Republic of Cuba

Cuba is a ‘unitary Marxist-Leninist one-party socialist republic’. That is what it says in the constitution, and that official designation needs to be taken seriously in any evaluation of Cuba’s place in the world, and where we place ourselves in relation to it. A victorious liberation struggle was led by Fidel Castro and Che Guevara at the head of the July 26 Movement, J26M, named for the date of an unsuccessful attack on the Moncada Barracks in Oriente province in the east of the country in 1953. The J26M succeeded in chasing out military dictator Fulgencio Batista at the end of 1958.

1959 was the year everything changed, not only in Cuba, where a wave of land reforms, expropriation of land and takeover of large cattle estates went way beyond what many of the local and expatriate financial backers of J26M expected, but also in the wider world. The United States quickly reassessed the cautious support it had given Castro the previous year while it was trying to disentangle itself from Batista’s obviously corrupt and unsustainable regime, and the Soviet Union came into the frame as an alternative source of support, as supplier of petroleum that Cuba desperately depended on, and as customer for the sugar which made up over 80 percent of its export industry. Castro promised compensation to the US-based sugar companies, to be paid out of the revenues from sales to the US, a canny move that sent a clear message to Cuba’s old masters barely 100 miles to the north at its closest point, so close, so deadly. A deal was signed early in 1960 with the Soviet Union – sugar for oil – and through 1960 there was nationalisation of sugar mills and refineries, and of electric power and telephone companies. By the end of the following year, 1961, Castro declared himself to be a ‘Marxist-Leninist’.

While 1959 was the hinge-point for the transition, from the Cuban revolution being a national-democratic rebellion against US control and against its local puppet leaders, to being something more recognisably socialist, the following three years – 1960 to 1963 – were crucial in shaping Cuba as it is today. Banks, both US-owned and locally-owned were nationalised in 1960, as were all remaining US businesses shortly afterwards. Guevara, who had brokered the crucial sugar for oil deals, was now in charge of setting up new trade deals with China, and began steering the internal financial reorganisation of the country as President of the National Bank, while trying to manage Cuba’s relationship with the Soviet Union and China.

Cuba was caught politically between two versions of Stalinism, needing the two powers for economic survival and necessarily, inevitably perhaps, accommodating to the demands placed by each bureaucratic leadership, mainly with that in Moscow which, at one moment sought status from links with revolutionary anti-colonial movements and at the next sought to contain those movements in order to safeguard diplomatic relations with imperialism. Peking was a dangerous counterweight to that, dangerous to the revolutionary left, no more democratic, less powerful on the world stage but with more prestige in the so-called ‘third world’.

J26M was merged with the student Revolutionary Directorate and the Popular Socialist Party in 1961, and in 1963 the United Party of Socialist Revolution was formed, accompanied by a purge of nearly half the membership. These years, seeing attempted invasion by the United States at the Bay of Pigs in April 1961, the missile crisis in October 1962 (a standoff in which the Cuban government had no say over what was being threatened and negotiated between the two superpowers), and the US blockade lasting to the present day, are when the shape of the one party, officially re-launched as the Cuban Communist Party in 1965, the one that now governs this island of little over 11 million people, was forged.

Today it is not sugar but tourism that is touted by the regime as a key economic driver; President Miguel Díaz-Canel declared in early 2019 that every tourist to Cuba is breaking the blockade, a blockade tightened by the Trump regime following 60 years of pressure, sabotage, terrorist attacks and assassination attempts designed to bring Cuba back into line as a client state of imperialism. More than half of Cuba’s food comes from imports, and now it must also import tourists. Guevara, murdered in Bolivia in 1967, and Castro, who died in 2016, might be gone, but the regime is still searching for new ways to circumvent the blockade as something that functions not only as a political-economic choke-hold on the Cuban people but also symbolically as an isolation device, threatening to enforce the impossible idea that only ‘socialism in one country’ can be, and must be, constructed here, an island of socialism in a sea of sharks and crooks intent on getting their property back, getting all property back into private hands.

Cuba is a case example of the way international context, the balance of forces in a world that is still capitalist, now more intensely and triumphantly hostile than ever to socialism after the transition to capitalism that took place in Russia and then China, enters into the political organisation and everyday institutions and the mindset of those who support and of those who oppose the regime in this enclosed trapped space. Every step forward, every step towards reform, and every attempt to adapt the country to the changing balance of forces is marked by the consequences of isolation. The consequences are practical, direct restrictions on what is available and how people can live and how they are materially divided from each other, and ideological, how the Cuban people, and we who would wish to build solidarity with what remains of what became a successful and enduring anti-capitalist revolt against the US in its backyard, make sense of this, how reality is filtered. What we see when we are there is filtered by the contradictory play of forces, and filtered for a visitor even before they arrive.

Propaganda

First filter, for visitors, comprises the competing images of Cuba as anti-capitalist and anti-imperialist icon and of it as state-managed top-down authoritarian regime. We know that, know that there are those competing images, but what is worst is the way this filter is reconfigured in the tourist guide-books, the most insidious of which at the moment is the CubaConga 2019 ‘underground guide’. This is an excellent place to begin, actually, for it neatly pits itself against the bland ‘introductions’ to Cuban reality that the most popular travel handbooks dish up, and it plays into the suspicion that these handbooks are playing safe. All information about Cuba, it warns, is ‘tainted’, and worse than that, ‘nothing is as it seems’. CubaConga 2019 plays on the motif of the video game – the reference in the title is to the 1980s arcade favourite Donkey Kong which spawned the Mario series – promising to raise the visitor up to level 5, warning them that they will never make the top level. This because under ‘tropical communism’, we are told, life is one big scam; every Cuban will be out to scam you, just as they scam the system and each other. No one in Cuba really works, nothing works, and you better get ready to be treated as what the Cubans called a ‘yuma’; a ‘yuma’ is a visitor, gringo or not, waiting to be squeezed of their money, and all the better if they can be shared, in which case they become what is known locally as a ‘punto’. In this way the visitor is launched into a paranoiac journey where they will distrust everything that is told them and everyone they meet. The CubaConga 2019 guide exemplifies the operations of ‘fake news’, feeding suspicion, with the message ‘nothing is what it seems’ seeming to undermine ideology while simultaneously reinstating it, discrediting each fact in the name of revealing the facts to be simply elements in the game.

Once we are in this paranoid universe, one that is antithetical to any solidarity that the visitor may feel for Cuba, every disconfirmation of the handy information this guide offers is further evidence that nothing is what it seems; the game has simply been quickly upgraded to fool the player. But I will tell you anyway that; when the CubaConga guide informs you that you can only buy roadmaps of Cuba in the departure lounge of Havana Airport, that is a funny fact, but incorrect; that none of the owners of the ‘Casas Particulares’ – licensed bed and breakfast home-stay accommodations – we stayed in were ‘elite’ members of the Cuban Communist Party intent on stopping you from talking to ordinary people, unless they were good liars; that you will not be made to pay extra car service costs by state rental firm Havanauto on your return to the airport, in fact our car, a bit ropy with a weird tiny battery, was fixed twice free, and then we were given a replacement car; that you will not be overcharged in hotels and restaurants, every bill was accurate, in some cases effectively rounded down. This even in taxis after we had been warned by locals that you should take care not to be squeezed, and taxis were organised for us – something CubaConga 2019 would tell you is the sure sign that you will be squeezed again – were in line with the agreed fare. In one ‘cafeteria’ near the north-west coast, the hot old woman owner showed us her medicines, complained about her health and climate change, but didn’t want to charge us for the coffees. Some people were reticent, more about that in a moment, but it was not at all a case of having to read between the lines, but being prepared to have open conversations when it was possible and listen to what people said.

Twenty years ago, my last visit to Cuba, was toward the end of the ‘Special Period’, an awfully difficult time in the 1990s after the collapse of the Soviet bloc, when the sugar and oil agreements were ended, as was all other aid, aid that was necessary to counter the effects of the US-led blockade. The country was just beginning to pull itself out of economic hardship and, in some cases, hunger, hunger that was only alleviated by the ration system. Twenty years ago, yes, I got badly ill after eating in an illegal home restaurant while driving down the battered bicycle and donkey-strewn highway to Santa Clara and Trinidad de Cuba south-east of Havana, and I was hassled to give the guy who found accommodation with a freezing cold shower more money afterwards. But where have I not been treated as a money-tree and shaken down by poor people, something that is quite understandable. In some parts of the world a network of tourist police cracks down on this kind of thing, intensifying oppression and exploitation rather than addressing it. Is that what you want? This time out to the west of Havana, both in areas near the coast where there were few tourists and inland where there were many, we were given gifts of local food to see us on our way, we were not ‘squeezed’. What contradictions there were, were in the main more open and transparent than they are under full-blown neoliberal capitalism where the scam-element is woven into every promise and delivery of a good or a service.

Money

The second practical-ideological filter on the visitor experience comes into play in the very real division between the two currencies (a division that is now being re-evaluated by the Cuban government). For visitors to the country there is the CUC, the Convertible Cuban Peso which is directly pegged to the US Dollar, one for one; and for the locals there is the Cuban Peso which currently runs at about 25 to a dollar. The CUCs have images of monuments on, and the Cuban Pesos have images of famous figures (the 1 with Jose Martí, the 3, rarer, sold on the Havana streets to tourists, with Che Guevara on it).

This currency division effectively divides the country into two layers. The first layer is the state-organised economy, the bedrock of the political-economic basis of the revolution that was laid down in 1959. It is at this level that the rationing system works. A small quota of milk, sugar, flour, coffee and other essentials are available at very low cost. This ration system continues today – in one simple ration centre, the guy sweeping the place up at the end of the day invited us in and showed us the table of goods and prices. Children and pensioners will get the basic goods free of charge. So, the actual cost of living in Cuba is about a third lower than in the UK, and rent is nearly 80% lower. The pay is low, and seems at first sight lower still when it is calculated in the Cuban Pesos in which it is paid, but then the cost of accommodation is incredibly low, and education and health are, of course, free. A basic level of housing, social and welfare support are thus provided, from which the remaining Cuban Pesos can be set aside for ‘luxuries’, but then again, this currency is actually useless for anything beyond housing, collective transport and the local restaurants. For that you need to have access to the CUCS.

It is those who have access to the CUCS who circulate in the second layer, the one in which tourists experience Cuba most of the time, and this monetary division often goes alongside geographical division. There are visitors who now travel outside Havana into the countryside, especially to holiday towns like Viñales to the west which are often packed with Western day-trippers spending CUCS, and some who hire cars, but this is still unusual, and several times we were asked, with some astonishment, why were not in Varadero, spending our time, and money, in one of the all-inclusive beach resorts. Life with the CUCS is effectively more like life under neoliberal capitalism, where there is precarious and sometimes lucrative employment; to rise from the world of the Cuban Peso into the world of the CUCS is to touch the tourist economy and to function as part of the service sector, from which come the images of ‘yumas’ and ‘puntos’; here, as under capitalism in any other part of the world, things and people are turned into commodities.

