Cahiers d’Asie centrale

26 | 2016 1989, année de mobilisations politiques en Asie centrale 1989, a Year of Political Mobilisations in Central Asia

Ferrando Olivier (dir.)

Édition électronique URL : http://journals.openedition.org/asiecentrale/3218 ISSN : 2075-5325

Éditeur Éditions De Boccard

Édition imprimée Date de publication : 30 novembre 2016 ISBN : 978-2-84743-161-2 ISSN : 1270-9247

Référence électronique Ferrando Olivier (dir.), Cahiers d’Asie centrale, 26 | 2016, « 1989, année de mobilisations politiques en Asie centrale » [En ligne], mis en ligne le 01 novembre 2017, consulté le 08 mars 2020. URL : http:// journals.openedition.org/asiecentrale/3218

Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 8 mars 2020.

© Tous droits réservés 1

L’année 1989 symbolise, dans la mémoire collective, la fin du communisme en Europe, mais il faudra attendre plus de deux ans pour assister à la dissolution de l’Union soviétique et à l’accès des cinq républiques d’Asie centrale à leur indépendance. Pourtant, dès le début de l’année 1989, avant-même la chute du mur de Berlin, la région fut le siège de plusieurs signes avant-coureurs : le retrait de l’Armée Rouge en Afghanistan ; l’arrêt des essais nucléaires soviétiques au Kazakhstan ; l’apparition des premières tensions interethniques dans la vallée du Ferghana ; l’adoption par chaque république d’une loi sur la langue. Autant de moments qui montrent combien l’année 1989 a marqué l’histoire récente de l’Asie centrale. Ce nouveau numéro des Cahiers d’Asie centrale est donc consacré à l’étude des transformations sociales et politiques survenues au cours de l’année 1989 afin de comprendre à quel point cette année constitue un moment fondateur des mobilisations politiques en Asie centrale. Couvrant un large spectre disciplinaire (histoire, anthropologie, sociologie, science politique), ce numéro est composé de dix articles écrits à parité égale par des auteurs centrasiatiques et occidentaux, apportant ainsi à la fois des analyses objectives et des témoignages de terrain de chercheurs ayant vécu les événement présentés ici. Découpé en trois parties, l’ouvrage traite d’abord des nouvelles formes de culture et de discours politiques qui se sont développées en Asie centrale à la fin des années quatre- vingt à la faveur de la politique de reconstruction (perestroïka) et de transparence (glasnost) voulue par Mikhaïl Gorbatchev. Il explore ensuite les mobilisations politiques à l’œuvre en Asie centrale en 1989, en réponse au mécontentement social, économique et culturel de la population. Enfin, la dernière partie aborde le processus d’ethnicisation de l’action collective, en revenant sur trois exemples tragiques d’escalade violente des mobilisations politiques. In collective memory the year 1989 symbolises the end of communism in Europe. However, it was not until 1991 that the Soviet Union disappeared and the five Central Asian republics became independent states. Yet from early 1989, even before the fall of the Berlin Wall, several early warning events took place in the region: the defeat and withdrawal of the Red Army from Afghanistan; the cessation of Soviet nuclear testing in Kazakhstan; the outbreak of the first interethnic tensions in the Ferghana Valley; the adoption by each republic of a Law on Language. Many moments that show how the events of 1989 have marked the recent history of Central Asia. This new issue of Cahiers d’Asie centrale is dedicated to the study of the social and political transformations that took place in Central Asia in 1989, with the aim of understanding to what extent this year, which is so symbolic in world history, constitutes a founding moment of political mobilisation in Central Asia. Covering a wide disciplinary spectrum (history, anthropology, sociology, political science), this issue consists of ten articles written in equal numbers by Central Asian and Western scholars. It provides objective analyses as well as field testimonies of scholars who experienced - and, for some of them, took an active part in - the events discussed here. Divided into three parts, the book first addresses the new forms of political culture and discourse that developed in Central Asia in the late 1980s in the context of the new policy of reconstruction (perestroika) and transparency (glasnost) initiated by Mikhail Gorbachev. The second part of the book explores the process of political mobilisation in Central Asia in 1989, in response to the social, economic and cultural discontent of the population. The third and last part proceeds from this logic of ethnicisation of

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collective actions, through a review of three tragic examples of violent escalation of political mobilisations.

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SOMMAIRE

Règles de présentation

Introduction Olivier Ferrando

Introduction (English) Olivier Ferrando

Perestroïka et glasnost : les nouvelles formes de culture et de discours politiques de la fin des années quatre-vingt en Asie centrale

Turkmenistan at the Last Stage of Perestroika. Determinants of an Authoritarian Path Slavomír Horák

L’année 1989 : politique mémorielle et recherche scientifique sur les répressions politiques au Kazakhstan Arajlym Musagalieva et Ulbolsyn Sandybaeva

“And Our Words Must be Constructive!” On the Discordances of Glasnost’ in the Central Asian Press at a Time of Conflict Madeleine Reeves

Un mécontentement social, économique et culturel à l’origine des mobilisations politiques

Tajikistan and the Ambiguous Impact of the Soviet-Afghan War The Political Mobilisation of Former Participants of the Soviet-Afghan War in 1989 Markus Göransson

From February to February and From Ru ba Ru to Rastokhez: Political Mobilisation in Late Soviet Tajikistan (1989-1990) Isaac Scarborough

L’accaparement des terres comme forme de révolution sociale Le cas du Kirghizstan en 1989 Ajdarbek Kočkunov

L’ethnicisation des mobilisations collectives en Asie centrale depuis 1989 Olivier Ferrando

L’escalade vers la violence intercommunautaire

Novy Uzen Riots in 1989: Ethnic Conflict or Economic Nationalism? Gulnara Dadabayeva et Dina Sharipova

February 1990 Riots in Tajikistan. Who Was Behind the Scenes? Review of the Main Existing Versions Parviz Mullojanov

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Une historiographie du conflit de 1990 dans le sud du Kirghizstan Zajraš Galieva

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Règles de présentation

Notes de bas de page

Les références bibliographiques sont indiquées de manière succincte entre parenthèses dans le corps du texte (ex. : Young, 1994, pp. 3-12), puis reprises en détail dans la section Bibliographie en fin d’article (ex. : YOUNG Crawford, 1994, The African Colonial State, Princeton : Princeton University Press). Pour indiquer les pages, il est écrit p. 109 pour une seule page ; pp. 109-110 pour plusieurs pages ; pp. 109 sqq. pour page 109 et suivantes.

Abréviations pour les archives

Ex : CGA RUz, f. 12, op. 2, d. 31, č. 4, l. 112.

CGA Central’nyj gosudarstvennyj arkhiv respubliki Uzbekistan / Özbekiston Respublikasi RUz Markazij Davlat Arkhivi [Archives centrales d’Etat de la République d’Ouzbékistan]

f. fond “fonds”

op. opis “inventaire, registre”’

d. delo “dossier”

č.čast’ “partie”

l. list “folio”

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Transcription & translittération

Tous les ethnonymes, toponymes, noms de personnages historiques qui existent dans la langue française sont écrits sous leur forme francisée, conformément à l’encyclopédie Larousse en ligne (http://www.larousse.fr/). Les autres noms propres non francisés et les noms communs étrangers sont écrits conformément aux tables de translittération suivantes. Les noms communs sont alors écrits en italique (ex : Žildiz Šarapova, le village de Ângiqišloq, nacional’nost’, istiqlol).

Table de translittération de l’alphabet arabe /persan / chaghatay

– ه h – ق q –ض ḍ – ر r – ج j – ا a / i / u

– ۃ a – ك k –ط ṭ – ز z – چ ch –آ ā

–ى y / ī – ل l –ظ ẓ – ژ zh –ح ḥ – ب b

– ء’ – م m – ع‘ – س s – خ kh – پ p

– غ gh – ن n – ش sh – د d – ت t -

–و w / ū – ف f –ص ṣ – ذ dh – ث th

Pour le chaghatay, la translittération du système vocalique (notamment la transcription des oppositions d’aperture) est laissée à l’appréciation des auteurs. Pour translitérer les noms propres et les noms communs ouzbeks écrits en alphabet cyrillique, c’est l’alphabet latin actuellement en vigueur en Ouzbékistan qui est utilisé selon les règles et les usages observés dans le pays (www.oxuscom.com/ New_Uzbek_Latin_Alphabet.pdf et pour plus d’information http://www.oxuscom.com/ orthography.htm#part%20II).

Table de translittération des principaux alphabets cyrilliques utilisés en Asie centrale

Alphabet russe Lettres additionnelles

russe translittération kazakh kirghiz ouzbek turkmène karakalpak tatar ouïgour tadjik translittération

аА a/A әӘ әӘ әӘ әӘ әӘ ä/Ä

бБ b/B

вВ v/V

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гГ g/G ғҒ ғҒ ғҒ/гъГъ ғҒ ғҒ gh/Gh

дД d/D

еЕ e/E

ëË ë/Ë

жЖ ž/Ž җҖ җҖ җҖ dž/Dž

зЗ z/Z

иИ i/I иИ ī/Ī

йЙ J/J

кК k/K қҚ қҚ қҚ /къКъ қҚ қҚ q/Q

лЛ l/L

мМ m/M

нН n/N ңҢ ңҢ ңҢ ңҢ ңҢ ңҢ ng/Ng

оО o/O ѳѲ ѳѲ ўЎ ѳѲ ѳѲ ѳѲ ѳѲ ӯӮ ö/Ö

пП p/P

рР r/R

сС s/S

тТ t/T

уУ u/U yY yY yY yY yY yY ü/Ü

ұҰ u/U

фФ f/F

хХ kh/Kh һҺ ҳҲ ҳҲ һҺ һҺ ҳҲ h/H

цЦ c

чЧ č/Č ҷҶ dž/Dž

шШ š/Š

щЩ ŝ/Ŝ

ъЪ "

ыЫ y/Y iI ì/Ì

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ьЬ '

эЭ è/È

юЮ û/Û

яЯ â/Â

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Introduction

Olivier Ferrando

1 Si l’année 1989 symbolise, dans la mémoire collective, la fin du communisme en Europe, il faudra attendre 1991 pour que l’Union soviétique disparaisse et que les cinq républiques d’Asie centrale – le Kazakhstan, le Kirghizstan, l’Ouzbékistan, le Tadjikistan et le Turkménistan – entrent dans le concert des nations indépendantes. Pourtant, dès le début de l’année 1989, avant-même la chute du mur de Berlin, la région fut le siège de plusieurs signes avant-coureurs : le retrait de l’Armée rouge d’Afghanistan après dix années d’une guerre dans laquelle de nombreux Centrasiatiques avaient été enrôlés ; l’arrêt des essais nucléaires soviétiques dans le polygone de Semipalatinsk au Kazakhstan ; l’apparition des premières tensions interethniques dans la vallée du Ferghana ; l’adoption par chaque république d’une loi sur la langue, qui garantit désormais, et pour la première fois dans leur histoire, un statut officiel aux langues nationales. Autant de moments qui montrent combien l’année 1989 a marqué l’histoire récente de l’Asie centrale.

2 Ce nouveau numéro des Cahiers d’Asie centrale est donc consacré à l’étude des transformations sociales et politiques survenues en Asie centrale au cours de l’année 1989 afin de comprendre à quel point cette année constitue un moment fondateur des mobilisations politiques en Asie centrale et ce, malgré le maintien du régime soviétique jusqu’en décembre 1991. Ce numéro est le résultat de deux colloques organisés en 2014 par l’Institut français d’études sur l’Asie centrale, à l’occasion du vingt-cinquième anniversaire de la chute du mur de Berlin, l’un à Bichkek en partenariat avec l’Université nationale kirghize et la fondation allemande Friedrich Ebert1, l’autre à Paris en partenariat avec le Centre de recherches internationales (CERI-Sciences Po)2. Couvrant un large spectre disciplinaire (histoire, anthropologie, sociologie, science politique), ce numéro est composé de dix articles écrits à parité égale par des auteurs centrasiatiques et occidentaux, apportant ainsi à la fois des analyses objectives et des témoignages de terrain de chercheurs ayant traversé – ou, pour certains d’entre eux, pris une part active dans – les événements étudiés ici. 3 Dans une première partie, nous tenterons de décrypter les nouvelles formes de culture et de discours politiques qui se sont développées en Asie centrale à la fin des années quatre-vingt à la faveur de la politique de reconstruction (perestroïka) et de

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transparence (glasnost) voulue par Mikhaïl Gorbatchev. Dans un premier article, le chercheur tchèque Slavomír Horák montre combien la nomination de Saparmurat Niyazov à la tête du Parti communiste de la république socialiste soviétique (RSS) turkmène en 1985 procède de cette volonté de réformer les pratiques politiques héritées de son prédécesseur Muhammetnazar Gapurov, au pouvoir depuis 1969. Pourtant, les différentes alternatives politiques proposées par des groupes d’opposition, notamment à partir de 1989, feront l’objet, au mieux, d’une marginalisation, au pire d’une répression, au point que l’auteur considère cette nouvelle culture politique du Turkménistan comme « la transformation du style soviétique vers une autre forme d’autoritarisme, dans ce cas sous la conduite d’une personne unique [Niyazov] » (p. 29). Au Kazakhstan, en revanche, la politique d’ouverture et de transparence trouve un écho favorable. Ainsi, comme l’expliquent les historiennes kazakhes Arajlym Musagalieva et Ulbolsyn Sandybaeva, le décret sur les « Mesures supplémentaires de restauration de la justice pour les victimes des répressions politiques des années trente, quarante, et début des années cinquante », publié à Moscou en 1989, permet aux journalistes et chercheurs de revisiter les « pages sombres » de l’histoire de la RSS kazakhe : les recherches consacrées au mouvement national Alaš et aux camps staliniens établis sur le territoire du Kazakhstan, et la transformation de ces camps en musées « encouragent le développement d’un discours critique sur le passé totalitaire » (p. 70). Ce nouveau discours politique sur les récits du passé et la constitution d’une mémoire historique constituent, d’après les auteures, « d’importantes ressources symboliques pour l’État à des fins de construction de la nation » (p. 52). Enfin, l’anthropologue britannique, Madeleine Reeves, analyse la mise en œuvre pratique de la glasnost à travers la couverture médiatique des « événements d’Isfara », un conflit qui opposa des villageois kirghiz et tadjiks le long de la frontière entre leurs deux républiques, au cours du printemps et de l’été 1989. En procédant à une analyse détaillée du contenu des journaux de l’époque à trois échelons distincts – la presse centrale de Moscou, la presse nationale publiée dans les deux capitales concernées, et la presse locale de part et d’autre de la frontière –, Reeves pointe le défi que pose la transformation d’un discours jusqu’ici autoritaire en une « rhétorique constructive », telle que la glasnost la préconise, alors même que les journalistes locaux doivent relater des événements extrêmement sensibles et faire la part entre preuves et rumeurs de conflits interethniques. L’auteure avance l’idée de « régionaliser notre compréhension de la perestroïka, c’est-à-dire de reconnaître que les réformes ont été mises en œuvre sur l’ensemble de l’espace soviétique avec des configurations et des rythmes distincts [selon les régions] » (p. 82). Le traitement médiatique différencié des événements d’Isfara permet d’illustrer « les tensions qui apparaissent [en 1989] entre ouverture et confinement, entre nouvelle orientation et maintien de l’ordre social » (p. 85). 4 La deuxième partie de ce numéro regroupe quatre articles qui explorent le processus de mobilisation politique à l’œuvre en Asie centrale en 1989, en réponse au mécontentement social, économique et culturel de la population. Markus Göransson analyse le rôle joué par les vétérans de la guerre en Afghanistan sur l’évolution politique de la RSS tadjike, notamment au cours de cette année 1989 qui symbolise la concomitance entre le retour des derniers mobilisés de l’intervention afghane et le paroxysme des débats sur le statut du tadjik, qui aboutiront à l’adoption de la loi sur la langue, faisant du tadjik la seule langue officielle de la république. L’auteur s’intéresse à la fonction de la guerre dans la formation politique des vétérans et présente leurs

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différents positionnements dans ce contexte sociopolitique changeant. Il estime que « la guerre a eu des influences à la fois subversives et conservatives » (p. 116). Si les soldats qui combattaient pour l’idéal soviétique sont souvent rentrés du front avec un sentiment patriotique renforcé, les engagés civils – notamment les traducteurs et interprètes tadjiks – y ont pris conscience de la richesse de la culture persane, et ont pu contribuer au mouvement pour le renouveau culturel et linguistique qui animait la vie politique du Tadjikistan. C’est justement ce moment que l’historien Isaac Scarborough aborde dans son article sur le développement des organisations politiques Ru ba Ru et Rastokhez à Douchanbé. Se concentrant sur les douze mois qui séparent la première manifestation publique de l’histoire de la RSS tadjike, organisée en février 1989 pour réclamer l’adoption d’une loi sur la langue, et les émeutes urbaines de février 1990, il reconnaît aux deux organisations tadjikes « le génie politique d’avoir ouvert un espace dans lequel la frustration économique de la perestroïka pouvait se métamorphoser en un mouvement politique aux contours plus larges que la récession économique qui l’avait fait naître » (p. 163). Ainsi, sous les auspices de Ru ba Ru et de Rastokhez, le mécontentement économique était devenu le terreau d’une « plateforme de mobilisation et d’opposition politique à base culturelle, linguistique et nationaliste » (p. 165). Pour l’historien kirghiz Ajdarbek Kočkunov, l’échec de la politique économique soviétique s’illustre par la crise du logement qui éclate à Frounze (aujourd’hui Bichkek) en mai 1989. Héritée d’une inégalité historique d’accès à la terre et au logement entre les populations urbaines majoritairement slaves et les populations rurales kirghizes, cette crise prend la forme d’une campagne d’accaparement sauvage de terres dans les quartiers périphériques de Frounze. Qualifiée de « révolution sociale » par l’auteur, ce mouvement donne naissance à Ašar, « la première organisation citoyenne kirghize », qui débat de l’accès au logement mais également de « la renaissance nationale et culturelle du peuple kirghiz, de l’ouverture des archives sur les répressions politiques staliniennes, de la réhabilitation des victimes, de la mise en œuvre de réformes économiques, de la démocratisation de la vie publique, etc. » (p. 189), autant de sujets illustrant la vitalité de la mobilisation politique dans la RSS kirghize. Partant de ce constat, Olivier Ferrando met l’accent sur la dimension ethnique des actions collectives qui apparaissent en Ouzbékistan, au Tadjikistan et au Kirghizstan dès la fin des années quatre-vingt. En observant les structures et les discours des différentes mobilisations ethno-politiques, il montre comment les acteurs de la société civile des trois républiques – organisations ethniques et activistes – interviennent comme « force de lobby pour mobiliser leur communauté (la minorité) et porter des revendications politiques auprès de leurs autorités de tutelle (la majorité) » (p. 205). 5 La troisième et dernière partie du numéro poursuit dans cette logique d’ethnicisation de l’action collective, en revenant sur trois exemples tragiques d’escalade violente des mobilisations politiques. Les universitaires kazakhes Gulnara Dadabayeva et Dina Sharipova proposent une étude inédite du conflit qui, en juin 1989, endeuilla la ville pétrolière de Novy Uzen (aujourd’hui Žanaozen), à l’ouest du Kazakhstan, entraînant la mort de cinq à cent personnes selon les sources, et l’exil de 3 500 Caucasiens. Présenté par les autorités et les médias comme des heurts interethniques entre les Kazakhs et les minorités caucasiennes de la ville, ce conflit serait en réalité le résultat d’un « nationalisme économique ». En effet, le choix stratégique de Moscou d’investir dans l’industrie pétrolière, en invitant des cadres et techniciens de Russie et du Caucase, s’était fait au détriment de la population locale kazakhe, qui endurait « un taux élevé de chômage, une pénurie de logements, de produits alimentaires et d’avantages sociaux,

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dont les employés [caucasiens] du secteur pétrolier, eux, bénéficiaient » (p. 237). Les auteures considèrent donc que le conflit de Novy Uzen n’est pas l’expression essentialiste d’une haine ethnique, mais plutôt le résultat d’« espoirs économiques déçus, ayant entraîné un nationalisme rebelle, qui s’est ensuite transformé en nationalisme économique » (p. 229) au sein de la population kazakhe. Le politologue Tadjik Parviz Mullojanov tente, quant à lui, d’expliquer les émeutes de février 1990 à Douchanbé, qui marquent l’aboutissement tragique des douze mois de mobilisations pacifiques relatées dans l’article de Scarborough. Initiés par la propagation de rumeurs suggérant que plusieurs milliers de réfugiés arméniens avaient reçu des logements aux dépens des familles locales, les troubles ont rapidement pris un caractère anti- gouvernemental et politique, entraînant des émeutes et la mort de vingt-cinq personnes. S’appuyant sur les rapports d’enquête de l’époque, mais également sur de nouvelles sources, apparues ces dernières années, Mullojanov passe en revue les quatre versions officielles arguant à tour de rôle un complot de l’opposition libéral-démocrate, de l’opposition islamiste, des dirigeants de la RSS tadjike contre leur Premier Secrétaire, et enfin de l’appareil central du KGB à Moscou. C’est cette dernière hypothèse qui apparaît la plus plausible, selon l’auteur : « le KGB aurait eu l’intention d’organiser un désordre public à base nationaliste [donc] répréhensible, et d’accuser l’organisation [d’opposition] Rastokhez pour la discréditer à la veille des élections parlementaires » (p. 262). Mais le KGB ne s’attendait pas à ce que la mobilisation prenne une forme ouvertement anti-gouvernementale et aboutisse à des émeutes meurtrières incontrôlables, qui allaient préfigurer les affrontements idéologiques de la guerre civile tadjike (1992-1997). C’est enfin par un retour sur le conflit le plus meurtrier de la perestroïka en Asie centrale que l’historienne Zajraš Galieva, conclut ce numéro. Bien que survenues en juin 1990, les violences entre Kirghiz et Ouzbeks dans la région d’Och peuvent être considérées comme le prolongement de mobilisations politiques initiées en 1989. En effet, Galieva rappelle que, outre la crise économique que traversait la RSS kirghize, et plus gravement encore la région rurale d’Och, et le manque de réponses apportées par les autorités locales et nationales, ce sont les activités des organisations citoyennes communautaires qui, en introduisant l’idée d’« exception nationale », ont contribué à l’exacerbation des tensions interethniques dès 1989 (p. 278). S’appuyant sur une enquête sociologique réalisée en 1996 pour comprendre les craintes et les attentes de la population face à la persistance des tensions interethniques, l’auteure estime que les autorités du Kirghizstan indépendant disposaient de tous les éléments pour entreprendre un vaste programme de paix durable qui passerait par un ensemble de mesures socioéconomiques en faveur du développement du sud du pays, où se concentre la minorité ouzbèke, mais également par la reconnaissance des besoins culturels et linguistiques des Ouzbeks, notamment en matière éducative (p. 295). 6 Au regard de ce dossier, il ne fait guère de doute que 1989 est bien une année cruciale dans le développement politique des républiques d’Asie centrale et l’expérience de mobilisations collectives, qui conduiront, deux ans plus tard, à leur indépendance. Mais l’année 1989 illustre également les symptômes – tragiques ou heureux – de sociétés stato-nationales en construction. Rien d’étonnant donc à ce que toutes les tendances observées en 1989, à quelques rares exceptions, se soient confirmées après les indépendances : l’affirmation de la suprématie des langues nationales et des nations titulaires au sein de chaque État ; le maintien de pratiques de pouvoir autoritaires et liées à un seul homme, à l’exemple du Turkménistan de Niyazov ; le rôle central des services de renseignement dans le confinement des mouvements d’opposition, comme

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l’ont illustré les événements de février 1990 à Douchanbé ; la difficulté des médias à relater des événements pouvant menacer le pouvoir en place et l’ordre établi, à l’exemple de la couverture médiatique des événements d’Isfara en juillet 1989, etc. Mais le plus grave, sans doute, est que les dirigeants des nouveaux États indépendants ne semblent pas avoir retenu les enseignements des moments les plus tragiques de la perestroïka finissante : en juin 2010, presque vingt ans jour pour jour après le conflit de 1990, le sud du Kirghizstan connaissait un nouvel embrasement interethnique ; en décembre 2011, c’est le gouvernement kazakhstanais qui réprimait dans le sang une manifestation des employés du secteur pétrolier à Žanaozen, la même Novy Uzen qu’en 1989 et sans doute, les mêmes employés ou leurs descendants directs. Enfin, que dire des tensions sporadiques mais incessantes entre les villageois kirghiz et tadjiks de la vallée d’Isfara, le long d’une frontière devenue internationale, mais toujours en attente de démarcation ? Incontestablement, des efforts restent à faire pour surmonter l’héritage de 1989 en Asie centrale.

NOTES

1. « 1989 : une année clé aussi en Asie centrale ? Retour sur les changements politiques et socioculturels de l’année 1989 », 19-20 septembre 2014, Université nationale kirghize Balasagyn, Bichkek, Kirghizstan (https://ifeac.hypotheses.org/1520). 2. « Mobilisations sociales et enjeux géopolitiques en Asie centrale », 14-15 octobre 2014, Centre de recherches internationales, Sciences Po, Paris (https://ifeac.hypotheses.org/1615).

AUTEUR

OLIVIER FERRANDO

Olivier Ferrando est docteur en science politique et chercheur associé au Centre de recherches internationales (CÉRI) de Sciences Po. Il a dirigé l’Institut français d’études sur l’Asie centrale (IFÉAC) à Bichkek de 2013 à 2016. Ses recherches portent sur les minorités ethniques en Asie centrale, les mobilisations identitaires et les transformations sociales de la région depuis la fin de l’URSS.

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Introduction (English)

Olivier Ferrando

1 In collective memory the year 1989 symbolises the end of communism in Europe. However, it was not until 1991 that the Soviet Union disappeared and the five Central Asian republics – Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan – became independent states. Yet from early 1989, even before the fall of the Berlin Wall, several early warning events took place in the region: the defeat and withdrawal of the Red Army from Afghanistan after ten years of a war in which a large number of Central Asians were engaged; the cessation of Soviet nuclear testing in the Semipalatinsk Polygon in Kazakhstan; the outbreak of the first interethnic tensions in the Ferghana Valley, especially in Uzbekistan and on the Tajik-Kyrgyz border; the adoption by each republic of a Law on Language, which guaranteed, for the first time in their history, an official status for national languages. Many moments that show how the events of 1989 have marked the recent history of Central Asia.

2 This new issue of Cahiers d’Asie centrale is dedicated to the study of the social and political transformations that took place in Central Asia in 1989, with the aim of understanding to what extent this year, which is so symbolic in world history, constitutes a founding moment of political mobilisation in Central Asia, despite the continuation of the Soviet regime till the end of 1991. This issue is the result of two symposia organised in 2014 by the French Institute for Central Asian Studies on the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall: the first one in Bishkek, in partnership with the Kyrgyz National University named after Balasagyn and the German foundation Friedrich Ebert;1 the second one in Paris in partnership with the Centre for International Studies (CERI) of Sciences Po.2 Covering a wide disciplinary spectrum (history, anthropology, sociology, political science), this issue consists of ten articles written in equal numbers by Central Asian and Western scholars. It provides objective analyses as well as field testimonies of scholars who experienced – and, for some of them, took an active part in – the events discussed here. 3 In the first part of the book, we explore the new forms of political culture and discourse that developed in Central Asia in the late 1980s in the context of the new policy of reconstruction (perestroika) and transparency (glasnost) initiated by Mikhail Gorbachev. In the first article, the Czech scholar Slavomír Horák shows how the appointment of

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Saparmurat Niyazov as head of the Communist Party of the Turkmen Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR) in 1985 proceeds from this willingness to reform political practices inherited from his predecessor, Muhammetnazar Gapurov, in power since 1969. However, the various political alternatives proposed by opposition groups, particularly from 1989 onwards, will be either marginalised or repressed, such that the author considers this new political culture of Turkmenistan to represent “the transformation from Soviet style to another form of authoritarian development, in this case under the guidance of one single person [Niyazov]” (p. 29). By contrast, in Kazakhstan, the politics of openness and transparency found a positive response. As the Kazakh historians Arajlym Musagalieva and Ulbolsyn Sandybaeva argue, the decree on “Additional Measures to Restore Justice for the Victims of Political Repression in the 1930s, 1940s, and Beginning of the 1950s,” published in Moscow in 1989, allowed journalists and scholars to revisit the “dark pages” of the history of the Kazakh SSR. Research into the national movement Alaš and the Stalinist camps established in the territory of Kazakhstan, and the transformation of these camps into museums “encourage the development of a critical discourse on the totalitarian past” (p. 70). This new political discourse on the narratives of the past and the constitution of a historical memory constitute, according to the authors, “important symbolic resources for the state to help building the nation” (p. 52). Finally, the British anthropologist Madeleine Reeves assesses the practical implementation of the policy of glasnost by observing the media coverage of the ‘Isfara events,’ a series of trans-boundary disputes along the border of the Kyrgyz and Tajik Soviet republics during the spring and summer of 1989. Through a comprehensive analysis of newspapers at three different levels of the Soviet publishing hierarchy – central publications issued in Moscow, republican newspapers published in the two capitals, and the local press from each side of the border –, Reeves explores the challenged posed by the transformation of authoritative discourse into ‘constructive speech,’ at a time of mounting commentary on the relationship between truth, rumour and interethnic conflict. The author argues that there is a “need to provincialise our understanding of perestroika: that is, to recognise the plurality of forms and speeds that reforms took in different parts of the Soviet space” (p. 82). The differential narration of the ‘Isfara events’ provides “an insight into the tensions that emerged at the time between openness and containment, between guidance and the maintenance of social order” (p. 85). 4 The second part of the book consists of four articles exploring the process of political mobilisation in Central Asia in 1989, in response to the social, economic and cultural discontent of the population. Markus Göransson studies the role played by former participants of the Soviet-Afghan War in the political system in the Tajik SSR, particularly in 1989, which was in many ways a pivotal year, since it featured both the return of the last Afghan veterans and the passing of the Law on Language, which proclaimed Tajik as the only state language in the republic. The author provides new insights into the role that the war played in the political formation of veterans and presents their different positions in the context of the political changes that took place in the late 1980s. He argues that “the war had both subversive and conservative influences on political discussions” (p. 116). On the one hand, soldiers who were fighting on behalf of the Soviet ideal came back from the front with an entrenched pro- Soviet sentiment. On the other hand, many Tajik translators and interpreters had been introduced to the Persian culture in Afghanistan and, once back in Tajikistan, could join in growing discussions on culture and language. It is precisely this moment that

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the historian Isaac Scarborough addresses in his article on the development of the political organisations Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez in Dushanbe. Focusing on the 12-month period between the first public demonstration in February 1989, calling for the adoption of a law on Language, and the urban riots of February 1990, he acknowledges that “the political genius of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez was to provide a space in which the economic frustrations of perestroika in Tajikistan could metamorphose into a political movement with contours greater than the economic downturn that had caused its rise” (p. 163). Under the auspices of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez, economic discontent became a “platform for mobilisation and political opposition on cultural, linguistic, and nationalist grounds” (p. 165). For the Kyrgyz historian Ajdarbek Kočkunov, the failure of Soviet economic politics is illustrated by the housing crisis, which broke out in Frunze (now Bishkek) in May 1989. Inherited from a historical inequality of access to land and housing between the city dwellers – predominantly Slavs – and the rural Kyrgyz, this crisis took the form of an illegal land grabbing campaign in the periphery of Frunze. Described as a “social revolution,” this movement gave rise to the first Kyrgyz civic organisation, Ašar, which campaigned for access to housing but also promoted “the national and cultural revival of the Kyrgyz people, the opening of archives on Stalinist political repressions, the rehabilitation of victims, the implementation of economic reforms, the democratisation of public life, and so on” (p. 189). All these topics illustrate the vitality of political mobilisation in the Kyrgyz SSR in 1989. On this basis, Olivier Ferrando focuses on the ethnic dimension of collective actions that arose in Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan in the late 1980s. By observing the structures and discourses of various ethnopolitical mobilisations, he shows how the actors of civil society – both ethnic organisations and activists – act as a “lobbying power to mobilise their community (the minority) and address demands to state authorities (the majority)” (p. 205). 5 The third and last part of the book proceeds from this logic of ethnicisation of collective actions, through a review of three tragic examples of violent escalation of political mobilisations. The Kazakh scholars Gulnara Dadabayeva and Dina Sharipova provide an unprecedented study of the conflict which took place in the oil town of Novy Uzen (now Žanaozen) in Western Kazakhstan in June 1989, killing between five and one hundred people, according to sources, and forcing into exile 3,500 people of Caucasian origin. Portrayed by mass media and officials as a manifestation of ethnic hatred between Kazakh and Caucasian minorities, this conflict actually lies in an emergent dynamic of “economic nationalism.” Indeed, the economic policies conducted by Moscow authorities towards the oil-rich region produced poor socio-economic conditions for the local Kazakhs, who experienced a “high rate of unemployment [and a] the lack of housing, foodstuff, and other social benefits enjoyed by shift workers” (p. 237). The authors consider therefore that the conflict of Novy Uzen is not the expression of primordial ethnic hatred, but rather the result of “unfulfilled economic expectations [which] led to insurgent nationalism, later transformed into [...] economic nationalism” (p. 229) within the Kazakh population. In his article, the Tajik political scientist Parviz Mullojanov attempts to explain the February 1990 riots in Dushanbe, which marked the tragic end of the twelve months of peaceful mobilisations reported by Scarborough in his article. Initiated by the spread of rumours suggesting that several thousand Armenian refugees had been provided with housing at the expense of local families, the disturbances quickly assumed an open anti-government and political character, resulting in riots and the death of twenty-five people. Drawing on the

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investigative reports of the time, but also on new sources, published more recently, Mullojanov reviews the four official versions arguing a conspiracy of either the liberal- democratic opposition, the Islamist opposition, the leaders of the Tajik SSR against their First Secretary, or the KGB central apparatus in Moscow. The author considers that the last version is the most convincing as “the KGB’s initial intention was to organise controlled disturbances of nationalistic, reprehensible [...] character, and blame Rastokhez for the organisation, thus discrediting the party on the eve of the elections” (p. 262). But the KGB officials did not expect the mobilisation would take an open anti-government form and lead to uncontrollable riots that would prefigure the upcoming ideological clashes of the Tajik civil war (1992-1997). The book concludes with Zajraš Galieva’s historiographical review of the most violent conflict of perestroika in Central Asia. Although the clashes between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks in Osh region occurred in June 1990, they can be seen as a continuation of political mobilisations initiated in 1989. Galieva recalls that, in addition to the economic crisis faced by the Kyrgyz SSR, and even more acutely by the rural oblast of Osh, and the lack of responses from local and national authorities, it was actually the activism of ethnic organisations that contributed to the exacerbation of interethnic relations as early as 1989, by introducing the idea of a “national exception” (p. 278). Reviewing the results of a sociological survey carried out in 1996 about the fears and expectations of a population experiencing continuous interethnic tensions, the author believes that the authorities of independent Kyrgyzstan had all the elements to undertake a comprehensive peacebuilding programme through a range of socio-economic measures to support the development of the South, precisely where the Uzbek minority is concentrated, but also to address the cultural and linguistic needs of the Uzbeks, particularly in the field of education (p. 290). 6 Taken together the articles make it clear that 1989 is a pivotal year in the political development of the Central Asian republics and their experience of collective mobilisation that would eventually lead to their independence. But 1989 also illustrates the symptoms – either tragic or fortunate – of stato-national societies under construction. It is therefore no surprise that all the trends observed in 1989, with few exceptions, were confirmed after independence: the assertion of the supremacy of national languages and titular nations in each state; the persistence of authoritarian regimes under the guidance of a single leader, exemplified by Niyazov’s Turkmenistan; the central role of intelligence services in the containment of opposition movements as revealed by the events of February 1990 in Dushanbe; the dilemma faced by the media in reporting events that could threaten the power and the established order, such as the press coverage of the Isfara events, etc. But the most striking is that leaders have apparently not learned the lessons of the most tragic moments of this period: in June 2010, exactly twenty years after the 1990 troubles, a new interethnic conflict broke out in Southern Kyrgyzstan; in December 2011, the Kazakh government supressed a demonstration of oil workers in Žanaozen, the same Novy Uzen of the July 1989 conflict and probably the same employees, or their descendants. And how can we understand the persistence of sporadic but unsolved tensions between Kyrgyz and Tajik villagers in the Isfara valley, along a border that has become international but is still indeterminate? Undoubtedly many efforts remain to be done to overcome the legacy of 1989 in Central Asia.

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NOTES

1. “1989: Also a Key Year in Central Asia? A New Look at the Sociocultural and Political Changes of 1989,” 19-20 September 2014, Kyrgyz National University Balasagyn, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan (https://ifeac.hypotheses.org/1520). 2. “Social Mobilisations & Geopolitics in Central Asia,” 14-15 October 2014, Centre for International Studies, Sciences Po, Paris (https://ifeac.hypotheses.org/1615).

AUTHOR

OLIVIER FERRANDO

Olivier Ferrando holds a PhD in political science and is currently an associate researcher at Sciences Po’s Centre for International Studies (CERI) in Paris. He managed the French Institute for Central Asian Studies (IFEAC) in Bishkek from 2013 to 2016. His interests lie in the political ethnography of ethnic minorities in Central Asia, identity mobilisations and social transformations of the region since the end of the USSR.

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Perestroïka et glasnost : les nouvelles formes de culture et de discours politiques de la fin des années quatre-vingt en Asie centrale Perestroika and Glasnost: New Forms of Political Culture and Discourse in the Late 1980s in Central Asia

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Turkmenistan at the Last Stage of Perestroika. Determinants of an Authoritarian Path1 Le Turkménistan à la dernière étape de la perestroïka. Les déterminants d’une voie autoritaire Туркменистан на последнем этапе перестройки. Факторы авторитарного пути

Slavomír Horák

Introduction

1 The last two years of Turkmenistan within the USSR clearly demonstrated a tendency of transformation from Soviet style to another form of authoritarian development, in this case under the guidance of one single person. Despite the fact that the First Secretary Saparmurat Niyazov was selected to his position as a supporter of perestroika, his steps inside the Soviet republic rather slowed down the process. His negative attitude towards perestroika and glasnost was fully confirmed by his steps after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.

2 The transition became one of the core paradigms for the analysis of the trajectories of post-Soviet states. As Thomas Caroters, the critique of the concept, pointed out, the transformation from the Soviet system assumed an inevitable shift towards liberalisation or democracy with a key role being played by the election processes (Caroters, 2002, pp. 6-9). Caroters, however, did not research the historical specifics of each “transition” country. The immediate historical conditions at the time of (or shortly before) the “breakthrough event” (USSR dissolution in this case) should be taken into consideration as decisive factors in the subsequent development of the country. In this context, I argue that the various shifts during perestroika (both long- term and short-term during the last years of this period) determined substantially the trajectory of its further development. Each Soviet republic (or region in some cases)

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underwent different paths within this period. The real reformist voices diversely influenced life in the appropriate republics and the leadership of each republic reacted in a different way from that of the centre. Therefore, the analysis of perestroika in Turkmenistan serves as an example of why the country’s transition undertook a regressive rather than a progressive path. 3 In an attempt to understand which long-term and immediate factors impacted the further development of the country, the text focuses on the following issues: the situation of the Turkmen Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR) in the Brezhnev and post- Brezhnev period and the character as well as the composition of the intra-Turkmen elite, which enabled (with the support of Moscow) the rule of a single person, in this case Niyazov. Consequently, once single person rule with his individual character is installed, it determines the character of the regime itself. From this standpoint, the selection of Saparmurat Niyazov as the First Secretary and subsequent cadre reshuffles made alternative ways of development complicated and even improbable. This process depends substantially on the president’s background and personal character. It leads me to the thesis that 1989-1991 were decisive years determining the current character of Turkmenistan’s political system and political culture without any alternative paths. Even the second president, who grew up politically under the regime, was not able and probably was not even willing to change fundamentally the system established by his predecessor. Therefore, the political culture created in Turkmenistan at the beginning of the 1990s influenced the independent Turkmenistan for several decades ahead. 4 In the first part the focus of the text is on the situation in Soviet Turkmenistan before perestroika. The internal formal and informal politics in the republic acquired its own specifics based on the conservation of cadres under Muhammetnazar Gapurov, then the First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Turkmen SSR from 1969 to 1985. As in other republics in the Soviet Union, the conservation of and request for stability resulted in a political culture full of cronyism and preference for “one’s own” circles. The change of leader in 1985 to Saparmurat Niyazov led to substantial changes in the republican leadership, with the cadres trying to cement their newly acquired position. It was one of the principal reasons for further conservation of power in the republic and a barrier to the establishment of more visible alternative structures and informal groups, as was the case with other Soviet republics in the later 1980s. 5 Nevertheless, attempts to establish alternative groups to the power also appeared in Turkmenistan. The second part of this text analyses the growth of these groups and their main issues for discussion, as well as their interaction with the powers, with Niyazov as the head of the latter. This part is not able to provide an exhaustive analysis of the alternatives to Niyazov, which is the topic of another article (Kališevskij, 2014). It rather tries to show the growing authoritarianism of Niyazov, which fully unfolded after independence and the loss of upper control from the Soviet centre. Niyazov’s reaction to the alternative groups varied from case to case and oscillated between the incorporation of their programmes into his own agenda (and consequent marginalisation of his opponents), to their repression. Generally, it seems that Niyazov tolerated any alternatives to his power only temporarily and he used the first opportunity to get rid of them, even in the final stages of the existence of the Soviet Union. The dissolution of the USSR and the proclamation of independence fully opened the way to enforce Niyazov’s political views, which did not tolerate any alternative or even opposition.

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6 The last part of the study shows how the personal character of Niyazov helped to establish an authoritarian political culture intolerant towards any alternative view. This situation determined the path of Turkmenistan for a long time ahead. 7 The problem with carrying out studies on current Turkmenistan is that researchers must struggle with a relatively small number of resources. In particular, Šokhrat Kadyrov, a Turkmen historian and demographer and currently a Moscow-based researcher, has extensively examined the elites of Turkmenistan in its historical dynamic, including the late-Soviet period (Kadyrov, 1996, 2001a, 2003a, 2009). However, the questions of political culture within the political elites and the personal character of the leader were mostly beyond the scope of his interests. The political culture of Soviet and post-Soviet Turkmenistan, including the phenomena of corruption, nepotism and cronyism, are only selectively researched (Rashid, 1994; Botâkov, 2007). The problems of late-Soviet elite formation are also reflected in several texts and memories of former political figures and activists of that period (Kuliev, 2001 & 2006; Demidov, 2000 & 2002; Ryblov, 2004; Èsenov, 2008; Račkov, 2015).2 Some information for this study comes from interviews with several members of the Turkmenistan opposition (particularly with Avdy Kuliev), or journalists coming from Turkmenistan (Viktor Panov). In particular, I acknowledge the interviews with staff at the Memorial Centre in Moscow, especially Vitalij Ponomarev), who also provided me with several sources from the beginning of the 1990s. As the formation of political culture and new ways of thinking are firmly connected with political psychology (psychology of the leader), I am also grateful to my colleague Jiri Sipek from the Department of Psychology, Charles University, in Prague. He shared with me his ideas on the psychology of authoritarian leaders. Based on the information about Turkmenistan, he brought valuable reconstruction of Saparmurat Niyazov-Turkmenbashi’s, as well as the current president’s, ways of thinking. Unfortunately, the interviews with political, social and cultural activists, an important part of the research, were not conducted due to lack of time within the deadline for the journal and an absence of technical tools, which I admit as one of the main heuristic problems of the work. However, for the next deeper analysis of the Turkmen opposition, this gap will obviously be filled.

Intra-Elite Struggles in the Turkmen SSR and its Consequences Before Perestroika

8 In the Brezhnev period, stability was proclaimed unofficially as the most decisive factor of the cadres’ policy, particularly in the Central Asian area (Willerton, 1987; Miller, 1977). The First Secretaries of the respective republican Communist Party were appointed for a long time period in the 1960s. The maintenance of stability in the Soviet Republic was one of their principal tasks. For this reason, the leaders were either from the close circle of Brezhnev (such as Sharaf Rashidov in Uzbekistan, who ruled over the republic from 1958), or from some particular informal group from within the republic. The balance of the elite group was one of the key factors in the appointment of Muhammetnazar Gapurov for the position of First Secretary in the Turkmen SSR in 1969. Turkmen historian Šokhrat Kadyrov points out that the nomination of the new Secretary in the Turkmen SSR was one of the latest within Brezhnev’s reshuffle of the cadres, just after the consolidation of Brezhnev’s position in the centre and together

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with the decreasing position of the then-First Secretary Balyš Ovezov. He was replaced and later sacked by Gapurov (Kadyrov, 2003a, pp. 130-131).

9 Gapurov was an experienced member of the Communist Party establishment and previously the head of the Turkmen SSR Cabinet of Ministers. He was also the representative of the non-Ashgabat elite group. His position had to balance the central Akhal-Teke group, which had tried in vain to achieve the highest position in the republic since the beginning of the 1950s (Kadyrov, 2005). A non-Akhal-Teke ruler in Akhal-Teke Ashgabat (and its surroundings) served as the loyalty guarantee of the First Secretary to the Moscow centre. Muhammetnazar Gapurov understood the threat coming from the Ashgabat elite group. The only option for keeping power over the place was to use protectionist politics towards his kin, who were fully entrenched in the political culture of non-elite Turkmen hierarchy (Botâkov, 2007, p. 150). As a result, Ashgabatis and Akhal-Tekes were systematically removed from influential positions in the republican apparatus or even eliminated from the political, social or cultural life in the first half of the 1970s (Kadyrov, 2001a, pp. 348-350; 2003, pp. 131-132). In this regard, we should mention the process with the Turkmen cultural elite, including, for example, the leading Turkmen poetess Annasoltan Kekilova (Rashid, 1994, p. 195), the leading writer Berdy Kerbabaev and many others. 10 The purges promoted the favourites of Gapurov into influential positions. They also included the cadres from other regions, such as Yomuts (Annamuhammet Klyčev, the long-term head of the Turkmen SSR Supreme Soviet Presidium in 1963-1978), or Mary- Teke (Maâ Mollaeva, the Central Committee Secretary for Ideology), or Northern Turkmenistan (Bally Âzkuliev, the deputy head of the Cabinet of Ministers in 1975-1978, Turkmen SSR Supreme Soviet Presidium in 1978-1987) (Kadyrov, 2001a, p. 349; Sitnânskij, 2011). The Akhal-Teke were, however, also represented in the highest, albeit not the most influential, positions in the republic. In this regard, Čary Karryev, one of the most important figures in Ashgabat with a wide range of kins within the Akhal- Teke elite, could serve as the example (Kadyrov, 2001a, p. 180; Račkov, 2015). At the same time, trying to demonstrate his loyalty to the Central Committee and to Brezhnev personally, he continued to maintain the politics of subservience and corruption towards his patrons in Moscow. There were rumours about wagons of fruits, nuts and rugs for the all-Union Communist Party Central Committee. His “contribution” to the pro-Moscow political culture also includes strengthening the position of the Russian language in the republic or the underlining of pro-Russian direction in Turkmenistan historiography. The Constitution of Turkmenistan adopted in 1978 did not contain any article about the superiority of the Turkmen language in the republic (Konstituciâ..., 1978). The promotion of the historical thesis on the “voluntary inclusion of Turkmen in Russia” became the second important issue in this field, which encountered only rare opposition within the elites (Kadyrov, 2003a, pp. 133-135; Annanepesov, Roslâkov & Gapurov, 1984).

The Rise of Niyazov

11 Saparmurat Niyazov – the future First secretary – worked at the Communist Party of Turkmenistan Central Committee during Gapurov’s leadership. In 1980 he became the First Secretary of Communist Party of the region of Ashgabat (obkom). His career was built and his political character was formed in the political culture of clientelism with

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preference given to the leader’s clan, as well as sycophantism, which served as his means of progress in the Party hierarchy, together with the right tribal and regional background (Aleksandrov, 1996, pp. 174-175). Such factors were adopted and developed under his rule for the reverse process – the promotion of an Akhal-Teke member into power. Niyazov also learned, since the time of his studies in the 1960s, how to use his orphan background for his own career promotion (Ryblov, 2004, p. 9). Although formally Akhal-Teke, he was not considered a real representative of this regional group.3 For this reason, he was found to be a suitable candidate for the position of First Secretary, despite there being more influential representatives of Ashgabat, such as Čary Karryev, the Head of Cabinet of Ministers of the republic. The Central Committee of the Communist Party adopted the policy of replacement of the First Secretaries in the republics in order to break long-term clientelistic structures. In this context, Niyazov became the first representative of Akhal-Teke appointed to the position of the first figure in the republic since 1951. Moscow was, however, not interested in the strengthening of this single group dominance within the republic. Niyazov, to a great extent “a stranger among his own people,” satisfied the Akhal-Teke group and, at the same time, he was dependent on the Moscow legitimisation in Ashgabat, despite his alleged Akhal-Teke origin. The invitation of Niyazov to Moscow, an unprecedented step in the republican Communist Party’s practice, had to foster the loyalty of the First Secretary towards the centre.

12 Within the perestroika process, Niyazov was presented as the supporter of Gorbachev’s reforms. Niyazov apparently understood that his mission as the First Secretary was determined by Moscow in order to satisfy the demands of the Akhal-Teke regional group and, at the same time, maintain the position of the republican leader loyal to Moscow (Kadyrov, 2003a, pp. 135-137). He kept his loyalty to Gorbachev, when he had real power. Once Boris Yeltsin increased his position, Niyazov turned his support to him in the last months of the Soviet Union (Ryblov, 2004, p. 9). Inside the republic, however, he launched changes, traditional for a new leader, of the new Soviet republic’s leaders. These changes had two principal goals – ousting Gapurov and his allies and raising his authority within the Ashgabat elites. Gapurov had been accused of nepotism, flattery and careerism (Rashid, 1994, p. 195). However, despite the removal of cadres connected with Gapurov, some spheres remained untouched. The security services, as well as the energy sector, were the most important spheres in which Akhal- Teke were underrepresented and remained under the direct control of Moscow. 13 Therefore, Niyazov behaved in the style of “the two-faces policy,” one for Moscow and the second for intra-Turkmenistan issues. In the latter case, he adopted the political culture well known to him based on the abovementioned characteristics. The symbolic significance of the appointment of Niyazov for the Akhal-Teke elite led to a fight for position in the republic within the Ashgabat elite and also led to it keeping its position, contrary to reforms in the Soviet Union. Niyazov understood his role in the Soviet centre as well as his position within the Turkmen elite. 14 The Moscow purges of Central Asian and other Soviet Republic leaders, in particular the “cotton affair” in the neighbouring Uzbekistan, also influenced Niyazov and his personal character as politician (Lipovsky, 1995). Cleaning the elite from the Gapurov period, Niyazov also understood that his best allies (both in Moscow and within the republic) could easily become his enemies. This paranoid approach and his own loneliness without a firm anchor in the republic led him to the position of resistance to

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any attempts at alternative development. Although newly appointed Akhal-Teke groups supported this idea of stability, Niyazov preferred to act as if he had no allies or was only supported by occasional allies. He initiated a similar “cotton affair” within the republic, removing many important state figures from their positions (Ryblov, 2004, p. 21). Apparently, he did not want to repeat the fate of Rashidov’s cadres in neighbouring Uzbekistan. 15 The personal character of Niyazov has to be added to the abovementioned factors. Those who were in touch with him characterise him as cruel and demanding respect from his subordinates. He was not tolerant towards any alternative way of thinking or disagreement or challenge to his ideas (Ryblov, 2004, pp. 50-51; Račkov, 2015). On the other hand, he was considered to be sycophantic towards higher organs, such as the Central Committee of the Turkmen SSR Communist Party, the Central Committee of the USSR Communist Party, etc.4 He promoted his career using this approach to the authorities, also using his orphan status. As he was able to rise in his career, he required the same approach from his subordinates. He also surrounded himself with the people who always agreed with his ideas. Generally, he further developed the political culture existing already in Gapurov’s Turkmen SSR and contributed to it with his personal intolerant character. Niyazov’s system advanced the practice of vertical power, in which the lower level had to demonstrate its respect to the higher level of power (including material presents and bribes), while the highly positioned person had a neglectful attitude to the lower one. 16 In sum, the political culture during Gapurov’s period (and even before him), together with cadre changes traditional in Turkmenistan after the appointment of a new First Secretary and the personal character of the new leader Saparmurat Niyazov, together created the mix of settings in which perestroika was taking place in Turkmenistan and also determined the political culture in post-Soviet Turkmenistan. These factors enabled Niyazov to suppress any opponents in the last stages of perestroika and the beginning of the independent period. Later on, this environment helped him to establish personal rule in the independent Turkmenistan.

Perestroika in Turkmenistan. The Last Chance for an Alternative to Authoritarianism?

17 Perestroika in Turkmenistan brought at least some chance to shift the political system in the country to bring it closer to reformist movement, as appeared in various parts of the Soviet Union (Baltic states, Georgia, or even Russia). However, the Turkmenistan case of perestroika and glasnost was determined by several specifics. As mentioned above, the cadre changes promoted Akhal-Teke middle-ranking powerful figures into the highest positions in the republic in the mid-1980s. These new rulers, including Niyazov, did not have much interest in dislodging the already established system. The political culture analysed above did not make the development of reformist movements or even political fractions easy. The reform-minded independent people, mostly from intelligentsia in the capital and fewer in the regions, were not able to gain powerful positions. Moreover, these representatives were often considered as representatives of Ashgabat (Akhal-Teke), with little support from other regions. As Kadyrov correctly points out, the representatives of the alternative groups often grew up and through in a different political culture (he calls it European), which caused their alienation from

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the political culture of the Turkmen elites (Kadyrov, 2002a). In fact, these two different and opposite views on the development of the Soviet republic put the alternative groups into opposition with the regime and its marginality in the substantial (and even politically influential) part of the Turkmen society. Moreover, the political culture of the elites, headed by Niyazov, was supported by power and media and administrative apparatus. The case of the dynamics of Agzybirlik, the most visible, albeit informal (at least from the beginning) movement established in the Turkmen SSR, symptomatically shows this tendency and its fate was also repeated in other less important groups.

18 When analysing the problem of the informal and unofficial groups advancing a type of Turkmen SSR development alternative to the official course, we could define them under one category: “alternative groups.” This term could cover all the various instances that appeared in Turkmenistan. Although most authors writing about Turkmen perestroika (Rashid, 1994; Kadyrov, 2001a & 2003a; Peyrouse, 2012) called them “opposition,” in fact, many of the formal and informal members were in contact with or were even part of the establishment, which problematises their “opposition” dimension. This character was determined more clearly at the last stage of perestroika, when repressions were launched towards the representatives of these groups, turning them into the real opposition or, on the contrary, the supporters of Niyazov. The groups – movements, informal groups or, at the last stage of USSR existence, also political parties and entities – were personally interconnected with each other. Many former Agzybirlik representatives were involved in other groups. 19 The initial concepts behind the creation of alternative movements were based on questions of reinterpretation of Turkmen language status and Turkmen history. According to Rashid, the first protests in Ashgabat took place as early as 1987, when about 2,000 veterans of the Soviet Afghan conflict took to the streets (Rashid, 1994, p. 196), although the event took place within the first meeting of Afghan veterans, including a festival of Afghan songs (Rožkov, 2015). However, this one-time action did not have a long-term effect on the internal processes in Turkmenistan, despite the topicality of the Afghan issue for Turkmen society. 20 Apart from the Afghan problem, the question of the language became the first real key issue in the perestroika movements in Turkmenistan. Similar voices were heard in many other Soviet republics in which the local language was proclaimed as the primary one. Some Turkmen authors, even in 1990, supported the further process of Turkmenisation of the country and proposed the Latinisation of the Turkmen alphabet, moving back to the reforms of the 1930s (Clement, 2005, pp. 135-136). The language issue was also discussed on the important informal Turkmenistan intelligentsia meeting in April 1988, which resulted in vast interrogations with the organisers sanctioned by Niyazov (Ryblov, 2004, p. 25). The protest against the official interpretation of Turkmenistan history, defined by Gapurov as “Voluntary Turkmen Accession to Russia,” became yet another issue for discussion in the informal intellectual groups. At the same time, the meetings and protests for various demands within the glasnost process became more common in Ashgabat and in the regions in May 1989, despite the ban on public meetings within the republic (Kadyrov, 2001a, pp. 42-43). 21 Both issues – interpretation of history and language – laid a fundamental question for the first important alternative group in Turkmenistan, Agzybirlik, which gathered about 600 intellectuals in September 1989 following Niyazov’s expression on the

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language issues in the Central Press (Safronov, 2002). He also put the group under his control through his proxies at the Academy of Sciences. He pretended to be open to discussion with the intellectuals and to be ready to include some of the ideas of the movement on the republican agenda (Kadyrov, 2001a, p. 92). As a result, Niyazov announced the proposal of the Language Law in November 1989 (Ryblov, 2004, p. 26). However, typical of his character, he apparently feared any alternative movement or ideas. The first open event of the Agzybirlik movement on the site of the Geok Tepe battle and fortress in January 1990 challenged the official interpretation of Russian- Turkmen relations and demanded the establishment of a Memorial Day on 12 January, the date of the battle. Such actions affirmed Niyazov’s disgust at any liberal discussion. It demonstrated the ability of alternatives to organise real actions, which could, in the mind of Niyazov, turn out to be a real political challenge. It convinced him of the necessity to behave less tolerantly towards the movement. This demonstration became the starting point for further and increasing suppression of the activists and alternatives. Agzybirlik became for him the symbol of the opposition, as although many of those blamed for the support or membership of the movement were in fact not connected with it (Starodymov, 2012). As such, Agzybirlik represented an important challenge for the regime and the stability of those Akhal-Teke who were firmly connected with their recently gained positions. 22 Niyazov also took the initiative and proposed the Language Law in November 1989. Although the law was not adopted, Niyazov lately usurped fully the concern about the Turkmen language (Turkmenbashi, 2001, pp. 186 & 299-300; Niâzov, 1994, p. 17). He also adopted the initiative concerning the Geok Tepe battle. Although in 1990 the demonstration of Agzybirlik was broken up by the power structure, a year later it was allegedly Niyazov’s initiative to establish a National Memorial day (Hatyra Günü), which turned out later to be another manifestation of loyalty to the president (Kadyrov, 2003b, p. 114; Horák, 2015). 23 The Agzybirlik movement in 1989 was probably the most extensive and the most visible attempt to create an alternative to Niyazov’s rule and increasing Akhal-Teke dominance, even if many of the Agzybirlik followers were also part of the Akhal-Teke. However, the movement was formed mostly within Ashgabat intelligentsia consisting primarily of “Russified levels of Euroturkmen elites” (Kadyrov, 2003a). The problem with Agzybirlik was, as one of its founders and later political emigrant Akmurad Velsapar pointed out, its overemphasis on democratic values and, consequently, a kind of intellectual introversion. The potential supporters from Ashgabat and, more particularly, from the regions and Ashgabat surroundings, demanded more nationalistic or Islamic renaissance rhetoric (Velsapar, 1997). The narrow group of intellectuals did not represent Turkmen society, especially the substantial non-Akhal- Teke part outside the capital, who mostly perceived them through the lenses of tribalism and considered them as the representative of another expression of Akhal- Teke hegemonism. Akmurad Velsapar also noticed that people from the regions were not represented at any potential meeting in Ashgabat (“foreign” territory for them), if they do not dominate in opposition movement (Velsapar, 1997, cited by Kadyrov, 2003a, p. 148). The society in Turkmenistan became more fragmented than Agzybirlik supposed. Therefore, the important democratic slogans and refusal to serve as more radical nationalists or followers of Islamic renaissance split the movement and its representatives from its potential supporters. As one moderate critic of Agzybirlik remarked, they generally considered the shift towards more nationalism unattractive

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to other levels of Turkmen society (Starodymov, 2012). It made it easier for the regime to gradually reduce and later suppress the movement. The powers intervened during both attempts to transform the group to an official movement or even a political party in March 1991 and January 1992 (Kadyrov, 2002b). The movement was only able to appeal to the public to vote for the preservation of the USSR during the referendum in 1991 (Kadyrov, 2001a, p. 44). 24 Other groups that could be considered as alternative were found at the end of the Soviet Union and at the time when Niyazov managed to consolidate his power together with his Party and State organs’ repressive machine. He could rely on the strong mandate given by the non-alternative elections in October 1990, where Niyazov obtained 98.3% of the votes. It cleared the way for suppression of any alternative group potentially able to challenge his rule. 25 The latter was a case of an attempt to establish an initiative group supporting the so- called Democratic Reforms Movement (Dviženie demokratičeskikh reform) in Moscow under the leadership of several former Communist Party representatives and other activists (Eduard Shevardnadze, Alexandr Âkovlev, Gavril Popov, Anatolij Sobčak, etc.). Turkmen group creation was silenced from the very beginning and the initiators of the group in Ashgabat had to go through “prophylactic interview” with the Party and Power structures (Ryblov, 2004, pp. 19-20). 26 In 1991, the famous journalist and philosopher Muhammedmurad Salamatov launched the political and social journal Daânč. The first issue was ready in September 1991 and was published in Moscow at the beginning of 1992. However, the journal was prohibited in Turkmenistan and the printouts of it (as well as other issues titled Daânč-èkspress) were confiscated in Ashgabat. The authors who agreed to contribute their texts in the journal came mostly from the Agzybirlik and other alternative groups. Many people from the intelligentsia of that time refused contribution to the journal as it presented open anti-Niyazov views (Berdyev, 2006). In 1995, Salamatov became more famous for another article entitled “Kto khozâin v Turkmenistane” [Who rules in Turkmenistan] in the journal Turkmeny. Al’manakh (cited by Kadyrov, 2001a, p. 254). A similar fate affected the discussion club Pajkhas, created at the Academy of Sciences. The group reached only a limited public and its initiator Šokhrat Kadyrov became famous for his later article about the 1992 Turkmenistan constitution (Ryblov, 2004, p. 45) and was subsequently forced to emigrate from the country. 27 Within the political system of expansion of Niyazov’s regime in 1990-1992, Agzybirlik and other groups could not aspire to gain much success, even if they were able to attract more supporters. The group was labelled as nationalistic in the official press and its members started to be persecuted following the ban of the group in January 1990 (Kadyrov, 2002b). Ideologically, Niyazov adopted some of the most important topics of the potentially most influential alternative groups. Open arrest was applied from 1990. Širali Nurmuradov, one of the leaders of Agzybirlik, was detained in October that year before the first presidential elections (Anonymous, 2006; Informacionnyj Centr ..., s.d.). Some figures from Agzybirlik and other movements who attempted to express their opinions in more open Moscow media were often subject to the “prophylactic interviews” back in Ashgabat or even dismissed from their positions (Rashid, 1994, p. 196). The Writers Union of Turkmenistan, which was potentially considered as one of the centres of alternative views (as expressed in the journal Èdebiât ve sungat [Literature and art] was silenced during the February 1991 congress

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when Niyazov dismissed its chief editor Aširkuli Bajriev and incorporated his favourites to the leadership of the Union. Even if some writers tried to adapt soft power through protest or hunger strikes, it had no results against the growing repressive machine of the regime in 1991 (Ryblov, 2004, pp. 26-27). 28 The attempts to create alternative political parties occurred in 1991 or after the ussr dissolutions, that is at the time of full consolidation of Niyazov’s regime. Agzybirlik tried to establish itself as a national movement but was definitively banned (Kadyrov, 2001a, p. 92, Agzybirlik..., 1991). Part of the Agzybirlik movement attempted to create the Party of Democratic Development (Partiâ demokratičeskogo razvitiâ Turkmenistana) in 1991 with Durdymurad Khodžamuhammedov as the head of the party (Torkunov, 2012, p. 518). However, the party was not registered and its leader was later arrested and placed in a psychiatric hospital (Mitrokhin & Ponomarev, 1999). 29 Another alternative group, the Democratic Party of Turkmenistan (Demokratičeskaâ partiâ Turkmenistana), was formed under the leadership of Muhammed Durdymurad, but its activities were banned in 1991 and the party had to hold its first congress in Moscow. The party strictly refused their ban after the Moscow coup in August 1991 (Vasil’eva, 1991), but, as Rashid points out, his message of unification of all Turkic people did not even reach Central Asia or Turkmenistan (Rashid, 1994, p. 196). Other experiments with the establishment of political parties were organised in 1992; the Agrarian Party, the Communist Party, Agzybirlik, as well as the Russian Society of Turkmenistan, had ambitions to participate in the future elections. All of these attempts were nipped in the bud as they were often not able to organise the first steps towards their recognition or their applications were not answered (Kališevskij, 2014). 30 In the first years of independence, some representatives of the alternative movements did not lose hope of resistance to Niyazov’s regime, co-existence and even dialogue with him. The last open protests were suppressed in 1994-1995. The regime involved the whole range of the repressive apparatus in order to cut down any alleged opposition activities (Saparov, 2000; Safronov, 2002). The remaining proponents of the alternative way of thinking were forced to emigrate, were persecuted or even disappeared (Kamalova, Vital’ev & Šilds, 2006). The process of a repressive approach towards former opponents continued throughout Niyazov’s tenure, right up to his death in 2006.

