the organic
intellectuals of capital. The political and trade union branches of the labour
movement let themselves be all but overwhelmed by this development,
especially as they concentrated on the illusory defence of the status quo. The
consequence was a passive revolution in the world of labour. Just as
industrialisation had crushed the power of the qualified craftsmen, auto-
mation and computerisation crushed the force of the Fordist mass workers.
The Fordist work organisation had an essential feedback function for the
formation of a political consensus. The organisational strength, internal
unity, and political impact of the trade unions and the social democratic party
rested on the large number of members who volunteered and sacrificed parts
of their leisure time, energy, and intelligence to trade union or party work.
With the erosion of the Fordist work organisation and the transition to a
more flexible organisation this political resource disappeared. Furthermore,
the strictly hierarchically structured trade unions did not correspond to the
expectations of new groups of workers, who were used to relative autonomy
in the work process and to self-organisation in the lifeworld.
From the mid-1970s the partly deliberately produced mass unemploy-
ment constituted a form of structural violence which undermined the
negotiating power of the workers and the trade unions: the fear of
unemployment demobilised them. In that situation working conditions and
terms of employment that used to be general and standardised started to
become individualised. Collective interest representation yielded to com-
petition within the company, to individual strategies of resistance, adap-
tation, and submission. The creation of mass unemployment and precarious
forms of employment constituted the material foundation for the transition
to neoliberal means of production and life.
These phenomena were diverse but connected steps in a capitalist
solution of the crisis, ultimately aiming at a fundamental restructuring of
185
the global means of production and thereby at an alteration of the power

balance on the national level in favour of capital. Globally, the liberalisation
of currencies, capital, and commodity markets was a prerequisite for the
creation of transnational production networks. New communication and
information technologies overcame geographic boundaries and significantly
lowered the transaction costs of decentralised production. Transnational
production – which followed the inclined plane of global wage levels – con-
stituted yet another way of undermining wage negotiations and gaining
acceptance for new forms of employment.
The increase of precarious employment and the loss of collective bar-
gaining power do not lead to a complete cessation of collective representa-
tion of interests but transform it into a competitive corporatism; that is, it
accepts the supremacy of company interests in a time of globalisation. The
trade unions have thus ceased to fill the strategic role that they had during
the era of Fordism: to function as the transmission belt of social democracy.
The fundamental requirement for the breakthrough of neoliberalism was
the transnationalisation of production and financial markets beginning in
the mid-1970s. But that was not the only requirement. The crisis of Fordism
and the implosion of state socialism led to the discrediting of not only state
socialist economic planning but also its Keynesian variant. Neoliberals
succeeded in blaming the crisis on ‘overregulation’ and portrayed it as a
general crisis of state regulation, which necessitated extensive deregulation
and ‘state slimming’. The latter did not mean a smaller state in general but
rather a dismantling of public welfare. This process incorporated earlier criti-
cism (dating back to 1968) of the hierarchical and centralistic structures of the
Fordist state that did not allow radical democratic influence from below.
From the Golden Age to strategic paralysation – a tentative conclusion

The changes sketched above contributed to the weakening of the conditions
the reformist labour movement rested on and – lacking alternatives of its
own – facilitated its adaptation to the dominating neoliberal frame of
reference. Thus the social democratic labour movement contributed con-
siderably to the hegemonic position of neoliberalism.
In conclusion, the labour movement that for some decades after the
Second World War experienced its golden age suffered a “strategic
paralysation” (Deppe 2009: 19). The question is, whether it will recover. On
the one hand, the historian can, in Eduardo Galeano’s (1988[1971]: 11)
word, be compared to a prophet looking back; on the other, the historian
186
must, as Karl Marx pointed out, be wary of “writing recipes […] for the
cook-shops of the future” without knowing which ingredients will be
available (Marx 2007[1867]: 21). Thus, historians – including researchers of
contemporary history – need to be careful when making predictions about
the future. Yet, I hazard to state – against the backdrop of the process
described here – that the type of labour movement that once helped to form
the Golden Age of the post-war era belongs to history and will never again
arise as historical subject – at least not in our part of the world.
187
Welding job at a generator, AEG turbine plant, West Berlin, 9 July 1955 (Bundesarchiv, B
145 Bild-F002761-0001 / Photographer: Brodde)
Computer-based steering of a robot at a youth event, Germany 1988 (Bundesarchiv, B 145
Bild-F077869-0023 / Photographer: Engelbert Reinecke)
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191
8. Solidarity and Diplomacy:
Sweden and the Democratisation
of Poland, 1980–1989
Klaus Misgeld and Karl Molin
How do you relate to a dictatorship? In the Cold War context this general
question took the shape of how Western democracies should approach the
communist Soviet Union and its satellite states. An influential answer
emerged in the 1960s with the ‘Eastern Policy’ (Ostpolitik) as it was defined
during the leadership of Willy Brandt, foreign minister (1966–69) and
chancellor (1969–74) of the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG). The
objective of this policy was to combine stability and security with trustful
relations, open the boundaries to informal contacts and the exchange of
information. Its aim was to focus on areas of consensus, conclude mutually
beneficial agreements, and work for détente in the relations between the
superpowers. The Ostpolitik was manifested in the agreements concluded
by the FRG in Moscow, Berlin, and Warsaw, which confirmed the inviola-
bility of existing borders but also opened up opportunities for increased
relations. It was a policy which, in a period of looming nuclear apocalypse,
was based on the paramount importance of preserving peace. “Peace is not
everything,” said Brandt, “but without peace everything is nothing” (Frieden
ist nicht alles, aber ohne Frieden ist alles nichts) (Geis and Lau 2013; Snyder
2011; Brier 2014).
However, being goals in their own right, peace and stability were also a
prerequisite for change. Contacts with the West would lead to insight in the
East – both among regular citizens and the ruling elite – about the
inefficiency and repressiveness of ‘real socialism’. This realisation was to
lead to liberal and democratic reform, which countries in the West would
endorse. The new policy was encapsulated in 1963 by Egon Bahr in three
words: Change Through Rapprochement (Wandel durch Annäherung). It
193
was a perhaps cunningly subversive strategy, but above all it was a strategy
for peaceful change – for peace and change (Schmidt 2014).
The Ostpolitik of West Germany helped to increase international détente
in the 1970s and laid the foundations for the 1975 Helsinki Final Act, which
brought together all European countries (except Albania) as well as the USA
and Canada. The Final Act was an attempt, in the spirit of Ostpolitik, to
combine stability with change: the signatories recognised the inviolability of
frontiers and also committed to respecting human and political rights and
promoting the free exchange of information across national borders.
But the climate of the late 1970s was conducive to neither peace nor
change. The arms race continued and the military tensions escalated. At the
end of 1979, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan and deployed medium-
range ballistic missiles in Europe, something the USA also threatened to do.
The new US president Ronald Reagan labelled the Soviet Union an ‘empire
of evil’ and pledged to fight communism wherever it appeared.
In this situation, it became necessary to re-evaluate the way in which the
two dimensions of Ostpolitik were inter-balanced. When the risk of war
escalates, prioritising stability at the expense of change may seem like the
right choice. But if, meanwhile, the forces of change voice their demands
and expect support, it may nevertheless be the wrong choice. It was such a
climate of uncertainty that the events in Poland in autumn 1980 brought
about. The fact that the new social movement Solidarity (Solidarność) un-
expectedly managed to establish itself and to challenge not only the Polish
government but all ‘real socialist’ regimes, increased the risk of military
entanglements but also fuelled hopes for reform.
Balancing the line between stability and change was a key concern in
Sweden’s policy towards Poland. Sweden’s Social Democratic Party had
close connections with its West German sister party and had followed the
emergence of the Ostpolitik with approval. This policy was also accepted by
the Swedish centre-right governments of 1976–1982 when assessing
relations with the Soviet Union and its satellite states (Bjereld, Johansson,
and Molin 2008).
However, foreign policy was not shaped only in the corridors of power.
In the 1980s, a strong popular movement emerged in Sweden, firmly
committed to supporting Solidarity and the Polish opposition. This Swedish
activism was multi-layered, embracing trade union and political as well as
church and humanitarian organisations. Strong and sustained help came
from the trade union movement directly and via the International Centre of
the Swedish Labour Movement (AIC). Solidarity activism was a force that
194
8. SOLIDARITY AND DIPLOMACY
profoundly influenced Sweden’s official relations with Poland. In addition

to the Swedish foreign service and foreign ministry, it played a crucial role
in the events examined in this chapter.1
Solidarity and hopes for a new Poland: August 1980 to December 1981
In summer 1980 the Polish government introduced a major increase in the
price of meat. During the 1970s it had financed a relatively high level of
prosperity with sizeable overseas loans, but now believed that it was neces-
sary to raise the prices on heavily subsidised food to keep up with rapidly
rising interest payments, among other things. Workers all over the country
reacted to the rising cost of living with strikes and demonstrations. In the
majority of cases, they went back to work after receiving promises of a pay
increase.
But when the wave of strikes reached Gdańsk on 14 August, the strikers
would not be appeased by pay increases. Workers at the Lenin Shipyard and
other workplaces in the region drew up a list of 21 demands, the most
important of which was the right to form free, independent trade unions.
Under pressure from 70,000 striking workers, the communist party yielded
to most of the demands including free trade unions and on 31 August
signed the Gdańsk Agreement which laid the foundations for the new
Poland. The new trade union movement, named Solidarity, was led by Lech
Wałęsa, an electrician from Gdańsk. It grew at an explosive rate and soon
accumulated some 10 million members. Censorship was relaxed and an
open public debate became possible. Journalists from all over the world
flocked to Warsaw and Gdańsk to cover the Polish miracle (Kemp-Welch
2008; Kubik 2009; Linch 2009; Meszmann 2009; Paczkowski 2003).2
However, the sixteen months leading up to 13 December 1981, when
martial law was declared, was also a period marked by continuous con-
frontations between Solidarity, which demanded that the agreement be
respected, and the regime, which was under pressure from Moscow to stop
the ‘counter-revolution’. The threat of Warsaw Pact troops intervening to
restore order was constantly in the background. Tensions grew in 1981 with
two dramatic congresses: the Communist Party’s in July and secondly
Solidarity’s national congress in September–October. At the former, the
1
This article is based on an upcoming book written by Klaus Misgeld and Karl Molin in
collaboration with Stefan Ekecrantz and Paweł Jaworski. More detailed analysis, sources,
and literature can be found in the book which is scheduled for publishing in 2014.
2
The following accounts of developments in Poland are also based on these works.
195
reformist communists hated by Moscow threatened to seize power; at the

latter, the new movement presented radical political ambitions.
*
The fact that the Polish regime had sensationally recognised Solidarity as a
legal trade union movement and paved the way for reform meant that it was
no longer a clear-cut dictatorship in the eyes of the world. Instead, the
predominant anti-democratisation force in the Polish drama was the
Kremlin, which threateningly showed its displeasure with current events.
The burning question was how much change Moscow could accept before
intervening with military means and if Solidarity should reflect on the risk
that its campaign might lead to a devastating war, a bloodbath at the centre
of Europe. Solidarity also repeatedly stressed that its ambitions were limited
and that its goal was a “self-limiting revolution” within the framework of
the existing socialist system and the alliance with the Soviet Union
(Ascherson 1987 [1981]). A key component in this self-imposed restraint
was that its function was defined as a non-political trade union organi-
sation. Solidarity contacted the International Confederation of Free Trade
Unions (ICFTU) and referenced the International Labour Organisation’s
(ILO) convention – which Poland had ratified – as validation for its activi-
ties (Müller 1988). Solidarity was also careful to emphasise that it operated
independently of sympathisers in the West. It was essential to disprove any
allegations that it was a West-led political movement.3
The Swedish trade union movement made a similar assessment of the
situation and took equivalent precautionary measures in expressing its
support for Solidarity. Firstly, the Swedish Trade Union Confederation
(LO) was consequent in insisting that Solidarity was simply a trade union
movement. It realised, of course, that this was an illusion – an independent
trade union movement was by its nature a challenge to the existing political
system of Poland. But in LO’s view, this was a useful illusion that suggested
that it would not meddle in politics in its contacts with Solidarity but was
devoted exclusively to trade union solidarity. For this reason, LO also
declined the offer of a closer collaboration with representatives of the Polish
3
This was the motivation for Solidarity declining the Swedish foreign minister’s
proposal of a meeting with leading Solidarity representatives, see Cryptogram, 3 June
1981, folder 147, Hp 1 Ep, Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Government Offices
archives (hereinafter FM).
196
Workers’ Defence Committee’s (KOR, founded in 1976) which they

regarded as a political organisation (Misgeld 2009).
Secondly, LO underlined the necessity of fighting the perception that
Solidarity depended on foreign organisations and international support.
The ICFTU’s supporting role was to be downplayed to prevent Solidarity
being perceived as a West-controlled movement.4 Collaboration with Polish
activists living in Sweden and other western countries was to be avoided if
their assets could be construed as coming from LO’s US counterpart, the
American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organiza-
tions (AFL-CIO) and thereby in practice from the US government (which
supported AFL-CIO’s international activities). When it came to specific
arrangements, the ICFTU had to toe the LO line, which was also supported
by other Nordic trade union confederations as well as by the Confederation
of German Trade Unions (DGB). Lech Wałęsa also expressly adopted the
same line.
LO’s third strategy of caution was to remain in the background or, as it
was phrased in the minutes of the international committee meeting on 29
October 1980: “… this measure shall be communicated in Sweden in a
manner that makes it clear that we are transferring funds that have flowed
in spontaneously”, which was also the message to the ICFTU.5 LO’s
approach was reminiscent of the DGB’s in this respect. But LO also wanted
the ICFTU and the International Trade Secretariats (ITS) to keep a low
profile. The high-profile players would be individual trade unions such as
the Swedish Union of Graphical Workers (GF), local trade union
organisations in Sweden, and i-fonden (the Labour Movement’s
International Fund for Solidarity), that is, the fund that the labour move-
ment had set up to fund trade union and democratic movements around
the world. In a circular issued on 15 January 1981, the LO leadership
appealed to all trade union organisations to support Solidarity but observe
“great caution” and be restrictive with disseminating information about it
given the sensitivity of the situation in Poland. Any major fundraising
campaigns would have to wait. In the meantime local organisations and
single trade unions should deposit funds into i-fonden.6
4
U. Asp to G. Nilsson, 10 Dec. 1980: “Överläggning med FFI [ICFTU] om formerna för
stöd till Solidaritet i Polen”, F23:92; F26B:4, LO archives (hereinafter LO), Labour
Movement Archive and Library, Stockholm (hereinafter ARAB).
5
LO’s International Committees minutes, 29 Oct. 1980, A06:7, LO, ARAB; Com-
muniqué to the ICFTU, 31 Oct. 1980, copy/U. Asp, annex, ibid.
6
F26B:2, LO, ARAB.
197
Protected by these precautionary strategies, LO built up an extensive

organisation for supporting Solidarity. In mid-September 1980, LO received
the first trade union report about the movement that would become
Solidarity. It was written by Charles Kassman, editor-in-chief of the Inter-
national Centre of the Swedish Labour Movement’s (AIC) magazine aic-
bulletinen. In mid-September he had been dispatched by the AIC, LO, and
ICFTU. He had previously visited the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk and met
the former strike leaders. But now it was first and foremost his talks with
Lech Wałęsa and Jacek Kuroń, one of KOR’s founders, that were of interest.
They clearly demonstrated the scale of the help that was needed and the size
of practical obstacles that needed to be overcome in order to build up the
strikers’ organisation (Misgeld 2010; Misgeld 2013; Misgeld and Molin 2010).
Other Swedish trade union representatives soon also travelled to Poland
and provided detailed reports about the structure of the new trade union
movement and its help needs. The reports were summarised in articles in
the trade union press. The LO’s leadership and the committee for inter-
national affairs, which was led by LO’s secretary Rune Molin, frequently
discussed the situation in Poland and the help that it could provide. LO
decided to supply printing equipment for disseminating information within
and via Solidarity, something that was absolutely essential at a time when
the possibilities of digital information technology did not exist. The task of
overseeing the Poland project went to the GF and the person appointed to
coordinate its execution was technical ombudsman Ture Mattsson, who
was put on the LO payroll. From 1980 to 1981 he made around twenty visits
in Poland while building up the Solidarity’s printing technology. This was
his chief task and LO’s primary undertaking.7
The printing presses that were delivered were relatively small compared
with the equipment used by the Swedish trade union movement. But this
was in accordance with the recipients’ express requirements. “We need
printing equipment but it must be simple to begin with”, Lech Wałęsa had
explained to Swedish graphical workers when they met him in Gdańsk in
November 1980. A few weeks later, when the deliveries had begun, he
expressed his satisfaction and gratitude: Sweden was the first country to
help Solidarity and it would not be forgotten.8
7
Press release “LOs kontakter med Solidaritet i Polen”, doc. no. 1981-int-133, F09A:3,
LO, ARAB.
8
“Rapport från GF:s andra besök hos ‘SOLIDARNOSC’ i Polen den 3-10/12 1980”,
F26B:1, LO, ARAB. See also Wałęsa’s telegram before the LO congress in 1986: “We will
never forget that the Trade Union Confederation of Sweden was among the first to give
198
In all, LO’s initiative ranked as one of the largest undertaken by any trade
union organisation on behalf of Solidarity (Goddeeris 2013; Domber 2008).
LO paid Ture Mattsson a salary for almost a year, employed a Polish-
speaking secretary, provided premises and funded administrative expenses.
The combined amount of the Swedish initiatives in the LO group up until
December 1981 was in excess of SEK 2 million. It consisted mainly of funds
paid directly by LO and its international solidarity fund.9 The amount can
be compared with other measures during the same period. According to
LO’s administration report for 1981, the organisation’s combined revenue
for 1981 was SEK 252 million, of which 19 million was paid to the LO-
funded or LO-owned daily press, two million went “to LO’s closely-related
international organisations” and 11.6 million to “closely-related Swedish
organisations” (including the Social Democratic Party).10
After reaching an agreement with Lech Wałęsa and the ICFTU’s
secretary general Otto Kersten in November 1980, LO also undertook to
coordinate the help to Solidarity from the ICFTU and its affiliated organ-
isations.
For Swedish diplomatic relations, the trade unions’ commitment to
Solidarity was both encouraging and troubling in a volatile and precarious
situation. The rich abundance of material about the Polish crisis contains
no evidence that the Swedish foreign ministry and embassy in Warsaw were
anything but sympathetic to the trade union involvement. But it does
indicate that there were misgivings about some of the more enthusiastic
union activists not being aware of the risks they were running.
Just before Christmas 1980, when the apprehension of a Soviet invasion
reached a critical point, Ambassador Knut Thyberg in Warsaw discussed
Solidarity’s international contacts with one of the Polish Communist Party’s
foreign policy experts. The latter knew all about Solidarity’s contacts with
LO and had observed that the first aid consignments from outside the
country had come from Sweden. But while he did not object to these
contacts, he insinuated that they might play into Moscow’s hands (i.e.
giving the Kremlin a pretext to intervene), particularly as there was “a
German dimension to the picture”. According to Thyberg, his message was
us their support and help both during our successes and the persecutions we were
subjected to on 13 December 1981” (Landsorganisationen i Sverige s.d. [1987], 495).
9
In 2013 monetary value this corresponds to approximately SEK 5.6 million (Statistics
Sweden/KPI/Price converter). In the LO archive’s Poland volumes (F26B:1-8, LO,
ARAB) there are a number of different summaries.
10
LO (1982), 187, Income Statement, note 11.
199
that the trade union relations should draw the least possible attention and
trade union organisations in the larger NATO countries should preferably
be kept out of the picture altogether. Thyberg wanted this message to be
relayed to LO. Poland’s situation, he wrote, hung on “a very fine thread” (cf.
Molin 2011).11
The Polish Communist Party’s message did not contain anything that
the LO leadership did not already know, in particular that supporting
Solidarity could be a problem both from the perspective of international
détente and for the Polish opposition. The Swedish trade unions were aware
of the risks that the embassy warned about. Despite this, there were
misgivings at the foreign ministry and the Swedish embassy in Warsaw that
Swedish trade union representatives would neither understand nor respect
the “political realities”. The foreign ministry’s line in the discussions with
the Poles was that ‘LO had the freedom to determine its own international
contacts’. However, during the turbulent times in the late autumn of 1980,
when the threat of invasion was seen as imminent, there were several
discussions about whether the Swedish foreign ministry should warn LO
activists and it did so on at least two occasions.12
Both LO and the foreign ministry agreed that support for Solidarity
should be drawn up with great caution to avoid giving the Russians cause to
intervene. But the need for caution also applied to Solidarity. After the
agreement in Gdańsk many commentators, including the Swedish embassy,
believed the time had come for the organisation to consolidate its gains and
try to find a modus vivendi with the regime. The LO leadership’s view of
Solidarity as a non-political trade union movement coincided with hopes for
finding a new balancing point in Polish society. Moderation and caution were
also prescribed by Solidarity’s leaders in the spring and summer of 1981.
However, Solidarity presented a new, more radical profile in September
1981. At the first of its two-part congress, the organisation adopted a series
of subversive proposals, including free elections to the Sejm and worker
self-determination at companies. The delegates also agreed to send an
official greeting to all workers of Eastern Europe who struggled for free
trade unions. Leading Western politicians shared the view that Solidarity
had gone too far. In Willy Brandt’s view, the greeting to Eastern Europe’s
11
Cryptogram, 22 Dec. 1980, folder 140, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
12
Cryptogram Stockholm – Warszawa, 5 Sept. 1980, folder 135, Hp 1 Ep, FM; Crypto-
gram, 15 Sept. 1980, Thyberg, folder 136; memo 16 Sept. 1980, Engdahl, folder 136, Hp 1
Ep, FM; Cryptogram, 7 Nov. 1980, folder 137, Hp 1 Ep, FM; Cipher Stockholm –
Warszawa, 2 Dec. 1980, folder 138, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
200
workers was an act of provocation and meddling in other countries’ internal

affairs. The Danish foreign minister, social democrat Kjeld Olesen,
explained that it was in the West’s interests to prevent Solidarity from con-
tinuing down the beaten path, while Austrian chancellor Bruno Kreisky
appealed to Poland’s workers to stop striking and return to work so that
Austria could receive the deliveries of coal that had been ordered
(Johansson 1981:7f; cf. Boll and Świder 2013; Lorenz 2012:213ff; Rathkolb
2013; Boel 2013).
The critical view of Solidarity’s political move also received some
sympathy at the foreign ministry in Stockholm. In a conversation with the
Canadian ambassador the head of the political department, Lennart
Eckerberg, remarked that “Solidarity should, for its own sake as well as
Poland’s, have stopped and consolidated its gains” instead of making a
number of “purely political demands and proclamations which, in Poland
and Eastern Europe, was very risky”. According to the Canadian represen-
tative, the outlooks of Stockholm and Ottawa were very much in harmony.13
However, from the embassy in Warsaw the critics received no support
whatsoever. In autumn 1980, Ambassador Thyberg was among those who
hoped for compromise and moderation and that the parties in the Polish
struggle would find a new balancing point. But in spring 1981 he began to
accept the movement’s political nature. In May, he described Solidarity as
being “more than a trade union”, namely “a powerful popular movement, a
virtually irresistible protest against an entire system, a political opposi-
tion”.14 After Solidarity’s congress he defended the organisation’s new ra-
dical profile. He argued that, in addition to foreign loans, power-sharing
reforms were necessary to get the country on its feet. The rights that
Solidarity had forced into existence were a step in the right direction and
the congress’s demands for further reforms sparked hopes for the future.15
Thyberg’s view was that Solidarity was not the problem, but rather the
solution.
Within the Swedish labour movement, too, there were those who
disapproved of the idea that Solidarity should conform to the principle of
caution. One of them was Professor Sten Johansson at the Swedish Institute
for Social Research at Stockholm University, who had close contacts with
KOR representatives. In autumn 1981 he and KOR activist Maria Borowska,
13
Memo 1 Oct 1981, folder 151, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
14
Cryptogram, 4 May 1981, folder 145, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
15
Cryptogram, 9 Oct. 1981, folder 151, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
201
who operated out of Sweden, published a brochure in which Brandt’s,

Olesen’s, and Kreisky’s magisterial comments after the congress were
described as “something of a propaganda victory for the Polish government”
(Johansson 1981: 7–8). Like the Polish emigrant groups, Johansson distanced
himself from those who argued that the opposition must restrain itself, given
the risk of the Soviet Union restoring order in Poland with military force.16
As he saw it, out of pure opportunism the western countries had, “in a
manner bordering on the perverse”, adopted a stance of “relative tolerance”
towards the Polish regime (Johansson 1981: 40; cf. Tiden 1982:2: 74–7).
*
In a sense, those who argued in favour of Solidarity continuing to drive new
reforms had history on their side. Previous periods of liberalisation had
been short-lived; the orthodox forces gradually retook lost ground and the
old repressive system was soon back in place. A possible conclusion was
that this time one should not stop until the reforms had come so far that
they were irreversible. But this strategy also increased the risk that those,
who were in a position to lose their privileges would resort to violence and
initiate a bloodbath, which could lead to all-out war. There was no simple
answer to how Solidarity should act: put on the brakes and consolidate its
gains or continue the struggle for new goals. Observers who shared the
same fundamental values arrived at completely different conclusions.
Martial law and isolation: December 1981 to September 1986

At 6 a.m. on 13 December, Wojciech Jaruzelski, supreme commander, prime
minister, and party leader, appeared on TV in his general’s uniform and
announced the imposition of martial law and that a military council had
seized power until further notice. The country, he said, was close to collapse
because of the extensive undermining activity by extremists in Solidarity and
other opposition groups. With the Polish society now standing on the brink
of the abyss, martial law was an unavoidable necessity.
With the coup, General Jaruzelski placed power in the hands of the force
that he knew best and trusted, namely the army. With the assistance of the
security forces, it detained numerous leaders and activists in Solidarity and
other independent organisations. Wałęsa was taken to an unknown location
16
Johansson to R. Molin/LO (copies to the Social Democratic politicians O. Palme and
P. Schori, B. Säve-Söderbergh/AIC and Tiden magazine): “Rapport från resa till
Warszawa 6–10 mars 1981”, F26B:3, LO, ARAB.
202
and put under house arrest. Censorship was tightened and TV stations and
other media were put under surveillance. A number of major firms were
made subject to military law and key positions were given to entrusted
officers. The new order was completed by a trade union act which the Sejm
passed on 8 October 1982. It abolished both Solidarity and the old Com-
munist-controlled trade union organisation, and made Solidarity an out-
lawed organisation.
Resistance to the coup was not as strong as many had anticipated, but
there were demonstrations and strikes. The workers at the Wujek coalmine
in the province of Śląsk (Silesia) were among those who held out the
longest, refusing to give up until the security forces intervened. Eleven
workers had been killed by the time the strike was broken.
*
Irrespective of the motives behind Jaruzelski’s coup, the threat of a Soviet
intervention appeared to be averted, at least for the time being. There was
also a tone of relief in the initial reactions from the West, but virtually no
one expressed support for the coup. With varying degrees of forcefulness
governments condemned the coup. They proclaimed that fundamental
human rights had been violated, provisions of the Helsinki Final Act had
been broken, and a promising change process had been stopped in its
tracks. In terms of Ostpolitik, this could be interpreted as a failure of the
strategy of ‘change through rapprochement’. Instead, most western govern-
ments adopted a stance more along the lines of ‘change through isolation’,
that is, the opposite of Ostpolitik. Virtually unanimously, they formulated
three demands on the Polish regime: repeal martial law, free the prisoners,
and re-establish a dialogue with the opposition. They severed relations with
Poland and made it clear that they would not resume them until their
demands were met. The USA under President Reagan did not stop at
freezing diplomatic relations, but also introduced a number of economic
sanctions against both the Soviet Union and Poland (cf. Sjursen 2003;
Domber 2008).
In this situation, Western diplomats faced new problems regarding what
would be required to thaw frozen relations. For Solidarity’s supporters in
western civil societies, the coup meant that an old problem had been
removed. The question of whether Solidarity went too far in its radicalism
was no longer significant. Rather, the issue now was providing as much
support as possible to a movement that had been deprived of its freedoms of
203
speech and association. On 23 December, Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin

called the Swedish population to give “sizeable contributions” to the aid
programmes organised across the country. The response was strong and
gifts to Poland flooded into the aid stations. SEK 25 million had been
donated before Christmas and the Christmas collection in many churches
went to Polish children. A government order was issued decreeing that
from 29 December, all packages to Poland by post would be sent free of
charge. This increased the aid immediately. From Halmstad, for example,
consignments with a combined weight of more than 50 tonnes arrived on
the first day. The Swedish government placed SEK 10 million at the disposal
of individual organisations’ aid work in Poland. Not since the Second
World War had the country been so strongly involved in helping a neigh-
bouring country (Anno [19]81 1982: 187–9).17
In addition to humanitarian aid, the Polish opposition needed help to
resume its political activities. It duly arrived, thanks largely to groups of
Polish exiles living in Sweden. They worked up opinion, established chan-
nels to the underground Solidarity, and carried out their own direct actions.
They could rely on the self-sacrifice of volunteers but still needed the
support of Swedish society, which they received mainly from the trade
union movement.
The Solidarity Information Office in Sweden functioned as the hub of
the Polish opposition. It was housed inside premises provided by LO in
Stockholm and funded mainly by LO and AIC/i-fonden, and other organi-
sations such as the Swedish Confederation of Professional Employees
(TCO). LO, which clung to the delusion that Solidarity was exclusively a
trade union movement, saw the information office as its sister organisa-
tion’s representative in Sweden. The office began activities on 27 December
1981, two weeks after the coup, and devoted the following years to
spreading information about the situation in Poland, arranging meetings
and demonstrations, drawing up lists of imprisoned activists, organising
humanitarian aid, and even smuggling material to the underground
Solidarity movement. The office’s activities ceased officially at the turn of
1989/90 (Jaworski 2011).
17
Other examples of solidarity action: On 9 January 1982, artists at the Royal Opera
House in Stockholm gave a gala performance for Poland. Before the concert, Anders
Wijkman from the Red Cross read out the preliminary collection results for the day:
60,000 sacks of children’s clothes, 4500 with blankets, more than 200,000 pairs of
children’s shoes, and SEK 8.5 million in cash (Cable Warszawa to Stockholm 1 Feb.
1982, folder 159, Hp 1 Ep, FM).
204
The information office conveyed a substantial portion of the aid to the