One taxi driver told us that he used to work as an engineer, and got 1000 Pesos a month, but then shifted over to tourist work because he got better paid, and he then had access to CUCS. Owners of Casas Particulares may not be CCP members, but they are lifted away from the rest of the population through their access to the CUC economy. These CUCS are valuable, for what they signify and for what they can actually buy. At La Roca restaurant in Havana – an old cheap state-run restaurant with an old slow jazz orchestra playing to a small audience of diners – we handed over a 50 CUC note, which was then passed up from the waitress to the cashier and then to manager. There was a tiny nick out of the corner of the note, and so it was returned to us, refused because, we were told, the overall manager, when they saw it, would refuse it.

At the currency exchange at Havana’s José Martí International Airport on my way out of the country the woman in front of me in the long queue to change CUC convertible currency back into Western currency again was a Cuban woman. She was not travelling, but had come in to the airport just to change money, from Euros into CUC. We waited for nearly an hour before it was her turn to go to the counter. She handed over 5 Euros, one of which was refused because there was a little tear in the note, and came away from the counter with four CUC.

Dissent

The third filter is an unavoidable one which separates out the life-world of the tourist from the world backstage. You see the signs for the operation of Committees for the Defence of the Revolution, the network of CDRs that have formed the local backbone of the revolution since 1960, but you don’t, of course, see how these work. Glimpses of their representative and sometimes coercive function are but that, glimpses. There were advantages to hiring a car and driving the pot-holed country roads away from the main tourist centres, and there were many disadvantages to long journeys in battered cars on difficult terrain. Hitch-hikers were grateful for a lift. One woman we picked up near Bahia Honda way east of Havana was travelling, she said, to her church in the next village. Cuba now defines itself as a ‘secular’ state rather than as atheist, and though Jehovah’s Witnesses have had a hard time – banned from organising in 1974, and so about 3,000 left in 1980 from Mariel, a time when those who fled were referred to as ‘gusanos’ (worms) – there are still Roman Catholic churches and, increasingly, evangelical Pentecostal churches, for one of which our evangelical hitchhiker on this occasion was a worker. The Roman Catholic church claims that 60% of the population are of their flock, though actual attendance is actually between 1 and 2 percent. This woman said that in that part of the country things were pretty evenly split, among believers, between Roman Catholics and Pentecostals. We asked her what her work was, and she said she worked as a teacher. What did she teach? ‘The Creation!’

There is still Santeria, Afro-Cuban local religion from the old slave times, with competing stories about whether this was celebrated or dissuaded by the CDRs, probably both. And there were competing stories about Jews. We were told by one opposition activist, for example, that most of the Jews had left the country after the revolution, some to go to Israel, some to the United States, where there are now specific ethnic Cuban-Jewish communities. But we found an active synagogue in Havana, and we were told by a Lebanese family-background maintenance man in one Casa Particular on the edge of Havana that, no, there was an extant Jewish community, but they kept out of politics. This guy also told us that after the revolution he had to give over the top floor of his large house to homeless people, but he didn’t complain about this, accepted it as part of the process of fair redistribution of resources he was living through. We were told that there were some converts to Islam, and that there had been some fights between Sunni and Shia in the street recently. Among the opposition there is also some contempt for the progressive shift made by the Cuban government under the impact of HIV/AIDS to active support for LGBT rights (something that pits the government against the Catholic Church), and contempt for the quite good, not perfect, public policy and information campaigns against sexism and racism.

In Viñales on the main stretch there was a brightly painted Freemasons Hall, open, it said, on Saturday morning at 9am. This is a reminder that the freemasons were the guild organisations of the bourgeoisie, progressive at one point in our history as the bourgeoisie replaced feudal rulers, but reactionary now in the West where capitalism is entrenched and the freemasons remain dedicated to its existence. In Latin America, where the bourgeois independence struggles came later, the freemasons played a progressive role within living memory, and key figures like José Martí and Simon Bólívar were members. Remember that the Cuban revolution was a bourgeois-democratic revolution against US imperialism that then had to grow over into socialism in order to carry out the basic bourgeois-democratic tasks, it was an instance of ‘permanent revolution’.

 

There is some suspicion of the CCP, but not, as you might expect, a sense that membership is necessary to advance through a career or to get special privileges. In fact, despite Castro’s decision, after the death of Guevara in Bolivia – death which followed brave if mistaken attempts to extend the revolution through ‘foco’ guerrilla warfare – to put in place financial incentives, and despite the selective distribution of television sets and other electo-domestic goods to ‘vangard’ party members in the 1980s, there is still not a privileged class layer of the population in anything like the same way as exists outside the country (whether in the remaining Stalinist states or in the capitalist countries). We spoke to young lecturers in Havana University who shrugged their shoulders as they told us that while the average wage is around 1000 pesos a month for skilled workers, it is 600 pesos for academics; but why not pay those who have worse jobs more money? These young academics were rather distant from the regime, pointing out the private restaurants that were, they said, much better than the state ones. When we asked them if they were members of the CCP, they said that, no, the party was for old people, something quite evident in the televised reports of meetings on the television. But when we asked them if they thought they should join the CCP, they said, no, they had never felt it would be a disadvantage not to be a member, so no point joining. As for Marxism, if Marxism meant falling in line with the ‘Sino-Vietnamese’ model much vaunted by the regime at the moment, then, no, they were not Marxists, but if it meant that one could be critical while supportive, then that was another question. The big battle in the Department of Philosophy, they told me, was over changing the title of the degree, which was actually a general degree in philosophy, so that it would not be a degree in ‘Marxist-Leninist Philosophy’, a title that was a millstone around the neck of any young academic who then wanted to go and study elsewhere.

A sprightly woman in her seventies, not the owner of a Casa Particular, told me that she had been a student activist before the revolution, an exciting time, she said, with continuous perilous activity that she enjoyed very much. We asked her if she was a ‘communist’, and she said no, but then elaborated a detailed narrative for why this was so, one that was at one with the revolution she had lived through, not against it. Yes, she remembered that in the early years of the revolution, time when there were still armed counter-revolutionary groups engaging in sabotage, she had heard the noise of gunfire early in the morning in Havana as opponents were seized and shot. The death penalty was restored in Cuba under the new regime. This woman was not a member of the Cuban Communist Party, but the reason she would not call herself a communist was because this was surely, she said, a state of being to be aimed for, not one that we could or should imagine to be achieved now. I was reminded of Che Guevara’s rather moralistic injunctions to the Cuban people to work harder to build socialism as a function of aiming to build what he called the ‘New Man’, not to rely on material incentives. The office building Guevara oversaw the construction of did not, apparently, have elevators because, he argued, it was better that office workers get some exercise climbing the stairs.

There were, in the early years, immense political differences between the three different organisations that were brought together first into the Integrated Revolutionary Organisations, in 1961, then into the United Party of Socialist Revolution two years later and then into the Communist Party of Cuba, which was founded in 1965 and which had its first congress ten years after that. Castro and Guevara’s J26M had, of course, been forged primarily in the peasant struggle, and it needed to link with the student Revolutionary Directorate which was based mainly in the towns and in Havana, which was then and is still the largest city in the Caribbean. And J26M needed a disciplined organisational resource base that was to be found in the Popular Socialist Party which had been founded way back in 1925 as the local communist party, section of the Third International, and so tightly controlled by Moscow.

Here is the internal local root of the problem that Cuba has faced from the beginning, a root of the problem of Stalinist bureaucracy that was intertwined with the Soviet compact. It should never be forgotten that the Popular Socialist Party, PSP, actually supported Batista right until the last moment, opposed the Havana General Strike that was called to support the J26M guerrillas in the countryside, and tried to put the brakes on the nationalisations that turned Cuba into something like a workers state. There are three elements of this direct local influence of Stalinism on Cuba that gives to Cuba both a bureaucratic and a deserved ‘Radical Face of Stalinism’ and which Castro and Guevara, at times, fought.

The first is the political apparatus that J26M lacked, and which it needed in order to be able to govern the country. The twists and turns of the PSP as it followed one disastrous line given by Moscow to the next had the effect, as with other communist parties that were franchises of the Third International, of hardening the organisation, making its leadership all the more obedient while all the better placed to give orders, to enforce top-down administrative rule.

The second element of the direct local influence of Stalinism was the commitment of the PSP and then the continuing Stalinist apparatus inside the CCP from 1965 to a ‘stage’ notion of historical-political development in which the ‘national democratic’ stage must come first, and only then can the ‘socialist’ stage be advanced. In countries dependent on imperialism, as Cuba was dependent on the United States up until 1959, that meant that the Stalinists opposed the revolution growing over from carrying out basic bourgeois democratic tasks by engaging in socialist revolution. We are not there yet, but this revolutionary space is blocked, distorted, waiting its moment to flower again.

The third element is the classic distortion of Marxism expressed in Stalin’s notorious phrase ‘socialism in one country’. Here in Cuba it means not merely an attempt to cope with the brute reality of the situation, to make the best of the isolation the country suffered, and then to attempt to break out of that isolation (as Guevara tried to do in the Congo and then, fatefully in Bolivia), but to twist the narrative into celebration of this isolation. The celebration of socialism in one country not only leads to nationalist distortions, something that Cuba has bravely challenged – with an internationalism that is also, then, tangled in the manoeuvres of the Soviet bureaucracy, but an internationalist spirit nonetheless – but also to a concordat with other regimes around Latin America, and around the world that call themselves socialist but are not, or with others that would not even claim to be so.

Together these three elements have enabled hard-line pro-Soviet forces inside the regime to sometimes gain ascendency, and for Castro, after Guevara’s death, to wobble between critique and praise of his Soviet ally; this leading him, for example, to endorse the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 – a turning point for Cuban foreign policy – and to condemn Solidarnosc in Poland in 1980.

The symbolic re-framing of Cuba as if it were merely another iteration of Soviet rule can be seen in documentary films such as the 1964 I Am Cuba, a film that is effectively unravelled in interviews and quasi-semiotic analysis by the 2004 Brazilian documentary The Siberian Mammoth. Inside Cuba, despite the ‘Marxist-Leninist’ tag-line in the constitution, there are busts aplenty not of Marx or Lenin, but of José Martí, a revolutionary democratic leader of the movement for independence from Spain who was killed by the Spanish in 1895. In a case of history repeating itself, this first time in Cuba as tragedy, we might say, the movement Martí led was actually ‘annexationist’ rather than ‘secessionist’; the aim was to break from Spain and attach to the United States; in this first round repeat performance during the Cuban revolution of 1959 we see the regime surviving by breaking from the United States and ending up in hock to the Soviet Union.