Conclusion: Perestroika as Unsuccessful Attempt to Change Turkmen Political Culture

31 Ahmed Rashid considered Turkmenistan as potentially one of the most unstable states within Central Asia (Rashid, 1994, p. 205). However, it seems that the authoritarian path chosen by Niyazov, accompanied by the harsh repression against any alternative, meant it became one the fundaments for its long-term stability. Niyazov consolidated his power, eliminated the most important opponents and scared off any potential challengers. Niyazov himself created personal rule in order to keep his position in the Akhal-Teke surroundings (Aleksandrov, 1996, p. 175; Horák, 2010). The political culture based on cronyism, corruption and nepotism helped him to cement the authoritarian structures.

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32 Niyazov was able to use all his administrative and power resources to limit the potential influence of alternative centres in the last years of the Soviet Union, with no influential reaction from Moscow. Although intellectual groups were able to partly express their thoughts and reach the public through their publications and articles in the Turkmen and, even more so, Moscow press, their influence was too weak to challenge the existing regime. Even if all the alternative centres were able to unite, they would hardly be able to correct the authoritarian rule of Niyazov based on the Soviet Turkmen political culture and his intolerant character. The programme and the topics based on the moderate and (in some cases) radical Turkmen nationalism did not find necessary reaction in the regions and even beyond the narrow Ashgabat circles. As Akmurad Velsapar pointed out, “the history of Agzybirlik is the history of tragic opposition of leading representatives of Turkmen intelligentsia against Soviet totalitarianism” (cited by Salamatov, 1997). In this sense, it was the case not only of the Soviet totalitarian regime, but even more so the specific Soviet political culture in the specific Turkmenistan conditions. 33 In contrast to other more turbulent Soviet republics, there was only a small amount of mobilisation potential that would be able to challenge Niyazov’s emerging power. The ruling elites from the Akhal-Teke region did not support the intelligentsia as the decisive members among them were interested mostly in keeping their seats gained during the last Soviet purges in the mid-1980s. These cadres tended rather to conserve than to innovate the system. 34 Moreover, President Niyazov, based on his personal background (as an orphan) and characteristics, his political experience as well as the political culture he grew up in did not allow an increase in alternative or even opposition moods. Until the very end of Gorbachev’s leadership, he pretended to be a supporter of perestroika, while on his home field he suppressed any expression of it. After the interruption of Moscow support, he had, in his view, no other way to keep the rule but the crackdown on alternative movements as well as on the most prominent figures of the Turkmen elite with other points of view. They were all considered by him to be an unnecessary challenge and competition (Kuliev, 2006). On the ideological level he usurped the opposition’s topics and presented them as his own. He relied mostly on himself to repress and adapt the ideas of his opponents, while he did not trust the people around him (mostly Akhal-Teke). In this way, the political culture based on the only and central person by means of a personality cult and repressive apparatus was set up as the regular Turkmenistan. This culture was adopted by the second president, who mostly strengthened Akhal-Teke hegemonism, making any alternative (opinion, region) almost impossible. 35 All in all, it does not mean that many people in Turkmenistan are not ready to think in democratic terms and select an alternative to the ruling regime. However, the political culture established by the first president and prolonged in adapted form by the second one is not ready to provide such an option to the population.

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NOTES

1. The text was created within Charles University grant project PRVOUK P17. The author is grateful to the two anonymous reviewers for their thorough review and extraordinary number of commentaries and remarks, which helped to improve substantially the initial version of the text. 2. Another newly published book of memories with a lot of new information remained beyond the reach of the author: Èsenov, 2015. 3. Niyazov was affiliated to Jewish (Tollyev, 2002), Kurdish-Iranian (Mitrokhin & Ponomarev, 1996) and even Arabic origin (Kadyrov, 2001b, p. 17). 4. Description of the personal character of Niyazov was provided to the author by several people from his former entourage in the first years of his rule (A. Kuliev, former minister of foreign affairs, 1999), or from business contacts (Czech businessmen conducting negotiations with Turkmenistan in 2004-2005).

ABSTRACTS

This article focuses on the power shifts in Turkmenistan between the rule of Muhammetnazar Gapurov, the long-term First Secretary of the Turkmen SSR Communist Party and the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The special focus is on the transformation of the elite, power structures and political culture under Saparmurat Niyazov and the emergence and struggle of the alternative groups trying to challenge the order established under the last First Secretary. It argues that Niyazov developed the political culture set up under Gapurov, adding his personal character to the process. These factors determined the largely unsuccessful attempt of the alternative and opposition groups to change the Turkmen SSR in the last stages of perestroika. The political culture established in these and the first subsequent years within independent Turkmenistan also determined the character of the Turkmen regime and the composition of the elite for many years ahead, with significant impact on the system under the second president Berdimuhamedov.

Cet article traite des changements de pouvoir au Turkménistan entre le régime de Muhammetnazar Gapurov, Premier Secrétaire du Parti communiste de la RSS turkmène et la dissolution de l’Union soviétique. L’accent est mis sur la transformation de l’élite, des structures de pouvoir et de la culture politique sous Saparmurat Niyazov et l’émergence et la lutte des groupes alternatifs tentant de contester l’ordre établi sous le dernier Premier Secrétaire. Il soutient l’idée que Niyazov a développé la culture politique mise en place sous Gapurov, en y ajoutant son caractère personnel au processus. Ces facteurs ont déterminé la tentative largement infructueuse des groupes alternatifs et d’opposition de changer la RSS turkmène dans les dernières étapes de la perestroïka. La culture politique établie au cours de ces années et des premières années du Turkménistan indépendant a également déterminé le caractère du régime turkmène et la composition de l’élite pour les années futures, avec un impact significatif sur le système sous le second président Berdimuhamedov.

Статья анализирует передачу власти в Туркменистане начиная с конца длительного срока первого секретаря Коммунистической партии Туркменской сср Мухамметназара Гапурова до распада Советского союза. Особенное внимание

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уделено вопросам трансформации элит, властных структур и политической культуры тогдашней Туркмении под Сапармуратом Ниязовым. Анализ включает и развитие альтернативных структур пытающихся противостоять тенденциям правления Первого секретаря Партии. Оказывается, что Ниязов дальше развивал и углублял политическую культуру основанную Гапуровым и добавил в нее свой персональный характер. Фактор инерции политической культуры во многом предопределил провал целей оппозиционных групп в Туркменской сср в последние годы перестройки. Установленная в республике политическая культура в эти и последующие годы независимого Туркменистана также предопределила характер режима и состава элиты на много десятилетий вперед с непосредственным влиянием на систему нынешнего второго президента Гурбангули Бердимухамедова.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Turkménistan, perestroïka, RSS turkmène, Saparmurat Niyazov, élites, culture politique, opposition motsclesru Туркменистан, перестройка, Туркменской сср, Сапармурат Ниязов, элиты, политическая культура, оппозиция Keywords: Turkmenistan, perestroika, Turkmen SSR, Saparmurat Niyazov, elites, political culture, opposition

AUTHOR

SLAVOMÍR HORÁK

Slavomír Horák is a research fellow at the Department of Russian and East European Studies of the Institute of International Studies, Faculty of Social Sciences, Charles University in Prague. He focuses on contemporary political, social and economic issues in Central Asia with special focus on Turkmenistan’s domestic issues, especially informal politics and state- and nation-building. Contact: [email protected]

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L’année 1989 : politique mémorielle et recherche scientifique sur les répressions politiques au Kazakhstan The Year 1989: Politics of Memory and Academic Research on Political Repressions in Kazakhstan 1989 год: политика памяти в академических исследованиях политических репрессий в Казахстане

Arajlym Musagalieva et Ulbolsyn Sandybaeva Traduction : Masha Cerovic

NOTE DE L’ÉDITEUR

Traduit du russe par Masha Cerovic

1 Le choix de l’année 1989 dans l’histoire des recherches scientifiques consacrées aux répressions politiques au Kazakhstan n’est pas fortuit. Dans les années quatre-vingt, les processus de réforme (perestroïka) et de transparence (glasnost’) ont occasionné un retour sur les « silences » et « pages sombres » de l’histoire1, objets d’un intérêt grandissant. Alors que le 5 janvier 1989, le décret n°145/39 sur les « Mesures supplémentaires de restauration de la justice pour les victimes des répressions politiques des années trente, quarante, et début des années cinquante » est publié à Moscou, la même année, la Commission d’enquête sur les circonstances liées aux événements de décembre 1986 à Alma-Ata2 voit le jour dans la République socialiste soviétique kazakhe (RSSK), témoignant de la spécificité du Kazakhstan dans le processus de glasnost’. Les débats et recherches sur le passé – qu’il soit colonial,

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impérial, ou soviétique – jouent un rôle important dans la construction du nouveau projet national.

2 Les recherches académiques soviétiques sur le thème de la répression politique conduites pendant la perestroïka participent à la reconstruction d’une mémoire étouffée et traumatique. Or une société post-traumatique se caractérise par l’importance particulière qu’y occupe la mémoire historique, comme le confirment la quête de nouvelles formes de récit du passé, la confrontation entre différentes versions de l’histoire des anciennes républiques de l’Union soviétique. Il est important de souligner que la nation et la question de l’identité nationale se trouvent toujours au centre de ces histoires. De nombreux chercheurs occidentaux décrivent les États post- soviétiques d’Asie centrale comme des régimes de construction nationale et soulignent l’hégémonie des nations titulaires (Smith G. et al., 1998). Anatoly Khazanov attire particulièrement l’attention sur l’importance des marqueurs ethniques dans les différentes sphères de la vie sociale au Kazakhstan (Khazanov, 1995). 3 Dans ce contexte, il est important d’analyser l’influence sur les processus de construction nationale des débats scientifiques et des recherches consacrées à l’histoire, notamment à l’histoire des répressions politiques au Kazakhstan et des politiques mémorielles. On peut affirmer que les récits du passé élaborés par les historiens kazakhstanais et la constitution d’une mémoire historique représentent d’importantes ressources symboliques pour l’État à des fins de construction de la nation. L’historien français Ernest Renan, déjà, soulignait la nécessité d’une mémoire partagée et d’un oubli collectif pour l’existence d’une nation (Renan, 1902). L’histoire nationale est un facteur important d’unité pour un État souverain, comme l’affirme le programme gouvernemental Le Peuple dans le cours de l’histoire 2014-2016, dont l’une des missions est « la formation d’une nouvelle vision historique de la nation grâce à la diffusion d’une histoire nationale »3. Aujourd’hui, l’idée nationale est reflétée dans la conception du « Mangilik el » [pays éternel], dont la formation d’une conscience historique et la préservation du code culturel national sont des aspects importants.

Les cadres théoriques de la mémoire

4 Les projets mémoriels jouent un rôle considérable dans la formation d’une identité nationale. Cette question a déjà été amplement étudiée par les théoriciens du nationalisme (Gellner, 1983 ; Smith, 1986 ; Hobsbawm, 1990 ; Anderson, 1991). Notons que c’est justement en 1989 qu’Ernest Gellner a écrit l’introduction à l’édition russe de son livre Nations et Nationalisme, dans laquelle il identifie les problèmes suivants en URSS : Il existe un problème très grave, conséquence de ce que l’implantation de certains peuples est le fait des déplacements forcés à l’époque stalinienne : la répartition actuelle entre majorité et minorité est le fruit de l’arbitraire administratif. Pourquoi de telles injustices devraient-elles se perpétuer ? [...] Certains, déjà, ne constituent plus la majorité sur la terre de leurs ancêtres, par suite d’un développement économique qu’ils ne sont pas en mesure de contrôler. Doivent-ils pour autant être privés de leur patrie ? (Gellner, 1991, p. 7) 5 Dans ce contexte, les événements de 1986 à Alma-Ata témoignent du début de « l’ère du nationalisme »4. Dans le discours officiel, ils avaient été présentés comme une manifestation du nationalisme kazakh, d’un sentiment national douloureux, etc. Dans son livre, Gellner définit le nationalisme comme un mouvement urbain, de masse, de

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l’ère industrielle. Dans un tel contexte, l’inadéquation entre l’état de la culture nationale et sa censure par le pouvoir politique est un sujet sensible ; ce qui favorise l’éclosion d’un sentiment d’humiliation nationale et, partant, d’une aspiration du peuple à l’indépendance. C’est ce qui s’est produit au Kazakhstan. Dans le sillage de John Armstrong, nous pensons que les processus de construction nationale ne doivent pas être considérés comme un projet des élites ; ils dépendent pour beaucoup du cours de l’histoire, de l’existence de symboles et d’une mémoire, d’un « complexe mythe- symbole » (Armstrong, 1982). Comment l’histoire nationale a-t-elle été présentée par l’historiographie soviétique ?5

6 La politique de la mémoire n’est pas allée sans conflit mémoriel. L’historiographie nationale, telle qu’elle s’est formée, cherche à rejeter la tradition historiographique impériale, y compris celle de l’époque soviétique. L’idéologie dominante ne permettait pas de mener des recherches sérieuses sur de nombreux sujets, l’éventail même des sujets était alors restreint. Les travaux d’Ermukhan Bekmakhanov (1915-1966), fondateur de la chaire d’histoire du Kazakhstan à l’université d’État al-Farabi en 1947, en constituent un exemple éloquent. Sa contribution à l’ouvrage collectif L’Histoire de la RSS kazakhe (de l’Antiquité à nos jours) (Abdykapykov & Pankratova, 1943), dans lequel il traite du soulèvement de Kenesary Kasymov, mais surtout son livre Le Kazakhstan des années 1820 aux années 1840, paru en 1947, furent sévèrement critiqués en raison de leur impact redouté sur la conscience nationale des Kazakhs. Dès lors, les universitaires devinrent la cible de répressions. En effet, cette suggestion d’explorer les questions de développement socio-économique et politique du Kazakhstan à différentes époques a été perçue comme une tentative de détourner l’attention des historiens de étude de la période soviétique. Le 21 janvier 1947, le Comité central du Parti communiste de la RSSK adoptait une résolution sur « L’Erreur politique grave de l’Institut de langue et de littérature de l’Académie des sciences de la rss kazakhe ». Selon le chercheur Leonid Gur’evič, cette décision a permis d’élaborer un arsenal théorique et idéologique pour une campagne de grande envergure destinée à toute l’élite des sciences humaines de la république (Gur’evič, 1992, pp. 75-79). 7 Les recherches historiques sur le Kazakhstan sont entrées dans une nouvelle phase à partir du milieu des années cinquante6. Néanmoins, les recherches sur certaines personnalités historiques, en particulier celles du début du XXe siècle, sont restées interdites et des directives secrètes du Parti communiste de l’Union soviétique (PCUS) ont entraîné le retrait de la circulation de certaines publications de chercheurs consacrées à l’histoire du Kazakhstan, notamment son histoire soviétique (Nurpeisov, 1991). 8 Les événements de décembre 1986 à Almaty ont eu un impact négatif sur l’activité des historiens, en suscitant à nouveau la peur. Des questions très actuelles, comme la famine du début des années trente, les répressions politiques, la politique des terres vierges, etc., ne sont pas abordées avant 1991. Or ce sont justement ces questions, comme le remarque la chercheuse britannique Shirin Akiner, qui auraient pu servir de puissant facteur de consolidation pour le peuple. L’auteur remarque notamment, à propos de la tragédie des années trente, que ces événements n’ont pas pris, dans la conscience des Kazakhs, la même place que le génocide des Juifs dans l’identité européenne. Ils ont été condamnés à l’oubli à cause de l’impossibilité de les penser (Akiner, 1995). Il s’agit là, sans aucun doute, d’une mémoire traumatique, et, dans la conscience collective, l’interprétation de cet événement est en grande partie fonction

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des recherches menées par les historiens et du développement de pratiques de commémoration. 9 Les recherches sur la mémoire adoptent désormais diverses approches : la mémoire collective de Maurice Halbwachs (2007), les lieux de mémoire de Pierre Nora (1999), la théorie de la politique mémorielle d’Eric Hobsbawm (1990), ou encore la mémoire culturelle de Jan Assman (2004). Dans notre cas, le concept d’Hobsbawm sur le lien entre mémoire et idéologie, sur la possibilité pour des groupes politiques de manipuler les images du passé en fonction des besoins actuels est particulièrement opérant – même si différentes formes de mémoires d’opposition, non-officielles, peuvent toujours émerger. Dans l’ensemble, la mémoire offre un tableau complexe et ambigu. Outre les théories de la mémoire, nous mobiliserons également les paradigmes du totalitarisme, qui sont largement utilisés pour l’étude de l’époque stalinienne, voire de toute la période soviétique. Ils sont utiles pour aborder la question des répressions politiques, en particulier si l’on prend en compte le fait que de nombreux camps du Goulag se trouvaient au Kazakhstan.

Le débat sur les « silences » de l’histoire, condition nécessaire à l’étude de la question des répressions politiques au Kazakhstan

10 L’on connaît le rôle crucial que jouent les historiens dans l’initiation et la promotion du nationalisme, en créant les fondements rationnels de la nation rêvée (Smith, 2002, p. 236). À l’époque soviétique, les recherches sur l’histoire du Kazakhstan étaient menées par l’Institut d’histoire, d’archéologie et d’ethnologie Valikhanov, du nom du célèbre ethnographe kazakh Čokan Valikhanov (1835-1865). Dès 1987, Ramazan Sulejmenov, alors directeur de l’institut, souleva publiquement pour la première fois la question de la persécution des membres distingués de l’intelligentsia kazakhe par les bolcheviks. Il publia un article sur les apports de Sandžar Asfendiarov à l’émergence de la science historique (Sulejmenov, 1987). Asfendiarov était l’auteur de nombreuses publications parmi lesquelles L’Histoire du Kazakhstan (depuis l’Antiquité) (1935), La Révolte de libération nationale de 1916 au Kazakhstan (1936) 7, et avait participé activement aux débats sur l’intelligentsia kazakhe. Outre Sulejmenov, citons quelques pionniers des recherches sur les répressions politiques, qui ont contribué à faire de ce sujet un thème majeur de l’histoire nationale à la fin des années quatre-vingt : Manaš Kozybaev, Grigorij Kozlov, Nugman Žagyparov, Tlemis Mustafin, Vladimir Grigor’ev, Vladimir Osipov.

11 Le 25 août 1988, le journal de langue kazakhe Socialistìk Qazaqstan [Kazakhstan socialiste] publia les actes d’une table ronde organisée par les historiens de l’Institut Valikhanov pour discuter les silences de l’histoire, comprendre leur origine et déterminer leurs responsables (« Tarikhtyng... », 1988). Malgré le ton émotionnellement très chargé de ces discussions, elles permirent de poser les bases d’un examen conceptuel des périodes douloureuses de l’histoire nationale, et notamment des silences dont la rhétorique est importante pour comprendre comment se forment les histoires nationales à travers la maturation de conflits mémoriels, comme l’a alors explicité Sulejmenov, par exemple :

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Le terme même de « silence » a déjà une signification large et globale. Il renvoie non seulement à des questions qui n’ont pas du tout été étudiées, mais aussi à celles qui, des années durant, l’ont été insuffisamment ou de façon biaisée (idem). 12 Et l’historien Kozybaev d’ajouter : Maintenant que nous levons le voile sur les silences de l’histoire, rien ni personne ne doit être oublié. Malheureusement, de nombreuses pages de l’histoire du Kazakhstan ne sont pas seulement oubliées, elles ne sont pas même mentionnées (idem). 13 Les participants à la table ronde citèrent des exemples historiques concrets : le rattachement du Kazakhstan à la Russie, les mouvements de libération nationale, l’histoire de l’intelligentsia soviétique kazakhe, la collectivisation, les répressions politiques staliniennes. Vladimir Osipov, historien du Parti, y rappela les règles régissant le travail du comité du Parti, notamment « l’interdiction pour les chercheurs de consulter les documents de dossiers en cours », le secret des archives. Discutant du destin de l’intelligentsia pendant les répressions staliniennes et de la raison de ces silences, Sulejmenov expliquait : Les conséquences des répressions des années trente-cinquante persistent jusqu’à aujourd’hui [...] Les accusations infondées portées contre des innocents ont tellement marqué notre intelligentsia que, jusqu’à nos jours, la peur se transmet, telle une malédiction, de génération en génération (idem). 14 Cela montre que, même à l’époque de la glasnost’, des chercheurs qui n’avaient pas connu les répressions continuaient d’être inquiets dans l’exercice de leur fonction. Kozybaev faisait le même constat. La question des répressions contre les historiens fut abordée dans ce même journal dans la rubrique « Débats sur les problèmes actuels », où Sulejmenov renvoyait aux nombreuses publications qui portaient des accusations contre les historiens et chercheurs travaillant sur l’ethnographie et l’histoire ancienne : À leur époque, V. V. Vostrov et M. S. Mukanov ont été accusés de faire l’apologie des aperçus de la société tribale qu’offraient leurs livres Composition clanique et tribale des Kazakhs et leur implantation (1968) et Composition ethnique des Kazakhs de la Žuz moyenne et leur implantation (1974)8. 15 Au fil de ces discussions, l’on relève les positions de ceux qui essayaient de comprendre les événements de 1986 à la lumière de ces recherches – c’est-à-dire de l’étude de l’histoire kazakhe – et pour lesquelles l’intérêt pour l’histoire du peuple conduirait à la montée du nationalisme. Sulejmenov a rétorqué sans ambiguïté qu’il ne fallait pas établir de lien entre les causes des événements de 1986 et ces livres. Ces débats montrent que la construction de l’identité par son rattachement à un passé historique, en particulier pré-soviétique, était perçue par une certaine partie de la population comme nationaliste, et de fait suscitait l’inquiétude. À l’époque soviétique, le nationalisme avait toujours une connotation négative au regard de l’idéologie internationaliste, comme l’expliquait en 1983 Raisa Koldobskaâ : Les chercheurs n’ont pas encore assez étudié le difficile contexte de lutte idéologique et politique contre le chauvinisme grand-russe et contre les nationalistes bourgeois locaux à l’époque de la création de l’État soviétique kazakh et aux premiers temps de son histoire (Koldobskaâ, 1983, p. 167). 16 La même année, Masanov et Sužikov critiquèrent violemment les thèses des soviétologues occidentaux sur la question nationale en URSS : Aujourd’hui, la science politique bourgeoise promeut l’idée qu’il existe en URSS une « hiérarchie des nations », appuyée sur les prémisses mensongères de l’existence dans notre pays de « nations souveraines », de « petits frères » [...] leur objectif

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politique est d’essayer de jeter le discrédit sur la politique nationale léniniste du PCUS, les réussites de l’URSS dans la solution de la question nationale (Masanov & Sužikov, 1983, pp. 171,173). 17 L’ensemble de l’argumentation des auteurs se résume à affirmer que les historiens du Kazakhstan ont réfuté ces idées taxées de mensongères. Tous les articles publiés par l’Institut Valikhanov adoptaient à peu près le même ton en 1983 encore, quelques années à peine avant la Perestroïka. Les événements de décembre 1986 étaient, pour cette raison, particulièrement inattendus dans cette république multinationale ; personne ne s’attendait en effet à ce qu’ils s’y produisent, d’autant qu’à l’époque, les Kazakhs y étaient minoritaires. Tout cela confirme la thèse de Rogers Brubaker, selon laquelle les traumas historiques non résolus, le silence sur les événements tragiques, leur tabouisation, sont potentiellement explosifs. En URSS, « la prise en compte du passé » n’a pas eu lieu (Brubaker, 2000). Il a fallu attendre 1989 pour que les historiens commencent à s’intéresser aux conséquences de la collectivisation, à la politique brutale de Filipp Goloŝekin9, à la famine de 1932-1933, à l’histoire du mouvement Alaš, en insistant, dans ce contexte, sur l’importance d’analyser les sources et les archives. Le débat que nous avons présenté, la discussion publique de ces « silences » de l’histoire ont donné l’impulsion au développement ultérieur de l’historiographie nationale.

L’intensification des recherches sur les activités d’Alaš et l’idée de construction nationale

18 La recherche consacrée au mouvement Alaš est l’un des axes principaux de structuration de l’historiographie nationale kazakhe. Cette thématique a une signification particulière dans le développement de la conscience nationale, car les représentants de ce mouvement étaient actifs dans les champs socio-politique, scientifique, pédagogique et littéraire. La popularité de ce sujet peut être comprise à travers le prisme de la théorie de Gellner sur l’alliance entre l’État et la culture, la convergence entre le politique et le national pour l’émergence du nationalisme (Gellner, 1991). En effet, l’un des principaux objectifs d’Alaš était l’autonomie territoriale d’une population partageant la même origine, la même culture et la même langue. Pendant toute la période soviétique, les membres d’Alaš étaient considérés comme des « nationalistes », un point de vue qui dominait parmi les Kazakhs et ne fut remis en cause qu’après les événements de décembre 1986.

19 Il faut noter que, même après le vingtième congrès du Parti communiste de 1956, Alaš était resté un thème interdit et que ses membres ne furent pas réhabilités. L’historien Kajdar Aldažumanov l’explique par le fait qu’ils étaient des opposants au gouvernement soviétique, des partisans de Trotski, parties prenantes des luttes de faction internes au parti bolchévique (Aldažumanov, 2009). Si on analyse le contenu du rapport de Khrouchtchev sur « le culte de la personnalité et ses conséquences », son objectif n’était pas de critiquer le régime communiste. Il soutenait qu’après la mort de Lénine, Staline avait déformé les idées du leader et avait soumis tout le peuple à son pouvoir. C’est pourquoi Khrouchtchev accordait une attention particulière aux illégalités de la période de la grande terreur stalinienne. Le texte du rapport était, en effet, entièrement consacré à l’analyse des répressions politiques des années 1937-1938 alors que l’opposition au gouvernement soviétique et la « terreur rouge » léniniste étaient

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passées sous silence. La réhabilitation par les autorités qui s’ensuivit était exclusivement basée sur ce rapport. 20 À la fin des années quatre-vingt, la question des victimes des répressions politiques est devenue centrale pour tous les peuples de l’URSS. Dans ce contexte, nous soutenons l’idée que les souffrances partagées et la compassion pour les victimes renforcent la nation. Les premières recherches des historiens sur ce sujet ont d’abord été des initiatives individuelles. Bien sûr, la nécessité s’est imposée d’exploiter les archives. Par la suite, des décisions réglementaires ont été prises au niveau étatique. Présentons quelques-unes de ces étapes. 21 Le 23 décembre 1987, le directeur de la filiale kazakhe de l’Institut du marxisme- léninisme, Bajdabek Tolepbaev, envoya une lettre « Sur les personnes citées dans la lettre de L. D. Kuderin » au Comité central du pcus, dans laquelle il soulevait la question de la réhabilitation des membres d’Alaš (Gribanova et al., 2008, pp. 55-58). La déclaration de Kuderin citait de nombreux représentants de l’intelligentsia kazakhe condamnés à tort. Il affirmait qu’en dépit des réhabilitations postérieures, ils continuaient à être considérés péjorativement, et que leur œuvre littéraire et scientifique était injustement ignorée. L’Institut répondit que cela était une conséquence de leur activité politique et avant tout, du fait qu’ils étaient liés à l’Autonomie Alaš (Alaš Orda) « contre-révolutionnaire ». En outre, il n’y avait pas eu d’analyse scientifique approfondie de leur activité et leur œuvre littéraire et scientifique n’avait pas été évaluée. Des documents du nkvd avaient été trouvés, qui qualifiaient leur activité de « contre-révolutionnaire, antisoviétique ». Dans la mesure où la réhabilitation devait être individuelle, il était proposé qu’une commission spéciale fût créée à cet effet par le Comité central du PC kazakh ou par le gouvernement républicain. 22 En janvier 1988, à la demande d’Olžas Sulejmenov, premier secrétaire de l’Union des écrivains du Kazakhstan, le procureur général de la RSSK, G. B. Elemesov, dénonçait l’illégalité des poursuites contre les membres d’Alaš Orda et faisait appel auprès de la Cour suprême de la RSSK. Le 4 novembre 1988, la chambre des affaires criminelles de la Cour suprême examinait le jugement sur « le dossier d’instruction des membres de l’organisation secrète contre-révolutionnaire, terroriste Alaš Orda, organisée pour renverser le gouvernement soviétique de l’intérieur ». Après s’être plongée dans les quatorze tomes de l’acte d’instruction et les dépositions de tous les témoins, la commission a conclu à des violations graves de la loi et des falsifications de la part de l’instruction. Une expertise de leurs écrits a révélé que les publications et travaux des membres d’Alaš ne comprenaient pas de propagande antisoviétique. Sur la base de la décision de la Cour suprême, un texte signé par Olžas Sulejmenov et adressé au secrétaire du Comité central du PC kazakh, G. Kolbin, proposait la réhabilitation définitive des membres d’Alaš. Sur décision d’une commission organisée à l’Académie des sciences, un décret spécial fut publié en 1988 pour la réhabilitation politique et scientifique des membres d’Alaš (Žurtbaj, 2008, pp. 3-4). Il s’agissait de quatorze personnes qui avaient été condamnées sur décret de l’OGPU le 4 avril 1930, parmi lesquels Akhmet Bajtursynov (1872-1937), Miržakyp Dulatov (1885-1935), Magžan Žumabaev 1893-1938), et Žucipbek Ajmauytov (1889-1931). Ce décret a joué un rôle important dans le rétablissement de la justice historique et dans la diffusion de leur œuvre (Gribanova et al., op. cit., p. 59).

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23 Ainsi, les historiens longtemps empêchés d’étudier le mouvement Alaš, de restituer les noms et les idées de ses membres, pouvaient enfin lancer des recherches. Ils furent notamment frappés par l’illégalité absolue des dossiers policiers de l’époque. Par exemple Akhmet Bajtursynov avait été exclu du barreau sans l’ouverture de poursuites pénales ; sa condamnation fut prononcée en son absence, et par des autorités qui n’en avait pas la compétence légale. Cette situation s’est révélée caractéristique du traitement des membres d’Alaš. En juillet 1989, une table ronde fut organisée à l’Institut du marxisme-léninisme sur le thème « Alaš Orda : émergence, activité et désintégration ». De célèbres historiens y participèrent, offrant une perspective historique sur Alaš Orda (ibid., pp. 197-214). 24 À partir de là, les historiens kazakhstanais se sont pleinement saisi de l’histoire des répressions politiques. L’accès des chercheurs aux archives, jusqu’ici interdites, fut alors autorisé. C’est précisément à ce moment-là que les études sur le mouvement Alaš ont connu un regain d’actualité. Les œuvres des membres d’Alaš ont été publiées10 et les articles de presse consacrés à l’analyse de leur action sociale et politique se sont multipliés11. Ces publications ont eu un fort écho dans la société kazakhe et ont participé à l’éveil de la conscience nationale. 25 Au cours des années quatre-vingt-dix, c’est au plus haut niveau que les recherches sur les répressions politiques et l’ouverture de nouvelles archives ont pu être organisées. En 1990, la conférence sur « L’histoire du Parti communiste du Kazakhstan : avancées, évaluations, théories » a permis de réunir des universitaires et des activistes. En 1993, l’Institut d’histoire et d’ethnologie Valikhanov a publié un recueil d’articles consacrés à l’actualité des recherches sur les répressions politiques (Kazakhstan, 1993). K. Nurpeisov y présenta des documents d’archives sur les travaux d’Alimkhan Ermekov (1891-1970) ; S. Mažitov sur l’œuvre d’Ermukhan Bekmakhanov (1915-1966) ; quant à R. Nurmagambetova, elle y analysa l’historiographie d’Alaš dans les années vingt et trente. Ce recueil a permis aux chercheurs de prendre connaissance de nouvelles données et sources sur les victimes des répressions politiques. 26 Par ailleurs, grâce à leurs monographies, les historiens D. Amanžolova, K. Nurpeisov et M. Kojgeldiev ont fourni un apport significatif à notre connaissance de l’action sociale et politique de l’intelligentsia nationale qui s’est battue pour le rétablissement d’une souveraineté kazakhe. Dans leurs travaux, ils ont examiné des questions diverses, telles que l’opposition des membres d’Alaš aux bolcheviks en 1917-1920, leurs positions face à la situation intérieure du pays pendant la guerre civile, etc. (Amanžolova, 1993 & 1994 ; Nurpeisov, 1995 ; Kojgeldiev, 1995). Dans les publications actuelles consacrées au mouvement Alaš de 1917 à 1956 et à l’histoire de l’intelligentsia kazakhe, de nouvelles sources et recherches scientifiques continuent d’être publiées, à l’instar notamment des thèses consacrées à l’historiographie de l’œuvre des intellectuels d’Alaš par R. Nurmagambetova (2003) et G. Kakenova (2006). 27 « Sa vie, c’est toute l’histoire kazakhe » : ces mots ont été écrits à propos du poète, philosophe et historien Šakarim Kudajberdiev (Sydykov, 2012, p. 344). Il est considéré comme un membre d’Alaš, même s’il a quitté le mouvement en 1918, à la suite de désaccords avec la direction du parti. Par exemple, si Šakarim partageait le mécontentement des Kazakhs face à l’installation des colons russes sur les meilleures terres agricoles, il voyait en eux aussi des personnes et comprenait la colonisation comme un fait accompli, comme le rapporte Sydykov. Dans le journal Abaj en 1918, Šakarim écrivait : « le nationalisme peut donner naissance à une culture, mais pas à un

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cœur pur. Un cœur pur, voilà la conscience » (ibid., p. 237). La conscience était une catégorie philosophique importante pour Šakarim. Il faut souligner qu’il ne s’était pas engagé dans l’action politique. Pourtant le régime redoutait l’influence de ce poète philosophe sur le peuple. Après son assassinat en 1931, à l’âge de 73 ans, son nom fut interdit car synonyme des pires maux de l’époque : ennemi du régime soviétique, nationaliste bourgeois, membre d’Alaš Orda, etc. En 1988 encore, ce n’est qu’avec difficulté que la commission a réussi à le réhabiliter. Son livre, Généalogie des dynasties turques, kirghizes, kazakhes et han, est particulièrement précieux pour les historiens. Ce livre, traduit en russe et réimprimé en 1990, est devenu populaire parmi les Kazakhs, car il leur permettait de remonter leurs racines familiales (Šakarim, 1990). 28 L’ensemble des sources disponibles sur le mouvement Alaš a été publié dans un recueil de documents en trois tomes (Dviženie Alaš, 2011). Mais on ne peut pour autant affirmer que toutes les sources sur le mouvement Alaš aient été identifiées à ce jour. Sans aucun doute, d’autres documents attendent encore les historiens dans les archives. L’idée du mouvement Alaš, selon laquelle le salut du peuple ne viendrait pas seulement de son éducation, mais aussi de son auto-détermination, de la libération nationale, a trouvé un écho dans la conscience nationale grandissante des Kazakhs des années quatre-vingt. En 1989, les historiens kazakhstanais se sont tournés vers l’étude d’Alaš, en plaçant leurs travaux dans le contexte des questions sur les conceptions de la souveraineté nationale. C’est pourquoi les articles des historiens et spécialistes de littérature ont été accueillis par le public avec intérêt et émotion : La signification historique d’Alaš Orda est que ce mouvement a, pour bien des années à venir, défini le programme de la souveraineté kazakhe, qui devait nécessairement se réaliser tôt ou tard (ibid., p. 249). 29 Si l’on considère que presque tous les dirigeants du parti Alaš ont été tués, que 4 297 de ses membres ont été réprimés, et qu’environ cent dix mille personnes ont été victimes de répressions politiques au Kazakhstan entre 1920 et 1953 (Masanov et al., 2001, pp. 304-305), ces traumatismes historiques ne pouvaient qu’engendrer, avec le temps, un fort ressentiment à l’égard de la période soviétique.

Une mémoire traumatique : les recherches sur les camps staliniens au Kazakhstan

30 L’historien Jan Assman distingue deux formes de mémoire collective : communicative et culturelle (Assman, 2004). La mémoire communicative est la mémoire de la génération qui a directement participé à un événement historique donné ; elle peut être considérée comme un élément de la biographie individuelle, ce qui lui confère une connotation émotionnelle. Lorsque le passé devient un objet lointain de la science historique, la mémoire devient culturelle. Les recherches sur les événements tragiques du siècle dernier, notamment les camps staliniens au Kazakhstan, peuvent être envisagées de ces deux points de vue : la mémoire communicative et la mémoire culturelle.

31 Dans ce contexte, le recours au concept de totalitarisme semble opératoire, puisque la « radicalité du mal », telle qu’identifiée par Hannah Arendt dans son analyse du totalitarisme (Arendt, 1996) permet de définir le régime stalinien. Alexander Etkind souligne que la spécificité du cas soviétique réside « non dans la terreur de masse en

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tant que telle, mais dans sa longue durée, l’absence de bornes claires et, en particulier, l’indétermination de son terme » (Etkind, 2004). 32 Au Kazakhstan furent mises sur pied, à l’époque du totalitarisme, des branches du Goulag : le Karlag (camp de la région de Karaganda), le Steplag (camp des steppes de Džezkazgan), le Pesčanlag (camp des sables de Karaganda), ALŽIR (acronyme pour Akmolinskij lager ’ žen izmennikov Podiny, camp des épouses des traîtres à la patrie d’Akmolinsk), etc. Ce dernier est un cas unique dans l’histoire de l’URSS. À l’époque soviétique, bien entendu, ces pages de l’histoire ne faisaient pas l’objet de recherches. Beaucoup ne soupçonnaient même pas l’existence de camps de femmes. Ce n’est qu’après leur libération que les victimes ont, pour la première fois, évoqué la vérité historique. 33 L’information sur ALŽIR est apparue dans L’Archipel du Goulag de Soljenitsyne, chef- d’œuvre documentaire et littéraire du dégel poststalinien paru à Paris en 197312. Néanmoins, l’auteur russe ne fut pas le seul à traiter des camps du Kazakhstan. Loin s’en faut. Les historiens de Karaganda se sont également saisis de l’histoire des camps. Notons que la majorité des camps du Goulag étaient situés dans les régions du centre et du nord du Kazakhstan. L’article du chercheur Viktor Dik, publié dans Kazakhstanskaâ Pravda, a eu un grand écho (Dik, 1988). Cet article a ensuite été republié dans le recueil Ce dont on ne parlait pas. L’auteur, sur la base d’entretiens avec des témoins, y écrit une histoire des camps, complétée de documents et lettres d’anciens détenus (Dik, 1990). 34 À partir de 1989, des articles sur les répressions politiques ont commencé à être publiés dans la rubrique « Memorial pamâti » [Mémorial de la mémoire] du journal Industrial’naâ Karaganda, créée par un membre de l’organisation d’éducation historique Ädìlet [Justice]. C’est ainsi que la question du Karlag a été mise à l’ordre du jour pour les chercheurs (Kuznecova, 1989a, 1989b, 1989c ; Ertysbaev, 1989 ; Kiselev, 1989 ; Majer, 1989)13. À la suite de cette initiative, des détenus des camps se sont mis à publier leurs mémoires en série. On peut citer les récits autobiographiques de Evgeniâ Ginzburg (1989), Nadežda Surovceva (1989), Khava Volovič (1989), Adda Vojtolovskaâ (1991), Ol’ga Adamova-Sliozberg (1993), et les mémoires intitulées L’Algérie 14 du Kazakhstan de Galina Stepanova-Klûčnikova (2003). Le journaliste A. Tasymbekov a publié, en 1994, des documents d’archives sur les femmes détenues du Kazakhstan. Il a pu suivre la trace de la terreur bolchévique dans la vie privée des personnes grâce aux témoignages de détenues du camp d’Akmolinsk des épouses des « traîtres à la patrie » et des membres des familles de fonctionnaires réprimés du pcus. En outre, dans ses travaux, on peut trouver des informations sur les personnes qui travaillaient dans le système du NKVD. Le trésor principal de ce livre réside dans la richesse des entretiens qui retranscrivent les derniers souvenirs des anciennes détenues (Tasymbekov, 1994). 35 Les mémoires et témoignages cités ci-dessus appartiennent à la mémoire communicative, qui suppose une charge émotionnelle, mais sont néanmoins des sources essentielles pour la compréhension de l’histoire de la période stalinienne. La valeur de ces sources réside en ce qu’elles contiennent des faits qui ne se trouvent pas dans les documents officiels. C’est pourquoi il est important de prendre en compte les sources de ce type. Au Centre Sakharov qui a ouvert ses portes à Moscou en janvier 1990, la base de données électroniques « Les témoignages du Goulag et leurs auteurs » conserve les témoignages de nombreuses détenues du camp d’Akmolinsk15. 36 Les évolutions politiques et juridiques survenues au milieu des années quatre-vingt-dix ont influencé les travaux sur cette question. Le 30 décembre 1996, a été publié le décret

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présidentiel « proclamant 1997 comme année d’unité nationale et de commémoration des victimes des répressions politiques » au Kazakhstan. Cela a nourri l’intérêt scientifique des historiens pour la question. C’est le cas de Dûsetaj Šajmukhanov, historien de Karaganda, qui a été le premier à collecter des documents sur l’histoire du goulag de sa ville. Son livre, Karlag (1997), retrace le destin de détenus des camps du Kazakhstan central, leur arrestation, leurs conditions de travail dans l’industrie et l’agriculture. En outre, le livre contient des informations précieuses sur l’histoire du camp d’Akmolinsk, des camps de prisonniers de guerre et du camp spécial des steppes. Pour l’époque, il s’agissait d’une analyse riche des sources. La publication de la brochure Karlag (1997) de Satybaldy Dil’manov et Ekaterina Kuznecova a représenté une nouvelle étape dans les recherches sur ce sujet ; les deux auteurs y proposent une synthèse de l’histoire du système du Karlag. Dans son travail doctoral, Anfisa Kukuškina a été l’une des premières universitaires à analyser et faire connaître de nouvelles sources sur le camp d’Akmolinsk des épouses des « traîtres à la patrie » et les spécificités de la vie des détenues du camp. L’auteur a ensuite publié sa thèse sous forme de monographie. Dans ce livre, elle utilise des documents des Archives d’État de la région de Karaganda et de la branche du Comité de la statistique juridique et du fichier spécial du Parquet général de la ville de Karaganda. Elle y étudie aussi des questions comme l’intensité d’utilisation du travail et apporte des informations sur les enfants (Kukuškina, 2002). 37 Parmi les historiens étrangers, il faut souligner le rôle des chercheurs allemands, à l’instar de Wladislaw Hedeler et Meinhard Stark de l’université de Bonn, qui ont étudié les camps du Goulag au Kazakhstan. M. Stark a commencé par publier de brèves informations sur les détenus du Kazakhstan dans ses travaux sur les camps de femmes du Goulag, et W. Hedeler des articles sur l’administration et les gardes du camp de Karaganda dans les années 1929-1940. Dans les années qui ont suivi, ils ont engagé des recherches plus approfondies. En 2007, les deux historiens allemands ont publié, sur la base d’archives de Karaganda, deux livres dans lesquels ils exploitent des sources sur l’histoire du camp de Karaganda de 1930 à 1959, notamment 800 000 fiches, 60 000 dossiers personnels de détenus et 20 000 dossiers personnels d’employés, conservés dans les archives d’État de la région de Karaganda et de la branche du Comité de la statistique juridique et du fichier spécial du Parquet général de la ville de Karaganda. Ils ont accordé une attention particulière à la structure du camp, à la manière dont était organisé le travail et aux tortures subies par les prisonniers (Hedeler & Stark, 2007a, 2007b). 38 Aujourd’hui, d’autres chercheurs étrangers publient des livres fondés sur les documents qu’ils ont trouvés dans leurs archives, grâce à l’appui des ambassades de leurs pays respectifs. Ainsi, le livre Retour du néant a été publié avec l’appui de l’ambassade de Biélorussie au Kazakhstan. Ce livre fournit des listes de victimes des répressions politiques entre 1931 et 1958 sur la base de requêtes transmises au Comité de la sécurité d’État et du Parquet général du Kazakhstan (Pakuš & Livšic, 2004). Dans ces listes, il apparaît que des déplacés spéciaux16 aussi pouvaient se trouver dans des camps de redressement par le travail, y compris au Karlag et au camp d’Akmolinsk des épouses des « traîtres à la patrie ». Steven Barnes, professeur au département d’histoire et d’histoire de l’art de l’université George Mason, a publié une monographie sur ce sujet au Karlag (Barnes, 2010).

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39 En partenariat avec les associations des victimes de répression illégale de la ville d’Astana et de la région d’Akmolinsk, Memorial a publié à Moscou, en 2003, un ouvrage répertoriant les noms des femmes du camp d’Akmolinsk. On y trouve aussi de brèves notices sur 7 259 prisonniers du camp de redressement par le travail de Karaganda en 1938-1940 (Grinev et al., 2003). Étant donné que, de 1938 à 1953, 18 000 femmes ont été détenues dans le camp d’Akmolinsk, il apparaît indispensable de poursuivre ce travail de recension des détenues. D’après le musée-mémorial ALŽIR à Astana, cinquante nouveaux noms ont été découverts depuis 2007 et ajoutés aux listes des « Murs de la mémoire » du musée. 40 Un aspect important de la politique mémorielle est précisément la transformation des camps en musées, l’érection de monuments et la pose de plaques commémoratives. Une mémoire traumatique est liée aux camps ; aussi la mise en scène de ce passé dramatique encourage-t-elle le développement d’un discours critique voire même moral sur ce passé totalitaire. Au Kazakhstan, des monuments à la mémoire des victimes des répressions politiques ont été érigés à partir de 1989 et des plaques commémoratives posées sur les lieux d’enterrement des victimes. Après l’indépendance, des musées dédiés aux répressions politiques ont été ouverts, notamment le musée des victimes des répressions politiques à Chimkent, le mémorial du Karlag à Karaganda, et le musée- mémorial des victimes des répressions politiques d’ALŽIR à Astana. Les historiens interviennent en tant que consultants dans les recherches menées par les équipes des musées. Le 31 mai, jour de la commémoration des victimes des répressions politiques, des événements et conférences sont organisés à l’échelle nationale. 41 Il reste une question que les historiens commencent à explorer, celle du destin des gardes qui ont participé, comme organisateurs et exécutants, aux répressions. Les archives kazakhstanaises ont peu de documents sur ce sujet, à l’exception, par exemple, du fonds personnel de Mikhail Ûzipenko (1921-1994), conservé dans les archives d’État de la ville d’Astana17. L’analyse de ces documents montre comment les agents du NKVD cherchaient à se justifier. Après la Perestroïka, Ûzipenko, dans toutes ses interventions, s’est efforcé de prouver son innocence. Son attitude ne va pas sans rappeler la banalité du mal décrite par Hannah Arendt. L’amnésie est l’héritage du totalitarisme : c’est pourquoi les différents modes de mise en mémoire – des représentations muséales aux recherches et débats académiques – jouent un rôle important dans « l’assimilation d’un passé » particulièrement tragique.

Conclusion

42 L’année 1989 a été un tournant, tant dans l’histoire du Kazakhstan que dans les recherches scientifiques consacrées aux répressions politiques. La société d’alors se trouvait dans un état post-traumatique, à l’instar de son histoire qui, dans bien des cas, peut être présentée comme la reconstruction d’une mémoire étouffée, traumatique. Nous pensons que le traumatisme était intégré à la pensée quotidienne comme à la réflexion théorique de cette époque.

43 C’est en 1989 qu’a été publié le décret sur « les Mesures supplémentaires de restauration de la justice pour les victimes des répressions politiques des années trente, quarante, et début des années cinquante ». Cette même année est créée dans la rss kazakhe la Commission d’enquête sur les circonstances liées aux événements de décembre 1986 à Alma-Ata. Ces événements confirment la thèse de Rogers Brubaker,

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selon laquelle les traumatismes historiques non résolus, le silence fait sur des événements tragiques sont potentiellement explosifs (Brubaker, op. cit.). En effet, ces événements de la période de glasnost’ ont suscité une vague de nouvelles répressions, ce qui fait la spécificité de la situation au Kazakhstan. Les débats et recherches scientifiques sur l’histoire et notamment sur les répressions politiques au Kazakhstan, et, partant, la politique mémorielle, ont eu une influence directe sur le processus de construction nationale. On peut affirmer que les récits du passé élaborés par les historiens kazakhstanais et la constitution d’une mémoire historique constituent d’importantes ressources symboliques pour l’État à des fins de construction de la nation. Cela concerne en particulier les recherches consacrées à l’action d’Alaš, dont la signification historique, d’après les universitaires, réside dans l’idée d’une souveraineté kazakhe. Les recherches sur les camps staliniens au Kazakhstan, la transformation des camps en musées, encouragent le développement d’un discours critique sur le passé totalitaire. En même temps, les traumatismes historiques du passé renforcent aussi l’unité du peuple. Dans l’ensemble, l’historiographie consacrée à cette période se caractérise par la construction d’un discours national et la volonté de rejeter la tradition historiographique soviétique antérieure. Pendant cette période de construction d’un État indépendant, l’historiographie continue de servir les projets nationaux de l’État. Néanmoins, il est désormais temps de prendre en compte la complexité du phénomène mémoriel et la diversité des mémoires des différents groupes ethniques qui vivent sur le territoire du Kazakhstan.

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NOTES

1. NdT : dans le texte en russe « belye i černye pâtna istorii » [les taches blanches et noires de l’histoire]. 2. Un soulèvement populaire y avait entraîné une nouvelle vague de répressions. 3. Voir le contenu détaillé du programme sur http://e-history.kz/ru/contents/view/331. 4. En décembre 1986, la jeunesse kazakhe avait manifesté en masse à Alma-Ata contre le pouvoir central, reprochant la destitution du Premier secrétaire du Parti communiste de la rss kazakhe Dinmukhamed Kunaev et son remplacement par le Russe Gennadij Kolbin qui, jusqu’ici, n’avait jamais travaillé au Kazakhstan. La manifestation fut dispersée dans le sang (entre 2 et 168 morts selon les sources), avec notamment l’utilisation par les forces de l’ordre de pelles de déminage, de chiens de combat, de lances à eau alors même que les manifestants défilaient dans le froid. Une répression brutale s’ensuivit. La plupart des documents relatifs à ces événements sont conservés dans les archives de Moscou et Almaty et n’ont pas encore été ouverts au public. 5. Soulignons ici qu’il est nécessaire de considérer l’historiographie soviétique comme un phénomène scientifique et politique particulier (Toŝenko, 2000 ; Van Meurs, 2001 ; Sherlock, 2002 ; Suny, 2002 ; Martin, 2002 ; Šebalin, 2014). 6. Citons par exemple les publications suivantes : Istoriâ kazakhskoj SSR (s drevnejšikh vremen do našikh dnej) v 5-ti tomakh, t.5 [L’histoire de la RSS kazakhe (de l’Antiquité à nos jours) en 5 tomes, t. 5], Alma-Ata: Nauka, 1957 ; Sulejmenov B.S., 1963, Agrarnyj vopros v Kazakhstane poslednej treti XIX-načala XX v. (1867-1907 gg.) [La question agraire au Kazakhstan, dernier tiers du XIXe-début du XXe siècles (1867-1907)], Alma-Ata: Nauka ; Dakhšlejger G. F., 1965, Social’no- èkonomičeskiepreobrazovaniâ v aule i derevne Kazakhstana (1921-1929 gg.) [Changements socioéconomiques dans l’aul et le village du Kazakhstan (1921-1929)], Alma-Ata: Nauka ; Nusupbekov A. N., 1966, Formirovanie i razvitie sovetskogo rabočego klassa v Kazakhstane (1917-1940gg.) [Formation et développement de la classe ouvrière au Kazakhstan (1917-1940)], Alma-Ata: Nauka ; Bejsembaev S. B., 1968, Lenin i Kazakhstan (1897-1924) [Lénine et le Kazakhstan (1897-1924)], Alma-Ata: Kazakhstan ; Kozybaev M. & Golikova Z., 1973, Zolotoj fond partii. Iz opyta kadrovoj politiki KPSS [Le trésor du parti. De l’expérience de la politique des cadres du PCUS], Alma-Ata: Kazakhstan ; Sulejmenov B. S. & Basin V. Â., 1977, Vosstanie 1916 goda v Kazakhstane. Pričiny, kharakter, dvižuŝie sily [La révolte de 1916 au Kazakhstan. Causes, nature, forces motrices], Alma-Ata: Nauka ; Margulan A. Kh., 1979, Begazy-dandybaevskaâ kul’tura Central’nogo Kazakhstana [La culture Begazi-Dandybai du Kazakhstan central], Alma-Ata: Nauka ; Ismagulov O., 1982, Ètničeskaâ antropologiâ kazakhov [L’anthropologie ethnique des Kazakhes], Alma-Ata: Nauka. 7. Asfendiarov S. D., 1935, Istoriâ Kazakhstana (s drevnejšikh vremen) [L’histoire du Kazakhstan (depuis l’Antiquité)], t. 1, Alma-Ata-Moscou: Kazakhstanskoe kraev. izd-vo ; Asfendiarov S. D., 1936, Nacional’no-osvoboditel’noe vosstanie 1916 g. v Kazakhstane [La révolte de libération nationale de 1916 au Kazakhstan], Alma-Ata-Moscou: Kazakhstanskoe kraev. izd-vo. 8. Vostrov V. V. & Mukanov M. S., 1968, Rodoplemennoj sostav i rasselenie Kazakhov (konec XIX-načalo XX v.) [Composition clanique et tribale des Kazakhs et leur implantation], Alma-Ata: Nauka ; Mukanov M. S., 1974, Ètničeskij sostav kazakhov srednego žuza i ikh rasselenie [Composition ethnique des Kazakhs de la Žuz moyenne et leur implantation], Alma-Ata: Nauka. 9. Membre du Comité central du pcus de 1927 à 1934, il est considéré comme le principal responsable de la famine de 1932-1933. 10. Voir par exemple : Bajtursynov A., 1989, Šygharmalary [Œuvres choisies], Almaty: Gylym ; Ajmauytov Ž., 1989, Šygharmalary [Œuvres choisies], Almaty: Gylym ; Žumabaev M., 1989, Šygharmalary [Œuvres choisies], Almaty: Gylym. 11. Voir par exemple : Käkìšev T., 1989, «Qazaq ziâlylarynyng taghdyr – talajy (A. Bajtursynov, S. Qožanov, O. Nurbaev, S. Aspandiârov)» [Le destin de l’intelligentsia kazakhe (A. Bajtursynov, S. Qožanov, O. Nurbaev, S. Aspandiârov)], Qazaq ädebietì, 26 mai ; Samurzin A., Grigor’ev V, 1989,

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«Bökejkhanov žäne tarikh šyndyghy» [Bukejkhabov et la vérité historique], Qazaq ädebietì, 7 juillet ; Burabaev M.S., Kajnazarova S.V, 1989, « Obŝestvenno-političeskie vzglâdy A. Bajtursynova» [Regards sociopolitiques sur A. Bajtursynov], Vestnik an KazSSR, n° 8, pp. 48-59.; Grigor’ev V.K., 1990, «Alaš-Orda», Zarâ, n° 1-2 ; Grigor’ev V.K., 1990, «Kadetter žolyn ustanghan partiâ» [Le parti, qui avance sur le chemin des cadets], Qazaqstan kommunisì, n° 5, pp. 62-65 ; Nurpejìsov K., 1990, «Saâsi partiâ bolyp sanala ma?» [Est-ce un parti politique ?], Qazaqstan kommunisì, n° 15, pp. 69-75 ; Käkìšev T., 1990, «Šyndyqty burmalamaj, žulmalamaj ajtajyqšy» [Disons la vérité], Qazaqstan kommunisì, n° 15, pp. 75-83. 12. L’auteur a qualifié sa méthode et ce genre de récit historique d’« expérience de recherche artistique ». Le destin de l’écrivain lui-même est étroitement lié à la période de la politique de répression soviétique au Kazakhstan. En tant que détenu du « camp spécial des steppes » de Džezkazgan, il a participé au soulèvement des prisonniers de Kengir. Ce camp spécial n° 4 appelé « camp des steppes », fut créé sur la base d’un ancien camp de prisonniers de guerre. Jusqu’à 25 000 personnes y furent condamnés à des travaux difficiles. Après la guerre, il accueillit les soldats et officiers de l’Armée rouge qui avait été fait prisonniers par les Allemands. Du 16 mai au 25 juin 1954, le camp fut le siège d’un soulèvement des détenus qui reprochaient aux dirigeants le retard pris dans leur libération, après la mort de Staline en 1953. La répression de la mutinerie fit plusieurs centaines de victimes. 13. Voir par exemple : E. Kuznecova, «Nomera sud’by» [Les numéros du destin], Industrial’naâ Karaganda, 19 janvier 1989 ; E. Ertysbaev, 1989, «Kommentarij k kommentariû» [Commentaire du commentaire], Industrial’naâ Karaganda, 1er avril ; V. Kiselev, 1989, «Donos. Slučaj iz žizni» [Délation. Cas vécu], Industrial’naâ Karaganda, 14 mai ; E. Kuznecova, 1989, «Pis’ma iz marta» [Lettres venues de mars], Industrial’naâ Karaganda, 25 novembre ; K. Majer, 1989, «Tak èto bylo...» [C’était comme ça...], Industrial’naâ Karaganda, 25 novembre ; E. Kuznecova, 1989, «Zavodskoj pereulok n°3» [Coin d’usine n° 3], Industrial’naâ Karaganda, 30 novembre. 14. En russe, ALŽIR signifie également Algérie. 15. http://www.sakharov-center.ru/asfcd/auth/ 16. On appelait « déplacés spéciaux » (specpereselency) les représentants des peuples déportés au Kazakhstan. La référence aux déplacés spéciaux est faite dans la loi kazakhstanaise du 14 avril 1993 sur la Réhabilitation des victimes de répressions politiques de masse, qui stipule : « Sont reconnues victimes de répressions politiques également les personnes soumises à une installation forcée et illicite au Kazakhstan ou hors du Kazakhstan sur la base d’actes émanant des organes suprêmes de la puissance publique de l’Union soviétique ». Pourtant, le sens donné à l’expression « déplacé spécial » change en fonction des documents. L’historien Zemskov fournit l’explication suivante : « Jusqu’en 1934, “déplacés spéciaux” s’applique aux paysans koulaks en exil, dans les années 1934-1944, aux travailleurs forcés, et à partir de 1944 aux peuples déplacés » (Zemskov, 1990, p. 3). 17. M. Ûzipenko a dirigé le département spécial d’Akmolinsk au Karlag en 1940-1941, avant d’être directeur-adjoint du camp en 1941-1943 (Archives d’État de la ville d’Astana, f.370, op.1, d.50, l. 1-6).

RÉSUMÉS

L’année 1989 a été cruciale dans l’histoire des répressions politiques au Kazakhstan. L’éveil des consciences a conduit à la formation de l’opinion publique et à un intérêt accru pour l’histoire

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des victimes des répressions politiques. À la fin des années quatre-vingt, cette question mémorielle est devenue centrale pour les autorités étatiques et pour les chercheurs aussi bien dans le but de réhabiliter les victimes que dans un dessein de construction nationale.

1989 was crucial in the history of political repression in Kazakhstan. The awakening of consciousness led to the formation of public opinion and an increased interest in the history of the victims of political repression. In the late eighties this question has become central for State authorities, both to rehabilitate the victims and to support the project of national building.

Всестороннее исследование в казахстанской историографии темы политических репрессий связано с началом перестройки. Средства массовой информации принялись за свои задачи в деле пробуждения народного самосознания. В таких условиях исследование истории политических репрессий было поставлено на повестку дня. Вначале она велась стихийно. Затем начала претворяться через нормативные акты государственного масштаба. После 1989 года вопросы исследования истории политических репрессий и публикации материалов были подняты на государственный уровень.

INDEX

Mots-clés : Kazakhstan, répression politique, mémoire, Goulag, Alaš, construction nationale Keywords : Kazakhstan, political repression, memory, Gulag, Alaš, nation-building motsclesru Казахстан, политические репрессии, память, ГУЛАГ, Алаш, национальное строительство

AUTEURS

ARAJLYM MUSAGALIEVA

Arajlym Musagalieva est docteure en histoire, professeure de l’Université nationale eurasiatique L. N. Gumilev d’Astana, Kazakhstan.

ULBOLSYN SANDYBAEVA

Ulbolsyn Sandybaeva est docteure en philosophie, maître de conférence à l’Université nationale eurasiatique L. N. Gumilev d’Astana, Kazakhstan. Contact : [email protected]

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“And Our Words Must be Constructive!” On the Discordances of Glasnost’ in the Central Asian Press at a Time of Conflict1 « Et nos paroles doivent être constructives ». Les discordances de la glasnost dans la presse d’Asie centrale au moment d’un conflit «И слово нужно конструктивное». О диссонансах гласности в прессе Центральной Азии в период конфликта

Madeleine Reeves

The prestige of [journalism] is falling catastrophically. [...] People are eagerly looking for the figure of an enemy. Of a slanderer (očernitelâ) and distorter. Of a mudslinger and a firebrand. Since the signing of the resolution on glasnost’ at the 19th Party conference it hasn’t got any easier. It’s got harder. Since now with one hand you can hang rags from the front of buildings with the slogan “Perestroika, glasnost’, uskorenie [acceleration]” and with the other hand you can clamp the mouth of anyone wanting to tell the truth (Kozlinksij, 1989). The possibility, the necessity to speak and write about things that are really occurring – this is the great victory of our perestroika. The more openly we will talk about them, the more we collectively benefit, and the fewer will be the gossips, the bureaucrats, the makers of empty promises. But the strength of our word is in truth, objectivity,

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precision; it is in our exactingness (vzyskatel’nosti) and relentless verifying of information (vyverennosti). [...] The main thing is clear: the press must concentrate its efforts on deep analysis, on constructive work towards the consolidation of all the forces of society to resolve the burning problems of perestroika. [...] We need constructive work. And our words must be constructive (Sajipžanov, 1989). 1 Studies of the Soviet mass media have often drawn attention to the momentous transformations brought about by the introduction of Gorbachev’s policy of glasnost’ [literally ‘giving voice’] beginning in 1987.2 Like the other terms with which it was linked in Gorbachev’s early trio of reforms – perestroika [restructuring] and uskorenie [acceleration] – glasnost’ was not a new term within the official Soviet lexicon. But its elevation to a guiding principle of Soviet communication, and its adoption within English as a shorthand for the easing of censorship, have meant that the policy of glasnost’ is often characterised, in popular and scholarly literature alike, as marking a radical shift: from secrecy to openness, from censorship to freedom, from allegorical to authentic speech.

2 For many contemporary Western observers, the transformation in discursive regime that accompanied Gorbachev’s rule was greeted with enthusiasm as a harbinger of liberal transformation that would and should be embraced as much inside the Soviet Union as it was beyond. Ellen Mickiewicz characterised Gorbachev as “start[ing] a revolution in political discourse,” that television “magnified and spread” (1997, p. 20). Brian McNair observed of the perestroika-era press that “the full panoply of reforms which have occurred since 1985 – glasnost’, socialist pluralism, rights of access – has arguably resulted in the emergence of a media system which is comparable in its openness, reliability, depth of information, and entertainment quality to those of most western societies” (1991, p. 169). 3 The impetus for this transformation in political consciousness was often seen to lie in the democratisation of opportunities for uncensored expression, which allowed for the public communication of hitherto private discontent. In her study of Soviet “mythologies of everyday life,” Svetlana Boym described the “euphoric public sphere” of the first years of glasnost’ and the “graphomania” that accompanied the easing of restrictions upon the publishing and circulation of texts (1993, p. 205). Years of silencing, Boym argues, “created a great need for speaking up and being heard.” For the first time, “It became possible to write without thinking of the censor as one’s first reader and without elaborating a subtext in the ‘Aesopian language’ of allusions, metaphors, and anecdotes” (idem). James Riordan and Sue Bridger went further still, identifying in the flurry of readers’ letters to the Soviet press both an expression of previously repressed feeling and a motor of liberal transformation. Gorbachev’s reforms, they argued, unleashed a veritable outpouring of the soul, a release of pent-up passions, sometimes a burning desire to be part of the changes, sometimes to shout abuse at authority. Of all the institutions and processes of Soviet society under Gorbachev, readers’ letters were in the vanguard of actions that helped to break society’s totalitarian mold and push the country toward democracy (Riordan & Bridger, 1992, p. 1).