Polish opposition, but not all. The AIC conducted its own extensive aid
programme. It consisted of purchases of food, clothes, and other goods for
private use, which were shipped into Poland in trucks. Until the end of
1983, AIC sent 50 fully-loaded trucks.18 While humanitarian aid was com-
pletely legal and acceptable to the Polish regime, deliveries to the under-
ground Solidarity like printing equipment, small radio transmitters, and
literature which began in the spring 1982, were treated as illegally smuggled
goods. Solidarity’s information office played an important role in this
context, but many other organisations and individuals in Sweden and
abroad were also involved, some in collaboration with AIC, others inde-
pendently. The contraband reached Poland in trucks or in small motor or
sailing boats (Jacobsson 2006; Lundström 2011).
The AIC and the information office jointly organised an extensive
‘adoption programme’.19 This meant that associations and individuals took
direct contact with Poles, mainly Solidarity activists’ families, wrote letters
(with no political content), and sent packages. The Swedish postal admini-
stration paid the postage until 1 October 1982, and i-fonden (AIC) paid it
until the end of 1989.20 Addresses in Poland were collected both by the
Catholic Church in Poland and by Solidarity’s information office in
Stockholm. In October 1982 around 250 Polish families had a sponsor in
Sweden via the AIC and i-fonden.
But the AIC and LO were not involved in all the Polish support projects.
The LO leadership maintained its distance from initiatives that it regarded
as ‘political’. This applied particularly to the Poland Solidarity Committee
which had Trotskyist elements, and other ‘Solidarność committees’.21
Relations with the Swedish Solidarity Support Committee in Lund were not
particularly close, and the largely secret Independent Polish Agency (IPA)
which devoted itself mainly to smuggling literature and equipment into
Poland (Heino and Plewa 2007) was kept at even greater distance. The IPA
18
Bengt Colling/AIC “till redaktionen”, Dec. 1983, vol. 11, International Centre of the
Swedish Labour Movement (AIC), ARAB.
19
B. Säve-Söderbergh/AIC, “Rapport från besök i Polen” (17–24 februari 1982), 9 March
1982, F26B:6, LO, ARAB.
20
Letter by AIC: “Adoption of Polish family”, undated (June 1982), F26B:6, LO, ARAB;
message about the programme’s conclusion by J. Hodann/AIC in Dec. 1989, vol. 43,
AIC, ARAB.
21
Material about Polen-Solidaritet (which disbanded in 1984) in the Socialist Party’s
archive, ARAB; Solidarity’s Information Office in Stockholm (hereinafter SIKiS), ARAB,
vol. 149.
205
was funded by the National Endowment for Democracy and was suspected
of collaborating with US government agencies including the CIA (cf.
Domber 2008: 199 ff).22 Its extensive activities were singled out by the
Polish intelligence service for special attention, something that later led to
diplomatic complications.
Like the Social Democratic opposition, the Swedish government
expressed its disgust with the Polish regime’s martial law. It used fairly
abrasive tones and paid no heed to Jaruzelski’s motives for the coup. It had
been conducted, said Ola Ullsten at the Conference on Security and Co-
operation in Europe in Madrid in February 1982, “not to save the nation
but to preserve the privilege of power”. A “genuine revolt of the people” had
been crushed in order to save “a discredited and bankrupt system”
(Documents on Swedish Foreign Policy 1982 [1985]: 14, 15).
It is questionable whether such outright condemnation was consistent
with the bridge-building spirit of Ostpolitik. This question was encapsulated
by the Finnish diplomat Max Jacobson in a column in the Swedish daily
newspaper Svenska Dagbladet. Jacobson argued that while the “policy of
protests and boycotts” had appeased the protesters’ consciences, it had little
impact on the reality that prevailed in Eastern Europe. As he saw it, “only a
policy of continued cooperation can push developments in Eastern Europe
in the direction favoured by western opinion”. Jacobson’s column provoked
a memo at the foreign ministry which, although highly critical of his view,
agreed that Jacobson’s collaborative philosophy was justifiable when it came
to long-term policy. In the short-term, however, it would be treasonous for
western countries not to express their disgust at the way that the Polish free-
dom movement had been crushed. To show any understanding for the
military regime would, it was reasoned, break the spirit of Polish resistance.23
Most people within and outside the foreign ministry seemed to agree in
the condemnation of Jaruzelski’s coup. Initially, Swedish policy was fairly
self-evident. Sweden followed the same line as the other western European
countries: no economic sanctions but a dramatic reduction in diplomatic
contacts. In the first eighteen months after the coup, diplomatic relations
were limited to the routine contacts of embassy officials with the Polish
foreign ministry. There were no visits by cabinet ministers or other pro-
22
The National Endowment has been labelled by Heino and Törnquist-Plewa (2007: 35)
as “an independent American institution”, which was formally correct but hardly in
touch with reality – Discussion with Ture Mattsson, 1 Sept. 2009 (Misgeld).
23
Memo 14 Jan. 1982, Pol 1, S. Ottosson, folder 158, Hp 1 Ep, FM. The article was
published on 13 Jan.
206
minent politicians. Meanwhile, all the Swedish ambassadors in the 1980s

enjoyed healthy contacts with what they occasionally referred to as ‘the
other Poland’, which included the Catholic Church, groups of catholic intel-
lectuals, Solidarity and other independent groups. Solidarity activists such
as Bronisław Geremek, Jacek Kuroń, and Adam Michnik were regular
guests and discussion partners at the Swedish embassy.
The question of whether to relax the visiting boycott was raised for the
first time at the foreign ministry in summer 1983 after the Polish govern-
ment had repealed martial law. But there was no decisive change as the
regime had passed other laws giving itself similar powers. Far more im-
portantly, particularly in the long-term, was that the regime threatened to
put eleven known Solidarity leaders and former KOR members on trial.
That same autumn when it became known that three security police officers
had murdered father Jerzy Popiełuszko, an outspoken, controversial priest
and a strong supporter of Solidarity, interest in normalising relations cooled
even further.
In the following years the Swedish foreign service closely monitored the
Polish government’s policy towards the opposition and calibrated its
visiting policy accordingly. In July 1984 the regime proclaimed a general
amnesty and the imprisoned people were released, and the same year, a
Polish minister was allowed to visit Stockholm for the first time since the
coup. In the summer of 1985 there were signs that the regime had resumed
its harassments of the opposition. This did not prevent the Swedish trade
minister’s planned visit to Poland from going ahead, but the visitors were
encouraged to express the Swedish government’s concern over these
developments.24 Polish proposals about foreign minister’s visits – which
would have been a sign that relations had normalised – met with evasive
replies. However, when the regime proclaimed a general amnesty in Sep-
tember 1986 and explained that no one would be punished for their political
activities, the road to normalisation opened once more. In November 1986
the state secretary for foreign affairs, Pierre Schori, travelled to Warsaw to
prepare for a visit and in June 1987 the Polish foreign minister, Marian
Orzechowski, came to Stockholm.
The adopted visiting policy was comparatively restrained. Sweden had
traditionally played the role of bridge-builder to the East but now lagged
behind several western countries when it came to high-level contacts with
Poland. Within the foreign ministry, the question was raised whether the
24
Memo 18 July 1985, S. Carlsson, folder 182, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
207
Swedish line was too strict. Ambassador Thyberg had in October 1983
pleaded the case for normalising relations and was supported by the foreign
ministry. In December 1984 his successor Örjan Berner pointed out to the
foreign minister that it would not be in Sweden’s interests to be the last
country to resume normal relations. One year later the foreign ministry
noted that Sweden risked slipping into “an increasingly isolated position
among western countries when it came to resuming the exchange of visits at
foreign minister level.”25 One key argument in favour of normalisation was
that the Polish regime had, despite everything, been heading in the right
direction. Jaruzelski was seen as a reformer whose intention was to liberalise
society and enhance economic efficiency within the existing system’s
framework. Moreover, in comparison with other eastern countries that
Sweden had normal relations with, Poland was positively exemplary. One
reporter quoted a common expression at the time: “As bad as the Poles cur-
rently have it, this good will the Russians or Czechs never have it.”26
Another argument, presented in December 1984, was that the Polish
opposition no longer saw any advantages in isolation.27
Despite these repeated proposals for resuming contacts, rapprochement
had to wait. The main reason was Swedish Solidarity activism. In the
internal foreign ministry correspondence, the boycott policy was said to
have the strong support of public opinion and this was also emphasised to
Poles who wished to speed up the normalisation process.
The Polish government was familiar with Sweden’s support for Solidarity
and also complained that it was an illegal organisation which could use the
information office to spread propaganda and arrange demonstrations in
Sweden – with the government’s consent and with funding from the Social
Democratic party and LO. The Poles’ complaints did not prevent them
from demanding diplomatic normalisation, but Solidarity activism made it
harder for the Swedes to accommodate them. In July 1984 Swedish Foreign
Minister Bodström explained to the Polish ambassador that a premature
foreign minister’s visit would provoke a discussion that no one would profit
from.28 In December 1985 and April 1986, various foreign ministry memos
show that the exchange of visits was to a “not inconsiderable extent”
25
Personal letter Berner – Bodström, 6 Dec. 1984, folder 180, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
26
Cryptogram Bonn – Stockholm, 25 Nov. 1982, Backlund, folder 166, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
27
Personal letter Berner – Bodström, 6 Dec. 1984, folder 180, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
28
Memo 2 July 1984, V. Tham, folder 177, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
208
influenced by the strong commitment that Swedish opinion and Swedish

trade union and other organisations felt for Solidarity.29
*
After the imposition of martial law Poland was stable insofar as the risk of a
Soviet military intervention – and thereby an international crisis – was
small. The situation was simply less precarious than it had been before the
coup. Western governments and organisations could now voice their
criticism of the regime and express sympathies for the opposition without
jeopardising peace and stability. This possibility was also seized upon by the
Swedish government which froze the exchange of visits with Poland, and by
Solidarity sympathisers who, in varying forms, gave extensive support to the
Polish opposition. However, there were limits: the government did not take
part in the Reagan administration’s economic sanctions and LO continued
to distance itself from aid projects in which US involvement was suspected.
For both the foreign office and the activists, the intention was to support
the processes that helped to bring change in ‘real socialist’ Poland. For the
foreign office the aim was also – in the spirit of Ostpolitik – to combine
isolation at ministerial level with continued contacts at civil service level.
Sweden was able to clarify its position through routine diplomatic channels;
it could now bring home the point that isolation was linked to its demands
for the cessation of martial law, the release of prisoners, and renewal of
dialogues with the opposition. Problems arose when the Polish government
began to meet these demands. As the regime grew increasingly liberal and
change-oriented in its tone, people began to question whether isolation
served any real purpose. It also became increasingly difficult to justify why
the Swedish prime and foreign ministers visited countries like Yugoslavia,
China, the GDR, Hungary, and the Soviet Union, but refused to set their
feet in the far more liberal Poland.
Solidarity’s return and victory: September 1986 to autumn 1989

In the year after the September 1986 amnesty, General Jaruzelski’s image as
a communist reformist in the spirit of Gorbatjov’s perestroika was
confirmed. In May 1987 the Polish government presented a comprehensive
package of reforms aimed at streamlining bureaucracy, enhancing enter-
29
Memo 6 Dec. 1985, Westerlind, folder 183, Hp 1 Ep, FM; quoted from memo 23 April
1986, Westerlind, folder 185, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
209
prise efficiency, adapting pricing policy to the market, and democratising

the country’s political life. According to a Swedish embassy report, the
regime now aimed at dismantling the socialist command economy. A major
problem was, however, that the initial phase of the programme included
strong austerity measures that brought new tribulations on the already
hard-hit Polish people.
The government failed to win popular support for the programme in a
referendum but nevertheless began to implement it, albeit at a slower pace.
But lack of public confidence impeded all the reform work. The only
political force that the people trusted was Solidarity, which although no
longer threatened with detention, was still fighting to regain its legal status.
All demands for the legalisation of independent unions were rejected on the
grounds that such a union already existed, namely the All-Poland Alliance
of Trade Unions (Ogólnopolskie Porozumienie Związków Zawodowych,
OPZZ) founded in 1986. Government representatives stressed that ‘trade
union pluralism’ was out of the question.30
When strikes broke out in spring 1988 the strikers’ demands included
Solidarity’s legalisation, and a long period of tug-of-war began. A solution
was not reached until January 1989, when the Polish Communist Party’s
reformist leadership succeeded in convincing the conservatives of the
necessity of accepting trade union pluralism. This opened the door for
roundtable discussions which in April culminated in an agreement that
allowed partially free democratic elections to the Sejm in June, and the
establishment of a presidential office. Solidarity regained its legal status in
April 1989.
The elections were held as planned and Solidarity won practically all the
available seats. The opposition’s success was greater than expected and this
caused problems for the newly elected parliament. A major challenge was
putting together a majority that was prepared to appoint General Jaruzelski
as president, something the parties had agreed on at the roundtable
discussions. On 19 July he was elected with the narrowest possible margin.
On 24 August, the longstanding Solidarity advisor Tadeusz Mazowiecki was
elected prime minister with an overwhelming majority.
30
Cryptogram Warszawa – Stockholm, 4 May 1988, Öberg, folder 198; letter Warszawa
– Stockholm, 20 June 1988, Anderman, folder 199; see e.g. Cryptogram Warszawa –
Stockholm, 20 Aug. 1988, folder 201, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
210
*
The amnesty in 1986 simplified contacts between LO, AIC, and Solidarity.
Solidarity now needed help to solve the new tasks that confronted it; mainly
the fight for legalisation and preparations for its existence as a legal
organisation. LO helped preparing Solidarity for competition with the
‘official’ trade union OPZZ by providing funding to Solidarity’s ‘initiative
committees’ (which were similar to the plant unions in Sweden) at ten
workplaces. Discussions were held by i-fonden’s executive committee about
continuing the aid programmes to Poland, “which could be expected to
total SEK 650,000–700,000 on an annual basis” (February 1988), but no im-
mediate limitations were as yet prescribed.31 TCO again provided additional
support funding.32
One way to increase the contact network and to help with training and
information was to invite Polish trade union activists on a study visit to
Sweden. In June 1987, the trade union secretariat funded a two-week visit
for ten Solidarity members via the Solidarity Information Office in Sweden.
The guests were to receive training for roles as advisors in social and
economic affairs, including tax issues.33 The group visited the LO, TCO,
local associations, and various companies.34 Wałęsa was also informed and
expressed his gratitude to LO in a letter.35 Several similar courses were
arranged after Solidarity’s legalisation. In spring 1989, LO also allocated
SEK 1 million from i-fonden to fund a new printing press for Solidarity.
Moreover, LO provided an additional SEK 500,000 from its own
international solidarity fund for the training of Polish graphical workers.36
The work of Swedish diplomats in Poland changed too as a result of the
1986 amnesty. If contacts with the regime had previously been on a low
level and contacts with the opposition had been erratic due to its har-
assment, the goal now was to establish stable contacts with both sides.
When State Secretary Schori announced in Warsaw in November 1986 that
31
I-fonden’s executive committee (styrelse), minutes, 16 Feb. 1988, vol. 2, i-fonden,
ARAB.
32
TCO’s executive committee decided on 22 Feb. 1988 to provide SEK 150,000 to
Solidarity; note to Solidarity’s information office, 26 Feb. 1988, SIKiS vol.121, ARAB.
33
LO secretariat minutes 15 June 1987, the LO doc. no. 1987-int-187, LO, ARAB.
34
Programme, lists of names and budget, doc. no. 1987-int-187 (340), F09A:60,63, LO,
ARAB.
35
Gdańsk, 1 Sept. 1987; Swedish and Polish text and cover letter from the Swedish
foreign ministry to the LO (22 Sept. 1987) and from the LO to the LO secretariat’s
members on 19 Oct. 1987, F09A:60, LO, ARAB.
36
LO secretariat’s, minutes 20 Nov. 1989, F09A:88, LO, ARAB.
211
Sweden would pursue a “parallel contact policy” his mission was to prepare
the Polish foreign minister’s visit to Stockholm but also to meet three Soli-
darity advisors: Geremek, Onyszkiewicz, and Sliwinski. He explained to
them that resuming the exchange of government-level visits did not mean
that they would break off contacts with Solidarity and other independent
groups. Geremek commented that no one was interested in isolating Poland
with its traditional ties with the west and with Sweden, which it did not
wish to break. Geremek also expressed his appreciation for the fact that the
Swedish ambassador and embassy had succeeded in maintaining close
contacts with civil society without disrupting official relations.37
The Polish foreign minister did not appear to have any objection to
Schori’s contacts with the opposition and it can be noted that Jaruzelski
later explained to the Swedish ambassador since 1987, J.-C. Öberg, that he
recognised that a foreign emissary must listen to all the parties in a national
crisis such as the one in Poland.38 But despite this, complications arose and
again they were rooted in Swedish Solidarity activism. The Support Com-
mittee for Poland and its semi-secret smuggling organisation, IPA, made
the newspaper headlines in December 1986 when one of its truck con-
signments, fully loaded with equipment for Solidarity’s underground prin-
ting presses, was stopped by Polish customs. The driver, Lennart Järn, was
sentenced by a Polish court to two and a half years of imprisonment at the
beginning of 1987. He was released on bail after a few months. But the
‘truck affair’ was not good for the thawing Swedish–Polish relations. When
Ambassador Berner met General Jaruzelski at a New Year’s reception in
1987, he had to suffer a minor chastisement. The General explained to him
in “fairly impassioned” tones that neutral Sweden should be more accom-
modating than the NATO countries. To get a clearer picture of the cause of
his dissatisfaction, Berner turned to the general’s Chief of Cabinet who
handed him a list of Swedish transgressions. Illegal goods smuggling to the
opposition featured prominently on the list and Järn’s confiscated truck
cargo received special mention. Other complaints included the “overzealous
trade embargo” (i.e., that an export ban would be imposed on goods to
Poland if they contained even the tiniest American component) and – also
attributable to Solidarity activism – “shallow and amateurish” reporting
about Poland in the Swedish press (the journalist Richard Swartz was listed
as an exception). Jaruzelski argued that while Sweden was a country that
37
Cryptogram, 1 Dec. 1986, Berner, folder 188, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
38
Cryptogram Warszawa – Stockholm, 30 Oct. 1988, Öberg, folder 203, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
212
should lead the way in improving relations with Poland, in reality it lagged
far behind.39
Consequently, when foreign minister Orzechowski arrived in Stockholm
six months later, the visit proceeded in a positive spirit but the guests also
took the opportunity to voice the Polish complaints. According to them, the
portrayal of Poland in the Swedish mass media had admittedly improved
but was still unsatisfactory. “Poland was often presented in a one-dimen-
sional manner which was inaccurate.” The truck driver affair, he said, was
the result of the illegal activities of emigrant circles which had put a strain
on bilateral relations. The Swedish foreign minister replied that he did not
support those who conducted subversive activities in other countries.40
When the Poles complained about the illegal smuggling, they said that
they were aware that Järn’s transport was part of a larger operation. They
knew this because the Polish secret service had monitored the Swedish
Support Committee’s activities. Their informers in Malmö and Ystad pro-
vided information about what was being smuggled and by whom (Ekéus
2002: 117). But the Swedish intelligence service was also in place, super-
vising the activities of the Polish agents. As a result, two Poles, employees at
the General Consulate in Malmö, were expelled in January 1988 due to
unlawful intelligence activities. The Polish government responded by
expelling the Swedish cultural attaché at the embassy in Warsaw, Hans
Amberg.41 The Polish criticism of the smuggling affair may have been the
regime’s way of establishing that even though it put up with its opponents
receiving support from Sweden, there were still limits. The Swedish
government could only agree.
The Polish regime’s acceptance of the parallel contact policy was partly
reflected in the fact that its own contacts with the opposition had improved,
first through personal invitations to Wałęsa, then through promises of
legalisation. But it was also an expression of the regime’s interest in im-
proving relations with all western countries, irrespective of whether they
were in contact with the opposition. If there was specific interest in Sweden,
it mainly concerned what was labelled the Swedish or Scandinavian model.
It was an attractive alternative for those who wished to abolish the
centralised socialist economy without ending up with unregulated capi-
talism (Misgeld 2011). In Öberg’s reports from 1988–89, Jaruzelski appears
39
Cryptogram, 23 Jan. 1987, Berner, folder 189, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
40
Memo, 24 July 1987, Åhlander, folder 191, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
41
See telegram Warszawa – Stockholm, 12 Dec. 1988, Öberg; Cryptogram Öberg, 13 Jan.
1988, and cipher Stockholm – Warszawa, 13 Jan. 1988, folder 194, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
213
as an admirer of Swedish domestic and foreign policy, and both the

regime’s representatives Mieczysław Rakowski and Józef Czyrek, and oppo-
nents Bronisław Geremek and Janusz Onyszkiewicz were described as social
democrats of the Scandinavian kind.42
At any rate, the parallel contact policy appears to have been successful
and enabled Swedish diplomacy to win the confidence of both the regime
and the opposition. It reached its peak during the weeks following the
sensational parliamentary elections in June when the embassy had frequent
contact with both parties in the negotiations that were being held. Many of
these contacts took place at the Swedish embassy, which is very close to the
president’s residence at Belweder castle. The embassy also served as a
meeting place for the regime and Solidarity. On two occasions, 17 and 28
June, Czyrek, who was generally known to be the regime’s second-in-
command and Geremek, the top Solidarity advisor, held discreet meetings
in the privacy of the Swedish embassy to discuss both the presidential
election, and the formation of a government. At the former occasion, the
discussion was mainly about how they could get a majority to vote for
Jaruzelski as president despite the fact that Solidarity and even many in the
agrarian United People’s Party (Zjednoczone Stronnictwo Ludowe), one of
the regime’s supporting parties, were against him. According to Öberg’s
report, Geremek undertook to make sure that a number of members in
Solidarity’s parliamentary group would abstain from voting so that the
necessary majority could be achieved.43
It is difficult to determine what actual significance these talks had on the
solution of the political crisis in Poland after the parliamentary elections.
Judging from Öberg’s reports, however, this “technical aid”– to use his own
term – was accepted with great gratitude. Jaruzelski, who like Wałęsa had
approved the talks in advance, said that it should be remembered that in a
critical situation, Sweden had shown Poland friendship and trust. He said
that this was exactly how he envisaged the essence of Swedish foreign policy
“to be available when it was needed the most”.44
42
Cryptogram Öberg, 17 June 1988, folder 199; Cryptogram Warszawa – Stockholm, 19
June 1989, Öberg, folder 210; Cryptogram Warszawa – Stockholm, 25 Aug. 1989, Öberg,
folder 212, Hp1 Ep, FM.
43
Cryptogram Warszawa – Stockholm, 19 June 1989, Öberg, folder 210; Cryptogram
Warszawa – Stockholm, 29 June 1989, Öberg, folder 210; Cryptogram Warszawa –
Stockholm, 1 July 1989, Öberg, folder 210, Hp1 Ep, FM.
44
Cryptogram Warszawa – Stockholm, 29 June 1989, Öberg, folder 210, Hp 1 Ep, FM.
214
*
During the last few years leading up to Poland’s systemic shift, Sweden
sought good diplomatic relations with both parties in the Polish conflict
and succeeded in getting them. The Swedish embassy had long enjoyed
good personal relations with several leading Solidarity activists and held
occasional discussions with Wałęsa. These ties were naturally strengthened
by the concrete aid that Solidarity still received from Sweden, not least from
the trade union movement. Its relations to the regime went through a slight
crisis after the smuggling affair but both parties were reticent to let it
damage their cooperation in the long-term. Reports from the Swedish
embassy indicate that there were close contacts in a friendly atmosphere.
Sweden’s diplomacy in Poland represents an example of successful bridge-
building, although the question, how important this bridge was for Poland’s
development more exactly, is difficult to answer on the basis of the current
state of research.
Sweden’s path
There were strong ties between Sweden’s and West Germany’s social
democrats and the Swedes whole-heartedly endorsed the new Ostpolitik.
However, during Poland’s democratisation in the 1980s, Sweden and West
Germany went separate ways. The main difference arose out of their
relations to the Polish opposition.
West Germany’s Ostpolitik, which promoted both stability and change,
met with early scepticism in Polish dissident circles, who wanted the com-
munist regime to be put under as much pressure as possible by the outside
world. Their misgivings increased in the years after Jaruzelski’s coup in
December 1981. They wondered why Willy Brandt and the Social Demo-
cratic Party of Germany (SPD) were so tolerant of martial law and so quick
to normalise relations with the regime, and why they had so little contact
with Solidarity. This criticism reached its peak in conjunction with Brandt’s
visit to Poland in December 1985 where he held respectful discussions with
Jaruzelski but did not meet Wałęsa. The fact that the SPD had exerted
pressure on the regime behind the scenes did not appease the critics. Many
of the dissidents preferred the policy of Reagan’s USA with aggressive
rhetoric, economic sanctions, and frozen diplomatic relations (Brier 2014;
Rother 2010).
From the outset, Sweden’s policy was characterised by the trade union
movement’s contacts, first with the striking workers in Gdańsk and then the
215
Solidarity movement. Even after the strong popular support for Poland had
died down LO and AIC continued supporting the Polish opposition in
different ways. Swedish diplomats in Warsaw followed a similar path; they
quickly established contacts with Solidarity and other anti-regime groups.
In their reports they declared that they viewed contacts with ‘the other
Poland’ as a key part of the embassy’s mission. As opposed to Brandt and
the SPD, the Swedish line entailed significantly more contacts with Soli-
darity and other opposition groups.
The Polish opposition hoped for Sweden to help mend the broken
relationship to the SPD. Representatives of Solidarity made overtures to the
Swedish Social Democratic Party, the LO, and the foreign ministry on
several occasions for this purpose. In January 1986, shortly after Brandt’s
visit to Poland, an emissary from the underground Solidarity movement
found himself at the foreign ministry in Stockholm and talked about the
“infinite disappointment” that the visit had caused. He now wanted
Sweden’s help to organise the long-awaited dialogue with the SPD.45 But
what these and other similar talks resulted in is unclear.
As opposed to their US colleagues, Swedish diplomats also had regular
contact with the regime’s officials in the years after the coup. One
ingredient that recurred in contacts with the Poles was their wish to
improve relations in the form of the exchange of visits at the political level.
Occasionally they held up neutral Austria as an example that Sweden
should follow; its government had quickly resumed normal diplomatic
relations. Sweden’s reply consisted of the same three component parts: that
it shared Poland’s hopes about improved relations, that the Swedish
criticism of martial law, imprisonments, and suppressed dialogue with the
opposition was well-known, and that it was too early to return to normal.
The tone of these talks, as they are described in the reports, was frank but
not ill-natured.
However, the boycott on visits could not continue forever and in the
autumn of 1984 the Swedish foreign ministry and the embassy began to
consider a cautious normalisation of relations. It happened, although
slowly, and when the Poles complained, the foreign minister and foreign
ministry officials referred them to Swedish opinion’s strong commitment
45
Memo 30 Jan. 1986, M. Westerlind, folder 184, Hp 1 Ep, FM. Solidarity also requested
O. Palme for mediation assistance for Brandt and the SPD, see S. Johansson and M.
Borowska to Palme (et al.), “Rapport i tio punkter från Polenbesök den 1–4 nov. 1985”,
undated, 3.2:439, Olof Palme’s archive, ARAB.
216
for Solidarity. When the exchange of visits at top-level were finally prepared
in autumn 1986 it took the form of the state secretary’s trip to Warsaw
where he visited both the foreign ministry and leading Solidarity activists.
The Swedish line of striving for trustful relations with both parties in the
Polish drama received high recognition from Jaruzelski’s and Wałęsa’s
emissaries when they met at the Swedish embassy for discrete talks. Even if
the actual significance of these talks is difficult to assess, they nevertheless
stand as a solid expression of a policy that, in the spirit of Ostpolitik, paved
the way for peaceful change.
217
(Top) Demonstration outside the Lenin Shipyard, 13 Dec. 1981 (Labour Movement Archives
and Library / photo: Solidarity Information Office in Stockholm)
(Bottom) Solidarność activists in the internment camp in Strzebielinek, Aug. 1982 (Labour
Movement Archives and Library / photo: Solidarity Information Office in Stockholm)
(Top) Ture Mattsson of the Graphics Industry Union demonstrates a printing press donated
by the Swedish Trade Union Confederation to Polish colleagues, 1981 (Labour Movement
Archives and Library / photo: Grafia 21–22 / 1981)
(Bottom) Pro-Solidarność demonstration in Sweden (Labour Movement Archives and