The isolation that has distorted, even, if some analysts are to be believed, ‘deformed’ this worker’s state from day one, is welcomed by those who would wish to crush the life out of anything remaining of the revolutionary hopes of late 1950s. Owners of the Casas Particulares said that business was bad with the tightening of the blockade by Trump, with a sharp decrease in numbers of visitors from the United States, and we could see that many of them were empty. But for those who are intent on bringing down the regime, an increase in hardship is the price worth paying, and would even be better because it would also result in more dissatisfaction with the government.

We had a long conversation with an opposition activist, the son of a friend who had left Cuba, who made it clear that for him the blockade and Trump’s recent pronouncements about human rights were good things, at last the opposition had an ally in the White House, in contrast to the tentative links that Obama had made with Havana. Trump tells the truth, we were told, and, when pushed, this guy said that although it would be bad, although it was not what he wanted, he would go so far as to support an invasion by the United States, because, he said, they, the regime, ‘they are killing us’. He was against the recent election of López Obrador because that would relax blockade pressure from Mexico, and against the recent pension and ration and minimum-wage increases because that would mean that the population would be more contented with the regime.

There was also delighted support by him for Jair Bolsonaro’s reference to the Cuban doctors as ‘slaves’. We knew that medical training is a big thing in Cuba, and not at all the elite specialised technocratic enterprise it has become in so many parts of the so-called developed world. A Mexican friend’s son training to be a doctor had elected to do his placement in Santa Clara, for example, and he described how the lack of up-to-date medical equipment – the lack a function of the blockade – actually meant that doctors were trained to feel and interpret the body. Their expertise really was hands-on, and the treatment was geared to the lives of the patients rather than to the needs of the large pharmaceutical companies. Medicine was geared to health rather than to profit. One of the hitch-hikers we picked up was travelling with her niece to the small town of La Palma to do shopping and, she said, to buy medicine. Her niece would, she said, be enrolling in medical school in Pinar del Rio, the nearest large city, and it didn’t seem a big deal. This woman was otherwise quite scornful about local provision of services, but medical training was taken for granted as something that was available to everyone. There has been a huge outflow of medical expertise and of development of medical training. 400,000 medical professionals working in 165 different countries since 1960, and, with 31,000 students from 103 different countries coming to Cuba to be trained in its Latin American School of Medicine since 1998. Life expectancy in Cuba is currently 79 years, high given the conditions it has been exposed to by its neighbour to the north for daring to defy it.

The doctors working abroad are ‘slaves’, according to Bolsonaro, because the Cuban government draws up the contract for them to work abroad, obtains 4,000 pesos a month, and then passes on only 1,000 of this to the doctor. But the contract is quite clear, and the doctor chooses to sign up, and the wage they send home is good payment. Our opposition activist would have none of this, pointing to the difficulty that the doctor then had in breaking from the contract, or returning home to be with their family in case of domestic crisis, illness or death. This is true, and there is a degree of bureaucratic control, and monitoring of the population that is uncomfortable. It is true but clear, unfortunate but understandable in a country still effectively on war footing against the United States.

When we asked our oppositional activist friend what he thought about Trump and Bolsonaro, he said he didn’t care; all he cared about was, in a mantra relayed through the Madrid-based online paper Diario de Cuba from the US state department, ‘freedom of association’, ‘freedom of movement’ and ‘representative democracy’. Yes to freedom of association – that is happening in effect with access, in 2019 to the internet an instant group social media messaging, and yes to freedom of movement, but ‘representative democracy’ where those with the most money have access to propaganda tools turns democracy into a market-place with a corrupt layer of ‘politicians’; then we will be in the world described by CubaConga2019. One owner of a Casa Particular complained that their kids were now spending their time playing games on the internet. What the guys who wrote CubaConga2019 are unable to reflect on is the fact that the metaphor of the Donkey Kong video game expresses perfectly the condition of life under capitalist fake democracy; everyone is encouraged to scam everyone else in the field of politics. For the oppositional activist, it was as if, in a message in reverse, we had the true meaning of what ‘socialism in on country’ means. This was ‘reaction to socialism’ in one country.

Here is a paradox. We were told that people cannot move freely around the country, and there is a particular problem for those who would want to relocate their families or find work outside their home town. Dervla Murphy’s typically idiosyncratic 2009 The Island That Dared: Journeys in Cuba, a book which was commended by the British Communist Party paper Morning Star in the UK (a reliable barometer of Stalinist solidarity sensibility), doesn’t pull its punches on the bureaucratic pettiness that can mark some encounters of ordinary people with the system of rules, rules which are sometimes inflexible and harsh, sometimes relaxed and humanised. For example, despite the oft-repeated claim that people outside the tourist convertible economy are wary of interacting with foreigners, we found ready takers for offers of rides in our car from village to village, and we heard from locals who complained bitterly about the state of the roads, and laughed contemptuously when we asked what local representative body they might talk to in order that things might be put right. When it came down to it, the complaint was about lack of resources, lack of goods, and lack of medicines. One woman asked us to let her out of the car just before we arrived at the town she was aiming for – there for her fortnightly shop – and was quite clear that this was because she needed to check into the police station to register her presence there for the day. She said she would rather walk along to the police station than have us drive her there, in case questions were asked. We dropped her and watched her as she popped in and out of the police station, and then carried on to do her shopping. Perhaps she also told the police about us, who knows.

An older woman, not a member of the CCP, described to us the ethical dilemma the blockade posed for her. She, not incidentally, was someone who tactfully talked about Cuban friends who had chosen to live abroad, neither referring to them as ‘gusanos’, as was once the way at the time of one of the many mass exoduses permitted if not encouraged by the Cuban state, nor referring to them as ‘mariposas’, the wonderful wealthy creatures who returned later. (8% of the population, of which many were middle class professionals in addition to the very wealthy and the crime gangs who ran the casinos and brothels, left in the years after the revolution.) There were, this woman said, medicines available for her outside Cuba, and so, because of the blockade, unobtainable. If she thought about this question as an ‘individual’ question – as one concerning only her own rights to the medicine – then she might feel sad and even bitter about it, but if she thought about this as a collective question which spoke of the plight of the Cuban people as a whole facing unfair sanctions for taking back their country under their own control, then, no, that was a different matter.

Solidarity

Human rights cannot be reduced to basic provision of food and education, as some more hard-faced Stalinist supporters of every twist and turn of the regime will make out, and revolutionary Marxists should insist that more opportunity for critical political critique is the pre-requisite for better social organisation, not a hindrance to it. However, it should be remembered that the political-economic basis for human rights is exactly what is being attacked by the imperialist powers circling Cuba. Trump and Bolsonaro do this in the name of ‘Human Rights’, and so we need to be clear where we stand on this. Those political-economic gains of the revolution need to be vigorously defended, gains which include, note, that infant mortality in Cuba is now lower than it is in the United States, that over half of Cuban MPs are women, the second highest proportion in the world, that forest cover in Cuba is now up to 30% compared with 11% before 1959, and that diseases have been eradicated in Cuba that have are beginning to reappear in other parts of the world afflicted by poverty and corruption.

It is astonishing that Cuba has survived so close to the United States, and so all the greater threat to the oppressed there who might dare to take back into their own hands the wealth they had created for the few. It has been under pressure of the blockade which denies the basic trade links that are the lifeblood of a globalised world, under pressure from the Soviet Union to imitate its own bureaucratic forms of rule, and then more isolated through the ‘Special Period’ and collapse of Soviet aid in the 1990s. It has come through all this to the current oil-dependent relationship with Venezuela, a capitalist country where the regime is clinging onto power and also faces invasion threats from the United States.

Solidarity with Cuba as a revolutionary break from imperialism would be easier for us, for revolutionary Marxists, if our own Trotskyist comrades had not taken such bizarre political positions during the crucial years at the beginning of the 1960s and if the Cuban leadership had not fallen in line with some of the worse Stalinist caricatures of Trotskyism. The Trotskyist POR(T) were followers of Juan Posadas, issuing ultimatums to the regime to move fast and then, incredibly, urging the Soviet Union to unleash a worker’s ‘Atomic War’ with a first strike on the United States. Guevara, for his part, first defended the ‘comrade Trotskyists’, but then defended the smashing of the printing plates for a copy of Trotsky’s 1936 very relevant classic The Revolution Betrayed. Guevara had a copy of Trotsky’s History of the Russian Revolution in his knapsack when he was caught and killed. Against this background, it is all the more understandable, if regrettable, that Castro should denounce Trotskyism as counterrevolutionary, a line taken direct from the Stalinists. From these contradictory indications as to the political leanings of the Cuban leadership also flow some of the more ridiculous notions in the Trotskyist movement, that Castro is an ‘unconscious Trotskyist’ on the one hand, or that there could not have been a revolution because there was not revolutionary Trotskyist party leading it on the other. This double-failure, a political failure of analysis and leadership at crucial moments since 1959 has then led revolutionaries themselves to oscillate between starry-eyed enthusiasm for the regime and over-harsh condemnation which chimes with imperialist attempts to destroy what remains of this beacon of hope.

Earlier in 2019 there was a Trotsky conference in Havana – good – a positive event, but at the same time the organisers made clear that they wanted an ‘academic’ debate, and they did not want this to lead to the little sects arriving and trying to set up their own franchise groups on the island. External quarantine leads inevitably to internal quarantine. When I asked the young lecturers at Havana University, and they were interested in alternative approaches to Marxism, doing theses on the work of one-time Trotskyists Perry Anderson and Terry Eagleton, they said they had never heard of the Trotsky conference.

Of course the Cuban revolution faltered, it could not do otherwise, but in this very incomplete imperfect process there exist the grounds for hope that the revolution might be extended, as it must be in order for Cuba to survive. The blockade will either be lifted in such a way as to allow US-American capital to flow in and for property to be re-privatised, for the misery of life under capitalism to return, with massive wage and status differentials. Or the blockade will be broken through active solidarity with what is most alive in Cuba now. What is most alive in Cuba now is what resists the encroachment of imperialism in the country, for sure – that is where the debates about whether it is a ‘deformed worker’s state’ or ‘state capitalism’ come into play – but also what is most alive in Cuba is the inspiration it gives to revolutionaries outside. This was possible here, something was possible, and such a thing might be possible again somewhere else, in many places; international socialist solidarity and action for Cuba is crucial if the revolution is to become something real for us all.

 

This is one of the Socialisms series of FIIMG articles

 

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Hugo Blanco

Hugo Blanco is in Manchester on 25 February 2019, but who is Hugo Blanco? 