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4 The reasons for such euphoric evaluations are not hard to find. Glasnost’ entailed dramatic shifts in what could be reported, by whom and how, to which audiences through which channels. For the first time in decades, Soviet journalists were able to report on accidents, on loss of life, on policies that failed to work, and on the petty corruption of local officials, and readers, in turn, were able to write critical responses without fear of retribution. As Thomas Wolfe notes in his study of the Soviet press, journalists and their readers were able to see that “the everyday life of Soviet society was, in fact, a vast field of intrinsically interesting events needing representation” that it was the task of the press to investigate (2005, p. 152).

5 Beyond an expansion of possibilities for uncensored expression, glasnost ’ indexed a broader shift in the role of language in society. In a context where the Party-state had interfered explicitly in the material conditions of language and where the consequences of saying the wrong thing – even inadvertently – could be catastrophic, there was a heightened awareness among ordinary Soviet citizens that language had to be handled with great care (Guseinov, 1989; Oushakine, 2000). Caroline Humphrey traces the implications of such consciousness for everyday Soviet speech: the sensitivity it fostered over what could be said and the effects of words in particular circumstances (did one speak of ‘the Russian revolution’ or of ‘October’?); the use of euphemisms and allegories; the heightened intensity that this gave to jokes and double-entendres, and the playful use of official rhetoric to subvert official meaning. Long after the demise of Stalinism, Humphrey notes, ordinary people “could be as emotionally involved in the official vocabulary as in their own seemingly more natural everyday expressions” (Humphrey, 2005, p. 380). It follows from this metaphysics of language that collective authorship and the avoidance of individual names on newspaper articles were not merely editorial conventions, but should be seen as extensions of a linguistic regime in which, “of all the words in language, ‘I’ could be the most scary to say” (ibid., p. 378). 6 It is in this context that we should interpret the scale of the discursive shift initiated by Gorbachev’s early speeches. During late socialism, as Alexei Yurchak has demonstrated, Soviet discourse had become increasingly predictable, citational and cumbersome: visual propaganda, collective ritual and newspaper discourse assumed a “hegemony of form” in which accurate repetition of the authoritative discourse trumped substantive content or discursive innovation (Yurchak, 2003 & 2005). The very repetitiveness of Soviet authoritative discourse created both the impression of its immutability and – ironically, perhaps – the conditions of possibility within which dramatic shifts could occur when that discursive regime was finally ruptured. For Yurchak, that rupture occurred with the very first public pronouncements of Gorbachev, who posed questions that “had to be articulated in a discourse other than authoritative discourse” (2005, p. 291). Once the genie of authentic speech was out of the bottle, in this reading, it was very hard to put back. As Ryazanova-Clarke (2008, p. 106) notes in her study of linguistic change during perestroika, for all that Gorbachev was an unlikely revolutionary, the consequences of this discursive shift were more radical than he could ever have imagined, bringing about a “landslide of the norm,” as language itself came to be transformed, with new vocabulary, and the resignification of formerly empty or declarative expressions, testing the bounds of acceptable speech to their limits. Gorbachev, in short, allowed for the emergence of a new discourse not so much

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by encouraging discontent, but by “challenging] the doxa that state socialism was eternal” (Zavisca, 2011, p. 931).

Provincialising Perestroika

7 The account of discursive transformation summarised above, while compelling, raises significant questions about the dynamics of this shift in diverse regional and institutional contexts. The very speed and transformative potential of the changes brought by glasnost’ (a “moment of rupture” in Yurchak’s characterisation (2005, p. 283); a “revolution in political discourse” for Mickiewicz (1997, p. 20); a “heretical break” for Ryazanova-Clarke (2008, p. 104)) can give the impression that transformations in the discursive sphere were at once widely embraced, institutionally unproblematic, and broadly uniform across the Soviet space. Yet studies of Central Asia during perestroika highlight the significantly different tempi of reforms in the Soviet centre and the southern periphery – tempi that had implications for the ways that the “landslide of the norm” unfolded in Osh, in Frunze or in Moscow, in homes and workplaces, as well as in the offices of the provincial press.

8 One aim of the current article, accordingly, is to advance our understanding of perestroika in Central Asia by looking at tensions over how conflicts – and specifically inter-communal and inter-ethnic conflicts – were reported at a time of high perestroika in the Russian-language provincial press.3 I draw upon an analysis of newspapers from 1989 at three different levels of the Soviet publishing hierarchy: ‘central’ publications, issued in Moscow for all-Union consumption (Izvestiâ, Komsomol’skaâ Pravda, Pravda), Russian-language newspapers issued in the republican capitals, Dushanbe and Frunze (Kommunist Tadžikistana, Komsomolec Tadžikistana, Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, Večernij Frunze) and newspapers issued in the provincial cities of Leninabad (today: Khujand) and Osh, respectively in the Tajik and Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republics (SSRs) (Leninabadskaâ Pravda, Leninskij Put’). 9 Through a case study of a particular inter-communal conflict along the borders of the Kyrgyz and Tajik SSRs in the spring and summer 1989, I explore the differentiated, contested and decidedly non-linear work of ‘unmaking’ authoritative discourse. I argue that we need to provincialise our understanding of perestroika: that is, to recognise the plurality of forms and speeds that reforms took in different parts of the Soviet space, and the contradictions and tensions that this fostered over what constituted ‘responsible’ speech and action. If perestroika came late to Central Asia, as observers at the time often noted (see, e.g. Rywkin, 1990, p. viii), how did this play out in the realm of reportage, particularly when central newspapers came to report on events happening locally, often in quite alarmist or emotive terms? More concretely, how might an analysis of the differential reporting of events in the central, republican and provincial press complicate our understanding of how the “revolution in political discourse” signalled by glasnost’ took hold – or failed to take hold – away from centres of political power?

Discordant Glasnost’

10 In posing these questions, and attending seriously to the anxieties expressed over the stakes of ‘constructive’ reportage by journalists and editors, I seek more broadly to

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question the model of the subject that informs many accounts of perestroika – and indeed, other moments of collective ‘awakening’ elsewhere, including in the so-called ‘Arab Spring’ (see, e.g. Ghonim, 2013). The model of ‘repression and release’ that often informs depictions of the discursive shifts that occurred under Gorbachev (a world of ‘pent-up passions’ and outpourings of the soul) can tend to privilege a model of the speaking, communicating human subject (indeed, often an elite, metropolitan graphomanic subject) who will eagerly and sincerely speak truth to power as soon as previous restrictions are removed.

11 This is a model, as others have noted, that locates the (liberal) political subject beyond the field of power (Oushakine, 2001). More specifically, as I argue below, it also glosses over the complexities of navigating the new demands of authentic reportage in a context where truth and speculation, rumour and lie are experienced as radically indeterminate – and where material conditions provided few opportunities to facilitate investigation over the simple re-transmission of information from an authoritative centre. These complexities, I suggest, were more acute the further away one was from Moscow. For as historian Thomas Wolfe has shown, the Soviet press was organised not as a series of interacting agents choosing their own preferred patterns of interaction, but as “an organization of communications from center to periphery that would consist of a flow of instructions, models of behavior, and narratives of conduct whose collective emulation would realize socialism” (2005, p. 18). In this ‘radial model’ of information transfer, the provincial newspaper was an organ for the transmission of information rather than for independent reportage; the role of the journalist that of instructor and pedagogue rather than investigator. 12 For all the informal freedoms allowed by glasnost’, this radial model was still firmly in place right up until the passing of the law on press freedom in June 1990 – by which time editors were largely preoccupied with questions of material survival after central subsidies declined. For a provincial newspaper editor during perestroika, therefore, reporting on current events – particularly those events that were sensitive and socially contentious (as many events of 1989 were) – posed critical challenges. On the one hand, journalists and editors were often expressly condemned by local Communist officials for allegedly ‘inaccurate’ or irresponsible reportage. Journalists in established republican newspapers were usually Communist Party members and could be pressed upon as such. On the other hand, editors were acutely conscious that the broader societal acceptance of critique often left them open to accusations from their readership of not embracing glasnost’ with sufficient vigour – and thus, of being abandoned by their readers altogether. 13 This tension between the continued pressure to report ‘constructively’ as official organs of the Communist Party and yet to respond to the increasing demands of their readership is reflected in a proliferation of metacommentary on the role of the newspaper in balancing opinion and truth. During the later years of perestroika (1989-1991), republican and provincial newspapers in Central Asia ran questionnaires and explicitly invited letters to the editor, soliciting readers’ opinions on the organisation of the publication (“what are your recommendations to the authors’ collective of the newspaper?”) as well as substantive issues of content: “Your opinion on the position of the newspaper regarding the most important problems of our lives” (e.g. anonymous, 1989a & 1989g). Such questionnaires and ‘virtual conferences’ (zaočnye konferencii) were coupled with extensive reflection on the nature of journalistic practice

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itself, explicit appeals to the readership not to be taken in by wildly circulating rumours, as well as some poignant reflections on the new demands that were being placed upon journalists as the supposed vanguard of glasnost’ (Krûčkov & Freidkin, 1989). In an August 1989 article entitled, “Send us a Correspondent...”, for instance, M. Sajipžanov wrote with some exasperation about the kinds of demands that arrived at the offices of his provincial newspaper, Leninskij Put’, in Osh in the Kyrgyz SSR: ‘I would like you to help me: 1. Undertake repairs to my toilet. 2. Register my grandson with me permanently. 3. Bring my neighbour to their senses. 4. Make the optician cure my eyes.’ ‘I would like you to make the chair of our kolkhoz distribute a land parcel to me.’ ‘I demand that the newspaper bring about the review of my court case.’ But alas, a newspaper is not a provider of communal services. Nor is it the passport office. Nor is it a doctor or a court (Sajipžanov, 1989). 14 Such remarks were often coupled with stern warnings about the dangers of excessive freedom of speech. “We mustn’t forget,” Sajipžanov warned, “that the psychology of free-riding, the psychology of consumerism have nothing in common with democratisation and glasnost’” (idem).

15 To explore these tensions in more detail, I turn my focus in the second part of this essay to a single case study, the so-called ‘Isfara events’ (Isfarinskie sobytiâ): a series of strained, and occasionally violent, trans-boundary disputes along the borders of the Kyrgyz and Tajik Soviet republics in the Isfara valley during the spring and summer of 1989. Often remembered locally as the war or conflict ‘of the spades’ (vojna ketmen or ketmen uruš), the Isfara events typically figure only as a footnote within a broader narrative of nationalist awakening and inter-ethnic tension that characterised the final years of the Soviet Union (e.g. Glebov & Crowfoot, 1989, pp. 175-176; Tishkov, 1997, p. 74). 1989 was, after all, the summer of protest in the Baltic states at fifty years of Soviet occupation, of rising tension in Nagorno-Karabakh, of violent demonstrations in Tbilisi, and of the passing of new language laws that sought to reverse historical injustices in the use of languages other than Russian in the public sphere. Throughout 1989 Soviet citizens were increasingly exposed to commentaries on the “national question” and the declining state of inter-ethnic relations, just as they were to the realities of bread queues, empty shops and spiralling inflation (e.g. Anonymous, 1989c; Mursaliev, 1989). In Central Asia, events in the Isfara valley overlapped with – and, to some degree, appear to have been intensified by – violent attacks on Meskhetian Turks in the cities of Kuvasaj, Margilan and Ferghana in the Uzbek ssr that led to the forced displacement of tens of thousands of Meskhetians to Southern Russia in July 1989 (TadžikTA, 1989a): events that were described in Britain’s Independent newspaper in June that year as “the bloodiest in the recent history of the Soviet Union” (Cornwell, 1989, p. 15).4 16 For all of their apparently local significance within a broader summer of (often violent) discontent, the Isfara events of 1989 are nonetheless critical for our understanding of the dynamics of perestroika in rural Central Asia. This local dispute over the right to cultivate an area of barren, ‘disputed’ (spornyj) land between villages at the very edge of the Kyrgyz and Tajik republics threw inter-republican (and not simply inter-ethnic) relations conclusively into public debate for the first time in the republics’ Soviet history; specifically, the complex legacy of the 1924-27 national territorial delimitation and the failure of multiple subsequent parity committees to establish definitively where inter-republican borders lay. 17 While the Isfara events can thus be seen as profoundly mediated – and indeed, to a degree ‘shaped’ – by the expansion of discursive possibilities afforded by glasnost’, the

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differential narration of these events in contemporary newspaper reportage also provides an insight into the tensions that emerged at the time between openness and containment, between guidance and the maintenance of social order. Crucially, the editors of the provincial newspapers Leninskij put’ and Leninabadskaâ Pravda, in the oblast’ capitals of Osh (Kyrgyz ssr) and Leninabad (Tajik ssr) respectively were having to negotiate a series of complex triangular relationships: with each other (positioned administratively on two sides of a disputed border), as well as with the central Moscow press, and with their own readership – who were clearly often writing in and complaining that the provincial newspapers hadn’t yet taken sufficient heed of the new freedoms allowed by glasnost’. An exploration of what could and couldn’t be reported, and the extensive meta-commentary on the dangers of rumour and ‘irresponsible speech’ thus provide a lens into the broader dynamics of discursive deformation at the end of the Soviet Union and tensions over the limits of the sayable.

The Isfara Events5

18 By all accounts, the spring of 1989 had been a difficult one in rural Central Asia, marked by lower than usual rainfall across the Ferghana basin, and exacerbated by crippling problems in the distribution of basic goods. Rationing of milk was introduced, and several basic goods – including school exercise books – required vouchers for their purchase (Petrunâ, 1989).6 More significantly, perhaps, the spring of 1989 was a period marked by increasingly vocal complaints, in this region of exceptionally high population density, of the impact of land and water shortages. It was in this context that a long-simmering dispute over the use of so-called ‘unallocated lands’ (neraspredelennye zemli) along the republican boundary between the Kyrgyz and Tajik republics in the Isfara valley took on vocal, and ultimately violent, dimensions.

19 This was not a new conflict. Historically, the Isfara valley had been a site of social and economic inter-dependence between Tajik-speaking agriculturalists in the valley basin and Kyrgyz pastoralists engaged in seasonal movement between summer pastures and wintering grounds lower down the valley (Buškov, 1995). Several decades of collectivisation, forced resettlement, the so-called consolidation of unpromising (neperspektivnye) mountain villages and irrigation-induced expansion of formerly uncultivated lands had created a situation where the de facto distribution of settlements, fields, and irrigation infrastructure differed dramatically from the republican borders as they notionally existed at the time of the original national- territorial delimitation sixty years earlier. Perhaps more importantly, repeated post- war parity commissions (reportedly 16 of them by 1989) which had been charged with (re-)negotiating the distribution of newly irrigated lands had failed to reach any kind of conclusive determination of where the republican borders lay. Significant here is the fact that the findings of a major parity commission that concluded its work in 1958-59 was ratified by only one of the two republics: the Supreme Soviet of the Kyrgyz ssr ratified its conclusions, but not the Supreme Soviet of the Tajik SSR (Popov, 1989b; Zakirov & Babadžanov, 1989b). By 1989 (and still to this day) large stretches of the inter-republican boundary remained formally undetermined and disputed between what are now two independent states.7 20 Tensions had surfaced periodically in this region as new lands were brought under cultivation through the extension of artificial irrigation, beginning in the 1930s and

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resurfacing periodically in 1970, 1975 and 1988. The tensions in the 1970s and 1980s were associated with exchanges of land between neighbouring collective farms for so- called long-term use (na dolgosročnoe pol’zovanie) that dated back to 1955.8 An order of the Soviet Ministry of Agriculture in 1955 had authorised a twenty-five-year lease of land from the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz of the Kyrgyz Batken district to the Pravda kolkhoz of the Tajik Isfara district. The leased land was designated for pasture use, but as the Pravda kolkhoz embarked on new canal construction in 1967, it became possible to extend the reach of cultivation (and eventually, of domestic settlement). This led to significant escalation of tension in 1975, when construction workers hired by the Pravda kolkhoz began moving part of a Kyrgyz cemetery to make way for new cultivation at the entrance to what is today the village of Ak-Saj in Kyrgyzstan. The construction was stopped by force by Kyrgyz villagers, who considered this historically ‘Kyrgyz’ land, leaving several people injured, and troops being sent to the area from the respective republican capitals (Bichsel, 2009, p. 108; author’s interviews in Ak-Saj, Üč- Döbö and Ak-Tatyr, 2004-2005). 21 This escalation was followed by the arrival of a parity commission that determined the ‘new’ line of the inter-republican border. It was the legacy of these events that became the particular focus of grievance in 1989. The parity commission that followed the 1975 escalation of violence instructed that 316 hectares of the disputed land would be returned to the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz (land that was soon to be built upon as the new ‘strategic’ (strategičeskij) border village of Ak-Saj), while 402 hectares, which were being cultivated by the Pravda kolkhoz, would remain part of the Tajik ssr. In addition, a further 282 hectares of land were to be loaned from the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz to the Pravda kolkhoz and designated as a ‘friendship park’ (Park družby). While no financial recompense was to be paid, the agreement was that the Pravda kolkhoz would provide the newly established Kyrgyz village of Ak-Saj with water from the Mehnatobod – Ak-Saj canal during the irrigation season at a rate of 450 litres per second. That agreement, which was quite likely impossible to deliver even as it was signed, appears never to have been met. Ak-Saj never received the promised water, and Kyrgyz villagers felt aggrieved that they had effectively transferred the 282 hectares to the neighbouring republic – which by the 1980s came to be cultivated and built upon – ‘for free’ (darom)9 22 This was the broader context of grievance and historical indeterminacy within which the Isfara events of 1989 occurred. Beginning in April 1989, at the height of the spring irrigation season, tensions morphed into open dispute a few kilometres downstream from the site of the 1975 escalation, near the Mačai irrigation canal. This canal, built in 1975, drew water from the Isfara river to provide irrigation water to downstream villages. As such, it had so-called ‘inter-republican’ (mežrespublikanskij) status, crossing between the territory of the Tajik and Kyrgyz SSRs and providing water to collective farms located in both republics. In early April Kyrgyz villagers from Üč-Döbö village in the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz began work desilting, repairing and, according to some accounts, expanding the canal with a view to increasing its outflow of water to newly- allocated land plots. 23 To Tajiks in the immediately contiguous village of Oktâbr’, on the other side of the republican border (known today by its pre-Soviet name Khodžai A”lo), this restoration work was not innocent. The attempt to increase the outflow from the canal was seen as a precursor to the irrigation of uncultivated land located downstream, including

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parcels of land that were disputed between the two republics. On April 15, several unnamed villagers from Oktâbr’ responded to the presence of excavation equipment by setting fire to a railway wagon that had been brought to the site (reputedly left on the territory of the Tajik ssr without the appropriate documentation), and destroying some of the concrete that had already been laid along the line of the canal. Although this immediate dispute seems to have subsided during the month of May (or at least, to have left no traces in the local news paper record), by the end of that month, after several weeks of unsuccessful ‘prophylactic’ work by the Procurator of Isfara district, upstream villagers in Oktâbr’ partially blocked the Mačai canal with boulders. This left several villages of the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz deprived of irrigation water during the critical spring irrigation season, destroying the state farm’s tobacco crop and leaving household with their kitchen gardens withering during what was already a year of acute economic hardship (Niksdorf, 1989a). 24 Party leaders from both Kyrgyz and Tajik republics flew to the scene, and on June 8 the First Secretaries of the Kyrgyz and Tajik republics were recalled from the famous May plenum of People’s Deputies that they had been attending in Moscow. These high-level arrivals appear to have had less success than the intervention of local notables who engaged in ‘people’s diplomacy’, creating an ad hoc committee with the name ‘Friendship’ from which ten respected elders on each side were invited to take part. The committee agreed that the disputed land should be simply divided in two, with each side having the right to cultivate half of it without the right of construction. The committee appears to have had some popular legitimacy, but no juridical force (Popov, 1989a). 25 Relations between the population and law enforcement officials clearly seem to have been strained throughout the summer, particularly on the Tajik side of the border. In a remarkably frank assessment of the situation, the Procurator of Leninabad province wrote in Leninabadskaâ Pravda at the end of July about the degree to which his resources had been stretched by the violent response to the resettlement of Meskhetian Turks from Uzbekistan to Tajikistan’s Ašt district, leading to a lack of police attention to the events in Isfara (Kanoatov, 1989). Whether as a direct result of this general heightening of tension across the valley following the attacks on the Meskhetian Turks, or for unrelated reasons, the situation in the Isfara valley became increasingly unstable in early July. On July 9, a group of more than 80 people from Oktâbr’ completely cut off the supply of water to the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz from the Mačai canal. Two days later, there occurred a large-scale and seemingly well-organised fight between Tajik residents of Oktâbr’ and Kyrgyz living in the village of Ak-Saj, still a relatively new settlement that many Tajiks felt to have been illegitimately established on what was once ‘Tajik’ territory. Although some local leaders apparently tried to prevent the fight, on July 13, tensions escalated. Hunting rifles and small arms were used during a 9-hour stand-off in Oktâbr’, several homes were set on fire in Ak-Saj, 19 citizens were hospitalised with gunshot wounds, 66 soldiers were wounded and one person was killed (Zakirov & Babadžanov, 1989a; tass, 1989). 26 In response to this violence, troops were sent in from Dushanbe, a curfew was introduced on the Tajik side of the border, and in Tajikistan a commission was established under the leadership of the Chair of Ministers of the Tajik ssr, Makhkamov, to “liquidate the reasons for the withholding of water” in the Mačai canal and to hold those responsible to account (TadžikTA, 1989c; TadžikTA-Tass, 1989; Ukaz prezidiuma,

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1989). Despite these measures, the tension in the valley was only contained when, over a week later, republican leaders from both the Kyrgyz and Tajik republics agreed to establish a joint parity committee with representation from both sides (Anonymous, 1989d). According to the protocol of the meeting between the first secretaries, published in both the Kyrgyz and Tajik press, the parity committee would be charged with “specifying the line of the border between the republics [...] proceeding from the de facto existing land use between the republics” ( iskhodâ iz faktičeski složivšegosâ zemlepol’zovaniâ meždu respublikami). The committee was charged with studying all of the relevant documents since the establishment of the two republics in the 1920s and 1930s, and redefining the current location of the border based on existing land use (Anonymous, 1989f). The committee was given two months in which to conduct its work (Islâmov, 1989), but the results of the committee appear never to have been published, nor to have been ratified by the respective Supreme Soviets of the Kyrgyz and Tajik ssrs, creating the conditions for ongoing disputes over the rightful location of the border to independence and into the post-Soviet period (Zakirov & Babadžanov, 1989a). Indeed, it is a bitter irony of history that in May 1991 the new presidents of the Tajik and Kyrgyz SSRs were due to meet to discuss the findings of the commission, the Tajik side having decided that the only authoritative map that could be used as a reference document dating from 1927 rather than 1955 (Shozimov, Beshimov & Yunusova, 2011, p. 194). The newly-appointed President of the Kyrgyz SSR, Askar Akaev, failed to attend the meeting, however, and the issue remained unresolved as the very institutions of the Soviet state came tumbling down over subsequent months (idem).

Navigating the Limits of Glasnost’: Narrating and Suppressing Conflict

27 What was occurring in the Isfara valley was a land dispute in a region of historically indeterminate inter-republican border: a dispute that appears to have been precipitated by specific local factors, including the expansion of artificial irrigation with a view to cultivation of disputed land. In this sense, it was merely the latest iteration of disputes over land that had remained unresolved from earlier decades. The Isfara events, however, were occurring in an environment in which the ‘national question’ was being debated like never before in the Soviet Union. Throughout 1989, in both the Kyrgyz and Tajik ssrs, the fate of the ethno-nation was the subject of intense popular and official commentary. Tajik newspapers featured reflections on the out- migration of the non-titular population and commentaries upon widely-circulating rumours that Tajik girls were being publically shamed for wearing so-called ‘European dress’ in public space (Khomidov, 1989). In the Kyrgyz republic, the unequal allocation of housing (which many in the titular population felt to privilege historically urban, Russophone communities) was the topic of repeated articles in the republican press – and often much more vocal and provocative letters to the editor (Romanûk, 1989; Baâlinov, 1989).10

28 Equally significant, the conflict was occurring at a moment of heightened meta- commentary in central and republican newspapers about the role of the press itself in containing, regulating or exacerbating conflict. For editors and Party officials addressing audiences in the Ferghana valley, the newspaper was clearly seen as much a

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vehicle for appealing to calm – “Maintain peace in one’s home” (Sokhranit’ mir v svoem dome, Islâmov, 1989), “Be human!” (Byt’ lûd’mi!, Krûčkov & Morozov, 1989), “On the Question of Rumours” (K voprosu o slukhakh, Krûčkov & Freidkin, 1989) – as it was for informing of concurrent events. Throughout 1989, journalists often explicitly addressed Party activists and well-intentioned citizens, sometimes in the form of letters from war veterans or members of the ‘cultural intelligentsia’ to avoid igniting inter-ethnic animosity.11 Headline banners often appealed for ‘calm’ in the realm of inter-ethnic relations, and republican newspapers debated the potentials and pitfalls of having a press that was no longer entirely subordinate to Party control.12 29 These contexts are significant for interpreting the variety of responses to the Isfara events at different moments during the conflict and at different nodes along the ‘radial model’ of communication. For what is striking is not just the range of explanatory logics that were invoked to account for events – was tension in the Isfara valley ultimately attributable to economic insecurity, demographic pressures, the work of local ‘hooligans’, historical oversight in the process of national-territorial delimitation, or the failures of local Party leaders to resolve enduring land pressures? – but also the degree to which ‘conflict’ here should properly be the object of public knowledge and commentary when ‘misguided speech’ might contribute to future escalation of violence. 30 In this context, perhaps the most striking feature of the reporting on the Isfara events – which represented, after all, some of the most sustained trans-boundary tension to have been seen in either republic in years – was the guardedness of the official newspaper commentary in the Kyrgyz and Tajik republics. Part of the reason for this may simply have been an issue of journalistic access at a time of acute material constraints. The Isfara valley was distant from both provincial centres (Khujand and Osh) and still more from the republican capitals of Frunze and Dushanbe. Kozlinskij, writing for Večernij Frunze in October 1989, complained that the material conditions of work were so acute that “chairs would break under visitors” and even the most basic material needs in the forms of typewriters, notebooks, mock-ups for articles were lacking. “Nobody dreams of having a dictaphone,” Kozlinskij noted, “and nobody has even heard of a computer” (Kozlinskij, 1989). 31 If anything, these constraints were even more acute in the provincial press, which had few resources to support investigative reporting in situ. Yet material constraints alone, do not explain the tentative style of narration of the Isfara events. There was clearly a great deal of editorial uncertainty about what constituted responsible reportage of transboundary conflict that might escalate through their retelling, and considerable political pressure on journalists not to speculate on the causes of tension. In the article quoted above, for instance, Kozlinskij recalled that journalists working for Večernij Frunze had been called upon by local Communist Party officials after they had “dared to write an impartial thirty-line account of events in Manas [a village near the capital] who were demanding the recall of their Deputy.” Thankfully, Kozlinskij noted, the collective did not give in to the threats and warnings from the Party officials. “Our conscience remained clean. But what about our reputation ‘in certain circles’. Is it surprising that in three years we already have our third editor?” (idem). 32 In such circumstances, it is perhaps unsurprising that during the first weeks of the conflict reports of events in the Isfara valley barely figured in the republican press. When they did, they were typically buried deep inside routine descriptions of state

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visits, from which one had to intuit that anything unusual has occurred. By late May of 1989, for instance, the situation was sufficiently tense in the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz in the Kyrgyz SSR that former school teachers recall the school leaving exam and end of year celebration (akyrky kongyroo) both having been cancelled.13 And yet, the first mention of anything untoward in the valley in the official Party organ, Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ , was not until June 21, a whole month later.14 Under the headline, “To operate more actively,” the small report in the corner of the page described in measured terms the visit of the Chair of the Council of Ministers of the Kyrgyz SSR, Apas Žumagulov, to the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz. There was only tangential reference to the events that had precipitated him to leave the Moscow Congress of People’s Deputies early. Žumagulov, we are told: recounted in detail about the work of the deputies from Kirgiziâ at the first Congress of Peoples’ Deputies of the ussr and about how the decisions taken there are to be realised in the republic. [He] drew the voters’ attention to the fact that in order to improve well-being people had to act together and that it was necessary to do so more actively and decisively. The deputy responded in detail to the numerous questions of the workers concerning the development of rental (arenda) and other contemporary forms of land-use in the context of Kirgiziâ, about the perspectives of the cooperative movement, and about inter-ethnic relations in the republic (Anonymous, 1989b). 33 The tone here and the appeal of the title, addressed to an upstanding citizen and Party activist (“you too need to operate more actively”) differs little from the kind of authoritative discourse that characterised the Brezhnev era, with a subtle nod to Gorbachev’s concerns with increasing productivity and individual responsibility. Local populations are inveighed to act more resolutely, but we learn little from the reportage about what the local sources of tension were, or the substance of workers’ questions regarding new forms of land ownership or the state of inter-ethnic relations.

34 There was no subsequent reportage over the land dispute in Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ for nearly a month. Indeed, by the time the newspaper reported on events again, on July 16, the situation in the valley had reached critical levels, with water failing to reach the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz for several weeks due to the blockage of the canal by upstream users, and a curfew in place on the Tajik side of the republican border to prevent the escalation of violence. A report prepared for the Kyrgyz news agency, KirTAG by the correspondent V. Niksdorf, again illustrates how former conventions of reportage were being stretched to accommodate new realities (Niksdorf, 1989a). Under a headline that stressed the normalisation of transboundary relations, “The Situation is Normalising,” Niksdorf’s report in fact suggested that relations were incredibly strained. Indeed, while the title insisted on ‘normalisation’, the first sentence in the article stated that tensions between the residents of Batken and Isfara districts had ‘intensified’ (obostrilis’ ). On July 13, the report revealed, over a thousand people had gathered in the contiguous villages of Üč-Döbö (in the Kyrgyz ssr) and Oktâbr’ (in the Tajik SSR) in response to Kyrgyz demands to reopen the water canal, and 200 people from the nearby Tajik village of Vorukh had broken through a police cordon into Ak-Saj, leaving one person dead, and 19 injured (TadžikTA, 1989b) (other reports listed the number of casualties on July 13 as numbering up to 60). For all the drama of these events, the style of reporting was decidedly restrained: Conflicts over the determination of the boundary between a variety of land parcels, which have been ongoing for a number of years, became notably more intense this year – and in May this year residents of the Tajik village of Oktâbr’ unfoundedly

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(neobosnovanno) blocked the canal through which several villages of Batken rajon receive their water (Niksdorf, 1989a). 35 While the news report clearly placed the immediate source of dispute on the ‘unfounded’ actions of Tajik residents, the overall framing of the narrative, like others in the Kyrgyz press at the time, made little reference to the broader political history of indeterminate borders. The emphasis of the article, instead, was on the concerted efforts of the police and local authorities in containing the activities of a disaffected and economically marginalised local population: The party, soviet and economic organs of Kirgiziâ and Tajikistan are taking concrete measures in order to terminate this conflictual situation; they are creating necessary measures for the economic and social development of the two neighbouring districts of both republics, and for the strengthening of brotherly friendship (ukreplenie bratskoj družby) of the Kyrgyz and Tajik peoples (idem). 36 If the dominant tenor of reportage in the republican and provincial Party press was of this variety: retrospective (“The situation is normalising”), pacifying (“Difficulties must be overcome”), and with little investigative content, republican and provincial newspapers occasionally contained articles that ruptured this dominant discursive formation. The disjuncture is particularly striking if we compare the central and the provincial press. In the Kyrgyz republic, the only direct reference to the Isfara events in Leninskij Put’, the provincial newspaper covering the westernmost Batken district, came in article published on July 22, three months after tensions in the valley began to mount. Under the headline “Friendship won’t harm anyone” the article presented a bucolic scene of apricot-drying on the roofs of Batken homes, of hard-working herders and happy farmers inviting journalists in to try their apricot crop. There were, the author noted, “no traces of anxiety” in Batken, the district centre. In pointed reference to the mis-reporting of events form the central press, the article continued: To tell you the truth, having read various announcements in the central press on events in this district, I was nonetheless troubled by a feeling of foreboding. I treated everyone around me with care. But all around normal life was carrying on: trade was occurring in the market; shops and videobars were open; outside the shop the Batken people were choosing watermelons; a mother took her son for a haircut... (Zakharov, 1989). 37 The article explicitly rejected any attempt to analyse the causes of the preceding months’ events or to apportion blame (“that will be left to the appropriate authorities,” idem). Rather, Zakharov sought to stress the historic and ongoing ties between the Kyrgyz and Tajik communities, referencing ethnically mixed families and the presence of a sanatorium in Tajikistan where Kyrgyz kolkhoz workers regularly went to rest. There were local economic difficulties to be sure. 1989 had been a difficult year: there was limited rainfall and the region suffered from unemployment. But ultimately, as the deputy head of the Osh department of internal affairs was quoted as saying, The oblast’ came to the rajon to help. It offered financial support, various questions of trade service and construction have been resolved. By the way, the proposed building in the rajon of institutions of light industry will help in some way to remove the sharp social problem – the employment of the population (idem). 38 The article served at once to depoliticise the conflict – by identifying its roots in the local shortage of employment, not in the failures of previous parity commissions – and to reinforce the logic of Soviet institutional hierarchy according to which the ‘centre’ (Moscow) stands above the republics, which in turn assist the oblast’ to devote attention to needy districts.

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There is hope for a successful resolution of the conflict between Tajikistanis and Kirgizstanis [sic]. All that is needed is a realistic approach to this from each side. Just before my departure from Batken I found out that the Tajik comrades began to remove the blockage of the canal so as to provide water to the Batken villages. Consideration of several court cases has begun. Significant work in propaganda has been undertaken everywhere (povsemestno razvernulas’ bol’šaâ propagandistskaâ rabota). In village meetings, people’s representatives are being elected, who are beginning to talk to each other and find ways out of the situation that has arisen [...] One wants to believe that everything will be resolved, and what has occurred will remain a bitter lesson for the future. For the future, all the same, is for friendship (a buduŝee vse-taki za družboj) (idem). 39 Such reportage, reminiscent of an earlier era of authoritative discourse with its calls to brotherly friendship, its didactic manner of communication and its abduction of agency, stands in striking contrast with the assessment published in the central newspaper Pravda the following month and reproduced in both Leninabadskaâ Pravda and Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ. Under their heading, “The Border Across the Street,” the Moscow-based journalists sent to the Isfara valley to report from the scene provided a much more dramatic narration. The article began by evoking the tense atmosphere they encountered, the polar opposite of the peaceful scene conjured up by Zakharov: “Don’t wake the police, don’t send the special forces here! It is terrifying even to imagine what we have set in motion here, how much blood has been spilled, how many houses have been burned to cinders.” We have heard such admissions from Tajiks and from Kirgiz alike, for whom the excessively long-drawn out resolution of the most acute land and water problems almost resulted in mortal combat (smertel’nuû skhvatku). Picture the scene. Here is a chain of women and children along the length of the road carrying bundles in their hands and on their heads. They are refugees returning from the mountains or from shelters. [Here are] burned out houses with broken windows, parched kitchen gardens and withered orchards. Here is an irate crowd, which has overturned a minibus; here is a heavy, to say the least, videofilm which shows the stand-off between hundreds of people at the edges of the Üč-Döbö tract. The sequence of images shows how with each hour the danger of bloodshed increased, as neighbours threaten one another, throwing stones and attempting to break through the many-layered chain of armed soldiers and policemen (Latifi & Razgulâev, 1989). 40 Where local newspapers tended to stress the economic sources of current tensions, Latifi and Razgulâev drew a much bolder conclusion, noting that conflict began not in June, or even in May, but had matured over decades in the repeated redetermination of republican borders: At the most recent discussions, we were able to see how as one or other side presented a document, the other retrieved from their briefcase or from a folder a ‘more accurate,’ ‘more reliable’ or ‘older’ one. Maps from the 1950s were presented, followed by those from the 1940s, 1930s and 1920s. We looked with interest at the map of 1902. And at a meeting with elders in the village of Oktâbr’ we were even presented with a map from the Kokand khanate. Is it possible to find in such historical thickets a basis for mutual understanding? (idem). 41 Interestingly, the gulf between alarmism and assertions of calm, between claims of ‘normalisation’ and intensification of conflict can be found not just between the central and provincial publications, but even within the same newspaper on different days. In the republican and oblast’ level Tajik newspapers, Kommunist Tadžikistana and Leninabadskaâ Pravda, for instance, detailed and sometimes quite critical explorations of the sources of contention in the Isfara valley can be found, often side-by-side, with assertions that the situation in the valley was in fact ‘calm’ and that what was needed

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was simply more order and more energy in responding to local needs. On July 18, Kommunist Tadžikistana published an article (bylined with the Tajik Information Agency, TadžikTA), under the headline “Painstaking Work is Needed.” In guarded terms, this article identified the sources of tension in economic grievances resulting from water shortages in the context of population growth: Disputes (spory) over the right to use water and land in a variety of areas have occurred as a result of their deficit. The problem hasn’t arisen straight away, but rather according to the growth in population, which has outpaced the reserves of irrigated land. In such conditions each hectare, each litre must be used with absolute care (s polnoj otdačej) (TadžikTA, 1989d). 42 The article criticises the failures of ‘local organs’ to contain the current conflict and asserted that “today sustained, painstaking work is required to hold people back from ill-considered actions” (ot neobdumanykh postupkov). The tone and form of the article are evocative of an earlier mode of journalist reportage in which challenges are to be overcome with careful and concerted collective effort. Agency is abducted, causes uninterrogated, and responsibility for the conflict is left unclear: the current deficit cast as the inevitable outcome of population growth, not the result of unresolved territorial dispute.

43 And yet the same newspaper the previous month had published an article remarkable for the tenor and critical perspective of its analysis. Under the heading, “Conflict Could Have Been Avoided,” M. Popov, in a three-thousand-word essay, launched one of the first sustained public critiques of the national-territorial delimitation of 1924-25, which made the map of Central Asia appear as though it had been “cut with scissors” and – the reader is led to conclude – created the conditions of possibility for the current escalation of conflict. The article began with a stark assessment of the current situation: For almost two months, the Isfara rajon has lived in a state of tension. Here in the village of Oktâbr’ the emotions elicited by land conflicts have not diminished. And since we are talking about a parcel of land that borders the Kyrgyz village of Uč- Doba [sic], the conflict gained an inter-ethnic tone (mežnacional’nyj ottenok) almost from the start (Popov, 1989b). 44 What is distinctive about Popov’s assessment is the linkage of current conflict to historical oversights in the delimitation of the border. He reserved particular critique for the last major round of territorial redrawing, which occurred in 1958. Writing of Oktâbr’, he noted of the 1950s that: There was so much freedom at that time that in 1958 the leadership of the Kalinin kolkhoz in Isfara district even considered it possible to gift (peredat’ v dar) 144 hectares of land to the Kalinin kolkhoz [sic] of Batken district. That stretch of land lies right next to the territory of Oktâbr’. In Kyrgyzstan, ratification of that donation of land went through all the necessary levels, but in Tajikistan, not all the formalities were observed. The presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the republic did not issue a decree in regard to this exchange. But that did not stop the neighbours using the land that was given to them. Today, thirty years later, the short- sightedness (neobdumannost’) of that step is particularly stark. The population of the village of Oktâbr’ has grown immeasurably. With this has grown the need to increase the number of domestic plots in order to reduce production problems. But now there are no lands remaining along the neighbouring village. How would it be if today you give your friend a fantastic present (šikarnyj podarok) but then tomorrow you demand it back since, well, you need it? At the very least you will

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lose a friend. But precisely these kind of calls could be heard in Oktâbr’ concerning the 144 hectares (idem). 45 For Popov, then, the source of current conflict needs to be situated not simply in population growth and the more general shortage of irrigation water characteristic of large parts of the Ferghana valley, but in the failures of an earlier era of socialist internationalism in which calls to brotherly friendship trumped careful attention to the process of inter-republican delimitation.

46 Perhaps the most outspoken assessment, however, came in an article published one month after Popov’s, in Leninabadskaâ Pravda. A 3,000-word article under the heading, “Be Human! A Reportage from the Curfew 47 Zone,” one senses an explicit pushing at the boundaries of reportable speech: one that is all the more remarkable for the assortment of articles by which it is surrounded – articles that in their form, organisation and mode of interpellation continue a mode of authoritative discourse little changed from the Brezhnev era. The authors, Krûčkov and Morozov, note that their task in undertaking the current reportage had been “determined by our readers” who were clearly frustrated that the central press was doing a more thorough job of reporting on events than local journalists. Like Popov, they make an explicit point of criticising the failures of earlier parity commissions, but they go further in calling for a much more encompassing resolution of the indeterminate borders, to be undertaken “at the highest level.” Invoking Gogol’s Dead Souls, they depicted the most recent commissions, which had been established in 1985, as: acting on the principle of Triškin’s coat, when to fix the torn elbows of the coat you cut out a part of the sleeve, and to mend the shortened sleeves you cut away at the coat-tails. They hastily (v požarnom porâdke) tried to put out the hot-spots without solving the problem in any global way [...] Today we urgently need the borders of land use to be determined in a completely clear and legally rigorous way. We are not just talking here about the redrawing (perekrojka) of the borders between two republics, but also about a clear determination of the right to appropriate empty lands. These need to be resolved at the very highest levels. All the preceding republican commissions didn’t resolve anything (Krûčkov & Morozov, 1989). 48 If the authors were outspoken in their critique of past failures, they were equally critical of the failures of journalists to provide an adequate account of events. In pointed reference to the work of (unnamed) colleagues, Krûčkov and Morozov noted on July 21: People are fed up with empty words (govoril’nâ). Newspapers and television often limit themselves to useless, ironed-out announcements and appeals to live in friendship (ograničivaûtsâ bespomoŝnymi, priglažennymi soobŝeniâmi da prizyvami žit’družno) (idem). 49 The people of the Isfara valley, they implied, had little time or trust for such forms of outdated speech: the times had moved on and people demanded to know what was really happening at the edges of their republic. Krûčkov and Morozov’s article may not strike us as unusual in the context of the broader political mood of 1989: certainly, many articles in the central press were equally outspoken about the failures of empty promises and empty appeals in the realm of inter-ethnic relations. But in the context of Leninabadskaâ Pravda in July 1989 what is remarkable is precisely the way that such speech acts serve to undermine the very coherence of the authoritative discourse by which they are surrounded: it is as though the article is a commentary on the surrounding pages of Leninabadskaâ Pravda itself and its sister newspapers in the

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provinces, full, as they were, with appeals to calm and assertions of order. Indeed, Krûčkov and Morozov’s commentary appeared just three days after a warning from the First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Kyrgyz SSR, Medetkan Šerimkulov, directed explicitly at journalists, to refrain from provocative or inaccurate reporting: I would like to say that in interethnic relations what is above all important is consolidation, deep respect for each other, and balance – and journalistic announcements here play an enormous role. They can serve as a means for calming passions (uspokoeniâ strastej) or, on the contrary, as a catalyst for emotional explosion (katalizatorom emocional’nogo vzryva) (Niksdorf, 1989b). 50 Šerimkulov was clearly incensed that the central Moscow press had relied exclusively upon reports prepared by the Tajik news agency, TadžikTA, in describing events in the Isfara valley, and he used a (prepared) interview in Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ to make his point. “The information coming out in a variety of central publications contains some questionable assessments and often straightforward factual errors,” the article noted. Specifically, Šerimkulov criticised the use of the term “contested territory” (spornaâ territoriâ) to reference the land on which the Kyrgyz farmers had commenced construction, and a reference to “contested water” in the previous day’s Komsomol’skaâ Pravda (Ganelin, 1989): In my opinion, disputes are being whipped up around issues that are not disputed. If we are talking about the inter-republican borders, then we need first of all to proceed from the de facto land use that has arisen between the republics [...] The residents of the Tajik village, Oktâbr’ have claims upon a part of the territory of Batken district. Precisely here were envisaged several land parcels for the workers of the 100 years of Lenin sovkhoz. They even brought stones to build the foundations for their homes. But when disputes arose, as occurred in the spring, we insisted that they cease any work. What kind of ‘appropriation’ can we talk of in the given situation? (Niksdorf, 1989b). 51 Šerimkulov’s conclusion was that only through an agreed official narrative, from Kyrgyz and Tajik news agencies, could such inaccuracies be avoided. As quoted by Niksdorf: At the meetings of the leaders of Kirgiziâ and Tajikistan we talked about the role of the press in illuminating the conflict situation in the two districts of our republics. A correct conclusion was drawn, that information in various publications should not be one-sided. It would be good if [such information] were agreed by representatives of both sides. Precisely in this way we have proceeded in preparing announcements from KirTAG for the republican and all-Union press. I think that not one correspondent will look upon such a move as an attack on the freedom of the press (kak pokušenie na svobodu pečati), though it might well help him to avoid mistakes, small or large (idem).

Conclusion

52 1989 was a year of heightened awareness about the fragility of interethnic relations in Central Asia, and of the capacity of inaccurate or ‘misguided speech’ to foster its own dynamic of escalation. For many journalists who were also members of the Communist Party, the stakes of maintain peace through ‘constructive speech’ could not be higher It is perhaps no surprise that throughout the spring and summer of 1989, provincial newspapers in the Tajik and Kyrgyz SSR carried multiple articles stressing the non- occurrence of conflict, the danger of misinformation, the need to be ‘vigilant’ (bditel’nyj ) and to distinguish ‘reality from rumour’ (e.g. Khomidov, 1989; KirTAG 1989).

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53 Such appeals cannot, I believe, simply be attributed to the inertia of inherited styles of narrative reportage, the conservatism of individual journalists, or the pressures that editors were under from their Party bosses – although all of these aspects no doubt played some role. Rather, as the flurry of editorial commentary concerning the need for ‘responsible speech’ suggests, journalists and editors were charting a new ground of discursive possibility in a context where unregulated speech was understood to have powerful and unpredictable consequences. Rumour, as Veena Das notes, “occupies a region of language with the potential to make us experience events, not simply by pointing to them as to something external, but rather by producing them in the very act of telling” (2007, p. 108). Journalists appear to have been intensely conscious of the pre-figurative capacity of language: the risk that reportage might itself enunciate and enact a new reality, hence the considerable, indeed perhaps excessive number of column inches dedicating to showing that a given rumour was false, that “disturbances didn’t occur” (e.g. Upolovnikov, 1989). 54 This concern, if we are to take it seriously as more than conservative intransigence on the part of individual journalists, or a response to the long arm of the censor, has consequences for how we interpret the moment of late Soviet discursive decomposition that I have sought to capture in this article. At the end of his magisterial analysis of late socialism, Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More, Alexi Yurchak argues that “Soviet late socialism provides a stunning example of how a dynamic and powerful social system can abruptly and unexpectedly unravel when the discursive conditions of its existence are changed” (2005, pp. 295-296). When viewed from the long range of the Soviet twentieth century, this is undoubtedly true. Gorbachev’s policy of glasnost’ was profoundly transformative, allowing for the very foundations of authoritative discourse to be questioned, and thus for the fragility of the Soviet master-narrative itself to be exposed. Viewed closer-up, however, the story begins to complicate. Any rupture explored in microcosm reveals itself to be a multiplicity of much smaller changes, with different tempi and causal sequences. Even avalanches have their internal dynamics. 55 Through an analysis of reporting on one critical event in the dying years of the Soviet Union I have sought to capture something of that avalanche in motion: the point when a uniform discursive formation is not just disturbed, but gradually unmade. This reportage reveals the fragmentation in authoritative discourse; the emergence not simply of discordant narrative styles between a more experimental central press and a more cautious one in the provinces, but a more profound moment of instability about what exactly the provincial Soviet press can be or should be, particularly in a context of competing demands, limited resources and continued pressures from the Communist authorities to stand in the vanguard of ‘constructive speech.’ It is for this reason that one article in an issue of Leninabadskaâ Pravda could serve as a meta-commentary on the worn-out authoritative discourse that dominated the very same issue’s other pages; it is for this reason that we can see, side by side, calls for greater press freedom and greater journalistic caution; assertions of growing instability and of greater calm; it is in this light, too, that we should interpret the proliferation of meta-commentary on the dangers of an ‘unregulated’ (samodeâtel’naâ) press, and that we can understand Šerimkulov’s gesture to the ‘freedom of the press’ even as his speech urges that journalists from Kyrgyz and Tajik news agencies agree a single narrative before reporting on transboundary conflict.

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56 That such transformations are not uniform should not surprise us: even a ‘landslide of the norm’ evolves over time. And yet, much writing on glasnost’, whether in euphoric or more critical tones, tends to stress rupture over anguished negotiation; to stress radical shifts in discursive styles rather than the equally striking continuities in modes of narration after the partial lifting of censorship; or to highlight journalistic euphoria over the equally pressing anxiety that ‘truth’ might be glasnost’s greatest victim. In part, I have suggested, this is because our analysis of glasnost’ still tends to be dominated by an implicit model of repression and release, such that the lifting of censorship will lead, unproblematically, to greater and more open expression (‘graphomania’) and in turn to a more open and liberal society. It is a narrative that resonates with a sensibility in much cultural theory to the small acts of resistance through which power is contested and a broader modality of hope (that the pen really might be mightier than the sword) (Jansen, 2014). From the perspective of the Soviet periphery, I have argued that glasnost’ should be seen less as a moment of unproblematic opening, of ‘taking voice’ after years of silencing, than as providing an insight into a constituent tension of Gorbachev’s reforms between experiment and control – and its anxious consequences for those journalists who understood their role to be instructing and educating their reading publics in socialist consciousness. For provincial journalists, perestroika signalled a discordant, contentious and contradictory process of negotiating ‘constructive’ speech; not simply the lifting of a censor’s stamp – a reality that is instructive for how we might interpret the political affordances and limits of ‘uncensored’ expression in other post-authoritarian contexts today.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Newspaper articles

Anonymous, 1989a, “Dialog: gazeta-čitatel’. Niti doveriâ” [Dialogue: newspaper-reader. Threads of trust], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, May 5, p. 2.

—, 1989b, “Dejstvovat’ aktivnee” [To operate more actively], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, June 21, p. 1.

—, 1989c, “Čitateli ‘Izvestij’ o mežnacional’nykh otnošeniâkh” [The readers of ‘Izvestiâ’ about inter-ethnic relations], Izvestiâ, July 15, p. 2.

—, 1989d, “Prinimaûtsâ mery k normalizacii” [Measures are being taken towards normalisation], Izvestiâ, July 16, p. 1.

—, 1989e, “Prizyv k razumu. Obraŝenie veteranov partij, voiny i truda, predstavitelej naučnoj i tvorčeskoj intelligencii, rabočego klassa i kolkhoznogo krestânstva, molodeži k naselenû respubliki” [Appeal to sense. An appeal of the veterans of the party, of the war and of labour, representatives of the scientific and cultural intelligentsia, the working class and the collective farm pesanatry, [and] the youth to the population of the republic], Komsomolec Tadžikistana, July 19, p. 1.

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—, 1989f, “S učetom vzaimnykh interesov” [With consideration of mutual interests], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, July 20, p. 1 (also published in Leninabadskaâ Pravda, July 20, p. 4 and Kommunist Tadžikistana, July 20, p. 1).

—, 1989g, “Zaočnaâ konferenciâ čitatelej gazety ‘Leninabadskaâ Pravda’” [A virtual conference of the readers of the newspaper ‘Leninabadskaâ Pravda’],

Leninabadskaâ Pravda, September 16, p. 3.

BAÂLINOV K., 1989, “Nakhalstroj: Počemu vozmožny fakty samovol’nogo zakhvata zemli pod stroitel’stvo individual’nogo žil’â” [Cowboy-build: Why there are cases of wilful seizure of land for the building of individual homes], Komsomol’skaâ Pravda, June 29, p. 2.

CORNWELL Robert, 1989, “Death Toll in Uzbekistan ‘Pogrom’ Reaches 50,” The Independent, June 7, p. 15.

FREIDKIN B. & VAKHIDOV M., 1989, “Obŝestvennyj porâdok obespečen: na voprosy našikh korrespondentov otvečaet načal’nik uvd oblispolkoma M.S. Kosteckij” [Public order is achieved: the head of the provincial department of internal affairs M.S. Kosteckij answers the questions of our correspondents], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, June 13, p. 2.

GANELIN A., 1989, “Styčka na meže” [Conflict on the border], Komsomol’skaâ Pravda, July 15, p. 2.

ISLÂMOV A., 1989, “Sokhranit’ mir v svoem dome” [Maintain peace in one’s home], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, August 31, p. 4.

KANOATOV I., 1989, “Do i posle konflikta” [Before and after the conflict], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, July 28, p. 3.

KHOMIDOV M., 1989, “Real’nost’ protiv slukhov” [Reality against the rumours], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, April 28, p. 4.

KirTAG, 1989, “Po slukham i avtoritetno: komu èto na ruku?” [On rumour and good authority: who is up to such a thing?], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, June 30, pp. I-2.

KOZLINSKIJ V., 1989, “Kak my delaem gazetu” [How we produce a newspaper], Večernij Frunze, October 21, p. 6.

KRÛČKOV Û. & FREIDKIN B., 1989, “K voprosu o slukhakh. Poziciâ: Ee neobkhodimo imet’ vsem, kto zanât ideologičeskoj rabotoj” [On the question of rumours. Position. Everyone should know this who is involved in ideological work], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, May 6, p. 3.

KRÛČKOV Û. & MOROZOV V, 1989, “Byt’ lûd’mi! Reportaž iz zony dejstviâ komendantskogo časa” [Be human! A reportage from the curfew zone], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, July 21, pp. 1,3.

LATIFI O. & Razgulâev û., 1989, “Granica čerez ulicu” [The border across the street], Pravda, August 23, p. 2 (reprinted on August 25 in Leninabadskaâ Pravda, p. 2 and Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, p. 2).

MURSALIEV A., 1989, “Nacional’nyj vopros” [The national question], Komsomol ’skaâ Pravda, August 5, pp. 1,2.

NIKSDORF V, 1989a, “Obstanovka normalizuetsâ” [The situation is normalising], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ , July 16, p. 1.

—, 1989b, “Trudnosti dolžny byt’ preodoleny” [Difficulties must be overcome], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, July 18, p. 1.

PETRUNÂ V., 1989, “Pravo na talon: neuklonno rastet proizvodstvo piŝevoj produkcii, eŝe stremitel’nee rastet deficit” [The right to a voucher: the production of food is growing, but the deficit is growing at a faster rate], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, May 17, p. 1.

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POPOV M., 1989a, “Put’ k soglasiû” [The road to agreement], Kommunist Tadžikistana, June 13, p. 2.

—, 1989b, “Konflikta moglo ne byt’” [Conflict could have been avoided], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, June 28, p. 1.

ROMANÛK C., 1989, “Skvattery vo Frunze” [Squatters in Frunze], Komsomol’skaâ Pravda, June 22, p. 1.

SAJIPŽANOV M., 1989, “Vzglâd na problem: ‘Prišlite korrespondenta...’” [A perspective on the problem: ‘send a correspondent’], Leninskij Put’, August 9, p. 1.

TadžikTA, 1989a, “K sobytiâm v Aštskom rajone” [On the events in Ašt rajon], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, July 13, p. 2.

—, 1989b, “K sobytiâm v Isfarinskom rajone” [On the events in Isfara rajon], Leninabadskaâ Pravda, July 15, p. 1 (also published in Kommunist Tadžikistana, July 15, p. 1).

—, 1989c, “Obrazovana črezvyčajnaâ komissiâ” [An emergency commission has been formed], Kommunist Tadžikistana, July 16, p. 1.

—, 1989d, “Nužna kropotlivaâ rabota” [Painstaking work is needed], Kommunist Tadžikistana, July 18, p. 1.

TadzhikTA-TASS, 1989, “Vveden komendantskij čas” [A curfew has been introduced], Izvestiâ, July 16, p. 2.

TASS, 1989, “Snova pošla voda” [Water has been resumed], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, July 21, p. 1.

Ukaz prezidiuma verkhovnogo soveta Tadžikskoj ssr o vvedenii komendantskogo časa na territorii kišlačnykh sovetov Vorukh, Čorku i Surkh Isfarinskogo rajona Leninabadskoj oblasti Tadžikskoj ssr” [Decree of the Supreme Soviet of the Tajik ssr on the introduction of a curfew on the territory of the village councils of Vorukh, Čorku and Surh of Isfara district of Leninabad oblast of the Tajik SSR], Kommunist Tadžikistana, July 15, 1989, p. 1.

UPOLOVNIKOV V., 1989, “Po slukham i avtoriteno: besporâdkov ne proizošlo” [On rumour and good authority: riots did not take place], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, May 26, p. 3.

ZAKHAROV V., 1989, “Družba nikomu ne povredit” [Friendship won’t harm anyone], Leninskij Put’ , July 22, p. 1.

ZAKIROV M. & Babadžanov Kh., 1989a, “V usloviâkh komendantskogo časa” [In the conditions of the curfew], Kommunist Tadžikistana, July 21, p. 1.

—, 1989b, “Isfara: press-konferenciâ K.M. Makhkamova” [Isfara: the press conference of K.M. Makhkamov], Kommunist Tadžikistana, July 21, p. 1.

ŽUKOV Û., 1989, “Svoboda slova ili vsedozvolennost’? O nekotorykh problemakh samodeâtel’noj pečati” [Freedom of speech or ‘everything goes’? On some problems with the autonomous press], Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, August 29, p. 2.

Other literature

BICHSEL Christine, 2009, Conflict Transformation in Central Asia: Irrigation Disputes in the Ferghana Valley, Abingdon: Routledge.

BOYM Svetlana, 1993, Common Places: Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia, Boston: Harvard University Press.

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BUŠKOV Valentin, 1995, Naselenie severnogo Tadžikistana: formirovanie i rasselenie” [The population of Northern Tajikistan: formation and distribution], Moscow: RAN.

DAS Veena, 2007, Life and Words. Violence and the Descent Into the Ordinary, Berkeley: University of California Press.

GHONIM Wael, 2013, Revolution 2.0: The Power of the People is Greater than the People in Power. A Memoir, New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

GLEBOV Oleg & CROWFOOT John (eds.), 1989, The Soviet Empire: Its Nations Speak Out, Chur, Switzerland-London: Harvard Academic Publishers.

GUSEINOV Gasan, 1989, “Lož kak sostoânie soznaniâ” [Lying as a state of consciousness], Voprosy filosofii 11, pp. 64.76.

HUMPHREY Caroline, 2005, “Dangerous words: Taboos, evasion and silence in Soviet Russia,” Antropologičeskij forum/Forum for Anthropology and Culture 2, pp. 374-296.

HUSKEY Eugene, 1997, “Kyrgyzstan: The Politics of Demographic and Economic Frustration,” in Ian Bremmer & Ray Taras (eds.), New States, New Politics: Building the Post-Soviet Nations, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 655-680.

JANSEN Stef, 2014, “Hope For/Against the State: Gridding in a Besieged Sarajevo Suburb,” Ethnos 79(2), pp. 238-260.

McNAIR Brian, 1991, Glasnost, Perestroika and the Soviet Media, London-New York: Routledge.

MICKIEWICZ Ellen, 1997, Changing Channels: Television and the Struggle for Power in Russia, Durham: Duke University Press.

OSIPOV Aleksandr, 2004, “Ferganskie sobytiâ 1989 goda (konstruirovanie etničeskogo konflikta)” [The Ferghana events of 1989 (the construction of an ethnic conflict)], in S.N. Abashin & VI. Buškov, Ferganskaâ dolina: etničnost’, etničeskieprocessy, etničeskie konflikty, Moscow: Nauka, pp. 164-223.

OUSHAKINE Serguei, 2000, “In the State of Post-Soviet Aphasia: Symbolic Development in Contemporary Russia,” Europe-Asia Studies 52(6), pp. 991-1016.

—, 2001, “The Terrifying Mimicry of Samizdat,” Public Culture 13(2), pp. 191-214.

REEVES Madeleine, 2014, Border Work: Spatial Lives of the State in Rural Central Asia, Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

RIORDAN James & BRIDGER Sue, 1992, Dear Comrade Editor: Readers’ Letters to the Soviet Press Under Perestroika, Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

RYAZANOVA-CLARKE Lara, 2008, “On Constructing Perestroika: Mikhail Gorbachev as Agent of Linguistic Heresy,” in Ernest Andrews (eds.), Linguistic Changes in Post-Communist Eastern Europe and Eurasia, New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 103-130.

RYWKIN Michael, 1990, Moscow’s Muslim Challenge: Soviet Central Asia, Armonk-London: M.E. Sharpe.

SHOZIMOV Pultat, Beshimov Baktybek & Yunusova Khurshida, 2011, “The Ferghana Valley During Perestroika, 1985-1991,” in Frederick Starr (ed.), The Ferghana Valley: The Heart of Central Asia, Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, pp. 178-204.

TISHKOV Vladimir, 1997, Ethnicity, Nationalism and Conflict in and After the Soviet Union: The Mind Aflame, London: Sage.

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WOLFE Thomas, 2005, Governing Soviet Journalism: The Press and the Socialist Person After Stalin, Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

YURCHAK Alexei, 2003. “Soviet Hegemony of Form: Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 45(3), pp. 480-510.

—, 2005, Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

ZAVISCA Jane, 2011, “Explaining and Interpreting the End of Soviet Rule,” Kritika: Exploration in Russian and Eurasian History 12(4), pp. 925-940.

NOTES

1. I am grateful to the French Institute for Central Asian Studies, whose invitation to present at the conference on ‘1989, Also a Key Year in Central Asia?’ was the spur for me to delve further into the Isfara events. Had it not been for conversations with Gulnara Ibraeva and Sarah Amsler about ‘truth’ and authoritative speech in late- and post-Soviet Kyrgyzstan, I would perhaps never have become so intrigued by the work of the provincial press during perestroika. I am grateful to two anonymous reviewers for their constructive feedback and helpful suggestions, and especially to Adi Kuntsman, whose close reading of a draft has spurred this paper in new directions. Any errors of fact or interpretation, of course, remain my own. 2. As Oushakine (2001, p. 192) notes, the term glasnost’ has its etymological roots in the idea of voice (glas), and thus carries connotations of ‘rendering public’ or ‘giving voice’ which the usual English translation ‘openness’ does not fully convey. 3. The question of how these discourses did or did not differ in the Kyrgyz- and Tajik-language provincial press is an important one requiring future research. It lies outside the scope of the current article, however. It is unfortunately the case that collections of Russian-language newspapers appear much better maintained; the extensive corpus of newspapers contained in the newspaper collection of the Russian State Library at Khimki that I consulted to write this article does not maintain holdings of the key Kyrgyz- and Tajik-language provincial newspapers that would be needed for a systematic comparison. 4. A full discussion of the so-called “Ferghana events” of June and July 1989 is beyond the scope of this chapter. For a detailed analysis, which examines the chronology of events and the way that conflict catalysed and mobilised local conceptions of ethnicity, see Osipov, 2004. 5. The chronology and narrative overview of events in this section draws on published sources and interviews with some of the key actors that I conducted retrospectively in 2004-2005 and 2008. A full, archival history of these events is beyond the scope of this article. Given the argument that I develop in this paper concerning the partial and tendentious mode of some news reportage at the time, and given the tendency for memories of past conflict to be inflected by the dynamics of ongoing tensions, specific dates and numbers of casualties should be treated with some caution. I have, however, sought to provide as faithful an account of the 1989 events as I am available by triangulating multiple source bases. 6. As Eugene Huskey has argued, rural areas in Kyrgyzstan were “in crisis” well before Gorbachev assumed power. The rural population of the republic had doubled between 1959 and 1989, even as it declined overall in the Soviet Union over the same period. Average monthly salaries were substantially lower than all-Union averages, and many young people reluctantly sought work and shelter in the city (Huskey, 1997, pp. 660-662). 7. For the contemporary legacies of this indeterminacy, see Bichsel (2009), Reeves (2014) and Shozimov, Beshimov & Yunusova (2011).

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8. For a chronology, see Bichsel, 2009, pp. 106-112. 9. Interview with former member of the Ak-Saj state farm administration, July 2008; see also Popov, 1989b. 10. On the social origins of the housing crisis in urban Kyrgyzstan and its links to increasingly vocal nationalist demands, see Huskey, 1997, pp. 661-662. 11. See, for instance, the “Appeal to sense” (Prizyv k razumu) signed by an assortment of war veterans, party activists and representatives of the intelligentsia urging “wisdom, tolerance and good sense in the delicate and fragile area of inter-ethnic relations” (Anonymous, 1989e). 12. See, for instance, Ûrij Žukov’s lengthy essay in Pravda, republished in Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ, entitled “Freedom of Speech or Everything Goes? On Some Problems with the Autonomous Press” (Žukov, 1989). 13. Author’s interviews, Ak-Tatyr and Üč-Döbö villages, September-October 2004. 14. In the Tajik SSR, I found an equally brief reference to the events in the Isfara valley on June 13, at the very end of an interview with the head of the internal affairs department of the oblast’ executive committee regarding the attacks upon Meskhetian Turks in neighbouring Uzbekistan (Freidkin & Vakhidov, 1989).