Library / photo: Solidarity Information Office in Stockholm)
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222
Part 3: Gendered Identities
9. Gender Equality Policies:
Swedish and Lithuanian Experiences
of Nordic Ideas
Eva Blomberg, Ylva Waldemarson & Alina Žvinklienė
The issue of human rights has been discussed and institutionalised ever
since its origins in the political philosophy of Enlightenment. In the early
days, this concerned the rights of a small, well-educated group, but gradual-
ly came to comprise an increasing number of individuals. Researchers use
the term ‘expanding circle’ (Singer 2011; Hunt 2007: 16–21; Ishay 2004).1
Since 1948, when the United Nations adopted the Universal Declaration of
Human Rights, both the concept of rights and the UN have often been
addressed by social movements and when people experienced injustice
(Donnelly 2013: ch. 1; Hunt 2007: 207–8; Young 2000). The concept of
‘human rights’ has gradually become accepted in global politics, at least on
the level of principles, and has attained a prominent position in official
rhetoric. This change in political discourse has given individuals new formal
means for holding states, collectives, and perpetrators accountable for
violations of human rights, that is, discrimination or infringement (Gell-
horn 1966; Roth 2007). The global institutionalisation of human rights has
thus on the one hand created an international context in which politics and
legal practice are kept apart from each other while on the other hand
human rights have acquired greater legitimacy and improved the living
conditions of many people (Hafner-Burton and Tsutsui 2005).
Today, gender equality is considered to be one of the democratic values
that constitute the human rights discourse. Gender equality has thereby
been transformed from a controversial, and sometimes rejected, claim to a
1
For a discussion about the different definitions and use of the concept of human rights
see, for example, Robertsson and Khondker 1998; Therborn 1998; Thörn 2000.
225
PART 3. GENDERED IDENTITIES
meta-concept endorsed in global political discourse, if not necessarily in

equal measure in practical policy making.
Theoretical and empirical starting points

The present widespread discourse of human rights has been analysed
through theories addressing the complicated relationship between rights,
their infringement, and acknowledgement. According to the philosopher
Axel Honneth, individuals who feel their rights are violated because they are
different from others signal alienation, non-citizenship, and a crisis in
democracy. The institutional management of rights is therefore of parti-
cular significance to democratic states, collectives, and, not least, individuals
themselves (Honneth 2007).
The philosopher Nancy Fraser, for her part, maintains that insisting on
the acknowledgement of various forms of diversity has fuelled the struggle
for group identity, a process by which established class interests have been
replaced by multifarious group identities as a basis for political mobili-
sation. According to Fraser, concepts such as interests, exploitation, and
redistribution therefore disappear from the political agenda. Instead of
experiencing discrimination and infringement collectively and channelling
the response into political movements, as in the late 1800s, reactions are
now channelled into individual feelings. The problem that this shift gives
rise to concerns whether rights should be interpreted socially or culturally,
and the political measures that this implies. With regard to social conflicts,
solutions are to be sought in the field of redistributive politics; when moral
conflicts arise, however, the solution might be acknowledgement politics
(Fraser 2003).
Gender equality policy and its implementation and institutionalisation
are highly significant to these theoretical discussions. A study of equal
opportunity ombudsman institutions and of gender equality politics in a
wider sense provides a good starting point to analyse the dilemmas that
arise with altered bases for discrimination from the perspective of interests,
identities, collectives, and gender. It is also a good starting point for analyses
of the influence of the human rights discourse on the understanding, use,
and change of gender equality policies (Krizsan, Skjeie, and Squires 2012;
Squires 2007; Young 2000; Scott 1988/1996).
As the sociologist Håkan Thörn (2000: 22) suggests, a question of vital
importance for the human rights discourse is by whom these rights are
defined and who it is that interprets their application once stipulated and
226
9. GENDER EQUALITY POLICIES
institutionalised. The only way to give a proper answer is by means of

empirical studies. Such studies must also take into consideration the impact
of the historical, political, and economical contexts in which human rights
are applied and institutionalised (ibid. 23).
This chapter addresses two major issues by means of three case studies.
The first issue is how the Nordic Council and the Nordic Council of Mini-
sters spread ideas and institutions in the field of gender equality to the
Baltic States and by doing this also promote a ‘Nordic gender equality
model’. The other issue concerns how gender equality is institutionalised;
here examined in two case studies on the establishment of equal oppor-
tunities ombudsmen in Sweden and Lithuania, respectively. The ombuds-
man institution itself has become a Nordic model for conflict resolution
that is lacking in countries relying only on legislation (Nielsen 1990) and
the Nordic equal opportunities ombudsman model has also been copied
elsewhere.2
Case study 1: Gender equality the Nordic way

By having been incorporated in the idea of human rights, gender equality is
nowadays counted among the democratic values that put states under
pressure of political reform. While there are a large number of international
actors who wish to influence the field of gender equality, there is no
consensus about how to define it. Rather, there is an on-going struggle for
the power to determine the content of the concept. In this struggle, the
Nordic countries try to convince international audiences to practise gender
equality according to their standards. This mission is part of the political
agenda of the Nordic Council and the Nordic Council of Ministers.3
Both organisations often refer to a joint Nordic political model and from
the late 1960s this model gradually began to include gender equality politics.
However, despite similarities in the gender equality policies pursued by
individual Nordic countries, there are also significant differences. More-
over, there is no national consensus as political parties have different agen-
das with regard to gender equality. The model of gender equality as pre-
2
As regards the Nordic Council and Nordic Council of Ministers, the ombudsman
institution is seen as one component in a more comprehensive Nordic gender equality
model.
3
The members of both institutions are Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway, and
Sweden. The autonomous territories Faroe Islands, Greenland, and Åland are also
represented. The Nordic Council is an inter-parliamentary body. The Nordic Council of
Ministers is a forum for governmental cooperation.
227
sented by the Nordic Council and the Nordic Council of Ministers is thus
an outcome of political discussions and compromises. Furthermore, this
model has changed, for instance through the shift from a collectively
designed gender equality policy that aimed for general implementation to a
liberal policy that views gender equality as an option that individuals may
realise. Another apparent change is the expansion of topics embraced by the
model. Over the last decade, gender, together with categories such as
ethnicity, race, and sexuality, has been incorporated in the concept of multi-
discrimination.4 This illustrates that gender equality politics is the result of a
political struggle over the power to define its content.
Since the late 1980s the Baltic States have undergone various economic
experiments, and countless projects have been designed to emulate western
institutions and strengthen democracy. Although there has always been a
Nordic interest in this region, the collapse of the Soviet Union and the
independence of the Baltic States brought a revival. According to the Nordic
Council and the Nordic Council of Ministers, one incentive behind the co-
operation that emerged was to support democratisation and the
development of a civic society as well as to support the institutionalisation
of human rights.5 Since then, the cooperation has expanded and it is now
institutionalised in numerous international, national, regional, and local
bodies, organisations, and networks. Moreover, the Nordic Council of
Ministers maintains offices in Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius in order to
facilitate the implementation of this cooperation (Nordic–Baltic 2001;
2004a; 2004b; Guidelines 2010a; Kütt 2008; Peltonen 2012; Kharkina 2013:
75; International Co-operation 2013).
Despite stressing that the cooperation with the Baltic States should be
characterised by mutuality, the Nordic Council and the Nordic Council of
Ministers often act as if they alone are aware of solutions to various political
problems (Nordic–Baltic 2001; 2004a; 2004b; Guidelines 2010a; Kütt 2008;
Gender Equality – the Nordic Way 2010; International Nordic Region 2013).
4
The conclusions in this paragraph are mainly based on the annual sector programmes
for cooperation on gender equality that are produced by the Nordic Council of
Ministers, available from: http://www.norden.org/sv/publikationer/publikationer. For a
broader discussion, see Bergqvist 1999; Bergqvist et al. 1999; Bergqvist and Jungar 2000;
Bergqvist, Adman, and Jungar 2008; Kütt 2008; Kön och makt i Norden I 2009; Melby,
Ravn, and Carlsson Wetterberg 2009; Kön och makt i Norden II 2010; Gender Equality –
the Nordic Way 2010; Blomberg, Waldemarson, and Wottle 2011.
5
Other reasons for the interest in this region were linked to security, defence, and
financial reasons, see Aylott, Johansson, and Simm 2011/12; Harvard 2011/12; Piirimäe
2011/12; Strang 2012; Kharkina 2013: 75; Björkman, Fjæstad, and Harvard 2011/12;
Peltonen 2012.
228
Statements that the Nordic countries and the Baltic States shall jointly
promote the northern dimension of gender equality do not rule out the
former being regarded as more equal than the latter to determine the
political content of this dimension. A publication by the Nordic Council of
Ministers illustrates the asymmetric relationship:
Singled out as the most gender-equal societies in the world, the Nordic
countries have contributed essentially to developing their Baltic
neighbours’ understanding of the goal of gender equality so we can truly
work together to achieve it (Kütt 2008: 7).
Furthermore, Nordic representatives’ expectation to determine the political

definition of gender equality is often based on ideas about a specific Nordic
identity. Statements about a joint Nordic identity, based on shared values,
deeply rooted in a common history, has always characterised the Nordic
Council and the Nordic Council of Ministers. However, such statements
have become increasingly entrenched over the last decade. The value par
excellence is referred to as a common understanding of democracy, but
shared social values, or, more vaguely, a set of shared values are also
mentioned. Gender equality is pointed out as one of the democratic values
that characterise the Nordic countries (Copyright Norden 2008; Kütt 2008;
Gender Equality – the Nordic Way 2010; Nordic Co-operation 2011; Burch
2011/12; Harvard 2011/12; Strang 2012: 87–9; Nordic Council – Our Council
2012; Kharkina 2013). Therefore the affiliation with the Nordic identity
discourse has severe consequences for how gender equality is discussed,
legitimised, and presented to the world.
The two Nordic councils’ cooperation with the Baltic States in the field
of gender equality aims to achieve several political goals. First, it is intended
to inspire these countries to implement gender equality the Nordic way.
Second, once this goal is achieved, a more ambitious goal is to strengthen
the position of the policy in Northern Europe at large. A third aim is to
extend its influence to global political arenas (Guidelines 2010b). These
aspirations can be interpreted in two ways. One is to understand them as
resulting from a sincere wish to make the world a more democratic place,
based on the conviction that Nordic gender equality politics may contribute
to such a change. The other is that the Nordic commitment in this field is
prompted by the expectation that gender equality might also serve as a door
opener for other goals such as strengthening Nordic influence in inter-
229
national arenas. These interpretations represent complementary aspects of

the Nordic interest in the Baltic States.
On the one hand, an examination of activities initiated by the Nordic
Council and the Nordic Council of Ministers shows that gender equality is a
political field of vital interest. This is to a large extent the merit of individual
politicians in this field, many of whom have a genuine concern for gender
equality (Kütt 2008). It is also evident that official Nordic cooperation has a
considerable influence on the policy field of gender equality, especially with
regard to the spread of ideas. Conferences, workshops, and seminars funded
by the Nordic Council and the Nordic Council of Ministers function as
arenas for politicians, civil servants, scholars, experts, feminist activists,
trade unions, lobby groups, various networks, and non-governmental orga-
nisations (NGOs). The conferences arranged within the framework of
Nordic–Baltic gender equality cooperation since 1998 have contributed to
the exchange of ideas on gender equality (Nordic–Baltic 2001; 2004a; 2004b;
Kütt 2008; Peltonen 2012).
However, on the other hand gender equality may also be used as a means
for other political goals, in particular the strengthening of the international
influence of the Nordic countries. The frequent assertion that gender equality
is a vital part of Nordic identity suggests that this is sometimes the case.
During the last decade ‘globalisation’ has held a prominent position on
the political agenda of the Nordic Council and the Nordic Council of
Ministers and it is evident that this phenomenon is seen as a challenge to
Nordic international influence (Meeting Change 2008). As Nordic co-
operation is built on transnational principles, the present process of Euro-
peanisation, with its transfer of political power from the national and inter-
governmental level to the supranational level of the European Union (EU),
is regarded as another challenge. This has been reinforced by Estonian,
Latvian, and Lithuanian EU accession in 2004 (Meeting Change 2008; Kütt
2008; Globaliseringsredogörelse 2008; Ketels 2009; Nordic Council – Our
Council 2012; Peltonen 2012; International Nordic Region 2013).
As the EU has generally perceived the Nordic countries as political
models as regards gender equality, Baltic EU-membership might have been
expected to strengthen Nordic influence. Nevertheless, it is questionable
whether the Nordic understanding of gender equality is currently accepted
as the main inspiration of EU policy. As matters stand today, there is a
considerable gap in opinions among EU members concerning gender
equality – a gap that has widened with the entrance of some of the newer
members (Harvard 2011/12).
230
The Nordic Council and Nordic Council of Ministers discuss a number of

ways to meet the experienced threats to Nordic international influence. One
is to strengthen the already existing Nordic cooperation (Harvard 2011/12:
17; Wetterberg 2010), another to support a political development that
contributes to growth and stability in Northern Europe at large. In this
respect, cooperation with the Baltic States is given a prominent role
(Harvard 2011/12: 19). A third way is to exert influence by assuming the
role of international political actors within the present process of a global
institutionalisation of human rights. As gender equality is nowadays
recognised as an essential part of human rights, any state that wishes to gain
international respect and influence needs to endorse gender equality. If
Nordic gender equality is associated with an advanced democratic position
and an internationally admired standard, this might strengthen the Nordic
position in international political arenas (Towns 2009; Nordic Co-operation
2011; Aylott, Johansson, and Simm 2011/12; Burch 2011/12; Kharkina 2013;
Nordic Model 2013; for a general discussion of utilitarian policies see de los
Reyes, Eduards, and Sundevall 2013). It is probably this intention that
explains, at least partly, the frequent use of the notion of Nordic identity in
the field of gender equality. The identity discourse is thus a way to convince
the world of how deep-rooted gender equality is in the Nordic countries.
However, apparently self-evident talk about identity and shared values
seems to imply that the struggle for gender equality has already been won,
first in the Nordic countries and then, with their assistance, in the Baltic
States. It communicates that gender equality has a given political content,
thereby concealing that this policy is an outcome of political discussions,
conflicts, and compromises. It also obscures the fact that the idea of gender
equality has met resistance during a long period of time also in the Nordic
countries. Consequently, the identity rhetoric disarms gender equality some
of its political force. Instead of taking the Nordic identity in this respect for
given, the discourse of gender identity needs to be re-examined, for example
by asking to what extent the concept of gender equality can be associated
with different political content and still claim to be a part of the Nordic
model of gender equality.
Case study 2: The Swedish equal opportunities ombudsman

Traditionally, human rights have not played a major role in the consensus-
oriented Nordic societies. In the 1930s, when the trade unions made
agreements with employers to regulate the labour market and decide on the
231
common rights and obligations, the emphasis was on the collective (Bruun
1990: 17; Nielsen and Halvorsen 1990: 261). All the Nordic states developed
a system defining the obligations of the state, while little attention was paid
to the rights of individuals (Staaf and Zanderin 2011). Therefore, when
Sweden was asked to accept and incorporate international conventions on
human rights, the process was often not entirely painless. The UN declared
1975 to be International Women’s Year, and under its auspices the World
Conference on Women was held in Mexico. The conference adopted a
world action plan with recommendations to enhance gender equality be-
tween men and women. The Swedish delegation was active in this con-
nection and proposed a number of provisions, all of which were adopted by
the conference. Sweden was represented by all political parties and Prime
Minister Olof Palme contributed to the general debate (Sandberg 1975: 79–
81). Gender equality had been put on the global agenda and the process was
begun by which the UN made gender a matter of international law (ibid.).
In 1979, the General Assembly of the United Nations adopted the
Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women and
Sweden ratified it the following year.
Around the same time, the Swedish parliament passed an act against
gender discrimination and in 1980 it set up an entirely new type of author-
ity: the Equal Opportunity Ombudsman (Jämställdhetsombudsmannen).
With the establishment of this ombudsman, Sweden subscribed to an
international legislative trend in which human rights for individuals are
safeguarded in an increasing circle of prohibition of discrimination on
grounds of identity (Ishay 2004). However, the activities of the Equal
Opportunities Ombudsman were limited to the labour market and had to
comply with existing labour legislation. This was not the only restriction as
collective agreements applied to around 90 per cent of the labour market and
the labour market parties were quick to include clauses that were not binding
but which kept the ombudsman outside their sphere. The latter called this a
policy of ‘severed hands’ (Jämsides 4/1988: 2; 2/1989: 4; 3/1990: 6).
Political scientist Katarina Tollin argues that the legislation was made
innocuous and that the ombudsman lacked any real authority. The com-
promise for establishing the Gender Discrimination Act was that it was to
be more or less voluntary. This situation changed in 1994, when the om-
budsman was entitled to intervene in the labour market, and in 2001, when
232
the authority of the ombudsman was expanded (Tollin 2011: 64–79).6 In

2009, a new authority was created, the Equality Ombudsman (Diskrimi-
neringsombudsmannen, literally ‘Discrimination Ombudsman’) with res-
ponsibility not only for discrimination on the grounds of gender but also
ethnicity, religion or other belief, disability, sexual orientation, and age.
The Swedish Equal Opportunities Ombudsman has been continuously
involved in Nordic cooperation via the Nordic Council, the Nordic Council
of Ministers, and meetings with Nordic colleagues. The Norwegian and
Swedish ombudsmen met every year to exchange experience and compare
conditions. The Norwegian ombudsman had a broader portfolio than its
Swedish colleague as its work was not limited to the workplace. When
Finland established an ombudsman in 1987, all three ombudsmen met
annually to compare legislation, working methods, and results and to ad-
vance gender equality efforts. In 1989, the Danish Gender Equality Council
joined them, although it did not function in the same way as the ombuds-
men (Jämsides 2/1988: 4–5; 2/1989: 15).
The Nordic Council, Nordic ministers, and the ombudsmen all worked
in close contact with the Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination
Against Women. This included meetings after UN conferences on women.
It was at such Nordic gender equality conferences that joint action plans as
the basis for gender equality work in the Nordic region were discussed. The
aim was to integrate this work with other sectors within the framework of the
Nordic Council of Ministers (Jämsides 3/1988: 3; 2/1988: 6–9; 2/1989: 14).
In Sweden, the Equal Opportunities Ombudsman was the institution to
be approached by those who were or felt discriminated on the grounds of
gender between 1980 and 2008.7 When a complaint about discrimination
was received, the Ombudsman would send an inquiry to the complainant’s
trade union. If the claimant was not a member of a trade union, the
Ombudsman took care of the case itself. For an investigation to be initiated,
the report needed to specify the individuals who were discriminated against
or harassed, contain a description of the course of events, and if possible
refer to evidence. If the claimant was unable to convincingly show that
discrimination had occurred, the case was dropped. If sufficient evidence
6
Complementary Act Ds 2001:37 removed the word “voluntary”. See also Comple-
mentary Act SFS 1994:292.
7
Swedish Equal Opportunities Ombudsman (1980–2008); Reports AO 1985, CH 1985,
EB 1993, XD 1993, DE 1993, YC 1994, HA 1996, JD 1996, PC 2003, ÅA 2003, SD 2007.
As parts of the source material are classified as secret and in accordance with standards
of research ethics, no reference can be made to documents that may lead to the
identification of individuals.
233
was found, a discussion on what had happened was started with the em-
ployer in order to resolve the issue and reach an agreement, and the
claimant could claim damages.
The Equal Opportunities Ombudsman and the trade union were able to
threaten legal action, such as taking the case to the labour court unless
conciliation was reached and unless the employer agreed to some form of
redress. Such threats usually sufficed to make employers realise the
seriousness of the case. Under the act, the labour court had to be used
restrictively, and this was also the prevailing practice. It was mainly cases of
special interest that were heard in order to establish a legal precedent.
The reports to the ombudsman resulted in different forms of action.
Approximately 40 to 70 per cent of all reports were dismissed because the
complainant was not considered to be able to prove that discrimination had
actually occurred. In approximately 10 to 20 per cent of cases some sort of
conciliation was achieved. Recognition of their case and redress was
considered as essential by claimants who felt that they had been treated un-
fairly. For example, it might be agreed that a complainant be given his or
her job back, a higher salary, or a better reference. A third form of action
was retraction, that is, complainants relinquished their reports more or less
voluntarily. When conciliation was not achieved and the case was legally
interesting it could also be taken to the labour court. Finally, some cases
came to nothing because of limitation, when the claimant or the official
institutions acted too late.
Case Study 3: The Lithuanian Equal Opportunities Ombudsman

Lithuania is the exemplary transmitter and user of western political and
ideological instruments in the field of human rights and gender equality
among post-socialist countries. Unlike Latvia and Estonia, which strove to
demonstrate their continued nationhood by restoring pre-war constitutions
upon independence in the early 1990s, Lithuania adopted a new document.
The 1992 Constitution of the Republic of Lithuania declares the inborn
rights and freedoms of individuals, secures the principle of legal equality of
all people, and prohibits the violation of an individual’s rights on the basis
of his or her sex, race, nationality, language, origin, social status, religion,
conviction, or opinions, and provides for the possibility to establish the
ombudsman institution and specialised courts (Constitution 1992: §§ 18,
29, 73, and 111). The Lithuanian ombudsman ‘family’ comprises the parlia-
mentary ombudsmen, established in 1994, the Ombudsman of Equal
234
Opportunities for Women and Men, created in 1999, and some later om-
budsmen in other fields.
The establishment of the Lithuanian Ombudsman of Equal Opportunities
for Women and Men is an example of how the permanent collective efforts
of politically active women, notwithstanding their political affiliation, may
enhance public reflection on gender (in)equality issues in a country under-
going transition, and stimulate politicians to adopt an anti-discrimination
legislation. The Nordic Council of Ministers and the United Nations Deve-
lopment Program (UNDP) have played a significant role in bringing
together Lithuanian women on gender equality issues and creating bridges
between women’s NGOs and authorities. According to the recollections of
one female parliamentarian:
With the assistance of Nordic experts we drafted the first law on [equal]
opportunities … But in 1996 the Conservatives obtained the absolute
majority. So we strongly feared that this law would never pass. But it did.8
The occasional criticism of the ombudsman institution is related to the

failure to establish a unified system monitoring the overall situation of
human rights in Lithuania. Specific criticism aimed at the individual om-
budsmen concern their specialisation, overlapping mandates, and the
nature of their decisions or statements. Unlike the parliamentary ombuds-
men, the Equal Opportunities Ombudsman is empowered not only to issue
recommendations, but also to hear cases of administrative offences and
impose sanctions (Žiobienė 2010). Criticism of the Lithuanian ombudsman
institution suggests replacing the existing ombudsmen with a broad human
rights agency based on the Paris Principles.9 The proposed reform of the
Lithuanian ombudsman institution has practical reasons: by assigning the
supervision of all types of human rights to a single office, its authority might
be strengthened because this also allows human and economic resources to
be concentrated. However, dispersion of the legal basis for violation of
8
In-depth interview A 2012. Homeland Union (Tėvynės Sąjunga), the Lithuanian
conservative party, was the ruling party between 1996 and 2000. There were 25 women
in the Lithuanian parliament, corresponding to 18 per cent of its members; a women’s
group with representatives from all parties was established.
9
The Paris Principles relate to the status and functioning of national institutions for the
protection and promotion of human rights. In terms of mandate, the Paris Principles
require that such institutions have a broad mandate that extends to all human rights.
They were adopted by the UN Human Rights Commission in Resolution 1992/54, and
by the UN General Assembly in Resolution 48/134 (see Annex 1993).
235
human rights leads to the formal disappearance of gender equality as a

matter in its own right.
The Ombudsman of Equal Opportunities for Women and Men (Moterų
ir vyrų lygių galimybių kontrolieriaus tarnybą) was renamed the Office of
Equal Opportunities Ombudsman (Lygių galimybių kontrolieriaus tarnybą,
henceforth referred to as ‘Office’) in 2003. Today, the Office takes overall
responsibility for the supervision and implementation of the Law on Equal
Opportunities for Women and Men (1998) and the Law of Equal Treatment
(2003) in Lithuania. Both laws deal with public life; they oblige state and
municipal agencies, education, science and research institutions, employers,
and conveyors of commodities and services to implement equal opportunities
in their respective fields, but neither law applies to family and private life.
The ombudsman investigates individual complaints concerning direct
and indirect discrimination on the grounds of gender, age, racial or ethnic
origin, religion and beliefs, disability, sexual orientation, language, social
status and harassment or sexual harassment. He or she submits recom-
mendations and proposals to Parliament and governmental institutions on
the priorities of gender equality policy, including recommendations on
amendments to relevant legislation. The ombudsman also supervises mass
media for use of discriminatory advertisements and the description of one
social group as being superior or better than another.10
The Office dealt exclusively with gender equality matters in the years
1999 to 2004. The exclusion of the words ‘women’ and ‘men’ from the title
of the Office was a sign of the diversification of the grounds for discrimin-
ation and signalled the disappearance of gender as a special issue of dis-
crimination. However, in defence of grouping the various grounds of
discrimination under the control of the Office, Aušrinė Burneikienė (2012),
its first and re-elected ombudsperson, argued that expanding the list of the
grounds of discrimination highlighted women’s vulnerability in comparison
to men, for instance age having a stronger impact on the social life of
women than of men.
From a theoretical perspective, three conditions – naming, blaming, and
claiming – need to be met before someone files a complaint with an om-
budsman. As van Roosbroeck and van de Walle (2008: 293) put it: “The
individual may name the problem and blame a person or organization that
he believes is responsible, but if he does not know of the existence of an
10
For more information on the Office of the Equal Opportunities Ombudsman, see
http://www.lygybe.lt/en/titulinis_10_25.html [2 Feb. 2014].
236
ombudsman, he will not reach the claiming phase.” Hence, it is difficult to

estimate to what degree formal complaints represent the level of dis-
crimination in Lithuanian society.11 Since 1999, when the Office was estab-
lished, the number of investigations of complaints has increased steadily.
Gender discrimination complaints are still predominant compared to
complaints with regard to other types of discrimination. Over the reporting
period (1999–2012), on average men comprised 40 per cent of all com-
plainants. The latest increase in men’s complaints is usually explained by
the expansion of the grounds of discrimination and by the on-going
financial crisis that makes men complain. According to the opinion of the
Ombudsperson: “I think about 90 per cent of our decisions are respected …
And only if someone disagrees they go to court” (Burneikienė 2012). The
majority of the disputed cases that are submitted to the court are won by the
Office.
Looking at the variations in the number of individual complaints since
the establishment of the Office, there is a connection between the selected
grounds of discrimination (since 2005) divulged via the Office’s mass media
activity and international and local organisations addressing the respective
issues. This has a twofold effect: it stimulates a social reflection on
‘publicised’ social issues and motivates individuals to approach the Office.
With the 2008 financial crisis, discrimination took on another con-
notation in popular discourse both in the labour market and at state level.
People tended to interpret the closedown of enterprises, staff or payment
cutbacks, and other unfavourable decisions to overcome the crisis as dis-
crimination and complained to the Office. The adoption of many legal acts
cutting public expenditure and worsening the economic situation of vulner-
able social groups, especially of pensioners and disabled people, were
considered to be discriminatory and brought before the Office.
An analysis of the Office’s reports suggests that, despite its juridical limits,
the Office contributes to the implementation of the idea of equality in
Lithuanian society by raising legal awareness, establishing standards of
political correctness, and creating gender sensitivity. For instance, there have
been no discriminatory job requirements in advertisements published by the
public sector since 2009.
11
According to the findings of the latest European research on discrimination, 67 per
cent of Lithuanians did not consider gender discrimination a social problem in 2009, see
Gender Equality in the EU (2010).
237
The establishment of the ombudsman institution in Lithuania is considered

to be a successful case of UNDP involvement in the processes of demo-
cratisation in Central and Eastern Europe and of Nordic cooperation with
the Baltic States. Lithuania’s Office of Equal Opportunities Ombudsman
was the first office of its kind in a post-socialist country.12 It not only
conveyed the message that there was a strong women’s agency in Lithuania,
but also represented the ‘woman’s card’, not for the first time played by
Lithuanian leaders as proof of national progress towards modernisation and
democratisation. The two anti-discrimination laws were also a political
compromise between on the one hand traditional feminists aiming for
gender equality in an unequal society and politicians wishing to demon-
strate conformity to the current trend of EU equality policy of preventing
injustice and promoting human rights on the other.
There is a widespread opinion that democratic changes in the central
and east European countries, including the establishment of new political
institutions, have been implemented under pressure from the EU and
transnational agencies in exchange for EU and NATO membership. This
impression is not entirely wrong. However, under the umbrella of the
mandatory requirements for EU membership, local civil society orga-
nisations exploited the chance to promote the development of democratic
institutions in their country, a process in which the collaboration with
transnational agencies that provided a transfer of knowledge and financial
support played a crucial role.
Conclusions: Gender equality policy as problem solving