Hugo Blanco is an inspiration to revolutionary ecosocialists. Born in Cusco, once capital of Tawantinsuyu and now in Peru, in 1934, his first struggles were school protests. He travelled to Argentina, where he abandoned university to work in a meat-packing factory in La Plata, and his encounter with the Fourth International eventually led him back to Peru where he became a factory and then peasant organiser. He was arrested in 1963, and was in prison in Peru in the notorious El Frontón prison off the coast until 1970. After some years in exile, in Mexico, Argentina, Chile and Sweden, he returned to Peru to be elected to the Constituent Assembly there. He was deported to Argentina, to return and stand for the Peruvian Presidency, elected to Peruvian Congress where he served from 1980 to 1985. The years since he has been actively involved in land struggles, escaping government and Shining Path assassination attempts, publishing the activist magazine Lucha Indigena, and recently leading street protests against amnesty for Fujimori in the streets of Lima.

This man is beaten back and then up he pops again; he has been a tireless militant, building many radical movements against exploitation and oppression, uniting industrial and rural workers in joint struggle. I still have a poster of him that I had on my wall as a student, of him angrily resisting court officials after one of his many arrests, this one after his participation as a member of the Partido Revolucionario de los Trabajadores in a broader organisation Frente Obrero, Campesino, Estudantil, y Popular. FOCEP had gained 11% of the vote in the elections and the Peruvian state was determined that Blanco pay for that. Now we have a book that honours this life of enduring struggle, and honours it by telling us of the unfolding political context and the role of organisations Blanco helped build in order to further resistance. This is a book to marvel at and learn from. This is Blanco’s history, but also our history as part of a revolutionary tradition that has traced a parallel path, a path we should be proud to say connects with his at many crucial points.

I have set out the very brief version of his political biography here. What Derek Wall does is to flesh that out with details of his life that draw attention not only to the incredibly diverse kinds of struggle that Blanco has been involved with around the world but also aspects of his personal life. These details enrich the narrative. We learn, for example, not only of the role of the Fourth International in the international campaign to release him from prison – that I knew when I had the poster pinned up – but also of the later financial appeals for medical treatment, operations Blanco needed after lingering injuries to his head and back, results of severe beatings by police and army and prison guards. It is a miracle he has survived so long; he is, as Wall points out, someone with more than a cat’s nine lives.

The book is packed with anecdotes that have a strong political charge; did you know, for example, that Blanco was in Chile during the coup against Allende, and that he managed to escape because he was not on a death list, not on a death list because he was critical of the regime as reformist rather than one of its supporters? The accidents and ironies of history are traced with a steady hand in this book that allows us to see better how political lives are necessarily entwined with personal experience and personal costs.

You will be awestruck as you read this book, it is the kind of book you can give as a present to someone beginning to learn about politics as an introduction to what ecosocialism is about in practice, and you will sometimes laugh too, bitter radical humour. We learn something about the influence of Leon Trotsky, but also about José María Arguedas and José Carlos Mariátegui (from whom the phrase ‘shining path’ comes) and, why Blanco ‘viewed the collectivist nature of the Inca Empire, despite its undemocratic character, as an inspiration for the creation of communism in Peru’. And we learn how important women’s resistance to patriarchy has been to Blanco as well as indigenous resistance to despoliation of their land. Wall quotes Eduardo Galeano writing that one of his fourteen hunger strikes, when Blanco could go on no longer ‘the government was so moved it sent him a coffin as a present’.

This book is beautifully written, with some great turns of phrase which sum up key debates; speaking of Blanco’s interest in alternative systems of political organisation, that of the ayllu in pre-colonial times, Wall pits this against a false choice often posed to us in which ‘One alternative is the purity of inaction’ and ‘the other is action that reforms a system so as to conserve it’. Hugo Blanco is about action, action linked to genuine transformative change.

This must have been an extraordinarily difficult to write, for Wall has a triple-task here; to tell us about the life of Hugo Blanco, yes of course, but also to tell us about the history of Latin America, from the arrival of the conquistadors to the new imperialist subjugation of the continent, and, more, to tell us how revolutionary traditions and organisations of resistance, including groups affiliated to the Fourth International were built and how they split, and sometimes merged again. What drives this book forward is that Wall wants to explain, is a passionate and thoughtful author, takes pains to neatly sidetrack into some doctrinal disputes, but always in order to return us to the same question; what is to be done, and what did Blanco do in those different situations.

Another strength is that the writing of this book, it is clear, has also been as collaborative as the political life of its subject. Those who have followed Wall’s postings and pleas for help on social media over the last year will know this well. Blanco refuses honours that are directed to him alone, always preferring to draw attention to collective organisation, to others who were also co-workers. He knows that he owes his life to this common struggle; Wall describes an occasion when he was arrested, when peasants blockaded the bus he was being taken away in, forcing his release. And, the flipside of his, we see him on trial claiming responsibility for deaths in an exchange of fire with officers when the ballistics evidence says otherwise; Blanco is protecting his comrades. Wall too has drawn on the expertise of others to piece together this account, and has been very lucky to also be able to draw on Blanco’s own memories.

As Wall points out, many of the indigenous, peasant and ecological struggles that are at the heart of Hugo Blanco’s life, and reason why he left the Fourth International, actually prefigure many of the political developments inside the Fourth International in recent years; Wall writes that ‘Both the Trotskyist and the indigenous elements of his politics have fuelled his resistance.’ This book is the best of green and red politics. Few political figures have managed to trace a path that is true to both. Hugo Blanco did that, and so does this book.

 

You can order the book here.

 

Register for the meeting with Hugo Blanco and Derek Wall in Manchester here

 

This article first appeared as a book review here, where you can comment on it

 

 

Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

The DPRK was founded in 1948 in the north of the Korean peninsula after a bloody national liberation struggle against Japanese occupation. The annexation of Korea by Japan in 1910 had been followed by brutal subjugation of the local population, and although those bitter years of colonial oppression were brought to an end with the help of the Soviet Union, the formation of the DPRK was as an independent state led by the Korean Worker’s Party (KWP) under the leadership of Kim Il-sung. The local Communist Party apparatus in the years immediately preceding the founding of the DPRK had been directed by Moscow, in line with the Comintern policy of utilising local parties around the world as diplomatic tools of the bureaucracy, but was quickly absorbed into the KWP, as were the local people’s committees across the north. This was one year prior to the seizure of power by Mao in China, note. Soviet forces were withdrawn in 1948, and the DPRK was then on its own, despite some continuing trade links and imports of fuel and food, isolated, forced to be self-reliant, an extremely compressed impossible attempt to construct socialism in one country. Or, worse, only part of a country, the only consolation being that it was the north that was centre of heavy industry with a head-start over the more rural south.

Supreme Leader Kim Il-sung intended Seoul, which is south of the 38th parallel, to be the capital, not Pyongyang, which is to the north of that line. There were uprisings in the south against military rule culminating in a rebellion by the Jeju islanders which was crushed and a dictatorship was established in South Korea under Syngman Rhee, actively supported by the United States. The US henceforth underwrote the regime in the south of the peninsula, and although its own military was formally withdrawn in 1949, covert operations and a build-up of forces preparing for war against the DPRK continued from its base in occupied Japan. The 38th parallel was the line drawn across the country by the US, the new colonial masters in the region after the Second World War, and then transgressed, the trigger for the Korean War 1950-1953, a further ordeal for the DPRK in which much of the material infrastructure was bombed to bits, and so successful defence of the regime in the north entailed further deep costs, not least to the internal structure of the regime. Defence and closure against external enemies intent on destroying an independent state which declared itself to be socialist, enemies that really were intent on the restoration of capitalism in the north, necessarily led to defence and closure against internal enemies, and so it was that the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea took the form it has maintained until the present day.

Trotsky once pointed out that each specific country operates as a particular combination of factors at play on a global scale. Complete independence of any nation state once capitalism took hold as a global system is an illusion, in some cases it is an unavoidable illusion that sustains national liberation struggles that then gives way to a process of building economic and political ties and international solidarity. The Soviet Union had at its disposal the Comintern, the remains of the Third International, to buttress Stalin’s own ridiculous anti-Marxist claim to be building socialism in one country, and political-military manoeuvring and then ‘peaceful coexistence’ were the international conditions for that bureaucracy to survive until 1989. The DPRK did not even have that, and so the illusion of independence became more dangerous, more toxic to the population even when that illusion was fed to its people as if it were a panacea.

That practical impossibility of socialism in one country – political-economic isolation – was accompanied by another kind of isolation, with deadly consequences. The formation of the First, Second, Third and then Fourth Internationals was predicated on the revolutionary Marxist understanding that successful combat against capitalism and its eventual overthrow depended on the accumulation of experiences from diverse parts of the world, from parts of the working class and from among its allies. Anti-capitalist struggle is complemented and enriched by the experience of anti-colonial movements, anti-racist movements, and by women’s liberation and sexual liberation, ecological struggle and other dimensions of resistance against exploitation and oppression. Such heterogeneous complex political experiences must be drawn from across the globe so the working class itself can come to realise in its own practice the way in which its specific circumstances are intertwined with the operation of those multiple elements on an international level. Among the consequences of isolation, and as an insidious feedback loop in which the problem is reconfigured by the regime as if it were a virtue, are some weird aspects of representation of the regime both to the outside world and to its own people, a double-edged duplicitous self-representation.

Representation

‘Mysterious’, that’s the word for it offered by the Chinese plain-clothes policeman at the northern border. It was meant as a question, provided as a possible answer to another question he had just posed to a shifty-looking group of Westerners at the small border town: ‘Why do you want to go to North Korea?’ That it might be ‘interesting’ as a first answer did not satisfy him. Border security has been tightened in recent years by China, fearful of what the consequences might be if the DPRK regime falls hard, not only because floods of refugees might head further north and to the west but also because the social unrest might also spread, infect and unsettle a carefully managed transition to capitalism guided by Xi Jinping. At the end of the 1990s after severe famine in the DPRK, what is described by the regime as ‘The Arduous March’, there had been some incursions into Chinese border towns across the Tumen river to the north; some desperate DPRK soldiers had come across, held up households and taken stuff back across the border. China does not want this to be a sign of things to come.

You can only get into the DPRK as part of a carefully-managed tightly-controlled group in which you will be accompanied by two guides and a driver. Even on ‘individual’ tours, you will be visiting as one of a gang of four. Our group had been briefed in Beijing on what not to do. Don’t take photos of the military, and don’t take photos of any construction sites because those are administered and staffed by the military. Take pictures of the beautiful scenery, but don’t take pictures of the little people, particularly of those pushing heavy loads on their bicycles or those working on the roads, for such images could be used as propaganda against the country. Don’t refer to ‘North Korea’, that is disrespectful because the DPRK views itself as a regime in the north attempting to make links with the south, and that means that you should not wear the T-shirt you’ve just bought for which the tour company made the mistake of showing an image only of the north of the country, it should have depicted the whole of the peninsula. Take photos of your itinerary because that might be confiscated at customs because the print-out lists key national monuments as if they are tourist sites when, of course, they are no such thing.