ABSTRACTS

This article explores the unmaking of authoritative discourse in the Central Asian press during perestroika. Studies of the Soviet press have often drawn attention to the momentous changes brought about by Gorbachev’s policy of glasnost’ in the second half of the 1980s. This article considers how such changes were reflected in the reporting of one significant event of inter- communal and trans-boundary conflict along the borders of the Kyrgyz and Tajik ssrs in 1989. Through a close analysis of the differential reporting of events in central, republican and provincial press, the article argues for the need to ‘provincialise’ our account of perestroika: that is, to attend to its differential dynamics in different parts of the Soviet Union, and the implications for journalists and editors negotiating the demands of ‘constructive speech’ at a time of mounting commentary on the relationship between truth, rumour and inter-ethnic conflict.

Cet article analyse la déconstruction du discours officiel dans la presse d’Asie centrale sous la perestroïka. Les études sur la presse soviétique ont souvent souligné les bouleversements générés par la politique de transparence (glasnost) de Gorbatchev dans la seconde moitié des années quatre-vingt. Cet article examine comment ces changements ont été pris en compte dans la couverture médiatique d’un conflit interethnique et transfrontalier entre les rss kirghize et tadjike en 1989. Grâce à une analyse approfondie du traitement des événements dans la presse centrale, républicaine et provinciale, l’article défend le besoin de « provincialiser » le récit sur la perestroïka, c’est-à-dire de tenir compte des dynamiques propres à chaque région de l’Union soviétique, et leurs conséquences pour les journalistes et éditeurs face à l’exigence d’une « parole constructive » au moment même où les commentaires s’accumulent sur la relation entre vérité, rumeurs et conflit interethnique.

В этой статье рассматривается деконструкция официального дискурса в прессе Центральной Азии в период перестройки. Исследования советской прессы часто

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подчеркнули знаменательные изменения вызванные горбачевской гласности во второй половине 1980-х годов. Данная статья анализирует, каким образом эти изменения были отражены в освещении межнационального и трансграничного конфликта между Кыргызской и Таджикской сср в 1989 г. Посредством глубокого анализа статей центральной, республиканской и областной прессы утверждается, что настало время воспринимать перестройку более с региональной точки зрения, то есть принимать во внимание динамики каждого региона советского союза и их влияние для журналистов и редакторов с требованием «конструктивной речи» в то время, когда есть вес ряд комментарий по отношении между истиной, слухами и межнациональным конфликтом.

INDEX

Mots-clés: perestroïka, glasnost, rumeur, conflit, événements d’Isfara, journalisme motsclesru перестройка, гласность, слух, конфликт, Исфаринские события, журналистика Keywords: perestroika, glasnost’, rumour, conflict, Isfara events, journalism

AUTHOR

MADELEINE REEVES

Madeleine Reeves is Senior Lecturer in Social Anthropology at the University of Manchester, and editor of Central Asian Survey. Her interests lie in the anthropology of the state, space, mobility and bureaucracy. She is the author of Border Work: Spatial Lives of the State in Rural Central Asia (Cornell 2014) and co-editor, most recently, of Affective States: Entanglements, Suspensions, Suspicions, a special issue of Social Analysis, with Mateusz Laszczkowski. Contact: [email protected]

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Un mécontentement social, économique et culturel à l’origine des mobilisations politiques A Social, Economic and Cultural Discontent at the Origin of Political Mobilisations

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Tajikistan and the Ambiguous Impact of the Soviet-Afghan War The Political Mobilisation of Former Participants of the Soviet-Afghan War in 1989 Le Tadjikistan et l’impact ambigu de la guerre soviétique d’Afghanistan. La mobilisation politique d’anciens participants à la guerre soviétique d’Afghanistan en 1989 Таджикистан и противоречивые следствия советско-афганской войны. Политическая мобилизация бывших участников советско-афганской войны в 1989 году

Markus Göransson

Introduction1

1 The Afghan War left an ambiguous legacy in Tajikistan. In some quarters, it fed religious and nationalist sentiment, acting as a vehicle of wider criticisms of Russian- led rule. This was particularly true for underground religious circles, where the war was sometimes cast as anti-Islamic (Ro’i, 2002, pp. 346, 704; Reuveny & Prakash, 1999, p. 704.), but it was also the case in certain intellectual groups that increasingly espoused nationalist rhetoric in the late Soviet era.2 In other ways, however, the war appears to have reinforced Communist power in Tajikistan. With the 1979 invasion, the small fringe republic suddenly acquired central strategic importance and was in consequence showered with political attention and material support from Moscow. Sharing a 1,300 kilometre border with Afghanistan, Tajikistan became an advance base for the Soviet intervention and was also used to showcase the Soviet model to delegations of visiting Afghans (Roy, 1997, p. 197).

2 An even more direct impact of the war was felt by the roughly fifteen thousand Tajik citizens who went to Afghanistan to help sustain the intervention. Striking about these soldiers, officers, interpreters and civilian specialists is the extent to which their

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experiences reflected wider trends in Tajikistan. While some of them came to join calls for greater cultural and political autonomy for the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic, others returned from Afghanistan with a stronger attachment to their Soviet identity and a deeper sense of belonging to the state that had sent them to shed blood in the mountains and deserts of Afghanistan, promising them glory and material reward in return. An important dividing line ran between individuals who had taken part in the intervention in an advisory capacity and those who went to Afghanistan to fulfil a military function, as soldiers and officers – although there were numerous exceptions.3 3 The year 1989 offers an interesting snapshot of the different tendencies that played out among the former participants. A pivotal year in many ways, it featured both the end of the Afghan intervention and the passing of the Law on Language, which proclaimed Tajik (a variant of Persian) as the only state language in the republic (Landau & Kellner- Heinkele, 2007, pp. 76-77; Grenoble, 2004, pp. 153-154). Russian was demoted to a language of administration and political contention increased in intensity, fanned by economic decline, political stasis and the turbulence that swept other parts of the USSR, including the Baltics and the Caucasus. 4 During 1989, some ex-participants of the intervention supported moves towards linguistic reform, while others mobilised to defend their reputations and privileges at a time when they were increasingly falling out of official favour. Developments in 1989, furthermore, set the scene for the disturbances that swept the Tajik capital Dushanbe in February 1990, an event that dealt a profound shock to the republic’s political establishment. Issues of national revival, religion and Soviet identity came to the fore in this crisis that caused deep ruptures in Tajik society and began a period of contention that paved the way for the outbreak of a civil war in Tajikistan in 1992. The ex-participants found themselves on both sides of the barricades during the February disturbances, although a large number of former conscripts in Dushanbe came out in support of the established political order.4 5 This paper explores some of the different positions of former participants of the Afghan War in Tajikistan in the context of the political changes that took place in the republic in the late 1980s. It draws on interviews with eighty former participants of the Afghan War, both soldiers and civilians, as well as extensive documentary research. Collected over the course of seven months in Tajikistan in 2013 and 2014, the interviews offer windows into the personal histories of the ex-participants, including their involvement in politics in the late Soviet period. It is the first large-scale investigation into the lives of former Tajik participants in the Soviet conflict in Afghanistan and provides new insights into the role that the war played in their political formation. 6 The interviews were conducted in the cities and towns of Dushanbe, Qurghonteppa, Khorugh and Kulob, as well as in small localities in the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Region in Eastern Tajikistan. Fifty-two of the respondents had served in the Afghan War as conscripts; eighteen had been military interpreters, either with the Soviet Army or with Interior Ministry (MVD) forces; seven had worked in Afghanistan in a civilian capacity, while, lastly, three had first served as military interpreters before going back “across the river” to work as civilian advisers or interpreters. The respondents were found through contacts, veterans’ organisations and even unexpectedly on streets, in shops and (in a surprisingly large number of cases) behind the steering wheels of taxis.

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7 The interviews threw up a number of methodological issues, centred on bias, selectivity and flawed memory. Attempt was made to limit the impact of these issues through the use of a large number of interviews, source triangulation, and also a proactive interview style where seemingly implausible or overly simplistic claims were interrogated more carefully. Many respondents wished to be anonymous while others were happy to speak on record. All but one of the interviews were conducted in Russian. Most of them were recorded.5 No interpreter was used. 8 The paper argues that the war had both subversive and conservative influences on political discussions in the late Soviet period. While service and work in Afghanistan introduced a significant number of Tajik intellectuals to a Persianate culture that carried none of the Russian influences that had reshaped Tajik culture during more than a century of Russian and Soviet domination – a fact that played a significant role in the movement for language reform – it also entrenched pro-Soviet sentiment among many Tajik servicemen who had killed and suffered on behalf of the Soviet Union. Other processes of socialisation certainly also played a part – including the mass patriotic propaganda that pervaded the lives of Soviet citizens in the 1970s and the 1980s and the intellectual sub-debates that primed the minds of Tajik scholars, journalists and cultural figures to issues of national identity and cultural revival. Yet, as will be argued below, the Afghan War was a formative experience for thousands of soldiers, officers and advisers who, on the other side of the Amu Darya, encountered a society that was both intriguingly similar to, and remarkably different from, their own.

The Impact of the Afghan War

9 There has been a curious silence in academic research about the impact of the Soviet- Afghan War on Central Asia, despite the close cultural and geographical links between Afghanistan and the region. Most of those texts that do address the topic either tend to focus on issues of religious radicalisation (Bennigsen, 1989; Johnson, 2007, pp. 65, 112; Hiro, 2009, pp. 315-318), a matter whose importance has been overblown,6 or else give only scant references to the political changes that occurred in the war’s wake. Few publications tackle the topic more comprehensively, one notable exception being Artemy Kalinovsky’s discussion about the regional effects of the war (Kalinovsky, 2013b).7

10 It is only through the work of a handful of researchers that we have begun to explore the war’s impact in broader terms (Roy, 1997; Tasar, 2011; Kalinovsky, 2013b). One oft- forgotten fact is that the Soviet intervention, in many ways, represented a boon for the governments of the Central Asian republics, particularly Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, whose territories were converted into important bases for the occupation.8 The two Southern republics became awash with military aid and financing and received increased political attention from Moscow. Termez, an Uzbek town that had had only modest importance prior to the 1979 invasion, for example, was made a key organising hub of the military campaign.9 Meanwhile, bridges were built across the Amu Darya, connecting Central Asia with Afghanistan and permitting the transport of troops and supplies to the war zone, thereby turning the once peripheral Muslim republics from backwaters into launching pads for the Soviet occupation. 11 Similarly, scant attention has been paid to the roles that Uzbekistan and Tajikistan played as showcases of Soviet achievement.10 Delegations of Afghan officials,

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professionals and students crossed the Amu Darya during the war to study the economic, social and political advances that the Central Asian Muslims had made under the Soviet flag.11 Mindful of the close ties between Central Asia and Afghanistan, Soviet leaders hoped, it seems, that the visits would offer opportunities for the Afghans to draw inspiration from the successes of their Sovietised religious and ethnic kin.12 During the visits, Soviet officials routinely pointed out that Central Asia, too, had suffered from wretched poverty before the advent of Communist power and that it was thanks to Soviet government that the region had got up on its feet. This kind of rhetoric is exemplified by the following statement by Tajik First Party Secretary R.N. Nabiev, delivered at a meeting with Afghan officials in 1983: The successes that we have attained [...] are the result of the wise Leninist national policies of the cpsu, the friendship of all the nationalities and peoples of the great Country of the Soviets and the advantages of the Soviet social structure (Anonymous, 1983). 12 There is a thinly veiled subtext in Nabiev’s words that the Afghans could reproduce those same successes if they proceeded down the same Leninist path as Tajikistan.

13 A topic that has received more attention is the Central Asians who took part in the Soviet intervention. These young men (the vast majority were men) were well- represented in the Soviet force, particularly in the early years when they seem to have made up a large part of the military contingent (Zhou, 2012, p. 323). For this reason, they have attracted significant interest from Western observers. Yet, as we shall see, also here numerous questions have been left unanswered.

The Central Asian Participants

14 Western observers began to take an interest in the Soviet Muslim soldiers already at the start of the Afghan campaign. A series of articles published by the RAND Corporation13 in the 1980s were especially influential in setting the terms of the discussion. These articles, which drew on commonplace assumptions about the Central Asians as less fully Sovietised than Slavs, painted the Central Asians as the weak link in the intervention force and made claims such as: It is clear from eyewitness reports [...] [that] the Soviet Central Asian soldiers fraternized with the Afghan population, and that this fraternization was wide- ranging enough to make Soviet authorities uncomfortable lest Soviet Central Asians become infected with pro-Afghan, Islamic, nationalist or anti-Russian sympathies (Wimbush & Alexiev, 1981, p. 16). 15 Other observers followed suit. Edward Girardet, a Swiss-American journalist who began reporting on Afghanistan even before the invasion, relayed reports that “An unconfirmed number [...] of Soviet Muslim troops from the Central Asian Republic” changed sides during a Soviet offensive against the rebel commander Ahmad Shah Massoud (Girardet, 1985, p. 84).14 The military historian Leo J. Daugherty III, too, spoke of Central Asian disloyalty and disaffection, although he did so using more bombastic language: Soviet Muslims, forced to serve in a Russian-dominated military, alienated, often the subject of racism, chauvinism, and interethnic violence, rediscovered once again in Afghanistan the sense of nationalism that had been ‘snuffed out’ by the Soviet authorities in the 1920s and 1930s (Daugherty III, 1995, p. 90).15

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16 Other researchers have contested these claims, insisting that they find little basis in the evidence. Christian Bleuer, in his study of Muslim soldiers in a number of non-Muslim majority armies, cites a document published by the Russian Union of Afghanistan Veterans that lists only seventeen or eighteen Soviet Muslims as having defected to the Mujahaddin (Bleuer, 2012, p. 5). Rodric Braithwaite, in turn, notes that out of the 333 Soviet servicemen who were unaccounted for at the end of the war, only 44, including both Slavs and non-Slavs, were known to have joined the rebels (Braithwaite, 2011, p. 257). Another striking fact is that Central Asian soldiers died in similar numbers as other Soviet nationalities in Afghanistan, which, as Mark Galeotti has observed, is hardly evidence of a general Central Asian disengagement from the war (Galeotti, 1995, p. 28). Today, Tajik Afghan War veterans are adamant that they performed their service steadfastly. As Sattor Džalilov, chairman of the Dushanbe section of the Committee on Soldier-Internationalist Affairs, commented in an interview with the author in 2013: [The Tajik soldiers] served proudly with their heads raised [...]. Among the Tajiks from Tajikistan, who served in Afghanistan, there were no deserters or traitors who went over to the Mujahaddin [...]. On the contrary, they all fulfilled their duty heroically (Džalilov, 2013, interview). 17 But even though recent research has rebuffed the claims of the RAND Corporation, Daugherty III and others, it has left two important points unaddressed. Firstly, it has said little about the lives of the Central Asians after their demobilisation. This is a significant lacuna, for if we are interested in the political and cultural impact of the war, we must surely also consider the experiences of the Tajik soldiers after their return from the war.

18 Secondly, little interest has been forthcoming, even in the halls of the RAND Corporation, for the non-military participants in the war, that is the civilian advisers, interpreters and technical specialists who took part in the conflict at some distance from the firing lines. These individuals were spared the rigid discipline and authoritarianism of the 40th Army and enjoyed for the most part well-remunerated positions with little exposure to violence. As such they experienced the conflict in a markedly different way from the soldiers and officers. A number of the interpreters and advisers (although by no means all) returned from the war with new perspectives on their national identity and the political imperatives that lay before their republic. 19 The following sections discuss the political involvement of both military and civilian ex-participants in Tajikistan in the late 1980s. Focusing on the year 1989, it shows that the trajectories of these two groups diverged in important ways not only during the war but also after their return to Tajikistan. While many former conscripts and officers became closely wedded to the structures of political authority, others joined the movement for cultural and linguistic revival of the republic, a number of them as members of opposition organisations such as “Rastokhez.”

Conscripts and Officers

Separation

20 Students of late Soviet politics may find surprising the claim that Afghan War veterans in Tajikistan became closely linked to structures of political authority. In other places, former ‘soldier-internationalists’ were vociferous in their criticism of the powers-that-

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be, driven by a sense that they had been cheated of the rewards which they had been promised on their deployment to Afghanistan. As Rafael Reuveny and Aseem Prakash have argued (1999, p. 703): “The Afgantsy felt betrayed. Many of them organized into vigilante groups determined to fight the money grubbers and ‘scroungers’ who had sent them to war and were ignoring their existence. By the late 1980s, some Afgantsy had begun organising themselves politically.”16

21 In Tajikistan, too, Afghan War veterans were not shy to criticise the authorities, particularly after the perestroika reforms relaxed official controls on public discussions in the second half of the 1980s. An important platform for disgruntled afgancy was Paëmi Dušanbe [Voice of Dushanbe], a liberal-minded newspaper founded in January 1990 that became a channel of unorthodox views in late-Soviet Tajikistan. In the early 1990s, it ran numerous articles by former fighters, who spoke out on a variety of issues including the poor provision of veteran benefits and the stepmotherly treatment of veterans by lackadaisical bureaucrats. Two of the most prolific scribes during this time were Šavkat Mirzoev and Valī Sajërabek (he later changed his name to Sajërabekov), both former officer-interpreters who achieved prominence in the veterans movement in the late 1980s and early 1990s. One of their articles, “We do not hold anything from you,” (1990, p. 1) described the dire conditions in which many afgancy lived and accused the authorities of neglecting the fate of the individuals whom they had promised to help: “Senior-ranked individuals make promises but do nothing.”17 Another article addressed the housing shortage in Dushanbe, which was perhaps the most vexing issue for the ex-fighters, who had been promised priority housing as part of the package of benefits to which they were entitled, but had received very little of this kind (Sajërabek, 1990, p. 2). 22 Mirroring similar trends elsewhere in the USSR, the Tajik afgancy began at this time to organise themselves outside of the confines of official bodies. Ibragim Yatimov, one veteran activist in Dushanbe, reported that district-level veterans councils appeared across Tajikistan in the years 1985-1987 (Yatimov, 2014, interview). If this is correct, they were the first instances of the autonomous veterans movement. They eventually coalesced into larger units, such as the city-wide organisation of Afghan War veterans in Dushanbe, established in 1989, and the Union of Veterans of the Afghan War (SVAV under the Russian acronym), set up in 1992 with the aspiration to represent all veterans in Tajikistan (Meždunarodnyj soûz “Boevoe bratstvo,” n.d.). Valī Sajërabekov, who was one of the founding members of the Dushanbe city organisation in 1989, explained to the author that he and other Dushanbe-based veteran activists had decided to establish the organisation after realising that the law regulating the affairs of the veterans was not being enforced by the authorities (Sajërabekov, 2014, interview). 23 Thus, there was a growing separation between the veterans and the authorities in Tajikistan in the late 1980s, a trend that mimicked developments elsewhere in the Soviet Union. This accelerated after Soviet forces were withdrawn from Afghanistan between May 1988 and February 1989. Having been celebrated as heroes in some quarters in the mid-1980s, the veterans now saw public concern for them fade as Soviet society moved to forget the war and to confront other, more pressing challenges. The situation was compounded by a growing economic crisis and declining state authority. Afghan War veterans who had long been frustrated with the poor provision of benefits became ever more outspoken in the lean and chaotic final years of the Soviet Union,

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taking advantage of the new freedoms provided by perestroika. It was no coincidence that the first city-wide organisation of afgancy in Dushanbe was created in 1989 and that it apparently had as one of its main tasks to lobby the city authorities on behalf of the veterans (Yatimov, 2014, interview; Sajërabekov, 2014, interview). 24 The diminishing public interest in the veterans was reflected in the declining press coverage afforded to them in the republic. Having once been lauded as model Soviet citizens, the veterans quickly disappeared from public view after the Soviet presence in Afghanistan was brought to a close. If the youth-oriented newspaper Komsomolec Tadžikistana had given extensive attention to the soldier-internationalists in earlier years, it now slowed its reporting on them to a trickle. In the ten months that followed the withdrawal, only a handful of pieces about the veterans were printed in this publication that just a few years earlier had peppered its pages with portraits of the ‘patriotic’ and ‘steadfast’ soldier-internationalists, role models for the Tajik youth.18 The usefulness of the veterans seemed indeed to have run its course.

Outspoken Partners

25 Yet, despite the many bones of contention between the veterans and the state authorities, one should not exaggerate the conflict between them. Most of all, the afgancy played the part of an aggravated interest group that was determined to hold the authorities to account for their failures to uphold the rights of the veterans. They made few moves that might have challenged the authority and legitimacy of the governing bodies in the republic.

26 Indeed, for all their disenchantment with the state bureaucracy, the soldier- internationalists continued to work closely with the authorities. They attended government meetings, marched in official parades and helped to conduct so-called ‘military and patriotic education’ among the republican youth.19 Conversely, the authorities were present at many of the meetings of the veterans. At a conference of soldier-internationalists in Lenin district in February 1989, for example, the delegates included representatives of the district voenkomaty (military commissariats), the district Komsomol (Communist Youth League) and the Interior Ministry (Tret’âkova, 1989, p. 1). Ibragim Yatimov reported that the Komsomol even assisted in the creation of the Dushanbe city-organisation in 1989 (Yatimov, 2014, interview). 27 The veterans knew fully well that they remained dependent on the authorities in numerous ways. Not only did the government administer the provision of veteran benefits but it was also the main source of legal, political and moral recognition for the former fighters. It was with Komsomol assistance, for instance, that a monument to fallen soldier-internationalists was built in Dushanbe’s Mironenko Park (Anonymous, 1990, p. 4). It was, similarly, by decree from the local executive committee of Ordžonikidzeabad that one of the streets in the town was renamed after Rustam Sangov, a private who had been killed in Afghanistan and posthumously awarded the Red Star (Anonymous, 1989, p. 1). Official approval was naturally required also for the interment of fallen soldier-internationalists in “The Avenue of Glory” (Alleâ slavy), a section of one of the Dushanbe cemeteries where soldiers of the Second World War also lay buried. Although the veterans developed some independent sources of financing over time, especially through the establishment of autonomous co-operatives in the

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late 1980s,20 they remained very much dependent on the authorities for the public celebration of their memory. 28 Compounding these close links were personal ties between Afghan War veterans and official bodies. Šavkat Mirzoev was not only a deputy leader of the Dushanbe city organisation but also a member of the Communist Party, having petitioned to join it during his service in Afghanistan (Podivilova, 1987, p. 1). He was also employed in the Dushanbe city bureaucracy, where he was charged with monitoring local prices (Mirzoev, 2013, interview). 29 This was in the early 1990s, in other words, around the very time when he was penning critical articles about bureaucrats in Paëmi Dušanbe. Another prominent afgancy leader was Surobšo Alimov, the founding chairman of the SVAV. Before his election as chairman, he made his name as an activist in the Komsomol, in whose Dushanbe branch he had risen to the position of first secretary by the early 1990s (Meždunarodnij soûz “Boevoe bratstvo,” n.d.). Other veterans interviewed for this research also reported having found work in security bodies after their service, including the police, the military and the KGB.21 All of this paints a picture of a veterans movement invested in state structures not only through organisational and personal ties but also through a desire for state support and recognition. Nevertheless, these were not the only reasons for the close affinity between the state and the veterans. As we will see, there were also deeper causes.

State and Soldier

30 The vast majority of the future soldiers of the Afghan War were born in the 1960s, which meant that they came of age in the Brezhnev period, a time when the Soviet state stepped up its campaign of military and patriotic rhetoric. This was especially noticeable in the late 1960s, when militarist and patriotic propaganda began to sweep over the USSR. Articles, films, books and public events pushing patriotic themes began to occupy a larger part of the public discourse.22 A string of outsize memorial complexes honouring the victory in the Second World War (baptised the Great Patriotic War in the Soviet lexicon) were erected in cities and towns across the Soviet Union, and Victory Day (9 May) was in 1965 made a public holiday for the first time again since 1947 (Tumarkin, 2003, p. 597). The celebrations were based on earlier forms of commemoration but their large scale and high-pitched rhetoric marked a break with the past. Increasingly, militarist tropes and imagery were being used to socialise the Soviet population.

31 The main targets of the new drive were male adolescents and post-adolescents, especially those of pre-draft age soon to pass through the tortuous halls of Soviet military service. Young Soviets were increasingly exposed to what was shorthanded as “military-patriotic education”. This was an organised campaign to promote state- approved values of discipline, patriotism and self-sacrifice. State institutions that had traditionally been tasked with ideological and mobilising functions were enlisted in the campaign. One of these, the Volunteer Society for Cooperation with the Army, Aviation, and Fleet (abbreviated as DOSAAF in Russian), had a long history of preparing future conscripts. Now it came to play a key role in military-patriotic education, boasting a membership of approximately 65 million in 1978 (Simes, 1981-1982, p. 140). The Komsomol, too, saw a dramatic expansion of its membership: from 23 million in 1966 to

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34 million in 1975 – a 48% increase (Hahn, 1969, p. 220; Brezhnev, 1975), which can be compared to a 26% increase in the Soviet population between the 1959 and 1979 censuses (Eason, 1959, p. 598; Blum and Chesnais, 1986, p. 1044). 32 Given its amplitude, the military-patriotic discourse was an unavoidable touchstone in the lives of the young Tajiks. Through newspapers, books, monuments, public events, meetings with WWii veterans, instruction at school, speeches at Komsomol gatherings, training sessions with the DOSAAF and many other channels, the young Tajiks were exposed to a message that glorified patriotism and militarism and stressed the need for Soviet males always to be ready to defend their country. Even though the propaganda was often crude, and may well have elicited cynicism and indifference as well as earnest belief, it was an overpowering message. Intense and salient in the Brezhnev years, it was a key reference point for the new generation of Tajiks. 33 Importantly, the rhetoric seems to have helped to frame the experiences of many Tajik soldiers in Afghanistan. For reasons that have been explored in more detail elsewhere, the war did not, by and large, challenge the basic assumptions of the ideology that had been absorbed by the soldiers in their adolescent years (Göransson, 2017). On the contrary, service in Afghanistan provided them with an opportunity to satisfy some of the exhortations implicit in that discourse. After all, through their actions, the soldier- internationalists were able to prove that they were ready to go to war on behalf of the Motherland, thereby meeting that injunction that had been a staple of the military- patriotic education since their childhoods. Although the Tajiks were not immune to doubts and a sense of ruefulness about their part in the war,23 these doubts did not, in all but a few cases, translate into a wholesale rejection of the Soviet war effort.24 34 Any lingering regret was also quickly muted when the veterans returned home, first by an almost complete media silence on the topic of the war,25 then, beginning in the mid-1980s, by an onslaught of celebratory propaganda that praised the soldiers who had taken part in the conflict.26 This situation left little room for veterans to articulate any abiding misgivings about the nine-year conflict. Nor was there much incentive to do so. The official veneration of the soldier-internationalists and the benefits which they received were justified on the basis of the service they had performed for their country. Playing along with the rhetoric made it easier for them to make a claim for more favourable treatment. Indeed, more than one veteran found it expedient to turn the rhetoric around and use it to criticise authorities who failed to provide support to the people who had made sacrifices for their Motherland.27 35 Many seem to have embraced elements of the discourse in earnest. One was Murodšo Navruzšoev, a former scout from Khorugh, who pursued a military career in the army after his demobilisation from the war in Afghanistan. His father, himself a retired military officer with experience in Afghanistan, explained to the author that his son, who sadly passed away in 2008, had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and had volunteered to serve in Afghanistan. Indeed, after being wounded in the war, Murodšo turned down an offer to be reposted to the Soviet Union. Instead, he returned to his unit near Mazar-i-Sharif and completed his service in Afghanistan (Navruzšoev, 2013, interview). A photo album that Murodšo put together after his demobilisation speaks of the tragedy of the war but also of his own sense of pride in being a Soviet soldier: black- and-white hand sketches of scenes from the war mingle with photographs of himself in uniform, decorations covering his chest.

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36 Many veterans also remained in a close relationship with state structures through their links to an array of bodies responsible for managing veterans affairs. Before the Afghan War, an institutional framework had grown up to cater for the veterans of the Great Patriotic War, who were celebrated as paragons of honour and patriotism. That same framework was now used to engage with the Afghan War veterans, who, like their WWii predecessors, were held up as role models for young citizens. The military conscription offices and the local executive committees maintained registries, organised events, issued certificates, administered benefits, etc. The Komsomol, too, became closely involved with the afgancy, particularly after the cpsu and the Council of Ministers granted the former fighters legal status as participants of military action in 1983. Through meetings and publications in its mouthpiece, Komsomolec Tadžikistana, the youth organisation depicted the Afghan War veterans as exemplars of patriotism and selflessness. This bore important parallels with the way in which WWii veterans had previously been paraded to the Soviet public. Indeed, the afgancy were often invited to participate in events that were strikingly similar to the public displays in which the veterans of the Great Patriotic War had once taken part, including meetings with school pupils and participation in military-patriotic education and public parades. 37 Hence, there were a multitude of forces that conspired to maintain the discourse of patriotism into which the afgancy had been socialised as children and adolescents. A public campaign got underway in the republican press in the mid-1980s extolling the patriotic virtues of the young men who had taken part in the war across the river. On their return, the veterans, moreover, entered into a close relationship with a number of institutions that were tasked with managing veterans affairs. These institutions had both pastoral and ideological objectives, charged both with addressing the economic, social and housing needs of the veterans and with efforts to draw the former fighters into a campaign of military and patriotic propaganda. Many Afghan War veterans appear to have readily embraced this discourse of patriotism and honour. Not only was it key to the public recognition to which they aspired but it was also a central component of their relationship with the public institutions on which their benefits depended. In order to understand the enduring ties between the veterans and the state in the late 1980s – which was a time of growing political contention – it is necessary to appreciate the strength of this discourse that placed patriotism at the very heart of what it meant to be a veteran of war in the Soviet Union.

Advisers and Interpreters

The Other War

38 While Western literature has given significant attention to the military dimension of the Soviet conflict in Afghanistan, the war had other faces, too. Accompanying the roughly 100,000-120,000 troops in Afghanistan28 was a formidable state-building machinery, set in place to further the political, economic and social transformation of the war-torn country while ensuring widened Soviet control. Artemy Kalinovsky has written about the “thousands of technical specialists and political advisers” who were dispatched to “help stabilize the government and broaden its base of support” (Kalinovsky, 2011, p. 32). He has also noted that a prominent role in this effort was played by Central Asians (ibid., p. 33). Commanding languages almost identical to

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tongues spoken in Afghanistan and arguably possessing a greater understanding of Afghan society and culture, Central Asians were sent in large numbers to help shore up the Kabul regime. Their tasks ranged from advising Afghan officials and translating in state and other official institutions to providing technical advice on agricultural and industrial development projects.

39 Occasionally, the advisers changed their hats, transitioning from a military role into a civilian one. Nadžmiddin Šoinbodov, who today is a journalist in Dushanbe, first served multiple tours as a military officer in Afghanistan before returning there on a civilian contract, this time to work as an adviser and interpreter with the Komsomol (Šoinbodov, 2013, interview). Another former participant, who today works as a Persian scholar in the Tajik capital, was in Afghanistan for the first time between 1975 and 1979, fulfilling what he termed a “semi-civilian and semi-military role” at the Ministry of Social Work in Mazar-i-Sharif. He came back to Afghanistan again in 1981 to work as a civilian translator with the Ministry of Justice in Kabul, a position he held until 1985

(Anonymous1, 2013, interview). 40 Sometimes military and civilian roles overlapped. Sardor Rahdor, a celebrated poet from Rušan in the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast, recalled in an interview in March 2014 working as an interpreter for the Komsomol in the province of Samangan when he was approached by a local Mujahaddin commander. The Mujahad, believing that his wife was not able to have children, asked the Soviets to give her medical treatment. In return, he promised to arrange a three-month unilateral ceasefire around the city of Samangan. A Soviet colonel gave the go-ahead and Mr Rahdor was sent together with an Uzbek doctor from Tashkent to pick up the commander’s wife, driving her to Mazar-i-Sharif where she underwent surgery at the hands of a Soviet surgical team. 41 Most of the time, however, the advisers and translators found themselves at some distance from the battle lines. Communist power in Afghanistan was concentrated in the urban areas, which is where most of the Soviet support personnel worked. Posted in ministries, educational establishments, party offices, hospitals and other state domains, they were spared most of the violence that was a fact of life in many rural parts of Afghanistan as well as the rigid discipline and regimentation that bounded the lives of the Soviet conscripts in the 40th Army. Of course, the advisers, too, were beholden to rules that limited their freedom of movement and interaction with Afghans,29 but they nevertheless enjoyed a relative freedom. Several respondents spoke of the opportunities that had existed for socialising with Afghans, even where official Soviet policy prohibited such interaction. Significantly, the physical appearance and language proficiency of Tajiks sometimes made it possible for them to blend with Afghans and thereby escape the surveillance of the Soviet authorities. The Persian scholar who worked as a translator at the Afghan Ministry of Justice, for example, used his time in Kabul to research classical Persian texts available in various holdings in the capital. In fact, so successful was he in blending with the local population that he was once apprehended by Afghan military authorities who believed him to be a draft-dodger

(Anonymous1, 2013, interview).

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Return to Tajikistan

42 Of course, one should not exaggerate the role that former advisers and interpreters played in the political life of Tajikistan in the 1980s and early 1990s. Although no firm numbers have been found, it is clear that Tajiks were well-represented among Soviet non-military personnel. Yet, only a small number of them became involved in organised politics on their return to their home republic. Individuals like Tohrir Abdudžabbor, Ahmadšo Komilov and Mirbobo Mirrahim, who took up leading roles in the growing opposition movement in the late 1980s, were part of a minority of former participants of the Afghan intervention who became active in opposition politics. Many others took a more muted position in public life.

43 However, even the less vocal individuals seem to have had an impact on discussions that were gathering force in the 1980s. One oft-made point in the interviews concerned the high regard that many former advisers and translators had for the quality of the Persian spoken and written in Afghanistan. As will be discussed further below, several respondents reported that their time in Afghanistan had made them more conscious of the impoverishment of their own tongue. A number said they discovered in Afghanistan a more vigorous and developed Persian culture, unblemished by the legacy of Russian and Soviet rule. Their time in Afghanistan also provided opportunities to visit sites that held a special place in Tajik history and culture. As one translator remarked about a visit he paid to Herat: Herat [...] is one of the centres of scholarship and literature – Persian-Tajik scholarship and literature. Abd ar-Rahman Jami, a great poet, lived there. A Persian-Tajik poet. His pupil was Mir Ali-Shir Navai, the founder of Uzbek literature [...]. We wanted to see the mausoleum where the two poets were buried. But they didn’t let us, because they were firing from both sides, with machine guns, rifles, etc. So this was Herat. It was in summer [...]. There were cherries, grapes. It was like a second paradise. It was one of the great cities. A centre of the scholarship and

culture of the Persian and Tajik peoples. (Anonymous2, 2013, interview). 44 Little comprehensive information has been unearthed about the educational backgrounds of the Soviet civilians in Afghanistan. Evidence from interviews and newspapers, however, suggests that many of them had completed degrees in oriental languages, including Persian and Pashto, prior to their postings, either in Tajikistan or elsewhere in the Soviet Union. Indeed, a number had been employed as academic staff, researching Persian language and literature in institutes of higher education. But even those who already had a strong command of Persian before their departure often found opportunities to develop their proficiency in Afghanistan.

45 A number of things set Tajik and Dari (the Afghan variant of Persian) apart. One was the difference in specialised terminologies. Several respondents reported having been introduced in Afghanistan to vocabularies not in common usage in the Soviet Union. This seems to have been particularly true for technical terminologies, which in Soviet Tajik had been replaced with Russicisms in many cases. The aforementioned translator who had worked at the Ministry of Justice recalled the difficulties he had experienced when translating legal documents in his early months. He remembered struggling with words that were derived from Arabic, French and English, rather than Russian,

although he eventually mastered them (Anonymous1, 2013, interview). 46 For many translators, the Afghan War was a time of language immersion. Many of them returned to Tajikistan with a firmer command of words and grammatical forms that

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had largely disappeared from their own tongue. It seems that at least a number of them resumed previous jobs at institutes of higher education – or else took up new positions in academia, media and the arts. The translator at the Ministry of Transport in Kabul, for example, returned to his old position at the Tajik State University, while the translator who had been posted to the Ministry of Justice found a new job at the Pedagogical Institute in Dushanbe. The former Komsomol interpreter, Nadžmiddin Šoinbodov, in turn, began to make a name for himself as a journalist and political satirist. Other ex-interpreters, too – both civilian and military ones – also found work in media. These included Mahmadalī Hait, who began to work as a journalist attached to the television and radio committee (Hait, 2013, interview) and a former interpreter from Khorugh who resumed his work with the local Khorugh TV station after a six-

month tour in Afghanistan (Anonymous5, 2013, Interview). 47 There seems to have been a pattern of former interpreters and advisers establishing themselves in media, culture and academia after their time in Afghanistan. Thereby, they gained a platform from which they were able to join discussions that were taking shape in the republic at this time, particularly on the topic of language and cultural revival. It seems that a number of the former interpreters and advisers became convinced that Dari represented a more authentic form of Persian and began deliberately to deploy in their writings words and structures used in Afghanistan. As said one former interpreter who today works at the Institute of Oriental Studies in Dushanbe: The new terms and the new words that were in Russian here were replaced. They were replaced with Afghan ones. For instance, the word komanda (team) [...] is not a Tajik word. It should be dasta. So there were [efforts] particularly in the press, in newspapers, on radio and TV. There, there were definitely large changes. When the lads arrived they realised that Afghan pronunciation and words are more

admissible in the Tajik language than, say, Russian words (Anonymous4, 2013, interview). 48 While such altering of Tajik was not necessarily part of a broader political programme, many of the former interpreters and advisers do appear to have been motivated by a belief that their national tongue had been unduly influenced by Russian. As the ex- interpreter at the Academy of Sciences said: [The former interpreters and advisors] wanted to simplify the Tajik language, so that it would become purer than before. So that there would be fewer Russian words, fewer foreign words. So that there would be more Tajik words, or in some

rare cases Arabic words (Anonymous4, 2013, interview). 49 The move to revitalise the Tajik language can be seen as part of a growing resistance to Russian cultural domination. It is also noteworthy that the efforts took place in a context where Tajikistan was increasingly opening up to influences from other parts of the Persianate world. The move towards language reform reflected Moscow’s declining cultural sway over the Southern republic.

50 Other former participants of the Afghan War took a more vigorous leap into politics. Mirbobo Mirrahim and Tohrir Abdudžabbor, both former advisers, played instrumental roles in the formation of the nationalist Rastokhez movement, which counted within its ranks numerous other Dushanbe intellectuals (Nourzhanov & Bleuer, 2013, p. 196). Ahmadšo Komilov, later the director of the Tajik television studio during the short- lived coalition government in 1992, also played a prominent role in this period as an advocate of cultural and political reform (Sajfullaev, 2013; Hait, 2013, interview).

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51 Another notable figure in the movement for language revival was Hamza Kamol, a researcher at the Institute of Culture and Languages at the Academy of Sciences, who worked as a senior adviser in Kabul between 1984 and 1989. By his own account, he advised two Afghan PDPA30 general secretaries, Babrak Karmal and Mohammad Najibullah, as well as numerous other senior officials. In an interview in February 2014, he remembered having been impressed by what he saw as the political sophistication of his interlocutors in Afghanistan and the flourishing of Persian language and culture. In his own words, his time in Afghanistan hade led him to realise that: It is possible to govern a state with the Persian language. Then we thought, why is our republic called the Republic of Tajikistan? Because mainly Tajiks live there. But back then more than 50% of Dushanbe were Russian-speakers. If there were 500,000, then around 250,000 were Russian-speakers [...]. So when we went to Afghanistan and saw that Tajiks can govern, Tajiks can be at the top. There were these questions. Then they accused us of being nationalists. What do they mean nationalists? We’re for the people! We want more to be written in Tajik. We want all meetings, for example the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Tajikistan, to be held in Tajik. Then they labelled us as ‘nationalists’ (Kamol, 2014, interview). 52 Mahmadalī Hait was another prominent oppositionist in this period. He was a graduate of Leningrad State University and served in Afghanistan as an intelligence officer and interpreter with the GRU. After his return to Tajikistan, he joined Rastokhez, soon becoming its general secretary and deputy leader. He remained in the organisation for a few years but eventually left it in 1992, when he instead joined the Islamic Party of Renaissance, where he stayed until its closure by the Tajik government in 2015. During the civil war (1992-1997), he was a senior official of the United Tajik Opposition, the umbrella body that represented the Tajik opposition in its negotiations with the Tajik government. Although Hait links his own activism to violence he saw perpetrated against Afghans and the torture he suffered after being accused of double dealings by the KGB, he noted in an interview that many of the others who pushed for cultural, linguistic and religious revival in Tajikistan had worked as advisers and interpreters in Afghanistan: Some of those who worked in state institutions, and particularly in the humanities, in the Republic of Afghanistan – in different academies, institutes and universities in Afghanistan, or also as interpreters – they later became nationalists in Tajikistan. They supported the revival of the Tajik language, the revival of Tajik culture and the revival of the Islamic religion in Tajikistan. For example, Tohrir Abdudžabbor, Mirbobo Mirrahim and many others supported this. Ahmadšo Komilov. Many others played a leading role in the passing of the Law on Language and in the movement for the independence of our republic. We fought for the independence of our state, and for our language (Hait, 2013, interview). 53 What then emerges is a picture of former translators and advisers contributing to the movement for linguistic and cultural revival in Tajikistan in a number of different ways. While some took leading roles in the opposition movement, gravitating towards organisations such as Ru Ba Ru and Rastokhez, others helped to push for the revitalisation of the Tajik language in more subtle ways, using their positions as scholars, journalists and writers to gradually introduce into public usage Tajik words, phrases and grammatical structures drawn from Dari. In both cases, the experiences lived in Afghanistan were at the heart of the new types of political engagement in Tajikistan.

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Conclusion

54 Some Western observers have viewed the Afghan War as an anvil of nationalist and religious fervour in Tajikistan. Yet the effects of the war on the Central Asian republic were far more complex. While a number of former participants did adopt a more critical view of Russian cultural and political domination in Tajikistan, others seem to have become more deeply invested in the established order, even to the point of rallying to its defences during the disturbances of the early 1990s.

55 One explanation for the divergence can be found in the contrasting experiences of those individuals who went to Afghanistan in a military capacity and those who travelled there to fulfil a predominantly military function. While soldiers and officers were in general more exposed to violence and were also subjected to the tough discipline and authoritarianism of the Soviet military, civilian translators and advisers tended to experience the war at some distance from the battlelines and were at greater liberty to socialise with Afghans. Importantly, many translators and interpreters came back from the conflict with a firmer command of Dari, having mastered its specificities in their line of work. This was to become significant in their later efforts to reform the Tajik variant of Persian. 56 Yet it is important also to look at developments after the return of the participants to the Soviet Union. Importantly, many of the civilian workers came to take up positions in media, academia and the arts, acquiring a platform from which they could join in growing discussions on culture and language. While the movement for national revival, which gathered force in the late 1980s, drew inspiration from similar efforts in other parts of the Soviet Union (not least in the Baltic republics), an important impulse seems to have come from the former interpreters and advisers who had worked and served in Afghanistan. Some of them, like Mirbobo Mirrahim and Tohrir Abdudžabbor, took openly political stances, advocating for broader political change. Others, however, contributed to the movement for culture change through more subtle efforts to alter the public usage of Tajik. 57 For their part, the former conscripts were quickly coopted into institutions that had a history of organising World War II veterans and which saw in the new generation of fighters another asset for the military and patriotic education of the Soviet youth. Offering the veterans material and moral support, they also demanded that the former fighters take part in efforts to promote an ideological programme. The rhetoric of patriotism became the language through which the relationship between the veterans and the authorities was mediated. Even some disgruntled veterans came to accept that language as the surest means for winning the ear of the authorities while helping to boost the prestige of Afghan War veterans in the eyes of the public. Thus a symbiotic relationship between the veterans movement and the state authorities emerged, predicated both on the ability of the authorities to grant the afgancy support and on the veterans’ identification with the state on whose behalf they had shed blood in Afghanistan.31 58 So, the Afghan War did factor into some of the political discussions that were gathering force in Tajikistan in the late 1980s. Yet, it did so in ways that were multifaceted and even contradictory. As has been shown, both the defenders and the challengers of the political status quo were able to draw on their experiences in Afghanistan, contributing to trends that were both conservative and subversive. Far from being a moment of

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political or religious awakening, the war, therefore, had a more complex set of effects on the Central Asian republic, feeding into and amplifying trends that were already underway in these closing years of Soviet power.

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Interviewees

ANONYMOUS1 5 April 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

ANONYMOUS2, 24 April 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

ANONYMOUS3, 6 June 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

ANONYMOUS4, 16 July 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

ANONYMOUS5, 21 August 2013, Khorugh, Tajikistan.

ANONYMOUS6, 15 February 2014, Dushanbe, Tajikistan. DŽALILOV Sattor, 24 April 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

HAIT Mahmadalī, 16 July 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

KAMOL Hamza, 20 February 2014, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

MIRZOEV Šavkat, 25 April 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

NAVRUZŠOEV Imatšo, 21 August 2013, Khorugh, Tajikistan.

RAHDOR Sardor, 17 February 2014, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

SAJËRABEKOV Valī, 16 February 2014, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

SOINBODOV Nadžmiddin, 17 August 2013, Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

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YATIMOV Ibragim, 2014, correspondence with author.

NOTES

1. The author is indebted to numerous individuals who supported him in his research. He would like to give special thanks to his supervisors Jenny Mathers and Ayla Göl at Aberystwyth University, Sunatullo Jonboboev at the University of Central Asia in Dushanbe, Bohdan Krawchenko at the University of Central Asia in Bishkek, Sakina Karimova at the Academy of Sciences in Tajikistan, Dilovar Butabekov at the University of Central Asia in Khorugh, and Paul Marchant and Nizora Hasanova at Sworde-Teppa in Qurghonteppa, Tajikistan. He also wants to express his profound gratitude to the many Afghan War veterans, too numerous for individual mention, who shared their time and their stories generously with him during his research. 2. As will be argued below, this was especially true for sections of the Dushanbe secular intelligentsia. 3. As will be discussed in greater detail below, one of the chief dissident afgancy was Mahmadali Hait, an erstwhile military interpreter with the GRU, the Soviet Armed Forces intelligence agency, who became a leading member of the Tajik opposition. 4. Both the republican and the central presses reported on the afgancy who mobilised on the side of the law-enforcement bodies during the disturbances (Karpov, 1990, p. 2; Sautin, 1990, p. 6; Ponomarev, 1990, p. 2). 5. One interview was conducted in English. Notes were taken when interviews could not be recorded. 6. The war does seem to have influenced religious discussions in underground Islamic groups (Khalid, 2007, pp. 145-147; Nourzhanov & Bleuer, 2013, pp. 244-51). Yet, those discussions, it seems, did not spread beyond that narrow and secretive space. As Kirill Nourzhanov and Christian Bleuer point out, the official Islamic clergy in Tajikistan remained vocal in its support of the Soviet intervention (ibid., p. 249). 7. Olivier Roy offers an insightful (if also rather sweeping) discussion of Central Asia in the context of the Afghan War (Roy, 1997, pp. 170, 180, 191, 192, 197, 233, 234), touching on the strategic importance of Central Asia during the conflict, the role of Central Asian soldiers in the occupation, the importance of academic exchange between Central Asia and Afghanistan and the alleged impact that the war had on the restructuring of the Tajik security apparatus in the 1980s. Other sources that address the topic are Dudoignon, 1998; and Spolnikov, 2004. 8. Olivier Roy makes this observation (Roy, 1997, p. 197). 9. Ashkhabad was another important centre. Both Ashkhabad and Termez were part of the Turkestan Military District, which as Mark Urban has noted increased in strategic importance after 1982, when training facilities there were expanded for the benefit of troops destined for the Afghan campaign (Urban, 1988, p. 130). 10. One who does dwell on the importance of Central Asia for PR purposes is Eren Tasar in his exploration of the Central Asian Islamic clerical establishment and its role in promoting a state- led religious structure in Afghanistan (Tasar, 2011). 11. A steady stream of Afghan delegations visited Tajikistan and other Central Asian republics on diplomatic and study visits. The Tajik press reported effusively on these events (Anonymous, 1980a, 1980b, 1980c, 1983, 1985). 12. Central Asia had long played the part of Soviet showpiece. As Artemy Kalinovsky (2013a) has pointed out, the Muslim republics had helped to showcase Soviet advances in the Third World since the Khrushchev era, when Moscow stepped up efforts to woo over newly decolonised countries to its model of development.

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13. The RAND Corporation is a U.S. think tank with close ties to the U.S. defence sector. It is based in Santa Monica, California, and provides research and analysis to the U.S. armed forces and other public and private organisations. 14. See also p. 230, where Girardet states that “According to various estimates, as many as 300 Soviet POWs were being held alive by different guerrilla organisations in 1984. This did not include a small, but undetermined, number of Soviet deserters, many of Central Asian origin, known to be actively operating with the resistance or living in relative freedom among the Afghans.” 15. Other sources expressing scepticism about the loyalty and competence of the Central Asian soldiers include Broxup, 1983; Broxup, 1983b; Bennigsen, 1984; Alexiev, 1988; Szayna, 1991; Daugherty III, 1994; Daugherty III, 1995; Clayton, 1999; Mathers, 2003. 16. Afgancy is a common Soviet shorthand for veterans of the Soviet-Afghan War. It is still widely used today, including in Tajikistan, and will be employed in this article, too. 17. The newspaper also ran columns where veterans reminisced about their service, giving both highly critical and more positive appraisals of their service (Hait, Šodiev & Sajërabek, 1990, p. 2). 18. These portraits were fairly regular features in the Komsomol broadsheet in 1986 and 1987. Describing the young soldiers’ lives, they turned on themes of tragedy and honour, discussing instances of both lamentable death and heroic action (Romanok, 1986, p. 3; Salimina, 1986, p. 3; Casûk, 1985, p. 3). 19. There is an abundance of press reports on afgancy participating in events of this kind. A few examples are: Asimov, 1986, p. 2; Saidov, 1986, p. 4; Svidčenko, 1987, p. 4. 20. In correspondence with the author, Ibragim Yatimov reported that a number of afgancy who owned cooperatives provided financial aid to the Dushanbe city organisation. Meanwhile, Mark Galeotti in his 1992 PhD dissertation mentions a haberdashery in Dushanbe apparently run by Afghan War veterans (Galeotti, 1992, p. 138). 21. This appears to have been a common career path for many afgancy, particularly for those who had had little or no higher education prior to their service in Afghanistan. Two of the current top three officials of the Qurghonteppa Union of Soldier-Internationalists, for example, are retired policemen, as is the head of the Kulob organisation of Afghan War veterans. Several top ranking officials of the district organisations of the Committee on Soldier-Internationalist Affairs in Dushanbe also have a history of security work, as do a large number of rank-and-file members with whom the author spoke. 22. For a discussion of military-patriotic rhetoric in the Brezhnev period see: Holloway, 1980; Simes, 1981-1982; Jones & Grupp, 1982; Cooper, 1989; Weiner, 1996. 23. While most respondents denied having felt remorse about participating in the war, some did admit that doubts had entered their minds. In all these cases, they were adamant that such thoughts had not prevented them from fulfilling their duty. As one former rifleman said, doubts “did arise. They did arise. We didn’t choose to go [to Afghanistan] ourselves. They told us to come and serve, and we were brought there [...]. It was difficult. Sometimes it was difficult. There is no war that does not affect [ordinary people]” (Anonymous3, 2013, interview). Similarly, another veteran, who was attending the celebration of the 25th anniversary of the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan together with some friends in Dushanbe, said that none of them were wearing their medals because it was embarrassing: “They’re our compatriots (zemlâki), they are also

Muslims. Who were we fighting? It’s embarrassing for us to wear our medals” (Anonymous6, 2014, interview). 24. One exception was Mahmadalī Hait, a former GRU intelligence operative who took part in secret negotiations with Ahmad Shah Massoud. More will be said about him below. 25. The Tajik press reported very little on the war in its early years and was particularly frugal with reports on the participation of Soviet soldiers in the conflict. The first article about an Afghan War veteran in the Dushanbe newspaper Večernij Dušanbe was published on 3 April 1987,

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that is more than six years into the war. It was about Šavkat Mirzoev, a model soldier, who not only had received multiple prestigious decorations (including two Orders of the Red Star) but was also a candidate member of the Communist Party about to attain full membership (Podivilova, 1987, p. 1). 26. This shift was particularly noticeable in Komsomolec Tadžikistana, which in the early 1980s devoted little attention to the Afghan War and its Soviet soldiers but in the second half of the decade began to run a well-orchestrated campaign lauding the soldier-internationalists. During this later period, it regularly published short biographies of selected soldiers, complete with photographs and requisite praise of their patriotism and military ardour. See for example E. Dudukina, 1987, p. 2; I. Dudukina, 1987, p. 1; Kholmova, 1987, p. 1. 27. Šavkat Mirzoev’s and Vali Sajërabek’s articles in Paëmi Dušanbe (Mirzoev & Sajërabek, 1990, p. 1; Sajërabek, 1990, p. 2) are good examples of this. 28. Estimates vary (Galeotti, 1992, p. 36; Rubin, 2002, p. 125). Rubin notes that in addition to the troops stationed in Afghanistan, an estimated 20,000 soldiers conducted sporadic operations across the border from bases within the USSR. 29. One former translator said in an interview that he had once entertained a group of Afghan friends at his home in Kabul. The very next morning he received a phone call from the KGB, who admonished him for socialising with Afghans, prohibited by the occupation authorities

(Anonymous1, 2013, interview). 30. The People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan, the pro-Soviet ruling party of Afghanistan between 1978 and 1992. 31. As the legitimacy and authority of the state came increasingly under attack in the early 1990s this relationship would come under strain, eventually collapsing in the ravages of the Tajik civil war.

ABSTRACTS

Former participants of the Soviet-Afghan War (1979-1989) played a significant role in political developments in Tajikistan in the perestroika period yet they did so in markedly different ways. While some aligned themselves with established power, supporting propaganda drives and presenting themselves as loyal soldiers of the Soviet regime, others became active participants in the movement for cultural and linguistic revival, even to the point of founding and joining opposition groups. The paper argues that far from dealing a shock to the political system in Tajikistan, the Afghan War had both conservative and subversive effects on political discussions in this period.

Les anciens participants à la guerre soviétique d’Afghanistan ont joué un rôle à la fois important et varié sur les événements politiques au Tadjikistan au cours de la perestroïka. Tandis que certains d’entre eux ont suivi le pouvoir en place, en participant à des campagnes de propagande et en se présentant comme des soldats dévoués au régime soviétique, d’autres se sont activement mobilisés dans le mouvement pour la renaissance linguistique et culturelle, au point de fonder ou rejoindre des groupes d’opposition nationale. Cet article affirme que la guerre soviétique d’Afghanistan n’a pas été un simple choc pour le système politique du Tadjikistan. Elle a eu des effets à la fois conservateurs et subversifs sur le débat politique.

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Бывшие участники советско-афганской войны (1979-1989 гг.) сыграли важную роль в политических событиях, происходивших в Таджикистане во время перестройки. Однако, их вклады были различными. Если одни поддерживали действующую власть, участвуя в пропаганде и, выступая истинными солдатами Советского Союза, то другие присоединились к движению за возрождение культуры и языка республики. В статье утверждается, что афганская война, скорее всего, не стала шоком для режима Таджикистана. Напротив, она способствовала как разрушающему, так и возрождающему воздействию на политические процессы в республике того времени.

INDEX

Mots-clés: guerre soviétique d’Afghanistan, afgancy, anciens combattants, vétérans soviétiques d’Afghanistan, interprètes, éducation militaire patriotique, mobilisation politique motsclesru Советско-афганская война, афганцы, ветераны афганской войны, переводчики, военно-патриотическое воспитание, политическая мобилизация Keywords: Soviet-Afghan War, afgancy, Afghan War veterans, interpreters, military-patriotic education, political mobilisation

AUTHOR

MARKUS GÖRANSSON

Markus Göransson received his PhD from the Department of International Politics, Aberystwyth University, in 2016, for a thesis about the political mobilisation of Soviet-Afghan War veterans in Tajikistan between 1979 and 1992. In 2013 and 2014, he conducted archival and oral research in Tajikistan. He holds an MA in Conflict Studies and Human Rights from Utrecht University and a BA in Modern History from the University of Oxford. Contact: [email protected]

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From February to February and From Ru ba Ru to Rastokhez: Political Mobilisation in Late Soviet Tajikistan (1989-1990)1 De février à février et de Ru ba Ru à Rastokhez. Mobilisation politique au Tadjikistan soviétique finissant (1989-1990) От февраля к февралю и от «Ру ба Ру» к «Растохез». Политическая мобилизация в Таджикистане в преддверии распада СССР (1989-1990)

Isaac Scarborough

1 On February 24, 1989 a large group of young men gathered on the square in front of the Supreme Soviet (Verkhovnyj Sovet) building in Dushanbe, Tajikistan. They carried banners calling for a law that would make Tajik the official state language in the Republic; they declaimed the need to “revive Tajikistan’s ancient culture”; they refused to listen to the police’s requests that they leave the square (TadžikTA, 1989)2. Estimates vary on the size of the crowd, but the total number of students, teachers, and others gathered on the square was most likely no greater than one thousand (Ganelin, 1989). For Tajikistan, however, which had for decades been quite justifiably considered one of the calmest and quietest corners of the USSR, this unsanctioned gathering was both unexpected and unsettling. Never before in the memory of the Tajik SSR’s leaders had an organised group appeared on the street, without government sanction, to make political claims and demands. In fact, the demonstration held in February 1989 was most likely the first independently organised political event in Dushanbe in more than fifty years: the whole of the post-war period in the republic had been marked by unremitting quietude and acceptance of the political order.3

2 Needless to say, the republic’s political and party leaders were taken by surprise. A request to hold a meeting had been registered on February 21, but given the legal requirement that meetings be registered at least one week in advance, the request was declined and little further attention was apparently given to the question. On February

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24, many of the republic’s leaders were at work in the Supreme Soviet building, discussing possible approaches to developing Tajik as the republic’s state language – a fact that only highlighted the organised and explicitly political nature of the meeting held in plain sight of the gathered politicians. For a lack of any established procedure in such circumstances, Tajikistan’s political leaders took a risky step: they went outside to speak with the crowd. Led by Goibnazar Pallaev, the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the Tajik SSR, a group of government deputies spent around two hours speaking with those gathered on the square. By the early evening the protest had ended, the crowd was quietly dispersed, and the political leadership went back to their business of developing a new law on the republic’s state language, now, at least nominally, with the demands of the crowd in mind.

Causes for Mobilisation

3 Questions remained, however, about how to respond to these demands – as well as who exactly was making them. The majority of the crowd that had gathered on February 24 was made up of university students and teachers, as well as some journalists and members of the Tajik “intelligentsia.” Available reports on the meeting fail to identify any clear leaders, noting instead the generally disorganised nature of the meeting and the open dialogue that emerged with Pallaev and the other government representatives. Although in later publications and interviews certain individuals – many of whom would go on to become actively involved in Tajik politics – identified themselves as the meetings’ organisers, for the Tajik government in 1989 there seemed no clear organisation or group with which to hold negotiations.4 The overwhelming picture that emerged was one of undirected and angry young people who had grown politically aware over the years of perestroika and now found themselves without an outlet for their frustration and energy.

4 This picture also fit well with the overall development of perestroika that the republic’s leaders had been observing for the past four years. After Mikhail Gorbachev’s declaration in 1985 that the USSR needed to reform and the subsequent implementation across the Union of the complicated and often self-contradictory reforms that came to be known as “perestroika,” the Tajik SSR found itself in a complicated political and economic position. On the one hand, many of perestroika’s political and social reforms, which had been developed in and for a Moscow-based context, had little immediate impact in Tajikistan. Ligachev’s infamous anti-alcohol campaign met with little opposition in the Tajik SSR (TadžikTA, 1987); the lightening of censorship controls changed little in the publication practices of Tajik newspapers; the “democratisation” of party and factory elections had little effect on the ground in Tajikistan, where besides the Party there were literally no other organisational structures;5 given its largely agricultural economy, even the reforms meant to “speed up” production, increase labour productivity, and implement the self-financing of enterprises had at best limited effect on the lives and livelihoods of Tajik Soviet citizens.6 5 On the other hand, however, the aggregate effect of perestroika’s reforms had by 1988 and 1989 begun to seriously disrupt the Tajik economy. Reforms to the structure and operations of Soviet enterprises enacted in 1987 led to a breakdown in the production and delivery of industrial goods to the Tajik SSR, which from year to year brought

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greater and greater slowdowns and losses on the Tajik side. As the Chairman of the Tajik Council of Ministers Izotullo Haëev and his deputy Georgij Košlakov frequently complained to the Council of Ministers of the USSR, by 1989 literally thousands of these orders were simply not being delivered.7 The “speeding up” (uskorenie) of the Soviet economy and attempts to increase labour productivity led to the firing8 of millions of workers across the USSR as managers were exhorted to “do more with less.” In the European parts of the USSR where this and other reforms were designed, endemic labour shortages at least during the first years of perestroika meant that these workers were quickly hired by other enterprises. In Tajikistan, however, where unemployment had been growing for decades and even before perestroika had reached double-digit levels, the reforms only increased the ranks of the unemployed.9 Although cooperatives’ impact on the Tajik economy remained limited, they had by 1989 begun to act, much as across the whole of the USSR, as an indirect cause of inflation – not to mention as a convenient funnel for managers and enterprise directors to corruptly embezzle state funds. Rumours abounded about the involvement of leading Communist Party officials in the operations of larger cooperatives, while on the ground most people only saw a newfound abundance of expensive šašlik stands.10 6 The economic changes on display in 1989 would have been both confusing and quite disturbing to the average citizen of the Tajik SSR. Inflation was on the rise at the same time as the deficit of basic goods; unemployment was increasing and the average wage was decreasing, notwithstanding increases to some (primarily managerial) positions.11 As a result of delivery issues faced by Tajik enterprises, housing construction had fallen even further behind schedule in Dushanbe and around the republic. At the same time, there would have seemed little immediate cause or justification for this downturn: although the central press and television declared the “perestroika” of society and its newfound “openness” (glasnost), on the ground in Tajikistan political and social life remained almost unchanged. Newspaper editors, such as Khodžaev of Komsomoli Todžikiston, were still fired for not toeing the party line; the republican government continued to go out of its way to highlight the dangers of Islam and religion; the leadership of the Tajik Communist Party never failed to emphasise its dedication to the established socialist order. The republican economy was slowly collapsing – and by 1989 officially in recession12 – and yet on the ground in Tajikistan there seemed no obvious social or political justification for this. 7 This confusing and contradictory economic collapse was the backdrop to the February 1989 protest in Dushanbe, and remained a central part of daily life in the republic throughout the remaining years of perestroika. Inevitably, the deterioration of economic conditions in the Tajik SSR would come to play an important role in the processes of political mobilisation incipient in Dushanbe, even as the main claims voiced on the square in February 1989 focused on the Tajik language, culture, and process of “national” development. Economic degradation was deeply intertwined with localised feelings of injustice, imbalanced development, and linguistic imperialism: it is no historical accident that the latter arguments came to the fore at the exact point at which the Tajik SSR found its previously stable economy move towards decline and ultimate collapse. Understanding the process of Tajik political mobilisation that began for all intents and purposes in February 1989 requires a detailed analysis of both the background processes in the republic as well the organisations that came to fill the demands for mobilisation.