Today, discussions about human rights and gender discrimination have
become part of the global agenda, which means that all states are under
pressure to adapt (Squires 2007; Donnelly 2003). Gender discrimination is
tackled in an institutionalised problem-solving process throughout Europe.
However, as shown in the three case studies, how this process is formulated,
conceptualised, and implemented depends to a large extent on the social,
political, and historical context.
Globalisation and, not least, Europeanisation were perceived as both a
challenge and an opportunity for the Nordic countries to gain influence in
international politics. This in turn contributed to the prominent role that
the Nordic Council and the Nordic Council of Ministers assigned to gender
12
Poland was the first and only socialist country to establish the ombudsman institution,
the Commissioner for Civil Rights Protection (Rzecznik Praw Obywatelskich), in 1987.
238
equality politics in the international political context. The Nordic model of

gender equality, in connection with the human rights discourse, was partly
used as an instrument to gain international political influence. However, it
is also evident that the ambition to promote Nordic gender equality was
based on the will to contribute to a more equal and democratic world. From
this perspective the opportunity to spread Nordic ideas of gender equality
to the independent Baltic States was viewed as a ‘window of opportunity’.
It is also evident that the historical contexts have influenced the establis-
hment of the Equal Opportunities ombudsmen in both Sweden and
Lithuania. In Sweden, the autonomy of the labour market made it rather
difficult to handle discrimination. The Europeanisation processes strength-
ened the position of the ombudsman and diminished the impact of national
peculiarities. In 1994, upon entering the EU, new Acts were implemented
that allowed greater interference in the labour market. In Lithuania,
Europeanisation was a constituent of the transitional process from the
socialist system. The adoption of the new constitution in 1992 and the
creation of the Equal Opportunities Ombudsman in 1999 was in line with
EU membership. However, the EU was not the only international
organisation to influence Lithuanians’ disposition towards new signals and
changes. The reconstruction of the ombudsman in 2003 was inspired and
influenced by the UN, the global human rights discourse, and gender and
diversity politics.
The state handles discrimination via a set of regulations, but this does
not necessarily mean that a particular discriminated individual will be
acknowledged. As Hans Ingvar Roth points out, in order to win a
discrimination suit, one must possess expertise regarding the law’s rules and
processes, considerable sums of money, and a stubborn streak (Roth 2007:
63). We would like to add that one must also have convincing evidence,
preferably be well educated, and in possession of social capital. In
accordance with Fraser and Honneth recognition and identity politics has
become a vital element in gender equality politics. The issue of recognition
has, at least in Sweden, changed the conditions for gender equality politics
and to some extent also diminished the impact of the redistribution policies.
The creation of the ombudsman institution as such is today regarded as
an important tool in the endeavour for public trust in the nation state as
being a true upholder of democracy, an endeavour that has become all the
more important with the enlargement of the EU. The Equality Oppor-
tunities Ombudsman as an independent state institution offers individuals
an opportunity to resolve issues of violation of human rights in individual
239
cases, free of charge and in a relatively short time. Despite the variety of
existing models and the subject matter to be dealt with, the main
characteristic of the ombudsman is institutional independence in relation to
the appointing authority and subordination to the courts. Another charac-
teristic of the ombudsmen is the process of conciliation and negotiation of
agreements.
Today gender equality constitutes a recognised principle in the global
discourse of human rights. However, it is still an open question to what
extent the idea of gender equality has transformed political thought and
political action. Despite the common recognition of the significance of
gender equality on the level of principles there is neither national nor
international consensus about which policies it implies.
240
(Top) What step next? (norden.org / Photographer: Silje Bergum Kinsten)
(Bottom) The Nordic ministers for gender equality at a seminar in connection with the UN
Commission on the Status of Women, New York, 23 Feb. 2011 (norden.org / Photographer:
Cia Pak)
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246
10. Group-Work on Gender Equality in
Transnational Cooperation:
Raising Feminist Consciousness or
Diminishing Social Risks?
Yulia Gradskova
While the Nordic countries are frequently described as the most advanced
in the world with respect to gender equality and the protection of women’s
rights, most recent research points to problems with the adoption of gender
equality policies and notes the overall absence of feminist ways of thinking
in the post-Soviet and post-Communist context (Salmenniemi 2008; Hem-
ment 2007; Saarinen 2009; Johnson 2009; Gal and Kligman 2000; Einhorn
2000). The interpretation of such ideas and the forms of their institutionali-
sation in the capitalist and democratic ‘West’ did often not fit well into the
‘post-equality’ situation in the aftermath of state socialism.1
As for Russia, research on transnational cooperation around gender
equality and rights for women shows that such cooperation dealt with many
issues – from supporting women’s representation in the power structures of
the country to introducing gender courses into university curricula, from
organising women’s crisis centres to supporting feminist publications. At
the same time, it was realised on different levels; cooperation partners
included civil servants, NGOs and researchers (see, for example, Saarinen
2009; Brygalina and Temkina 2004; Hemment 2007). Women’s organi-
sations were expected to be the most significant partner, bringing change
with respect to the situation of women’s rights and opportunities in
different spheres of social and political life. However, research on women’s
1
The equality of women and men was one of the major legal principles of the Soviet
system – in the absence of many civil rights such ‘mandatory equality’ was frequently
not experienced as particularly liberating (Suchland 2011).
247
rights activism and women’s organisations also shows many problems with
respect to both activists’ communication with the wider Russian public and
with donors (see, for example, McIntosh Sundstrom 2006; Hemment 2007:
50–1). After the Russian government took a more authoritarian course in
the mid-2000s, the situation of women’s organisations deteriorated and
some achievements of previous cooperation projects were lost (Johnson and
Saarinen 2012). Although women’s organisations remained active and their
transnational cooperation did not stop fully, they changed many of their
forms and practices and the transfer of knowledge (Castells 2005) became
more difficult.
This chapter analyses a trilateral cooperation project between Finnish,
Lithuanian, and Russian organisations in the years 2006 to 2012 that aimed
at the improvement of gender equality education through the method of
group-work. With a focus on the Russian cooperation partner, the article
explores the ways in which different agendas influenced how women’s
rights and gender equality were addressed in transnational cooperation.
Questions raised by previous research, such as how to interpret the
ideology of organisations dealing with women’s rights and how to define their
social role, inform this study. While some researchers have seen women’s
organisations primarily as non-governmental organisations (NGOs), stres-
sing that they were part of an emerging civil society (McIntosh Sundstrom
2006; Caiazza 2002), others classified them as primarily being a part of the
women’s movement, thus implying not only their commitment to demo-
cracy and human rights, but their adherence to the tradition of feminist
collective learning about inequality and undertaking practical work to
improve the situation of women (Hemment 2007; Azhgikhina 2008).
Unlike earlier publications, I look not only at Russian NGOs dealing
with women’s rights and gender equality issues and the aid they get from
abroad, but explore the wider system of cooperation. At the centre of the
analysis is the network that includes the organiser of the cooperation from
the ‘West’ (in this case from Finland’s autonomous and Swedish speaking
region, Åland2), an NGO in the ‘new West’ (in Vilnius, the capital of one of
the new members of the European Union, Lithuania) and an organisation
2
According to Eurostat, the Åland Islands belong to the richest European regions with a
gross domestic product (GDP) 25 per cent higher than the average EU-27 level – see
http://epp.eurostat.ec.europa.eu/cache/ITY_OFFPUB/
KS-HA-12-001-01/EN/KS-HA-12-001-01-EN.PDF [19 Dec. 2013], 18.
248
10. GROUP-WORK ON GENDER EQUALITY
in North-West Russia (in the region of Kaliningrad3) as well as several other

cooperation partners from former post-Soviet states. The activities of this
cooperation network were financed from various sources, the most sub-
stantial being the NGO-funding of the Nordic Council of Ministers.4 The
functioning of the network benefitted from the use of methods originally
applied in two of the Nordic countries.5 They were elaborated by Mia
Hanström, a former school teacher and now freelance consultant who
actively participated in the development of the network.
Thus, this chapter examines the effects and problems of transnational
cooperation on issues connected to equal rights education and oppor-
tunities for women and men, with reference to a case from the Baltic Sea
region. It explores questions like how the cooperation started and why it
acquired its particular shape. Other questions are how the issues of
women’s rights and gender equality were approached by different agents in
the cooperation process and what results this cooperation had for the in-
volved organisations and, to some degree, also for individual recipients of
the educational training.
Methodologically the research is based on the study of discourses as
evident from various written sources, as well as of formal and less formal
conversations with the adult members of the analysed organisations.
Moreover, I apply a feminist anthropological approach to social reality,
according to which the researcher is part of the study, influencing the field
and being influenced by it (see, for example, Hemment, 2007; Ers, 2006).
3
Kaliningrad and the Kaliningrad region (formerly Königsberg and East Prussia, part of
the USSR since after the Second World War) are separated from the main territory of
the Russian Federation and are surrounded by Poland, Lithuania, and Belarus. Different
from the rest of Russia, most of the inhabitants of the Kaliningrad region have passports
for travelling abroad and travel frequently. In 2007 the income of the population of the
Kaliningrad region was lower than the average for Russia (16,881 RUB compared to
20,754 RUB per capita) – Denezhnye dokhody naseleniia, Rossiskii statisticheskii
ezhegodnik, 2012. Available from: http://www.gks.ru/bgd/regl/b12_13/IssWWW.exe/
Stg/d1/06-07.htm [19 Dec. 2013].
4
On the Nordic Council website NGOs are defined as “non-profit, publicly anchored,
civic organisations that are neither owned nor controlled by public authorities, nor by
private companies, and which have an open and democratic structure” – see
http://www.norden.ru/Article.aspx?id=100&lang=en [19 Dec. 2013]. The programme
for support of NGOs in the Baltic Sea area has existed since 2006 and has funded
approximately 60 cooperation projects up to 2012.
5
For the purpose of this paper, I use ‘Nordic’ as a geographic term for the countries that
constitute the Nordic Council of Ministers, regardless of the internal complexity and
contradictions connected to the idea of a ‘common Nordic identity’ (see, for example,
Ylva Waldemarson’s presentation at the round table on gender equality at the 10th
Nordic Conference on Women’s History in Bergen, August 2012).
249
For this reason, some information about my position in the research field is
relevant and helps to explain the character of my communication with the
studied organisations and what kind of material they shared with me.
I myself was a member of a Russian women’s NGO between 1998 and
2001. Once a week I answered phone calls on a hot-line for women in
Moscow, regarding this as a significant part of my everyday life with reper-
cussions on my self-conception. This aspect of my past has undoubtedly
influenced my perception of the issues of identity, rights, and gender in the
studied project and vice-versa – the perception of me by the members of the
cooperation network. It was, most probably, this personal history that
contributed to my relatively easy ‘entrance’ into the organisations I wanted
to study. Different from Julie Hemment (2007), the US researcher who took
part in the work of another women’s organisation in Central Russia, my ap-
proach was not explicitly participatory. Nonetheless, my study includes
some elements of such an approach. For instance, I shared my contacts and
experiences or gave a talk about my dissertation topic at the meeting of
representatives of the cooperation network.
I found the network to be analysed after having examined the list of
organisations that received financial support in the framework of the
Nordic Council of Minister’s programme for cooperation of NGOs.6 The
initiator of the cooperation, the Åland Islands Peace Institute, twice
received financial support for cooperation with NGOs in Eastern Europe
and both times the project was connected to gender issues. The first
instance concerned the project “Bridging experience: Prevention of gender
based violence and trafficking in Finland and North-West Russia” that was
active 2005 to 2009 with participants from Belarus, Russia (Star of Hope
from Kaliningrad), and Lithuania (Nendre from Vilnius). In the second
instance the project was named “Overcoming gender disparities as a tool for
social change”. This project worked between 2010 and 2012 and continued
with the Lithuanian and Russian participants. In January 2012 I visited the
Åland Islands Peace Institute and discussed cooperation with its
coordinator, who offered me the opportunity to read reports and other
documents about the realisation of the project in Vilnius and Kaliningrad
that had been sent to the office on Åland. I visited Åland again in May 2012
on the occasion of a methodological symposium, where the representatives
6
http://www.norden.org/en/nordic-council-of-ministers/ministers-for-co-operation-
mr-sam/russia/apply-for-funding/list-of-approved-projects – this webpage is no longer
available and has last been accessed in January 2012.
250
of women’s and other civic organisations from five post-Soviet countries

were present. During the three days of the symposium I had the chance to
take part in discussions about running female and male groups, in parti-
cular on the formation of teenager groups and on methods of communi-
cation in the group dynamic. I also observed the communication between
participants of the network from different countries and had individual
conversations with some of the organisers of groups from Finland and from
Kaliningrad. Finally, in autumn 2012 I visited both partner organisations in
Vilnius and in Kaliningrad, where I had the opportunity to meet people
organising educational activities in the framework of the project and to
collect more material about the work of the organisations (including a more
than one hour long documentary film made about Nendre by one of the
foreign volunteers, see Brandoli 2012).
Thus, my analysis is based on the documents of cooperation collected
through my mail and face-to-face contacts with involved organisations:
reports, information pamphlets, as well as on information collected through
organisations’ websites and obtained in the process of personal observations
and conversations with the cooperation participants.
Organisations and cooperation history

In 1991 the Nordic Council of Ministers defined support for initiatives
developing civil society and gender equality in the countries of the former
East Bloc as one of its goals. In 1995 the Council started to collect reports on
NGOs dealing with women’s issues in the Baltic countries and North-West
Russia (Peltonen 1996). When it started a special programme for support of
NGOs in 2005 some projects that received funding dealt with gender
equality or sexual minorities’ rights (10 out of 60).
The Åland Islands Peace Institute in Mariehamn was founded in 1992 as a
politically and religiously independent institution situated in a demilitarised
autonomous part of Finland (see http://www.peace.ax/). The institute focuses
on research and practical work connected to conflict resolution, global and
regional security, democracy and human rights, minorities, and prevention
of human trafficking. The institute takes part in the global exchange of
young volunteers (mainly students planning to work in international de-
velopmental agencies in the future). The cooperation of the Åland Islands
Peace Institute with the Lithuanian NGO Nendre started in the late 1990s, at
that time financially supported by the Finnish government. After Lithuania
251
had become a member of the European Union, the cooperation was funded
by the European Union and the Nordic Council of Ministers.
Nendre7 was started by a number of women in Vilnius in 1998 (see
http://www.nendre.org/en) with support of the Åland Islands Peace
Institute and the Åland branch of the international charity Emmaus.8
Originally, Nendre was a non-state kindergarten and from 2000 also an
after-school centre for children. At the same time it functioned as a social
and psychological support centre for mothers (mostly single parents) living
in a poor neighbourhood in the Lithuanian capital. The centre also saw that
it had a mission in preventing children from abandoning their homes and
in preventing adolescents’ delinquency. The centre brought together edu-
cators and child psychologists, but in addition to child care the work with
the mothers was considered equally important. At the centre, mothers
received psychological support and advice on employment and housing.
The work of the centre is financed through foreign and international grants
for particular programmes and through a network for the distribution of
second hand clothes (Emmaus).9 In a report to the Finnish government
Nendre is presented as “one of the few preschool institutions in Lithuania
that has introduced a gender equality approach in preschool education”
(Final report 2009: 7).
The Star of Hope (Звезда Надежды) was founded in Kaliningrad in 2004
as a non-profit partnership (see http://www.zvezdanadezhdy.narod.ru/) on
the basis of the local Centre for Social Support of Family and Children (see
http://kcspsd.narod.ru/Cntr2.htm). This centre belongs to a national
structure that was introduced in Russia in the 1990s as a post-Soviet
attempt at improving social work with families classified as having special
issues (including problems with children’s or parents’ asocial behaviour,
families with adopted children, etc.). The centres’ employees are mainly
psychologists and social workers. In the case of Kaliningrad, however, those
employed in the centre decided to also create an ‘independent’ organisation
for after-work professional activities, The Star of Hope, which offered them
more freedom with respect to financing and cooperation with other
organisations, including NGOs. The Centre for Social Support (on its own
7
The name of organisation is translated from Lithuanian as ‘read’.
8
Emmaus is an originally Catholic charity organisation founded in France in the 1950s
that has branches around the world.
9
Emmaus opened a second-hand clothes shop in the same neighbourhood as Nendre,
thereby offering work to unemployed mothers and economic support to the
organisation. It also helped mothers and children directly with clothing.
252
or through The Star of Hope) was involved in several cooperation pro-

grammes, which apart from the one analysed here included schemes for the
support of families of people infected by AIDS (financed by UNICEF) and a
project for the support of women-victims of domestic violence (supported
by TACIS) (see Otchet o resultatakh 2011).
The collected documents show that the cooperation of the Finnish NGO
from Åland with the Russian centre in Kaliningrad was organised through
the mediating role of the Lithuanian NGO Nendre. The latter functioned as
a translator of expertise from the ‘Western’ context to the ‘Eastern’ one.
Thus, the personnel at Nendre participated in the planning of network
meetings and in giving presentations to the representatives of the Russian
partner organisation with regard to the model of social work carried out at
Nendre (Final report 2009: 4). The Russian language, a remnant of the
Soviet past, facilitated the development of the cooperation. Many materials
produced in Vilnius were published not only in Lithuanian, but also in
Russian and most of the participants of Nendre and The Star of Hope
understood each other without translation into English.
From the promotion of ‘girls space’ to a gender equality project

The method of group work that was applied by the Lithuanian and Russian
centres from the mid-2000s was adopted from a model used with teenage
girls (and later boys) on Åland. Discussion of significant issues in groups
has historically been the object of many organisations – from political and
religious to self-help groups providing psychological support. Nevertheless,
it is communication management, principles of leadership, and rules
around meetings and discussions that to a large extent define the outcomes
of meetings of different groups. The consciousness-raising groups of the
1960s and 1970s in Europe and North America saw their special mission in
creating a space for exchange where women would be able to discuss their
subordinate position in society and to start taking action for their
emancipation (see, for example, Chicago Women’s Liberation Union 1971).
This model was also practiced in the Nordic countries, including Sweden
(Petersen 1985). While most current so-called popular therapeutic groups
(such as Overeaters Anonymous) do not follow a feminist agenda as such,
popular group therapy is said to be partly traced (even if not always
acknowledged) to the feminist movement of the 1960s and 1970s (for more
see Elden 2009: 53–5). However, the development of psychological groups
during more recent years has been criticised by feminist researchers for
253
replacing a collective female identity with the individualism of ‘choice’.

Nevertheless, the group-method examined here straightforwardly states its
aim as empowering girls and, even if not presenting itself as feminist, is
connected to feminist thinking.
Despite the Scandinavian countries’ good record on the way of over-
coming the subordination of women since the 1970s, researchers and
activists from these countries insist that many problems linger on (see, for
example, Eduard 2012: 258–62; Skjeie and Teigen 2005; Tollin 2011: 168–9).
Mia Hanström, who worked as an after-school teacher in Sweden in the
early 1990s and later on Åland, developed a concept for the support and
improvement of the situation of women through empowering the new
generation of girls. She regarded the creation of ‘own space’ for the teenage
girls she worked with as an important precondition for their command of
power (Hanström 1997). Recalling the beginning of the girls’ groups in a
pamphlet published by the Finnish NGO Folkhälsan (Public health) that
supported the realisation of the programme in the early 2000s, Hanström
(2004: 5) explained her concern with the special groups for girls by the lack
of interest in ordinary leisure activities among teenage girls in her school.
Thus, she looked for a way of organising special groups for girls in order to
give them space and time of their own to discuss topics of interest and to
find answers to questions related to teenagers’ opportunities and obstacles
in the gendered society surrounding them.10
Despite consciousness-raising groups not being mentioned in
Hanström’s book on girls’ groups or in the pamphlet, their reading suggests
that the meetings proposed by her can easily be seen as such a kind of a
group. Hanström (2004: 7) wrote that girls should feel involved and have a
space to speak without boys evaluating them. According to the book on
girls’ groups, these should combine discussions about “difficult” topics
usually connected to the spheres where gender hierarchies are most per-
ceptible – love, beauty, sex, relations with parents – with some leisure
activities, like group excursions and cooking together. Such a group (con-
sisting of girls between 11 and 17 who joined it voluntarily) should have an
adult female leader whose functions, however, were limited. For example,
the group leader could propose topics for discussions, but it should be up to
the teenage girls themselves to select the topics for the final agenda of the
group meetings (Hanström 1997; 2004: 8). The analysis of the book on
method shows that such groups are supposed to foster not only self-con-
10
http://kumlinge.com/mia-hanstrom [2 Feb. 2014].
254
fidence and health, but also to develop skills of democratic participation

and to give some knowledge about gender inequality and discrimination.
The book indicates, that the concept of ‘feminism’ should be somehow
brought up in the discussions and provides a short definition of it:
“acknowledgement of the subordinated position of women in family,
working life and society”. Thus, those persons trying to change the situation
and showing that men and women are equal, are characterised as ‘feminists’
(Hanström 1997: 61–74).
Later on, following developments in the public discussion of gender
inequality and discrimination in Swedish and Finnish society, Hanström
expanded her views on the method’s application and in 2005 complemented
the book on groups for girls by a book on groups for boys. In the intro-
duction to the latter she confessed her initial doubts with respect to such a
publication: “Do we need groups for boys? Is it not so that the boys in
reality need to have more opportunities to hear about the experiences of
girls and that they need to be trained in dialogue with them and each
other?” (Hanström 2005: 1). Nevertheless, the author came to the conclu-
sion that special groups for teenage boys were needed as well: such groups
would complement groups for girls that by that time had become well-
known in Åland for their democratic dialogue training skills and for
explaining gendered power, discrimination, and its prevention (Hanström
2005: 1).
The method of organising sex-specific groups for teenagers where they
are able to discuss problems of gender norms and individual choices were
highly valued by the Åland Islands Peace Institute that found it to be an
important practice of education directly connected to teaching gender
equality. The Institute’s flyer states that girls’ and boys’ groups are “a
method in gender equality (jämställdhet) work and empowerment that
helps to make visible, to develop, and to support teenage girls and boys.
Through showing the connection between sex, sexuality, and power this
method can contribute to girls and boys starting to question the structures
that present the power of men over women as something obvious” (Åland
Islands Peace Institute n.d.). Thus, the method was chosen for dissemin-
ation through the Institute’s networks abroad.
Group-method between contextualisation and domestication

Bringing such ideas of groups for girls and boys to the post-Soviet space as a
result of transnational cooperation, one can expect local circumstances to
255
influence its content and practices. While the main interest in this chapter is
with Russia, some attention will be paid to the contextualisation of the
method in the post-Soviet space more generally.
The discussions between the organisers of teenage groups from Finland,
Lithuania, Russia, Latvia, Belarus, and Azerbaijan at the method
symposium in Åland in May 2012 showed many similarities in views on the
groups’ goals, problems, and ways of overcoming them in the process of the
group work. The symposium participants were united in their stance
against gender stereotypes, in their promotion of the further development
of gender education and in their striving for recruitment of new organisers
of groups among social workers, teachers, psychologists, and NGO-activists.
At the same time, they were characterised by differences in age, professional
qualifications, and views on particular issues. For example, participants
from Lithuania and Russia were mainly older women with a background in
education, psychology, and social work, while participants from Azerbaijan
were young activists from women’s NGOs. While the latter were enthusi-
astically discussing the progress of girls’ groups in the context of civic
activism, most of the Russian participants acted as professionals ready for
discussions in more psychological terms. They spoke about women ‘in a
difficult life situation’, thereby applying the official terminology used by
social workers in Russia with respect to various kinds of problems – from
poverty to domestic violence. My conversations with the participants from
Kaliningrad showed that most of them considered groups to be a useful
method. At the same time, they discussed the organisation of groups in
terms of ‘work’ rather than activism and revealed a distance between
themselves and the group participants they ‘helped’. The first impression of
differences between participants of the cooperation from various countries
during the meeting in May 2012 was confirmed by the study of the
organisations’ documents and during visits in Vilnius and Kaliningrad in
autumn 2012.
Documents from the Lithuanian organisation Nendre show that the
understanding of gender stereotypes as an obstacle for the improvement of
the situation of the women and children who were the initial target group of
this organisation, was learned in the course of the close cooperation with
Finnish partners starting from the beginning of the organisation. It
occurred first of all through the educational staff programmes organised by
the Finns. Elements of group work for teaching about gender stereotypes
and rights for women were used for work with the single mothers before the
groups of teenagers were organised. Questioning the dominant gender
256
norms and work against gender stereotypes was included in everyday