Members of the group had already signed a declaration to this effect on signing up, and also agreed not to publish images taken or any written account of their visit before it was vetted and approved. On another parallel tour the same month a hapless Western tourist joined a Chinese group only to be whisked around the Pyongyang monuments on a bus that refused to stop to allow the visitors to get off and have a look around. He complained and showed the tour itinerary on his phone to the local guide who snatched the phone away and started checking through it. When the group got to their hotel that evening, the lone Westerner was asked by the receptionist to go to a room up the corridor where three men in black suits were waiting for him; they questioned him about why he was there and what his problem was. The interrogation ended with him signing a declaration that he would not speak or write about what had happened to him and then he was invited to fill out a customer satisfaction questionnaire – when he put the wrong answer a new sheet was put in front of him until he marked ‘good, very satisfied’ on all the items. Then he was free to go.

We were told not to ask local people, including the local guides, what they thought would happen when Respected Marshal Kim Jong-un, the current leader, died because that would confuse and upset them, and, of course, we should refer to the leaders of the three generations – Kim Jong-un, Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung – with respect; not, for example, ever to refer to ‘fat Kimmy’. The main guide in Pyongyang told us that this was a chance for us to put aside our preconceptions and really see how things were in the DPRK, told that ‘seeing is believing, right’. No, dead wrong. The DPRK is a perfect working example of how ideological systems of rule wherever they are, in the capitalist or so-called socialist world, cannot be so easily dispelled by simply seeing things as they really are; to ‘see’ here in the DPRK, particularly as a tourist, is to see what is staged. This tourism is no mere façade. Tourism and foreign investment are priorities for the regime, with more resources poured into impression-management than school-education or distribution of vaccines. The service sector now runs at a third of GDP after mining and just above agriculture and fisheries. Most foriegn trade, over ninety percent, is with China – minerals and some armaments out, and fuel and food in. I spoke to an INGO aid worker back in Beijing who viewed tourists as unwitting voyeuristic parasites colluding with the regime’s agenda and effectively obscuring what is really going on. You need some political-historical theoretical grasp of the reality that is being presented to you in order to go beneath the surface, and to go beyond the liberal platitudes served up in smiley crinkly-eyed benevolent BBC travel programmes, Michael Palin’s recent tour east being a case in point.

The visitor circuit around Pyongyang and down to the Demilitarized Military Zone (DMZ) at the border with the Republic of Korea to the south was tightly-orchestrated, a closed circuit, from the main hotel for foreigners, a forty-three story total institution with restaurants, pool, bowling and barbers, down to the restaurants populated only by other tour groups. One of our group bought a new hat with a red star on the front at the DMZ and lost his old cap somewhere along the way, perhaps at lunch. The following morning our second local guide, the minder, turned up on the bus wearing the old cap, and handed it over – it had been retrieved by another tour group from the restaurant where we had eaten lunch, its owner identified and returned to our group guides.

On another occasion, second example of the closed circuit, one of our group had done a runner. Don’t wander off, we had been told back in Beijing, only move around as a group, and if you do wander off it won’t be you who gets into trouble but your guides. This guy had already made a break for it on the first evening from our hotel in Hoeryong but had turned back after finding there was nothing to see down the dark road leading off into the unknown, turned back to find the guides looking less angry than very relieved. Anyway, on his second outing during the day-time near a monument we were visiting our intrepid explorer had wandered into a park, encountered some locals, and made it back again before anyone noticed. As if. At our next stop barely an hour later he was stopped by our guides, and his camera examined. He had been spotted, someone had informed the authorities, and he was quickly tracked. It was clear that if we had got away we would not have got far. One of our guides, an older KWP member with some clout among the locals, accompanied a couple from our group back to our hotel by taxi, but only after ten cars had refused to stop on the street and after protracted negotiation at another hotel. Taxi-drivers were unwilling to take foreigners on board.

And if we had got out, how would we have talked with the locals, about what, practised choice Korean phrases we had rehearsed together on the bus, which included the rather useless ‘Saranghamnida’ (‘I love you’), or what? We did talk to some school-kids, staged encounters in classrooms, but these were rather limited and closely monitored. Schools and educational extra-curricular institutions were a key selling point on the tour; as one of the Kum Song Youth Publishing House puts in the title of one of its pamphlets, Child is King of the Country. We were told that illiteracy does not exist, which might be true. I asked one boy about twelve years old what he had for lunch and he thoughtfully rolled out a list of dishes, all of the food items he knew the English names for. In another school, four school-girls fourteen years old asked me how popular the British Broadcasting Corporation was. They had been told, and this phrase was repeated to us at least twice by our main guide in another part of the country outside Pyongyang, that the Korean people should ‘keep their feet firmly planted on the ground and look over the wall’. They did look over the wall, but what they saw was also filtered in a particular way, corresponded with a DPRK-centred view of the world; a common misconception inside the DPRK is that most people around the world speak Korean.

A guide, an older and more trusted working-class KWP member, a more trusted minder than the younger middle-class main guide, told me that he liked Russian films and some English films; the three English films he named were Bend it like Beckham, Titanic and Love Story. Our main guide later said he was surprised that The Lion King was not in this top three. The KWP guy told me that there was a nice river cruise in Pyongyang, but he had never been on it. At one point he said he had never been outside the DPRK, though he told someone else that he had been to China fifteen times the previous year. When they were on their own, away from the main group as we walked around a monument or wandered around the country-side and were encouraged to take photos of the beautiful scenery, and when they were drawn into more detailed conversation about their lives, guides looked over their shoulders as they spoke, literally looked around and over their shoulders. There was a double-problem for those of us keen to search out the contradictions, peer through the cracks, try to look behind the scenes. One aspect of this double-problem was the deliberate staging of what we would see as foreground and at the edges, and the other aspect was the insidious layering of deception on self-deception, protection of the image of the DPRK and self-protection of those who might be punished for leaking something else between the lines. We kept in mind two warnings, and you should too.

Deception

The first warning is in the Russian documentary about the DPRK available on Netflix called Under the Sun. It is, yes, a rather hypocritical exposé from the vantage point of the Putin regime that itself relies on a muddling of truth and lies to cover over its full-blown embrace of the free-market, but anyway what we see in the documentary is a chilling staging of ‘everyday life’. It transpires that the father does not actually work in the factory he is shown in, and neither does the mother work with the bemused colleagues she is shown chatting and joking with. The cheap trick the Russian crew pull as they film these encounters is to keep swapping the memory cards in their recording equipment and to keep the cameras rolling between and after scenes. So, we see father giving wise guidance to his workers referring to grading of textiles, and then him being instructed by the minders to specify the cloth weight in more detail. They tell him how. The scene is re-shot. We see mother being given an award for hard work, and then, between takes, her colleagues being told to laugh more, with more enthusiasm. We see the family having dinner, and the father telling his daughter that she is at a good school, and then, as the camera keeps recording, the minder coming into shot to tell him to say it again, but to say it is a great school. When the parents tuck the daughter up at night it is not in her own bed, but one readied for her by the DPRK production team. Seeing is not believing, and it is not even clear what they themselves believe.

The second warning is to be found in the South Korean Suki Kim’s 2014 account of working in a Christian college on the outskirts of Pyongyang Without You There Is No Us: My Time with the Sons of North Korea’s Elite. Suki Kim gets into the college by posing as a teacher, and the college itself keeps going in the DPRK by promising not to evangelise to the students, the crème de la crème of Pyongyang high society being groomed for leadership roles in the regime. This itself is profoundly paradoxical, for Christianity as such is a no-no in the DPRK, the religion practically wiped out after the regime was instituted back in 1948. Pyongyang had actually been a cultural centre for Christianity in Asia, known in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as the ‘Jerusalem of the East’. The regime now hedges round this history and its legacy in claims that Christians do participate in one of the two minor political parties, the Korean Social Democratic Party, and tourists are sometimes even taken to a church to prove how open and tolerant things are. The other minor party, the long-standing Chondoist Chongu Party which brings together followers of Confucian and Shamanist Chondoism, had at one time during peasant uprisings in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries more members than the Communist Party and was an important base for resistance to the Japanese occupation. These two minor parties now participate in the Democratic Front for the Reunification of the Fatherland led by the KWP. Other parties did also once contest elections, including one party which represented Buddhists, but these were already hollow shells.

We visited a Buddhist Temple in mountains in the north-east of the country and a couple of monks wandered around. It was here that we first saw evidence of the increase in internal tourism – mainly wealthy Pyongyangites come to see their country cousins – and they dressed up in the Buddhist regalia to have their photos taken. At another site a guide had apparently made the mistake of greeting one of the ‘monks’ as ‘comrade’, an embarrassing slip which threatened to blow the gaff, to reveal to the tourists that these orange-robed guys are actually dressed up for the part, part of the regime, not Buddhists at all.

Back to Suki Kim’s account of teaching the elite, one in which she becomes increasingly demoralised as it becomes clear that she cannot believe one word the boys say, whether that is what they think about the regime or what they did that morning. She can see with her own eyes that they were out on one side of the campus when they tell her they have been somewhere else. In some cases it might be that they simply do not know what the right answer is and are filling in the blanks for a curious foreigner asking awkward questions. There were some awkward moments also for us in the same vein.

We visited a museum in the north-east of the country devoted to Mother Kim Jong-suk, Kim Il-sung’s wife, mother of next in line for the leadership, the rather more seedy-looking dark-spectacled Kim Jong-il. We were told by the local guide that Kim Jong-suk gave birth to Kim Jong-il in 1942, and the common story here is that Kim Jong-il was born in Mount Paektu, the ur-site of the Korean nation celebrated interminably in the popular song ‘We’ll go to Mount Peaktu’ – the refrain came up from the streets in the middle of the night, to encourage the workers working on the bridge, we were told, and recurred in every school-child performance, including by the three year old creepy automatons being trained for later work on dance and Karoake shows for tourists in the restaurants. Kim Jong-il was actually born in the Soviet Union, which makes more sense since this is where Kim Il-sung was then regrouping the liberation forces before 1948. We were then told that Kim Jong-suk died in 1949, a year after the liberation and formation of the DPRK, and we noticed that this was incredibly young, age 32. Awkward question for the guide; I asked ‘how did she die?’ and was told, after some blushing and shuffling of feet, that this was ‘unknown’. Another guide later answered the question by saying she died as a result of complications in the birth of Kim Jong-il, but then this would mean she took seven years to die. Look, the issue here is not only the lies as such, not what is concealed, but the very process of concealment. All of the paintings of Kim Jong-suk in the museum showed her smiling, none of the photos showed her so. We could not be sure in what sense the first encounter between Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-suk was, as was claimed, love at first sight.