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8 While post-Soviet scholarship has analysed the political organisations that developed after 1989 in Tajikistan, little focus has been paid to the underlying political and economic conditions in the republic, nor to the details of these organisations’ development. Attention has generally focused on the nationalist discourse of these organisations (Collins, 2006; Akbarzadeh, 1996; Markowitz, 2009), as well as their links to the “National Fronts” of the Baltic republics and the broader trends of glasnost and nationalism sweeping the USSR at the time (Atkin, 1997; Rubin, 1998; Dudoignon, 1998). This has aligned well with a broader literature on mobilisation and Soviet collapse that has emphasised Tajikistan’s place at the ebb of a “tidal wave” of mobilisation moving across the USSR (Beissinger, 2002; Snyder, 1998). Although there is no doubt about the influence of outside actors and movements on the leaders of the political organisations developing in Dushanbe in 1989, this focus has tended to ignore the mobilised in favour of the mobilisers. The discourse of cultural imperialism and linguistic dominance may have been both linked to broader political trends and used to some efficacy in the Tajik capital, but the question remains as to why it was effective at mobilising Dushanbe’s residents. By systematically tracking the history of the Tajik SSR’s first effective political organisers over the course of February 1989 to February 1990, this article aims to fill this need in the literature for a “dense narrative” of the period – one that will elucidate both the weight of the organisations that developed and the economic contradictions in which they were able to mobilise.

An Outlet for Social Frustration

9 For its part, the Tajik leadership was well aware of these contradictions in 1989: for it had years been struggling with increasing unemployment and lowered opportunities for young people – including university graduates – in the republic. Perestroika had served to extenuate many of the economic problems faced by the Tajik SSR, and for the heads of the Tajik Communist Party and Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic, there would have been little doubt about how these problems had led, slowly but surely, to the outburst of undirected frustration – such as it was seen – on the square in February 1989. It was this reasoning that led the republican leadership, after the crowd had dispersed and emotions had calmed, to decide to properly redirect the anger and frustration they had observed: they would found a platform for discussion where such complaints could be voiced safely and constructively.13

10 The republican leadership delegated the development of this platform to the Tajik Komsomol, which began to conduct negotiations in March 1989 with the meeting organisers.14 By April an agreement was struck, and the political club “Ru ba Ru” (“face- to-face” in Tajik) was founded as a legal entity under the Central Committee of the Tajik Komsomol.15 It was agreed that Ru ba Ru meetings would be held once or twice a month in the House of Political Enlightenment (Dom političeskogo prosveŝeniâ), which the republican Komsomol provided for these purposes (Davlat, 2015b). As the Tajik republican leadership had envisioned, Ru ba Ru was organised as a forum in which citizens could meet with the Tajik SSR’s leaders and express constructive criticism about their work. Local and republican leaders were invited to its meetings with the intention of developing a mutually valuable exchange of ideas and opinions: the party and republican leadership would learn about the issues bothering Tajik Soviet citizens, and the citizens would have an opportunity to interact directly with those in charge of

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the local economy and political sphere. Over the course of the summer and fall of 1989 a number of meetings were held between Komsomol members, university students, and young academics together with leading political and social figures in Dushanbe. Among those figures invited were Džamšed Karimov, the First Secretary of the Dushanbe City Committee of the Tajik Communist Party, members of the Tajik SSR’ delegation to the Congress of People’s Deputies of the USSR, the editors of the newspaper Večernij Dušanbe, and others (Kurbonien, 1989; Abašin & Buškov, 1998, p. 29). 11 From the very beginning, however, the Tajik Republican Leadership’s attempts to redirect the energy of the February crowd towards “constructive” criticism proved difficult to implement. Quite the opposite, in fact – it quickly became clear that Ru ba Ru was in many ways an uncontrollable political forum. During an early meeting of the club in July 1989, for example, the political leadership of Tajikistan, including Tajik Communist Party First Secretary Kahhor Mahkamov, Council of Ministers Chairman Izotullo Haëev and others were extensively harangued for the state of the Tajik economy and the government’s failure to do anything about unemployment (Davlat, 2015c). Later meetings continued in this pattern, with government figures facing constant criticism for ecological, political, and cultural issues. As one observer put it, “In practice, at all of the meetings and discussions held with representatives of the leadership, the conversation followed one and the same pattern – proving that the invited leader had made only mistakes and blunders in his work” (Alimov & Saidov, 1991, p. 85). By and large, moreover, the government figures invited to Ru ba Ru meetings proved either unable or unwilling to answer the flood of criticism they faced, leaving the room red-faced and angry. ‘Tajikistan’s ministers and bureaucrats came to the club “Ru ba Ru” with fat and full stomachs,” one leading participant later wrote approvingly, “but left with sweaty faces, bowed with shame and disgrace” (Mirrahim, 1998, p. 78). Yet the emphasis on criticism came not only from the club’s participants, but also from its Komsomol organisers, many of which had also been participants in the February 1989 meeting. One such organiser and Komsomol secretary was Džumakhon Isoev, who had been designated by the Komsomol Central Committee as responsible for Ru ba Ru’s organisation and operations. In a September 1989 interview with the newspaper Komsomolec Tadžikistana, Isoev highlighted the critical and oppositional tone of the political club, going as far as to accuse the republican leadership of “lying” and “covering up” facts about the lives of young people in Tajikistan (Anonymous, 1989b). 12 The critical tone taken by Ru ba Ru clearly found support in the Tajik SSR: while not the first “informal” organisation to be founded in the Tajik SSR during perestroika, Ru ba Ru quickly outstripped its predecessors and competitors. Earlier groups had been formed in 1988, but they had remained largely unknown outside of a small circle, and had been limited in their scope and focus. In late 1988, for example, a small group of intellectuals including the well-known poet Bozor Sobir had founded a group called “Ëvaroni bossozi” (Helpers of perestroika), but the group’s activities remained generally unclear (Crow, 1990, p. 20). Other groups, including the Khujand-based “Èhëi Khudžand” or “Dirafši koviën” from Nurek, promoted goals similar to Ru ba Ru’s (dialogue and political democratisation), but failed to gain the same political weight and broad support enjoyed by the latter (Davlat, 2015a; Usmonov, 2003, pp. 19-22). Other small groups continued to proliferate over the course of 1989, but most accounts of the period agree that Ru ba Ru retained its position as the most important political platform in the republic.16

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13 Not only Ru ba Ru as an organisation, moreover, but over the summer of 1989 certain Ru ba Ru participants also began to gain notoriety in Dushanbe and elsewhere for the content of their political criticism. For the most part these were politically active university teachers and journalists – individuals who had been involved in both the organisation of the February 1989 meeting and had begun by August-September to agitate in relation to the upcoming February 1990 elections to the Tajik Supreme Soviet (Abašin & Buškov, 1998, p. 31). From what evidence is available, these individuals do not yet appear to have gained a great deal of popularity or influence amongst the population at large, but both the political leaders of the republic and the most politically active subsection of the younger generation seem to have noted their role by the fall of 1989. The most attention was paid to the philosopher Mirbobo Mirrahimov (Mirboboi Mirrahim), who was labelled an “extremist” by the KGB and considered an “idol” by a number of Ru ba Ru participants.17 Mirrahimov had gained fame as early as 1988 as a defender of Tajik cultural values, and had published articles advocating for increased use of the Tajik language (and even the pre-Soviet Persian script), including his famous “To ba kai ob az tagi âkh meravad” (“How long will water flow under the ice?”).18 In addition to having been amongst the first to raise issues of Tajikistan’s cultural development in the popular press, Mirrahimov gained in notoriety when it was also claimed in Dushanbe that the decision to fire the editor of Komsomoli Todžikiston, A. Khodžaev, had been connected to the latter’s agreeing to publish Mirrahimov’s articles.19 One way or another, although Ru ba Ru continued to hold meetings and harangue politicians until January 1990 (Davlat, 2015e), by the end of the summer of 1989 it was clear that the political club had come to be dominated by Mirrahimov and a group of like-minded journalists, writers and academics. Soon, moreover, this group would outgrow the confines of the political club in which it had developed and become the founding membership of Tajikistan’s first independent political movement, Rastokhez.

Building a Political Platform

14 Officially founded on September 14, 1989, the national movement Rastokhez (“rebirth” in Tajik) called upon the leadership of the Tajik SSR to assist in the revival of the Tajik nation, including through the promotion of Tajik language, culture, and traditions (Davlat, 2015d). Its founders, who included in addition to Mirrahimov the economist Tohir Abdudžabborov (Abdudžabbor), journalist Akhmadšo Komilov (Komilzoda), professors Haifabobo Hamidov and Šarofiddin Imomov, and poet M. Kanoatov, published an official Programme and began to lobby the republican government for change.20 In many ways Rastokhez’s Programme aligned with the broader calls for economic development and political reform espoused by Gorbachev and others in Moscow: it advocated greater independence for local enterprises, cited the broader “economic and political crisis” faced by Soviet society, and noted with approval that “Perestroika, has been called upon to provide for the rebirth of all nations, including the Tajik nation” (Programma, 1990, p. 115).

15 Yet Rastokhez’s Programme also went further than the central Soviet government may have approved of, advocating for a broad recalculation of republics’ “national product” (nacional’nyj dokhod) and the ways that funds were allocated from local coffers to the federal Soviet budget. In part, Rastokhez argued for fully removing the Soviet receipt

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tax (nalog s oborota), which had been long used to partially balance the costs to the Soviet budget of subsidising foodstuffs and other goods (ibid., p. 123). Together, these two steps were reflective of a broader debate in Tajikistan about the role of the local economy in the broader Soviet system.21 As per the established calculation of republican national product, the value allocated to each Soviet republic was based upon the retail price (in Soviet rubles) paid for the total production of that republic. In the case of Tajikistan, where the economy was dominated by the production of cotton and other raw goods, this meant only the total amount paid to Tajik enterprises by other Soviet enterprises that purchased the raw cotton for sale on the world market or the production of finished goods in the USSR. Tajikistan’s final “national product” did not include any percentage of the export price of cotton grown in the republic nor the final value of the clothes produced with its cotton – only the much lower value provided for the raw material. In addition, receipt taxes, which were added to the cost of consumer goods, were also calculated based on the cost of the final product – and any tax revenues from the receipt tax left on the local level were provided to the region where the final product was produced. These policies, along with the centralised collection of taxes and redistribution to the republics, had long undervalued the contribution of the Tajik SSR to the Soviet budget, overemphasised its “subsidised” nature, and lowered access to social and economic development funds.22 From the perspective of a number of Tajik economists, including Abdudžabborov, the Tajik economy had long been left without its fair share of resources as a result of polices that undervalued raw goods in favour of finished products and left Tajik agricultural workers underpaid and with little choice but to pay more for the goods that were brought into Tajikistan from elsewhere. 23

16 Beyond economic reforms, moreover, Rastokhez began to hint at certain nationalist tendencies in its Programme and other public statements. Its official Charter called for a certain level of Tajik independence, arguing that “The Tajik SSR should be a sovereign state and should independently resolve issues related to the political, economic, social, and cultural development of the republic.” In addition to calls to promote the use of the Tajik language in the public sphere, Rastokhez also advocated to end the “overwhelming migration of people to Tajikistan” from outside the republic, which was taken as a threat to the republic’s independence and national values (Ustav, 1990, p. 133; Programma, 1990, p. 129).24 Language, however, remained one of Rastokhez’s central issues, and it returned again and again to the need to replace the Soviet Tajik Cyrillic alphabet with the classical Persian script, to establish Tajik as the state language of the Tajik SSR, and to return the language to its previous status as a language of literature, culture, and government. While the Tajik language had remained well established in rural areas and the majority of the Tajik population was fluent in no language other than Tajik,25 Dushanbe had over the decades developed into a Russian-speaking city, and one in which the majority of daily life and interactions with the government occurred primarily, if not exclusively, in Russian (Kalinovsky, 2014; Alimov & Saidov, 1991, p. 39). This was the gap that Rastokhez’s founders targeted over the summer of 1989, for which they were rewarded in July 1989 with the passage by the Supreme Soviet of the Tajik SSR of the Law “On Language,” which enshrined Tajik as the republic’s state language. 17 Following the passage of the Tajik Law on Language, Rastokhez continued to use all accessible means to lobby the republican government for further change. Although its attempt to register as a “public organisation” (obŝestvennaâ organizaciâ) was essentially

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ignored, it continued to hold small-scale protests and appeal to the Tajik Supreme Soviet on issues of cultural, economic, and political independence.26 Its representatives continued to publish widely in the Tajik language press, including in the newspaper Adabiët va San”at, which was the official organ of the Tajik Writers’ Union. This newspaper quickly became dominated by Rastokhez acolytes and made marked gains during 1989. By the end of the year it had reached 83,000 subscribers, a more than two- fold increase since 1986; its subscriber base would reach 100,000 by 1990.27 Thanks to the efforts of Rastokhez members, moreover, the Tajik Union of Journalists was also granted its own newspaper, Sukhan, the first issue of which was published in February 1990 under the editorship of Mirrahimov (Hammer, 1998, p. 45). Later in 1990 moreover, Mirrahimov and others in Rastokhez would also go on to found and edit two independent papers, Rastokhez and Dunië. 18 By the end of 1989 Rastokhez had well established itself within the small world of political parties in Dushanbe. Other than the Communist Party of the Tajik SSR, in fact, it was then the only significant political force: other “movements” and “public organisations” had been founded over the course of 1988 and 1989, but none gathered the same support or mobilised the same number of followers as Rastokhez. In December 1989, moreover, a number of smaller organisations, including “Èhëi Khudžand,” “Vakhdat” (from Ura-Tûbe), and the Kulâb-based “Oškoro” joined the Rastokhez platform, thus essentially becoming part of the larger organisation (Sultanov, 2014, p. 117). Finally, by early 1990 Ru ba Ru had essentially run its course, and was unofficially shut down, ironically not that long after it was first officially recognised by the political leadership of the republic in September and October (Anonymous, 1989c). Other political parties had yet to be founded – the Tajik Democratic Party and Tajik branch of the Islamic Rebirth Party would only come together in 199028 – and as the year came to a close, Rastokhez would have presented itself as the lone opposition movement in the republic of any significance. It was from this position, moreover, that the movement had begun to campaign for the February 1990 elections to the Tajik Supreme Soviet.

February 1990

19 While elections to the Tajik Supreme Soviet were held as planned in February 1990, they were overshadowed by a week of protests, looting, and violence that struck Dushanbe on February 11-18. Initially set off by rumours attesting to the arrival of thousands of Armenian refugees from Baku (where ethnic pogroms against the Armenian population had occurred in January 1990) and the provision of scarce housing by the state to these refugees, the originally peaceful protest of February 11 quickly turned violent. Shots were fired on February 12 by troops guarding the Central Committee building in Dushanbe, and by February 14, more than twenty civilians had been killed, thousands of stores and businesses looted by marauding packs of rioters, and the Tajik leadership seemed paralyzed by inaction.29 Taking advantage of the government’s paralysis, the thousands-strong crowd, which had for days refused to leave the square in front of the Central Committee of the Tajik Communist Party’s headquarters, elected a “Committee of 17” to negotiate with the authorities; many members of the committee were Rastokhez founders and acolytes.30 On the evening of February 14, the First Secretary of the Communist Party of Tajikistan, Mahkamov, the

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Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of Tajikistan, Pallaev, and the Chairman of the Council of Ministers, Haëev, agreed in negotiations with the “Committee of 17” to quit their posts and hand power in the republic over the Committee. Although the leadership’s resignation was announced late that night on republican television and printed in at least one newspaper the next morning, Mahkamov, Pallaev, and Haëev later refused to officially resign during an extended unscheduled meeting of the Communist Party of Tajikistan held on February 15-16. Their hand had been strengthened by the arrival of additional internal troops on the morning of the 15th, and although protests and meetings continued through February 18, order was slowly established in the city and the leadership retained their positions.

20 The events of February 11-18, 1990 became controversial immediately after they were over; accounts of the week vary radically depending on the source. This includes both those responsible for the civilian deaths that occurred during the first days of unrest, the sequence of events leading up to and following the Tajik leadership’s partial resignation on February 14, and those involved in organising the initial protests that grew out of hand. At the time, Rastokhez was blamed by the Tajik party and government leadership as one of the meeting organisers, something that its founders both then and now deny.31 For its part, Rastokhez and the members of the “Committee of 17” accused the Soviet and Tajik security services of starting the meeting and arming the criminals who roamed the city for days committing crimes and looting (for supporting accounts see Mâlo & Gončarov, 1990; Ganelin, 1990; Davlatov & Mamadšoev, 2012). Today these remain the standard narratives of the events, and are largely repeated wholescale in most contemporary accounts. 21 No matter the content or outcome of the February events, however, the week of violence in February 1990 can in many ways be seen as the apogee of Rastokhez’s political influence and mobilisation. Although the movement went to great efforts to deny its involvement in the protests’ organisation – going as far as to send a note to Mahkamov on February 12 back-dated to February 9 claiming that “they had no relationship” to the events in the city32 – there is a great deal of evidence showing their involvement from the very first days. Rastokhez members were both identified amongst the politicians giving speeches to the crowd on February 11 (Karimov, 2015, 94), and were very active in the “Committee of 17.” Some of its members even went as far as to write letters to the Congress of People’s Deputies in Moscow explaining the situation in Dushanbe and signing off as members of this committee.33 While it remains difficult to determine to what degree they were involved in the organisation of the protests, the members of Rastokhez at the very least quickly took advantage of their standing with the population to organise the crowd and place themselves at the front of its politicisation. 22 Following the collapse of the “Committee of 17’s” attempt to affect political change in the republic and the protests’ end, however, Rastokhez began to fade as a political movement. Accused of organising what had become a week of violence in the capital, many of its members began to find themselves pressured by the authorities. While the movement officially continued to exist through 1992, its activities during 1990 and 1991 were relatively limited beyond lobbying the Tajik SSR to pass a declaration of sovereignty in the fall of 1990. Other political parties, including the Tajik Democratic Party and Tajik branch of the Islamic Rebirth Party, were founded and became active in

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1990; over the years a number of key Rastokhez members also joined these parties, leaving the movement behind. 23 The February 1990 elections to the Tajik Supreme Soviet were also something of a disappointment for Rastokhez. From amongst its leaders, only Tohir Abdudžabborov and Bozor Sobir were elected, two members of the small minority of non-Communists to make it into the new parliament. The new Supreme Soviet quickly gained a pro- government reputation, insofar as it was dominated not only by party members, but by those “who had drunk from the up of high office,” in the words of Asliddin Sohibnazar (1997, v. 1, p. 18), a parliament deputy and future founder of the Democratic Party of Tajikistan. In fact, 216 out of the 230 new Supreme Soviet deputies were members of the Communist Party, the vast majority of whom had previously held party and government posts.34 This result has long been explained by Rastokhez sympathisers as the intended consequence of the February riots: by instigating a week of violence in Dushanbe, which was then blamed on Rastokhez and other opposition groups, the Communist Party of Tajikistan and the republican security services managed to denigrate and discredit the movement in the eyes of the population. In other words, the February events are best understood as a political move aimed at retaining control of the Supreme Soviet at any cost (Davlat, 2015d; Mirrahim, 1998, pp. 152-153; Davlatov, 2015; Karimov, 2015, pp. 14, 67). 24 This line of argument, however, makes two central assumptions that are worth verifying for their accuracy. First, it assumes that Rastokhez (perhaps along with other opposition groups) was popular enough throughout Tajikistan in February 1990 to win a significant portion or majority of the seats in the Tajik Supreme Soviet. Second, moreover, it takes as granted that the Tajik government was worried enough about the influence of Rastokhez in the first months of 1990 to go as far as to instigate a weeklong series of riots to deny their access to power. Upon close scrutiny, however, evidence for both assumptions begins to seem limited. Sociological surveys from late 1989 and early 1990 have shown that prior to the February events Rastokhez in fact had very little social recognition in Tajikistan, and that is was only after February 1990 that most people in the republic had even heard of the movement (Alimov & Saidov, 1991, p. 102). In conversation, moreover, the former head of Rastokhez’s regional office in the southern border town of Panj has admitted that political agitation in the regions was especially difficult for the movement.35 From the government’s perspective, the early concern over the direction taken by Ru ba Ru seems to have waned by late 1989, and by the beginning of 1990 almost no attention was being directed towards Rastokhez. At a republican-level meeting held for Tajik ideological workers on “coordinating with independent and social organisations” in the first days of February 1990, for example, no mention was made of Rastokhez or any of its members.36 Following the February 1990 events, moreover, comment has been frequently made about Rastokhez’s supposed links to the Baltic “Peoples’ Fronts” (narodnye fronty), which were said to heighten the threat they presented in the eyes of the Soviet authorities.37 Yet this, too, is questionable: actual evidence for coordination or even contact between the Baltic Fronts and political organisations in Dushanbe is overwhelmingly dated after the February events, not before.38 Ultimately, given that Rastokhez’s overall name recognition and fame grew as the result of the February events, it seems difficult to affirm the claim that the February riots would have been seen as an effective tool for the Soviet authorities to “retain control at any cost.”39 That there was a clear attempt to blame Rastokhez for the riots and denigrate the organisation’s reputation as a result

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does not necessarily mean – as Rastokhez members have later argued – that the entire scheme was premeditated (Mirrahim, 1998, pp. 152-153). 25 It does remain difficult to judge Rastokhez’s overall level of popular support prior to the February 1990 events. Some sources sympathetic to the movement have claimed that it “rapidly won popular support” (for example Dudoignon, 1998, p. 58) and that by January 1990 “hardly anyone doubted” Rastokhez’s victory in the upcoming elections to the Tajik Supreme Soviet (Davlatov, 2015). Rastokhez members, most notably Mirrahimov, have argued that the organisation was truly “national” (millatčī), with support throughout the republic (Mirrahim, 1998, p. 50). Other evidence, however, paints a less one-sided picture. While many people in Dushanbe seem to have been sympathetic to Rastokhez’s arguments in favour of economic independence and cultural development – one study from 1990 (Kul’čik et al., p. 34) estimated that the movement likely had approximately 10,000 “sympathisers” in Dushanbe – it remained a relatively small and urban organisation dominated by university professors and other intelligentsia representatives (Olimov & Olimova, 1991, p. 101). This had been the case since its formation under the auspices of Ru ba Ru, where nearly 75% of all members were university students, teachers, or academics (Davlat, 2015b), and it remained true for Rastokhez’s core throughout its existence. During protests and other times of strife, the core members of Rastokhez were frequently joined by masses of “students who had recently arrived from rural areas,” but whose concerns differed from the movement’s leaders and who easily shifted political camps when it was convenient to do so (Kul’čik et al., 1990, p. 35). Even the supposed fame the movement had won by pushing through the Tajik Law on Language is in fact less obvious than is often presented. According to Asliddin Sohibnazar (1997, v. 1, pp. 14-15), the ultimate decision for the law’s passage was made in Moscow and had little reference to the meetings held in Dushanbe in 1989. Sohibnazar argues that Kahhor Mahkamov, concerned about the passage of similar laws elsewhere in the USSR, called Mikhail Gorbachev to discuss the issue in July 1989. Gorbachev advised Mahkamov to have such a law passed, since Tajikistan’s failure to do so might be seen as a sign of its “backwardness.” Former members of Rastokhez have also noted the Law on Language’s lack of resonance with the general population: We went back to our districts and people looked at us funny. ‘Why do we need this law?’ they asked – ‘we already speak in Tajik anyways.’40

Conclusion

26 While it may be challenging to determine with any accuracy Rastokhez’s level of popular support in 1989 and 1990, with the advantage of hindsight some comment can at least be made about the importance of its early political mobilisation for the Tajik political sphere as a whole. In contrast to the smaller organisations that were founded in 1988 and early 1989, Rastokhez, through both its early incarnation as Ru ba Ru and during its later political lobbying, began to act as a real political force. No matter the ultimate level of influence its lobbying and meetings had on political decision-making in Dushanbe, it represented the first exclusively political organisation in the Tajik SSR outside of the Communist Party of Tajikistan. It was also the first organisation in the republic to effectively motivate and mobilise citizens to political action, whether this was gathering on the street in support of the Tajik language or writing letters to political leaders. Tajik Soviet citizens statistically wrote letters to the central authorities with one of the lowest frequencies of any republic in the Union – any letter

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writing at all, such as was recorded in and around the February events, represented some element of politicisation.41 This experience of political organisation would then be applied by many of Rastokhez’s leaders and members who would later join other Tajik political parties on both sides of the spectrum and help to foment the rapid development of parties and factions that came to quickly dominate Tajik politics after its declaration of full independence from the USSR in September 1991.

27 Tracking the development of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez from February 1989 to February 1990, moreover, provides a unique perspective from which to consider the political mobilisation taking place in the Tajik SSR during perestroika. At the beginning of 1989, economic concerns were clearly at the fore. While questions about the status of the Tajik language and “cultural rebirth” were given more media attention, nearly everyone involved in the decision to found Ru ba Ru was fundamentally worried about the economy. This included the future founders of Rastokhez. The Chairman of Rastokhez, Tohir Abdudžabborov, remained throughout an economist, concerned about Tajikistan’s place in the shifting Soviet economy.42 Even Mirrahimov, often seemingly focused on cultural and linguistic issues, never lost sight of the economy. Mere days before the February 1989 protest, he took part in an academic roundtable in Moscow, where he explicitly linked interethnic relations and cultural development in Tajikistan to the republic’s imbalanced economic relations with Moscow (Mirrahimov, 1989, p. 84). The leaders of the Tajik SSR were equally concerned, understanding, as this article has shown, that the students on the streets were expressing a set of largely economic concerns. Surprisingly few contemporary politicians or journalists bothered to ask those gathered on the street what their frustrations actually constituted. Those who did, however, frequently received answers about the lack of jobs or housing in the republic.43 The fragile balance of the Tajik economy, which had long been known for some ofthe lowest standards of living in the USSR, had been pushed over the edge by perestroika’s economic reforms, leading to higher unemployment, greater difficulties with housing, and in many cases, even lower wages for those who retained their jobs. These conditions unsurprisingly led to an outpouring of frustration and anger amongst the masses of young and either unemployed or underemployed men from Dushanbe and its surroundings, who made up the majority of those responding to calls to meet and protest against the current leadership of the Tajik SSR. 28 The political genius of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez, however, was to provide a space in which the economic frustrations of perestroika in Tajikistan could metamorphose into a political movement with contours greater than the economic downturn that had caused its rise. In the meetings held under the auspices of Ru ba Ru, the leaders of the Tajik SSR were criticised not only for their economic policies – but just as much for their stances on cultural and national issues or their supposed opposition to change. Once founded as an official movement, Rastokhez lobbied not only for economic independence, but also against the leadership of the republic, in favour of the Tajik language, and against the infamous Sixth Article of the Soviet Constitution, which was later thrown out as an afterthought during Gorbachev’s election as President of the USSR during the Third Congress of People’s Deputies in March 1990. Economic opposition solidified into opposition writ large: the members of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez began to see themselves as representatives of a strictly political movement, and one that was capable of expressing concerns that went beyond the state of the Tajik economy in its fight against the neocolonial rule of the USSR. Ultimately,

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Rastokhez was able to at least temporarily overcome the gap between the national intelligentsia in Dushanbe and the villages from which it had grown distant. It managed to mobilise the more rural elements of Tajik youth and redirect their initially economic frustrations towards its own cultural and political ends.44 29 The development of a political movement out of what seemed to be a series of unconnected and undirected economic concerns appears to have taken the leadership of the Tajik SSR by complete surprise. Mirbobo Mirrahimov is reported to have said that Goibnazar Pallaev, the Chairman of the Tajik Supreme Soviet, “could not believe it” when the movement first attempted to register itself in 1989; this was “like a thunderbolt” for him and the rest of the party heads (Šodiev & Khumajro, 2014). From the perspective of the Tajik Communist Party, the economic concerns of those protesting in the streets needed to be listened to, taken into consideration, and dealt with economically – for which Ru ba Ru had been called upon to provide an initial platform. That this platform could lead to the development of an independent political movement that would begin to demand more than just economic reforms does not seem to have been taken into consideration. Given the events occurring across the USSR at the time, including the formation of national fronts in the Baltics, strikes in Russia, riots in neighbouring Uzbekistan, and many other similar disturbances, the lack of concern on the part on Mahkamov and other Tajik leaders is somewhat surprising. Given the history of the Tajik SSR, however, it is also understandable: up until 1989 political unrest had been simply unknown in the republic, and cultural and political concerns seemed the least immediate of citizens’ concerns. By 1989 nearly everyone in the republic – including the party and state leaderships – had grown focused on the state of the local economy and its ongoing collapse; political mobilisation seemed a far less immediate worry. 30 Under the auspices of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez, however, the economic problems of perestroika became a platform for mobilisation and political opposition on cultural, linguistic, and nationalist grounds, which together set the scene for the Tajik SSR’s last two years in the Soviet Union. It remains important, moreover, to ground the study of this mobilisation within the context and base from which it arose. While recent scholarship has tended to focus on the role of nationalism and linguistic issues in driving political mobilisation in late Soviet Central Asia, the case of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez help to demonstrate the underlying economic content of most citizens’ complaints and motivations. In line with models demonstrated elsewhere, disappointed economic expectations quickly came to bleed into broader political anger and a rejection of the political system writ large (Davies, 1974; Gurr, 2010; for an application to the USSR, see Češko, 1993, pp. 32-33). In Tajikistan, this early model of political mobilisation would remain significant, even as Rastokhez itself would fade in political weight in the years following 1990. During the final years of the USSR, other political parties would harness the frustrations of the many increasingly out of work and underemployed rural workers for their own political purposes. Together with elements of the regional and central national intelligentsia, for example, these workers would also make up the core of protests held in August and September 1991 that led to the ouster of Kahhor Mahkamov as President of Tajikistan. Thus the stage was set for political struggle.

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USMONOV I., 2003, Ta”rikhi siësii tožikistoni sohibistiqlol [Political history of independent Tajikistan], Khujand: Nuri ma”rifat.

“Ustav organizacii ‘Rastokhez’” [Charter of the organisation ‘Rastokhez’], reprinted in N. G. Čičerina (ed.), Graždanskie dviženiâ v Tadžikistane [Civil society in Tajikistan], Moscow: cimo.

ÛSUPOV Kh., 1988, “Točka zreniâ: a razve ledokhod ne načalsâ?” [Point of view: has the ice really yet to break?], Kommunist Tadžikistana, 3 February.

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Archives Referenced

GARF State Archive of the Russian Federation, Moscow

RGASPI Russian State Archive of Social and Political History, Moscow

RGANI Russian State Archive of Contemporary History, Moscow

NOTES

1. The author would like to express his thanks to Šokhrat Kadyrov and Olga Brusina, who provided comments on earlier versions of this article, as well as to the two anonymous reviewers. 2. TadžikTA was a wire service in Soviet Dushanbe to which many local newspaper articles were attributed. 3. According to data collated by the KGB in 1988, over the preceding forty years only one major “disorder” (besporâdok) had been recorded in the Tajik SSR, which involved a large group of Tajik young men fighting with those of Slavic origin in 1985 (Spravka ot Predsedatelâ KGB Čebrikova M.S. Gorbačevu ot 4.3.1988. APRF, F. 3, Op. 108, D. 523, L. 27-34. Reprinted in Istočnik: vestnik arkhiva prezidenta Rossijskoj Federacii, 19(6), 1995, 152). In the data published in support of his 2002 Nationalist Mobilization and the Collapse of the Soviet State, Mark Beissinger has identified one further “protest” event as occurring in December 1987 in Dushanbe. Upon review of his cited source, however (FBIS, 1989, it seems clear that the supposed event was little more than a group of students having an “agitated” discussion about the 1985 fight. For Beissinger’s collated data, see “Mass Demonstrations and Mass Violent Events in the Former USSR, 1987-1992,” available via http://www.princeton.edu/~mbeissin/research1.htm#Data. 4. Based on what information is available from contemporary press sources and later interviews, it seems clear that amongst the organisers of the February 1989 meeting were Mirbobo Mirrahimov, Abdunaby Sattorov (Sattorzoda) and other future founders of the organisation “Rastokhez.” 5. By early 1990, for example, Communist Party leaders in Tajikistan were beginning to note the difference between their own single-candidate elections and the more “democratic” elections starting to take hold elsewhere in the USSR. See for example CC member Tagaev’s comments at a February 1990 Tajik Central Committee Plenum (Šabdolov, 1990, p. 23). 6. Labour productivity was actually falling in the agricultural sector in Tajikistan through the 1980s and growing at one of the lowest rates in the Union in the industrial sector over the same period (Orazmuradov & Zûzin, 1987, p. 28). 7. Undelivered goods included lumber, tractors, machine equipment, and many others (GARF, F. 5446, Op. 150, D. 276, L. 25, 106-107, 129). The first secretary of the Kurgan-Tûbe Oblast Committee of the Tajik Communist Party, I. Khalimov, also noted in 1990 that his oblast was obligated to import “more than 6,000 different indispensable products,” failures in the delivery of which had led to “chronic deficits” across the oblast (RGANI, F. 1, Op. 10, D. 96, L. 31). 8. In the Soviet press and government documents this process was exclusively referred to as the “freeing up” (osvoboždenie or vysvoboždenie) of labour resources. 9. From 1987 to 1990 the official unemployment rate in Tajikistan rose from 26 to 30% (RGASPI, F. 17, Op. 160, D. 1672, L. 3). This rise was attributed across the board to perestroika-era reforms, and even the State Labour Committee in Moscow admitted that as early as 1987 the “freeing up” of workers had “caused problems employment in regions with superfluous labour supplies (trudoizbytočnye raiony) (GARF, F. 5446, Op. 162, D. 153, L. 122-123). 10. For a discussion of the issues and concerns raised by early cooperatives in Dushanbe, see: Anonymous, 1988a; Demidov, 1990. Former employees of the Tajik Gosplan have also mentioned

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similar concerns from the period (Karimov, 2015, p. 350; also the author’s interview with Rahmat Ûsupovič Khakulov, Dushanbe, February 2015). 11. The frequent imbalance between worker and manager salaries was commonly cited in the Tajik press (Umarov, 1988; Anonymous, 1987; Kletzkin, 1987). 12. The Council of Ministers of the Tajik SSR reported a 0.4% drop in overall production for 1989 (GARF, F. 5446, Op. 162, D. 260, L. 16-18). 13. This initiative, it should also be said, was very much in line with the then official party position on growing incidents of “informal” organisations and demonstrations amongst young people. As I.M. Il’inskij, the director of the Komsomol Higher School’s Scientific Research Centre under the Central Committee of the Soviet Komsomol, put it in 1987, the main cause of informal movements’ growth was society’s failure to deal with young people’s “real problems.” The only solution, he argued, was to engage in dialogue with the “searching, unruly, spiny, contradictory, inconvenient young people” (Il’inskij, 1987, p. 94). 14. According to some commentators, the Komsomol had also been waiting for an opportunity to develop such a platform, having grown tired of waiting for informal groups to develop it on their own (Alimov & Saidov, 1991, pp. 84-85). 15. The concept of a “political club” predated Ru ba Ru; other organisations in Dushanbe had over the years formed such clubs for internal discussions and the dissemination of information. For a description of Ru ba Ru’s legal status, see: Anonymous, 1989d. 16. This has also been confirmed in conversation with former Ru ba Ru participants (author’s interview with Abdullo Gafurov, Dushanbe, February 2015). 17. Interviews with former Ru ba Ru participants in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, February 2015. For its part, the republican KGB was particularly displeased by calls made by Ru ba Ru participants to voters to vote on national grounds and only for “Tajik” candidates (Press gruppa KGB TSSR, 1989). 18. Mirrahimov’s article (1988) created a great deal of controversy both upon its publication and in recent years. For an early (negative) response, see: Ûsupov, 1988. More recently, arguments have arisen about whether or not Mirrahimov was the first to raise such concerns, with authors such as Mirzorakhmatov (2011, p. 41) claiming that other writers, for example the more established philosopher Akbar Tursunov, had already published about the need to promote Tajik language and culture. As Mirzorakhmatov admits, however, any such publications were “academic” and read “only by a very few in the republic.” Mirrahim (2011), moreover, has argued that Mirzorakhmatov is “lying” and that no such articles existed prior to his own. 19. In part, Khodžaev was accused in February 1988 of allowing articles that “made sweeping accusations against perceived opponents in the republic and elsewhere about their disdain for Tajik history and culture, lowering the significance of the Tajik nation, and so forth.” This was very similar to the content of Mirrahimov’s articles from earlier in the year (Anonymous, 1988b). 20. Rastokhez does not appear to have ever kept an official count of its members, and accounts of who, exactly, led the movement can differ significantly depending on who is recounting events. Standard figures include Mirbobo Mirrahimov and Tohir Abdudžabborov; other individuals, including Abdunaby Sattorov (Sattorzoda) or Askar Hakim are also frequently (but not always) mentioned. For diverging accounts, see: Šodiev & Khumajro, 2014; Mirrahim, 1998. 21. This debate preceded perestroika but gained in urgency as the Soviet economy began to unravel during the final years of the USSR. Arguments continued throughout about the total value of agricultural goods (primarily cotton) grown in Tajikistan and sold on the world market by the USSR and their comparative value against the total amount of finished goods sent to Tajikistan from elsewhere in the USSR. For a selection of the arguments made in this vein about Tajikistan and Central Asia, see: Mukomel’, 1989; Nišanov, 2012, p. 246; Kalinovsky, 2014. 22. The Soviet State Statistics Committee calculated that for 1989 the state had spent 900 million rubles in the Tajik SSR above the amount of the national product produced in the republic, thus

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making Tajikistan one of the USSR’s more “subsidised” regions. At the same time, however, the Committee admitted that “as a result of the particularities of price formation in the productive spheres, notable significance is rendered on the relation between produced and spent national incomes by the placement of extraction or processing activities for material or energy and fuel goods, along with the production of final products, on the territory of one or another republic (...) a notable gap exists between prices on the world market and the internal bulk prices used for the same goods during inter-republican exchanges (for fuels and raw goods they are lower than worldwide prices, while for consumer goods they are higher).” Thus the debate about recalculating figures of national product had by 1989 reached the highest echelons of the USSR (GARF, F. 5446, Op. 162, D. 176, L. 27-29). 23. Tajik workers, like most in the Soviet agricultural sector, were underpaid in comparison to the average industrial or service-sector Soviet worker. Analyses of Soviet wages from the late 1980s consistently fixed average Tajik salaries (agricultural or otherwise) at approximately 82% of the Soviet average (Lyčagina & Čamkin, 1989, p. 14; Morozova, 1989, p. 76). 24. It might be noted that migration to Tajikistan by non-Tajiks was hardly a significant issue in the late 1980s – in fact, non-Tajik Soviet citizens had been leaving Tajikistan for years. This had led to a drop in the number of skilled workers in the republic and was considered in both Moscow and Dushanbe to be a serious threat to the republic’s economic development (Umarov & Matkupov, 1989; Narzikulov, 1991). 25. Survey data from 1986-1987 showed that only 28-29% of Tajik citizens could claim fluency in Russian (Kalandarov, 1989, p. 112; Ermolaeva, 1987, pp. 98-99). 26. Information about Rastokhez’s activities during the latter part of 1989 is limited, but the journalist Oleg Panfilov (1996) has reported such meetings during the final months of the year. 27. RGASPI, F. 17, Op. 155, D. 2180, L. 14; F. 17, Op. 159, D. 1706, L. 40. 28. The modern Party of the Islamic Rebirth of Tajikistan claims that it was founded in 1973 by a group of mullahs who gathered surreptitiously until the late 1980s. In terms of formal party structures, however, the Islamic Rebirth Party of the USSR was first founded in Astrakhan in June 1990, with the Tajik branch of the party holding its foundational congress on October 8, 1990 in the village of Chortut outside of Dushanbe (Tolz, 1990). 29. The events of February 11-18, 1990 have been described very differently by various parties. For a selection of viewpoints and descriptions, see Šabdolov, 1990; Helsinki Watch, 1991; as well as the Soobŝenie Komissii prezidiuma Verkhovnogo Soveta Tadžikskoj SSR po proverke sobytij 12-14 fevralâ 1990 g. v g. Dušanbe, as held in the personal archive of Buri Karimov, Moscow, Russian Federation. Today, these events remain so controversial that in conversation no one in Dushanbe will admit to having even been present on the square during this week, further complicating the task of verifying events and their ordering (author’s interviews with former Rastokhez members and journalists, Dushanbe, 2015). 30. Of the committee members, at least seven can be identified as Rastokhez founders or close associates, including: Bozor Sobir, Askar Khakim, Tohir Abdudžabborov, Kh. Khomidov, Mirbobo Mirrahimov, and A. Kholikov (Protokoli masvaratii bainitarafaini rohbariâti džumkhuri va sozmoni mardumi az 14.2.1990, as held in the personal Archive of Buri Karimov, Moscow, Russian Federation). 31. For the government’s position at the time, see: RGASPI, F. 17, Op. 159, D. 1710, L. 16-17. Comparable accounts can also be found in Ponomarov, 1990; Kobilova, 2007. 32. RGASPI, F. 17, Op. 159, D. 1695, L. 8. 33. GARF, F. 9654, Op. 6, D. 176, L. 21-22. 34. Statističeskij otčet o sostave Verkhovnogo Soveta, Prezidiuma, komitetov i postoânnykh komissij Verkhovnogo Soveta Tadžikskoj SSR, GARF, F. 9654, Op. 10, D. 100, L. 227. 35. Author’s interview with Khikmatullo Saifullozoda, Dushanbe, February 2015. 36. RGASPI, F. 17, Op. 159, D. 1709, L. 10.

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37. By and large this argument seems to have been used by opponents of Rastokhez to demonstrate the dangers it presented (see for example Kobilova, 2007, p. 20; Sultanov, 2014, p. 119) or its sympathisers to emphasise the supposed level of support for the organisation (Dudoignon, 1998; Davlatov, 2015). 38. Evidence supporting the supposed links between Rastokhez and the Baltic Fronts is limited to an unsourced 1990 Radio Liberty dispatch about a supposed 1988 trip by Bozor Sobir to the Sajudis in Lithuania (Crow, 1990), a tapped 1990 phone call from Rastokhez member Khalikov to a certain low-level Sajudis member (TadžikTA, 1990), and the printing of the Democratic Party of Tajikistan’s newspaper by the Sajudis in late 1990 (Merezhnikova, 1990). There is no evidence that the Sajudis or any other Baltic Fronts assisted Rastokhez or other political parties in Tajikistan before September 1990, even as they were working directly with Birlik in Uzbekistan and other regional parties. For more on the Baltics’ lack of attention to Tajikistan, see Muiznieks, 1995; Beissinger, 2002, p. 85. 39. Since the fall of the USSR, a story has developed about the use of force against organised crowds and violent pogroms over the course of 1989-1990 that paints these events as an attempt by the centre to “discredit the opposition” and “re-establish centralised control.” While the use of military force in the Caucasus (Tbilisi, Baku) or Central Asia (Ferghana, Osh, Dushanbe) during this period may have temporarily re-established Moscow’s authority, in the long run, all of these acts were ultimately used by opposition and pro-independence movements against Moscow, making them very ineffective tools indeed if that was their original purpose. 40. Author’s interview with Khikmatullo Saifullozoda, Dushanbe, February 2015. 41. In 1989, for example, only 0.7% of all letters sent to the Central Committee of the Communist Party in Moscow had originated in the Tajik SSR (RGANI, F. 100, Op. 1, D. 286, LL. 2-7, 177-181). 42. For a fuller discussion of Abdudžabborov’s evolving economic views, see Kalinovsky, 2014. 43. RGASPI, F. 17, Op. 159, D. 1710, L. 16-17; also Alimov & Saidov, 1991, pp. 95, 103. 44. Socially and economically, the Tajik national intelligentsia had for decades been isolated from the cultural life of the villages from whence its members had originally been drawn. In part, this was due to the long-term consequences of the early Soviet policy of korenizaciâ, which had in part given preference to Tajik applicants for higher education. Over time, the number of Tajiks with university degrees (and especially humanities degrees) increased, whereas the number with technical or scientific degrees decreased. Since the main area of employment for Tajiks with higher humanitarian degrees was at universities or other city-based institutions, the concentration of Tajik intelligentsia in Dushanbe and other cities increased notably. In the villages, on the other hand, there was a clear level of “intellectual hunger.” This imbalance was noted with increasing frequency in the latter years of perestroika (Nazaršoev, 1989, p. 6; Anonymous, 1989a).

ABSTRACTS

Over the course of the year between February 1989 and February 1990, Dushanbe underwent a political activisation. The capital of the Tajik SSR saw the development of an independent and antagonistic political club, Ru ba Ru, which with time developed into the national movement Rastokhez. Through a detailed analysis of Ru ba Ru and Rastokhez’s development and actions during the period of 1989-1990, this article demonstrates the ways in which these groups were

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able to harness the Tajik Soviet citizens’ economic and social concerns and mobilise them into a movement for political and cultural change.

Tout au long de l’année allant de février 1989 à février 1990, Douchanbé a connu une période d’activisme politique. La capitale de la RSS tadjike a vu se développer un club indépendant d’opposition politique, Ru ba Ru, qui se transforma progressivement en mouvement national Rastokhez. À travers une analyse détaillée du développement et des actions menées par Ru ba Ru et Rastokhez sur la période, cet article montre la manière dont ces groupes ont été en mesure d’exploiter les préoccupations économiques et sociales des citoyens tadjiks soviétiques et de les mobiliser autour d’un mouvement pour le changement politique et culturel.

Первые независимые политические движения в Таджикской сср появились на социальной авансцене в период c февраля 1989 по февраль 1990 гг. Среди них особенно выделялись политический клуб «Ру ба Ру» и сформировавшееся на его встречах национальное движение «Растохез». Детально анализируя развитие и деятельность обеих организаций, данный очерк раскрывает процесс, в ходе которого негодования граждан Таджикской сср относительно экономического спада были направлены на пользу культурных и политических перемен.

INDEX

Mots-clés: Tadjikistan, mobilisations politiques, perestroïka, glasnost, réformes économiques, Union soviétique motsclesru Таджикистан, CCCP, политические движения, экономические реформы, гласность, перестройка Keywords: Tajikistan, political mobilisation, perestroika, glasnost, economic reform, Soviet Union

AUTHOR

ISAAC SCARBOROUGH

Isaac Scarborough is a PhD candidate in the Department of International History at the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE). His dissertation research is focused on the implementation of perestroika-era political and economic reforms in the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic. Contact: [email protected]

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L’accaparement des terres comme forme de révolution sociale Le cas du Kirghizstan en 1989 Land-Grabbing as a Form of Social Revolution. The Case of Kyrgyzstan in 1989 Захват земель как форма социальной революции. Пример Кыргызской Республики 1989 года

Ajdarbek Kočkunov Traduction : Masha Cerovic

NOTE DE L’ÉDITEUR

Traduit du russe par Masha Cerovic

1 La campagne d’accaparement des terres qui se développa en 1989 dans la ville de Frounze (aujourd’hui Bichkek) est inscrite dans les annales de l’histoire nationale kirghize : présente dans les manuels scolaires et universitaires (Asankanov, 1997 ; Ploskikh & Džunušaliev, 2007, pp. 281-282 ; Osmonov, 2014), elle est aussi éclairée par des mémoires de recherche (Žekšeev, 1997). Malgré ces quelques références, la question reste peu étudiée par les historiens, politistes et sociologues. Pourtant, le phénomène d’accaparement des terres s’est poursuivi après 1989 et, aujourd’hui encore, le gouvernement kirghiz est confronté à l’occupation illégale de terrains pour la construction de logements individuels.

2 Le tournant des années quatre-vingt et quatre-vingt-dix a constitué un bouleversement pour l’histoire contemporaine mondiale, lorsque l’une des deux grandes puissances de l’époque – l’Union soviétique – est entrée dans une phase d’affaissement progressif et irréversible. Ce processus est symbolisé par la chute du mur de Berlin, qui a marqué le début d’une nouvelle ère des relations internationales, ne se limitant pas seulement à une zone géographique définie entre les deux Allemagnes. Des « murs de Berlin » invisibles existaient partout dans l’espace ex-soviétique. Il s’agissait de murs

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d’incompréhension de l’appareil bureaucratique soviétique à l’égard des besoins et espoirs des groupes sociaux et des peuples. Cette incompréhension, souvent délibérée, relevant de l’essence même du régime, est à l’origine de la crise systémique qui a touché toutes les sphères de la société soviétique. La crise du logement, par exemple, a participé de ces bouleversements. Bien qu’elle fût considérée comme l’une des priorités de la politique sociale soviétique et que des moyens considérables y fussent consacrés, la question du logement resta un problème social grave en URSS. Selon les républiques, les régions et les villes, elle prenait des formes diverses, en fonction des spécificités locales historiques, ethniques, culturelles, sociales et économiques. Dans la RSS kirghize, la lutte pour le droit d’avoir son propre logement a acquis une dimension nationale et est entrée dans l’histoire du pays sous le terme « d’accaparement des terres » (zakhvatka zemel’). 3 Le phénomène d’accaparement des terres n’est pas nouveau dans l’histoire. Par le passé, bien des localités, dans diverses régions du monde, ont connu des processus anarchiques, sans la moindre réglementation ou sanction légale. De nos jours en revanche, les cas d’appropriation sauvage des terres sont réglés juridiquement et tombent sous le coup de la loi. Dans le contexte totalitaire soviétique, où la pratique de la répression des citoyens non-conformistes était courante, s’accaparer des terres était un acte proprement suicidaire. Néanmoins, comme l’a montré la suite des événements, le gouvernement de l’époque n’était pas en mesure de s’opposer à la pression de milliers de personnes voulant acquérir des terrains pour satisfaire leurs besoins vitaux – vivre sous un toit. Ainsi, l’accaparement en masse de terres à Frounze en 1989 était un défi lancé au système soviétique et à l’idéologie du Parti, signe avant-coureur des troubles et bouleversements sociaux et politiques qu’allait connaître le pays.

Aux origines, une inégalité d’accès à la terre et aux logements

4 Au Kirghizstan, l’une des questions sociales, économiques et politiques pressantes était celle du droit de la population autochtone du pays, les Kirghiz, à un logement dans l’enceinte de la ville. À la fin des années quatre-vingt, ce problème prévalait sur les autres par sa signification. La lutte pour l’obtention d’un logement en ville, dans un environnement urbain moderne, a une histoire étroitement liée à celle de l’économie traditionnelle et des réalités foncières du pays. Au cours de la deuxième moitié du XIXe siècle, après que le peuple kirghiz fut entré dans le giron de l’empire russe, l’installation de populations russo-ukrainiennes fut organisée afin de consolider l’institution coloniale et les assises sociales du régime tsariste. Ce processus s’est poursuivi, avec plus ou moins d’intensité, jusqu’en 1916. Ce problème acquit une acuité singulière dans le nord du Kirghizstan. Ainsi, « en 1916, les Russes et les Ukrainiens représentaient à peine plus de 24 % de la population de l’uezd de Prževal’ski, mais possédaient plus de 67 % des terres arables. L’uezd de Pišpeksk connaissait une situation comparable » (Ploskikh & Džunušaliev, 2007, p. 176). La politique coloniale tsariste avait un objectif précis : installer dans la région autant de Russes que possible et ainsi refouler progressivement la population locale des zones de plaines vers les montagnes. Par conséquent, les Kirghiz étaient progressivement et méthodiquement repoussés vers les hautes terres, si bien que leur espace de vie habituel se réduisit considérablement. En outre, cela entraînait une rupture des cycles traditionnels de la vie économique des

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familles kirghizes. Ce problème était caractéristique, en particulier, des régions du nord du Kirghizstan, où dominait un mode de vie nomade et semi-nomade des populations. La situation ne pouvait que conduire à des protestations sociales, qui prirent des formes diverses, de la réorientation du nomadisme vers le Turkestan oriental jusqu’à la résistance armée. La lutte pour la restitution des terres accaparées par les colons connut son apogée lors du soulèvement de 1916, réprimé avec la plus grande brutalité par les unités tsaristes. La question foncière était l’une des principales causes de ce soulèvement. La répression menée par l’armée russe et l’exil du peuple kirghiz vers la Chine causèrent d’énormes pertes démographiques – dans le nord du pays, la population kirghize diminua de 42 % (ibid., p. 179) – et des dommages matériels colossaux portés à l’infrastructure indispensable à la survie de la population. L’arrivée au pouvoir des Bolcheviks en 1917 marqua le début d’une nouvelle ère où les réfugiés kirghiz furent autorisés à rentrer dans leurs régions d’origine et à restaurer leur mode de vie. La réforme du régime foncier et de l’eau au cours des premières décennies du régime soviétique fut très importante pour le développement socio-économique des Kirghiz : elle conduisit à la restitution de la plupart des terres saisies par les colons et à une redistribution des ressources en terres et en eau (Bajbulatov, 1969 ; Baktygulov, 1978). En parallèle étaient menées des réformes des conditions de vie des foyers.

5 Néanmoins, l’histoire des structures foncières au Kirghizstan a gardé des traits spécifiques, résultant de la création d’un réseau de bourgs et fermes par les paysans et Cosaques russo-ukrainiens à l’époque coloniale. À l’époque soviétique, ces localités conservèrent leur position privilégiée, car elles étaient installées sur des terres fertiles, particulièrement favorables au développement de l’agriculture. En règle générale, ces localités se trouvaient le long d’axes stratégiques, bénéficiaient des meilleures infrastructures et d’un investissement en capital suffisant à leur essor. Leur population était composée, pour l’essentiel, de Russes, d’Ukrainiens, d’Allemands et autres Européens, dont les habitations avaient été mieux conçues, autour de cours organisées avec soin. Les localités kirghizes se trouvaient dans les zones de montagnes et de piémont, dans un environnement difficile, mais adapté à une économie d’élevage. Ces localités étaient en général mono-ethniques. Les préjugés des Kirghiz et des Russes les uns à l’égard des autres, en particulier dans le nord du Kirghizstan, dans la vallée de la Čuj, sur la rive nord du lac Issyk-Koul ont longtemps persisté, en souvenir des violences liées au soulèvement de 1916. Néanmoins, la jeune génération kirghize venait, d’année en année, gonfler les rangs de la population européenne des villages de plaine et des villes, en quête d’éducation et d’opportunités professionnelles. Cependant, l’incapacité de ces localités à leur accueil et à leur installation a constitué la première cause historique du mouvement d’accaparement des terres. 6 Dès l’instauration du régime soviétique, les conditions de logement variaient selon les régions. Alors que, dans certains territoires, la population avait depuis longtemps adopté un mode de vie sédentaire dans des habitations permanentes, dans d’autres, la majorité des habitants menait une vie nomade ou semi-nomade et entamait à peine sa sédentarisation. Les réformes soviétiques, menées à une très grande échelle et avec des conséquences profondes sur les populations, furent achevées dans les années trente. L’historiographie soviétique officielle parle de « processus d’installation des foyers nomades et semi-nomades » (Bajbulatov, 1969 ; Baktygulov, 1978 ; Istoriâ ..., 1984), tandis que l’historiographie occidentale utilise l’expression « processus de sédentarisation ». Il eut lieu dans les régions où la majorité de la population avait un

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mode de vie nomade ou semi-nomade, au Kirghizstan, au Kazakhstan, au Turkménistan, dans certaines régions du Karakalpakistan et d’Ouzbékistan, ainsi que de nombreuses régions de Sibérie et d’Extrême-Orient, dont la population autochtone menait depuis la nuit des temps un mode de vie nomade, fondé sur l’élevage, la chasse et la pêche. La politique de sédentarisation était l’une des priorités du régime soviétique, car elle favorisait considérablement les transformations sociales et économiques pour les populations de ces régions. Naturellement, le passage à un mode de vie sédentaire entraînait un changement radical de l’économie traditionnelle, des relations sociales, de toute la culture et du quotidien des anciens nomades. La civilisation nomade pluriséculaire ayant joué un rôle de premier rang dans l’histoire du monde, dont l’importance est encore sous-estimée, a ainsi été totalement éradiquée. 7 En règle générale, les anciens nomades s’installaient majoritairement dans les régions se prêtant au maintien d’un cycle économique basé sur l’élevage, dans les zones inondables des rivières et autres points d’eau. Leurs nouvelles localités, classées comme rurales, devenaient la base d’une économie agricole de type kolkhozien ou sovkhozien. Dans une grande partie du Kirghizstan, en particulier au nord et dans les régions montagneuses du sud, des villages permanents à majorité kirghize ont été créés, où se maintenaient les structures tribales traditionnelles et le système de pacage du bétail. Dans les régions de plaine du sud du pays des localités permanentes à population multiethnique existaient depuis longtemps. Par conséquent, lors de la création des districts (rajon) administratifs, les gros bourgs de ces populations sédentaires furent choisis comme chefs-lieux de district, ce qui leur a conféré un avantage considérable pour leur développement socio-culturel ultérieur. Le troisième type de localités est celui des chefs-lieux de l’époque tsariste : elles reçurent le statut de villes et devinrent les centres des régions (oblast’), deuxième principal niveau de la hiérarchie administrative territoriale de la RSS kirghize. Les districts ruraux furent à leur tour intégrés dans ces régions. La composition ethnique de la population de ces trois niveaux de localités, indépendamment des politiques d’égalisation, des spécialisations économiques etc., différait fortement. Cette différence eut, à son tour, un impact majeur sur toute l’histoire du développement socio-économique des différentes régions et définit les particularités régionales, y compris sur le plan ethnoculturel. 8 Ainsi, l’histoire fait que la majorité des Kirghiz habitait dans des villages. Batyrbaeva, spécialiste des processus démographiques dans l’histoire du Kirghizstan, donne les chiffres suivants sur la composition nationale des populations urbaine et rurale : en 1939, dans les villages, 61,19 % de la population étaient des Kirghiz ; en ville, 50 % étaient des Russes. Les Kirghiz ne représentaient que 10,1 % de la population urbaine (Batyrbaeva, 2003, p. 116). Ainsi, malgré les difficultés de l’adaptation à un nouveau milieu socio-culturel, à la veille de la Deuxième Guerre mondiale, la catégorie des citadins kirghiz était en train de se former et donnait naissance à une intelligentsia et une classe ouvrière kirghizes (Karakeeva, 1981 ; Mambetalieva, 1963 & 2007). Les familles kirghizes en ville vivaient en général dispersées, dans des immeubles d’habitation, d’où la perte rapide du rôle joué par les structures et relations tribales et communautaires. À l’époque soviétique, les Kirghiz citadins ne formaient donc pas un groupe cohérent de population avec des relations sociales stables. Néanmoins, ces familles s’efforçaient, même dans les villes, de s’installer à proximité les unes des autres, et formaient aussi des réseaux interfamiliaux qui rappelaient, par leur forme, les communautés sociales traditionnelles. Ces réseaux pouvaient accueillir également des familles de parents, les descendants d’une lignée ou tribu, ainsi que les habitants du

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voisinage. Les premières générations de citadins kirghiz gardaient des contacts très étroits avec les villages d’où ils venaient. La solidarité familiale, l’aide matérielle, la sympathie réciproque, caractérisaient les relations entre les familles villageoises et citadines ; d’ailleurs, en règle générale, les corps des défunts étaient ramenés de la ville pour être enterrés dans le cimetière familial au village. 9 Dans les décennies qui suivirent, la part de population urbaine de la RSS kirghize augmenta de façon continue, passant de 33,7 % en 1959 à 38,2 % en 1989 (Comité national statistique, 2000, p. 12). Un phénomène radicalement nouveau était la croissance, au sein de cette population urbaine, de la part des Kirghiz, y compris dans la ville de Frounze. En quarante ans, le nombre de citadins kirghiz a été multiplié par 9 et, dans la capitale, par 20, ce qui témoigne des transformations profondes de la structure sociale des Kirghiz (voir Tableau 1).

Tableau 1 : Évolution du nombre de Kirghiz dans les localités rurales et urbaines par année de recensement

1959 1970 1979 1989 1999

Nb % Nb % Nb % Nb % Nb %

Totale 836 850 40,5 1 284 795 43,8 1 687 382 47,9 2 229 663 52,4 3 128 147 64,9

Rurale 745 046 52,4 1 098 840 59,8 1 378 612 63,4 1 744 472 66,2 2 260 674 71,9

Urbaine 91 804 13,1 185 955 17,0 308 770 22,9 485 191 29,9 867 473 51,7

Frounze 20 451 9,5 52 850 12,3 88 819 16,9 140 195 22,7 395137 52,1

Ibid., pp. 79-81

10 Cette croissance de la population urbaine kirghize a pour principale origine l’exode rural, ce qui aurait dû conduire à une diminution de la population rurale. Pourtant, la proportion de Kirghiz dans les zones rurales n’a pas diminué, au contraire, elle a continué de croître. Entre 1959 et 1989, cette augmentation était de 14 %. Elle s’explique par la forte natalité de la population rurale kirghize.

11 Les citadins s’installaient, en règle générale, dans les villes les plus proches des villages, avec lesquels les habitants pratiquaient une migration pendulaire, allant le matin travailler en ville et rentrant le soir chez eux. Les enfants de ces migrants pendulaires s’installaient eux en ville. En outre, l’extension des villes englobant progressivement les villages des faubourgs modifia le statut des villageois, avec toutes les conséquences juridiques et socio-culturelles qui en découlaient. C’était là la première modalité de formation d’une couche citadine kirghize. La deuxième modalité passait par l’éducation et par le travail, notamment le recrutement organisé par les entreprises urbaines. Cela conduisait à la constitution d’une intelligentsia citadine dans divers secteurs, en particulier dans l’éducation, la science et la sphère technique, ce qui était gage de succès professionnel. 12 Mais la ville était-elle prête à accueillir, loger et subvenir à tous les besoins quotidiens des anciens nomades et de leurs descendants ? Comment les citadins eux-mêmes les percevaient-ils ? Y avait-il des programmes spéciaux pour l’acclimatation à la vie

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urbaine des personnes issues des régions rurales ? À ces questions comme à d’autres, semblables, il faut chercher des réponses sur la base d’une approche historique, en tenant compte des réalités de l’époque. 13 Le rythme de croissance de la population urbaine était stable. En quelques décennies, les villes, auparavant peu peuplées, se transformaient en localités d’importance majeure, à l’échelle nationale ou régionale, pour l’industrie, l’éducation, la science, la culture, les arts, etc. Ce sont principalement les migrations de travail, externes et internes, qui furent à l’origine de la croissance de la population urbaine. Les mouvements inter-républiques de main-d’œuvre étaient, à l’époque, monnaie courante, et participaient de la politique soviétique d’allocation optimale des forces productives, ce qui engendrait une internationalisation des collectifs de travailleurs. Il est clair que, sous couvert de la mise en valeur des capacités productives des républiques, à l’aide de spécialistes hautement qualifiés, le centre consolidait son pouvoir. En règle générale, les spécialistes venus de la partie européenne de l’URSS occupaient des fonctions de responsabilité dans les entreprises et des postes de direction dans la chaîne de production. Ils vivaient dans de meilleures conditions, recevaient un salaire élevé et bénéficiaient d’autres avantages fixés par la loi ; ils étaient également privilégiés dans l’attribution de logements.

La crise du logement en URSS

14 L’une des priorités du développement socio-économique de l’URSS, y compris au Kirghizstan, était la construction de logements. Dans chaque plan quinquennal, l’État allouait d’énormes ressources financières, matérielles et humaines à cette fin. Dans ses dernières années, le pouvoir soviétique adopta un programme stratégique visant à garantir un logement à tous ses citoyens. Ce programme ambitieux semblait parfaitement réalisable, la construction rapide d’immeubles préfabriqués offrant une perspective réaliste de solution au problème. En outre, les syndics se développaient partout (Gorlov, 2013). Mais le rythme de croissance de la population urbaine excédait celui de la construction. Le deuxième volet de cette politique – le logement des nouveaux arrivants – prenait un retard considérable, malgré tous les efforts de l’État. Dans ces conditions, la seule solution aurait été d’autoriser la construction individuelle de logements, c’est-à-dire la construction de logements par les nouveaux arrivants eux- mêmes. En effet, en 1948, un décret du Présidium du Soviet suprême de l’URSS avait autorisé l’achat et la construction individuelle de logements dans les villages et les villes. Mais cette pratique n’était pas très développée. Les directives sur la construction de logements des années cinquante à soixante-dix donnaient la priorité à la construction d’immeubles d’habitation de plusieurs étages, au départ selon la norme d’une pièce par famille – il s’agissait donc plutôt d’appartements communautaires –, puis d’un appartement par famille. Au début des années quatre-vingt, la mise à disposition, dans tout le pays, d’un très grand nombre de logements permit de réduire sensiblement la tension dans ce domaine (idem). À Frounze, c’est justement à cette époque que fut construit, par îlots, l’intégralité du quartier actuellement situé au sud de la voie ferrée. En outre, ces immeubles bénéficiaient d’une meilleure planification architecturale, qui prenait en compte une série de principes urbanistiques. Au lieu des immeubles staliniens ou khrouchtchéviens, les citadins avaient désormais accès à des logements plus confortables, selon les normes de l’époque. Plusieurs institutions

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étatiques étaient chargées d’analyser et de planifier la construction civile. Au Kirghizstan, une classe de cadres, ingénieurs et techniciens du bâtiment se développa, ainsi qu’une couche multiethnique d’ouvriers professionnels du bâtiment. Une puissante industrie du bâtiment avait été créée pour répondre aux besoins de cette époque.