practices of the kindergarten and after-school group for teenagers. For
example, the film on Nendre shows how boys attending the after-school
programme do the dishes while teenage girls that have spent many years
there discuss the significance of learning about gender stereotypes for their
life (Brandoli 2012). Thus, the implementation of the project funded by the
Nordic Council of Ministers in 2005 was not the first encounter of the
members of the Lithuanian NGO with the method of group discussions and
gender sensitivity training.
Nevertheless, material on the work of the centre indicates certain
differences in applying the method of groups for girls and boys in Lithuania
as compared to the Finnish approach.11 Nendre’s initial orientation towards
children and families in the social risk zone and the international campaign
against trafficking in women that was on the rise in the early 2000s (see, for
example, Saarinen 2009: 523; Hemment 2007: 141) resulted in the method
of groups being described primarily in terms of the ‘risk of trafficking’. This
risk was presented as a real danger: “1200 young women from Lithuania
become victims of trafficking each year” (Nendre 2009: 38–9). Groups were
presented as being aimed at teenagers who, due to their family situation
with low income and other complications, were more likely to become
subject to trafficking than others. While it is not clear how much the
groups’ participants were seen as potential victims of trafficking in the
everyday work of the centre, this framing suggests a shift in the perception
of the groups as such and draws attention away from other issues that could
be significant for teenagers coming to Nendre – for instance, reflections on
new gender inequalities, reproductive rights, or discrimination on the
labour market. Moreover, when the main aim of teaching about gender
equality to teenage girls is presented as connected to the prevention of
trafficking, a reasonable question is whether gender equality education is
less important for ‘better-off’ groups of teenagers who may become victim
of gender discrimination of many other kinds.
Moving from Vilnius to Kaliningrad, however, the selective way of
exporting and adopting ‘global’ knowledge on girls’ and boys’ groups and
gender equality education becomes even more visible.
Similar to the case of Lithuania (or Azerbaijan in the later period),
transnational cooperation and the need of funding was justified with
reference to issues and problems that were vital to the ‘Western’ or ‘Nordic’
11
The analysis is based on documents published in Russian and English.
257
cooperation partner. When the girls’ group method was chosen for inter-
national dissemination, a special methodological book for the group leaders
titled “Girls’ Groups: Girls, Gender Equality, and Democracy” was
published in Russian (Hanström 2010). This publication was based on two
earlier books by Mia Hanström, but the author modified the content for the
Russian readers in accordance with the cooperation aims. Tellingly, the
editing work and the publication were sponsored not only by the Åland
Islands Peace Institute, but also by the Foreign Ministry of Finland and the
International Organisation for Migration. In the introduction to the
Russian edition, Hanström stated that the book was produced for work with
girls belonging to the group with a high risk of getting involved in
trafficking. In the following text, however, the risk group was defined differ-
ently, more in correspondence with the Russian political discourse on
‘unfortunate families’ (see Iarskaia-Smirnova 2011; Isola 2009). The book
there refers to girls from “unfortunate families, incomplete families, or
families living under difficult economic circumstances” and only in the last
place to the families in which parents “do not pay enough attention to the
upbringing of their children” (Hanström 2010: 15). Thus, again, the method
initially aimed at ‘ordinary’ girls from ‘normal’ families, but living through
the phase of life when one discovers gender hierarchies and stereotypes and
shapes attitudes towards them, is applied to ‘special’ girls with particular
problems and the need of special guidance. The book makes a direct
connection between ‘problematic families’ and the risk of trafficking through
several references, for example by dedicating one chapter to the discussion of
Lilya 4 Ever, a film telling the tragic story of a young girl from one of the post-
Soviet countries that is trafficked to Sweden (Moodisson 2002).
At the same time, the application of the group method to a specific
setting and its realisation by a particular organisation in Russia also
influenced its content and results. Three dimensions of domestication of the
programme in Kaliningrad are particularly relevant.
The first is connected to the pronounced focus on family well-being as
the major aim of the project. At first glance, the Kaliningrad experts seemed
to follow Nendre’s contextualisation of the project as a substitute ‘warm
home’ where adults and children would feel good and where they would
learn how to make a similar home for themselves and their family. 12 How-
ever, in Kaliningrad group meetings usually took place in the premises of
12
While showing me their premises – an old and well refurbished wooden house – the
centre’s personnel presented it as being a home for all the children and adults coming to it.
258
official agencies that were different from Nendre’s house with its
atmosphere of a self-governed organisation. I was told by the organisers
that the practice of group meetings included the possibility of several
meetings where boys and girls met together, for example, to discuss the
topic of family. The group work plans also included issues presented
differently from how they were addressed in Hanström’s book. For
example, while the book for group meetings in Russian states that there
could be different types of families (including “me and my grandmother”,
see Hanström 2010: 174), the programme in Kaliningrad worked for the
“formation of the gender qualities that are necessary for the creation of an
own family” and aimed at teaching “adequate gender behaviour” (Materialy
2011: 13–14). Obviously the local practice was deeply entangled with the
model of the nuclear and heterosexual family.
Moreover, reports and other documents from Kaliningrad show a close
connection between The Star of Hope interpretation of family problems and
the political rhetoric of current Russian demographic discourse (see Rot-
kirch et al. 2007; Rivkin-Fish 2009). The teenagers participating in the pro-
gramme were defined as coming from “problematic families”, achievements
being the “absence of teenage pregnancies and police records among the
group participants” (Otchet o rezultatakh 2011: 15). The “lack of interest in
the preservation of reproductive health” and the absence of “family values”
among teenagers were claimed to be important social problems to be solved
in the work of the groups (Otchet o rezultatakh 2011: 18, 3). Furthermore,
the report about the realisation of the programme “Overcoming gender
inequality as an instrument of social change” underlined – apart from such
factors as growth of self-confidence and reflexivity with regard to domestic
violence experienced by the groups’ participants – the significance of
learning “skills for successful family life” (Otchet o deiatelnosti 2011: 15–16).
The second dimension is connected to the organisation of training. The
reports and other materials show that the non-governmental organisation
The Star of Hope is almost inseparable from the official Centre for Social
Support of Family and Children. Considering that the registration and
functioning of NGOs has been severely restricted in Russia following a
policy change in 2006 (Johnson 2009), this solution provides at least some
space for self-reflection and discussions for girls. Two participants of the
project proudly stated that the groups used the premises of the main centre
and several of its branches in different cities of the wider Kaliningrad
region, as well as the professional skills of those working in the family
support system (mainly qualified psychologists). Moreover, according to
259
them, the group meetings in the state organisation venues facilitated

acceptance of the groups’ activities by parents and school teachers, the lack
of which might be an important obstacle in case of a fully independent
organisation. Finally, the project also benefited from a well-established
cooperation network of state organisations and NGOs, including clinics,
police, city crisis centres for women, and women’s organisations. This
network was particularly helpful in the most difficult cases – for example,
thanks to cooperation with medical institutions the centre had information
about registered teenage pregnancies that facilitated invitations to the
pregnant women to participate in the group. Even so, the coordinator of the
project from the Åland Islands Peace Institute complained that such a way
of organising the groups contributed to their over-psychologisation and
more distinct hierarchies between leader and participants.
The third dimension is connected to the education of basic principles of
gender equality as such. The documents of The Star of Hope suggest that the
topics of gender and power in society, gender discrimination, and feminism
are not much discussed as such in the groups (see, for example,
Osushchestvlenie 2012). This corresponds to the overall lack of interest in
feminist concepts in societies where women were previously forced into a
double burden of work as professionals and at home under the slogan of the
equality of men and women (see Gal and Kligman 2000). The analysis of the
documents and conversations with those working at the centre show that
the organisers of the groups regard the discussion about equality as a way to
confront excessively polarised gender stereotypes. For example, the group
leaders from Kaliningrad expressed the hope that, as a consequence of the
group meetings, boys would understand that they were also supposed to do
something in the family and with their children (not just bring home
money and expect domestic service), while girls were expected to learn that
they should also think about their education and profession and not plan
their life with reliance on a ‘good husband’.
Thus, while the Russian version of Hanström’s book includes sections
about the historical and social construction of men and women as well as
the possibility of a critical approach to these categories (see Hanström 2010:
199–202), in the reports from Kaliningrad the idea of a critical approach to
gender is blurred by the discussion on creation of the proper ‘gender
identity’. For example, the report from 2010 states that the work with teen-
agers should realise “principles of gender education for teenagers, applying
a humanist and individualised approach to teenagers” (Materialy 2010: 3)
and the report from 2011 highlights that the “formation of gender com-
260
petence, adequate gender behaviour, and family values” was the aim of the
groups (Materialy 2011: 4). Thus, while groups for teenagers in their
Kaliningrad version aim at contributing to the development of useful
communication skills as well as pondering over prevailing gender norma-
tivity, an amorphous language of ‘gender identity’ and ‘adequate gender
behaviour’ tends to take the place of the language of anti-discrimination.
Contradictions and achievements of cooperation

Women’s organisations from different communities and countries have a
long history of helping each other with respect to issues assumed to be in
the common interest of womankind – like justice, non-discrimination, and
overcoming patriarchy. During the last thirty or forty years, however, the
issues of women’s rights and gender equality have been a concern of
international cooperation, involving such partners as the United Nations
and the European Union. Attempts at addressing problems at the global
level obviously contributed to increased visibility of the problem of gender
inequality, but the outcome of this globalisation of policies for gender
equality is sometimes ambivalent (Hemment 2007: 83). The explored case
about rights and gender equality education in the context of Nordic–Baltic
cooperation is an example for such an ambiguity. Contrary to the neoliberal
approach of democratic transition (assuming the free market as the most
important condition for democracy in former Eastern Europe), the Nordic
cooperation programmes were based on an understanding of transition to
democracy that acknowledged gender equality as one of the important con-
ditions for democratic development and for the prevention of insecurity
and unrest.13 The local visions of equality and interpretations of the existing
problems and possible solutions do not always coincide with the visions and
interpretations put forward on the global level.
Moreover, unlike many other countries in which popular education
about personal, couple and group psychology is built around ideas of
inherent gender differences, mainstream popular psychology in the Scandi-
navian countries sees gender equality “as a taken for granted point of
departure” (Elden 2009: 224). However, ideas on gender equality and ways
13
The countries that failed to demonstrate any affinity to principles of democracy were
pushed out of the broader cooperation schemes as happened in the case of participants
from Belarus. A report to the Foreign Ministry of Finland mentions “bureaucratic
obstacles by the Belorussian authorities”. Later, however, other forms of the cooperation
with Belarus were found – the cooperation was reframed as a joint venture with a
“developing country” (Final report 2009: 8).
261
of its achievement had to be accommodated and domesticated in the

process of cooperation. In the case of the groups for girls and boys in
Lithuania and Russia, the need for gender equality education was frequently
justified with arguments instrumental to other causes like preventing
trafficking, diminishing delinquency, and even contributing to the solution
of the ‘demographic crises’ through the improvement of ‘family values’. The
utilitarian framing of the project contributed to its success in a politically
different and sometimes socially hostile environment, including its
implementation by a semi-state organisation of professional social workers
in one of the Russian regions during a period of growing authoritarian
tendencies in state politics. The implementation of the programme for the
sake of ‘family’, ‘welfare’, and ‘development’ made it acceptable in a context
where the ideas of ‘sisterhood’ and ‘feminism’ hardly would have worked.
All this contributed to ‘gender equality’ being made an organic part of the
cooperation programmes in the Baltic Sea region.
Still, the success of cooperation networks with former socialist states is
rather limited with respect to both democracy and gender equality. In
particular in the Russian case, the groups that were originally meant to
create a space for ordinary teenagers to reflect on gender stereotypes and
inequality were remade into instruments of adjustment to existing social
norms rather than changing their normativity, at the same time as the
group leader worked in the capacity of an ‘expert’ and ‘professional’.
Nevertheless, while the larger cooperation network has much more
balanced goals than many projects of international donors studied before:
instead of supporting organisations with a clear human rights profile, the
project analysed here involved “less outspokenly democratic organi-
sations”14 and sought to introduce gender equality as part of ordinary group
meetings for teenagers in the framework of social work. The centre in
Kaliningrad is an organisation associated with the Russian state and
(similarly to Nendre) has moderate goals – to help girls and boys to become
self-confident and to raise their awareness of existing forms of discri-
mination based on gender. Despite such modest goals the centre fulfils an
important social function, facilitating group discussions on gendered social
norms and on gender stereotypes. Even if it is not performed in feminist
terms, such work provides – for individual teenagers – the possibility of a
critical assessment of reality, including the review of the existing gender
14
For more about criticism of earlier American donors’ projects see McIntosh
Sundstrom 2006: 176–9; Hemment, 2007: 52–3.
262
order. The cooperation also changes ordinary work patterns of social

services and the individual social workers.
In June 2012, the Russian Parliament accepted a law declaring organ-
isations dealing with democracy issues and receiving funding from abroad
to be ‘foreign agents’. In such a situation the cooperation examined in this
text is probably even more beneficial, owing to its apparently ‘apolitical’
content (it has some similarity with the success of crisis centres in Russia,
described in Johnson 2009). While the general information about rights and
gender quotas is frequently perceived as abstract and annoying in the post-
Soviet space, it is the connection between critical approaches to one’s
surrounding reality and one’s own biography that makes this project
particularly beneficial. At the same time, observations presented in this
chapter give rise to further questions about hierarchies of organisations and
limitations with regard to the cooperation for women’s rights.
263
(Top) Psychologist Yelena Romanenko conducts training based on Mia Hanström’s method-
ology, adapted for small children, Kaliningrad city, 21 June 2013 (Star of Hope / Photogra-
pher: Valentina Zherebtsova)
(Bottom) Training for young mothers on gender education in the family by Director of Star
of Hope Nina Vorontsova, Bagrationovsk (Kaliningrad region), 15 Feb. 2014 (Star of Hope /
Photographer: Valentina Zherebtsova)
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267
11. Young Moldovan Women at the Crossroads:
Between Patriarchy and Transnational
Labour Markets
Kristina Abiala
Post-Soviet Moldova is an emigration country and supplier of transnational

labour markets. The narratives of young women from this country, asked
about their dreams for the future, show how the creation of a gendered
identity is based upon the coping behaviour of individuals. The present
study explores the way migration and other determinants have an effect on
gendered identity formation. Reflecting a construction of Moldovan women
as mirrored in their own aspirations and quoting them in a text like this, it
is hoped, makes their voices heard and provides a supportive frame of
reference about their own situation that might be emancipatory. These
women’s stories are part of a worldwide narrative about inequality – in par-
ticular gender inequality – that has a bearing on the situation in Western
countries. Making these Moldovan women invisible through a stereotypical
account would mean obscuring the socio-economic conditions that con-
stitute the foundation of inequality in other parts of the world as well. Thus,
acknowledging the experiences of young Moldovan women is a way of
reflecting back stereotyped projections and understanding general mechan-
isms of inequality.
Identity formation on the individual level is intrinsically interwoven with
gender relations, and it is negotiated in specific societal contexts. The
Republic of Moldova became independent in 1991, after having been one of
the Soviet Union’s Socialist Republics for 51 years. During that period
women and men were discursively constructed as tovarisch, that is, as equal
comrades. For Moldovan citizens of today traditional and patriarchal
norms, as well as mass migration form the background of problem solving
in everyday life, and for the construction of a gendered identity.
269
In the early 2000s, Moldovan women were often described as victims of

sexual trafficking (cf. Abiala 2006). Perceptions circulated about them as
deceived or even kidnapped, as naive and uninformed. Experts from abroad
were engaged to help repatriated young women get back on their feet and
find a job in Moldova. The prevalent stories contained a grain of truth, but
they represented a minor part of the experiences of migrating women.
Nevertheless, ‘the Moldovan woman’ became a projection surface represen-
ting poor victimised and sexualised women who were different from ‘us’
Western women. Against this backdrop, a second look was cast to facilitate
a deeper understanding of the Moldovan ‘other’.1
Doing gender and nation

Due to the weakness of the Moldovan state, women’s protection by men in
a classical family structure is often seen as essential in Moldova. In view of
many women who emigrate to provide for their family, a complex or
contrarious process of gender identity is conditioned on various levels.
Gender research has shown that men and women have obligations and
rights that are deeply rooted in society, its history and culture. As pointed
out by Yvonne Hirdman, a stereotypical, to some degree negotiable, gender
contract codifies that the man is responsible for supporting the woman and
that the woman given such support is tied to home and family. The man’s
obligations are mainly located outside the home, where he enjoys some
freedom of action. The narratives about the stereotypical ‘he’ and ‘she’ have
to be identified in order to understand how gender contracts are built, how
they develop, and how they perhaps disappear in a particular context
(Hirdman 2001: 26, 84–90). Another researcher to have addressed the issue
of contracts, as expressed by classic contract theorists, is Carol Pateman.
The latter viewed the social contract within society as dependent on a sexual
contract – a story of submission: “Women must enter into the marriage
contract. But the sexual contract requires that women are incorporated into
civil society on a different basis from men” (Pateman 1988: 180–1). While
the social contract includes patriarchal rights and gives men power over
women, the sexual contract establishes men’s systematic access to women’s
1
The first part of the study was based on field work conducted in 2003 and concerned
prostitution and trafficking in Moldavian women (Abiala 2006). The second part dealt
with women from Gagauzia in the south of Moldova who worked in Istanbul as
domestics in 2007 (Abiala 2013a). The third part, based on interviews with young
Moldovans carried out in March and April 2008, is partly reflected in Abiala (2013b) and
partly in this chapter.
270
11. YOUNG MOLDOVAN WOMEN AT THE CROSSROADS
bodies. A husband may exploit his wife who has been established as sub-
ordinate through the marriage contract. In patriarchy, differences between
women and men are seen as essential natural differences with far-reaching
implications. Men’s patriarchal power over women is presented as arising
from the essential order of nature.2
Gender is also construed in terms of national identity, and how women’s
bodies are negotiated has consequences for the national project. According
to Maud Eduards (2007: 14), a national frame of reference is crucial for
what women are allowed to do and not to do. Generally believed to be con-
trolled by their body and associated with gender and sexuality, women are
made responsible for realising which man is trustworthy and whom they are
to mistrust (Eduards 2007: 17, 22). In contrast, the male body is imagined as
de-gendered and concealed, and at the same time elevated as universal. In
such a gender construction men have the duty to protect the borders of the
nation, women and children, freedom and honour. This protection appears
both as an act of paternalism and patriotism (Eduards 2007: 17, 21). The
nation’s reliance on gendered categories of citizens appears as natural, and
their conception is significant for how societies organise themselves moral-
ly, socially, and politically. Eduards (2007: 18) connects this to phenomena
such as violence and sexual trafficking.
A particular question with regard to Moldova is how the fact that many
women and men emigrate influences gender construction. Women show
strength by travelling abroad, trying to find a job that will enable them to
earn more than the salary that is offered in their country of origin. Many
married women leave their family and the male head of the family behind,
and their freedom will usually increase with emigration. The money they
send home improves the situation of the family and they become (one of)
the breadwinners, a circumstance that might change the gender contract in
their case, as compared to more traditional ways of families staying in Mol-
dova. However, going abroad also means being exposed to the stereotypical
image of ‘the Moldovan woman’, being victimised and sexualised as a ‘poor
European other’ (see also Augustin 2003; Cheng 2003; Demletiner 2001;
Kapur 2002; Kofman et al. 2000; Lemish 2000; Ålund 1999).
2
In addition Pateman and Shanley (1991) discriminate between the private (the domes-
tic, the familial, the intimate), and the public (in terms of the economy and the state),
thereby emphasising the political significance of differences among women (1991: 3).
271
Moldova in 2008 and later years: Poverty, migration, and gender

The interviews on which this chapter is based were held in 2008. The
situation for people in Moldova has presumably changed since then and the
question is whether the generated data can be assumed to have a bearing on
the situation today.
A report on the realisation of the UN millenium development goals,
published in 2010 by the Moldovan government with the assistance of UN
agencies, targeted poverty and gender equality. As a background it referred
to the first decade of transition, 1991–2000, when the country’s economic
recession caused increasing poverty. While the economy has grown by two
thirds in the period 2000–08, the discrepancy between urban and rural areas
that emerged after 1990 lingered on. In terms of consumption, income, and
welfare the report maintained that, “as recent research suggests, Moldova
displays one of the highest degrees of polarization of economic life in
Europe” (Government of Moldova 2010: 14). Economic growth, based – to
a substantial proportion – on remittances from emigrants, led to a fall in
poverty rates in urban, but not in rural areas. Moldovans did not benefit
equally from support from abroad, but rather “[f]amilies benefiting from
remittances are least exposed to the risks of poverty” (2010: 27). The global
financial crisis in 2009 translated into a decrease in Moldova’s GDP. Re-
peated droughts, floods in rural areas, and export restrictions worsened the
situation (Government of Moldova 2010: 14, 19). And “[t]he poverty rate in
rural areas continued to grow in 2009, widening the gap between rural and
urban areas” (2010: 8). While the Moldovan economy recovered in 2010 and
2011, the country slipped back into a recession in 2012 (World Bank 2013).
The current situation in Moldova is characterised by segregation into
gendered spheres, similar to other countries. In the field of education a
vertical segregation into different disciplines prevails. Female pupils and
students tend to study social sciences while males prefer technical subjects.
About 51 per cent of pupils and students are women, but their share in
higher education is larger. The average marriage age is 24 years for women
and 26 for men (National Bureau of Statistics n.d.). Women and men report
that they spend their time differently with regard to work and household
activities. Whereas men spend some more time in their working life than
women, the latter spend substantially more time on household chores and
with family care (National Bureau of Statistics 2013). Households headed by
women are probably at greater risk of poverty. They tend to come from
urban areas, are often formed by a single person with children, and fre-
272
quently rely on social payments and remittances (National Bureau of

Statistics n.d.).
Working life is another arena for the construction of gendered relations.
In the interviews of this study the wish to get a higher salary – sufficient to
support a family – is often mentioned.3 The unemployment rate is an
unreliable indicator in Moldova, where many of those not working are not
registered as unemployed. In 2012 the unemployment rate was estimated to
be 5 per cent for women and 7 per cent for men – however 54 per cent of
the women were categorised as belonging to the ‘inactive population’
(National Bureau of Statistics n.d.).
The number of emigrants is difficult to estimate, as Moldovans tend to
travel undocumented and become irregular migrants. Before 2009 there was
“a mass exodus of people”, with at least one-fourth of the active population
leaving the country for abroad. Most of the migrants who returned home in
2009 made efforts to re-emigrate the same year or in 2010 (Government of
Moldova 2010: 28). Table 1 shows that the emigration – out of a total
population of approximately 3.5 million inhabitants – was high in the
period 1995–2000 and even higher 2000–05, and that it decreased after that.
Table 1: Net number of migrants, both sexes (Source: UN Department of Economic and
Social Affairs 2012)
1985–90 1990–95 1995–2000 2000–05 2005–10
Moldova -85,000 -132,000 -250,000 -317,000 -170,000
The Moldovan government report from 2010 claimed that migration “will
in the long term have disastrous impact on the country’s economy and
demography” and suggested that issues “such as the so-called brain drain
and the emigration of those with other skills will need to be addressed”
(Government of Moldova 2010: 28). On a global scale the very young
emigrate too, and it seems likely that a significant proportion of children
and young people do this on their own (cf. McKenzie 2007, referred to in
World Migration Report 2010: 117). There is also regional variation, and
women are, in general, particularly represented among highly skilled
3
In 2012 the average monthly salary in Moldova was 3478 MDL (the equivalent of 217
EUR or 1869 SEK); available from:
http://www.statistica.md/newsview.php?l=en&idc=168&id=3975 [12 Jan. 2014].
273
migrants (United Nations Development Fund for Women 2008, referred to

in World Migration Report 2010: 117).
The persistence of gendered cultural models and socio-economic data
like that presented above suggest that the interview survey of 2008 is still
relevant to the current situation. The rural–urban development cleavage
and the divide between poor and rich might have increased even further.
Fieldwork parameters
The present chapter is based on a study that was conducted during a seven-
week stay in Moldova in the spring of 2008. The aim of the study was to
investigate the dreams of young people in Moldova in the context of large-
scale emigration. Particular concerns were the informants’ situation, their
expectations about the future, images about Moldovan women, and if and
how their experience of migration was connected to the process of gender
construction. Informants were meant to belong to the 16–25 years old age
group and to represent varied levels of education, and both urban and rural
backgrounds. Based on these criteria two local research assistants found
informants and booked the interviews.
In practice, informants varied in age from 14 to 22, being somewhat
younger than planned, and displayed an overrepresentation of the well-
educated with an urban background. Most of the informants lived in the
capital Chişinău. It proved difficult to find informants in the countryside,
but a group interview was held in a village 30 kilometres from Chişinău. In
all, 22 semi-structured interviews were conducted, of which four were with
experts in the fields of gender, migration, national economy, and women in
the labour market. Six interviews were carried out with groups of up to
twenty pupils or students; one with four participants; four with two people
and seven with a single informant. The interviewees responded to questions
such as: Could you tell me something about yourself and your life? What is
your special dream for the future? Can you describe ‘Moldovan women’?
Follow-up questions varied depending on the course taken in different
interviews.
The interviews were held in English and Romanian, relying on the
translation services of two female university students. A disadvantage of
working with interpretation is that it changes the wording and to a degree
the content of what has been said. Simultaneous translation from one
language into another during an interview is a demanding task and the
interview quotes in this chapter had to be edited in some cases so as to cite
274
the informants at an adequate linguistic level. An advantage of working

with native born interpreters was their familiarity with the Moldovan
education system and their helpful eliciting of collective images in group
interviews that the interviewer might not have noticed. The interpreters
formed a significant part of a triangle of social interaction, in which the
interviews were conducted with me as the ‘skilled observer from outside’
and them as ‘insiders and cultural consultants’. Apart from informing them
about my research questions and methodological guidelines, I also
interviewed the interpreters. This helped me to understand their frames of
reference, and it was an opportunity for them to reflect on the material they
helped to gather (cf. Jentsch 1998: 287).
International designer or getting married

One of the group interviews was held with four female and three male social
science students aged 20 to 22. Two of them started by setting the scene:
The male student imagined himself as a national hero in a leading position
in the Moldovan government, doing something to be remembered by. The
female student explained how she felt subordinate in her discipline and that
she was contemplating continuing her studies abroad.
Two other students had an argument about gender, based on the dreams
of one of them. The female student described how she had studied abroad
for several years to become a designer, something she liked very much. For
family reasons she had to come back to Moldova, where she felt angry and
did not know what to do. “I had to give up everything, my friends and my
way of thinking, but after four years I am not sad. I got used to it.” The
interviewer asked her what she wanted to do now, triggering a dialogue
between her and one of the male students. When the woman answered
laughingly that she did not know, the man forcefully suggested “She is going
to marry. Will marry.” As if she did not hear him the female student
continued her answer by saying that she might perhaps become an inter-
national designer and added, referring to the male student, “Yes, he is
joking.” His response was loud and clear: “Not a joke! Stop dreaming, get
married!” Softly, but with some determination, the female student insisted
that this was her dream and that she wanted to be an artist: “That is what I
want. When I do something I want to do it will all my heart.” On the inter-
viewer’s follow-up question she talked about painting and sculpting, but a
bit resigned she proposed that it might be too late for her, being twenty-two
years old – she had to finish university. However, she concluded: “No, it’s
275
not too late … I would like to start painting again.” During this conver-
sation the male student remained determined as if he knew what she ought
to do and would eventually do. Without explicitly going against him, the
female student clearly stated her right to cherish her own dream and to
make it happen.
A whole group discussion emanated from the interviewer’s question
about gender equality in Moldova. One female and two male students
started a discussion on whether women in Moldova were treated as inferior
or not. One of the male students stated “I don’t think that Moldovan
women have problems.” A female student laughed, whereupon he argued
that they had equal rights and that there was “no problem here”. If a woman
was unable to do something it was her own fault, not the fault of the society,
he continued. “Or the fault of the man”, another male student added. The
female student maintained that women in Moldova were treated as inferior
and made clear that “I respect that men are men, but they have to respect
women and not say shut up because you’re a girl or a woman.” The relation
between work and private life for women and men was exemplified by the
different use of mobile phones. A male student suggested that men usually
bought two, one for work and one for friends, whereas women were not
used to having both work and home relationships.
Another theme was about who was the head of the family, the main rule
being that the one who earns money is the boss. The son and not the
mother was said to become the head of the family if there was no father.
One of the female students disagreed in favour of the mother for being
wiser and more experienced, continuing “Maybe I am wrong, but …” A
male student talked about the role of woman as housewife: “I don’t see why
she shouldn’t be a housewife. She does everything she wants and everything
for the family.” Another male student added “She may even have her own
money. For some women this is a very good position.” “But”, one female
student argued, “there are different families. I know families where the
woman is the breadwinner while her man’s work is not so important for the
family budget.”
The question about gender equality was discussed in a societal context. A
male student explained “our society is still a bit conservative. Men are, in
some circles, considered superior. Women have their areas where they are
superior.” A female student related the view on gender and sexuality back to
276
the Soviet times of Moldova.4 She referred to “the communist mentality”

with permanent fear, lack of education, and no talk about sex, “so we don’t
talk about that”. At the same time, gender equality was taken for granted in
the Soviet Union: “They said that there is no difference between men and
women. We were all equal, ‘tovarisch’, on an equal scale.” But she added, a
girl was nevertheless educated how to cook and only later did a woman
realise that she could do something else.
Both in this group and in another group of somewhat younger students
the researcher mentioned an observation of a couple in the city, a pretty,
slim woman with very short skirt, high heels, and long hair holding on to a
big muscular man with shaven head and a black leather jacket. In the group
of the younger students the following explanation was given: “This is the
Moldovan ideal. A lot of girls envy that girl. Women in Moldova want to
find this man who is a superhero who would take care of everything.
Women will have to be beautiful, provided for or offered money, even [if it
means losing] willpower, and self-initiative. People think that she is a happy
woman, having found this man. Even women in villages … would like to be
this girl.”
Another student added that “the attention this young woman gets is
believed to be lost later on in the relationship. Men show attention to
women only at the beginning. In the end she is just like an object that
remains in the kitchen or takes care of the children.”
In the older group of students the topic was rather that of prostitution or
escort services, and marital infidelity, although the way the couple’s
appearance reflected issues of money and safety – physically and financially
– was also seen. A male student commented that the woman was dressed
like a prostitute, and a female explained that she thought of how rich men
in their forties go out with very young girls. A male student commented:
“Something normal, they cheat on their wife.” On the interviewer’s question
about prostitution in Moldova a female answered: “Here? I don’t know.” A
male student replied “What do you mean by prostitution? We have
prostitutes, it’s normal and in a small country everybody knows, but it is
forbidden, hidden.”
4
Moldova became independent in 1991 when these students where three to five years
old. It is not likely they were much aware of the gender relations of Soviet times
themselves except for the attitudes that were evident from their parents and
grandparents, through stories or behaviour.
277
Potential victims of sexual trafficking or future academic professionals?