None of the guides knew whether Kim Jong-un, Kim Jong-il’s fourth child by one of his lovers, was married or not (he is, to Ri Sol-ju) nor whether he had any children (he has at least one, Kim Ju-ae, and perhaps two others, though it is not clear if these were by his wife). Not a whisper about the wives chosen for Kim Jong-il by Supreme Leader Kim Il-sung, let alone the lovers, and not a hint, of course, about Kim Jong-il’s first-born Kim Jong-nam who was heir-apparent until he made a botched attempt to visit Disneyland in Japan in 2001 and met his maker in Kuala Lumpur International Airport sixteen years later. You won’t find this information online in the DPRK because in place of the internet there is a closed-circuit ‘intranet’, the Kwangmyong. We were shown students busy on computers in Schoolchildren’s Palaces and Houses of Study, but they were either working on the smart-art paint-shop software or watching online study programmes. In some cases the kids arrived in the room after us to take their places in front of the screens, and we had to persuade ourselves that they had always already been making use of the generous electronic resources. We were shown foreign-language books available for study, which included Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and the Diary of Anne Frank. Who chose those to show us, and who were they hoping to impress?

For the elite things are a little different, perhaps a little closer to what we were being shown, but perhaps actually very different from what we were being shown. Linkedin recently published data showing that that social media platform is still the medium of choice for wealthy North Koreans, even though they are migrating from Facebook to Chinese sites like Weibo and Alibaba. Although there is no internet access for the ordinary folk and the poor tourists, and no international phone link outside Pyongyang, there are four different kinds of mobile phone SIM card, one of which will give complete international access to data. That is not for the little people.

This is the kind of thing that was maddening for Suki Kim in the Christian college. She does not know who or what to believe by the end of her time there. Or perhaps we should not believe what Suki Kim says, and mark her account down as imperialist propaganda. Maybe she is the one telling the lies. You cannot believe what you see or hear, whoever it is who is showing or telling you. Welcome to the DPRK.

Repression

1948 was a military victory, the DPRK could have been born in no other circumstances at that time, at that place, and the military are at the core of the regime. Questions to the local guides and minders about compulsory military service were also awkward, opening out onto awkward silences and a refusal or inability to answer the direct question about how long it was. Eventually, we were told that that was a ‘secret’. Later I said that I had heard that it was nine years, and another guide told me that some friends had served two and some had served seven years. A younger guide who was not, it seems, yet a KWP member because he had not done his military service had escaped it because, he said, if you were a ‘genius’ you were excused; if you had learnt Chinese or English that would be useful for tourism work – a significant choice of example – it would be a shame, he said, if that knowledge was then lost or time wasted.

Go to work and get married. We were told that divorce was rare, and difficult, though not so, it seems, for the Kim dynasty. On one occasion, a figure of 0.5 percent was cited for divorce in the DPRK, and this was contrasted with the south where it was, we were told, 50 percent. One guide had a friend whose wife had gone back to live with her mother five years ago, but she had not been able to divorce her husband. The husband had apparently been controlling rather than directly violent. We were told that Korean men are ‘intense’ and want to be in charge in the home. There are no domestic violence services or refuges. The DPRK authorities claim that the number of rape-convictions per year is in single-figures, so no problem there. This goes against recent Human Rights Watch research which documents widespread sexual abuse by officials alongside general repression. A foreign aid worker with nearly ten years experience inside the DPRK told me that military service was hell, and this is aside from the network of camps for those who have fallen out of line. The notorious camp in Hoeryong in the north-east has reportedly been closed, but there are others scattered around the country in rural areas. We saw prisoners wearing striped clothing working on the railroad supervised by guards, but then that is not such a big deal if prisoners have been put to work after a fair trial.

There are no lawyers, questions about legal training were met with incomprehension. You do not need lawyers to complicate the process when you have an efficient justice system. There are no lesbians or gay men in the DPRK, they simply do not exist, they are a Western phenomenon, and so it is unnecessary to have laws against them. I asked about mental health provision. The good news is that there no mental hospitals or even old asylums. The bad news is that when I asked what happened to people with such problems, my question was met with another question, ‘prison?’ In all my time in the DPRK travelling through thousands of kilometres of road in the countryside and in cities and walking the streets, I saw only two wheelchair users, elderly men who could both have been honoured war veterans, and no disabled people or with Down syndrome. Difference is erased, invisible at least from public space. An INGO worker told me that services for the elderly are almost non-existent, even if the official retirement age is 60.

There are different internal passports. The right passport will get you quickly waved through the numerous checkpoints in the countryside or through police checks in Pyongyang, the wrong one will see you held up, repeatedly held up. One passport, for Chinese-Koreans, is quite useful now because that not only marks you as a registered minority – this in spite of claims that Koreans constitute a homogeneous pure nation – but as a minority with access to trade networks. Chinese-Koreans, along with the elite – I was shown photos of sleek DPRK citizens in Beijing restaurants – travel abroad, surf backwards and forwards across the border. Russian as a second-language in schools has now been replaced by Chinese and English. Another passport, for Japanese-Koreans, is more problematic. Those who were lured to the DPRK with the promise of a better life, and as themselves following through on critical reception of Japanese propaganda, understandable reaction to the blatant lies told against the DPRK in Japan, were useful for a while, but now they are suspect, tracked, many regretting the move, displaced and marginalised.

Socialism

In one of the middle schools a group of school-girls, running out of questions, asked me what my favourite colour was. I said ‘red’. ‘Why?’, they asked. ‘Because I am a communist’, I said. Blank looks, nothing. It was in their living memory, surely, that there were statues of Marx and Lenin in Pyongyang, but those monuments were ‘temporarily’ removed for refurbishment in 2012 and never replaced. The word ‘socialism’ still appears in the constitution of the DPRK and in the little books of Kim Jong-un’s aphorisms as well, of course, in the writings of Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung, texts that cannot be so quickly and easily erased, but Marxism itself has been explicitly replaced, transcended by Kim Il-sung’s own guiding philosophy, one signalled in many of the slogans on the public buildings and on the roadsides as ‘Juche’. The tallest stone tower in Pyongyang is the Juche Idea Tower, topped with a glowing red ersatz flame, but if you ask what exactly Juche is you won’t get any further than a statement that it means ‘self-reliance’, and if you trawl through the books about Juche on sale in the souvenir shops you are led in circles around the same kind of claim. While Marxism is concerned with the ‘material’, a guide told me when I pressed, Juche is concerned with thought. ‘So, it is idealist’, I said, and she agreed, yes, of course, it is idealist, and so it is.

Juche means that we can do anything if we are self-reliant. This is socialism in one country gone mad. We are not subject to the ‘material’, but can alter it, and it is ‘man’ who will carve out a destiny for himself, making the world, the natural and social world, serve man better. The little pamphlet Juche Idea: Answers to Hundred Questions published by the Foreign Languages Publishing House and dated the year Juche 101 (that is 2012 Western calendar, that is, 101 years after the birth of Kim Il-sung) tells us that ‘man is the master of everything’. But there is a twist. If you think of society as being like a giant organism, the pamphlet continues, and this is no mere ‘as if’ metaphor being evoked here for we are directly told that homogeneous Korean society is an organism, then there must be a ‘brain’ guiding it. That brain is the leadership, a ‘top brain’ as the pamphlet puts it. Everything is explicitly hierarchical, top-down.

Some of the stranger formulations by the guides on the coach in the north-east now began to make more sense. They would tell us, for example, that Kim Jong-il ‘read the mind of the people’, discovered what they wanted, and then directed them to build a road, and so they did, or that Kim Jong-un ‘read the mind of the people’ and, in line with that, advised them to build a new monument to Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung. It is not clear whether the guide really believed this as he said it, and there were moments when he looked a little embarrassed telling us, telling us while the other guide, his minder, a KWP member, watched him. Alongside Juche runs the repetitive ridiculous evocation of Mount Paektu as mythical point of origin, part of the same nationalist ideological package.

You can get into the DPRK as a Christian, as Suki Kim’s college outfit clearly shows, and they are probably playing a long game, but you have to keep shtum about it. You declare what cameras and phones you have at the border as well as what foreign publications you have on you, and you are specifically asked if you are carrying any Holy Bibles. We were told by one foreign guide – and even the foreign guides are accompanied by local guides, remember – that a Christian tour group recently visited, declared their Holy Bibles at customs, had them signed in and then signed the same number out. The local guides were apparently bemused by this, commented that it was downright strange that there was all this singing on the coach about baby Jesus; ‘Well’, our foreign guide telling us this story, commented, ‘I wanted to say, what does that mindless adulation remind you of?’

Juche looks at first sight like a quasi-spiritual belief system, and then it would be tempting to treat the DPRK population as bewitched followers of some kind of cult, attributing their leaders with supernatural powers. That seemed to be the Michael Palin line as he gently pushed his interviewees to admit to some possible faults in their leaders or shortcomings of the system, things that could be fixed, perhaps with a little dose of democratic freedom. Actually, the ‘Juche Idea’ texts and the garbled repetition of key phrases by the embarrassed guides would rather indicate that it is the kind of belief system that works because everyone is assuming that everyone else plays along with it; no more than that, but no less powerful for that.

Transition

What the turn to Juche as a full-blown alternative to Marxism does indicate, among other things, is that full-blown transition to capitalism is on the way. The leadership are preparing for this, and, whether they read the minds of the people or not, there are plenty lower down the food chain who are itching for it, even already carving out a space for it. One of the guides discovered that one of our tour group was involved in company research and asked for contacts for foreign investment options to help build a local tourism and hotel business. The same guide also made a proposal of marriage to another member of the group, noting that he very much liked the country she came from, and so he was clearly keeping his options open.

This guy was pretty symptomatic of the rising entrepreneurial middle class. He described his father as a ‘businessman’, and was puzzled when I was puzzled that there could be such things in a socialist economy. He told me his dad ran an ‘import-export’ business. For people like this, I was told, membership of the KWP is actually viewed nowadays as rather a hindrance. The good moral standing of KWP members and the moral surveillance and regulation of their lives that goes with it, inhibit the construction of more opportunist networks of money and power, networks that tie the two things together. These two elements of DPRK life are intimately intertwined. Without money in the DPRK there is no power, and without power there is no money. In the DPRK now that is Chinese money, the currency of choice for most business being the RMB rather than the North Korean Won.