15 Les problèmes liés à la nécessité de loger tous les habitants se posaient sur l’ensemble du territoire soviétique. Dans les républiques baltes, slaves et caucasiennes, le rythme de construction de logements dépassait celui des républiques centrasiatiques. À la fin de l’année 1987, la surface habitable moyenne par habitant était de 14 m2 en URSS, mais n’était que de 11,4 m2 dans la RSS kirghize, soit 20 % de moins (Gos Kom, 1988, p. 194). Cela n’était pas seulement dû au fait que l’économie kirghize était déficitaire, comme l’affirmaient les économistes soviétiques, mais aussi à la forte croissance nette de la population, et notamment des citadins en quête de logement. Si cette tendance de croissance des villes était commune à toutes les républiques centrasiatiques, il existait des différences, liées à la structure ethnique et démographique de la population et à leurs spécificités historiques et culturelles. Ainsi les villes d’Ouzbékistan, du Tadjikistan, et, en partie, du Turkménistan étaient habitées, en majorité, par des autochtones, tandis qu’au Kazakhstan et au Kirghizstan, elles comptaient des populations européennes. Toutefois, les migrations internes des groupes autochtones entraînaient chaque année l’augmentation des citadins kirghiz et kazakhs. 16 Analysons à présent brièvement le profil professionnel de cette population. Je me permets de citer les résultats des recherches menées dans les années quatre-vingt par le célèbre économiste Vladimir Kumskov. Il écrit : Dans les secteurs de la production, une place particulière est occupée par celui du bâtiment, où le nombre de Kirghiz parmi les employés a été multiplié par plus de 4,7 entre les 1er juin 1963 et 1983. Dans l’industrie, il a été multiplié par 4,1. Le nombre de Kirghiz augmente à un rythme encore plus élevé dans la plupart des activités de service : dans le commerce, la restauration, la logistique, leur nombre a été multiplié par 4,9 ; dans l’éducation, la culture et l’art, par 5 ; dans le sport, les secteurs médical et social, par 8,3, etc. L’augmentation est moins rapide dans les domaines scientifiques – 131 %. Néanmoins, le nombre de Kirghiz travaillant dans tous les domaines d’activité cités croît à un rythme plus élevé que le total des personnes employées (Kumskov, 1986, p. 162). 17 Ces données prouvent de façon convaincante que, si la population kirghize n’avait que tardivement adopté des activités professionnelles, elle était en train de maîtriser, dans tous leurs aspects, les métiers alors modernes. Cependant, dans le secteur de l’industrie, les Kirghiz ne représentaient que 18,3 % des employés en 1983 (ibid., p. 164). La main-d’œuvre du bâtiment était alimentée par les migrants d’origine rurale. L’écrasante majorité des Kirghiz, à leur arrivée en ville, rejoignaient les rangs des ouvriers non qualifiés, auxquels étaient confiés les travaux simples. Dans le secteur de l’industrie, la majorité absolue des Kirghiz travaillait plus précisément dans le bâtiment.

18 Il faut en outre souligner le très fort turn-over des ouvriers kirghiz. Ces derniers quittaient leur poste en raison de l’impossibilité d’obtenir un permis de résidence permanent (propiska) en ville, ce qui ne leur permettait pas de bénéficier d’un logement et des autres droits réservés aux résidents permanents de la ville. La majorité des Kirghiz, à leur arrivée en ville, habitaient dans des appartements locatifs sans confort. À Frounze, ils louaient, pour l’essentiel, leurs logements à des Russes, qui formaient la

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majorité de la population de la capitale (55,7 % en 1989) ; à Och, ils les louaient à des Ouzbeks (40,9 %) et à des Russes (18,4 %). Cette situation nourrissait un sentiment d’humiliation muet : dans ce système politique totalitaire, il n’était pas possible de protester ouvertement, encore moins de se dresser contre les autorités pour exiger que la situation soit corrigée. La tension s’accumulait, attendant son heure. 19 Comme nous l’avons dit plus haut, la crise du logement n’était pas spécifique au Kirghizstan. Elle sévissait partout en Union soviétique. Aussi, le gouvernement a-t-il pris une décision dont la réalisation aurait pu s’avérer révolutionnaire pour l’histoire de l’URSS : le 11 février 1988 fut adopté le Décret n° 197 du Comité central du PCUS et du Conseil des Ministres d’URSS « Sur les mesures à prendre pour accélérer le développement de la construction individuelle de logement ». Ce texte annulait toutes les décisions prises depuis 1948 qui limitaient le développement de la construction individuelle de logements. Le décret constatait que, dans de nombreuses républiques soviétiques et régions du pays, l’attention accordée à la construction individuelle de logements avait sérieusement faibli. Par conséquent, le volume de logements ainsi construits dans le pays avait été divisé par trois en 25 ans et ne représentait que 15 % du volume global d’habitations nouvelles livrées. Le développement de la construction individuelle de logements devait désormais être considéré comme une priorité socio- économique et politique de la plus haute importance. Le texte prévoyait que la construction individuelle de logements devait concerner les villes comme les villages. Les comités exécutifs locaux (ispolkom) étaient dans l’obligation de délimiter des territoires dédiés à la construction individuelle. Était aussi prévue une série de mesures de soutien aux bâtisseurs, à commencer par l’attribution par les banques d’État de crédits privilégiés, à des taux très faibles et sur une longue durée, ainsi que l’autorisation du règlement en espèces de l’achat de matériaux de construction, l’élaboration de plans-types de construction des unités, la création de coopératives de logement, etc. (CC PCUS, 1990). De sorte que ce texte et son application stricte auraient apaisé la tension sociale régnant dans la société. Or l’analyse de l’application de cette décision, notamment au Kirghizstan, montre qu’en fait, les autorités républicaines ont enterré ce texte. Et par conséquent, en 1989, la situation a échappé à leur contrôle.

Les premières revendications

20 Les prémisses idéologiques du début de l’accaparement des terres dans l’enceinte de la ville de Frounze ont été posées pendant les années de perestroïka. Pour la première fois depuis le dégel khrouchtchévien des années soixante, la population s’est mise à discuter publiquement des problèmes socio-économiques et politiques existants. Certes, dans ces discussions, les réclamations d’ordre ethnique ou national à l’adresse des autorités étaient, dans un premier temps, formulées timidement. La crainte des autorités restait forte ; tous comprenaient parfaitement quelles pouvaient être les conséquences d’une expression publique de mécontentement à l’égard de l’ordre existant. Néanmoins, les événements de décembre 1986 au Kazakhstan voisin, à Alma- Ata, donnèrent une forte impulsion à l’éveil national. La jeunesse kazakhe avait alors manifesté contre la nomination de l’émissaire de Moscou à la tête de la république. Leur manifestation pacifique avait été écrasée dans le sang par des unités du ministère de l’Intérieur et de l’Armée rouge. De nombreux participants de la manifestation avaient été tués, blessés, ou avaient disparu. Ces événements ont reçu un large écho

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dans les républiques soviétiques. Depuis le Kirghizstan, certains jeunes gens se sont rendus, à leurs risques et périls, à Alma-Ata pour apporter leur aide aux insurgés kazakhs. Parmi eux, Taalaj Ylajtegin, originaire de la région d’Issyk-Koul, fut par la suite décoré, à ce titre, de Učastnik Želtoksana [participant à Želtoksan].

21 Au Kirghizstan se multipliaient les déclarations et discussions qualifiées par le Parti communiste de « nationalistes ». Cela conduisit le secrétariat du CC PCUS à adopter, le 3 février 1987, une résolution spéciale, intitulée « Sur certaines manifestations de nationalisme en Kirghizie ». L’existence de ce texte a été mentionnée par Ryspaev, président du comité d’État à l’édition de la RSS kirghize, membre du Comité central du Pc kirghiz, lors du Plénum du Comité central du Pc kirghiz (CGA PD KR, p. 50). Les déclarations à caractère nationaliste étaient devenues monnaie courante dans la vie sociale et politique de l’État soviétique. Les événements tragiques au Kazakhstan, dans les pays baltes, dans le Caucase, en Ouzbékistan, avaient fait l’objet de vives discussions entre les citoyens, ce qui créait une situation de tension entre les différentes nationalités. Très rapidement, la conscience nationale des peuples d’Union soviétique a atteint un stade de développement encore inédit. Au Kirghizstan, cela se traduisit par l’émergence d’organisations de jeunesse et de clubs de discussion informels. Étaient particulièrement populaires, parmi les jeunes scientifiques, des groupes comme Obŝestvo molodykh istorikov Kyrgyzstana [Association des jeunes historiens du Kirghizstan], Zamandaš [Contemporain], Köz karaš [Point de vue], le club de discussion Demos, les clubs politiques Sovremennik [contemporain], Poisk [recherche] et Associaciâ izbiratelej Kyrgyzstana [association des électeurs du Kirghizstan], la filiale kirghize de l’organisation moscovite Memorial et d’autres (Osmonov, 2014, pp. 489-490 ; Kojčumanova, 2004, p. 67). Les questions discutées couvraient un large spectre, allant des approches méthodologiques dans la recherche scientifique jusqu’à des sujets politiques concrets, parmi lesquels figuraient la réhabilitation historique des Kirghiz, le développement de la culture nationale, l’usage officiel de la langue kirghize, le rétablissement des toponymes historiques, ainsi que la crise du logement à laquelle étaient confrontés notamment les Kirghiz de Frounze, etc. L’ethnologue Asankanov écrit à ce propos : Aux sources de l’apparition et de l’essor des groupes informels, qui recrutaient surtout dans la jeunesse, se trouve la tension sociale que l’on sentait dans les années quatre-vingt à Frounze et Och. L’incapacité chronique à régler le problème du logement était devenue un facteur majeur de tension sociale et nationale au Kirghizstan et a eu, par endroits, des conséquences tragiques (Asankanov, 1997, p. 31). 22 La crise du logement était d’actualité parce que la majeure partie de la population kirghize avait continué à vivre dans des villages après que le régime soviétique eut procédé à la sédentarisation de la population nomade et semi-nomade dans les années vingt et trente. Les Kirghiz formaient 80 % de la population rurale. En ville, les appartements étaient attribués, en priorité, aux cadres qualifiés, ingénieurs et techniciens, très majoritairement européens. Pour les citadins ordinaires, l’espoir de se voir attribuer un appartement était un mirage. Lors du Plénum du cc du pc kirghiz réuni après les violences interethniques d’Och en 1990, Mamyrov, secrétaire du comité du Parti de la ville d’Och, membre du CC du PC kirghiz, s’exprime ainsi : Le problème du logement des citadins, une des causes de ces affrontements sanglants, reste aigu. Dans les dernières années, son règlement n’a que très lentement avancé, et l’attribution des terrains et appartements s’est accompagnée de cas d’injustice sociale. Le nombre de personnes inscrites sur les listes d’attente

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pour un appartement ou un terrain ne diminue pas. Aujourd’hui, plus de douze mille familles sont en attente d’une amélioration de leurs conditions de logement. En ce qui concerne les constructions individuelles, la situation est encore pire. Comme les matériaux de construction nécessaires ne sont pas disponibles, à la date d’aujourd’hui, seuls 30 % des terrains dédiés au cours des deux dernières années ont été acquis à crédit (CGA PD KR, 1990, p. 31). 23 De fait, la population kirghize était celle qui connaissait la situation la plus tendue, alors même qu’elle prenait conscience de son identité nationale et de sa place primordiale au Kirghizstan. Le désir d’une partie des villageois kirghiz de déménager en ville n’était aucunement soutenu par les autorités. Ceux qui s’installaient en ville vivaient, pour beaucoup d’entre eux, dans une grande précarité, dans des logements locatifs dénués de tout confort. Le bailleur de l’appartement pouvait à tout moment expulser le locataire, car les obligations des contractants n’étaient pas fixées par la loi. De jeunes familles pouvaient être obligées de changer de logement plusieurs fois par an. Cette situation accablait les Kirghiz, alimentait le sentiment d’une injustice historique et servit de moteur au mouvement d’accaparement des terres, qui fut une forme particulière de révolution sociale au Kirghizstan.

24 Ce processus commença au printemps 1989 à Frounze. Voici le témoignage de l’une des participantes actives du mouvement, Rakyi Žusupova : À l’époque soviétique, la jeunesse kirghize, intelligente, talentueuse, qui était restée dans la capitale, peinait à acquérir un logement. Et sans logement, pas de propiska. Animés de nobles ambitions, ces jeunes hommes et jeunes femmes kirghiz intrépides erraient d’un appartement locatif à l’autre, et vieillissaient ainsi, sans pouvoir réaliser ces ambitions, étaient contraints de retourner au village où ils étaient nés et avaient grandi. La jeunesse déclara : « Si le gouvernement kirghiz ne résout pas le problème des sans-logement, nous résoudrons nous-mêmes nos problèmes ». Sur ces mots, les jeunes se mirent à prendre possession des terrains vacants autour de Frounze. C’était en mai 1989 (Žusupova, 2015, p. 12). 25 L’ex-député du parlement kirghiz Ž. Žekšeev, activiste à l’époque des faits, écrit dans ses mémoires : Parmi tous les problèmes du développement national kirghiz, le plus douloureux était celui du manque de logement pour les Kirghiz dans les villes. C’est là justement que les Kirghiz se sentaient le plus vivement attaqués dans leur propre patrie (Žekšeev, 1997, p. 4). 26 La majorité des participants et activistes considèrent que l’accaparement des terres dans l’enceinte de la capitale était le résultat de l’histoire même, en raison de la réticence des autorités à installer une population kirghize dans les villes et de leur refus systématique de prendre en compte les demandes sociales et morales de la jeunesse kirghize. Les dirigeants du pays de l’époque considéraient que l’exode des jeunes vers les villes risquait de conduire à un déficit de main-d’œuvre dans l’agriculture. Pour les retenir au village, dans les années soixante-dix et quatre-vingt, des slogans étaient diffusés dans tout le pays – par exemple, « Toute notre classe reste au village » –, des brigades de jeunes étaient créées pour l’agriculture et l’élevage. Mais en réalité, les jeunes gens qui s’étaient laissé convaincre par les dirigeants locaux de rester, déchantaient bientôt face aux mauvaises conditions de travail dans le secteur agraire et finissaient par quitter les campagnes pour la ville ; l’exode devenait irréversible. L’arrivée de réfugiés arméniens d’Azerbaïdjan fut un élément déclencheur du mouvement d’accaparement des terres. En effet, la rumeur courait à Frounze que

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ces familles de réfugiés fuyant les affrontements interethniques de Sumgaït en février 1988 recevraient des logements en ville.

La dimension sociologique de l’accaparement des terres

27 Lorsqu’en mai 1989, le bruit courut en ville que l’appropriation sauvage des terres avait commencé, avec une douzaine de collègues de l’Académie des sciences du Kirghizstan, nous prîmes la direction du 10e micro-district, dans le sud de la ville. Après avoir marché deux cents mètres le long de la route de Čon-Aryk, nous décidâmes de nous approprier un terrain plat et caillouteux sur le côté gauche de la route. À l’aide de bêches et cordes, nous délimitâmes le terrain saisi et fûmes bientôt rejoints par d’autres jeunes. Après une heure sur place, nous eûmes la visite d’un homme d’une quarantaine d’années, habillé en civil, qui nous demanda qui nous étions et ce que nous faisions là et qui, avec tact, nous prévint que notre action était illégale. Nous découvrîmes plus tard qu’il s’agissait de Bolot Žanuzakov, lieutenant-colonel de police et haut responsable du département des Affaires intérieures de la ville de Frounze, plus tard chef de l’administration présidentielle et secrétaire du Conseil de sécurité du régime d’Askar Akaev. Ce jour-là, au cours de l’après-midi, nous apprîmes que l’accaparement des terres dans l’enceinte de la ville avait pris une tournure massive. Ici et là, on s’était mis à apporter des matériaux de construction, des pierres pour les fondations, certains avaient déjà commencé à creuser des fondations, à poser les premières pierres. Ainsi débuta ce mouvement d’appropriation sauvage des terrains vacants de la ville de Frounze. Cet événement a enflammé tout le pays. Le mouvement gagnait en ampleur d’heure en heure. Les gens se mirent à construire leur maison sur les terrains de micro-districts prévus pour la construction d’immeubles, à s’approprier les champs agricoles des kolkhozes, des sovkhozes, des fermes dans les faubourgs. Les dirigeants de la république, dans un premier temps, adoptèrent une position intransigeante, refusant de concéder les terrains. Mais après quelques jours, confrontés à la pression des accaparateurs, ils décidèrent d’ouvrir le dialogue.

28 La question du logement, qui était avant tout un problème social, s’est transformée dès le début en un problème national très aigu, qui a déterminé, pour bien des années à venir, la spécificité du développement social, économique et politique du Kirghizstan. En somme, ce processus constituait une révolution sociale à forte connotation nationale. L’appropriation sauvage des terres était une forme de protestation contre la politique sociale de l’État dans le domaine du logement. À ce moment-là, le peuple n’a pas opté pour des manifestations, des grèves de la faim, ou des occupations de bâtiments administratifs ; il a préféré régler le problème lui-même. Si le mouvement était marqué par une violation massive de la législation, il faut rappeler que toute révolution est basée sur le refus de se soumettre aux autorités et donc sur la violation des lois et règles imposées à la société. Cette révolution n’était pas dirigée contre quelqu’un, mais pour la justice sociale. Les journaux en langue kirghize avaient publié des articles au sujet des familles qui vivaient et travaillaient dans les entreprises de Frounze et avaient passé des années à déménager d’un appartement locatif à l’autre avec leurs enfants. Par exemple, la famille de M. Nazarmatov, chercheur à l’Académie des sciences, a habité plusieurs années dans un appartement privé avec ses deux enfants. Sa femme finissait ses études de médecine. Le loyer de l’appartement s’élevait

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à 50 roubles par mois, pour un revenu de 120 roubles (Larionov, 1989a). La famille de N. Kendirbaeva, ouvrière à l’usine textile, comptait cinq personnes, dont trois enfants scolarisés. Pendant quinze ans, ils ont habité dans un appartement qu’ils payaient 50 roubles par mois (Larionov, 1989b). Les exemples étaient nombreux et l’auteur de ces lignes, en est également passé par là. La situation était la même dans les grandes villes du sud du pays, en particulier dans le chef-lieu régional d’Och. 29 Le mouvement d’accaparement des terres peut également être qualifié de révolution sociale au regard de ses résultats, car il a eu un impact socio-culturel majeur sur le pays. Pour la première fois de son histoire, le peuple kirghiz y a trouvé un puissant moteur de formation d’une nouvelle identité socio-culturelle. De fait, sous nos yeux, avec notre participation, commençait à se former une nation kirghize, nouvelle par sa nature. L’accaparement des terres a conduit à l’apparition de plus de quarante nouveaux ensembles d’habitations dans l’enceinte de la ville de Bichkek, avec un quart de million d’habitants. Des personnes originaires de toutes les régions du pays habitent dans ces nouveaux ensembles qui sont devenus une sorte de creuset où se fondent les différences régionales et ethnoculturelles, où se forment de nouvelles communautés, émergent une mentalité nouvelle, des points de vue, perspectives et valeurs partagés. 30 En outre, c’est sur la base de ce mouvement que s’est créée la première organisation citoyenne kirghize, Ašar [Assistance mutuelle] 1, dont la mission principale était de régler les problèmes liés à la construction de maisons individuelles sur les terrains nouvellement attribués. Tous les bâtisseurs ont volontairement rejoint cette organisation, qui intervenait comme le seul partenaire des négociations avec les autorités pour tout ce qui relevait de l’attribution de terrains à bâtir et de leur aménagement. Cependant, l’action de ses membres ne se limitait pas à cela. Ils se mirent à débattre du problème de la renaissance nationale et culturelle du peuple kirghiz, du rétablissement de la vérité sur l’histoire des Kirghiz, de l’ouverture des archives sur les répressions politiques staliniennes (1937-1953), de la réhabilitation des victimes, de la promotion de la langue kirghize, de la mise en œuvre de réformes économiques, de la démocratisation de la vie publique, etc. Dans le domaine du logement, un projet intéressant fut la proposition d’architectes de planifier et construire les nouvelles maisons individuelles en respectant les traditions nationales. Ainsi, Ašar donna naissance à plusieurs groupes en charge de secteurs spécifiques. Ces groupes évoluèrent à leur tour en organisations politiques autonomes, lesquelles accueillaient en leur sein de jeunes Kirghiz qui n’avaient pas participé au mouvement d’accaparement des terres (Žekšeev, 1997 ; Činaliev, 1999, p. 13). Au cours du printemps 1990, furent créés les mouvements Asaba [Étendard] et Atuulduk demilge [Initiative citoyenne]. En mai, toutes ces organisations, dont Ašar, se fédérèrent en une organisation nationale, le Mouvement démocratique du Kirghizstan (MDK), qui fut la première organisation de masse à orientation anticommuniste et produisit une grande partie de l’élite politique du Kirghizstan indépendant. Ainsi, l’action spontanée d’accaparement des terres en 1989 contribua à la construction d’une nouvelle page de l’histoire politique du pays. 31 Le phénomène d’accaparement des terres pour la construction individuelle de logements n’était pas circonscrit à la capitale. En 1990, il se diffusa dans les villes du sud du pays – Och, Djalalabad, Ouzgen – où se posaient des problèmes similaires de logement des familles. À cette époque, le nombre de Kirghiz qui quittaient les zones rurales pour la ville était en augmentation constante mais la majorité ne trouvait que

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des logements locatifs précaires. Dans ces conditions, il n’y avait d’autre solution que de suivre l’exemple des habitants de la capitale. Malheureusement dans le Sud, en particulier à Och, les demandes de mise à disposition des terrains vacants pour la construction individuelle prirent immédiatement une tournure conflictuelle entre communautés kirghize et ouzbèke. Alors qu’à Frounze, en 1989, tous ceux qui en exprimaient le souhait, indépendamment de leur appartenance nationale, avaient été inclus dans les listes, à Och en 1990, les Ouzbeks qui avaient également besoin d’une amélioration de leurs conditions de logement furent exclus des listes, ce qui conduisit à des violences interethniques. 32 Des cas isolés d’accaparement des terres se produisent encore aujourd’hui. La principale raison en est la concentration des activités économiques dans les villes de Bichkek et Och, ce qui accélère la migration intérieure de la population vers ces villes. En outre, le phénomène s’intensifie en période électorale, lorsque les candidats promettent de libérer des terrains pour la construction de logements individuels ou de légaliser les terrains saisis. Il ne faut pas non plus ignorer les opérations foncières des membres du gouvernement et des municipalités, qui mécontentent la population. Ces accaparements de terres témoignent de l’importance, pour les autorités nationales et locales de tirer les leçons de l’histoire. Il faudrait, avant tout, élaborer et mettre en œuvre un plan de développement social et économique pour chaque localité, fournir du travail aux jeunes, réexaminer la politique foncière à la lumière de la croissance démographique, définir des zones pour la construction d’immeubles de logement, etc.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

ASANKANOV A.A., 1997, Kyrgyzy: rost nacional’nogo samosoznaniâ [Les Kirghiz : essor de la conscience nationale], Bichkek : Muras.

BAJBULATOV B.B., 1969, Ot kočev’â k socializmu (iz istorii osedaniâ kočevogo i polukočevogo naseleniâ Kirgizii v 1917-1937 gg.) [Du nomadisme au socialisme (de l’histoire de la sédentarisation de la population nomade et semi-nomade de Kirghizie en 1917-1937)], Frounze : Kyrgyzstan.

BAKTYGULOV Dž.S., 1978, Socialističeskie preobrazovanie kirgizskogo aula [La Transformation socialiste de l’aul kirghiz], Frounze : Ilim.

BATYRBAEVA Š.D., 2003, Naselenie Kyrgyzstana v 20-50-e gody XX veka: istoriko-demografičeskij analiz [La Population du Kirghizstan dans les années 1920-1950 : analyse démographique historique], Bichkek : Université nationale kirghize.

CC PCUS, 1990, Postanavlenie o merakh po uskoreniû razvitiâ individual’nogo žiliŝnoogo stroitel’stva [Décret sur les mesures à prendre pour accélérer le développement de la construction individuelle de logement] (versions du 13 janvier 1989, 29 mars, 26 septembre 1990), http:// alldoma.ru/maloe- tazhnaya-rossiya-istoriya-voprosa/o-merax-po-uskoreniyu-razvitiya- individualnogo-zhilischnogo-stroitelstva-v-sssr.html

CGA PD KR, f. 56, op. 277, d. 36.

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Comité national statistique de la République kirghize, 2000, Naselenie Kyrgyzstana. Itogi pervoj nacional’noj perepisi naseleniâ Kyrgyzskoj Respubliki 1999 goda v tablicakh [Population du Kirghizstan. Résultats du premier recensement national de la population de la République kirghize en 1999, en tableaux], Tome II (première partie), Bichkek : Comité national statistique.

ČINALIEV U.K., 1999, Političeskie partii Kyrgyzstana [Les Partis politiques du Kirghizstan], Moscou : nik.

GORLOV V.N., 2013, Žiliŝnoe stroitel’stvo v SSSR [La Construction de logement en URSS], http:// www.prometej.info/blog/istoriya/zhilishnoe-stroitelstvo-v-sssr/

Gos. Kom. KirgSSR po statistike, 1988, Narodnoe khozâjstvo Kirgizskoj SSR v 1987godu : statističeskij ežegodnik [L’Économie de la RSS kirghize en 1987 : annuaire statistique], Frounze : Kyrgyzstan.

Goskomstat SSSR, 1988, Narodnoe khozâjstvo SSSR v 1987 godu : statističeskij ežegodnik [L’Économie de l’URSS en 1987 : annuaire statistique], Moscou : Finansy i statistika.

Istoriâ Kirgizskoj SSR. S drevnejšikh vremen do serediny XIX v. [Histoire de la RSS kirghize. De l’Antiquité au milieu du XIXe siècle], tome 1, Frounze : Kyrgyzstan, 1984.

KARAKEEVA S.K., 1981, Sovremennaâ kirgizskaâ gorodskaâ sem’â [La Famille kirghize urbaine contemporaine], Frounze : Ilim.

KOJČUMANOVA Č.U., 2004, Stanovlenie političeskoj sistemy suverennogo Kyrgyzstana [La Création du système politique du Kirghizstan souverain], Bichkek : nan kr.

KUMSKOV V.I., 1986, « Vyravnivanie urovnâ èkonomičeskogo i social’nogo razvitiâ Kirgizii » [La mise à niveau du développement économique et social de la Kirghizie], in E.P. Černova (dir.), Frounze : Ilim.

LARIONOV A., 1989a, « Adamdaryn ak tilegi » [Le souhait des gens], Frunze šamy, 27 juin.

—, 1989b, « Masele čečilip žatat » [Le problème se régularise], Frunze šamy, 27 juin.

MAMBETALIEVA K., 1963, Byt i kul’tura šakhterov-kirgizov kamennougol’noj promyšlennosti Kirgizii [Mode de vie et culture des mineurs kirghiz dans l’industrie houillère de Kirghizie], Frounze : Izd- vo Akad. Nauk Kirgiz. SSR.

—, 2007, Žiliŝe i žiliŝno-bytovye usloviâ rabočikh Kyrgyzstana (Istoriko-ètnografičeskij očerk) [Logement et conditions d’hébergement des ouvriers du Kirghizstan (aperçu historico- ethnographique)], Bichkek : Akyl.

ÜSMONOV O.Dž., 2014, Istoriâ Kyrgyzstana (S drevnejšikh vremen do našikh dnej) [Histoire du Kirghizstan (de l’Antiquité à nos jours)], manuel pour les universités, Bichkek : Mezgil.

PLOSKIKH VM. & DŽUNUŠALIEV Dž.Dž., 2007, Istoriâ kyrgyzov i Kyrgyzstana [L’Histoire des Kirghiz et du Kirghizstan], Bichkek : Raritet info.

ŽEKŠEEV Ž., 1997, Čyndyk bir gana özündö [La Vérité en soi-même], Bichkek : Poliglot.

ŽUSUPOVA R., 2015, « Interv’û » [Interview], Asman plûs, n° 32, 17 décembre.

NOTES

1. Des organisations de masse analogues avaient émergé après la révolution d’Octobre en 1917, quand éleveurs et paysans s’étaient unis au sein d’organisations, telles que l’union Košči [laboureur] ou Bukara, dans le but de régler des problèmes sociaux, comme les droits sur l’eau et la terre, l’aménagement de nouveaux villages, etc.

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RÉSUMÉS

Cet article traite de l’accaparement des terres dans la ville de Frounze (aujourd’hui Bichkek) en 1989, un épisode aux conséquences considérables dans l’histoire récente du pays. Il a pour objet une analyse synthétique de la question du logement des habitants de la ville à la veille de la vague d’appropriation des terres. Conformément à la problématique définie, cet article vise à expliquer les causes et conditions de cette appropriation sauvage des terres et de déterminer sa signification socioculturelle.

This article deals with the movement of land grabbing that took place in 1989 in the city of Frunze (now Bishkek), an episode with considerable consequences in the recent history of the country. It consists in a synthetic analysis of the issue of housing for the residents of the city on the eve of an unprecedented wave of land grabbing. This article aims to explain the causes and conditions of this unlawful land seizing and determine its socio-cultural significance.

Настоящая статья посвящена исследованию некоторых аспектов темы самозахватов земель в черте города Фрунзе (ныне Бишкек), состоявшихся в 1989 году и имевших огромное значение в новейшей истории страны. Предметом является краткий анализ ситуации в сфере обеспечения жильем горожан до начала процесса захвата земель. В соответствии с целью были поставлены следующие конкретные задачи: выявить причины и предпосылки самозахвата земель и определить его социокультурное значение.

INDEX motsclesru захватка земель, жилищное строительство, Кыргызстан, Фрунзе, перестройка Keywords : land-grabbing, housing, Kyrgyzstan, Frunze, perestroika Mots-clés : accaparement des terres, logement, Kirghizstan, Frounze, perestroïka

AUTEURS

AJDARBEK KOČKUNOV

Ajdarbek Sulajmankulovič Kočkunov est docteur en histoire, professeur de l’Académie d’administration publique auprès du Président de la République du Kirghizstan. Contact : [email protected]

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L’ethnicisation des mobilisations collectives en Asie centrale depuis 1989 The Ethnicisation of Collective Mobilisations in Central Asia since 1989 Этнитизация коллективных мобилизаций в Центральной Азии с 1989 года

Olivier Ferrando

1 À l’instar de la société soviétique, la population d’Asie centrale est composée d’une multitude de groupes nationaux, qu’ils soient originaires de la région ou arrivés, de manière volontaire ou forcée, après la colonisation russe puis l’instauration du régime soviétique. En Asie centrale, la question des nationalités est longtemps restée dominée par la doxa de l’amitié des peuples, laissant peu de marge à l’expression de revendications ethniques. C’est à la faveur de la politique d’ouverture voulue par Mikhaïl Gorbatchev, à son arrivée à la tête du Parti communiste de l’URSS en 1985, que les groupes nationaux ont pu exprimer plus librement leurs critiques à l’égard du régime et leur quête d’une plus grande autonomie politique, économique et culturelle. Forts de leurs élites administratives, les groupes titulaires des républiques d’Asie centrale (par exemple les Ouzbeks d’Ouzbékistan) furent les premiers à formuler des revendications nationales pour réhabiliter leur identité, qu’ils estimaient avoir été dénaturée par le régime soviétique. En réaction, les groupes minoritaires (par exemple les Tadjiks d’Ouzbékistan) exprimèrent leur inquiétude d’être pris en étau entre la machine identitaire de l’Union soviétique finissante et le dessein nationaliste naissant du peuple titulaire (Brubaker, 1992, 1994 & 1996). C’est précisément ce processus de montée des revendications minoritaires que nous proposons d’étudier dans cet article en prenant l’exemple de trois républiques d’Asie centrale – l’Ouzbékistan, le Tadjikistan et le Kirghizstan – et leurs trois groupes ethniques éponymes – les Ouzbeks, les Tadjiks et les Kirghiz – qui, en fonction de leur situation géographique, jouissent d’un statut de nation titulaire ou sont relégués à celui de groupe minoritaire d’une autre république1. Par exemple, en 1989, les Ouzbeks comptaient pour 71,4 % de la population totale de

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leur république éponyme, l’Ouzbékistan, mais ils représentaient également de fortes minorités dans les républiques voisines – 23,5 % au Tadjikistan et 12,9 % au Kirghizstan. De même, les Tadjiks étaient plus de trois millions au Tadjikistan mais près d’un million en Ouzbékistan (voir le Tableau 2).

Tableau 2 : Proportion des principaux groupes nationaux (1989)

Ouzbékistan Tadjikistan Kirghizstan

Population % Population % Population %

Ouzbeks 14 142 475 71,4 % 1 197 841 23,5 % 550 096 12,9 %

Tadjiks 933 560 4,7 % 3 172 420 62,3 % 33 518 0,8 %

Kirghiz 174 907 0,9 % 63 832 1,3 % 2 229 663 52,4 %

Autres 4 559 135 23,0 % 658 510 12,9 % 1 444 478 33,9 %

Total 19 810 077 100,0 % 5 092 603 100,0 % 4 257 755 100,0 %

Source : Goskomstat, 1991.

La structuration des minorités ethniques à la fin de la période soviétique et les premières années d’indépendance

2 D’après Barany, la dimension la plus significative d’une mobilisation ethnique est la forme institutionnelle qu’elle prend pour donner corps à l’action collective (Barany, 2002, p. 72). Or, dans les sociétés présentant un clivage ethnique, les groupes ont tendance à s’organiser en fonction de leurs affinités ethniques (Horowitz, 1985, pp. 291-297). Partant de cette hypothèse, nous allons dans un premier temps analyser comment les minorités des trois républiques ciblées se sont structurées pour donner voix à leurs revendications.

3 À la fin des années quatre-vingt, des mouvements nationalistes se développent dans chacune des trois républiques socialistes soviétiques (RSS) pour défendre les droits de la nation titulaire et dénoncer les effets négatifs de la soviétisation et de la russification de leur société. Il s’agit par exemple des mouvements Birlik [Unité] et Erk [Liberté] en Ouzbékistan, Narodnoe edinstvo Kyrgyzstana [Unité nationale du Kirghizstan] au Kirghizstan, et du parti Rastokhez [Renaissance] au Tadjikistan. De leur côté, les groupes ethniques minoritaires ne tardent pas à développer leur propre rhétorique, vindicative à la fois à l’égard de Moscou, accusé de tous les maux passés, mais aussi contre le nationalisme grandissant des autorités de leur république de rattachement. L’institutionnalisation de ces mouvements populaires se fait à deux niveaux, qui représentent donc deux perspectives d’analyse. Du point de vue de la structure, nous analyserons la portée du statut juridique choisi par les activistes ethniques lors de la création de leur organisation et éventuellement l’évolution de ce statut après la

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dissolution de l’URSS. Du point de vue du discours, il s’agit de comprendre comment s’articulent les doléances et les demandes des différentes minorités à la fin de la période soviétique, puis pendant les premières années d’indépendance. 4 La plupart des organisations ethniques ont été créées sous la perestroïka comme « Centres culturels nationaux » (nacional’nyj kul’turnyj centr), un statut qui était alors reconnu pour promouvoir l’Amitié des peuples au sein de chaque république soviétique. Certains groupes font cependant exception à cette pratique.

La dépolitisation forcée des Tadjiks d’Ouzbékistan

5 En Ouzbékistan, en 1989, les Tadjiks représentent officiellement 4,7 % de la population nationale et se concentrent essentiellement dans les villes antiques de Samarkand et Boukhara. C’est précisément à Samarkand que les Tadjiks créent en 1987 l’Organisation politico-sociale (Social’naâ političeskaâ organizaciâ), dont l’intitulé annonce un objectif clairement politique. Mais ne parvenant pas à l’officialiser sous cette forme, ils l’enregistrent en 1988 sous le nom d’Organisation culturelle civique (Obŝestvennaâ kul’turnaâ organizaciâ, mieux connue sous son acronyme russe ОКО)2. Malgré ce glissement vers le champ lexical culturel, l’organisation ne perd rien de son identité politique. Ses statuts affichent quatre revendications principales : la promotion de l’enseignement en langue tadjike dans les écoles et universités de Samarkand ; le droit de modifier la mention de l’ethnicité dans les documents d’identité ; la promotion du tadjik comme langue officielle ; et un meilleur approvisionnement des magasins d’État, en cette période de pénurie de biens de toute sorte.

6 Dans une volonté de mobiliser la population autour de ces revendications, les activistes d’OKO organisent de nombreuses réunions et manifestations sur la voie publique, jusqu’à ce premier rassemblement d’envergure, aux abords de la ville, dans le stade Spartak, comme le relate l’un des cofondateurs d’OKO : Le 15 septembre 1988, nous avons organisé la première manifestation de masse de l’histoire de la république ouzbèke. Des milliers de Tadjiks sont venus de toute la province. C’était un meeting pacifique mais nous sentions que le régime était nerveux car il n’avait jamais géré cela. [...] Pendant des mois, nous avons maintenu la pression. La population comprenait que c’était le seul moyen de protéger notre langue et notre culture (entretien, 29 août 2008). 7 Face à l’immobilisme des autorités, huit activistes d’OKO décident en 1990 de faire une grève de la faim devant le siège du gouvernement provincial (Hokimiât). La médiatisation d’une telle action incitera le gouvernement de la RSS ouzbèke à dépêcher une commission pour rencontrer les grévistes et écouter leurs doléances. Au troisième jour de jeûne, le maire de la ville finit par annoncer un oukase où il est stipulé : « à partir du 22 mai 1990, le Conseil des députés du peuple de la région de Samarkand autorisera le changement de l’appartenance ethnique (nacional’nost’) dans les passeports ». OKO vient de remporter sa première victoire et non des moindres.

8 Pendant toute la période soviétique, les Tadjiks d’Ouzbékistan avaient en effet subi une politique plus ou moins forcée d’incitation à se déclarer Ouzbeks (Foltz, 1996, p. 215). Ce fut massivement le cas dans les années trente, lorsque les habitants obtenaient pour la première fois un document d’identité mentionnant leur appartenance ethnique, comme en témoigne un activiste tadjik de Boukhara : Ma grand-mère m’a souvent raconté la première fois qu’elle a vu « un homme en veste de cuir ». C’était avant la guerre. Des officiels sillonnaient la ville pour

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enregistrer les habitants et leur donner un passeport. Lorsqu’ils lui ont demandé quelle était son appartenance ethnique, ma grand-mère a répondu : « Je suis boukhariote (man Buhori). Je parle boukhariote ». Lorsqu’ils lui remirent le document, elle était enregistrée comme Ouzbèke (entretien, 27 septembre 2008). 9 Si l’essentiel de l’ouzbékisation des Tadjiks eut lieu à cette époque de méconnaissance par la population du concept soviétique de « nationalité », ceux qui souhaitaient rétablir une erreur en étaient empêchés par la législation en vigueur. L’oukase de 1990 réhabilite donc les Tadjiks dans leur identité officielle. Il leur suffit de payer trois roubles pour obtenir un nouveau passeport, avec la mention rectifiée de leur appartenance ethnique. Dans la foulée de cette victoire, OKO décide d’organiser un second rassemblement, mais cette fois-ci sur la place du Registan, cœur historique de la ville. La démarche est d’inviter tous les Tadjiks du pays à se joindre à la manifestation, afin de les faire bénéficier de l’avancée qu’ils ont obtenue3, et d’envisager la création d’une organisation tadjike à l’échelle nationale, comme l’explique le cofondateur d’OKO : Nous avions lancé des invitations par l’intermédiaire de nos réseaux professionnels et privés, mais aussi en passant par les Hokimiâts des provinces et des districts. Beaucoup de monde affluait sur la place. Mais cette fois, les autorités n’ont pas laissé faire. Ils ont dispersé la foule avant même que la réunion ne commence. Cela s’est fait pacifiquement. Nous ne voulions surtout pas de confrontation car la plupart des policiers étaient des Tadjiks, comme nous. Ils obéissaient juste aux ordres. 10 Cette tentative avortée de rassemblement est la dernière action d’envergure menée par OKO. Inquiet d’une éventuelle radicalisation des revendications de sa minorité tadjike, mais également préoccupé par la tournure violente que prennent au même moment les manifestations populaires au Tadjikistan voisin, le gouvernement ouzbek nouvellement indépendant modifie sa législation et se lance dans un véritable harcèlement juridique de l’organisation око, qui finit par être interdite en 1992 par le tribunal administratif de la province de Samarkand4. Seul reste alors en activité le Centre culturel national tadjik de la province de Samarkand (CCNT-S), créé par око en 1989 comme une antenne culturelle, chargée des activités sportives, éducatives et artistiques.

11 Loin de se résigner, les fondateurs d’OKO modifient les statuts du CCNT-S pour en faire leur nouveau porte-parole politique. Son mandat culturel est à son tour externalisé et transféré à une nouvelle antenne créée pour l’occasion, la fondation Rudaki. Mais la loi sur les Organisations de la société civile de 1991 est amendée le 3 juillet 1992 par le Parlement de l’Ouzbékistan indépendant5 avec un durcissement du contrôle administratif sur les organisations non gouvernementales, entraînant l’interdiction, à son tour, du CCNT-S. Une année après l’indépendance de l’Ouzbékistan, la fondation Rudaki est donc le dernier avatar du mouvement ethno-politique tadjik encore toléré par les autorités.

L’auto-confinement culturel des Ouzbeks du Tadjikistan

12 Au Tadjikistan, on assiste, en 1989 à la création d’une kyrielle de centres culturels, notamment pour les communautés juive, arménienne et coréenne. Principale minorité du pays avec 23,5 % de la population, les Ouzbeks décident, dans un premier temps, de constituer un groupe informel d’initiatives (Iniciativnyj grup) chargé d’élaborer le programme d’actions et les statuts de leur future organisation. Très rapidement, les

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débats se focalisent sur la forme juridique que doit prendre cette structure. La question sous-jacente est évidemment de savoir s’ils souhaitent disposer d’un centre culturel ou d’une organisation politique, comme l’explique l’un des activistes de l’époque : Nous étions en 1990. Il y avait déjà eu des tensions avec les Arméniens. Les nationalistes tadjiks tenaient un discours très radical et ont commencé à susciter la méfiance des Ouzbeks. Alors, certains d’entre nous voulaient créer un instrument politique pour défendre nos droits. Mais d’autres craignaient que cela ne provoque encore plus la confrontation avec les Tadjiks. [...] Finalement, il a été décidé de réunir la centaine de membres du groupe lors d’une conférence constitutive et le choix s’est fait par vote à main levée (entretien, 11 septembre 2008). 13 L’option culturelle l’emporte à une faible majorité et le Centre culturel des Ouzbeks au Tadjikistan (CCOT) voit finalement le jour en novembre 1990. Doté d’un président et d’un conseil d’administration de sept membres, le CCOT dispose alors d’une structure pyramidale, avec un centre républicain et des comités dans les provinces et districts où les Ouzbeks ont un habitat compact. Par exemple, dans la province de Leninabad au nord du pays, le CCOT installe son comité provincial dans les bâtiments du Hukumat [administration provinciale] et coordonne un réseau de comités dans 12 des 14 districts de la province. Parmi les premières actions menées pour promouvoir la langue et la culture ouzbèkes, le CCOT organise dès 1991 l’édition d’un journal hebdomadaire de langue ouzbèke, Haq Söz [Parole de vérité], sous la direction du poète Ušodi Sattor. Très tôt cependant, le CCOT se trouve confronté à la difficile réalité de la guerre civile qui déchire le pays. Si son mandat initial était de promouvoir la paix et l’amitié entre les Ouzbeks et les autres groupes ethniques du Tadjikistan tout en rassurant ses membres face à la montée du nationalisme tadjik, le CCOT va jouer un rôle pacificateur pendant la guerre, notamment en canalisant et en modérant l’ardeur des va-t-en-guerre, ces jeunes Ouzbeks réclamant des armes pour protéger leur quartier.

14 Après la guerre, dans le contexte de redistribution du pouvoir entre les anciens belligérants, les activistes ouzbeks prennent conscience de l’inadaptation de leur organisation aux nouveaux enjeux auxquels ils sont confrontés : Le pays était en train de se reconstruire. Et nous, les Ouzbeks, nous avions juste un centre culturel et un journal. [...] Les centres culturels, c’est bien pour les diasporas comme les Russes ou les Coréens parce qu’ils n’ont aucune demande. Mais nous, nous avons nos racines ici (my korennye). Il nous fallait accroître notre influence pour participer au jeu politique (idem). 15 À la faveur d’un cadre constitutionnel et juridique qui, contrairement à l’Ouzbékistan à la même période, offrait aux organisations de la société civile de plus grandes libertés, le CCOT change de statut et s’enregistre sous le nom de Société des Ouzbeks au Tadjikistan (SOT) en octobre 1994. La Société conserve la même structure pyramidale dans les provinces et districts, mais elle élargit sa direction à 13 administrateurs et se dote d’un conseil central de 32 membres, élus tous les deux ans lors d’un rassemblement des membres de la SOT. En 1994, Kurban Sattarov, chef-adjoint du district de Âvan dans le sud du pays, est élu premier président de l’organisation qui prétend alors rassembler 530 000 membres (Anonyme, 1996). Mais ce passage d’une mission culturelle à un mandat politique n’est pas sans conséquence sur les relations de pouvoir entre les dirigeants. En 1996, Sattarov décide de ne pas renouveler son mandat et c’est l’ancien chef de guerre Žahongir Ruziev qui le remplace ; ce dernier tente alors d’imposer son agenda personnel à l’organisation. En 1998, le conseil central décide de suspendre la pratique du rassemblement bisannuel :

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Le fait de se réunir entre Ouzbeks au sein d’une assemblée a commencé à éveiller la suspicion des Tadjiks, surtout après l’élection de Žahongir. Mais en fait les Ouzbeks et les Tadjiks avaient les mêmes problèmes. Alors à quoi bon continuer à vouloir discuter de cela juste entre nous. Ça pouvait laisser croire à un complot contre le pouvoir. [...] Mais nous n’avions aucune ambition politique, nous voulions juste protéger notre culture, notre langue, notre histoire (entretien, 20 novembre 2006). 16 Les Ouzbeks souhaitaient participer activement à la vie politique de leur pays dans cette période de reconstruction nationale, et s’étaient dotés pour cela d’une organisation à mandat politique. Mais craignant que cette politisation n’offusque leurs concitoyens tadjiks, ils finissent par autocensurer leur organisation et en réduisent le champ d’action à la sphère culturelle.

La fragmentation de la société civile ouzbèke du Kirghizstan

17 Au Kirghizstan, les Ouzbeks et les Tadjiks représentent les deux principales minorités ethniques autochtones du pays, concentrées dans la vallée du Ferghana. Comme ailleurs en Asie centrale, ces deux groupes se structurent en associations ethniques au moment de la perestroïka. Les Tadjiks créent la Société des Tadjiks du Kirghizstan en 1991 pour promouvoir la langue et la culture tadjikes, renforcer l’amitié des peuples et protéger les droits des Tadjiks6.

18 Le cas des Ouzbeks est plus particulier, en raison du conflit qui les opposa aux Kirghiz en juin 1990 (voir sur ce sujet l’article de Zajraš Galieva dans ce même numéro). De la même manière qu’au Tadjikistan la guerre civile a conditionné la structuration de la minorité ouzbèke, au Kirghizstan, cet événement tragique constitue un cadre de référence dans la construction d’une organisation ouzbèke. À la fin des années quatre- vingt, la conjonction de plusieurs facteurs socioéconomiques – la crise que traversait L’URSS à cette époque, l’appauvrissement de la population, la pression démographique sur la terre et le logement (Tishkov, 1995 & 1996) et le rôle mobilisateur des organisations nationalistes des deux camps – provoqua, en juin 1990, une éruption de violences entre Kirghiz et Ouzbeks dans le sud de la RSS kirghize. C’est dans ce contexte conflictuel que des intellectuels ouzbeks se rassemblent en kurultaj [réunion plénière traditionnelle] et décident de créer en septembre 1990 le Centre culturel national ouzbek (CCNO ou Özbek Millij Madaniât Markazi en ouzbek), qui siège à la capitale Bichkek, mais dispose de branches à Djalalabad, Och et Batken, là même où se concentre la minorité ouzbèke. Le mandat de l’organisation est de promouvoir les intérêts des Ouzbeks du Kirghizstan, mais sans heurter le peuple titulaire kirghiz et en respect de la doctrine soviétique de l’amitié des peuples. Il s’affirme clairement comme la voix officielle des Ouzbeks du Kirghizstan. 19 Pourtant, très tôt, le CCNO connaît des divisions internes. En 1996, la présidence du CCNO est confiée à Davron Sabirov, un homme d’affaires originaire d’Och, en raison de son dynamisme et de sa capacité financière. Or Sabirov vire rapidement au despotisme et tente d’imposer son approche, bien moins conciliante avec les autorités kirghizes que celle jusqu’alors adoptée par le CCNO. Il propose de modifier les statuts du centre culturel pour en faire une société à but politique. Il estime que « les petites nationalités ou les diasporas ont besoin de centres culturels nationaux, pas nous. Nous ne sommes pas une minorité. Nous sommes la majorité ici ! » (Fumagalli, 2005, p. 178). Il est finalement poussé à la démission en 1997, et s’empresse de créer sa Société des Ouzbeks (SO ou Özbeklar Žamiâti en ouzbek) (entretien, 13 décembre 2006).

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20 Le premier président du CCNO, Adikžan Abidov, quitte l’organisation à la même époque pour fonder le Centre national ouzbek de la ville d’Och (CNO ou Özbek Millij Markazi en ouzbek), en prenant soin de supprimer le terme restrictif « culturel » de sa dénomination « pour qu’il n’y ait pas de confusion possible sur le mandat » (entretien, 15 décembre 2006). La principale limite de ces deux organisations dissidentes est leur faible rayonnement géographique. La Société des Ouzbeks affirme défendre les intérêts de tous les Ouzbeks de la province d’Och, mais avec un unique bureau dans la ville, l’organisation reste dans l’ombre du CCNO et de sa branche provinciale à Och. Quant au Centre culturel ouzbek, il a un mandat exclusivement sur la ville d’Och et, là aussi, il est en concurrence directe avec la branche municipale du CCNO à Och. Après l’indépendance du Kirghizstan, pas moins de quatre organisations représentent donc les Ouzbeks d’Och (voir Tableau 3).

Tableau 3 : Organisations ethniques ouzbèkes présentes à Och

Centre culturel national ouzbek Organisations dissidentes

Province d'Och Branche provinciale Société des Ouzbeks

Ville d'Och Branche municipale Centre culturel ouzbek

21 Le contexte politique de la perestroïka a permis l’émergence de nouveaux acteurs de la société. En se structurant sous la forme de centres culturels, d’associations ou de sociétés, les minorités ethniques ont renforcé leur visibilité et leur capacité à entrer en relation avec les autorités de leur État. Sur la courte période qui s’articule de la fin de l’URSS aux premières années d’indépendance, ces organisations ont accompagné l’évolution sociale, économique et politique de leur pays de rattachement, et ont ainsi quitté le cadre soviétique dans lequel elles étaient nées pour s’adapter à leur nouvel environnement stato-national. En Ouzbékistan, les organisations tadjikes étaient parvenues à un degré élevé de conscience politique. Mais le raidissement des autorités les a contraintes à abandonner le champ de l’action politique pour se limiter à des activités culturelles. Au Tadjikistan, la transformation a suivi un cheminement inverse. Après avoir adopté un statut juridique les circonscrivant au domaine de la culture, les Ouzbeks ont fait le choix de se politiser pour se positionner comme un interlocuteur crédible du gouvernement et participer activement au processus de reconstruction nationale qui suivit la guerre civile, avant de s’auto-confiner dans un rôle moins politique. Le Kirghizstan fut, quant à lui, le seul des trois pays étudiés dans lequel des violences interethniques conditionnèrent le développement des organisations ouzbèkes, aujourd’hui divisées sur l’attitude – conciliante ou vindicative – à adopter vis-à-vis des autorités kirghizes.

Des revendications portées sur la scène publique par des mobilisations ethno-politiques

22 La question des revendications identitaires renvoie à l’articulation entre culture et politique (Badie, 1993). Les organisations ethniques ont été conçues pour donner une forme institutionnelle – représentative ou non – à leur minorité, et pouvoir ainsi entrer

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dans une relation de dialogue et de négociation avec leurs autorités de tutelle. Dès leur création à la fin de l’ère soviétique, ces organisations se sont efforcées de défendre les intérêts du groupe, notamment par le biais de mobilisations ethno-politiques, c’est-à- dire des actions collectives fondées sur l’identité ethnique du groupe et portant des revendications d’ordre culturel, social, économique ou politique (Tilly, 1991, p. 574). Dans sa théorie de la « négociation ethnique » (ethnic bargaining), Erin K. Jenne propose un modèle d’analyse du mode d’action des minorités en distinguant trois acteurs : la minorité, la majorité et le lobby. Selon elle, le lobby joue un rôle essentiel dans la relation entre une minorité ethnique et la majorité au pouvoir, notamment par sa capacité à moduler le degré d’exigence de la minorité et le niveau de réponse de la majorité (Jenne, 2007, pp. 38-53).

23 Dans notre cas, il s’agit donc de comprendre comment, depuis la fin de l’Union soviétique, les acteurs de la société civile des trois républiques ciblées – organisations ethniques et activistes – interviennent comme force de lobby pour mobiliser leur communauté (la minorité) et porter des revendications politiques auprès de leurs autorités de tutelle (la majorité). Existe-t-il des modes d’actions différents en fonction du pays ou de la minorité étudiée ? Et au sein d’une minorité, peut-on distinguer des modes d’actions entre acteurs de la société civile ? Après avoir rappelé les grands principes de la théorie des mouvements sociaux que nous utiliserons dans notre analyse, nous étudierons la capacité de lobby des acteurs en présence et leur mode d’action : les organisations ethniques, dans les avancées qu’elles obtiennent par la négociation ; et les nouvelles élites dirigeantes, reconnues ou dissidentes, dans leur stratégie de mobilisation ethno-politique, entre démarche collective et intérêts personnels.

La théorie des mouvements sociaux et la construction des États- nations

24 La notion de « mobilisation politique » a été utilisée pour qualifier une multitude d’actions collectives : manifestations, processus électoraux, révoltes, émeutes (Nedelman, 1987, p. 185). L’étude des mobilisations ethno-politiques fait appel à deux champs de recherche qui ont été développés séparément : les mouvements sociaux et les études sur le nationalisme (Olzak, 2004, p. 665). Les travaux sur la construction de l’État et de la nation soulignent l’importance des élites dans la transition post- soviétique (Brubaker, 1996 ; Jones-Luong, 2002 ; Taras, 2004). Elles sont les principaux acteurs des processus politiques, dans la mesure où leurs choix et leurs stratégies modèlent la transformation de l’État post-soviétique. Elles sont incontournables en raison même de leur statut et de leur position au cœur du système, mais également parce qu’elles possèdent des ressources de mobilisation. Deux concepts sont particulièrement importants : le leadership et la stratégie. Un leader est une « personne compétente dans la prise de décision stratégique et qui motive ou organise la participation d’autres personnes à des mouvements sociaux et politiques ». La stratégie consiste à « choisir des objectifs et rechercher les moyens les plus appropriés pour les atteindre dans un contexte donné et à moment donné » (Hay, 1995, p. 190).

25 La théorie des mouvements sociaux repose également sur l’importance des idées – des « cadres » conceptuels (frames) que les leaders développent dans leur démarche de mobilisation. La notion de cadres, introduite en psychologie sociale par Erving

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Goffman, puis développée par David Snow (Snow et al., 1986), a été largement utilisée dans l’étude des mouvements sociaux, notamment dans les républiques post- soviétiques. Dmitry Gorenburg a, par exemple, expliqué les dynamiques de mobilisation des minorités ethniques de Russie en étudiant la manière dont la population percevait les cadres formulés par leurs leaders, qu’ils s’agissent de l’identité ethnique, l’autochtonie, l’irrédentisme, l’activisme anti-gouvernemental (Gorenburg, 2003). Nous utiliserons donc ce concept de cadre pour comprendre les idées que développent les activistes ethniques ouzbeks, tadjiks et kirghiz pour mobiliser les membres de leur groupe. 26 Les statuts et programmes adoptés par les organisations ethniques dépendent, nous l’avons vu, du contexte sociopolitique dans lequel elles évoluent. Les bornes culturelles posées par l’Ouzbékistan aux organisations de la société civile ont considérablement limité les possibilités de mobilisation des citoyens appartenant à une minorité. En revanche, la liberté d’action garantie par les législations tadjike et kirghize laisse augurer une plus grande marge de négociation entre les organisations ethniques et les autorités.

L’activisme ethnique, une menace à la sécurité nationale : le cas de l’Ouzbékistan

27 En Ouzbékistan, le vent de liberté de la fin des années quatre-vingt, qui avait permis le développement de nombreuses associations de la société civile, ne tarda pas à changer de direction et entraîna l’adoption de nombreuses mesures restrictives. La sécurité nationale est devenue le point d’orgue de la politique intérieure et étrangère de l’Ouzbékistan. Le discours sur la stabilité a été élaboré contre les menaces – fondées ou supposées – qui pesaient sur la sécurité du pays : le terrorisme, le fondamentalisme islamique, mais aussi l’irrédentisme ethnique (March, 2002). La stratégie développée pour éliminer ces menaces est présentée dans un ouvrage de la collection des écrits du Président Karimov, publiés dans des versions ouzbèke, russe et anglaise. Le péril des « nations séparées » est explicitement présenté dans l’ouvrage : Les conflits actuels donnent la possibilité à certains d’exagérer le problème des « nations séparées ». Souvent, une sélection délibérée d’arguments est présentée en faveur, par exemple, de l’unification des tribus tadjikes, ouzbèkes ou pachtounes, de part et d’autre de la frontière avec l’Afghanistan. Il est terrible d’imaginer les conséquences d’une telle tentative de changer les frontières actuelles en se basant sur le principe ethnique de la division [d’une nation] (Karimov, 1997, p. 25). 28 Si la principale source de déstabilisation est l’Afghanistan, la menace d’un irrédentisme des « tribus » tadjikes, nommément citées, dévoile la perception négative des autorités ouzbèkes à l’égard de l’activisme tadjik, qu’il soit porté par une organisation ou exprimé par des individus (défenseurs des droits de l’homme, journalistes, etc.). Cette rhétorique sur la sécurité nationale s’accompagne, en Ouzbékistan, d’une politique de répression systématique des opposants et des activistes ethniques et d’un contrôle administratif et policier de leurs activités.

29 Dans un tel contexte, les questions d’ordre politique ou social sont clairement exclues du champ d’action des organisations et des activistes ethniques. Seules les revendications apolitiques restent tolérées. C’est par exemple le cas des demandes réitérées de Davron Safoev, directeur artistique de l’opéra de Samarkand et activiste tadjik, pour la création d’un théâtre de langue tadjike. En 1989, il envoya douze jeunes

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Tadjiks de Samarkand étudier à l’Institut d’art dramatique de Douchanbé. En 1992, alors qu’ils devaient entrer dans leur quatrième et dernière année d’études, le Tadjikistan sombrait dans la guerre civile. L’activiste parvint à organiser la venue de deux artistes du Tadjikistan pour assurer les cours de théâtre. Disposant donc d’une troupe fraîchement formée, il s’est efforcé alors de lui donner vie en sollicitant le Hokimiât et le ministère de la Culture. Les autorités refusèrent la création d’une institution culturelle permanente mais finirent par accepter de subventionner une troupe sans bâtiment. Plusieurs pièces du répertoire classique tadjik furent mises en scène et présentées, en langue tadjike, dans différentes salles de spectacle du pays (entretien, 29 août 2008).

Des négociations réussies au Tadjikistan et au Kirghizstan

30 À la différence de l’Ouzbékistan, où les initiatives restent strictement cantonnées au domaine culturel, les organisations et activistes ethniques du Tadjikistan et du Kirghizstan jouissent au début des années quatre-vingt-dix d’une plus grande liberté d’action et peuvent entrer en négociation avec les autorités pour améliorer le quotidien de leur minorité. Les Tadjiks du Kirghizstan (au nombre de 33 519 en 1989) et les Kirghiz du Tadjikistan (63 832) disposent chacun d’une organisation ethnique : l’Association des Tadjiks au Kirghizstan et la Société des Kirghiz au Tadjikistan. Vivant majoritairement dans des zones reculées de montagne, les deux groupes ont été les laissés-pour-compte du processus d’indépendance de leur pays et leurs conditions de vie se sont considérablement dégradées, notamment dans le secteur de l’éducation. Les parents ne cessent de réclamer des manuels scolaires et du matériel pédagogique dans leur langue maternelle et la formation des enseignants aux nouveaux programmes scolaires. Les deux organisations ethniques décident alors de collecter ces demandes et de les porter à la connaissance de leur gouvernement. En exerçant ainsi leur lobby sur les autorités, elles parviennent à négocier qu’un accord bilatéral soit signé entre les deux ministères de l’Éducation pour que chaque État puisse subvenir aux besoins de ses écoles transfrontalières (entretiens avec Abduhalim Raimžanov, président de l’Association tadjike, 4 mai 2007, et avec Zourakan Davlatlieva, présidente de la Société kirghize, 15 novembre 2006).

31 Au Kirghizstan, la très grande majorité des doléances des Ouzbeks concernent également les écoles. Depuis l’éclatement du système fédéral d’enseignement, ils déplorent la rupture de l’approvisionnement des manuels scolaires édités en langue ouzbèke, et l’impossibilité faite aux lycéens de poursuivre des études dans leur langue maternelle puisque les universités de langue ouzbèke sont désormais de l’autre côté de la frontière, en Ouzbékistan. Comme pour les minorités tadjike et kirghize, c’est l’organisation ethnique de représentation des Ouzbeks – le Centre culturel national ouzbek (CCNO) – qui va canaliser ces revendications et entrer en négociation avec les autorités pour proposer des solutions. Trois succès peuvent être portés au crédit du CCNO. Le premier est la création d’un centre de production de manuels scolaires pour les écoles de langue ouzbèke. Les ouvrages sont publiés en conformité avec les programmes d’enseignement du Kirghizstan et obtiennent en retour l’agrément du ministère de l’Éducation pour être utilisés dans les écoles (entretien avec le vice- directeur, 12 décembre 2006). Le second succès est l’organisation, à Och, d’une offre d’enseignement supérieur en langue ouzbèke. Professeur émérite et co-fondateur du CCNO, Muhamedžan Mamasaidov est à l’origine de ce projet bilatéral entre le

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Kirghizstan et l’Ouzbékistan et qui aboutit à la fondation, à Och en 1997, d’une Université kirghize-ouzbèke mieux connue sous son acronyme russe OŠKUU (Ošskij Kyrgyzsko-Uzbekskij Universitet). Elle accueille plus de 14 000 étudiants, répartis en 47 départements et trois groupes linguistiques : le kirghiz, l’ouzbek et le russe (entretien avec la vice-rectrice, 12 décembre 2006). Enfin, le troisième succès ne concerne pas l’éducation mais la culture. La ville d’Och disposait depuis 1929 d’un théâtre d’art dramatique en langue ouzbèke. Mais, depuis l’indépendance, une pression s’exerçait sur l’équipe artistique pour qu’elle modifie sa programmation et mette en scène des pièces du répertoire kirghiz. Le directeur du théâtre, un activiste ouzbek qui présidait la branche provinciale du CCNO à Och, parvint à négocier un compromis : la programmation annuelle du théâtre a été élargie pour y inclure des œuvres du répertoire classique kirghiz mais, en contrepartie, toutes les pièces continuent d’être jouées en langue ouzbèke (entretien, 13 décembre 2006). 32 Ces trois exemples de concertation réussie entre le CCNO et les autorités illustrent le modèle de négociation ethnique : l’organisation ethnique joue un rôle primordial dans la relation entre la minorité et la majorité. Elle parvient à canaliser les revendications de ses membres, les porte à la connaissance des autorités, et participe à la formulation d’une solution. La fonction de lobby est donc incarnée ici par une organisation ethnique légitime auprès de ses membres, qui lui délèguent leurs revendications, et auprès des autorités qui, en retour, acceptent les termes de la négociation. L’attitude constructive des trois acteurs, couplée à un lobby efficace du CCNO, contribue à répondre aux difficultés rencontrées par la minorité ouzbèke au quotidien et à augmenter la capacité des autorités à accommoder les Ouzbeks dans leur nouvel environnement politique.