The youngest girls in this study were fourteen to fifteen years old, and were
interviewed in groups both in a rural school,5 and in a school in the capital
city Chişinău.6
In 2007, Catholic Relief Services implemented a ‘Jobs plus program’ in
Moldovan villages with young, unemployed female teenagers as bene-
ficiaries, a group considered most at risk for forced labour migration and
sexual trafficking. This course suggested rural women were more traditional
and more at risk of sexual trafficking than city girls. While the course
helped rural girls with labour market orientation, it also confirmed the
image of them as more vulnerable than others. The teaching seemed to
balance two different aims. On the one hand, it intended to open the girls’
eyes to university studies, and on the other, it was meant to channel them
into the blue-collar work available. The pupils were asked to think of
different professions that they were interested in and to anticipate what
kind of person an employer would want to hire. The teachers emphasised
the ‘external look’. The message was that those badly dressed and giving a
not-so-clean impression would not be employed. Finding a job required
getting references and good advice from people who were already working
in the respective area. They were told that they could “go abroad with a
degree and a profession”. Migration after having obtained a degree was seen
as something to counter the risks of trafficking.
In a group discussion with the researcher the pupils laughed when I
asked how many wanted to travel, the answer being “Everybody!” To Italy,
Spain, Egypt, the entire continent of Africa, Israel, the whole of Europe.
One girl said she would like to go to Asia or Africa as a charity worker in
order to help people in less developed countries. Another girl wanted to go
to a professional school to learn cooking. The teacher added, “to be a good
housewife” – a statement apparently positioning the girl in Moldova. She
said she did not know where she wanted to work.
The topic of building a family came up. A woman in Moldova was
believed to be “18 or 25” when marrying. ”It’s not like in Europe, where
they get married at thirty years old.” One of the respondents explained that
in Moldova “women are not totally without rights, but in our society men
are always superior to women. And females themselves accept this. In rural
5
Where I attended a lecture, held a group discussion, and performed several group
interviews.
6
Where I perfomed one group interview.
278
areas the main point is becoming a housewife. The majority of women in

Moldova are closer to family than to career.” According to the girls,
Moldovan women assumed a balancing role in their families and one
fostering quality. Perhaps, it was believed, they made sacrifices for the
family and for the happiness of the husband, or for the best of the children.
The girls characterised Moldovan women as “friendly, elegant, simple, and
modest.” The latter point was explained as meaning that they would not
claim they were better than someone else. However, there were limits to the
modesty of Moldavian women: “They are beautiful, and everyone in the
world knows it. For the woman it is very important that people are giving
compliments to her. Girls and women care very much about their looks.”
Dancing in Paris – some city girls’ dreams

Another group interview was held at the Colegiul National de Coregrafie in
Chişinău.7 These city girls were not regarded as a conventional risk group in
terms of trafficking. Compared to the group of rural girls, their education
had a clear direction and their dreams appeared unfettered by worries about
finding a good living, something that might also be a consequence of their
social class background, a factor not investigated here.
Several girls expressed dreams about dancing and living abroad.
Becoming a famous dancer was part of the plan for some of them. One
example was a girl who wanted to dance “on a big stage in a faraway
country like America, or Paris. Concerts all day long.” Earning a fortune
was mentioned, for example, in connection with wanting to “live in New
York in my own house” or to “live in my own apartment with a few
colleagues”, feeling very happy. One girl wanted to travel to Egypt; another
one said she would “try to see my family in Moldova every month”.
Becoming a dance teacher could also entail going abroad: “I want to teach
children dancing in Rome.”
7
The future dancers also studied languages, mathematics, history, biology, and other
subjects. According to the headmaster they could all be expected to find jobs and already
performed at the opera, ballet houses, and clubs, both classical and traditional Moldovan
dance (called Joc). They had visited numerous countries, including Sweden. A group of
13 girls was interviewed for one and a half hours at their school in the absence of a
teacher. It was striking that no one was permitted to answer freely without suggestions
being made from the group. To the researcher it felt like talking to a group mind. To get
an idea of their dreams the girls were asked about how they imagined their situation in
two years and also about emigration – something here referred to only when connected
to issues of identity formation.
279
For other girls – often those involved in the traditional dance Joc – their
future belonged to Moldova. Although they wanted to live there, they also
mentioned travelling abroad. Thus, one girl explained she wanted to learn a
foreign language and presented alternatives to the dancing profession, such
as becoming an airline stewardess or running her own sports business.
While wanting to “live in Chişinău with my parents, go to the sea, and the
mountains”, one girl also wanted to travel abroad. Another girl wanted to
become a dance teacher and live in an apartment in the centre of Chişinău
with her mother.
University students and ‘the Moldovan woman’

A group of female university students had precise ideas of how Moldavian
women were perceived abroad. They believed that people in Spain realised
“that Moldovan women are very kind-hearted”, in the sense of staying with
the father of their children, regardless of circumstances. The female
students were aware that the image of Moldovans held by people abroad
was rather limited. For example, they pointed out that people did not expect
to hear that their domestic helper had daughters enrolled in higher
education. “My mum [told them] that she wants to see her girls with a uni-
versity degree and that she needs to pay the tuition. People were very sur-
prised about this.”
Almost like a mantra, most of the girls and women used the words
beautiful, hardworking, and courageous when describing Moldovan
women. Other characteristics were perseverance and the pragmatic dealing
with what life offered to them, knowing that they could not expect help
from someone else. One student explained that being courageous was
forced on Moldovan women by their living conditions. At the same time,
descriptions also included a lack of will and power. According to this more
self-critical picture, Moldovan women lost confidence quickly when
confronted with a challenge and they lacked the ability to fight, something
that was also related to the financial situation in Moldova. One student
suggested a paradox: “Women of Moldova have dreams and ideals about
staying at home and being provided for by their husbands. This contradicts
the view of women as powerful, being the one who works and takes care of
everything.”
A difference between rural and urban women was described, the former
being the general referent. Rural women were seen as the backbone of the
family. In the villages women were believed to work more than men,
280
without receiving the appreciation that they deserved. “The man is con-
sidered to be the leader of the family, but the woman works more.” Women
were also regarded as often being the ones heading abroad in order to earn
money. In contrast to this ambiguous picture, the women of Chişinău were
described as dependent on men, “so they are weaker”. According to the
students, urban women were to a higher degree out for attention and
support from their husbands. “Here in Chişinău we have more young ladies
with short skirts that search for a man with money”, was one observation.
According to another one, “women in the city know their price and they
cherish themselves”. City women were not believed to go abroad to an equal
extent as rural women.
Emigrating women also met suspicion: “Migrate? Why does she need to
go abroad? Why doesn’t the money the man brings into the family suffice?
She might meet an Italian man there and marry him, and forget about her
family and husband.” Another female student objected: “I don’t consider it
a problem that women go abroad. The state doesn’t permit them to find a
good job and build a better future here in Moldova.”
Prostitution was a difficult issue for the interviewed women. “We must
not destroy the image of Moldovan woman because of some women who
work as prostitutes. My personal opinion is that they do this out of need,
not for pleasure.” The respondents tried to avoid being explicit about
prostitution. One of them found it “very difficult to pronounce the words”
and added “Yes, they offer sexual services abroad.” One female student
maintained that many women “step on their dignity to earn money”, to
provide for a better life for their children and for their entire family. Their
work abroad was to “offer undignified services”. One explanation for this
was that they were forced to do this, however, they “didn’t choose the safest
way to go abroad”. There they were believed to be controlled by men giving
them strict orders that they were to “cheat on their husbands and even to
sell themselves for work”. The interviewer’s question, whether this referred
to prostitution, was answered in the affirmative. And it was explained that
the bosses knew that the women could not go back to their country, because
it had cost them a considerable sum to have left it illegally.
Gender equality or discrimination

According to the respondents, there were manifest differences in the view
on gender at an early age. “A boy always says, I am a boy and you are a girl
– whereas you are supposed to stay at home, I am supposed to go out and
281
have fun. And the girls around him also believe that.” Such attitudes were
said to prevail into adult life. Even if women had plans for their lives, they
tended to give them up out of a lack of courage and patience, students said.
One woman gave the following explanation: “There is a stereotype that the
man is the head of the family and whatever he will do, the wife will follow.
And the woman will always say, he is my husband and I will need to help
him with his plans. I will abandon my plans. And the man thinks that my
wife should stay at home and take care of the children.”
Some of the female students commented about the lack of equality in
their country: “Here the first place is [reserved] for the husband. No law
exists saying that men and women are equal. A woman must listen to her
husband. In some cases men subordinate women and humiliate them.”
According to another view “women are a little bit discriminated against
because they don’t have the same rights as men, or these rights are not
respected”. At the same time women might long for ‘a man in the house’.
One student talked about her boyfriend who lived with his mother. “What I
really like is that he understands that his mother has no husband, and he is
like the man in the house. He understands that a man should never fight
with a woman, beat her or doing anything aggressive.” One student had
come to the conclusion that she was equal to men: “I started having fears
that I am not attractive or beautiful so I would have to wear a short skirt
and high heels. But I don’t like that. I don’t see myself running up to my
husband in high heel shoes and short skirt for him to give me money. I
clearly see myself as equal to my husband.” However, gaining employment
was regarded as easier for men: “The boss fears that the woman will marry
and have children”. One student reminded us that there were some women
in leadership positions in Moldova.
Being assaulted in the city at night, or in the family, is a problem, not
only in Moldova. One student provided a intense overview of domestic
violence: “Different cruel stuff happens like the killing of a wife, of the
husband beating the wife, or divorce. A lot of problems. My father didn’t
actually beat my mother, but a little bit (demonstrates pinching). I know it
is not good.” Another story went as follows: “We have a family acquain-
tance, who is abused by her husband. She has three children and says ‘How
will I take care of them without my husband?’ She is just like that.” The
students had heard that abroad Moldovan women were treated as subalterns:
“They like Moldovan women a lot, but take them as slaves and treat them
badly. And I can tell you why, because Moldovan women are beautiful and
they think that since we are poor we will take any job to get some money.”
282
These women interviewed were students and their dreams do, of course,
encompass finding a job commensurate with their educational level. Be-
coming a social worker or an interpreter “would allow me to communicate
with many people and to give them advice regarding someone’s life”. One
female educational science student aimed at making a career and advancing
to a position of responsibility. “I want to be a director of a lyceum or college,
why not vice-chancellor of a university?” Another one wanted to work with
fashion and “to have my own shop / atelier where I can sew the clothes”.
One of the interviewees reflected on how both her parents’ wishes for her
future entailed different paths, one to a feminine coded work and one to the
breaking of gender norms: “I haven’t decided about university or the police
academy. I think I will finish my education in pedagogy because mother
wants me to do this for her.”
However, the more enticing choice was the police academy favoured by
the father. “There are some criteria, I don’t know if they accept girls. It’s
very dangerous work.” She did not believe that it was an advantage to be a
woman in this job, but would nevertheless like to interact with many people
and be able to defend her country.
The stereotypical image about Moldovans is one of poverty and mi-
gration. The interviews often expressed a wish to go abroad, but not neces-
sarily a desire to migrate. “I want to go to Disneyland. I would also like to
travel over the whole world and if I love a country, to stay there. I would
like to go to Paris, with my family, and all my relatives.” One student said “I
would like to go to Brazil for the carnival. In Latin America there is a day of
tomato fighting. I would like to go to Egypt or Turkey to see professional
belly dancers.” Travelling is also described as an element of future work. A
student of psychology would like to do research abroad and help suffering
people. Another student mentioned her wish to become part of a delegation
and to travel a lot.
Many interviewees expressed love for Moldova with different con-
notations such as the countryside, flowers, and being with relatives. Often
they considered remaining in Chişinău, in a big house, as the most
attractive future. However, they regarded it as unaffordable and migration
as a means, hopefully, to be able to build a home in Moldova. However,
worries about difficulties and deprivation were also connected to the idea of
staying in the country. “I have values and ideas about life that are not
respected here in Moldova. They tell me that it only happens in movies: ‘In
real life you have to fight for it and have hardship like in Moldova.’ I would
like to go back to the US; here I begin to lose my self-confidence.” There
283
was also fear of migration reminiscent of the discourse on trafficking. “I

hear of different stuff that happens, making me kind of worried a bit. The
young girls that live abroad, some of them come back, and some don’t.
From what I hear it is not always good. I read different stuff. It worries me. I
want to believe that this will not happen to me.”
Another important theme was marrying and building a family. “I want to
have a good family, good children, and a good husband.” Migration might
become necessary: “I think I would leave Moldova if I didn’t have a job with
a salary that would allow me to have a decent life, to provide for me and for
my family.” Here the extended family is included. Helping relatives is
connected to a wish that Moldovan society, described as encompassing not
only many poor people struggling for food, but also numerous rich people,
would provide better welfare. Under the prevailing conditions it is regarded
a necessity to support family members: “If something happens to a member
of my family and I will need a big sum of money I will work abroad to do
that, of course I will. If a member of my family will need an urgent
operation that will cost tens of thousands of Euros or dollars …”.
The description of a ‘good husband’ included him being somewhat older
and a bit taller that the woman. Upon the interviewer asking why he was
expected to be taller, everybody laughed and one of the women replied:
“Maybe it is the mentality of women. When I go on a street I’d like my
husband to be taller. It’s not nice if I’m short and he is even shorter.” Both
appearance and personality were described: “He must be handsome, but not
very handsome. Just to be able to go out with him without getting
embarrassed.” Another request was him having “not too dark skin, white
skin, dark hair, and black eyes.” The husband of the students’ dreams was
often respectful and understanding in the relationship. He was not jealous
of other boys and friends, and had interests and values similar to the ones
she had. The ideal husband would also care for the family, the children and
help with the household chores. For him, family had to be the most
important thing in life. Husbands could also be seen as compensating for
one’s own weaknesses: “He has to be freer than me, more courageous.
Sometimes I’m shy, and I’d like him to be able to help me express myself.”
Having a university degree and a well-paid occupation was seen as desirable
“so he can provide for me as well”. The ultimate husband was the one who
was “able to deal with any problem”.
Having children was an obvious choice for these women, despite the low
Moldavian birth rate. Two children was the norm, first a boy and then a
girl. As the following statement shows, the proper sequence might some-
284
times be connected to a corresponding order of attention. “I want a boy and

a girl. To be like a mother, carry him, educate him, and him being like a
flower in my hands.” A more traditional view of the adequate size of a
family was also expressed: “I haven’t thought about the number of children.
Maybe two, four, six, or ten. Previous generations used to have twelve
children, so if it is possible, why not. It is said that many pregnancies make a
woman more beautiful.”
Conclusion
This study on young Moldavians’ narratives seeks to contribute to an
improved understanding of the construction of gendered identities in the
context of traditional and patriarchal norms, mass migration, and indivi-
dual problem solving in everyday life. Its informants provided manifold
examples of traditional ways of thinking and stereotypical gender contracts.
The women and men interviewed did not seriously question the man’s task
to support and provide for his wife and family. The two sexes were assigned
different life spheres starting with boyhood – going out to have fun – and
girlhood – staying at home in the family. This was, apart from a few
exceptions, apparently seen as the consequence of an essential natural dif-
ference. The prevalence of traditional norms was also highlighted in female
students’ description of the ideal husband: taller, protecting, and mentally
and materially supportive of his family.
The question is whether there are indications that it is possible to
negotiate the traditional gender contract. This is clearly the case in regard to
women’s participation in higher education and in the process of migration.
Moldovan women are often stereotyped as naive and uninformed victims,
but after independence in 1991 roughly half of the numerous emigrants
from the country have been women, engaged in making a decent livelihood
for their extended family. Thus, many of them have become (one of) the
breadwinners of the family and that gives them an improved position from
which to question and negotiate their gender role. Such material changes
are likely to alter the situation of women in Moldova. The dispute between
young men and women in one of the group interviews results, perhaps,
from the male apprehension of women entering the educational arena and
obtaining higher positions, both at home and abroad.
It is not so clear how the construction of a gendered identity is
connected to the Moldovan national project of today. In the beginning of
the 2000s, Moldova received much financial aid and practical support from
285
experts and NGOs from other countries in order to stop trafficking, mostly
of women. The government had the difficult task of balancing the national
economy and welcomed this help. Human trafficking is still an issue, but
remittances from migrants and the stabilisation of the economy have
improved the Moldovan situation. At the same time, the reluctance to
become overly dependent on foreign experts has led to increasing un-
willingness to assume the role of ‘the poor European other’.
286
Crossroads in Chişinău, 2006 (Photographer: Richard Fairbrother)
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289
Part 4: Environmental Awareness
12. Waves of Laws and Institutions:
The Emergence of National Awareness of
Water Pollution and Protection in the
Baltic Sea Region over the Twentieth Century
Simo Laakkonen
The Baltic Sea is often said to be the most polluted, the most researched,
and the most protected sea in the world. Nonetheless, persistent environ-
mental problems show that we do not sufficiently understand the temporal
and spatial changes in societies and ecosystems in the region. The environ-
mental history of Baltic Sea protection is still being written, and the lack of
in-depth studies means that the interactions between societies and eco-
systems in the region remain largely unknown. The environmental history
of pollution and the protection of the seas and oceans in general is a poorly
explored topic (Hughes 2006) despite the fact that water covers two-thirds
of the surface of the globe.
Previous research has provided an empirical overview and analysis of the
origins of water pollution and protection in the Baltic Sea region at the local
level (Laakkonen et al. 1999; 2001; 2007). This is, however, not sufficient for
understanding the complex socio-ecological processes that have transfor-
med the Baltic Sea from a functioning natural resource into an environ-
mental problem over the course of the twentieth century. Thus, there is a
need to expand the research from local to national frameworks. Currently,
most studies discussing these issues at the national level pertain almost
exclusively to natural, scientific, or technical aspects and focus primarily on
present-day problems and ignore the historical context.
In the social sciences and humanities, there is some work on certain
aspects of the history (e.g., Kirby and Hinkkanen 2000; Maciejewski 2002;
Bolin et al. 2005), environmental legislation, and the international power
293
PART 4. ENVIRONMENTAL AWARENESS
politics of Baltic Sea protection (e.g., Fitzmaurice 1992; Hjorth 1992; Van-
deveer 2000). However, in this research the history of environmental issues
has been largely neglected (an exception being the impact of pollution on
fishing, see Holm et al. 2001). The problem is twofold; environmental
history is not yet a firmly established academic discipline in the countries of
the region, and practical research in the field struggles with the fact that
publications and archival data are in many different languages and that
there are significant geographical distances between research institutions in
the region.
As a consequence only a few in-depth studies have explored the history
of the pollution or protection of watercourses in the Baltic Sea region over
the twentieth century. Denmark is the only country in the region for which
the national debate concerning water pollution over the past century has
been properly explored (Engberg 1999). In Sweden the long-term develop-
ment of pollution paradigms has been studied (Löwgren, Hillmo, and Lohm
1989), while studies on the national debate have focused on the turn of the
nineteenth and twentieth century (Lundgren 1974). In Finland national
studies over the twentieth century have focused on towns and cities (Laak-
konen, Laurila, and Rahikainen 1999) and wastewater treatment technology
(Katko 1996). Scholars exploring the national history of water pollution and
protection of the USSR have dealt with specific eras and themes (e.g.,
Goldman 1972; Peterson 1993; Kimstach, Mevbeck, and Baroudy 1998) and
the Soviet period as a whole remains to be investigated. Studies concerning
the Baltic Republics have examined the Soviet period and the history of
environmental technology (Velner 1995; Cetkauskaité, Zharkov, and
Stoskus 2001). Only a few studies have attempted to discuss the develop-
ment of water protection in Poland from a national point of view (Roman
and Tabernacki 1992; Carter 1993; Kowalik and Laakkonen 2007). In brief,
studies that have explored national development in the aforementioned
countries have generally focused on a relatively short and often recent time
period (e.g., Joas, Jahn, and Kern 2008; Gilek et al. 2011). As a consequence
we still lack a ‘big picture’ of the national development of water pollution
and protection in the Baltic Sea Region over the twentieth century.
The study of the history of environmental problems has also been
delayed by the prevailing assumption that modern environmental pro-
tection only emerged in the industrialised and democratic states in the late
1960s and early 1970s. According to this argument, there had earlier only
been some forms of nature conservation that had emerged in the late
nineteenth century. The hypothesis of the recent origin of environmental
294
12. WAVES OF LAWS AND INSTITUTIONS
protection is generally accepted in the areas of environmental policy

making, the media, and the sciences. While recognising the major expan-
sion that took place in environmental concepts and practices in the late
1960s and early 1970s, I argue that the awareness of environmental prob-
lems emerged earlier than is generally believed. As the example of the Baltic
Sea region illustrates, both nature conservation and environmental
protection have their own history dating back to the late nineteenth century
(Lundgren 1995).
The Baltic Sea catchment area is four times larger (over 1.7 million
square kilometres) than the sea itself. Historical human-induced changes in
the area and its numerous river basins have caused most of the environ-
mental problems in the Baltic. This chapter seeks to provide an overall
picture of how national awareness of water pollution and protection
developed in four coastal states of the Baltic Sea region – Finland, Sweden,
the Soviet Union, and Poland – until the end of the Cold War. It focuses on
urban-industrial pollution because this has historically been the most prob-
lematic and most addressed environmental issue in the Baltic Sea region.
Although this essay is meant to explore how the awareness of water pol-
lution and protection developed on the national level, a study of civil society
in this respect is practically impossible due to its fragmentary character and
the lack of previous historical studies. Therefore, this study examines
governmental actors, legislation, and related institutions. The issues explo-
red are when, why, and how ideas and practices related to water pollution
began to be discussed in various official agencies and in the government. I
consider both successful and unsuccessful efforts to develop nationwide
institutional tools for controlling inland and coastal water pollution because
they both indicate activities with the goal of improving the state of the
aquatic environment in the region. Such a study has its limits because
legislation neither guarantees that protective measures against water
pollution are actually implemented nor does it necessarily reflect the
severity of the environmental problems.
The pioneering era prior to the First World War
Sweden
In the nineteenth century, problems with urban and industrial pollution
were both socially and spatially divided in Sweden because the majority of
the urban population lived in the southern part of the country while most
295
forest industries were established in the sparsely populated north. Polluting

of urban watercourses was generally forbidden by municipal ordinances
issued in 1868. This decree prohibited dumping of pig food, carcasses, gar-
bage, and refuse from factories into urban watercourses. City governments
were allowed to issue special decrees when needed, and the police had the
power to impose fines and compensation for damages. The Public Health
Act was passed in 1874, and this provided autonomy for towns and cities in
terms of managing sanitary issues and codifying the existing regulations.
Public health departments were established with their own laboratories and
experts, and this gave them significant authority and power, especially in
bigger towns. However, this did not stop the population and industries
from increasingly contaminating urban watercourses.
Starting in the late nineteenth century, a growing number of factories
were established by rivers and rapids in the Swedish countryside. Most of
these factories were iron works, sugar factories, or pulp and paper mills that
used local resources, raw materials, and energy. The pulp and paper fac-
tories were the most polluting of the air and water compared to other indus-
tries, and this led to problems for everyday household activities, agriculture,
and fisheries. Local problems continued to increase during this time period,
but there were hardly any regulations or authorities put in place to deal with
pollution in the countryside. The scarce resources of the rural munici-
palities were mainly used for poor relief and basic education, and this led to
the prevalence of a passive attitude in regard to pollution. National fisheries
inspectors were, in principle, the only public authorities tasked with ad-
dressing industrial environmental problems in the countryside. Their
number, activities, and powers increased significantly after the adminis-
trative reform of 1904. They were particularly concerned with the impact of
fibre and lute on hatching areas (Lundgren 1974: 17, 210). The fisheries
inspectors were entitled to investigate and intervene and, if needed, even
temporarily close down polluting facilities.
The first time the question of water and air pollution was presented in
the Swedish Parliament was in 1902. Five years later, the government
ordered a committee – called the Ditching Law Committee (Dikningslags-
kommittén) – to prepare a bill addressing air and water pollution in Sweden.
In 1915 the committee issued a white paper requiring the state to take
action. The white paper and the associated bill were based on the concern
for gaseous and liquid discharges from factories and their impacts on
health. It was acknowledged that people had a right to healthy surround-
ings, including clean water and air, and the new industries were described
296
as a risk to the purity of Sweden’s watercourses. Based on reports from pro-

vincial medical doctors, the committee presented a gloomy overall picture
of the state of watercourses in Sweden. The committee suggested that
realistically a certain amount of pollution was unavoidable and had to be
accepted due to related business interests. However, they stated that all
possible protection measures were to be adopted as long as these were
economically viable. The chemical industry resisted such demands and
argued that a society that required expensive treatment facilities should also
pay for them. Nevertheless, the committee suggested that the establishment
of new factories be subject to licensing in order to take potential polluting
impacts into account early in the planning process. The committee also
proposed establishing a new organisation to oversee the implementation of
the law. First, a water inspection office (Vatteninspektion) was to be estab-
lished for research and law enforcement, and second a special water court
(Vattendomstol) was to be set up to solve judicial problems related to water
and wastewater issues both in municipalities and in industries (Di-
kningslagskommittén 1915).
The handling of the committee’s white paper and the related bill was,
however, delayed due to the First World War, which affected Sweden to
some extent despite the country’s neutrality. When the bill was finally intro-
duced and debated in parliament in 1921 it was rejected. The economic
interests of the growing industry were regarded as more important than the
interests of people living by polluted watercourses. The situation in urban
centres was not better than in the countryside. All towns and cities in
Sweden had water works and municipal sewerage systems, but only one
town had a wastewater treatment facility prior to the First World War
(Lundgren 1974: 141, 187; Allmänna 1955).
Grand Duchy of Finland

From 1809 to 1917, Finland was a semi-autonomous part of the Russian
Empire that was given ample opportunity to develop its industry. Export-
orientated sawmills increased in number from the middle of the nineteenth
century, and the forest industry acquired a more important role in Finland
than in any other Nordic country. The mechanical wood processing
industry also started to expand from the middle of the nineteenth century,
and the chemical forest industry – along with the production of sulphite
and sulphate cellulose – began to develop in the 1880s.
These changes did not go unnoticed, and just as in Sweden it was
Finland’s fisheries inspectors who were the first and most active govern-
297
mental agency to pay attention to industrial water pollution. They played a

major role in the various studies and committees that examined the
environmental consequences of the forest industry on society as a whole
and on fisheries in particular. Even as early as the 1870s, the first fisheries
inspectors had called for regulations that would have completely prohibited
detrimental discharges into the watercourses (Fiskeritidskrift för Finland
1897: 62). The inspectors were also the first authority to examine industrial
water pollution and countermeasures in foreign countries and to initiate
international cooperation in the field (Nordquist 1891). Moreover, they
were active in establishing the Finnish Fisheries Association whose guide-
book, published in 1895, addressed the harmful impact of pollution and the
necessity to study it (Cederström 1894).
The development of legislation followed the same pattern as the devel-
opment of the forest industry, although with some delay. Like other
provisions from the time when Finland was still a part of Sweden, a Swedish
law from 1734 remained in force that prohibited the dumping of sawdust
into rivers. Sawmills were often obliged to prevent bark from ending up in
watercourses and damaging fishing gear (Jaatinen 1965: 15). The pro-
hibition of water pollution was included in the Imperial decree in 1868 con-
cerning water pipes and water works as well as in the Water Act that
became law in 1902. In 1891, the fisheries inspectors addressed pollution
caused by the cellulose industry, but they considered that floating and
sawmills still had a more detrimental impact on watercourses (Nordqvist
1891: 50). However, by 1898 a governmental fisheries committee described
industrial pollution in its white paper in the following manner: “Cellulose
mills, paper factories, and so on, the waste of which includes chemical
products, discharge those directly into watercourses and have had a ruinous
impact on fisheries” (Kalastuskomitealta 1898: 18).
At the beginning of the twentieth century, air and water pollution caused
by the forest industry was widely acknowledged and a governmental
Sulphate Committee studied the issue in 1907 and 1908. This committee
demonstrated that the smell caused by a mill could be noted from a distance
of 40 kilometres. Although a white paper published by the committee in
1909 asked whether the operations of the worst polluters should be closed
down (KM 1909: 1, 105), the economic interests of the forest industry were
given priority. However, Finnish towns and cities did not remain inactive,
and by 1910 two towns had erected the first biological wastewater treatment
plants.
298
Imperial Russia
The development of water pollution and protection issues in Imperial
Russia has never been properly studied. It seems, however, that the country
paid little attention to water pollution let alone spoke of water protection.
According to Cherkinskii (1973: 9), the central tsarist government did not
establish measures for the control of effluents or the protection of water
resources despite numerous initiatives by experts. Watercourses and water
protection were in a catastrophic state even in the Imperial capital of Saint
Petersburg, which suffered from recurrent cholera epidemics long after
such outbreaks ceased to occur in other European capitals (Krasnoborodko
et al. 1999: 54–6). The Public Health Act did not give full autonomy to
Russian towns and cities in sanitary issues. Due to the passive role of both
the national government and municipalities, most towns and cities,
including the Imperial capital, did not have proper water works or
municipal sewer systems and the state of sanitary issues remained poor
throughout the country (Filtzer 2010: 66–7). Hence after the October
Revolution in 1917, the Bolshevik government inherited an exceptionally
poor urban-industrial and administrative infrastructure.
The interwar period