Many of the little kiosks along the side of the road and at the base of apartment blocks operating as little corner shops were private enterprises, loosened from state control by oiling their way to greater entrepreneurial freedom of manoeuvre by giving kickbacks to those immediately above them in the chain of command. We were told not to take photos of the large supermarket where middle-class Pyongangites were doing their weekly shop, and there was clearly bulk buying going on, loaded trolleys of goods that would then be taken to other smaller outlets and sold at a profit. There were well-stocked shops in Pyongyang selling a range of consumer goods – in the department store there was a furniture range called ‘IKEA’ – enterprises that the regime would prefer not be widely advertised outside the country; no photos of that please, we are socialist. I took a photo of a little shop selling kitsch fluffy toys in the ground floor of a large block on the way up to a restaurant and the shop-worker raced out and forced me to delete the photo. The shop was a franchise of a Japanese store chain operating illegally.

The existence of private enterprises of any kind was denied when I asked another guide, a KWP member, about them. ‘No’, she said, there is no private enterprise; these apparently private firms are all, finally, part of the state. And there is some truth in this. There is a loosening of the internal economic gear system, a preparation for fuller more explicit privatisation of enterprises, but as yet the decisive shift has not been made. This, while Kim Jong-un makes it clear that the DPRK would like to join the World Trade Organisation, and will abide by its rules, rules which we well know will entail privatisation of state organs of production and distribution along with education and welfare services. The question is not whether it will happen but when, how it will happen and how that process will be embraced or resisted by the masses of people who will lose so much when they might think that they are simply gaining more freedom.

Reunification

For all this, for all of the restricted access to the showcase educational facilities which are geared to gifted children, for all of the limitations on consumer choice, this is a political-economic system that has kept going as a space snatched away from the capitalist global economy, maintaining itself longer than did the Chinese regime as a socialised property regime, if not actually socialist, if but a bureacratised parody of what socialism should and could be. It is the longest-lasting non-capitalist space on the planet, and the key question is, when the regime falls, whether it will be to a more genuinely socialist democratic self-consciously organised Korean working class that looks outwards to make international links, or whether it will it fall inward, collapse Ceaușescu-style into a desperate competitive and nationalist grasping for goods, a grotesque parody of capitalism.

The bizarre fantasy peddled by the DPRK leadership is that rapprochement of some kind with the south will make it possible for there to be, as they repeatedly put it, ‘one nation, two systems’; capitalism in the south of the 38th parallel, though this is never actually named as such, as capitalism, and socialism in the north, socialism under erasure and already replaced with a self-reliant Juche regime still governed by whoever is the designated ‘top brain’. Kim Jong-un, educated in Switzerland and fond of Gruyere cheese, is probably putting his bets on a transition to soft symbolic rule in which there is a shift of balance between power and money, from brute power as such to money as a medium by which one can buy a freer life for oneself and one’s kids.

At the ‘mass games’ in the 115,000-capacity Rungrado 1st of May Stadium in October 2018, a proud acrobatic and musical display of DPRK history that commemorated 70 years of the regime, one that involved 17,000 Middle-School kids behind the display screens and 100,000 performers, there was a symbolically significant moment towards the end, a culmination point. A giant video image was screened across the side of the stadium showing Respected Marshal Kim Jong-un stepping over the DMZ line that divides north and south to shake hands with President Moon Jae-in of the Republic of Korea (ROK). What was curious about this crucial element of the display was not that there was applause, but that it was not more enthusiastic, not the ecstatic embrace of reunification that the official narrative would have it. It is quite possible that the toll of the years of separation and the cynicism of a people subjected to quasi-military discipline and surveillance is too heavy now for it to be so easily remedied. There is, I was told by one INGO aid worker, widespread resentment at the elite as well as widespread depression and stress. His bet was that if people had a chance they would string up the ruling family and care nothing about links with their compatriots south of the DMZ line.

This would be a betrayal of the history of struggle that gave birth to the DPRK and to the ROK. Indeed, the achievements of the Korean people in the north have already been betrayed. As Suzy Kim underlines in her 2013 study Everyday Life in the North Korean Revolution, 1945-1950, the people’s committees across the peninsula functioned until quite late on in the revolutionary process as self-governing organs of popular rule. These committees functioned at a local level and mobilised the mass of the population in political-educational projects as well as operating as distribution centres under democratic control with active involvement of women on an equal basis with men. The incorporation of the people’s committees into the DPRK state apparatus was much smoother than in the south were they were forcibly dismantled and many of the key activists imprisoned. This, Kim argues, helps explain how the DPRK regime gained much more popular legitimacy than the Syngman Rhee dictatorship.

For all of the problems in the north – democratic deficit being the least of it – it must be set in the context of the ROK to the south which has lurched from military regime to military regime interrupted by the April 1960 student uprising, mass protests in 1970 and the Gwangju massacre in May 1980. The war against the Japanese and then the US – the Korean War of 1950-1953 – were national liberation struggles which involved the overthrow of capitalism and consolidation against all odds of an infrastructure that could now be collectively seized by the people in what will undoubtedly be a dramatic transformation, perhaps, we hope, entailing what Trotskyists have traditionally referred to as ‘political revolution’ against the bureaucracy.

It is the history of popular protest and democratic self-organisation that links the people of the north of the Korean peninsula, with those in the south. Those in the south, temporarily perhaps, now have more room for manoeuvre than their comrades north of the DMZ line. The real revolutionary dynamic for reunification and the building of a genuinely socialist Korea is more likely to come from the south than from the north. Then the top-down Juche system and the ideological veneration of Mount Paektu will need to be swept away in a return to something much closer to the Marxism that underpinned those progressive independence movements in the first half of the twentieth century. A leap into the past will be necessary to really make possible a leap into the future.

Gary Rabectusan

 

This is one of the Socialisms series of FIIMG articles

 

 

CLR James film feast

The film Every Cook Can Govern: The Life, Impact and Works of C.L.R. James was released in April last year, and has been doing the rounds in meetings organised by different front organisations of the Spiked-online network, an ex-Trotskyist group led by the sociologist Frank Furedi and ubiquitous media pundit Claire Fox. It turned up in Manchester at the beginning of September at an event hosted by the Salon, and leaflets for the audience from ‘Worldbytes’ and ‘Citizen TV’ included the usual tell-tale Spiked lines on things like ‘economic growth and serious development for all’. No mention of socialism here, but the film itself is actually quite fantastic. The audience at the Manchester showing consisted, on my rough count, of members of at least six different activist groups. We were stunned at the unfolding story of CLR James, the revolutionary Marxist from Trinidad who joined the Trotskyist movement in the early 1930s and died in Brixton south London as an unrepentant activist in 1989.

The film traces a narrative arc from James’ love of cricket in Trinidad to his time in London and then, crucially, his experience of working class militancy in the Lancashire mill-town of Nelson. James lodged with the cricketer Learie Constantine and became active in the Independent Labour Party as a Trotskyist. We learn how it was the practice of class struggle and solidarity in the community that led James to revolutionary and so then to Trotskyist politics, and we are then taken through his experience of becoming a member of the Fourth International, which was formed in 1938, and then writing his classic text Black Jacobins and his play about the Haitian slave rebel Toussaint L’Ouverture which starred Paul Robeson in the leading role. The struggle against the US American and European ruling class and against Stalinism through the Second World War eventually leads us back to cricket as site of class struggle in James’ book Beyond a Boundary. We are then taken through interviews with his nephew Darcus Howe and interventions by Selma James, his partner and founder of the Wages for Housework campaign, to the end of his life.

The film doesn’t pull its punches, clearly locating James as a Marxist and revolutionary humanist in the best tradition of the Western Enlightenment, and it succeeds in opening up questions for activists today about our history and the place of colonialism and imperialism in contemporary capitalism. There is not time in just over two hours of a film that includes much unseen footage of James to cover all the aspects of his life.

There are two aspects that could have been stretched a little further. One is James’ continuing relationship with the Fourth International after the 1930s. The film notes that he visited Trotsky in 1939 and was still a revolutionary when he was deported from the US in 1953. What is not made clear is that James was part of an intense struggle inside the Fourth International as half of the ‘Johnson-Forest Tendency’ (James was Johnson and the Hegelian Marxist humanist Raya Dunayevskaya was Forest) which anticipated some early debates about the nature of the Soviet Union as ‘state capitalist’ and provided a platform for James’ argument that revolutionaries should support autonomous black self-organisation. He did not leave the Fourth International until 1949, and the FI can be proud to claim him as part of its history, a history of black struggle from which it has learnt much in recent years.

The other aspect concerns the way that James articulated the question of autonomous black struggle with standpoint and ‘identity’. It is clear that resistance to racism is necessarily bound up with the assertion of the common identity of the oppressed (as, for that matter, is working class struggle against capitalism). It is this concern with identity politics that the complex network of organisations around Spiked has spent so much time rubbishing in recent years, part and parcel of its hostility to the ‘nanny state’. It is intriguing and puzzling that James would be subject of a film documentary made by this group.

There are, it should be said, some very traditional and problematic aspects of the documentary format that the film follows. So, we have mainly young black women interviewing mainly white men who tell us how to understand James as a historical figure. Spiked community stalwarts like James Heartfield and Alan Hudson are dominant voices. There is a bizarre scene shot near Nelson where Alan Hudson and the young women are arrayed along one side of a picnic table. The jars of olives and other foodstuffs are turned so that the brand labels are hidden, while Hudson as the main figure in this last supper scenario is speaking into a microphone with a large Worldbytes sign stuck on it. Nevertheless, for all that, for all of the constraints of the format (and perhaps of the background guidance by Spiked in the writing, editing and format of the film), both Heartfield and Hudson speak as Marxists about a Marxist. This is a marvellous film, and you don’t have to be a supporter of ‘Citizen TV’ to love it.

 

You can also read this article and comment on it here

 

 

 

Alliance for Workers’ Liberty

A Canterbury Tale, a Powell and Pressburger classic from 1944, stars Eric Portman as Thomas Colpeper, a magistrate and gentleman farmer who gives improving cultural lectures to the community, but who is then revealed to be the ‘glue man’. This is the glue man who has been pouring sticky stuff into the hair of girls too friendly with the American GIs stationed in the fictitious little town of Chillingbourne near Canterbury in Kent. Colpeper’s rationale for doing this, he says when he is uncovered, is that this will frighten the girls away from fraternising with the outsiders and so glue together the community. In this film Colpeper is, in some sense, the obscene underside of the law, the smear on the community necessary to hold the good moral law in place. In spite of itself, the film reveals something of the dirty often secret violence that holds a clean wholesome community in place, a united community that in this film is configured as a very English ethnic community. It is Bob, an American army sergeant who gets off the train to Canterbury at Chillingbourne by mistake, who links up with Land Girl Alison (played by Sheila Sim) to track down the glue man after she is attacked on the first night.