Les risques d’une allégeance ethnique au pouvoir

33 Comme le propose Birgitta Nedelmann dans sa théorie sociologique, la mobilisation politique est aussi et surtout « l’effort d’acteurs d’influencer le partage du pouvoir » (Nedelmann, 1987, p. 181), soit dans une logique de légitimation du partage existant, soit dans une logique de contestation visant à le redistribuer. Dans leur attitude respectueuse de la hiérarchie établie et conciliante avec le pouvoir, les organisations ethniques telles que le CCNO sembleraient agir en faveur d’une légitimation du partage existant. Le gouvernement kirghiz trouverait donc un intérêt à créer une alliance avec cette partie de la population, quitte à laisser une grande liberté d’actions à ses dirigeants. De nombreux auteurs ont souligné l’importance de la division régionale du Kirghizstan dans l’exercice du pouvoir. La structure de la vie politique suivrait ce clivage géographique entre le nord et le sud, transcendant largement les autres formes d’allégeance, notamment l’appartenance ethnique (Jones-Luong, 2004, Melvin, 2001).

34 Le Président kirghiz Askar Akaev, représentant de la faction nord, n’a eu de cesse de chercher un soutien élargi, notamment en s’attirant les faveurs des minorités du pays. Dans des provinces méridionales qui lui sont majoritairement hostiles, le soutien des Ouzbeks – 26,1 % de la population locale en 1989 – n’était donc pas anodin pour Akaev. L’analyse du déroulement et des résultats des élections présidentielles de 1995 et 2000 est révélatrice. En 1995, le principal opposant d’Akaev était Absamat Masaliev, ancien premier secrétaire du PC kirghiz, très respecté dans sa province natale d’Och. Les résultats officiels donnent Akaev vainqueur avec 72 % des voix à l’échelle nationale, mais également dans tous les districts de la province d’Och, où les Ouzbeks sont

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majoritaires. De l’avis des observateurs, la victoire aurait été moins nette, voire impossible, sans l’appui du vote ouzbek (Fumagalli, 2005, p. 137). 35 En 2000, Akaev est cette fois-ci en compétition avec Omurbek Tekebaev, fondateur et président du parti socialiste Ata-Meken [Patrie] et surtout originaire de la province de Djalalabad. Le soutien des Ouzbeks au Président sortant prend la forme d’une déclaration officielle du CCNO, enjoignant ses membres de voter pour Akaev7. Des actions collectives se sont alors organisées dans les villes et villages peuplés d’Ouzbeks, notamment grâce au makhalla, quartier d’habitation traditionnel des Ouzbeks et des Tadjiks, mais également institution sociale par l’intermédiaire de laquelle les dirigeants ouzbeks pourraient informer et mobiliser la population, et canaliser les votes en faveur d’Akaev (ibid., p. 168). Il l’a emporté avec 76 % des voix. La dérive despotique d’Akaev au cours des années suivantes entraîna une montée des protestations contre son régime, jusqu’à son renversement en mars 2005 par la « révolution des Tulipes » initiée par l’opposant et futur Président Kurmanbek Bakiev. Lors des manifestations, parfois violentes8, qui ponctuèrent cette période d’instabilité, le CCNO appela les Ouzbeks à la neutralité, pour éviter qu’ils ne fussent perçus par leurs concitoyens kirghiz comme un cheval de Troie du clan Akaev. Plus qu’un changement de position, cette passivité du CCNO traduit en réalité le calcul stratégique de l’organisation ouzbèke pour esquiver toute collusion avec les opposants au régime.

Les jeunes élites ethniques : de nouveaux modèles de mobilisation ethno-politique

36 Les études sur les mobilisations ethno-politiques dans l’espace postsoviétique ont souligné le rôle des élites, en tant qu’acteurs ou entrepreneurs ethniques, dans la capacité à formuler des revendications et mobiliser leur communauté autour de ces revendications (Melvin, 2001 ; Laitin, 1998). La théorie du choix rationnel suppose que les intérêts recherchés par ces acteurs sont fixes dans le temps. Mais Colin Hay estime, pour sa part, qu’ils sont amenés à varier car chaque acteur a la capacité d’agir consciemment en fonction des objectifs qu’il se fixe. Les intérêts se transforment en fonction de l’évolution de l’identité, de la motivation et du calcul stratégique de l’acteur lui-même (Hay, 1995). Si les organisations ethniques sont capables de formuler des revendications et de développer des projets, leur champ d’action reste limité par le mandat qui les définit. En revanche, la démarche d’acteurs individuels – dissidents ou dirigeants d’organisation peu respectueux du mandat – peut se faire dans une logique de choix conscient et variable selon leurs intérêts. Nous proposons d’étudier, dans cette section, le comportement des entrepreneurs ethniques et de tenter de modéliser leur capacité de lobby.

Au Tadjikistan, les effets de la guerre et du clivage régional

37 Le Centre culturel des Ouzbeks du Tadjikistan, devenu la Société des Ouzbeks au Tadjikistan (sot) en 1994, était dirigé depuis ses débuts par Kurbon Sattarov, un ancien apparatchik communiste, qui avait développé une approche très conciliante avec les nouvelles autorités du pays à l’issue de la guerre civile. En 1996, le président déjà âgé décide de ne pas renouveler son mandat. Le kurultaj bisannuel porte à la tête de l’organisation un Ouzbek plus jeune et dynamique, Žahongir Ruziev, connu de tous sous

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son nom de guerre. Pendant le conflit civil, Žahongir a en effet dirigé un groupe armé dans le sud du pays, en soutien à la faction des Kulâbi, désormais au pouvoir à Douchanbé, et dont il a toutes les faveurs. Il cumule plusieurs fonctions lucratives, que lui a offertes le pouvoir en gage de son alliance passée : il est maire de Tabošar, une ville minière, mais surtout responsable de l’administration régionale des douanes et de PamirSamoSvet, une compagnie d’extraction et de commercialisation de pierres précieuses et semi précieuses, deux activités extrêmement lucratives (entretien, 11 septembre 2008). Fort de son aura militaire et de ses ressources financières, Žahongir impose son style très directif à la tête de la SOT et ne tarde pas à provoquer des tensions dans le fonctionnement de l’organisation. C’est notamment le cas lors des séances du Conseil civique, l’instance de concertation regroupant les organisations ethniques et les autorités, et à laquelle la SOT participe. De par sa relation privilégiée avec le Président de la république, Žahongir prend rapidement le leadership du Conseil. Les autres membres, soucieux de maintenir l’équilibre des pouvoirs, craignent que l’activiste ouzbek n’impose ses points de vue par la force. Les séances sont souvent houleuses (entretien avec un membre du Conseil civique, 13 septembre 2008).

38 Mais l’attitude de Žahongir provoque surtout des dissensions au sein de la Société des Ouzbeks. Les délégués de la province de Sughd, une région qui était restée à l’écart du conflit civil et avait été exclue du processus de paix et de partage du pouvoir entre les belligérants, voient d’un mauvais œil d’être dirigés par un ancien chef de guerre, qui plus est, lié au nouveau pouvoir en place à Douchanbé. Le responsable de la branche provinciale de la SOT à Khoudjand, l’universitaire et homme politique Hamid Pulatov, finit par se retirer de l’organisation et crée une structure indépendante dans son Nord natal, la Société des Ouzbeks de la province de Sughd (SOP) (entretien, 5 septembre 2008). La province nord dispose désormais de deux organisations ethniques parallèles et concurrentes, tant dans leur structure que dans leur direction : la SOP de Pulatov donc, mais également la branche provinciale de la SOT, dirigée par Mahsud Hamidov, qui partage avec son concurrent le fait d’avoir occupé la fonction de gouverneur- adjoint de la province (lui sous l’URSS, Pulatov à partir de 1996) et la fonction de recteur d’université. Plus qu’un rejet de la direction nationale de la SOT, la dissidence de Pulatov semble être, en réalité, le résultat d’une lutte de pouvoir avec son homologue régional, comme l’explique le président de la branche de la SOT du district de Nov : Lorsque la Société des Ouzbeks a été créée à Douchanbé, la branche de Sughd était la plus dynamique. Et notre district [de Nov] avait été identifié comme l’une des bases de développement des activités de la Société car nous disposions de toutes les infrastructures nécessaires : une imprimerie, une chaîne de télévision et de radio, des journaux en ouzbek, un théâtre ouzbek d’art dramatique. Mais depuis que le professeur [Pulatov] a créé son organisation, nous ne savons plus avec qui nous devons travailler. Dans ce genre de projet, il faut être collectif et pas regarder son propre intérêt (entretien, 10 septembre 2008). 39 Les activistes ouzbeks de la province de Sughd mènent donc une lutte d’influence pour s’imposer à la tête de la communauté. Dès la création de son organisation, Pulatov reprend à son compte la publication du journal de langue ouzbèke Qadriât [Valeur] et lance la revue littéraire Sughd Ëghdösi [Lumière de Sughd], toutes deux largement financées par ses fonds personnels.

40 La stratégie de concentration du pouvoir que le Président tadjik développe à partir de la fin des années quatre-vingt-dix se caractérise par une série d’arrestations et

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d’assassinats ciblés sur ses anciens alliés (ICG, 2004). Žahongir n’échappe pas à cet étau et tombe en disgrâce, en 2000, à la suite d’un procès politique intenté contre lui et qui le condamne à la peine capitale. Dix ans après, l’organisation n’est toujours pas parvenue à désigner son nouveau leader. Dans un contexte sociopolitique pourtant assaini, elle continue de faire les frais du mandat contesté de son dernier représentant. Mais surtout, la dissidence dans la province de Sughd de l’un des membres les plus actifs du mouvement, sabote sa légitimité sur une partie – et non la moindre – du territoire et l’empêche de se présenter face aux autorités nationales avec un visage unifié.

Au Kirghizstan, les modèles de mobilisation ethno-politique de la nouvelle élite ouzbèke

41 Malgré les nombreuses initiatives portées par le Centre Culturel National Ouzbek (CCNO) – création de l’Université OŠKUU, du Centre de production de manuels scolaires en ouzbek, maintien du théâtre d’art dramatique ouzbek Babur – certains activistes reprochaient le conformisme des dirigeants, issus pour l’essentiel du milieu académique ou de l’ancien appareil d’État soviétique. Une nouvelle génération d’activistes a émergé sur la scène publique, en opposition à ce modèle établi.

42 Le président de la branche provinciale du CCNO de Djalalabad, Kadyržan Batyrov, imposa très tôt son dynamisme et ses moyens financiers pour répondre aux besoins des Ouzbeks de sa province. Trentenaire lorsqu’il prit la direction de l’organisation, Batyrov appartient à cette jeune élite désignée par l’expression « nouveaux Kirghiz », en référence à l’oligarchie des « nouveaux Russes » en Russie. Il s’est enrichi, comme de nombreux hommes d’affaires de sa génération, lors de la campagne de privatisation de l’économie kirghize. Le rachat à moindre coût d’entreprises d’État en faillite et la mise en place de réformes radicales permettaient d’améliorer leur rendement et d’en tirer de précieux bénéfices. 43 Désireux d’investir une partie de ses revenus pour améliorer les perspectives de carrière de la jeunesse ouzbèke de sa province, Batyrov fait construire en 1999, dans sa ville natale de Djalalabad, un vaste complexe éducatif comprenant un jardin d’enfants, une école d’enseignement général et une université. Il ne s’agit pas de créer un système parallèle, où l’enseignement serait exclusivement en ouzbek et l’accès réservé aux seules familles pouvant payer les droits d’inscription d’un établissement privé, comme cela est le cas à l’époque pour certaines écoles de langue russe ou pour les collèges turco-kirghiz. Ici, la logique est différente. Elle relève de la conception civique que se fait Batyrov de la société dans laquelle il vit. Pour lui, la participation des jeunes Ouzbeks à la vie politique et économique du Kirghizstan exige la connaissance des deux langues officielles du pays, le kirghiz et le russe. Et c’est bien ce qu’offre le complexe de Batyrov. Pour les plus jeunes, le jardin d’enfants Poznanie [Connaissance] propose un « apprentissage original des trois langues indispensables au développement de l’enfant ouzbek : la langue maternelle, le kirghiz et le russe » (entretien, 11 décembre 2006). L’école secondaire Olimp [Olympe] est une école de langue russe, qui dispense donc un enseignement exclusivement en russe, à l’exception des cours obligatoires de langues kirghize et ouzbèke9. Enfin, l’université de l’Amitié des peuples en hommage au père du mécène Alim Batyrov (Universitet Družby Narodov imeni Alima Batyrov) dispense également des enseignements en russe. L’université compte 1 500 étudiants. Comparée

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aux 14 000 étudiants inscrits à l’université publique d’OŠKUU, ouverte à l’initiative du CCNO à Och, le complexe de Djalalabad apparaît moins ambitieux. Mais cet établissement exclusivement financé avec des fonds privés, pour l’essentiel ceux de Batyrov, délivre des diplômes avec le sceau du ministère de l’Éducation. 44 Ce complexe éducatif soutenu par un homme d’affaire est l’illustration d’un modèle de lobby ethno-politique qui existe en Asie centrale. En subvenant, à ses frais, aux besoins des Ouzbeks de Djalalabad, Batyrov se construit une image de mécène et s’attire ainsi la sympathie de sa communauté. Par ailleurs, son cadre conceptuel de la question ouzbèke au Kirghizstan repose sur une vision civique inclusive : ici, l’apprentissage de valeurs communes à l’ensemble des citoyens, en premier lieu leurs deux langues officielles, favoriserait la participation de la minorité ouzbèke à la société environnante. En outre, son attitude respectueuse des normes éducatives nationales permet à Batyrov de bénéficier, sinon du soutien matériel, du moins de la bienveillance du régime. Ce modèle de lobby que nous qualifierons de « stratégie charismatique » se caractérise donc par une capacité élevée de mobilisation de la communauté, grâce à l’engagement altruiste de son dirigeant et à une démarche constructive de coopération avec les autorités nationales. 45 Davron Sabirov fait partie de la même génération d’activistes ouzbeks que Batyrov. Comme lui, il a bâti sa fortune personnelle sur les décombres de l’économie soviétique. Sa fonction de président de la compagnie gazière KyrgyzGas lui a permis de se construire une image positive auprès de la population. En effet, lorsque l’Ouzbékistan, unique fournisseur en gaz naturel des provinces kirghizes de la vallée du Ferghana, interrompait ses exportations pour impayés, comme cela fut le cas en 1999 et 2000, Sabirov activait son réseau relationnel transfrontalier et parvenait à un accord rapide avec l’administration et le secteur gazier d’Andijan pour réactiver les livraisons de gaz10. Il dirigeait également la corporation médiatique Mezon [Échelle] comprenant un journal hebdomadaire homonyme publié à Och en ouzbek et la chaîne Mezon-TV, qui diffusait dans la province d’Och des programmes majoritairement en langue ouzbèke. Et comme Batyrov, Sabirov a embrassé une carrière politique de député de la Chambre basse du Parlement kirghiz, où il a été élu en 2000. Cependant, la comparaison entre les deux jeunes activistes ouzbeks s’arrête ici. Si Batyrov a développé sa capacité de lobby dans la province de Djalalabad sans jamais rompre avec le CCNO, Sabirov a fait, très tôt, le choix de s’en séparer pour créer en 1997 la Société des Ouzbeks (SO) de la province d’Och. Au-delà même de la dissidence structurelle, il s’agit d’un véritable changement de rhétorique. Son cadre conceptuel de la question ouzbèke repose en effet sur une conception ethnique exclusive, comme en témoigne la création de médias privés de langue ouzbèke. 46 La langue a d’ailleurs été à l’origine de sa dissidence. Lorsque l’Ouzbékistan décida de réformer son alphabet pour passer du cyrillique au latin, les dirigeants du CCNO se positionnèrent en faveur d’un maintien de l’alphabet cyrillique, un peu par conservatisme, mais surtout pour permettre aux Ouzbeks d’utiliser la même calligraphie que leurs concitoyens kirghiz (entretien, 11 décembre 2006). La rupture linguistique avec l’Ouzbékistan était perçue comme un moindre mal, en comparaison de la marginalisation que risquaient les Ouzbeks au sein de la société kirghize s’ils adoptaient l’écriture latine. La position du CCNO était conforme à sa conception d’une nation civique cimentée par des valeurs communes, à commencer par l’alphabet utilisé par l’ensemble des citoyens. À la tête de sa Société des Ouzbeks, Sabirov se positionna

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radicalement en faveur de l’alphabet latin, justifiant son choix par le fait que les Ouzbeks pourraient ainsi bénéficier de nouveaux manuels scolaires imprimés en latin. À une période où la principale préoccupation des Ouzbeks du Kirghizstan était la détérioration des conditions d’enseignement des écoles, notamment en raison du manque de manuels, le discours de Sabirov prenait une tournure populiste. D’ailleurs, il n’hésita pas à commander la réalisation d’une enquête d’opinion auprès de la population. Il en ressortait que 76 % des interrogés étaient favorables à l’adoption de l’alphabet latin et 78 % souhaitaient que l’ouzbek obtienne le statut de langue officielle11. Réalisée par une organisation partisane – la Société des Ouzbeks – et sans notice méthodologique, cette enquête illustre la démarche adoptée par son commanditaire : chercher à légitimer son discours radical par le plébiscite de sa communauté afin de mettre les autorités du Kirghizstan sous pression. 47 C’est bien dans une logique de confrontation avec le régime qu’il faut comprendre ce second modèle de lobby ethno-politique. S’appuyant sur des outils de communication moderne (médias, enquête d’opinion), Sabirov est parvenu à construire et diffuser une rhétorique nationaliste auprès de sa communauté. Contrairement à Batyrov, il perçoit l’avenir des Ouzbeks du Kirghizstan dans une niche ethnique, séparée du reste de la société. Ils y disposeraient de leur propre langue, de leurs propres écoles, de leurs propres médias, en liens étroits avec l’Ouzbékistan. Ce modèle de lobby, que nous qualifierons de « stratégie médiatique », se caractérise donc par une capacité tout aussi élevée de mobilisation que le premier modèle illustré par Batyrov. Mais ici la force du lobby résulte d’une politique de communication où les discours, plus que les actes, sont les vecteurs de la mobilisation du groupe. La démarche exclusive formulée en termes radicaux (nous Ouzbeks vs. vous Kirghiz) et portée par une rhétorique populiste apparaît comme une confrontation avec un pouvoir sous pression.

Conclusion : une typologie des activistes ethniques

48 À la lumière des exemples développés dans cet article, il apparaît utile de réfléchir à une typologie des activistes ethniques, en les distinguant selon leur génération et leur secteur socioprofessionnel (voir Tableau 4). Les personnes appartenant à la génération « ex-soviétique » ont réalisé l’essentiel de leur carrière sous l’URSS, au sein de structures liées à l’appareil d’État. Il s’agit par exemple des universitaires ouzbeks Muhamedžan Mamasaidov au Kirghizstan, et Mahsud Hamidov et Hamid Pulatov au Tadjikistan, ces deux derniers ayant également occupé le prestigieux poste de gouverneur-adjoint de la province de Sughd12. Kurbon Sattarov a été, quant à lui, responsable-adjoint du district de Âvan, au sud du Tadjikistan. Formés à l’école soviétique, ces anciens apparatchiks se sont reconvertis à l’activisme ethnique en conservant un mode de pensée et d’action respectueux des administrations. La défense des intérêts de leur groupe passe par une coopération avec les autorités.

Tableau 4 : Typologie des activistes ethniques

Génération ex-soviétique Génération post-soviétique

Année de 1930-1940 1950-1960 naissance

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Secteur socio- Milieu académique Affaires professionnel Appareil d'État Médias

Revendications modérées dans une Revendications radicales, parfois Rhétorique démarche respectueuse et conciliante populistes au risque de la vis-à-vis des autorités confrontation avec les autorités

Muhamedžan Mamasaidov (Kirg.) Kadyržan Batyrov (Kirg.) Kurbon Sattarov (Tadj.) Exemples Davron Sabirov (Kirg.) Mahsud Hamidov (Tadj.) Žahongir Ruziev (Tadj.) Hamid Pulatov (Tadj.)

49 La génération « post-soviétique » correspond en revanche à une nouvelle élite, formée sous l’URSS finissante et qui s’est rapidement reconvertie à l’économie de marché après les indépendances. Il s’agit au Kirghizstan de l’homme d’affaires Kadyržan Batyrov et du magnat des médias Davron Sabirov et, au Tadjikistan, du chef de guerre Žahongir, devenu chef des douanes régionales et marchand de pierres précieuses. Forts de leur richesse personnelle, ces activistes ont les moyens de mettre en œuvre des projets en faveur de leur communauté. Ils apparaissent donc plus charismatiques et moins austères que leurs aînés. Ils n’hésitent d’ailleurs pas à utiliser cette popularité pour entrer dans l’arène politique. Si les législations nationales interdisent les partis politiques à base ethnique, le mode d’élection au scrutin uninominal favorise les dynamiques d’allégeances locales puisque chaque député est élu au niveau de sa circonscription électorale. C’est dans cette logique et grâce à leur popularité au sein de la communauté ouzbèke que Batyrov et Sabirov sont parvenus à entrer au Parlement respectivement en 1995 et 2000 (Sjoberg, 2009).

50 À la fin des années quatre-vingt et au début des années quatre-vingt-dix, les débats au sein des organisations ethniques d’Ouzbékistan, du Tadjikistan et du Kirghizstan ont montré l’importance que revêt la forme institutionnelle d’une minorité ethnique pour donner corps à une action collective. Le rôle des acteurs de la société civile – organisations ethniques et activistes – apparaît essentiel en tant que force de lobby pour mobiliser la communauté et porter les revendications politiques auprès des autorités de tutelle. Néanmoins, face à ces différentes stratégies de mobilisation, il apparaît important de regarder de plus près comment les individus perçoivent leurs élites et adhèrent ou non à leurs discours. En d’autres termes, il s’agira de comprendre, dans une prochaine étude, comment les personnes appartenant à une minorité ethnique se comportent dans la vie quotidienne. Suivent-elles les propositions formulées par leurs élites ? Ou bien parviennent-elles à s’autonomiser dans la « pratique quotidienne de leur identité13 ».

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BIBLIOGRAPHIE

ANONYME, 1996, «Obŝestvo Uzbekov v Tadžikistane» [La Société des Ouzbeks du Tadjikistan], Asia-Plus, 3 mai.

BADIE Bertrand, 1993, Culture et Politique, Paris : Economica.

BARANY Zoltan, 2002, “Ethnic Mobilization without Prerequisites. The East European Gypsies,” World Politics 54, pp. 277-307.

BRUBAKER Rogers, 1992, “Citizenship Struggles in Soviet Successor States,” International Migration Review 26(2), pp. 269-291.

—, 1994, “Nationhood and the National Question in the Soviet Union and Post-Soviet Eurasia. An Institutionalist Account,” Theory and Society 23(1), pp. 47-78.

—, 1996, Nationalism Reframed. Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

BRUBAKER Rogers, FEISCHMIDT Margit, FOX Jon et al., 2006, Nationalist Politics and Everyday Ethnicity in a Transylvanian Town, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

FOLTZ Richard, 1996, “The Tajiks of Uzbekistan,” Central Asian Survey 15(2), pp. 213-216.

FUMAGALLI Matteo, 2005, The Dynamics of Uzbek Ethno-Political Mobilization in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan (1991-2003), thèse de doctorat en science politique, Édimbourg : University of Edinburgh.

GORENBURG Dmitry, 2003, Minority Ethnic Mobilization in the Russian Federation, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

GOSKOMSTAT, 1991, Nacional’nyj sostav naseleniâ sssr po dannym vsesoûznoj perepisi naseleniâ 1989 g. [Structure ethnique de la population de l’URSS d’après les données du recensement de population de 1989], Moscou : Finansy i statistika [http://demoscope.ru/weekly/ssp/ sng_nac_89.php].

HAY Colin, 1995, “Structure and Agency,” in David Marsh & Gerry Stoker (eds), Theory and Methods in Political Science, Basingstoke : Palgrave, pp. 189-206.

HOROWITZ Donald L., 1985, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, Berkeley: University of California Press.

INTERNATIONAL CRISIS GROUP (ICG), 2004, Tajikistan’s Politics. Consolidation or Confrontation?, Briefing n°33, 19 mai, Douchanbé-Bruxelles [https://www.crisisgroup.org/europe-central-asia/ central-asia/tajikistan/tajikistans-politics-confrontation-or-consolidation].

JENNE Erin K., 2007, Ethnic Bargaining. The Paradox of Minority Empowerment, Ithaca : Cornell University Press.

JONES-LUONG Pauline, 2002, Institutional Change and Political Continuity in Post-Soviet Central Asia, Cambridge : Cambridge University Press.

KARIMOV Islam, 1987, Uzbekistan on the Threshold of the Twenty-First Century. Threats to Security. Challenges to Stability and Progress, New York : St. Martin’s Press.

KHAMIDOV Alisher, 2006, “Forging Broken Links. Uzbeks and the State in Kyrgyzstan,” Institute for Public Policy, n°6, pp. 11-16 [https://www.hles.ethz.ch/isn/44548/KG_Brief_6_eng.pdf].

LAITIN David, 1998, Identity in Formation. The Russian-Speaking Populations in the Near Abroad, Ithaca : Cornell University Press.

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MARCH Andrew F., 2002, “The Use and Abuse of History. ‘National Ideology’ as Transcendental Object in Islam Karimov’s ‘Ideology of National Independence’,” Central Asian Survey 21(4), pp. 371-384.

MELVIN Neil J., 2001, “Patterns of Centre-Regional Relations in Central Asia. The Cases of Kazakhstan, the Kyrgyz Republic and Uzbekistan,” Regional and Federal Studies 11(3), pp. 165-193.

NEDELMANN Birgitta, 1987, “Individuals and Parties-Changes in Processes of Political Mobilization,” European Sociological Review 3(3), pp. 181-202.

OLZAK Susan, 2004, “Ethnic and Nationalist Social Movements,” in David A. Snow, Sarah A. Soule & Hanspeter Kriesi (eds), The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements, Oxford : Blackwell, pp. 666-693.

RADNITZ Scott, 2005, “Networks, Localism and Mobilization in Aksy, Kyrgyzstan,” Central Asian Survey 24(4), pp. 405-424.

SJOBERG Fredrik M, 2009, Elections and Identity Politics in Kyrgyzstan 1989-2009. Moving Beyond the ‘Class Politics’ Hypothesis, thèse de doctorat en science politique, Londres : LSE.

SNOW David A., Rochford Burke, Worden Steven & Benford Robert, 1986, “Frame Alignment Processes, Micromobilization and Movement Participation,” American Sociological Review 51, pp. 464-481.

TARAS Kuzio, 2004, “‘Nationalising States’ or Nation-Building? A Critical Review of Theoretical Literature and Empirical Evidence,” Nations and Nationalism 7(2), pp. 135-154.

TILLY Charles, 1991, “Ethnic Conflict in the Soviet Union,” Theory and Society 5(5), pp. 569-580.

TISHKOV Valery, 1995, “‘Don’t Kill Me, I’m a Kyrgyz!’ An Anthropological Analysis of Violence in the Osh Ethnic Conflict,” Journal of Peace Research 32(2), pp. 133-149.

—, 1996, Ethnicity, Nationalism and Conflict in and After the Soviet Union: the Mind Aflame, Londres: Sage.

NOTES

1. Le choix d’une matrice à trois républiques et trois groupes ethniques est motivé par la volonté de limiter les variables d’analyse dans cette approche comparative. Le Kazakhstan est un cas à part, en raison de la présence d’une population russe, plus nombreuse et plus ancienne que dans les autres républiques d’Asie centrale. Quant aux populations russes ou russophones (Ukrainiens, Biélorusses, Allemands, Tchétchènes, Coréens, etc.) des trois républiques choisies, il s’agit de groupes allogènes à la région, dont les revendications ne sauraient être étudiées au même titre que celles des groupes nationaux originaires d’Asie centrale. 2. En 1985, les orientalistes tadjiks Rustam et Šarif Šukurov avaient fondé à Moscou le Centre culturel Mehr [affection en tadjik] pour promouvoir la renaissance culturelle des Tadjiks d’Union soviétique. 3. Dans la mesure où la nouvelle règle émanait d’une administration régionale, elle s’appliquait seulement aux résidents de la province de Samarkand. Notons cependant qu’à Boukhara, une grève de la faim simultanée avait permis d’obtenir le même oukase pour les habitants de la province. 4. Ce raidissement des autorités ouzbèkes n’a pas concerné seulement la minorité tadjike. À la même époque, le mouvement nationaliste ouzbek Birlik était interdit, et ses dirigeants contraints à l’exil.

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5. Le texte de loi est disponible sur le site http://base.spinform.ru/show_doc.fwx?rgn=6230, dernière consultation le 30 septembre 2016. 6. Ce troisième volet, politique, avait été introduit pour pouvoir défendre les droits des réfugiés arrivés au Kirghizstan pendant la guerre civile, et qui se trouvaient souvent dans un vide juridique (entretien avec Abduhalim Raimžanov, président de l’Association des Tadjiks du Kirghizstan, 4 mai 2007). 7. La déclaration fut notamment reprise par les médias de langue ouzbèke Mezon et Mezon-TV à Och (observation de l’auteur en octobre 2000 à Och, Kirghizstan). 8. C’est le cas de la manifestation d’Aksy en mars 2002, au cours de laquelle la population réclamait la libération d’Azimbek Beknazarov. Ce parlementaire de la circonscription d’Aksy avait été arrêté pour s’être insurgé contre la signature par le gouvernement kirghiz d’un accord frontalier avec la Chine, qui entraînait la cession d’un petit territoire de montagne. La manifestation fut violemment réprimée, faisant quatre morts parmi les manifestants (Radnitz, 2005, p. 405). 9. L’enseignement de l’ouzbek dans le programme scolaire d’une école de langue russe est une nouveauté, car l’ouzbek n’y jouit pas du statut de langue officielle à la différence du kirghiz et du russe. Pour éviter que cet écart aux standards du pays ne déclasse l’école, les cours d’ouzbek sont, certes obligatoires, mais comptabilisés dans le quota des enseignements facultatifs (entretien avec le vice-directeur du département d’éducation de la province de Djalalabad, 7 décembre 2006). 10. Discussions informelles de l’auteur avec des habitants d’Och, Kirghizstan, hiver 1999-2000. 11. Enquête réalisée en 2002 par la Société des Ouzbeks sur 1 436 Ouzbeks de la ville d’Och (Khamidov, 2006). 12. À l’époque soviétique, les postes de direction des administrations nationales et provinciales respectaient une hiérarchie clairement établie. Les ministres et gouverneurs étaient le plus souvent des membres du groupe titulaire – ici des Tadjiks –, secondés systématiquement par deux adjoints, l’un russe et l’autre appartenant au second groupe ethnique – ici les Ouzbeks –, ce qui représentait donc un poste de prestige pour un fonctionnaire issu du groupe ethnique minoritaire. 13. Pour reprendre l’expression « everyday ethnicity » de Brubaker et al., 2006.

RÉSUMÉS

Dès la fin des années quatre-vingt, des organisations ethniques apparaissent en Asie centrale pour donner une forme institutionnelle – représentative ou non – aux minorités nationales et leur permettre ainsi d’entrer en relation avec les autorités. Dans un environnement politique changeant, ces organisations n’ont eu de cesse de défendre les intérêts de leur groupe, notamment par le biais de mobilisations ethno-politiques, c’est-à-dire des actions collectives fondées sur l’identité ethnique du groupe et formulant des revendications d’ordre culturel, social, économique ou politique. En étudiant l’évolution des structures et des discours portés par les minorités ethniques d’Ouzbékistan, du Tadjikistan et du Kirghizstan de la perestroïka aux premières années d’indépendance, cet article a pour objectif de montrer comment les acteurs de la société civile – organisations ethniques et activistes – interviennent comme force de lobby pour mobiliser leur communauté et porter des revendications auprès de leurs États de tutelle. Ces différents

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exemples permettent d’établir une typologie des activistes ethniques, où se distinguent les générations ex- et post-soviétique. minorités ethniques, action collective, société civile, Ouzbékistan, Tadjikistan, Kirghizstan

In the late 1980s Central Asia has experienced the emergence of ethnic organisations that gave an institutional form – either representative or not – to national minorities and enabled them to enter into relation with the authorities. In a changing political environment, these organisations have endeavoured to defend the interests of their group, especially through ethno-political mobilisations, that is, collective actions based on ethnic group identity and framing claims of cultural, social, economic or political dimension. By exploring the evolution of the structure and rhetoric developed by ethnic minorities in Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan from the perestroika to the early years of independence, this article shows how the actors of civil society – both ethnic organizations and activists – act as a lobbying power to mobilise their community and address demands to state authorities. These examples provide a typology of ethnic activists with two distinct ex- and post-Soviet generations.

В конце восьмидесятых годов,в Центральной Азии появляются этнические организации, которые придают институциональную форму национальным меньшинствам, чтобы позволяло последним вести переговоры с властями. В условиях политического перехода, эти организации стремились защищать интересы своей группы, особенно посредством этнополитических мобилизаций, а именно, коллективных действий, основанных на идентичности этнической группы, выражающих культурные, социальные, экономические или политические требования. В статье рассматривается развитие структур и риторик этнических меньшинств в Узбекистане, Таджикистане и Кыргызской республике с перестройки до начала год независимости, чтобы показать, каким образом общественные деятели (этнические организации и активисты) являются лоббистской силой для мобилизации своей общины и требований к государственным властям. Эти примеры позволяют создать типологию этнических активистов, в которых отличаются два поколения – экс- советские и постсоветские.

INDEX motsclesru этнические меньшинства, коллективные действия, гражданское общество, Узбекистан, Таджикистан, Кыргызстан Keywords : ethnic minorities, collective action, civil society, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan

AUTEUR

OLIVIER FERRANDO

Olivier Ferrando est docteur en science politique et chercheur associé au Centre de recherches internationales (CÉRI) de Sciences Po. Il a dirigé l’Institut français d’études sur l’Asie centrale (IFÉAC) à Bichkek de 2013 à 2016. Ses recherches portent sur les minorités ethniques en Asie centrale, les mobilisations identitaires et les transformations sociales de la région depuis la fin de l’URSS. Contact : [email protected]

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L’escalade vers la violence intercommunautaire The Escalation Towards Inter-Communal Violence

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Novy Uzen Riots in 1989: Ethnic Conflict or Economic Nationalism? Les violences de 1989 à Novy Uzen. Conflit ethnique ou nationalisme économique ? Новый Узень в 1989 г.: межэтнические конфликты или экономический национализм?

Gulnara Dadabayeva et Dina Sharipova

Introduction

1 Twenty-six years ago, on 16 June 1989, a conflict between Kazakhs and Caucasian ethnic minorities arose in the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR). It is estimated that 25,000 to 30,000 people participated in clashes in Novy Uzen, a small town located in the Western part of Kazakhstan. Officials immediately described it as an ethnic conflict unleashed by Kazakh hooligans and nationalists. But what really happened in 1989 and how can we evaluate these past events from today’s perspective? Despite growing interest in the history and ethnic conflicts of the late Soviet period, little research has been done on the riots of 1989. The goal of this article is to re-evaluate the past events and provide a different perspective on the conflict in Novy Uzen. Although we do not deny the fact that clashes occurred along ethnic lines, focusing solely on the ethnic side of the conflict would be to overlook the reality of the situation. We argue that the causes of the 1989 events do not lie in ethnic hatred between Kazakhs and other ethnic minorities, as it was portrayed by mass media and officials. The economic policies conducted by Moscow authorities towards the oil-rich region in the West of Kazakhstan produced poor socio-economic conditions and a sense of injustice that pushed ethnic Kazakhs to start the riots. Moscow was not interested in the development of local industries, the creation of new jobs and construction of schools, clinics and hospitals. As a result, the local population was deprived of many social benefits which were available to shift workers sent by Moscow from the Caucasus and other Russian cities to Western Kazakhstan. The lack of developed local industries and withdrawal of oil

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resources for the benefit of other Soviet republics, along with the desire to protect the labour market, urged the local population and authorities to reconsider national economic policies and defend their own economic interests. Thus, we suggest considering the riots of 1989 as a manifestation of economic nationalism rather than a primordialist expression of ethnic hatred towards other nationalities.

Theoretical Frames

2 Before discussing the theoretical perspectives of nationalism, it is important to define the term “riots,” which has been discussed and contested over a long period of time by scholars. In general, a riot is defined as “at least one group publicly, and with little or no attempt at concealment, illegally assaulting at least one other group or illegally attacking or invading property” (Halle & Rafter, 2003, p. 347). In addition, scholars differentiate riots in terms of intensity and duration. Halle and Rafter, for instance, argue that a major riot should have at least one of the following features: a duration of more than two days, ten or more people killed, more than 1,000 people involved, more than 500 injuries, more than 1,000 people arrested, more than 500 buildings damaged, at least two neighbourhoods participating in the riot (idem). In terms of the size of the group involved in the event, a minimum number would range from 12 to 50 participants (Wilkinson, 2009). Ethnic riots are episodes of “sustained collective violence with an ethnic, racial, religious or xenophobic character” (Haller & Rafter, 2003, p. 347). In this work, we are going to use the definition provided by Bleich et al., according to which an ethnic riot occurs when “at least one group publicly, and with little or no attempt at concealment, illegally assaulting at least one other group or illegally attacking or invading property over a period of hours or days, in a manner motivated or patterned by elements of ethnicity, race, religion or xenophobia” (Bleich et al, 2010, p. 272). Ethnic riots might be perpetrated by groups due to frustration of real or perceived disadvantages, to an extent related to their ethnic status. The 1989 conflict in Novy Uzen can be defined as a major riot since it has at least three features listed by Halle & Rafter: duration, number of participants and number of injured.

3 So, what are the theoretical approaches to the phenomenon of nationalism? Two classics of modern studies of “nationalism” and “ethnic nationalism,” Eric Hobsbawm and Ernest Gellner, have fundamentally changed twentieth century perceptions of the vitality of nations and nation-states in a globalised world. For Hobsbawm, transnational companies and other influential international institutions replaced the “major building-blocks of the world system” (Hobsbaum, 1992, p. 181). He questioned the possibility for nations to further guide the world economic order. Gellner insisted on the nation-state right to act as a dominant political actor due to its role in promoting and keeping a common language and culture within given political borders. But Gellner noted that “late industrial society can be expected to be one in which nationalism persists, but in a muted, less virulent form” (Gellner, 1983, p. 122). He was convinced that violent clashes between different ethnicities would be less frequent due to the reduction of social inequalities in societies. However, Gellner foresaw insurgent nationalism as a result of unfulfilled economic expectations (Szakonyi, 2007). Gellner continued that “if states feel inferior to, exploited by, or dominated by ‘advanced’ powers, new forms of nationalism may appear to combat this perceived threat and will foster a politically divisive and tense environment” (Gellner, 1983, p. 122). This

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statement can be applied not only to the world order but also to the system inside existing states. We can thus use this approach when analysing the situation in the Soviet Union. One of the new forms of nationalism, as mentioned by Gellner, was thus economic nationalism. 4 Modern international economy is composed of three schools – economic liberalism, economic socialism and economic nationalism. Contrary to economic liberalism and socialism, which were quite popular subjects to study during the Cold War period, economic nationalism was mainly identified as an outdated economic area. Despite this, a number of interesting works were published on the problems of communism and nationalism including Roman Szporluk (1988), Henryk Szlajfer (1990), and Anthony James Gregor et al. (1981). The collapse of the Soviet Union put a stop to communist ideology and interest in the phenomenon of a planned economy diminished. Whereas a successful development of Asian tigers, dragons, etc., along with the troubles of African states, seemed to re-focus our perceptions of economic nationalism. The term “economic nationalism” was introduced in the nineteenth century by the German economist Friedrich List in his fundamental work The National System of Political Economy published in German in 1841 (List, 1991). In contrast to the economic liberal theory of Adam Smith and David Ricardo, List was interested in trade relations between developed and economically weak states. He argued that the liberal theory does not truly reflect the real world due to the unequal level of economic development of different states. List opposed the processes of international integration and, particularly, the British doctrine of free exchange and economic liberalism supported by Adam Smith since “free competition between the advanced factories of England and relatively backward factories of other manufacturing countries would, simply lead to the destruction of the industries of the weaker states” (cited by Levi-Faur, 1997, p. 366). Similarly, Francois Perroux also argued that “in practice, the concept of liberalism encounters with economic reality where the ‘inequality of structures’ exist. Under this inequality the most powerful and strong nations seek to get most economic profits at the expense of other nations” (Perroux, 1950, pp. 89-90). In 1993, Luc Michel,1 published a provocative article “Economic Nationalism against the World Economy,” where he raised the problem of “autarky of large spaces,” when states with similar levels of development unite from an economical and customs viewpoint in order to prevent a stronger economic competitor from entering their markets (Michel, 1993). 5 The concept of “autarky of large spaces” thus embodies economic nationalism. Starting with the Stalinist idea of modernisation, the USSR followed the model of economic nationalism. Stalin’s work Economic Problems in the USSR (1972) reflected the principles of economic nationalism, or “autarky of large spaces,” on which Soviet economic policies were based. The velvet neo-Stalinism of Leonid Brejnev pursued the same economic approach with some adjustments. The latter refer to the liberalisation of relations towards national republics. Moscow gave more power to Soviet republics to promote their national languages, culture and, most importantly, appointments of their cadre. 6 We can say that the “inequality of structure” can also be applied to the internal development of the Soviet Union. Here we can see the coincidence of different nationalisms in the late Soviet Union. Nationalism defined political and cultural borders (Gellner, 1983) and consequently we see its practical realisation within the politics of the USSR leadership. Moscow’s economic strategy was founded on the

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following premises: the country represented a single economic space where the development of certain regions was defined by the interdependence of national economies. The complexity of the Soviet economy made it impossible to separate economies by national republic interests. However, since the 1970s, and due to Moscow’s liberalisation policy, a steady growth of ethnic nationalism can be observed in the national republics. Unfulfilled economic expectations led to insurgent nationalism which later transformed into either ethnic or economic nationalism. The conflict in Novy Uzen can be situated within this insurgent nationalism which arose due to unfulfilled economic expectations. 7 Our assumption is therefore that ethnic nationalism, although playing a role in the situation, cannot be seen as the main driving factor. In 1989, Kazakhstan was unable to raise the issue of separation from Moscow due to its interdependence with the Soviet market. Successful ethnic mobilisation of the Kazakh people under the entrepreneurship of the local republican elite was far from reality. Political leadership did not want to break with the Soviet system. Thus, public feeling could be better identified as economic nationalism. Several factors can be seen behind the emergence of this type of nationalism in Kazakhstan. “The rise and institutionalisation of economic nationalism was a product of economic crisis, nationalistic movement and enlarged state” (Pryke, 2012). In the case of Kazakhstan, we see the coincidence of the two first phenomena, while the third one kept some space to start partial ethnic mobilisation against economic hardships. Ethnic nationalism became an umbrella for Kazakhs to demonstrate their feelings and grievances over the existing situation. They were not planning to fight against the state, on the contrary, they used state power to fulfil their goals – to oust other ethnic groups from those economic sectors which they believed should be the labour market for local Kazakhs. 8 During the 1970s, the inequality in economic development of the Soviet republics became more apparent. The three Slavic republics – Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus – were the most economically advanced ones, producing manufactured goods, while other republics, particularly Central Asia’s, were mostly agrarian and lacking modernisation. For instance, Ukraine produced 41% of colour TV sets and 96% of trains and locomotives. It provided 46 of the 64 Soviet products meant for exportation. On the territory of Ukraine, there were 1,000 industrial factories (Anonymous, s.d.). Similarly, Belarus had the highest level of economic development of all the Soviet republics. For the period of 1970s to 1980s, industrial production increased three fold with over 1,000 factories and industrial enterprises. From 1971 to 1975, economic growth reached 10.4%. Belorussia significantly increased its production of radio, telecommunication and electronic equipment (Anonymous, 2010). In contrast, the economic development of Central Asian republics was much lower. Kazakhstan tried to overcome its economic backwardness by promoting domestic production in order to prevent the influx of imported goods (Karamanov, 1989). Dinmukhamed Kunaev, the first secretary of the Communist Party of the Kazakh SSR from 1964 to 1986, recognised the importance of domestic national production for the development of the republic (Kunaev, 1992). From 1959 to 1965, a lot of new enterprises emerged including Alma-Ata cotton factory, aluminium factories, and others. Despite the construction of new industrial plants, the economy was mainly oriented towards the extraction of raw materials. For instance, Kazakhstan produced 90% of Soviet chrome, coal, ferrous and non-ferrous ore, and 70% of copper, zinc and lead (Goskomstat, 1990). The republic exported 8 billion rubles worth of agricultural products and raw materials and imported 16 billion rubles worth.

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The economic structure of the republic was thus flawed with the export of cheap raw materials and import of expensive manufactured goods. This created negative tendencies in the economy of the country which, in turn, paved the way for economic nationalism which appeared at the end of 1970s and 1980s in declarations and speeches of both the Kazakh leaders and ordinary people. 9 Economic nationalism is an indicator of state maturity, proof that the state is ready to defend its economic interests. In the late Soviet period, republics were transforming from a quasi-state level to nation-states with elites having and demonstrating their own national interests, including economic ones. At the same time, Soviet society was fragmented into different groups along ethnic and socio-economic lines. Groups depending on their social status had economic interests that did not correspond with the state economic policy. This created fertile soil for the emergence of conflicts.

The 1989 Conflict in Novy Uzen

10 The conflict between young Kazakhs and Caucasian ethnic minorities started on June 16, 1989. The conflict was triggered by a fight in a dancing club in Novy Uzen, which was the centre of the riots. From there, the conflict spread to other areas of the region of Guriev, including Ševčenko (today Aktau), the Mangyšlak station, Uzen, Kulsary, Žetibaj, Munajšy, Šetpe, Aqšukyr, Eralievo, Kyzyltobe. It is estimated that between 25,000 and 30,000 people participated in the clashes. According to official data, five people were killed and dozens were injured. However, other sources claim that about a hundred people were killed and a thousand injured (Ryskoža, 2009). To end the conflict, a curfew was introduced on June 19 and lasted for 36 days. Moscow sent the special military unit “Vitâz” (1,000 to 2,000 soldiers), military tanks, helicopters, cars, and other equipment to suppress the riots. In addition, 1,000 to 2,000 local militia from the regional centre Guriev (today Atyrau) and Novy Uzen joined forces to stop the clashes. During the conflict, 3,516 people left Novy Uzen for the Caucasus, where they ended in Dagestan and the Chechen-Ingush autonomous republic. Later, some of them returned to Novy Uzen. The material damage was significant. It was estimated that fifty shops and cafes were destroyed and six cars were burnt. Some enterprises and organisations stopped working for a period of time.

11 In the light of the conflict in Novy Uzen, it is important to look at the nationalities policy and ethnic relations in Central Asia during the late Soviet period. Although perestroika and glasnost brought some social and political changes, the nationalities policy remained untouched. As before, the Soviet leadership continued promoting the flourishing of nations and ethnic groups and the great friendship of peoples. In 1985, Egor Ligačev, a member of the Politburo of the Central Committee of the cpsu and chief ideologist, said: “We have created a society in which the truly harmonious combination of state-wide interests and the interests of each of the republics and the flowering of all nations and ethnic groups are ensured” (Nahaylo & Swoboda, 1990, p. 234). Similarly, the draft of the new party program published in 1985 contained standard statements about the “mutual enrichment of cultures, the equality and free development of [national] language” (ibid, p. 236). In reality, this kind of rhetoric was largely declarative. The centre insisted on the dominance of the Russian language and continued controlling the national cultural life of Soviet republics despite efforts to introduce some degree of decentralisation. In addition, Moscow did not change its

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cadre policy, which led to the 1986 mass riots in Alma-Ata when Gennady Kolbin, an ethnic Russian, was appointed as head of the Communist Party of the Kazakh SSR. These issues were coupled with deep economic and social turmoil accumulated during the Brejnev era. All this raised discontent and frustration among the population that often took the form of nationalist or ethnic unrests. 12 The first secretary of the Communist Party, Michael Gorbachev, acknowledged that the national processes were not without their problems and issues such as “national exclusiveness,” “localism,” and “parasitism” were still on the agenda of the Soviet leadership that faced a difficult task of balancing ethnic relations and distribution of resources (idem). One of the challenges for the Soviet leadership was to control ethnic environments that conditioned ethnic relations within the Soviet Union. The character of ethnic relations thus varied depending on place and nationality (Karklins, 1986). Ethnic relations in Central Asia were not even and differed from one republic to another due to historical, political, and demographic factors. In 1989, Ethnic Uzbeks represented the majority of the population in Uzbekistan (71%), whereas ethnic Kazakhs were a minority in Kazakhstan (40%) (Goskomstat, 1991-1993). The resettlement policies during the Tsarist period, cultivation of virgin lands and deportation of people, made Kazakhstan one of the most ethnically diverse republics. 13 The Chechens, Ingush, and Meskhetian Turks were deported from the Caucasus to Kazakhstan in 1944, during the Second World War. It is considered that approximately 500,000 people were sent to Central Asia. The Chechens and Ingush were the first to arrive in February, the Balkars in March, and then the Meskhetian Turks. In 1957, the Chechen-Ingush autonomous republic was rehabilitated and many deported families returned to their native lands. Those who decided to stay chose to live in the West, South and South-East of Kazakhstan. Over time, they began to occupy lucrative places in the economy. They worked as traders, distributors of shortage goods, managers of newly emerged cooperatives. The Caucasians had a higher economic status with better access to housing and other social benefits. A significant part Caucasian specialists were sent by Moscow from Grozny, Makhachkala, Baku, and other cities to work in Novy Uzen oil and gas industry. 14 The authorities and mass media were quick to label the conflict as “interethnic” instigated by “hooligans” and “outrageous elements” (Samoilenko, 1989, p. 2). The conflict was between young Kazakhs and Caucasian ethnic groups, namely Lezgins, Chechens, Ingush and Azerbaijanis. However, the causes of the conflict were rooted in poor social and economic conditions that existed in Western Kazakhstan. Ethnic hatred was an effect, rather than the cause, of the conflict.

Socio-Economic Conditions in Novy Uzen in 1989

15 What was the situation in Novy Uzen in 1989? Novy Uzen was a small town founded in 1964, located in the heart of the desert peninsula of Mangyšlak, in the Guriev region. The population of the town had reached 56,000 by 1989.

16 The Guriev region was mostly populated by ethnic Kazakhs (76%), while ethnic Russians and other nationalities represented approximately 24% of the region’s population. In Novy Uzen, ethnic Kazakhs composed 50% of the population, Russians 18% and Lezgins 11%. Despite rapid urbanisation, the majority of Kazakhs lived in rural areas and their migration to urban centres was problematic due to social and economic conditions. It

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was very hard, if not impossible, to get a job in a city without residential registration (propiska). In addition, Russian was the main working language in all sectors of the economy except agriculture. As a result, lack of Russian language skills became a barrier for people wishing to apply for a job in towns and cities of the republic. In addition, during the late Soviet period, it was not easy for rural Kazakhs to become educated since most disciplines, particularly technical, were taught in Russian. As a result, most ethnic Kazakhs experienced significant difficulties moving to the oblast centre for employment. 17 According to statistics, 55% of the Guriev region residents were economically active in different sectors of the economy, while 45% percent of the population did not make up the work force and was composed mostly of pensioners, unemployed, children and students. 97% of ethnic Kazakhs worked in agriculture.2 According to Nursultan Nazarbaev, from 1985 to 1990, industrial production dropped from 31.6% to 20.9%, while agricultural production increased from 28.4% in 1985 to 41.6% in 1990 (Nazarbaev, 1992, p. 53). These numbers show that the rate of latent unemployment was supposed to increase in urban areas. Central government in Moscow did not support the idea of organisation of new state farms in the region to cover food demands of the local people. Hiring of the new staff in oil industry had to be accompanied by the increase of food products shipped from the other republics of USSR. However, this plan was never realised.

The Role of Moscow and the Level of Unemployment in Novy Uzen

18 Moscow policy aimed to defend the interests of state companies that were controlled by the centre. Consequently, local industry did not receive enough financial support from the centre and faced a deep economic crisis. Moscow sought to suppress industrial production in Kazakhstan, while supplying manufactured goods to the region. This explains the rise in unemployment and increased competition in the labour market in Western Kazakhstan. This competition went along ethnic lines, specifically between ethnic Kazakhs and other ethnic minorities such as Lezgins, Chechens, Azerbaijanis, people from Dagestan and other Russian regions. These populations were largely employed as shift workers at oil enterprises in Guriev and other lucrative places. Since the oil industry was under the control of the Soviet Ministry of Oil and Gas, shift workers became the main target blamed for economic troubles.

19 The paradox of Novy Uzen was a high rate of unemployment among the local population, particularly among ethnic Kazakhs. Although newspapers linked hard socio-economic conditions to the conflict that took place in 1989, we found no statistical data on the rate of unemployment in the Guriev region. In this article, we propose our own statistical calculation based on the national census conducted in 1989. According to the 1989 census the urban population of the Guriev region was about 256,000, while in the rural area the population reached 169,000 (Republican Information Center, 1991). Thus the workforce in urban areas grew up to 148,000, while in the rural area it was about 84,000 (idem). The most interesting fact is that the number of young people living in the rural area reached 69,000, while in the urban areas the young generation reached 90,000 (idem). Based on this data, we can estimate that in absolute numbers the difference between rural and urban young populations is

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significant. Thus, out of 100% of the rural population, 82% were young people under age 18.3 This demographic composition could easily provoke social tensions and conflicts. 20 The potential of the agricultural sector was limited, which inevitably led to the migration of young people to urban areas. However, the situation in Guriev’s industrial centres was also difficult because of the specific structure of the economic sector. The region specialised mostly in the extraction of oil and gas. Moscow authorities were not interested in the development of oil processing industries there. “It was an illogical position of the Ministry of Oil and Gas of the USSR that preferred to process oil from Tengiz in different enterprises [out of the republic], which was economically ineffective” (Karamanov, 1989). According to an inhabitant of the village Tenge, people lived without gas despite the fact that it was extracted nearby the settlement for 25 years (Ryskoža, 2009). After the events of Novy Uzen, Moscow authorities recognised the negative impact on the structural development of the economy. Only 13% of oil and 16% of gas were processed in Western Kazakhstan. The ruling elites faced the problem of creating a domestic oil processing industry to fill the domestic market with goods produced in the republic. This idea was suggested in the report of the Chairman of the Council of Ministers, Uzakbaj Karamanov, who said: “The region should get significant autonomy to manage its own resources” (Karamanov, 1989, p. 2). 21 Moscow considered the construction of an oil processing industry in Kazakhstan to be economically ineffective. The share of crude oil extraction represented only 1.5% of the total USSR oil extraction. In the beginning of the 1980s, the oil industry was in a crisis due to the lack of significant investments. The Soviet Union had insufficient financial resources to be allocated for further economic development. The government faced a dilemma: allocate money towards social development, which at that time was in need of modernisation, or finance the development of the oil and gas industry. The decision was made in favour of industrial development. Oil and gas workers received significant financial assistance and administrative support. The exploration of new deposits was also accelerated. From 1985 to 1988, 25 new deposits were discovered and explored annually. The increase in oil production, however, did not lead to the improvement of social infrastructures. Faced with inflation and the fall of oil prices worldwide, the government preferred to spend money on the development of prioritised projects. The Soviet economy of that period cannot be characterised as human capital oriented (Nursultanova, 2011, p. 62). 22 Another reason for the lack of interest by the central authorities in the development of the region was the large number of shift workers sent to Novy Uzen from other republics of the USSR, mostly from the Caucasus. Sending shift workers was very convenient for central ministries and agencies because they did not have to spend money on the development of social infrastructures or training of the local personnel. It was estimated that in Western Kazakhstan, the number of shift workers reached 27,000 with 70% coming from outside the republic (Karamanov, 1989, p. 2). Western Kazakhstan, including Novy Uzen, was thus literally flooded with shift workers from the Caucasus and other regions of the USSR. This created discontent and a sense of relative deprivation amongst the local population for whom the rate of unemployment was very high. 23 According to a decree of the Central Committee of the CPSU adopted on March 31, 1989 “On the attraction of unemployed part of the labour force to the socio-useful work in the Union and autonomous republics of the Middle Asia, Caucasus, and North

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Caucasus,” Moscow was aware of the high rate of unemployment, particularly in Central Asia and the Caucasus. It was estimated that 40% of 18 to 29 year olds in Central Asia and South Caucasus were unemployed (Anonymous, 1989d). The Central Committee recognised that the growth of social tensions was due to the high rate of unemployment. Clashes in the Ferghana Valley (Uzbek SSR), Novy Uzen (Kazakh SSR), and Nebit Dag (Turkmen SSR) demonstrated that young people were active participants in the protests. 24 The high rate of unemployment among the local population was aggravated by the lack of housing, foodstuff, and other social benefits enjoyed by shift workers. This eventually led to the rise of tensions between ethnic Kazakhs and other nationalities (Anonymous, 1989b; 1989c). According to the official authorities’ data, each citizen of Novy Uzen had 16 square meters of living space. However, this figure did not correspond to the real situation which was considerably lower. Pripiski [padding] was normal practice in the Soviet Union when official authorities sought to improve indicators in order to provide a more positive image of their work. In fact, each citizen of the Guriev region had 9.6 square meters of housing, while the number at the national level was 13.5 square meters (Karamanov, 1989, p. 2). A further example, 460 out of the 600 bus drivers in Novy Uzen did not have housing (Ryskoža, 2009). The situation in the rural area was even worse. 25 The paradox of the situation that eventually led to the conflict in Novy Uzen was that the oil and gas rich region was in reality very poor in comparison to other regions of Kazakhstan. This regional disparity has continued during the post-Soviet period. Even today, Western Kazakhstan remains the poorest region, despite its oil deposits and the influx of petrodollars and foreign oil companies into the economy (Kurganbaeva 2009; Najman et al., 2008). The high rate of poverty thus partly explains why the conflict happened in this part of the country rather than elsewhere (Anonymous, 1989a). For instance, in 1988, the revenue of the Uzenneft was 110 million rubles, whereas Moscow provided only 3.5 million rubles for the socioeconomic development of Novy Uzen. At the same time, the centre benefitted tremendously from oil revenues, while the local population lacked basic public goods and services. As Samoleinko noted, “citizens drink water contaminated with herbicides, defoliants and mineral supplements. Some products are allocated through rationing cards. Sugar is given half of a kilogram per person. And rationing cards are given only to the employed people!” (Samoilenko, 1989). Even in 1990, it was claimed that with the growth of oil extraction, the deficit of food products would increase. They noted that from 1989 to 1990, product demand was met as follows: 65% for dairy, 75% for eggs, 90% for fish, 60% for vegetables including potatoes, and 17% for fruit and berries. The local food production could not provide an adequate amount of food for the population due to the fast growth of personnel employed by a constantly expanding oil industry (Koncepciâ ..., 1990). 26 The economic effectiveness of the state is determined by the ability to produce enough food products to feed its own population. The strategy for agricultural development was not based on this vision. For instance, in the early 1980s, local farmers produced only 40% of the milk required with the remaining 60% being imported from other regions of the country and Soviet republics (idem). The regional administration planned to increase the production of milk twice for the period from 1986 to 2000. The expected growth of milk production would not cover the needs of the market and the region would remain dependent on food imports. This deficit of food products, along with

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poverty and unemployment among the local population, created frustration and discontent that eventually led to a violent conflict on the one hand, but on the other hand made local elites think about the economic perspectives of the region.

Economic Nationalism in Need

27 Economic nationalism implies the defence of domestic markets. The strategy employed by the local authorities at the time would not lead to independence from the other republics. By the end of the 1980s, the events in Novy Uzen and other areas demonstrated the necessity to turn to economic nationalism. When did local authorities become aware of a necessity to defend the interests of the local population and market? Before the events in Novy Uzen, the leaders of the Guriev region did not give sufficient consideration to the social situation of the region and relied on Moscow based decisions. After the conflict in 1989, they sought to find a solution of their own. The conference “The Concept of food products provision of the Guriev region’s population” that took place in Guriev in 1990 is the best illustration of this shift (idem). The majority of the reporters recognised that the Guriev region had the potential to provide enough food for its own population. However, the problem was to find investments for the food industry, renovate equipment and machinery, and apply modern technologies to agriculture (idem).

28 We argue that these measures represented the transition to an economic nationalism approach. Firstly, the expectations to produce enough foodstuff and be secure and independent from other regions and Soviet republics in terms of food provision were high. It meant protectionism of the local industry and local market. Secondly, the development of a local food industry could lead to the decrease of unemployment rates among the local population, primarily ethnic Kazakhs who lived mostly in rural areas. Thirdly, it could also lead to changes in the structure of the workforce. Personnel for the oil industry was trained in Moscow and Baku, while the cadres for textile and food industries studied in a number of cities of Kazakhstan such as Alma-Ata, Dzhambul, Karaganda, Chimkent, amongst others. The introduction of new technologies and training of local personnel was a realistic task and represented the transition from the Moscow vision of the region’s economic development to economic nationalism. Following the local authorities lead, the republican leadership began to raise issues related to economic nationalism. 29 The local population, and especially those who could not find jobs, were in a disadvantaged position. In sharp contrast to the reality, an article published in Pravda on 10 November 1989 depicted a completely different picture. It reported on the excellent living and working conditions of employees of the Caspian Metallurgical Plant in Ševčenko. The article stated that there was full provision of public goods and services including resorts, sanatoriums, child and medical facilities. “You can find everything there: swimming pools, sauna, sports and medical facilities” (Mosin, 1989). The average salary of personnel at the children’s hospital was 270 rubles and for every two children, there was one kindergarten supervisor (Karamanov, 1989). However, the local people, could not even dream of such benefits. This sharp contrast between those who could not find a job and those who benefitted from the provision of goods by the Ministry of Oil and Gas created a sense of injustice and discontent with the policies. In addition, the ineffectiveness of management was also evident through the growth of

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foodstuff imports. For instance, from 1969 to 1989, the import of grain, fish, meat, and butter increased tenfold, highlighting that Kazakhstan was dependent on other Soviet republics for food security. 30 These social, economic and ecological problems, as well as various disproportions, combined and led to protests against social and economic injustice. The fact that the events in Novy Uzen were driven by economic hardships rather than by ethnic hatred was recognised in 1989: They were not driven by nationalism and were not directed against the Russian or Caucasian population. In fact, it was a protest against the dictate of the administrative command system (idem). 31 One of the website sources provides the memoirs of the veterans of the special military unit Vityaz: The order was to arrive to Novy Uzen in the Mangyšlak region of the Kazakh SSR. There were mass riots. The curfew was introduced. The existing situation showed that corruption penetrated all levels and brought the region rich with resources to poverty. This provided an impetus for mass riots based on social and international grounds (Public Organisation ..., 1989). 32 Indeed, the Soviet Union as an empire extracted resources without considering the local population and environment. The population of Novy Uzen, along with other towns and villages of Western Kazakhstan, was against this economic injustice imposed by the centre.

Conclusion

33 The article suggests that the events in Novy Uzen in 1989 can be characterised as the first attempt to attract attention to the socio-economic problems and economic development of the region. This is in stark contrast to the interethnic nature of the conflict as it was described by analysts and the mass media. In fact, the Kazakh people tried to find and occupy their own niches in the economy of the republic. Until the 1970s, the majority of the Kazakh population worked in the agricultural sector. There was an increase in migration of Kazakhs to urban centres due to a high birth rate among ethnic Kazakhs and the fall of agricultural production coinciding with the growth of industry. However, most jobs in industrial enterprises and the service sector were occupied by other ethnic groups such as Russians, Ukrainians, Chechens and Lezgins.