Sweden
In Sweden, the bill for a water law had been rejected in parliament in 1921.
However, industrial pollution, damage caused to fisheries, and lack of
regulations in the countryside made the Board of Agriculture propose in the
1920s and 1930s that the legislative work be resumed (Lundgren 1974: 212).
By 1935, the need to protect fisheries from pollution was readdressed in the
Swedish Parliament. At the same time, progress was being made in the field
of research and a governmental Fisheries Studies Institute (Fiskeriunder-
sökningsanstalt) was founded in Stockholm in 1937 under the auspices of
the Board of Fisheries that was tasked with investigating pollution pro-
blems. This institute – headed by Sten Wallin – initially consisted of only a
few researchers and they carried a heavy load over the next few decades in
terms of performing research, carrying out inspections, and preparing
legislation in Sweden. A committee was established to renew existing
legislation in the late 1930s. Its reports, published in 1939 and 1941, pro-
vided an updated overview of the state of watercourses in Sweden based
again on provincial medical doctors’ accounts of the dangers of increasing
amounts of urban and industrial pollutants. The committee emphasised
299
that the volume of the wastewater exceeded the carrying capacity of the
watercourses and that the authorities lacked the resources to monitor the
situation. The members of the committee, however, disagreed as to whether
the state should make the adoption of effective wastewater treatment
facilities mandatory or not. Hence the committee refrained from drafting a
special ‘pollution law’ and recommended that, when necessary, existing
regulations and administration should be renovated to improve control
over wastewater discharges (Betänkande 1939).
The new water law that went into effect in 1942 allowed the fisheries
studies institute to inspect and evaluate the risks of all new potentially
polluting factories and other facilities. The right of water courts to supervise
the situation in some industries before allowing wastewater to be discharged
into watercourses was also a step forward. The separation of municipal and
industrial issues was an important practical issue in the new water law.
However, the overall lack of power to compel municipalities and industries
to protect watercourses was a major weakness of the new law (Special-
domstolen 1940).
Finland
After the First World War had led to the independence of Finland, the
office of fisheries inspectors was transformed into the National Board of
Fisheries (Kalastushallitus) (Järvi 1941: 10). The work of the pre-war
Sulphate Committee was accounted for in the Neighbour Infringement Law
(Naapuruussuhdelaki) issued in 1920 that prohibited factories and other
installations from causing excessive inconvenience by means of emitting
noise, dust, gas, or bad smells (17 §, Finlex 26/1920). Furthermore, the
statute on public health (Terveydenhoitosääntö) issued in 1927 determined
that establishing a sulphate mill in a town or a city was subject to obtaining
a license. However, another decree issued three years later annulled this
statute (Asetus 1930).
In the 1930s, the Finnish forest industry was involved in several litigation
processes because of water pollution issues. Pollution caused by forest in-
dustries was also discussed in parliament and in government in the late
1930s. The forest industry acknowledged the problems and in 1937 estab-
lished its own Wastewater Committee that explored the issue in order to
find cost-effective solutions. The work of this committee as well as gover-
nmental activities to establish a special supervisor for pollution caused by
forest industries were, however, abruptly aborted in November 1939 when
300
the Soviet Union attacked Finland and the Winter War and the Second
World War started in northern Europe.
Soviet Union
There were altogether about 700,000 rivers in the Soviet Union that
discharged into three oceans. The smallest drainage basin was that which
emptied into the Atlantic Ocean and covered 8.4 per cent of the total area of
the Soviet Union (Litvinov 1962: 441). The Baltic Sea was one part of this
drainage basin. Thus in the following overview it is not sensible to try to
separate activities addressing the Baltic Sea from the overall pan-Soviet
water protection activities.
Despite the destruction caused by the First World War, the October
Revolution, and the Civil War that raged until 1922, the new Bolshevik
government did not waste time in attempting to improve the catastrophic
sanitary conditions in the country. The administration of public health was,
for the first time, centralised, and the needs of the working poor became a
political priority (Solomon 1993: 184, 197). Already during the Civil War, in
1919, the Supreme Council of the National Economy established the
Central Committee of Water Protection, which became the first govern-
ment organ to oversee all water resources. A decree on “The Sanitary
Protection of Conditions in Residential Areas” was issued in order to
control sewage (Goldman 1972: 294, with reference to Kolbasov 1965: 212).
A decree of the Council of People’s Commissars of the Russian Soviet
Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR) “On Sanitary Institutions of the
Republic” that was issued in 1922 laid out the basic principles of the State
Sanitary Inspection (Filatov, Leonard, and Shishkina 2009: 4–7). From its
foundation that year, this agency maintained a central role in scientific
pollution studies and policymaking. In addition, institutes of community
hygiene, departments of community hygiene at medical schools, and
sanitary-epidemiological stations were established in the 1920s and 1930s
(Gabovich 1967: 54–5). These institutions considerably expanded the
scientific base for investigations into water sanitation.
Attention was first given to the issue of healthy drinking water for urban
populations. However, systematic surveys of the sanitary condition of the
main rivers were also started early in the Soviet Union by various research
institutes. These studies explored, among other things, the physiochemical
and bacteriological features of rivers and the reasons behind the pollution.
The main conclusions were published in two compilations, Problems of
Pollution and Self-Purification of Water Supply Sources, published in 1937,
301
and The Pollution and Self-Purification of Water Supply Sources, published in

1939 (Litvinov 1962: 444). In addition, the Central Institute of Community
Hygiene arranged studies that focused on industrialised regions (Cherkinskii
1973: 10, 95; for chemical studies, see Zhulidov et al. 2003: 8–11).
Scientific study was accompanied by legislative work. The first govern-
ment standards concerning minimum contents of dissolved oxygen in
effluents were announced in 1929. A foundation for the planned protection
of water resources was the decree of the Central Executive Committee and
Council of People’s Commissars of May 1937 “On the Sanitary Protection
of Water Supply Systems and Sources of Water Supply against Pollution”
(Litvinov 1962: 444; Kolbasov 1965: 104, 220). Thus, the first two decades of
Soviet power showed notable legislative and administrative activity.
Poland
No studies are available about water pollution issues in Poland prior to the
independence of the country in 1918. However, the collapse of the Tsarist
regime was followed by notable sanitary reforms in Poland immediately
after the First World War just as were seen in the USSR. The first national
requirements concerning wastewater discharges into surface waters were
introduced in 1922 when a new Water Law was issued. This law prohibited
the pollution of waters in principle. It required that wastewater be registered
and it entitled state authorities to stop discharges into rivers, lakes, and the
sea when necessary. The law, which was modified several times over the
following decades, remained binding in Poland until 1962. The second
national regulation limiting pollution of watercourses was a decree issued
for health resorts in 1923. This decree established sanitary protection zones
in river catchment areas in cases where public health resorts took water
from their respective rivers. In 1928, another law obliged all municipal
authorities to take care of the discharge of pollutants. In 1932, the Fishery
Law prohibited water pollution that was harmful for fishing and led to the
establishment of criteria for permissible levels of pollutants in surface
waters. The Fishery Law was also effective in Poland until 1962 when new
regulations came into force. However, no specific institutions were
established in the interwar period to enforce the implementation of this
legislation (Kowalik and Laakkonen 2007: 222).
302
The Cold War era

Sweden
The Second World War created an unexpected hindrance to water
protection efforts even in neutral Sweden. During and after the war, muni-
cipal autonomy was severely limited by state regulations. The Labour
Market Board (Arbetarmarknadsstyrelse), which had no expertise in the
field of water protection, was given the administrative power to decide
whether a given municipality was granted permission to build a wastewater
treatment plant or not. This agency regarded housing construction as a
more important task than the reform of sewer networks, let alone the
erection of wastewater treatment plants (Kloak 1947). The results of this
administrative coup d’etat – or rather coup d’municipalité – were severe in
terms of water protection, and yet this procedure continued until the 1950s
(Vattenförorening 1952).
The press described another problem as the “unprecedented organi-
sational fragmentation” that caused the waste of resources, a lack of infor-
mation, and poor leadership and guidelines on the national level (Högrenat
1953). Experts counted altogether 14 different authorities – according to
other calculation the number was 29 – that were involved in water protection
issues (14 institutioner 1953; Tjugonio 1953). Inefficient state administration
resulted in municipalities having poor guidance and a good excuse for not
doing anything about water protection (Vattenföroreningar 1953).
The issue of water pollution was discussed in the Swedish Parliament
again in the early 1950s, and the government called a Water Protection
Committee (Vattenvårdkommitte) to reform existing regulations and ad-
ministration. The committee worked from February 1953 until December
1954 and was described as being “exceptionally quick for being a Swedish
committee” (Kraven 1956). The committee concluded that of the 3.2
million Swedes living in 116 towns and cities, 9 per cent had access to bio-
logical wastewater treatment methods and about 43 per cent had access to
mechanical treatment methods. Hence, approximately 41 per cent of
municipal wastewater was not treated at all. The situation was even worse
in industries (Orena 1953). This committee also provided a gloomy
national picture of the state of Sweden’s watercourses, including rivers,
lakes, and the coastline, on the basis of reports sent in by provincial
medical doctors (Här 1957).
The legislation based on the committee’s observations did not involve any
major alterations to the existing laws. In 1954, the Water Protection Com-
303
mittee suggested integrating the two main governmental research organi-

sations into “an independent organisation”. Otherwise the administration was
left almost unaltered except that the system of regional agricultural engineers
was clarified and the institute of fisheries studies was provided with some
additional resources and a new name, the Water Inspection Office (Vatten-
inspektion), which had already been proposed by the first committee in 1915
(Vattenfrågor 1957). Higher purification requirements, that is, the adoption
of biological methods, were set for the municipalities with a transition period
of five years. Some requirements concerning industry were tightened as well
(Nya 1956). For the first time, agriculture was also taken into account and
discharges of silage juice from silos and urea from animal sheds into water-
courses were prohibited in the new water law. However, the most important
issue – how to organise water protection on the national level – was not
included in the new water law that went into effect on 1 January 1957
(Vattenvården 1955; Vattenvården 1957).
The new water law did not live up to expectations. There had been too
much tug of war between different governmental institutions behind the
scenes and this meant that each of the resulting three main organisations
operated in too narrow a field to be efficient (Malmberg 1961). The
establishment of a unified special national organisation (Vattenvårdstyrelse)
for water protection issues was proposed by another committee in 1964.
The government of Sweden under the social democrat Tage Erlander from
1946 to 1969 decided, however, not to establish such an organisation, but
instead sought to integrate the various organisations responsible for the
protection of water and air and those responsible for nature conservation
into one independent and powerful organisation (Anonymous 1965).
The Swedish Environmental Protection Agency (Naturvårdsverket)
began to operate in 1967 as the highest national organisation coordinating
nature conservation and environmental protection, including water pro-
tection. Sweden established a holistic environmental administration and
now every new facility that was potentially polluting had to apply regularly
for an inspection and a license to function. At the time of the founding of
the organisation, however, it was heavily criticised for its lack of resources.
The total number of staff of the organisation was increased from 95 – the
combined number of employees of the predecessor agencies – to not more
than 104, thus the organisation did not gain significant additional resources
(Anonymous 1966). Despite the establishment of a new governmental
organisation, Swedish municipalities continued to carry the main responsi-
bility for water protection, including the planning, financing, and con-
304
struction of wastewater treatment plants. Of the 133 towns and cities in

Sweden in 1960, 25 had biological treatment plants and 28 had mechanical
treatment facilities leaving 80 with no treatment at all. Progress was made,
but one problem was that the existing plants were often too small because of
increasing populations and did not function properly because of poor
maintenance. According to one report, “Unfortunately it seems that not a
single purification plant in the country functions entirely well” (Nästan
1961). In 1964, a young scientist at the Water Inspection Office, Lars Karl-
gren, warned in several newspapers that “phosphorus is dangerous for our
watercourses” and that its removal was both a complex and costly issue
(Fosfor 1964). Thereupon, with some help from the government, Swedish
municipalities invested heavily in phosphorus removal facilities. The total
annual phosphorus load in Sweden’s watercourses that had grown from
1000 tons in 1940 to 7000 tons in the late 1960s was reduced within a
decade to approximately 2000 tons and by the mid-1980s to less than 1000
tons a year (Mundt 2006).
Finland
Finland participated in the Second World War, but managed to retain its
democratic political and capitalist economic system. After post-war scarcity
had passed, industrial production increased considerably and by 1955 the
forest industries were using 77 per cent of the total volume of water that was
consumed in Finland (Kaartotie 1977: 12). In that decade, the sulphite
cellulose industry alone was responsible for 60 per cent of the total organic
load in Finland. However, Finnish forest industries rejected all water
protection measures despite an increase in their production that reached
pre-war levels by the early 1950s. The municipalities continued to carry the
main burden while governmental protection efforts were delegated to three
administrative bodies that were engaged in unproductive rivalry (Katko
1996: 152–3). In practice, the National Board of Agriculture was the main
agency responsible for enforcing water protection because it had its own
water protection department and laboratory.
Systematic work to reform water laws was initiated by the Committee of
Water Protection from 1954 to 1958. During these years, the committee
studied numerous other nations’ experiences with water pollution, formed
the first national picture of water pollution in Finland, and prepared a bill
for a new Water Act that was put into effect in 1962 (KM 1958: 13). It
created Municipal Water Boards in towns, initiated the establishment of
water protection associations in river watersheds, and founded water
305
districts, three water courts at the district level, and the Supreme Water
Court. A provisory Advisory Board for Water Matters coordinated water
pollution issues at the national level until 1970 when a National Board of
Water (Vesihallitus) was established to carry out water pollution control
(FAO 1983: 43–9). It performed this task successfully until 1995 when it was
substituted by the Finnish Environment Institute (Suomen ympäristökeskus,
SYKE) that finally centralised the administration of governmental environ-
mental protection and nature conservation.
Despite the aftermath of the war, the building of municipal wastewater
treatment plants had begun again in Finland in the 1950s, accelerated in the
1960s, and peaked in the mid-1970s. By the mid-1980s, practically every
town and city had a biological wastewater treatment plant. In Finland, the
removal of phosphorus was taken care of by the 1970s when methods for
the precipitation of copper sulphite were widely adopted in municipal
treatment plants. However, the forest industry still resisted as long as
possible demands to develop water protection measures. Mills adopted
technical wastewater treatment methods in the 1960s and 1970s, and only
introduced biological methods in the 1980s (Katko 1996: 254–63, 280–5).
Thus both in Sweden and Finland municipalities were considerably more
active in water protection than the forest industry.
Soviet Union
Despite the massive destruction of the Second World War, a lack of
resources, and even famine, the Soviet Union acted rapidly to fight the
widespread pollution of rivers after the war. In 1946, the Ministry of
Agriculture of the RSFSR established the Main Department of Water
Resources (Glavnoe Vodnoe Khozyaystvo, i.e., Glavvodhoz). In the following
year, the State Sanitary Inspection was able to give a classified overall
summary of the gloomy state of water pollution in the Soviet Union,
including rivers, lakes, and coastlines (Filtzer 2010: 114–15). The Council of
Ministers of the USSR issued a special decree “On Measures to Eliminate
Pollution and to Provide Sanitary Protection of Water Resources” in the
same year. Enforcing such a decree right after the devastating war would
have been impossible without ample preparation in the inter-war period
and the personal support of Josef Stalin. In the post-war period, attention
was paid above all to industrial pollution. A special publication entitled
“Industrial Waste Waters” was published bi-annually from 1948 (Litvinov
1962: 448; Kolbasov 1965: 214; Filtzer 2010: 116). Moreover, maximum per-
missible concentration standards for water (known by the Russian acronym
306
PDK (predel’no dopustimye koncentratsii) were established for the first time
in the 1940s, and by 1954 no less than 30 substances were covered by these
standards that were gradually adopted all over the USSR and in Eastern
Europe (Goldman 1972: 295–6).
The next major wave of water protection legislation started in 1960, the
year in which the USSR Council of Ministers issued a decree “Regulating
the Use and Protection of Water Resources in the Soviet Union”. It was the
first act to provide specific sanitary norms for industries (Cherkinskii 1971:
4–5). Based on this work, the Council of Ministers issued another important
decree on “Regulations for Protecting Surface Waters from Pollution by
Wastewater”. This provision divided water bodies into three categories
according to their use (health and drinking water, fisheries, and agri-
culture), and the regulation of the volumes and the compositions of
effluents was thereafter based on this classification (Cherkinskii 1973: 12).
In 1961, the RSFSR’s Committee on State Water Management was
established. In connection with the formation of this committee, economic
and industrial undertakings and their respective ministries were made
responsible for implementing measures to control surface water pollution.
The State Sanitary Inspection of the Ministry of Health and the Fish
Breeding Inspection were responsible for the implementation of protective
measures against pollution and for regulating the conditions under which
effluents were discharged into watercourses (Litvinov 1962: 447).
Different regulations published by various Soviet authorities in the 1960s
were consolidated in 1970 in “The Principles of Water Legislation of the
USSR and the Union Republics”, which served for almost two decades as
the principal legal act for water management and protection in the Soviet
Union. The only amendment to the law was undertaken because the law did
not allow for charging for the use of water resources, and in 1979 a new
decree allowed for the billing of industrial users (but not agricultural or
residential users) for excessive water consumption. Notably, the law of 1970
was only readopted by the Russian Federation in 2006.
In the 1970s, new administrative bodies were created. In 1972 the State
Inspectorate for Protection of Water Bodies was established under the
Ministry of Land Reclamation and Water Management – which was res-
ponsible for extensive irrigation and drainage programs – as a way to
centralise the control of water quality and water management within the
federal administration. In 1978, the State Hydrometeorological Service
under the Ministry of Health was created along with a State Committee on
Hydrometereology and Protection of the Environment to curb the power of
307
industries and related ministries (Gustafson 1981: 51). However, the

separation of use and protection functions did not take place until 1988
when the State Committee on Environmental Protection was established
(DeBardeleben 1992: 65–70).
Based on this administrative and legislative work, water protection was
improved in the Soviet Union. In 1959, a total of 687 Soviet cities had a
sewerage system and 51 of these cities had wastewater treatment facilities,
including 25 that provided biological purification. Thus, about ten per cent
of the municipal wastewater was treated biologically, 30 per cent received
mechanical treatment, and around 60 per cent was discharged directly into
urban water bodies (Spyshnov 1960: 1–2). The building of wastewater
treatment plants was accelerated by two decrees issued in 1972, and over the
following years 110 cities established wastewater treatment plants. The next
five-year plan allocated more funding for wastewater treatment plants, and
850 of the 1000 largest cities in Russia had built such treatment facilities by
the end of 1980 (Zakharevksiy 1982: 3). Over the course of the 1980s, the
total wastewater treatment capacity in the USSR increased by 53 per cent.
Of the total volume of wastewater in the Soviet Union in 1989, 25 per cent
was treated in compliance with the government standards, 51 per cent was
treated but not complying with the standards, and 24 per cent remained
untreated. Between 1976 and 1988, approximately 75 per cent of all
government spending on environmental protection was targeted to water
protection (Peterson 1993: 63). The obvious conclusion, therefore, is that
water protection had become the highest environmental priority in the
Soviet Union before the collapse of the communist regime.
Despite its immense size, the Soviet Union had undertaken a preliminary
scientific assessment of the extent of national water pollution as early as the
late 1930s. The development of water protection in the Soviet Union
followed Western patterns with a delay of about ten to fifteen years. While
mechanical and biological treatment advanced relatively rapidly, the slow
adoption of chemical treatment to remove excess nutrients remained the
main problem of water protection prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union.
People’s Republic of Poland

During the Second World War, many Polish cities were destroyed and the
urban water supply and sewerage services suffered considerably. Im-
mediately after the war, the water quality of the Vistula, a river flowing
through most of the major Polish towns, was considered to be in an almost
pristine, natural condition – thus illustrating how badly the country and its
308
industries had been devastated. However, surprisingly early after the war
the new socialist government of Poland issued several statute laws
concerning the protection of Polish waters. In the late 1940s, different
ministries required industries to establish and maintain wastewater
treatment plants and to protect surface waters and ports against pollution
(Kowalik and Laakkonen 2007: 222).
The main authority in the Peoples’ Republic of Poland responsible for
the implementation of measures against surface water pollution was the
State Sanitary Inspection under the Ministry of Health. This inspection
agency was set up by a government decree in 1954 after which it established
a network of sanitation and epidemiological stations throughout the
country (Carter 1993: 122). At least since the late 1950s, the Institute of
Hygiene and the aforementioned sanitation and epidemiological stations
have surveyed the state of pollution of Polish rivers. Results of research were
published regularly in such publications as the Yearbook of the State
Institute of Hygiene (Rocznik Państwowego Zakładu Higieny); Gas, Water,
and Sanitation (Gaz, Woda i Technika Sanitarna); and Water Management
(Gospodarka Wodna) (Litvinov 1962: 458). Official statistics of the state of
the environment have been included in the country’s Statistical Yearbook
since the 1970s (Carter 1993: 109).
The most important legal provision concerning conditions of wastewater
discharge into surface waters was issued in 1950 by the Ministry of
Communal Economy. The decree introduced the classification of surface
waters into four categories related to the potential utilisation of the waters
(category I designated water of the highest quality and category IV
designated the lowest quality) and established related requirements for the
quality of the treated wastewater discharged into surface waters. The
parameters took into account the degree to which the wastewater was
diluted in the open water and the consequences of the self-purification of
open waters after the discharge of the wastewater (Roman and Tabernacki
1992: 127–30).
The government of socialist Poland issued a resolution in 1955 to reduce
the pollution of surface waters and soils and to utilise wastewater as an
economically useful resource. This resolution stressed the responsibility of
the main sectors of the state economy to treat wastewater and the need to
control how factories fulfilled these requirements. It strictly prohibited
constructing, modernising, or reconstructing any factory without proper
wastewater treatment. All permits concerning municipal or industrial dis-
charge of wastewater were to be constantly evaluated to prevent further
309
degradation of Poland’s watercourses. In addition, this resolution took into

account problems related to human resources, construction materials,
research and technical documentation, and the locations of cities and new
factories in terms of water protection. This pioneering government
resolution, however, remained mainly on paper and was only partially
implemented (Kowalik and Laakkonen 2007: 223). In all, by 1957 over a
hundred minor regulations concerning water pollution were in effect, but
only a few of these were actually enforced (Carter 1993: 122). One example
of such a regulation was the government decision of August 1959 to
confirm the sanitation requirements regarding the discharge of sewage into
rivers (Litvinov 1962: 458).
By far the most significant legal provision on national water protection
was prepared in the late 1950s and issued in 1961 (with amendments added
in 1962). It concerned standards of permissible pollution levels of surface
waters and the quality of treated wastewater, and it established five different
types of utilisation of open waters based on quality classes. Since 1964,
Poland’s watercourses have been studied and classified by physicochemical
methods and since 1980 by additional biological methods. Conditions
related to the treatment of wastewater and the standards of such water were
derived from the general rules of the quality of the water receiving the
wastewater and of the self-purification processes of the water after the
introduction of the wastewater. Special quality requirements for treated
wastewater were also adopted in cases where the amount of wastewater was
large and the volume of the recipient body of water was small (Kowalik and
Laakkonen 2007: 223).
The new water law enacted in 1962 obliged the government to first
establish quality classes for open waters as well as the conditions for treated
wastewater. Nevertheless, the Council of Ministers of Poland only issued
such regulations in 1970 and contrary to many other countries there were
no general values for the permissible concentration of pollutants in the
treated wastewater. Instead, the permissible concentration for particular
factories and cities were calculated on an individual basis and allocated by
administrative decisions case by case, which created an inefficient
bureaucratic system. The regulations of 1970 introduced three quality
classes for rivers, lakes, and the sea in terms of their potential use. For every
one of these three classes, 49 indicators were established (Koblak-Kalinska
1992: 107–8).
Environmental protection amendments were introduced into the Polish
Constitution in 1976. In 1980, a Statute on the Protection and Development
310
of the Environment was issued to integrate legislation in different sectors of

the field. In theory, this act was a model to solve environmental problems,
but in practice its administration remained linked to innumerable mini-
stries. The issue of fines remained unsolved as well. In 1981, the Office of
Environmental Protection and Water Management was founded, followed a
year later by the State Environmental Inspectorate, but these institutions
were unable to solve the underlying problems (Carter 1993: 123).
Sufficient funding to finance the building of more than one thousand
wastewater treatment plants was allocated in the 1971–75 Five-Year Plan,
but in practice little was done. Problems started to accumulate further when
the economic situation of the state worsened at the end of the 1970s. By
1989, a total of 459 Polish towns and cities maintained some kind of waste-
water treatment facilities but 366 towns still had no municipal wastewater
treatment plants at all. For example, the capital Warsaw – with about two
million inhabitants at the time – had no wastewater treatment plant during
the socialist era (Carter 1993: 114, 122–3).
The collapse of socialism was followed by notable changes in water
quality and water protection legislation in Poland. In the years 1988 to 1993,
the total nitrogen load from industrial sources was reduced by 11 per cent
and the total phosphorus load was reduced by 39 per cent. The reduction in
municipal wastewater load was even higher with a 37 per cent reduction in
total nitrogen load and a 38 per cent reduction in total phosphorus load
(Heybowicz, Bogacka, and Niemirycz 2001: 11–22). As a result, there had
been a marked improvement in the water quality of the Vistula River in
chemical and organic terms compared with the year 1987, but the water
quality had deteriorated in terms of concentrations of salinity and nutrients.
Generally speaking, water protection in Poland lagged behind other
countries in Northeastern Europe (Kowalik and Laakkonen 2007: 227).
Conclusions
Environmental history is a new field of study and is not yet well established
in the countries surrounding the Baltic Sea. This chapter is the first attempt
to present an overview of the development of national awareness con-
cerning water pollution and water protection in the Baltic Sea region from a
long-term perspective.
Previous studies have highlighted the importance of civil society in
general – and nature protection associations and popular movements in
particular – in promoting nature conservation. This study strongly indi-
311
cates, however, that the actors, arguments, and arenas in water protection
have been markedly different than previously assumed. The role of govern-
mental experts and civil servants has been constantly highlighted in water
protection due to its complex urban-industrial and technical and scientific
nature. Professional journals, as well as newspapers, have addressed water
pollution and protection issues in the countries examined in this chapter
and have shown that political parties and ministries representing agri-
cultural interests and the countryside have generally been the first political
spokesmen for water protection. In summary, governmental experts, civil
servants, and politicians have undoubtedly constituted the primus motor
behind water protection throughout the examined period and in all four
countries studied here.
The development of governmental activities concerning water pollution
and protection over the course of the twentieth century can be divided into
five hypothetical eras. During the initial stage before the First World War,
the earliest parliamentary debates on water pollution took place and
pioneering governmental committees exploring national water pollution
were established. All of this led to the first legislative efforts aiming to curb
pollution. The formative stage in the interwar period was marked by the
establishment of governmental committees to modernise national water
protection legislation and by the creation of the first institutions dedicated
to controlling industrial pollution. The contradictory stage during and after
the Second World War was characterised by destruction and post-war
scarcity. This was replaced in the 1950s by rapid economic growth that
correlated with the establishment of committees tasked with preparing
more effective national laws and regulatory institutions. The results of this
work can be seen in the institutionalising stage that lasted from the late
1950s to the 1970s when national water protection legislation was enacted
and regulatory institutions were established in all of the Baltic rim states
examined here. The fall of the Soviet Union and the enlargement of the
European Union (from 1995 to 2004) was naturally followed by a har-
monising phase. With the exception of Russia, national and regional insti-
tutions were harmonised with those of the EU in the Baltic Sea region.
Further studies are needed to test the validity of these five stages of
development. However, this study indicates that despite differences in
socio-economic and political progress, the development of national aware-
ness concerning water pollution and protection in the western and eastern
halves of the Baltic Sea region has been marked by convergence rather than
by divergence. The notion of a similar development in the eastern and
312
western halves of the region helps to understand how it was possible that
members of two mutually competing military alliances, the North Atlantic
Treaty Organisation and the Warsaw Pact, were able to sign the Convention
on the Protection of the Marine Environment of the Baltic Sea Area in 1974
in Helsinki. The converging development of awareness of water pollution in
both parts of the Baltic Sea region has been a prerequisite for achieving
results in water protection not only on the national level, but also in terms
of international cooperation.
It can be argued that this century-long process of emerging environ-
mental awareness and problem solving in the examined countries has
generated a certain identity for the main groups of actors in the various
fields of water protection. As water pollution problems expanded and
related solutions were adopted, these processes involved a continuously
growing number of people. This gradually developed into a national sense
of the significance of water protection that represents a completely new di-
mension in traditional forms of national identities. As a result of this,
environmental awareness is today a strong element in the national identities
of the Baltic Sea region.
313
(Top) Researchers at work in the German Democratic Republic, 1948 (Bundesarchiv, Bild
183-M0719-509 / Photographer: Blunck)
(Bottom) New wastwater plant in the German Democratic Republic, 1974 (Bundesarchiv,
Bild 183-N0807-014 / Photographer: Heinz Koch)
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SSSR.” Vodosnabzheniya i sanitarnaya tehnika (6), 1–4.
“Tjugonio institutioner avgör vattenfrågorna! Ingen har huvudansvar.” (1953)
Svenska Dagbladet (4 Nov.).
“Vattenförorening investeringsfråga.” (1952) Svenska Dagbladet (5 March).
“Vattenföroreningar och kommuner.” (1953) Dagens Nyheter (2 Aug.).
“Vattenfrågor.” (1957) Uppsala Nya Tidning (21 Nov.).
Vattenvården (1955) Betänkande angående organisations- och
lagstiftningsfrågor m.m. avgivet av vattenvårdskomittén. SOU 1955: 6.
Stockholm: Jordsbruksdepartementet.
“Vattenvården får ingen ny organisation.” (1957) Östersunds Posten (28 Nov.).
Velner, H.-A. ed. (2004) Veekaitse Eestis 1945–2002. Tallinn: TTÜ.
Zakharevksiy, Y.V. (1982) “Smotret’ vpered, videt’ perspektivu.” Zhilishchnoye i
kommunal’noye khozyaystvo (July), 2–3.
Zhulidov, A., Robarts, R., Holmes, R., Peterson, B., Kämäri, J., Meriläinen, J.,
and Headley, J. (2003) Water Quality Monitoring in the Former Soviet Union
and the Russian Federation: Assessment of Analytical Methods. Helsinki:
Finnish Environment Institute.
318
List of Illustrations, Maps, and Tables
Chapter 1
1) The Berlin Wall at Zimmerstraße, 25 June 1984 (Bundesarchiv, Bild 210-
0506 / Photographer: Philipp J. Bösel and Burkhard Maus)
2) Police from West- and East-Berlin at the Berlin Wall, improvised border
crossing point at Potsdamer Platz, 15 Nov. 1989 (Bundesarchiv, B 145
Bild-00008581 / Photographer: Klaus Lehnartz)
Chapter 2
1) The Baltic Sea and its islands (Image: Janne Holmén)
Chapter 3
1) Diagram 1: Phases of ethnic violence
2) Map of Russian Lappland, St. Petersburg, 1745 (Photographer: Andrej
Kotljarchuk)
3) Ethnographic map of the Murmansk region (Photographer: Andrej
Kotljarchuk)
4) Front page of the Finnish-language newspaper Polarnoin kollektivisti, no. 92,
17 Dec. 1937 (Courtesy of Russian National Library in St. Petersburg /
Photographer: Andrej Kotljarchuk)
5) Mourning ribbon in the Sami language over Petr G. Chaporov (executed in
1937 by the NKVD in Leningrad), Levashovo Memorial Cemetery, St.
Petersburg 2000 (Photographer: Aleksandr Stepanenko)
Chapter 4
1) German solders passing hailing bystanders in the city of Aabenraa, Denmark,
12 April 1940 (Photo: Museum Sønderjylland, ISL / Photographer: Ludwig
von Münchow)
2) Publications of the German minority in Denmark: The “Schulungsbrief”
(Photographer: Steffen Werther)
319
3) Publications of the German minority in Denmark: “Der Nationalsozialismus