A Canterbury Tale has become a cult favourite among a small group of devotees who visit Canterbury every year and declaim from the script, visiting Canterbury Cathedral at the end of their visit. They are then able to re-enact the final scene in the Cathedral where the British Army Sergeant Peter (played by Dennis Price) plays the organ after deciding not to report Colpeper to the police. Bob has discovered that letters have indeed arrived to his sweetheart, and Alison has discovered that her boyfriend has not been killed in the war as she feared. Just Chaucer’s pilgrims travelled to Canterbury, Colpeper says, ‘to receive blessing, or to do penance’, so Colpeper and his English community are blessed after having been glued together; the implication being that these desperate measures of deception were necessary after all, and the good that came from them will bear fruit.

The Alliance for Workers’ Liberty (AWL) popped into the headlines in 2016 as the mainstream press tried to track down evil Trotskyists who were infiltrating the Labour Party, but their supposed crime of supporting Jeremy Corbyn and taking the Labour Party further to the left is nothing to some of the strange alliances they have made since they were formed. In fact, while they were busy circulating petitions against a ‘witchhunt’ in 2016, they were keen to reassure their hosts that they are very loyal to the party, taking the opportunity to draw a contrast between their own fealty to the party apparatus and the dastardly operations of nasty ‘entrists’ who are not really concerned with unity at all. The AWL appear to operate as poachers turned gamekeepers, but things are more complicated than that; they are, at one moment, poachers who are willing to pretend to be with the gamekeepers, and, at the next, gamekeepers for the unity of a community who will do a little poaching on the side to glue things together.

The mastermind behind the AWL’s twists and turns as they burrow into organisations and then emerge triumphant with a handful of new members out the other side is Sean Matgamna who founded Workers’ Fight in 1967 after a brief faction fight inside the Revolutionary Socialist League (RSL), forerunners of the Militant Tendency and today’s Socialist Party (SP). He then took the group into Tony Cliff’s International Socialists (IS), forerunners of today’s Socialist Workers Party, after IS made a unity call in 1968 and invited different organisations on the revolutionary left to come together under one umbrella (theirs). The story that went the rounds is that IS had their eyes on the International Marxist Group, a fairly important organisation at the time which counted Tariq Ali as a prominent member, but instead of Tariq Ali they got Sean Matgamna. IS paid dearly for their mistake, and Matgamna’s Trotskyist Tendency was expelled from Cliff’s group in 1971, and buoyed up with new members scooped out during the adventure.

Unity was now the name of the game for Matgamna, but unity with a twist, which was that each and every other Trotskyist group that made the mistake of responding to the siren calls of his group in good faith got badly bruised. Unity, it seems, could only be brought about by a healthy dose of internal strife. It set a pattern for a peculiar ‘inoculation’ model of entrism in which Matgamna’s comrades join as very loyal members of the organisation they have targeted but then ally with part of the apparatus to attack enemies and so emerge as the winners at the end of the process. Workers Power made the mistake of fusing with Workers’ Fight to form the International Communist League (ICL) in 1975, for example, but things ended badly in less than a year. Matgamna shut down the ICL and its paper Workers Action in 1978 and launched Socialist Organiser, which styled itself as ‘the paper of the Socialist Campaign for a Labour Victory’. Now inside the Labour Party, they managed to persuade Alan Thornett’s Workers Socialist League (formed after the expulsion of Thornett and other comrades from the Workers Revolutionary Party in 1974) to agree to merge with them in 1981 and close down their own paper Socialist Press. It was another bad mistake, and the joint organisation lasted less than a year.

One of the crunch points in the faction fight that spat out the Thornett group again was the 1982 Falklands War and a response by Matgamna to the conflict which has been part of a pattern of adaptation to ethnic unity and notions of ‘community’ before the war and since. Before the Falklands War, Matgamna had already argued inside IS and after his expulsion, and against the anti-imperialist and Irish republication position of most of the British revolutionary left, that the Protestants of Ulster should be seen as a beleaguered community under threat with the right to self-determination. It was an argument that was in tune with some of his old comrades in the RSL back in the mid-sixties (and there are traces of that in the Militant and SP positions on Ireland). True to form, Matgamna argued that the Malvinas were not Argentina’s, but that the plucky Falklands Islanders did, just as Margaret Thatcher always claimed, have the right to self-determination.

The split with the Thornett group left Matgamna in charge to go on to found Alliance for Workers’ Liberty in 1992 after Socialist Organiser had been banned by the Labour Party two years earlier, and the AWL has been proving itself loyal to its host organisation ever since, and loyal to the different nationalist and ethnically-defined communities it has allied with. This is as well as having its newspaper operate as an outlet for Matgamna’s poetry, improving cultural material that is clearly an embarrassment for the poor AWL members who have to sell the thing. Would that Eric Portman were alive today to play the part.

The adaptation to ethnic unity and community identity took another turn when the AWL followed through the logic of Matgamna’s 1986 declaration that a ‘two-state’ solution was the only way forward for Israel, and for the defence of Israel. The AWL went on to forge a strong working relationship with Zionists in the Union of Jewish Students (more fool them, don’t they know it will end in tears), leading them to argue that Israel is not an apartheid state, a position very convenient for its loyal membership of the historically pro-Zionist Labour Party. This is a position that has drawn the accusation that the AWL are ‘revolutionary imperialists’. This particular alliance with Zionism also, rather predictably, led the AWL to publish Islamophobic trash, glue in the hair; an alliance, for unity and community, against outsiders. The AWL line, a weird perversion of the internationalist tradition they were born from, seems to be that community identity is an underlying good, and that a measure of deception and dirty work for the enemy will eventually result in something blessed for all.

This is part of the FIIMG Mapping the British Left through Film project.

 

Trotsky: What was that?

Like most human beings, Leon Davidovich Bronstein was born and he died. He was born in 1879 in Ukraine, became active in left politics in Russia as a student and was imprisoned in 1905 for participating in protests and a failed uprising against the brutal Tsarist regime. It was a regime that was still feudal, barely developing capitalist economic relations that many Marxists at the time saw as being the necessary prerequisite for a transition to socialism. Leon, our hero, escaped from internal exile, taking the name of his jailor in Odessa to avoid capture, and that name is the one we know today as Trotsky.
One of the lessons of 1905 for Trotsky was that in place of a static ‘stage’ view of historical change, the globalisation of the world economy that had already been picking up pace at the time Marx was writing led to the possibility that protest could grow over from anti-feudal to anti-capitalist revolutionary politics. A ‘permanent revolution’ would therefore be one that was intrinsically internationalist, linking different kinds of struggles against exploitation and oppression. Actually, in practice, Trotsky himself as an individual was a little behind his own analysis. There was a gap. He had to shift rapidly during the 1917 October Revolution across Russia to join the Bolsheviks, something his enemies held against him afterwards. He then became one of the leaders of the Soviet Union, and of the Red Army which was combating invasion by fourteen capitalist countries keen to prevent this revolution from growing over into a genuinely ‘permanent’ and international one.
This is where another gap opens up between Trotsky as leader, now an inspiring strong personality able to lead the regime and its troops, and the revolutionary process itself. His role in the suppression of the rebellion by sailors in the fortress at Kronstadt near St Petersburg, then renamed Petrograd, made him complicit in the formation of the very bureaucracy he analysed so well. But personal failings do not invalidate the diagnosis he gave and his brave attempt to reassert what was most progressive and democratic about the revolution against Stalin’s ban on rival parties, internal factions and then on any dissent. Trotsky’s book ‘The Revolution Betrayed’ was the fruit of his own direct participation and reflection on the mistakes that had been made, and recognition that this crushing and distortion of the revolution was a function of its isolation. There could be no ‘socialism in one country’ as Stalin claimed while he massively increased his own power and that of the apparatus.
The Stalinist bureaucracy in the 1930s was determined to root out its internal enemies, and Trotsky was portrayed as the root of all evil, with claims that he was working with the fascists alongside a grotesque revival of Russian antisemitism used to target him and his followers. It is true, he was a revolutionary Jew who saw autonomous collective self-organisation of the oppressed as an energising force for authentic internationalism. He warned against the trap of closed nationalist politics, and against the disastrous mistake of Zionism which would itself settle Israel on the land of others. He worked as a journalist before the revolution – they are not all bad – and after that he became the conscience of the revolution, a reminder of what it should have been. That meant connecting political-economic protest with cultural rebellion, including on the position of women as an index of how progressive or reactionary a regime is. Trotsky’s activities and writings on culture span engagement with psychoanalysis – meeting with Wilhelm Reich in exile in Norway, for example – and surrealism, writing a manifesto for revolutionary art while in Mexico toward the end of his life, a manifesto that was published under the names of André Breton and Diego Rivera.
That broad contradictory open and inclusive practice of revolutionary politics is what characterises the best of Trotsky, and it provides the background for two further key innovations. We can link the two. The first was the recognition that there was a marginalisation of revolutionary groups with the rise of fascism and Stalinism and then of the Cold War, and a domination of left politics by large reformist social democratic parties or, in some places, by communist parties tied to the Soviet Union. In these new conditions, Trotsky argued for what has been called ‘entrism’; not the secretive manipulation of the larger party apparatus, but direct membership and participation in the mass movement organisations. This is one way of drawing those who thought voting would change the world into action themselves, to themselves become those who would change things.
The second innovation was voiced in the founding document of a new international organisation in 1938 the Fourth International, a document known as the ‘transitional programme’. For Trotsky, ‘transitional demands’ like a sliding scale of wages or for opening the books of the corporations were eminently reasonable and democratic calls that capitalism could not and would not agree to. It was ‘transitional’ because it brought those in struggle up against the limits of the regime, and it then became transitional in practice, growing over from a series of demands into a linked political challenge to capitalism itself. Again, what was crucial for Trotsky was that it would be through the collective self-activity of people themselves rather than through diktats by their leaders that any revolutionary change worth the name would happen. In this, Trotsky is close to the revolutionary democratic politics of Rosa Luxemburg who was killed in 1919 in Berlin on the orders of the social democrats after an uprising that would have broken the isolation of the Russian revolution.
All this is anathema to big dictators and those who want to be like them. Trotsky was murdered by an agent of Stalin in Mexico, the only country that would give him a visa, in 1940. His son had already been murdered in Paris. The agent plunged an ice-pick into Trotsky’s head. Those who use the term ‘Trotskyite’ as a term of abuse sometimes joke about ice-picks, and they focus on the personality of Trotsky himself, avoiding the theory and practice he helped to build. Those of us who call ourselves ‘Trotskyists’ admire his life struggle and try to learn from that, drawing a balance sheet which puts that life in context, and aiming to build a different context in which such a hardening of character and brutality of politics will no longer exist. He didn’t drink much, and by all accounts lunchtimes in exile before he died were not a bundle of laughs. There are no pictures of Trotsky with cats, something which makes him less immediately internet-friendly, but if you twist a Trotskyist’s arm they will sometimes admit that they did once name their cat ‘Rosa’ or ‘Leon’.
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