… im Grenzland” (Photographer: Steffen Werther)
Chapter 5
1) Poster for the Polish science event in San Francisco, 7–8 Nov. 2013 (©
USPTC)
Chapter 6
1) The young Olberg (Labour Movement Archives and Library, Stockholm /
photo: 22111878-05051960)
2) Olberg in his mature years (Labour Movement Archives and Library,
Stockholm)
3) “Welcome – Long live socialism”. Paul Olberg with bundists in Sweden, 1946
(Labour Movement Archives and Library, Stockholm / Photographer:
Bäckstrand)
4) ‘Bund’ at the First of May demonstration in Stockholm, 1946 (Labour
Movement Archives and Library, Stockholm)
Chapter 7
1) Table 1: Annual increase of GDP per capita in per cent, different world
regions
2) Welding job at a generator, AEG turbine plant, West Berlin, 9 July 1955
(Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-F002761-0001 / Photographer: Brodde)
3) Computer-based steering of a robot at a youth event, Germany 1988
(Bundesarchiv, B 145 Bild-F077869-0023/ Photographer: Engelbert
Reinecke)
Chapter 8
1) Demonstration outside the Lenin Shipyard, 13 Dec. 1981 (Labour Movement
Archives and Library / photo: Solidarity Information Office in Stockholm)
2) Solidarność activists in the internment camp in Strzebielinek, Aug. 1982
(Labour Movement Archives and Library / photo: Solidarity Information
Office in Stockholm)
3) Ture Mattsson of the Graphics Industry Union demonstrates a printing press
donated by the Swedish Trade Union Confederation to Polish colleagues,
1981 (Labour Movement Archives and Library / photo: Grafia 21–22 / 1981)
4) Pro-Solidarność demonstration in Sweden (Labour Movement Archives and
Library / photo: Solidarity Information Office in Stockholm)
320
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, MAPS AND TABLES
Chapter 9
1) What step next? (norden.org / Photographer: Silje Bergum Kinsten)
2) The Nordic ministers for gender equality at a seminar in connection with the
UN Commission on the Status of Women, New York, 23 Feb. 2011
(norden.org / Photographer: Cia Pak)
Chapter 10
1) Psychologist Yelena Romanenko conducts training based on Mia Hanström’s
methodology, adapted for small children, Kaliningrad city, 21 June 2013
(Star of Hope / Photographer: Valentina Zherebtsova)
2) Training for young mothers on gender education in the family by Director of
Star of Hope Nina Vorontsova, Bagrationovsk (Kaliningrad region), 15
Feb. 2014 (Star of Hope / Photographer: Valentina Zherebtsova)
Chapter 11
1) Table 1: Net number of migrants, both sexes
2) Crossroads in Chişinău, 2006 (Photographer: Richard Fairbrother)
Chapter 12
1) Researchers at work in the German Democratic Republic, 1948
(Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-M0719-509 / Photographer: Blunck)
2) New wastwater plant in the German Democratic Republic, 1974
(Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-N0807-014 / Photographer: Heinz Koch)
321
Contributors
Kristina Abiala is a senior lecturer at the Institute of Contemporary History

at Södertörn University. She holds a PhD in sociology from Stockholm
University. Her main interests are gender and intersectionality, stereotyping
and indentity formation, and the complex relation between society and
individual coping strategies.
Eva Blomberg is professor at the School of Historical and Contemporary

Studies, and the School of Culture and Learning, at Södertörn University.
She has earlier worked at Mälardalen University and Stockholm University,
were she holds a PhD in history. Her main fields of research are political
and contemporary history, gender equality, and labor market relations.
Håkan Blomqvist is associate professor in history and the director of the

Institute of Contemporary History at Södertörn University. His main areas
of research are the history of the labour movement, nationalism, and
antisemitism.
Norbert Götz is professor of history at the Institute of Contemporary

History at Södertörn University. He holds a PhD in political science from
Humboldt University Berlin and has earlier worked at the University of
Greifswald, the Swedish Institute of International Affairs, and the
University of Helsinki. His main research interests are political culture,
international history, and the history of global civil society.
Yulia Gradskova is an associate professor in history, working presently at

Stockholm University. She is a graduate of the Baltic and East European
Graduate School (BEEGS) and defended her dissertation at Södertörn
University in 2007. Gradskova’s interests include gender and social history,
and a postcolonial approach to Soviet and post-Soviet history.
323
Janne Holmén is a senior lecturer at the Institute of Contemporary History at

Södertörn University and at the Department of History at Uppsala
University. He holds a PhD in history from Uppsala University. His main
research interests are historiography, island studies, and educational history.
Andrej Kotljarchuk is an associate professor and senior researcher at the

Institute of Contemporary History at Södertörn University; and a lecturer at
Stockholm University. He is a graduate of the Baltic and East European
Graduate School (BEEGS) and holds a PhD in history from Stockholm
University. He has earlier worked at Uppsala University, Umeå University,
and the Russian Academy of Sciences. His research focuses on ethnic
minorities, epistemic communities, and the politics of memory.
Simo Laakkonen is an associate professor and works as a university lecturer

of landscape studies at the University of Turku, Finland. He has a back-
ground in the study of the political history of Latin America and holds a
PhD from the University of Helsinki. He has organized and directed several
research projects that have examined the environmental history of the
Baltic Sea, among others one based at Södertörn University. These studies
have focused on the history of environmental science, media, policy, and
technology in this region.
Klaus Misgeld, retired, PhD, professor (hon.) was a guest professor at the
Institute of Contemporary History at Södertörn University in the years
2007 to 2010. He has earlier worked at the University of Uppsala and was
from 1981 to 2007 responsible for historical research and publications at the
Labour Movement Archives and Library in Stockholm. His main research
interests are international history and labour history.
Karl Molin is emeritus professor of history. He has worked at Stockholm

University, Uppsala University, and at the Institute of Contemporary
History, Södertörn University. His main research interests are Swedish
domestic and foreign policy in the twentieth century and international
relations after the Second World War.
Sofia Norling is a research fellow at the Institute of Contemporary History

and in Environmental Studies at Södertörn University. As a PhD candidate
she was located at the Institute of Contemporary History, her PhD in
political science being formally awarded from Linköping University. Her
324
CONTRIBUTORS
main research interests are the sociology of science, the history of science,
and political history.
Werner Schmidt is professor at the Institute of Contemporary History at

Södertörn University. His main research interests are Marxist theory of
history, and the intellectuals of the communist and socialist movement. He
is currently working on a biography of the writer and intellectual Peter
Weiss.
Ylva Waldemarson is associate professor at the Institute of Contemporary

History at Södertörn University. She holds a PhD in history from Stockhom
University. Her main research interests are contemporary political history,
oral history, and the history of the transnational diffusion of polical ideas
and institutions.
Steffen Werther is a lecturer and researcher at the Institute of Contemporary

History at Södertörn University. He is a graduate of the Baltic and East
European Graduate School (BEEGS) and holds a PhD in history from
Stockholm University. His research interests are modern German, Baltic,
and Scandinavian history, with a focus on nationalism, right wing
movements, racial theory, and Nazi ideology.
Alina Žvinklienė is a chief researcher at the Lithuanian Social Research

Center. She holds a PhD in sociology from the Institute of Philosophy,
Sociology, and Law at the Lithuanian Academy of Sciences and passed a
habilitation in social sciences at the Institute for Social Research in 2006.
Her main research fields are democratisation and social development,
human rights, identities, and equality politics in multicultural societies from
a gender perspective.
325
Södertörn Academic Studies
1. Helmut Müssener & Frank-Michael Kirsch (Hrsg.), Nachbarn im Ostseeraum unter

sich. Vorurteile, Klischees und Stereotypen in Texten, 2000.
2. Jan Ekecrantz & Kerstin Olofsson (eds), Russian Reports: Studies in Post-
Communist Transformation of Media and Journalism, 2000.
3. Kekke Stadin (ed.), Society, Towns and Masculinity: Aspects on Early Modern
Society in the Baltic Area, 2000.
4. Bernd Henningsen et al. (eds), Die Inszenierte Stadt. Zur Praxis und Theorie
kultureller Konstruktionen, 2001.
5. Michal Bron (ed.), Jews and Christians in Dialogue II: Identity, Tolerance,
Understanding, 2001
6. Frank-Michael Kirsch et al. (Hrsg.), Nachbarn im Ostseeraum über einander.
Wandel der Bilder, Vorurteile und Stereotypen?, 2001.
7. Birgitta Almgren, Illusion und Wirklichkeit. Individuelle und kollektive
Denkmusterin nationalsozialistischer Kulturpolitik und Germanistik in Schweden
1928–1945, 2001.
8. Denny Vågerö (ed.), The Unknown Sorokin: His Life in Russia and the Essay on Suicide,
2002.
9. Kerstin W. Shands (ed.), Collusion and Resistance: Women Writing in English, 2002.
10. Elfar Loftsson & Yonhyok Choe (eds), Political Representation and Participation in
Transitional Democracies: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, 2003.
11. Birgitta Almgren (Hrsg.), Bilder des Nordens in der Germanistik 1929–1945:
Wissenschaftliche Integrität oder politische Anpassung?, 2002.
12. Christine Frisch, Von Powerfrauen und Superweibern: Frauenpopulärliteratur der
90er Jahre in Deutschland und Schweden, 2003.
13. Hans Ruin & Nicholas Smith (red.), Hermeneutik och tradition. Gadamer och den
grekiska filosofin, 2003.
14. Mikael Lönnborg et al. (eds), Money and Finance in Transition: Research in
Contemporary and Historical Finance, 2003.
15. Kerstin Shands et al. (eds.), Notions of America: Swedish Perspectives, 2004.
16. Karl-Olov Arnstberg & Thomas Borén (eds.), Everyday Economy in Russia, Poland
and Latvia, 2003.
17. Johan Rönnby (ed.), By the Water. Archeological Perspectives on Human Strategies
around the Baltic Sea, 2003.
18. Baiba Metuzale-Kangere (ed.), The Ethnic Dimension in Politics and Culture in the
Baltic Countries 1920–1945, 2004.
19. Ulla Birgegård & Irina Sandomirskaja (eds), In Search of an Order: Mutual
Representations in Sweden and Russia during the Early Age of Reason, 2004.
20. Ebba Witt-Brattström (ed.), The New Woman and the Aesthetic Opening:Unlocking
Gender in Twentieth-Century Texts, 2004.
21. Michael Karlsson, Transnational Relations in the Baltic Sea Region, 2004.
22. Ali Hajighasemi, The Transformation of the Swedish Welfare System: Fact or
Fiction?: Globalisation, Institutions and Welfare State Change in a Social
Democratic Regime, 2004.
23. Erik A. Borg (ed.), Globalization, Nations and Markets: Challenging Issues in
Current Research on Globalization, 2005.
24. Stina Bengtsson & Lars Lundgren, The Don Quixote of Youth Culture: Media Use
and Cultural Preferences Among Students in Estonia and Sweden, 2005
25. Hans Ruin, Kommentar till Heideggers Varat och tiden, 2005.
26. Людмила Ферм, Вариативное беспредложное глагольное управление в
русском языке XVIII века, 2005.
27. Christine Frisch, Modernes Aschenputtel und Anti-James-Bond: Gender-Konzepte in
deutschsprachigen Rezeptionstexten zu Liza Marklund und Henning Mankell,
2005.
28. Ursula Naeve-Bucher, Die Neue Frau tanzt: Die Rolle der tanzenden Frau in
deutschen und schwedischen literarischen Texten aus der ersten Hälfte des 20.
Jahrhunderts, 2005.
29. Göran Bolin et al. (eds.), The Challenge of the Baltic Sea Region: Culture,Ecosystems,
Democracy, 2005.
30. Marcia Sá Cavalcante Schuback & Hans Ruin (eds), The Past’s Presence: Essays on
the Historicity of Philosophical Thought, 2006.
31. María Borgström och Katrin Goldstein-Kyaga (red.), Gränsöverskridande
identiteter i globaliseringens tid: Ungdomar, migration och kampen för fred, 2006.
32. Janusz Korek (ed.), From Sovietology to Postcoloniality: Poland and Ukraine from a
Postcolonial Perspective, 2007.
33. Jonna Bornemark (red.), Det främmande i det egna: filosofiska essäer om bildning
och person, 2007.
34. Sofia Johansson, Reading Tabloids: Tabloid Newspapers and Their Readers, 2007.
35. Patrik Åker, Symboliska platser i kunskapssamhället: Internet, högre lärosäten och
den gynnade geografin, 2008.
36. Kerstin W. Shands (ed.), Neither East Nor West: Postcolonial Essays on Literature,
Culture and Religion, 2008.
37. Rebecka Lettevall and My Klockar Linder (eds), The Idea of Kosmopolis: History,
philosophy and politics of world citizenship, 2008.
38. Karl Gratzer and Dieter Stiefel (eds.), History of Insolvency and Bankruptcy from an
International Perspective, 2008.
39. Katrin Goldstein-Kyaga och María Borgström, Den tredje identiteten: Ungdomar
och deras familjer i det mångkulturella, globala rummet, 2009.
40. Christine Farhan, Frühling für Mütter in der Literatur?: Mutterschaftskonzepte in
deutschsprachiger und schwedischer Gegenwartsliteratur, 2009.
41. Marcia Sá Cavalcante Schuback (ed.), Att tänka smärtan, 2009.
42. Heiko Droste (ed.), Connecting the Baltic Area: The Swedish Postal System in the
Seventeenth Century, 2011.
43. Aleksandr Nemtsov, A Contemporary History of Alcohol in Russia, 2011.
44. Cecilia von Feilitzen and Peter Petrov (eds), Use and Views of Media in Russia and
Sweden: A Comparative Study of Media in St. Petersburg and Stockholm, 2011.
45. Sven Lilja (red.), Fiske, jordbruk och klimat i Östersjöregionen under förmodern tid,
2012.
46. Leif Dahlberg och Hans Ruin (red.), Fenomenologi, teknik och medialitet, 2012.
47. Samuel Edquist, I Ruriks fotspår: Om forntida svenska österledsfärder i modern
historieskrivning, 2012.
48. Jonna Bornemark (ed.), Phenomenology of Eros, 2012.
49. Jonna Bornemark and Hans Ruin (eds.), Ambiguity of the Sacred: Phenomenology,
Politics, Aesthetics, 2012.
50. Håkan Nilsson, Placing Art in the Public Realm, 2012.
51. Per Bolin, Between National and Academic Agendas: Ethnic Policies and ‘National
Disciplines’ at Latvia’s University, 1919–1940, 2012.
52. Lars Kleberg and Aleksei Semenenko (eds.), Aksenov and the Environs/Aksenov
iokrestnosti, 2012.
53. Sven-Olov Wallenstein and Brian Manning Delaney (eds.), Translating Hegel: The
Phenomenology of Spirit and Modern Philosophy, 2012.
54. Sven-Olov Wallenstein and Jakob Nilsson (eds.), Foucault, Biopolitics, and
Governmentality, 2013.
55. Jan Patočka, Inledning till fenomenologisk filosofi, 2013.
56. Jonathan Adams and Johan Rönnby (eds.), Interpreting Shipwrecks: Maritime
Archaeological Approaches, 2013.
57. Charlotte Bydler, Mondiality/Regionality: Perspectives on Art, Aesthetics and
Globalization, 2014.
58. Andrej Kotljarchuk, In the Forge of Stalin: Swedish Colonists of Ukraine in
Totalitarian Experiments of the Twentieth Century, 2014.
59. Samuel Edquist, Janne Holmén and Erik Axelsson, Islands of Identity, 2014.
60. Norbert Götz (ed.), The Sea of Identities: A Century of Baltic and East European
Experiences with Nationality, Class, and Gender, 2014.
Samtidshistoriska frågor
1. Olof Palme i sin tid. Red. Kjell Östberg (2001).
(Finns endast elektroniskt i DiVA då den tryckta upplagan är slut.)
2. Kvinnorörelsen och ´68. Red. Elisabeth Elgán (2001).
(Finns endast elektroniskt i DiVA då den tryckta upplagan är slut.)
3. Riva alla murar! Vittnesseminarier om sexliberalismen och om Pocket-tidningen R.
Red. Lena Lennerhed (2002).
4. Löntagarfonderna – en missad möjlighet? Red. Lars Ekdahl (2002).
5. Dagens Nyheter: minnesseminarium över Sven-Erik Larsson. Vittnesseminarium om
DN och ’68. Red. Alf W Johansson (2003).
6. Kvinnorna skall göra det! Den kvinnliga medborgarskolan på Fogelstad – som idé,
text och historia. Red. Ebba Witt Brattström och Lena Lennerhed (2003).
7. Moderaterna, marknaden och makten – svensk högerpolitik under avregleringens tid,
1976–1991. Torbjörn Nilsson (2003).
8. Upprorets estetik. Lena Lennerhed (2005).
9. Revolution på svenska – ett vittnesseminarium om jämställdhetens
institutionalisering, politisering och expansion 1972–1976. Red. Anja Hirdman
(2005).
10. En högskola av ny typ? Två seminarier kring Södertörns högskolas tillkomst och
utveckling. Red. Mari Gerdin och Kjell Östberg (2006).
11. Hur rysk är den svenska kommunismen? Fyra bidrag om kommunism, nationalism
och etnicitet. Red. Mari Gerdin och Kjell Östberg (2006).
12. Ropen skalla – daghem åt alla! Vittnesseminarium om daghemskampen på 70-talet.
Red. Mari Gerdin och Kajsa Ohrlander (2007).
13. Makten i kanslihuset – ett vittnesseminarium om ett Regeringskansli i förändring.
Red. Emma Isaksson och Torbjörn Nilsson (2007).
14. Partnerskapslagen – ett vittnesseminarium om partnerskapslagens tillkomst. Red.
Emma Isaksson och Lena Lennerhed (2007).
15. Vägar till makten – statsrådens och statssekreterarnas karriärvägar. Anders Ivarsson
Westerberg och Cajsa Niemann (2007).
16. Sverige och Baltikums frigörelse. Två vittnesseminarier om storpolitik kring Östersjön
1991–1994. Red. Thomas Lundén och Torbjörn Nilsson (2008).
17. Makten och trafiken i Stadshuset. Två vittnesseminarier om Stockholms
kommunalpolitik. Red. Torbjörn Nilsson (2009).
18. Norden runt i tvåhundra år. Jämförande studier om liberalism, konservatism och
historiska myter. Torbjörn Nilsson (2010).
19. 1989 med svenska ögon. Vittnesseminarium om Östeuropas omvandling. Red.
Torbjörn Nilsson och Thomas Lundén (2010).
20. Statsminister Göran Persson i samtal med Erik Fichtelius (1996–2006). Red. Werner
Schmidt. DVD utgiven av SVT och Södertörns högskola (2011).
21. Bortom rösträtten. Politik, kön och medborgarskap i Norden. Lenita Freidenwall och
Josefin Rönnbäck (2011).
22. Borgerlig fyrklöver intog Rosenbad – regeringsskiftet 1991. Red. Torbjörn Nilsson
och Anders Ivarsson Westerberg (2011).
23. Rivstart för Sverige – Alliansen och maktskiftet 2006. Red. Fredrik Eriksson och
Anders Ivarsson Westerberg (2012).
24. Det började i Polen – Sverige och Solidaritet 1980–1981. Red. Fredrik Eriksson
(2013).
25. Förnyelse eller förfall? Svenska försvaret efter kalla kriget. Red. Fredrik Eriksson
(2013).
26. Staten och granskningssamhället. Red. Bengt Jacobsson och Anders Ivarsson
Westerberg (2013).
27. Almedalen – Så skapades en politikens marknadsplats. Ett vittnesseminarium om
Almedalsveckan som politisk arena. Red. Kjell Östberg (2013).
28. Anarkosyndikalismens återkomst i Spanien. SACs samarbete med CNT under
övergången från diktatur till demokrati. Red. Per Lindblom (2014).
29. När blev vården marknad? Vittnesseminarium i Almedalen. Red. Kristina Abiala
(2014).
30. Brinner ”förorten”? Om sociala konflikter i Botkyrka och Huddinge. Red. Kristina
Abiala (2014).
31. The Sea of Identities: A Century of Baltic and East European Experiences
with Nationality, Class, and Gender. Ed. Norbert Götz (2014).
A Century of Baltic and East European Experiences
with Nationality, Class, and Gender.
The essays in this collection present research on national,
class, and gender identities in the Baltic Sea Region and The Sea
Eastern Europe being conducted by researchers based at the
Institute of Contemporary History, Södertörn University, of Identities
Stockholm. The contributors focus on transnational flow as
they explore Danish, Estonian, Finnish, German, Lithuanian,
Moldovan, Polish, Russian, and Swedish instances, and the
region at large. The studies examine fluid identities in a
historical perspective and show how notions of identity have
been naturalised in specific contexts.
This book is issued in conjunction with the fifteenth anni-
versary of the Swedish Institute of Contemporary History.
By bringing to the public the most current findings in Baltic
and East European studies and offering an overview of work
done by the institute’s researchers, it hopes to demonstrate
the fruitfulness of opening contemporary history to broader
regional and transnational approaches.
Dr Norbert Götz is professor of history at the Institute of

Contemporary History, Södertörn University, Sweden.
Norbert Götz
Edited by
Norbert Götz
Distribution:
(ed.)
Library www.sh.se/publications
SE-141 89 Huddinge [email protected]

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The Sea of Identities

The Sea of Identities

Dr Norbert Götz is professor of history at the Institute of

Cover image: Bundesarchiv, image 167-3916B, by Alfred Paulus

Printed by Elanders, Stockholm 2014

Södertörn Academic Studies 60

Åsa Casula Vifell

who was to be one of the

Part 1: National Identities

Part 2: Labour Identities

Part 4: Environmental Awareness

AFL-CIO American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial

FRG Federal Republic of Germany

Poland Alliance of Trade Unions)

After a preoccupation with collective identities culminated in the mass

In this environment, the Swedish Institute of Contemporary History

attempt to draw on traditional layers of identity for Baltic Sea cooperation

meaning attached to the Baltic and the Mediterranean, investigates the

underwriters that continues to provide full funding for doctoral candidates,

The recent projects, “The Roma Genocide in Ukraine 1941–44: History,

Left: Police from West- and

Kundera, M. (1984) “The Tragedy of Central Europe.” New York Review of

Experiences of war and foreign occupation have often been used to

Still today, regional history writers describe Bornholmians as the most

since the 1980s, demilitarisation has become more ideologically and

Such interpretations implied a break with then dominant hegemonic

While successful rebellions play an important role in Bornholm’s and

old institutions of the nobility. According to the Saaremaa Defence League’s

In contrast, the uprising on Saaremaa in 1919 is today considered to have

historieanvändning, ed. by Edquist, S., Hermanson, L., and Johansson, S.

Olausson, P. M. (2007) Autonomy and Islands: A Global Study of the Factors

It’s the hidden enemy, whom we don’t know, who is dangerous.

Access to previously unavailable sources from Soviet archives has brought

Diagram 1: Phases of ethnic violence

The first phase concerns the preparation and conceptualisation of state-run

2001). In the Russian North, the historical experiment of multinationalism

Nordic threat: A case of continuity?

Murman was largely colonised not by Russians, but by Finns and

Therefore, the Murmansk planning commission proposed to move 2000

official aims was “solving the national question” by mapping compact

certain ethnic groups’ share of the village population (Murmanskii okrug

Isolation as instrument of covert policing actions

Arkhangelsk, the latter being accused of being “a nest of espionage”. During

Strengthening of border control

became a matter of great concern for Swedish diplomats in Moscow who

Peninsula. Kola Norwegians were accused of spying for Norway and

Destruction of economic, cultural, religious and family life

century and dozens of Sami Orthodox churches were destroyed (Berdieva

Kotljarchuk, A. (2011) “Ukrainasvenskar i Gulagarkipelagen:

Müller-Hill, B. (1998). Murderous Science: Elimination by Scientific Selection of

Pöppel, L. (2007) The Rhetoric of Pravda Editorials: A Diachronic Study of a

Thorvaldsen, G. (2011) “Household Structure in the Multiethnic Barents

During the early decades of the twentieth century, the emergence of

Background: The ‘Nordic minority’

The special character upon which the problem of Grenzlandsdeutschtum

This ‘special character’ at least partially explains why North Schleswig,

Unlike the battle of Völker [Volkstumskampf] of south-eastern Europe,

between “South Germanics and North Germanics”, conditional upon a

The Schulungsbriefe of the NSDAP-N