34 All negative tendencies that existed in the USSR in the 1980s affected socio-economic conditions. The combination of factors such as the worsening of social situations and the growth of competition in the job market became the basis for potential conflicts in many areas including in Guriev. Moscow did not take any measures to improve the situation in the region. It was not interested in creating new jobs or investing money in the development of infrastructures in the region. Instead, the centre preferred to bring in shift workers to Novy Uzen from other republics, mainly the Caucasus. This policy aggravated the situation for local Kazakhs who were the main job seekers in urban centres. 35 The internal processes that took place in the USSR were not completely isolated from the processes of world development. Some scholars claim that globalisation of the twentieth century is based on precluding the economic development of the South by

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the developed North. In the world economic community, the “invisible hand” was not working properly. The advanced countries created barriers for the less developed states of the South thus preventing a free flow of their goods. They introduced high tariffs, subsidised the production of certain goods, including agricultural products. This created dissatisfaction among the less developed countries that began to realise the importance of economic nationalism. 36 This division of the world into the developed North and underdeveloped South is reflected by the economic model of the USSR. The economic model can be understood as the confrontation between the developed Slavic centre (North) and Central Asian republics and the Caucasus (South). The “inequality of structure” as described by Perroux was observed inside the USSR. Although Moscow had the potential to invest capital in high-level industry, it mostly allocated money for the development of raw material extraction industries such as oil, gas, ores, and others. The “inequality of structure” of the Soviet economy was created to serve the export needs of the country, while the needs of the domestic market in the region were not addressed. 37 Today, economic nationalism is an important issue for Kazakhstan. It has become important to express the interests of the people and the elites. The riots and protests against injustice and hard economic conditions were repeated in 2009 in Žanaozen, as was renamed Novy Uzen in 1993. The people of Žanaozen complained that the salaries of the local population working for foreign oil companies were much lower than those received by the managers. Again, as was the case twenty years ago, there are no jobs for young people, and very expensive housing and foodstuff. The events in Žanaozen confirmed that economic nationalism is still an important issue on the political and economic agenda of post-Soviet Kazakhstan.

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NOTES

1. Luc Michel is a Belgian political activist who founded the Belgian far right political party, the Parti Communautaire National Européen (PCN). 2. Authors’ calculations based on demographic statistics of the region.

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3. Authors’ own calculation based on actual numbers from Goskomstat, 1991-1993.

RÉSUMÉS

Cet article traite des violences ethniques qui ont eu lieu en 1989 à Novy Uzen, dans l’Ouest du Kazakhstan, entre des Kazakhs et des minorités ethniques originaires du Caucase. À l’époque, les autorités avaient perçu les émeutes comme un conflit communautaire déclenché par des « hooligans » sur la base d’une haine ethnique. Nous estimons au contraire que ce conflit est le résultat des politiques menées par Moscou à l’égard de la population locale de cette région riche en pétrole. Il était avant tout motivé par la volonté de protéger le marché du travail local et donc de forcer les migrants à quitter la région de Novy Uzen. Ces événements peuvent être considérés comme relevant d’un nationalisme économique qui a commencé à émerger au Kazakhstan dans les années quatre-vingt.

This article focuses on the events in Novy Uzen – ethnic clashes between Kazakhs and ethnic minorities from the Caucasus – that took place in 1989 in the West of Kazakhstan. At that time, officials interpreted the riots as an ethnic conflict unleashed by ‘hooligans’ on the basis of ethnic hatred. In contrast, we argue that it was a result of policies conducted by Moscow towards the local population of this oil-rich region. The 1989 events were mainly driven by a strong desire to protect the local labour market and thus to force migrants to leave the Novy Uzen region. These events can be seen as part of an economic nationalism that began to emerge in Kazakhstan in the 1980s.

Данная статья анализирует конфликт между казахами и этническими меньшинствами с Кавказа, который произошел на западе Казахстана в Новом Узене в 1989 году. В тот период власти охарактеризовали конфликт как этническиий, спровоцированный «хулиганами» на основе этнический ненависти. Авторы статьи утверждают, что конфликт был результатом проводимой Москвой политики в отношении богатого нефьтю региона. Одной из ведущих сил конфликта была защита местного рынка труда и желание, чтобы приезжие мигранты покинули Новой Узень. События 1989 года могут рассматриваться как часть экономического национализма, который стал появляться в Казахстане в 80-е годы прошлого столетия.

INDEX motsclesru Новый Узень, экономический национализм, этнический конфликт, казахи, этнические меньшинства Keywords : Novy Uzen, economic nationalism, ethnic conflict, Kazakhs, minorities Mots-clés : Novy Uzen, nationalisme économique, conflit ethnique, Kazakhs, minorités ethniques

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AUTEURS

GULNARA DADABAYEVA

Gulnara Dadabayeva is Assistant Professor at the department of International relations and regional studies at kimep University (Almaty, Kazakhstan). She is a Doctor of Science in history. Her research interests include nation-building processes in the independent states of Central Asia. Her recent publications cover geopolitics and cultural puzzles of the region. Contact: [email protected]

DINA SHARIPOVA

Dina Sharipova is Assistant Professor of political science in the department of International relations and regional studies at kimep University (Almaty, Kazakhstan). Her research interests include nation- and state-building in post-Soviet Kazakhstan, formal and informal institutions, identity politics in Central Asia. She has published articles on national identity, informal institutions and security issues. Contact: [email protected]

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February 1990 Riots in Tajikistan. Who Was Behind the Scenes? Review of the Main Existing Versions Les événements de 1990 à Douchanbé : qui était en coulisse ? Examen des principales versions Февральские события 1990 года в Таджикистане: кто стоял за кулисами? Обзор основных существующих версий

Parviz Mullojanov

Introduction: Political Situation on the Eve of the February 1990 Events

1 The major political event at the end of the perestroika (1985-1991) in the Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR) of Tajikistan was the elections for the Supreme Soviet (Parliament) of the republic, scheduled for March 1990. In many senses, it was a turning point in the country’s political life because, for the first time, the elections were supposed to have a relatively free character due to the weakened domination of the ruling Communist Party (CP). It is worth noting that by the end of perestroika, the republic was in deep economic crisis, which considerably raised the level of social tension. The call for elections gave reasonable hope to the leaders of the opposition movement Rastokhez1 and its supporters of entering the Supreme Soviet as a separate and influential oppositional faction. The previous year was considered as one of the most successful for the movement. The democrats considerably expanded their network in the regions, conducted their convening conference and established steady contacts and cooperation with similar national-democratic movements and parties of other Soviet republics. The enthusiastic Rastokhez leaders were counting on a minimum of 20-30% of seats and, by autumn 1989, placed their popularisation and

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organisational activities on a much broader footing.2 At the end of December 1989, with the aim of enhancing its activities and ensuring fair elections, Rastokhez made an official application to the government to conduct a large-scale pre-election meeting on February 18, 1990.

2 At the same time, and since the beginning of January 1990, the capital faced increasing rumours concerning the alleged arrival in Dushanbe of thousands of Armenian refugees from Azerbaijan (Kališevskij, 2010). All refugees were presumably provided with housing at the expense of local families on the municipal waiting list. There were also rumours that in Leninakan, in the Armenian SSR, local people burned and trampled Tajik national clothes that had been collected and delivered to the earthquake victims as humanitarian aid.3 The rumours spread via different channels, youth meetings in city-blocks, telephone calls to mosques, propaganda during prayers, and leaflets in local universities. For instance, a poster was fixed on the entrance door to the Pedagogical Institute students’ cafeteria. As was later revealed by official investigations, the information about the refugees was disseminated during preaching in several mosques. The date of the future anti-refugee meeting was also openly disseminated to the public from the end of January. There were calls and advertisements to participate in a protest meeting to be held on February 11, 1990 in front of the Central Committee building (Nazriev & Sattorov, 2002, p. 180). 3 The rumours caused rising concern and a flow of warnings and requests to official bodies from both ordinary citizens and public associations. Thus, several days before the events, the Rastokhez leadership had an internal meeting to discuss these rumours. As a result, on February 9, a warning letter was drafted and sent by Rastokhez to the government with a request to inform the population as soon as possible about the real situation with the refugees in order to prevent potential disturbances. At about the same time, the Islamic Renaissance Party of Tajikistan4 decided not to participate in the upcoming public meeting, with a fear that the rumours were a “KGB trap.”5 Therefore, although several imams were sympathetic to Rastokhez and participated both in propaganda meetings and activities, the majority of its leaders did not take part in the demonstration. In his statement made several months after the February events, the Prosecutor of the Tajik ssr Gennadij Mikhailin asserted that, on February 9, a group of criminal leaders gathered in one of the city cafeterias to plan the organisation of large- scale disturbances, allegedly joined by some top-level officials (ibid., p. 204). However, neither the government, nor the law enforcement bodies undertook any preventive measures and the rumours continued until the last day.

The Sequence of February 1990 Events

4 Although the official date of the beginning of the February events is February 11, the first groups of protestors attempted to organise a meeting on February, 10 but failed to attract more than a hundred people (Anonymous, 2014). On February 11 at approximately 11:30am, a crowd gathered in front of the Council of Ministers building in Lenin square and, soon after, moved to a square in front of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Tajikistan (CPT), on the crossroads of Lenin avenue and Putovskij street. The crowd was initially small and did not exceed 200 people. However, the demonstrators soon blocked the road and stopped traffic and the square started to fill up with passers-by and curious onlookers. According to various estimations, by the

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afternoon the number of demonstrators had increased to up to 2,000 people, since many students from the nearby Pedagogical Institute walked through the square after classes and joined the public meeting (Kališevskij, 2010).

5 The demonstrators demanded clarification of the rumours that Armenian refugees would be provided with housing from the waiting list at the expense of local families. Turadžonzoda, the head of Kaziât – the official spiritual administration of Tajikistan’ Muslims – managed to calm the meeting participants down. They finally left the square at approximately 2pm on the condition that the authorities would provide complete answers to all their questions within the next 24 hours. On the same day, Moscow sent several military units to Dushanbe: 790 fighters of the “Alfa” special force unit and 1,068 troops, mostly paratroopers. They joined local forces, including militia units and troops of the Dushanbe garrison and the 201-Motor Rifle Division stationed permanently in Tajikistan (Davlatov & Mamadšoev, 2012). 6 On February 12, the public meeting restarted at 3pm.The crowd soon filled not only the square but also nearby streets, bringing the number of active demonstrators to 5,000. The first clashes between protesters and security forces soon occurred. Troops started to use teargas, several grenades exploded in front of the Sport shop located nearby. The crowd was dispersed but soon returned to the square and clashes continued (idem). By approximately 3:30pm, troops opened fire. According to witnesses, one of the first victims was Nikita Matrosov, a reporter from Moscow who was taking pictures from the third floor of a building located in front of the CPT Central Committee. At the same time, a local resident was shot in her kitchen located on the second floor of the same building. According to the police investigation, they were both killed by shots fired from the roof of the CPT Central Committee (Nazriev & Sattorov, 2002, p. 204). 7 Soon after, Tajikistan’s officials tried to appeal to the crowd. Otakhon Latifi, deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers, made a speech which was not welcomed. At 4pm, CPT First Secretary Kahhor Mahkamov, appeared at the square for the first time and tried to give a speech. Demonstrators were already outraged and somebody from the crowd threw a galosh and then a stone at his face. Mahkamov was forced to interrupt his speech and retreat with his bodyguards inside the building. Almost immediately thereafter, shooting resumed, causing at least six deaths and about seventy injured. In response, the crowd dispersed from the square to Lenin and Putovskij streets, shouting for weapons and revenge. Moving down the streets, protesters started to attack Russian passers-by and local women dressed like Europeans, loot shops, and burn vehicles. During the evening at least twenty-two shops, twenty-two restaurants and cafes, two cinemas, two banks, three militia vehicles, three ambulances, two trucks, and one trolleybus were reportedly destroyed or looted. As a result, at 6pm the government declared a state of emergency in the capital (idem). 8 Later in the evening, Mahkamov delivered a speech on republican television. He appealed to the population of Dushanbe to organise self-defence units all over the city in order to save property and lives and counter the action of looters. His speech gave the population of Dushanbe the official green light to organise their own protection, covering all districts and city-blocks of the capital. The self-defence units were organised on a territorial basis and included representatives of all ethnic groups. Each block was guarded by locals armed with sticks, reinforced steel, axes and other improvised arms.

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9 On February 13, the demonstration started at 10am and was soon dispersed by the army and the police. A crowd of 20,000 to 30,000 people gathered again at 1:30pm. This time, their slogans were exclusively political and anti-governmental. The protesters demanded that the government resign, that officials responsible for the use of arms against them be punished, that the sixty detainees arrested earlier by police be released, and that funerals be organised for those killed. At the same time, Džamšed Karimov, First Secretary of the Dushanbe City CPT Executive Committee and a group of his subordinates attempted to walk up to the square. The officials got as far as the Russian Drama Theatre Mayakovski, located one block away from the square, when shooting began and the crowd dispersed. The officials were forced to leave as well, actually taking the lead in running from the shooting. 10 At 6.45pm, the crowd began to organise itself again. Leadership was finally taken by a group of the most active protesters. Among them there were several well-known figures, civic leaders and ordinary citizens. They formed a “Committee of 17,” later officially renamed Vakhdat [Unity], intended to convey the demonstrators’ demands to the republic’s leaders. Buri Karimov, Minister of Construction and Transport, and deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers, was designated to lead the “Committee of 17.” Paradoxically thus, the demonstrators selected a top level official to be their representative in negotiations with the government. Afterwards Karimov insisted that he was asked and convinced personally by the CPT First Secretary Mahkamov to play the role of mediator and to lead the Committee (Karimov, 1997). Indeed, Karimov was a well-known and popular figure of the Tajik SSR at that time. As the youngest minister in the country, he was seen as an innovator and for many demonstrators symbolised perestroika and a new generation of reformists in the ruling elite. In addition, he was originally from the Gharm region (Centre) and in public opinion was associated with internal opposition, challenging the domination of Northern Leninobod province in power structures.6 The Committee drafted a “List of twenty demands” for the government. The main claim was the resignation of the three political leaders of the republic: CPT First Secretary Kahhor Mahkamov, Supreme Soviet Chairman Goibnazar Pallaev, and Council of Ministers Chairman Izotullo Haëev. 11 In the morning of February 14, an urgent Plenum of the CPT Central Committee was held to discuss the current issue. Soon afterwards, talks between the “Committee of 17” and leading representatives of the republic started. The main subject of the negotiations was the resignation of the government. However, the three top level officials strongly objected to the accusations made against them and refused to resign. They were supported by Vladimir Petkel’, head of the Tajik KGB, whereas Boris Pugo, a top level Moscow representative, insisted on their resignation. His position turned the scales and within a few hours an agreement was reached and a Protocol signed to confirm the resignation of Mahkamov, Pallaev, and Haëev. It was also agreed that the following three days would be declared public and official mourning days during which time all public demonstrations and rallies would be prohibited (Nazriev & Sattorov, 2002, p. 204). However despite these progress, by 8pm, the clashes continued. The army used firearms and several more protesters were killed and wounded. 12 Right after the conclusion of the meeting, the deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers Buri Karimov and the Minister of Culture Nur Tabarov decided to move forward and push for cadre changes. They also tried to convince several other members of the government to issue a Decree of the Council of Ministers calling for the

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resignation of Izotullo Haëev and the appointment of Buri Karimov in his place. However, they did not take into account that in order to be validated, the Protocol of resignation had to be approved by the relevant official bodies: Mahkamov’s resignation had to be confirmed by the Plenum of the CPT Central Committee, Haëev’s by the Council of Ministers and Pallaev’s by the Supreme Soviet (idem). 13 This internal intrigue caused additional turmoil within the government and the top level structures of the Communist Party. Several officials supported Buri Karimov, who allegedly insisted that his candidature had already been approved by the Moscow leadership, including Mikhail Gorbachev. Later, those officials who sought to hurry to implement the Moscow decision that evening were accused of anti-State plotting and were punished. The majority of officials finally decided to wait several more days. The ensuing course of events justified their cautiousness as, by the next day, the three leaders who signed the Protocol of resignation officially announced that it was invalid and continued to work until the CPT Plenum. 14 Such an abrupt change in leadership behaviour has always been a source of debate among observers, the majority believing that the three officials never intended to leave and the conclusion of the Protocol of resignation was just a tactical measure aimed at saving time. The recently published memoirs of Russian General Valerij Vorotnikov, head of the “Alfa” special force unit at the time of the events, have shed some light on the case. According to the General, Moscow gave its position concerning the resignation of the three leaders after the Protocol had been signed. Most probably the federal authorities initially approved of the resignation and even agreed on the appointment of Buri Karimov, which explains his self-confidence and persistent behaviour after the Protocol conclusion. It is suggested, however, that the Moscow leadership then changed its opinion by the end of the same day. This was also a sign that Moscow finally decided to adopt a hard-line and uncompromising policy of suppression towards the demonstrators (Mlečin, s.d.). 15 On February 15-17, a series of official meetings were organised during the mourning days, and on February 18, despite preventative measures, the demonstration restarted. From the morning, thousands of people started to gather again near the building of the CPT Central Committee. However, police detachments and army units blocked the road and the demonstrators were not allowed to move to the square. The crowd walked several kilometres down along Putovskij street until it reached the Borbad concert hall. About 15,000 people occupied a construction foundation pit and hold a meeting. This time, speakers openly criticised the existing power sharing system and the domination of Leninobodis in administration. It was actually the first public, and rather radical, manifestation of inter-regional rivalry. One of the speakers stated: “Is it true that only women from Leninobod are able to give birth to First Secretaries [of the Tajik Communist Party]?” The statement immediately spread throughout the country, cited by a number of pro-government publications, dividing the North from the South and causing frustration on one side and excitement on the other. Many observers believe that this was the day that the democrats lost their support of the North. In addition, in Leninobod, rumours were spreading that “in Dushanbe the democrats are hunting Leninobodis on the streets and burning the vehicles with Leninobod plates” (Karimov, 1998). 16 The meeting continued for several hours but without clashes or shootings. The meeting then calmly broke up and demonstrators left the area. According to the meeting

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leaders, the protests could no longer continue for fear of causing major casualties. The overall situation was already completely under army and police control, and the number of security units had considerably increased due to an urgent airlift of additional detachments from outside of the republic. As a result, February 18 was to be the last day of the February events in Dushanbe.

The Aftermath of the February 1990 Events

17 February 1990 is considered a turning point in the political, social and economic life of the republic. Prior to the events, Soviet Tajikistan was widely considered as an island of stability, a symbol of unchanging society left forever behind. The disturbances brought with them complete social transformation, political unpredictability, as well as abrupt and frequent changes of events. It was actually the beginning of a descent into a deepening crisis and ensuing civil confrontation.

18 The main political consequence of the events was a large-scale and irreversible discrediting of the Rastokhez movement in the eyes of a wide strata of the population. From the first mass media publications and coverage onwards, Rastokhez was directly and indirectly described as the main instigator of unrest. Already during the top-level official meetings held on February 14-18, extensively covered by mass media – both in the republic and in Moscow –, the majority of speakers, officials and representatives of the law enforcement bodies openly accused Rastokhez of organising and leading the demonstrators. Even a part of the official Islamic clergy was mobilised by state propaganda. In mass media and during preaching, some members of the clergy publicly interpreted the word “Rastokhez” [revival] as “Kiëmat” [resurrection], stating that under this name the organisation would lead people to social and political apocalypse.7 19 It is little wonder that the impact of such large-scale propaganda, coupled with public shock and common frustration, was devastating for Tajik democrats, ruining the image and political prospects of the movement. Many local and foreign observers are surprised today by the rapid loss of public support for Rastokhez and its inability to withstand pressure and effectively deny at least the main part of accusations. However, it is necessary to take into account the degree to which the public in general was upset by the violent events, especially the attacks on innocent civilians on the streets, the looting and beatings. After several decades of stability and social calm, such deeds were perceived as particularly brutal. More importantly, and due to the Soviet media and state propaganda machine, the population started to affiliate the horror of the February events exclusively with Rastokhez. And many Rastokhez leaders and ordinary activists were equally stunned by the events as the image of outraged crowds on the streets was very different to their idealistic picture of protesting citizens. This shock and frustration, coupled with the increasing pressure from security agencies, considerably limited the organisation’s ability to conduct counter-propaganda. 20 As a result, Rastokhez was forced to considerably reduce its activities due to the overall atmosphere of suspicion. A number of its members abandoned positions as they were fearing state repression. Dozens of activists became subjects of official investigations, many being forced to resign or to move to another job. For example, Mahmadali Khait and Olim Zarobek, two well-known journalists from the republican television, were fired for a series of pro-oppositional reports.

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21 In addition, the government decided not to suspend the state of emergency decreed in the capital on the second day of disturbances. This decision was explained as a preventive measure aimed at averting any destabilisation during the forthcoming elections for the Supreme Soviet of the Tajik SSR. The government also used this ground to reject proposals to postpone the elections. They were held in March 1990 under the state of emergency and with a discredited opposition. It is not surprising therefore, that the new Supreme Soviet was overwhelmingly dominated by representatives of the Communist Party.8 22 The most negative impact of the February events was the emigration of the Russian- speaking population from Tajikistan to other parts of the USSR. Emigration had started long before the 1990’s for purely economic reasons and concerned mostly young professionals from the scientific and engineering sectors. It temporarily increased after the adoption in 1989 of the “Law on the language”,9 but after the February events, the migration flow out of the republic amplified steadily.

Official Investigations of the February Events

23 After the outbreak of disturbances, the state and law enforcement bodies publicly announced their plans to conduct a comprehensive investigation to identify the main causes and organisers of the events. In the meantime, even during the very first days, preliminary data and information was publicly disseminated at the Politburo Plenum and other political meetings and widely broadcasted on television. Many of the announced facts and data were later proved to be incorrect. For instance, the head of the Tajik KGB Vladimir Petkel’ and the Prosecutor of the Tajik SSR Gennadij Mikhailin stated initially that the crowd “overturned a bread transportation vehicle and trampled the bread loaves” (Nazriev & Sattorov, 2002, p. 180). The official investigation proved that the information on trampled bread loaves had been fabricated. Investigations went on to prove that information broadly disseminated in the central mass media concerning a “raped pregnant Russian woman” and “a child thrown into the river” was also untrue. It was also revealed that the law enforcement bodies artificially increased the amount of financial loss as well as the quantity and the cost of the goods lost from the destroyed shops (idem).

24 According to the ministry of Health of the Tajik SSR and investigation data on the events: 813 citizens applied for medical treatment: 56.5% of ethnic Russians and 43.5% of Central Asians. [...] 25 people were killed: 21 were shot, 2 were stabbed with a knife and in 2 cases the reason of death is not given. In terms of ethnicity of the 25 dead people: 16 Tajiks, 5 Russians, 2 Uzbeks, 1 Tatar and 1 Azeri (ibid., pp. 196-198). 25 Investigation commissions and journalists agree that the February events were not spontaneous, but a well-planned and thoroughly organised action. However, not one of the official investigations could clearly answer the most important questions: what forces were behind the events? who organised the disturbances? how, and for what reasons?

26 Several official commissions were set up to address these questions. Firstly, the KGB investigation team started working during the events. Its report was presented to the authorities, both in Moscow and Dushanbe. As they were never disseminated in public, only a few aspects have been revealed. The KGB investigators initially accused

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Rastokhez but later blamed a group of unofficial clergy and several top level officials. The Prosecutor of the Tajik SSR conducted its own investigation, the preliminary results of which were presented to the Supreme Soviet in December 1990, after almost a year of inquiries. The report actually only presents the activities and critiques of the Tajik democrats and unofficial clergy. 27 The third commission was organised right after the events by the Presidium of the Tajik Supreme Soviet. It included twelve deputies, representing all ethnic groups of the republic. Its investigation started late due to the unwillingness of law enforcement bodies, especially the Tajik Prosecutor Office and the KGB, to cooperate and respond to the commissions’ inquiries. Within a few months, the commission produced a final report, which was not published inside the republic. Without providing any information on who was behind the events, the commission concluded that neither the Rastokhez movement, nor several top level officials pointed out of anti-government plotting by the KGB were actually involved in the organisation of the February events (Karimov, 1997). 28 Due to the limited success of the three republican commissions, the central authorities decided to undertake a new investigation under the direct control of the General Prosecutor in Moscow. Initiated by Oleg Litvak, it was continued and completed by Solidžon Džuraev, both being Senior Investigators of the General Prosecutor Office. They headed a joint investigation team consisting of a hundred professionals from local law enforcement bodies, militia, KGB and the Prosecutor Office of the Tajik ssr (Davlatov & Mamadšoev, 2012). The report was submitted to the General Prosecutor and to the cp Central Committee. Only recently, Džuraev has revealed some of the major conclusions of the investigation team in several public interviews. According to him, there were evidences of the central KGB office involvement in organising events, falsifying investigation data and putting pressure on the other investigation teams (idem). 29 In addition to these official investigations, it should be noted that several journalists have inquired and published about the February events, reflecting different positions and opinions. However, none of the prominent figures mentioned in the investigation reports and publications was prosecuted.

An Analysis of the Main Versions and Possible Scenarios

30 A thorough analysis of the existing public and official investigations, publications and memoirs devoted to the February Events highlights the following four main versions of who was behind the scenes:

Version 1: Rastokhez and National Democrat Leaders

31 This was the official version developed and promoted by the law enforcement agencies, primarily the KGB and the Tajik Prosecutor Gennadij Mikhailin. According to him, the main signs were the active presence of Rastokhez prominent leaders during the events, and the fact that 8 out of 14 members of Vakhdat (the committee created by demonstrators) were representatives of Rastokhez. In addition, ordinary members of

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Rastokhez are alleged of spreading rumours about the refugees and calling for participation in the protests (Nazriev & Sattorov, 2002, p. 240).

32 However, since the beginning there were a number of reliable arguments against this version, which made it untenable. Firstly, none of the investigation teams could find evidence of Rastokhez involvement in the organisation of the unrest to serve as a basis for legal prosecution. In his final statement to the Supreme Soviet, Mikhailin used a vague wording, as follows: The leaders of Rastokhez and unofficial clergy are the organisers of conditions which led to the destabilisation of the socio-political situation, rise of tensions in inter-ethnic relations and finally all this together with other reasons led to the mass disturbances (idem). 33 Secondly, the version did not take into account the affinity between Tajik and Armenian democratic organisations. In 1988-1990, during the conflict that opposed Armenia and Azerbaijan in Nagorno-Karabakh, the Tajik national democrats predominantly sympathised with the Armenian side, mostly due to their shared anti- Pan-Turkism ideology. Rastokhez representatives used to back Armenian delegations in all gatherings and conferences organised in the USSR. In January 1989, at a joint conference held in Vilnius under the guidance of the Lithuanian Sqjūdis Reform Movement, the Tajik and Armenian delegations agreed to support each other’s positions in the future. The friendly relation continued even after the February events. For instance, representatives of Armenian organisations supported Mirbobo Mirrahimov, a founder member of Rastokhez, in the publication in 1991 of the report of the Supreme Soviet investigation commission. Two former members of the Armenian diaspora in Tajikistan guarded Mirrahimov and the editor of the Sogdiana newspaper Parviz Mullojanov on their way to the Sqjūdis printing house in Vilnius. On February 12, 1990, Armenian representatives of several nationalist organisations arrived in Dushanbe to assist in evacuating local Armenians and investigating on the anti- Armenian disturbances. Although security agencies persistently pointed to Mirrahimov and several other leading figures of the Tajik opposition, the Armenian group came to the conclusion that neither Tajik democrats nor Islamists were responsible for the events.10

34 According to Rastokhez leaders, their decision to participate in the February demonstrations was made with the hope of shifting the crowds’ attention from the Armenian refugees to the Tajik authorities. They managed to achieve this on February 12, when the most prominent democratic activists joined the rally. Slogans immediately assumed an openly antigovernment character and the issue of Armenian refugees was silenced.11 In addition, it should be recalled that, since December 1989, Rastokhez was preparing a large meeting scheduled for February 18, to which the national democrats attached special importance. With this in mind, what reason would they have to destabilise the situation in the capital just several days before their own large-scale action? And with regards to the upcoming elections, what was the reason for democrats to threaten the electoral process when their success seemed certain?

Version 2: Tajik Islamists

35 This is actually a flip-side of the previous version developed by the KGB and the Tajik Prosecutor and was pushed forward when the first version failed (Ûsufi, 2011). In his above mentioned report, Mikhailin named several clergymen, mostly Imam-Khatibs

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(mosque leaders) from Dushanbe and the nearby Lenin district, some of whom were later prosecuted. A leading members of the Tajik opposition made the following main arguments against this version: First, it is widely accepted that all of the significant mosques, especially those located in the capital, had been under close surveillance of both official structures and the KGB. More or less all important clergymen were also being closely monitored. The question is how could the KGB and other related agencies overlook such large scale preparations supposedly ongoing in the controlled mosques during the course of almost one month and a half? And if they did not overlook them, then why were the events not prevented?12 36 The same argument applies to political Islam, represented by the Islamic Renaissance Party of Tajikistan (IRPT). Since their first arrests in 1986, all Islamist activists were closely monitored, every step observed. A former prominent official employee stipulated that IRPT leader Said Abdullo Nuri even requested the removal of the cameras installed in his bedroom because “it contradicts Islamic moral norms.”13 By 1990, all Tajik Islamists had emerged from the underground and were openly conducting their activities, making the surveillance process much easier. It is still not clear, therefore, how the law enforcement agencies could miss the primary objectives of their surveillance targets in such favourable conditions.

37 In addition, the Tajik Islamists opposed participation in the meetings and publicly defined them as “the KGB trap.” Most leaders did not show up in the square and appealed to the crowd to go home. This probably explains why charges against the IRPT were never brought in public. All official reports limited their accusations to the names of clergy individuals or used the unclear term “unofficial clergy.”

Version 3: Top Level Officials

38 The version suggests that the plotting group planned to overthrow CPT First Secretary Kahhor Mahkamov with the support of local criminal leaders and the opposition. It was presented at the Plenum of the CPT Central Committee on February 14 and it was repeated in later political meetings held on February 15-18. It stated that the conspirators included Izotullo Haëev, Chairman ofthe Council ofMinisters, Buri Karimov, Minister ofConstruction and Transport, Nur Tabarov, Minister of Culture, Nurullo Khuvajdulloev, head of the CPT Political Department, Mazkhabšo Mukhabbatšoev, editor-in-chief of Kommunist Tadžikistana, and several other high ranking officials. The Plenum decided to dismiss them from their positions and recommended that law enforcement agencies carry out a detailed investigation in order to determine whether the accused officials were guilty.14

39 Further investigations did not confirm the conclusions of the Plenum. The Supreme Soviet investigation commission stated that all of the above mentioned persons had no involvement in organising the unrest: Buri Karimov and Nur Tabarov, after conclusion of the Protocol of resignation of the Party and government leadership, being unaware of the nuances of legislation and considering the Protocol to be valid, agreed with each other and decided to take advantage of the situation [...] but there is no evidence of their involvement in the preparation of the events (Nazriev & Sattorov, 2002, p. 203). 40 The same conclusion was reached by the General Prosecutor joint investigation team. Many facts presented by law enforcement agencies, especially by the KGB, were not

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confirmed during the course of the investigation. For instance, according to KGB information, Izotullo Haëev had a secret meeting on February 9 with Rauf Saliev and Âkub Salimov, two prominent criminal bosses. This accusation was based on the testimony of a waitress of the cafeteria where the meeting was taking place. However, when questioned by the investigators of the General Prosecutor Office, she confessed that the she accepted to give a false testimony in return for permission to emigrate from the USSR (Davlatov & Mamadšoev, 2012).

41 The most contradictory and doubtful part of this version is the inclusion of Izotullo Haëev to the list of unrest organisers. Haëev was one of the three republic’s leaders, along with Mahkamov and Pallaev, and was forced to resign following the demonstrators’ demands. Does this mean that Haëev organised his own dismissal? Due to the discrepancies of this version, the General Prosecutor refused to imprison the conspirators and officially closed the case despite strong pressure from the KGB, which persistently insisted that the investigation results must fully comply with the Plenum decisions (idem).

Version 4: the KGB Central Apparatus.

42 The proponents of this version consider that the February events were organised with the aim of preventing the ascension of Rastokhez to the Supreme Soviet, where it could form a considerable parliamentary faction. It is assumed that the KGB’s initial intention was to organise controlled disturbances of nationalistic, reprehensible and disgusting character, and blame Rastokhez for the organisation, thus discrediting the party on the eve of the elections. At the same time, it would provide security agencies with a legal reason to suppress the movement or at least reject its application for official registration. As one of the respondents stated: The organisers’ initial plan failed because demonstrators very soon moved away from the subject of refugees and rallied against the government. They were no longer in control of the demonstration which assumed a more political and anti- government character instead of the intended purely nationalistic one.15 43 This version is often regarded as another variant of the conspiracy theory. In light of the well-known distrust of such theories within academic circles, it is not seriously accepted outside Tajikistan. Initially, it was not popular in Tajikistan either, but opinions have changed in the last decade, both in the public opinion and among the local expert and journalist community. The wider acceptance of this version could be considered as a public response to the unsoundness of official explanations.

44 On the other hand, public opinion may have been influenced by a series of data and information that has only recently been revealed. Consequently, local proponents of the “KGB involvement theory” can today rely on a much broader range of arguments than ever before. For instance, ‘the conspiracy theory’ was initially based only on the testimony of the Tajik KGB officer Abdullo Nazarov, who, in 1990, openly accused the security agencies of organising the events (Panfilov, 1992). But later, Solidžon Džuraev, head of the General Prosecutor joint investigation team, openly stated that his inquiry revealed the KGB’s direct engagement in the preparation of the events, as well as the large scale fabrication of data (Davlatov & Mamadšoev, 2012). Even former CPT First Secretary Kahhor Mahkamov admitted in one of his recent interviews that the

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February events were prepared and organised by the central structures of the KGB in cooperation with some officials (Anonymous, 2011a). 45 As early as 1991, the Supreme Soviet investigators blamed the KGB leadership for not allowing them to interview its employees. In addition, the KGB refused to disclose a range of documents, video recordings and a three-hour documentary on the February events. The commission also stated that the KGB overlooked a series of warnings about the upcoming events, as for instance the following case: On January 25, 1990, one of the high-ranking members the CPT Central Committee informed A. Dadabaev, Secretary of the Central Committee, that a group of Azerbaijan’s emissaries had arrived in Dushanbe and was conducting anti-party propaganda. Dadabaev immediately passed this information on to the leaders of the Tajik KGB (Nazriev & Sattorov, 2002, p. 171). 46 The KGB leadership was therefore informed of the ongoing propaganda activities and unrest preparation two weeks ahead of the disturbances. And this warning could not be overlooked as, according to the Soviet administrative rules, any information passed on from the Secretary of the Central Committee of the CPT was considered priority and required immediate reaction (idem). Why were no preventive measures taken? Why none of the Azerbaijan’s group members were detained or even investigated by the Soviet KGB, either in Tajikistan or in Azerbaijan? For instance, it would not have been difficult to find their names and addresses from the airline registration lists.

47 The role of local criminal groups in the disturbances was also surprisingly ignored. According to both official and unofficial sources, the criminal group Vodonasos, led by Rauf Saliev and Âkub Salimov, played an important role in mobilising the city youth. Both criminal leaders and their group members remained in the square during the entire demonstration and, according to numerous witness testimonies, criminals were actually running the demonstration during the first two days (Davlat Nurali, 2013). After the events, Rauf Saliev was arrested and spent several months in detention in Russia but was soon released. The question is why all official sources and investigation teams disregarded the role of the criminals and concentrated only on the opposition? 48 Interestingly, none of the senior officials of the Tajik KGB were punished or even reprimanded for the February unrest. Quite the contrary, they successfully continued their careers, with awards and promotions.16 Such an indulgent attitude does not correspond to the historically established image of the Soviet intelligence service, well- known for stern internal discipline, rigorous requirements and strict attitude towards its employees, where a minor mistake could cost a career if not a reprimand. 49 There are still a number of people in Tajikistan who oppose this version, mostly among representatives of the local Russian speaking population, the elder generations and dedicated communists. Unfortunately, their objections have a more ideological and emotional character than a rational one. Such a reaction is understandable since, for many ordinary citizens born in the Soviet Union, and especially Russians, it is almost impossible to accept the idea of the KGB involvement. This would mean that the KGB and the central authorities actually provoked anti-Russian disturbances, letting down intentionally the local Russian community for the sake of some top level political interests.

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Conclusions

50 It remains difficult to sustain which version is closer to reality as there is still insufficient reliable and confirmed information on the events. However, the existing data allows us to draw several conclusions.

51 Firstly, all investigation commissions established by official and civic institutions during and after the events have come to the same conclusion that the public disturbances in Dushanbe were not spontaneous, but well-planned, professional and thoroughly prepared actions. In this regard, the various investigation commissions highlighted the following evidences and facts to prove the organised character of the disturbances: • Investigators pointed a well organised propaganda campaign, with a considerable amount of pre-prepared material, including leaflets and proclamations, widely distributed starting from January 20. • There was a series of informal and formal gatherings in various public places and institutions, including official and unofficial mosques, universities and students’ dormitories, where people were called on to participate in protests. • There were informal gatherings of criminal leaders, from at least two main groups in Dushanbe, with a view to preparing disturbances. • Special propaganda groups had been actively instigating demonstration during the four weeks prior to the events, including a group from Azerbaijan, which allegedly arrived in Dushanbe before the disturbances. • The exact date of the demonstration was widely known to the public at least two weeks before the events, because of leaflet distribution. • Demonstrators used stones, steel sticks (fittings) and other similar devices that had been delivered by trucks to Lenin square at the beginning of disturbances (Ânovskaâ, 2010). During the first day, the crowd fought against soldiers and policemen using special equipment such as steel loops (lassos), which need time and preparation to produce.

52 Secondly, none of the investigation teams could find evidence to prove the Democrats (Rastokhez) and Islamists’ involvement in the organisation of the events. The version of an alleged internal coup was also said to be unfounded. In fact, all versions initially developed and promoted by the investigation teams led by the KGB and the Tajik Prosecutor had been discredited as early as the end of 1990.

53 With this in mind, the argument that the Soviet KGB was directly or indirectly responsible for the February events remains the only credible version. This version has generated increasing debates in Tajikistan, with new data and information being disclosed by investigators in the course of the last decade. Today, the proponents of this version argue as follows. Firstly, there are many evidences that the Tajik KGB was aware of the upcoming disturbances. According to the Supreme Soviet investigation commission, the KGB overlooked a series of applications and warnings. The propaganda actions taken against Armenian refugees took place mainly in state universities,17 and official mosques, which were traditionally under the strict surveillance of the KGB. Considering that the network of KGB informants amounted to between 400,000 and 2.9 million people (Albats, 1995, p. 68), including cases of “socially dangerous elements,” such as national and religious groups, the number of informants represented one in a hundred citizens (Makarevič, 2015, p. 42). Therefore, the KGB did not overlook the warnings and data on the upcoming disturbances but purposefully disregarded them

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for purely political concerns. Secondly, the proponents of this version give particular weight to the recently revealed conclusions of the General Prosecutor joint investigation team, which stated that none of the three versions promoted by the KGB were sustainable due to the lack of evidence and accused the Tajik KGB of large scale data fabrication. Despite unprecedented pressure from the KGB and Tajik law enforcement officials who persistently demanded the arrest of the opposition leadership and several top level officials, the results of the investigation were presented on October 10, 1990 directly to Mikhail Gorbachev and members of the Politburo (Davlat Nurali, 2013). Thirdly, neither the opposition nor a group of Tajikistan’s officials had the capacity to mobilise such a varied public, unconnected and ranging from criminal groups to propagandists from Azerbaijan. According to them, Rastokhez and Islamists were not able to conduct such large scale preparatory activities without exposing themselves to the security and law enforcement agencies. Fourthly, there was an increasing number of indirect evidence, such as the fact that the top-level Tajik KGB officials were not reprimanded or the new statement of former CPT First Secretary Mahkamov, who stressed the key role of Soviet KGB in organising the disturbances. 54 The proponents of this version consider the February events in Dushanbe through the prism of more global changes and socio-political transformation of the Soviet Union prior to its collapse. Indeed, the Soviet KGB played a key role at that time as one of the main initiators of perestroika. In this regard, General Filipp Bobkov, former deputy Chairman of the KGB, stated: “Perestroika was designed not by Gorbachev but Andropov [Chairman of the KGB from 1967 to 1982]. Unfortunately, he did not have enough time to complete his grandiose plan.” The initial intention was “to return to Lenin,” to improve and modernise the socialist system (Bobkov, 1995, p. 363). 55 According to the Soviet dissident Vladimir Bukovskij, the KGB supported nationalist and liberal-democratic movements at the beginning of perestroika in an attempt to counterbalance and weaken the resistance of the most conservative circles of the Communist Party leadership. The KGB infiltrated opposition movements with a wide network of informants and so-called “agents of influence” with the aim of controlling them. As a result, a number of prominent national democratic leaders of the 1980s are today accused of being affiliated with the Soviet security services (Grečenevskij, 2008). Aâz Mutalibov, President of Azerbaijan in 1990-1992, recently stated: “Not a single organisation in the USSR, especially an informal one, could be established without direct KGB participation” (Rasulzade, 2013). However, according to Bukovskij, with the growth and radicalisation of national movements, the “agents of influence” faced a complicated dilemma, either leave the movements or become radicalised as well. Therefore, by the beginning of 1989, the Soviet KGB had actually lost control of the democratisation process, as well as the various nationalist and democratic groups, the majority of which assumed an open anti-Soviet and anti-communist ideology with enough public support to seriously challenge local authorities in several Soviet republics. 56 From 1988 on, the KGB completely revised its policy towards national democratic movements, considering them as a main threat to the stability and integrity of the USSR. This policy change is associated with the figure of its Chairman Vladimir Krûčkov, who announced a large-scale campaign against the democrats and nationalist groups immediately upon his appointment.18 According to Boris Eltsin, ex-President of

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Russia, the KGB turned into the most backward political factor in the country, partly because General Krûčkov “had a professional disease – spy mania [...] he was consistently sending secret memos to Gorbachev with one line: ‘Democrats are preparing a coup’” (El’cin, 1994, p. 80). Appealing to the Congress of People’s Deputies of the USSR, General Krûčkov stated that the authorities no longer felt obliged to rely on political means alone, it would use force even at the risk of bloodshed. General Krûčkov added that “the KGB mission is to fight against those destructive forces that are eager to disintegrate the Soviet Union” (Strigin, s.d., p. 6). The task of fighting against the “destructive forces” was assigned to the Fifth Ideological Directorate of the KGB, which was renamed as the Third Directorate for “Defence of Constitutional Order” 19 in August 1989. 57 Therefore, the last phase of perestroika (1989-1991) was marked by a sharp confrontation between conservative pro-communist forces led by the KGB and oppositional nationalist and liberal organisations. This period started with a series of disorders throughout the Soviet Union: Baku in January 1989, Tbilisi in April 1989, Dushanbe in February 1990, Vilnius and Riga in January 1991. It ended in August 1991 with General Krûčkov’s unsuccessful coup, and was followed by the dissolution of the USSR. It was a period when the pro-Communists attempted to regain control over society and prevent the collapse of Soviet power in the national republics. In the beginning, public disturbances led to the imposition of a state of emergency and political retreat of the democratic movements in the republics. However, in Lithuania and Latvia this retreat was only temporary and, soon, the local pro-Soviet forces suffered ultimate political defeat. In Azerbaijan and Tajikistan, the elections held in a state of emergency led to creation of national parliaments dominated by the Communists. In Georgia, Azerbaijan and Tajikistan, the internal political struggle continued for several years, even after the collapse of the USSR, with violent conflicts, where Moscow consistently supported conservative pro-communist forces. There are several similarities between the public disorders that took place in 1988-1991. For instance, a group of agents of the KGB led by General Vorotnikov, first deputy head of the Fifth Directorate, were present in all these disturbances (Udmancev, 2004). And a same group of senior CP officials and special force officers was also actively engaged in all the violent events, including Boris Pugo, Chairman of the CP Control Commission and Minister of Interior of the USSR,20 and Colonel Mikhail Golovatov, head of the “Alfa” special force unit.21 The link between the KGB and public disturbances during the last phase of perestroika remains unclear and insufficiently explored. 58 Regarding the February events in Dushanbe, the actual degree of KGB involvement remains unanswered. Most evidence and data in favour of the “KGB direct engagement version” are of indirect character. Opening up official archives may shed light on this version but the Tajik KGB archives are reported to have been burned during the civil war (1992-1997). Hopefully over the years, new information and data about the February events will be disclosed and available for scholars and the wider public.

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BIBLIOGRAPHIE

ALBATS Yevgenia, 1995, KGB: State within a State, London-New York: I.B.Tauris.

ANONYMOUS, 2011a, “Èks-prezident Tadžikistana o roli KGB i armânskikh bežencev iz Spitaka v besporâdkakh v Dušanbe 1990 goda” [Ex-President of Tajikistan about the role of the KGB and Armenian refugees from Spitak in 1990 Dushanbe disturbances], Regnum information agency, February 10, [http://www.regnum.ru/news/polit/1373705.html#ixzz3Qk6ucLK2].

—, 2011b, “The Baltic States Demonstrate their Unity Over the Release of Golovatov,” News of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Latvia, July 19 [http://www.mfa.gov.lv/en/news/latest- news/11301-the-baltic-states-demonstrate-their-unity-over-the-release-of-golovatov].

—, 2014, “Kahhor Mahkamov: «vpervye govorû...»” [Kahhor Mahkamov: “I say it for the first time”], Asia-Plus, May 26 [http://old.news.tj/ru/newspaper/article/kakhkhor-makhkamov- vpervye-govoryu].

BOBKOV Filipp D., 1995, KGB i vlast’ [KGB and power], Moscow: Veteran MP.

DAVLAT Nurali, 2013, “Kto sprovociroval fevral’skie sobytiâ 1990 goda?” [Who provoked the 1990 February events?], Dajdžest Press, 4 April [http://gazeta.tj/dp/7170-kto-sprovociroval-fevralskie- sobytiya-1990-goda.html].

DAVLATOV Nurali & MAMADŠOEV Marat, 2012, “Kto stoâl za fevral’skimi sobytiâmi?” [Who was behind the February events?], Asia-plus, 10 February [http://news.tj/ru/news/kto-stoyal-za- fevralskimi-sobytiyami].

EL’CIN Boris N., 1994, Zapiski Prezidenta [President’s notes], Moscow: Ogonek.

GREČENEVSKIJ Oleg, 2008, Istoki našego demokratičeskogo režima [The roots of our democratic regime], e-book, CoolLiB.net [http://coollib.com/b/65372/read#t123].

KALIŠEVSKIJ Mikhail, 2010, “Ot ploŝadi Lenina k ploŝadi Šakhidon: K 20-letiû fevral’skoj tragedii v Dušanbe” [From Lenin square to Shakhidon square: towards the 20th anniversary of the February tragedy in Dushanbe], Fergana. news, 15 February [http://www.fergananews.com/articles/6470].

KARIMOV Buri B., 1997, Farëdi solho [The call of years], Moscow: Transdornauka.

MAKAREVIČ Eduard, 2015, Filipp Bobkov i pâtoe Upravlenie KGB. Sled v istorii [Philip Bobkov and the Fifth Department of the KGB. Mark on history], Moscow: Algoritm.

MLEČIN Leonid M., s.d., KGB. Predsedateli organov gosbezopasnosti. Rassekrečennie sud’by, [KGB. Chairmen of security organs. Declassified fates], Part 6, Chapter 17, online library Telenir.net [http://www.telenir.net/istorija/ kgb_predsedateli_organov_gosbezopasnosti_rassekrechennye_sudby/index. php].

NAZRIEV D. & SATTOROV I. (eds), 2002, Respublika Tadžikistan: Istoriâ nezavisimosti. God 1991-j (khronika sobytij) [The Republic of Tajikistan: History of independence. The year 1991 (sequence of events)], Dushanbe: Irfon.

PANFILOV Oleg, 1992, “Dušanbe, fevral’ 1992-go i dva goda spustâ: otkroveniâ majora KGB” [Dushanbe, February 1992 and two years after: KGB major’s exposures], Nezavimaâ gazeta, March 3 [http://olegpanfilov.com/?p=801].

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—, 1993, “Pervomaj prošlogo goda v Dušanbe. S nego vse i načalos’” [The 1st of May last year in Dushanbe. Everything started from this date], Nezavisimaâ gazeta, May 8 [http:// olegpanfilov.com/?p=954].

RASULZADE Zaur, 2013, “Aâz Mutalibov: Narodnyj Front byl sozdan KGB” [Ayaz Mutalibov: the People’s Front was created by KGB], Haqqin.az information portal, July 15 [http://haqqin.az/news/ 7526].

SALIMI Aûbzod, 2012, “Ukhaby ot Petkelâ” [Petkel’s potholes], WorldPress.com, August 26 [http:// aioubzod.wordpress.com/2012/08/26/ухабы-от-петкеля/].

STRIGIN Evgenij M., s.d., Ot KGB do FSB (poučitel’nye stranicy otečestvennoj istorii) [From KGB to FSB (instructive pages of national history)], Vol. 1, e-book [https://www.litmir.info/bd/?b=137807].

UDMANCEV Vadim, 2004, “‘Al’fe’ – 30 let” [“Alfa” – 30 years], Voenno-promyšlennyj kur’er 28(45), July 28 [http://vpk-news.ru/articles/812].

ÂNOVSKAÂ Mariâ, 2010, “Dušanbe 1990: russkij vzglâd” [Dushanbe 1990: a Russian view], Fergana- news, March 1 [http://www.fergananews.com/article. php?id=6484].

ÛSUFI Barot, 2011, “Krovavye fevral’skie sobytiâ so slov očevidcev” [Bloody February events from eyewitness accounts], Radio Ozodi, February 16 [http://rus.ozodi.org/a/ bloody_tajik_february_1990_/9598995.html].

NOTES

1. Rastokhez [revival in Tajik] was a political organisation in Tajikistan in the years of perestroika and civil war (1989-1997) with a programme of moderate national revival and democratic liberalism. 2. Interview with Mirbobo Mirrakhimov, one of the founders and a prominent leader of Rastokhez, June 23, 2013. 3. The Spitak earthquake (also called Leninakan earthquake and Gyumri earthquake) occurred in the Northern region of the RSS of Armenia on December 7, 1988. Humanitarian aid items were collected and sent to the earthquake victims from all republics of the USSR. 4. The Islamic Renaissance Party of Tajikistan (IRPT or Hizbi Nahzati Islomii Todžikiston in Tajik) was a branch of the Islamic Renaissance Party of the Soviet Union, founded in 1990 in Moscow, and therefore under strict KGB surveillance and control. It separated and became an independent political party in 1991. 5. Interview with an IRPT Deputy Chairman at the time of the riots, September 9, 2012. 6. During the last decades of the Soviet era, the power structures in Tajikistan were dominated by the descendants from Northern Leninobod province. This domination was increasingly opposed by internal political factions from the Southern mountainous regions including Gharm. The furious competition for power between various regional factions was one of the main distinguishing features of the perestroika period in Soviet Tajikistan. 7. Interview with Mahmadali Khait, journalist and member of Rastokhez, September 8, 2012. 8. 94% of the newly elected Supreme Soviet deputies were members of the Communist Party, of which 25% were former chairmen of Party committees (partkoms), 30% were heads of state enterprises and ministries, with only two workers, one farmer, two teachers and one scholar (Panfilov, 1993). 9. The Law on the language adopted by the Supreme Soviet in July 1989 made Tajik an official language. The law was strongly opposed by the local Russian speaking population and intelligentsia.

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10. Interview, Moscow, July 1993. 11. Interview with Mirbobo Mirrakhimov, June 2012. 12. Interview, Moscow, 1996. 13. Interview with one of the former senior officials from the State Committee on Religion of the Tajik SSR, Dushanbe, October 1995. 14. Interview with Usmon Davlat, IRPT Deputy Chair. 15. Interview with a former Rastokhez leader, July 2013. 16. For instance, the head of the Tajik KGB Vladimir Petkel’ was promoted to the central KGB structures in Moscow, where he became a close cadre of USSR KGB head Vladimir Krûčkov. In August 1991, a day before the failed coup in Moscow, Petkel’ visited Dushanbe to meet his successor Strojkin. During a parliamentary session, the deputies of the Tajik Supreme Soviet stated that Petkel’ brought with him a secret plan aimed at supporting the Moscow coup and in case of success, the KGB would implement a plan of arresting 1,100 people (Salimi, 2012). 17. Each university had so called “first departments” answering directly to the KGB. Their task was to note the ideological mood among students and teachers. In addition, there was usually a group of retired KGB employees from the so called “acting reserve” affiliated to each university and with the same task. 18. General Krûčkov was appointed to the position of Chairman of the KGB in 1989. He was dismissed after leading the unsuccessful pro-communist coup in August 1991. 19. It is worth noting that three years later, during the Tajik civil war (1992-1997), the phrase “defence of constitutional order” was used as a primary official slogan of the procommunist People’ s Front, which fought against the United Tajik Opposition, an alliance of the Tajik Islamist and democrats. 20. General Boris Pugo was the former Chairman of the KGB of Latvia, Minister of Interior in 1990-1991, and a leading member of the August 1991 coup. He committed suicide after the failed coup. 21. Colonel Golovatov is still under a European arrest warrant issued by Lithuania for the crimes committed during the repression of Vilnius and Riga events in January 1991 (Anonymous, 2011b).

RÉSUMÉS

La série de troubles qui se sont déroulées à Douchanbé en février 1990 sont considérées aujourd’hui comme l’un des désordres publics les plus violents de la dernière décennie de l’Union soviétique. Selon les données officielles, les émeutes ont été causées par la propagation de rumeurs suggérant que plusieurs milliers de réfugiés arméniens avaient reçu des logements aux dépens des familles locales. Mais les troubles ont presque immédiatement pris un caractère anti- gouvernemental et politique, menant à la violence et aux affrontements de rue. Ces événements de février n’ont pas fait l’objet de recherches approfondies. Malgré un nombre croissant de publications récentes, il existe encore une compréhension assez vague de leurs causes internes et externes. Les commissions d’enquête et les journalistes sont d’accord sur le fait que ces événement n’étaient pas spontanés mais plutôt le résultat d’une action planifiée et bien organisée. Cependant, aucune des enquêtes officielles n’a fourni de réponse aux principales questions : quelles forces se cachaient derrière les événements ? Qui a organisé les troubles ? Comment, et pour quelles raisons ? L’objectif de cet article est d’explorer et d’analyser les différentes interprétations des événements de février.

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The series of large-scale disturbances that took place in Dushanbe in February 1990 are considered today as one of the most violent public disorders of the last decade of the Soviet Union. According to official data, the riots were caused by the spread of rumours suggesting that several thousand Armenian refugees were provided with housing at the expense of local families. However, the disturbances almost immediately assumed an open anti-government and political character leading to street violence and clashes. There has been little in-depth coverage of the February events. Despite a growing number of publications, there is still a rather vague understanding of the causes and internal and external driving forces. All investigation commissions and journalists have agreed that these events were not spontaneous but rather the result of a well-planned and thoroughly organised action. However, none of the official investigations have provided an answer to the most important question: what forces were behind the events? who organised the disturbances? how, and for what reasons? With this in mind, the aim of this paper is to explore and analyse the different interpretations of the February events.

Серия масштабных столкновений и беспорядков, произошедших в Душанбе в феврале 1990 года, сегодня рассматривается в качестве одних из наиболее ожесточенных общественных выступлений в истории последнего десятилетия Советского Союза. Беспорядки были вызваны внезапно распростанившимися слухами о якобы планируемом выделении квартир нескольким тысячам беженцев из Советской Армении за счет очередников из местного списка муниципального жилья. Однако, почти сразу же после своего начала, беспорядки неожиданно приняли ярко выраженный антиправительственный и политический характер, перейдя вскоре в уличное насилие и столкновения. В то же время февральские события до сих пор остаются в значительной степени неисследованным социальным явлением. Несмотря на растущее количество различных публикаций, все еще остается немало неясостей и белых пятен в отношении корней и причин конфликта, внутренних и внешних факторов и движущих сил. Все созданные в последующем коммисии по расследованию февральских событий пришли к выводу, что беспорядки не носили спонтанный и стихийный характер, но являлись хорошо подготовленной и организованной акцией. Однако, все официальные коммисии по расследованию событий, так и не смогли ответить на самый ключевой и важный вопрос - какие именно силы стояли за февральскими событиями? кто и по каким причинам организовал беспорядки? Основная цель данной статьи заключается в детальном рассмотрении и анализе всех основных имеющихся на сегодняшний день версий относительно причин и движущих сил февральских беспорядков.

INDEX motsclesru Февральские события, общественные беспорядки, КГБ, Таджикистан Keywords : February events, social disturbances, KGB, Tajikistan Mots-clés : événements de février, troubles sociaux, KGB, Tajikistan

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AUTEUR

PARVIZ MULLOJANOV

Parviz Mullojanov (Mullojonov) is a senior adviser of the International Alert office in Tajikistan and chairman of the Board of the Open Society Institute (Soros Foundation) in Tajikistan. He was a member of the Inter-Tajik Dialogue, a peaceful international civil initiative during the civil war in Tajikistan, and a member of the eucam (eu and Central Asia Monitoring) research group. He worked for various international agencies and organisations such as Human Rights Watch/ Helsinki, the un Refugee Agency, the un Development Programme and the Asian Development Bank. Parviz Mullojanov received his PhD in Islamic studies at the University of Basel, Switzerland. Contact: [email protected]

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Une historiographie du conflit de 1990 dans le sud du Kirghizstan A Historiography of 1990 Conflict in South Kyrgyzstan Историография событий 1990 года на юге Кыргызской Республики

Zajraš Galieva Traduction : Anna Zaytseva

NOTE DE L’ÉDITEUR

Traduit du russe par Anna Zaytseva

Introduction

1 C’est à la faveur de l’arrivée de Mikhaïl Gorbatchev à la tête du Parti communiste de l’URSS qu’à partir de 1985 une politique de réformes fut mise en œuvre. Qualifiée de perestroïka, elle était censée améliorer le socialisme soviétique en y introduisant de nouvelles pratiques démocratiques. Ces réformes se firent en trois étapes : 1. La mise en œuvre d’un programme d’accélération du développement socio-économique du pays (1985-86) garantissant une gestion décentralisée de l’économie nationale, l’introduction de l’autonomie budgétaire et la résolution, d’ici l’an 2000, des pénuries de logement et d’approvisionnement ; 2. Le lancement d’une politique de transparence (glasnost) (1987-1988) marquée par la levée de la censure, l’autorisation de publier de nouveaux journaux et revues, la réhabilitation des victimes des purges staliniennes, le rétablissement de la mémoire historique des peuples et la révélation des « pages blanches » de l’histoire. 3. Enfin, une période de différenciation et de scission (1989-1991) au sein du camp des partisans de la perestroïka, l’intensification des politiques de transition vers l’économie de marché et les premières revendications ouvertes de souveraineté nationale.

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2 Mais les réformes économiques ne permirent pas d’améliorer le quotidien de la population. Le caractère contradictoire des réformes lancées dans le cadre du système dit « de commandement administré » se manifesta avec une acuité particulière dans le domaine politique. Il devenait urgent de mettre un terme au monopole du Parti communiste de l’Union soviétique (PCUS) et de relancer l’activité des soviets.

3 En 1989, une opposition démocratique commença à émerger en URSS sous la forme du Groupe interrégional des députés (Mežregional’naâ deputatskaâ gruppa). Au-delà de simples réformes, le groupe revendiquait un changement total du système politico- social soviétique. Son activité aboutit à l’abolition du monopole du pcus ainsi qu’à l’instauration d’une fonction de Président, que Mikhaïl Gorbatchev fut le premier à occuper. Cette nouvelle institution s’avéra néanmoins très faible et ne put empêcher la désintégration de l’État, qui commença par le démantèlement de son puissant pilier, le Parti communiste. Il n’en reste pas moins que la perestroïka eut des conséquences importantes pour le destin des peuples de l’Union soviétique. L’impulsion réformatrice donnée par cette dernière produisit un élan de participation politique des masses et mit en branle de nouvelles forces sociales dans toutes les républiques soviétiques. 4 Le Kirghizstan ne fut pas épargné par ces bouleversements : la société commençait à se politiser, les institutions démocratiques se développaient et l’opposition au Parti communiste grandissait avec l’apparition d’associations informelles de la société civile : des clubs, des sociétés, des cercles de discussion, des comités d’autogestion sociale, etc. Parmi les premiers clubs, citons Sovremennik [Le Contemporain], club de discussion de l’usine des machines électroniques de Frounze (Zavod ÈVM), et Demos, créé en 1987. Leurs débats eurent une grande résonance au sein des débats publics de la RSS kirghize, notamment sur la reconstruction des monuments historiques et culturels kirghiz, la réhabilitation des victimes des répressions et la sauvegarde de la mémoire historique des Kirghiz. Durant l’automne 1988, les membres de Demos préparèrent un projet de programme du Front populaire des forces socio-politiques de la république (Narodnyj front obščestvenno-političeskij sil respubliki), provoquant une vive réaction des autorités et la répression des militants du club (Ponomarev V., 1991, pp. 86-87). 5 L’association Memorial, créée à Moscou en juin 1989, compte parmi ses fondateurs les clubs Demos, Èkolog [L’Écologiste] et Poisk [La Recherche]. Memorial avait pour objectifs principaux la commémoration des victimes des répressions staliniennes, la lutte contre les résurgences du stalinisme et la critique du système socialiste. Ce fut au sein de ces associations de la société civile que se cristallisèrent les courants de la libre pensée contre les dogmes de l’idéologie soviétique et se formèrent les futurs responsables politiques. 6 Au printemps 1989, les élites au pouvoir critiquèrent les clubs de discussion, perçus comme des organisations informelles de la société civile au Kirghizstan. Dès lors, apparurent des associations, renforcées par la lutte pour la renaissance de la culture et la langue kirghizes. L’année 1989 fut donc charnière dans la dynamique de ces unions informelles. D’abord, « après plusieurs décennies de stagnation, le national se mettait en action » (CGA PD KR, f. 56, op. 278, d. 5, l. 8), le mouvement national kirghiz se développait et se renforçait. Ensuite, les idées nationales occupaient une place centrale dans les programmes de nombreuses organisations. Enfin, l’activité de beaucoup de ces organisations de la société civile revêtait un caractère ouvertement anticommuniste. La participation politique des masses devint dès lors extrêmement active et chaotique, sous l’effet d’une liberté subitement acquise.

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7 L’été 1989 vit l’explosion des tensions sociales et nationales dans la république, en raison du manque chronique de logements. À Frounze, un mouvement spontané regroupa les citoyens en quête d’un logement propre, après de longues années de séjour et de travail dans la capitale. Ils s’accaparèrent des terres en périphérie de la ville, afin d’y construire des logements individuels1. Les tensions, parfois explosives, qui opposaient les citoyens aux autorités s’apaisèrent après que ces dernières eurent délivré une autorisation officielle pour la construction de maisons individuelles. 8 L’économie du Kirghizstan, notamment dans le sud de la république, reposait sur une exploitation rentière des matières premières destinées aux régions industrielles plus développées de l’URSS. Plus des deux tiers des Kirghiz vivaient à la campagne et vaquaient à des activités agricoles, tandis qu’à peine plus d’un quart travaillaient dans l’industrie et le bâtiment. Dans des villes petites et moyennes, il existait quelques industries d’extraction et de transformation de minerais, directement gérées par les autorités fédérales. À cette époque, l’oblast d’Och s’étendait sur tout le sud du pays2 et jouissait d’un très faible développement industriel. 9 C’est également à cette époque que l’exode rural des Kirghiz s’accentua. À la fin des années quatre-vingt, une part importante de migrants ruraux habitaient déjà dans les villes du Kirghizstan, sans disposer de leur propre logement, d’un emploi bien rémunéré ou d’un contrat de travail permanent. Le Kirghizstan fut frappé par une crise économique induisant chômage, inflation, baisse brutale du niveau de vie, pénurie de biens de consommation et de denrées alimentaires de base, etc. Cette situation allait en s’aggravant dans la mesure où les autorités fédérales se souciaient peu de l’infrastructure sociale et culturelle de la RSS kirghize. De sorte que les villes de la république subissaient de plein fouet le manque de logements et de services sociaux, sanitaires et économiques pour répondre aux besoins accrus de la population. 10 Parallèlement à la crise économique, la polarisation grandissait au sein de la population en fonction de l’appartenance ethnique. Ce phénomène s’observait particulièrement dans le sud du pays, où les Kirghiz vivaient au côté de communautés compactes d’Ouzbeks, de Russes, de Tatars et d’autres groupes ethniques.

Les principaux déterminants des relations interethniques

11 Parmi les nombreux facteurs régissant les relations interethniques au Kirghizstan, nous pouvons en relever trois qui déterminent tous les autres facteurs : les conditions sociales et économiques, la situation politique, et les ingérences extérieures. Ces trois facteurs jouèrent un rôle négatif sur les relations entre Kirghiz et Ouzbeks dans le sud de la RSS kirghize durant la perestroïka.

12 La situation sociale et économique des habitants de l’oblast d’Och était alors à peine différente des piètres conditions de vie de l’ensemble de la population de la RSS kirghize. Pourtant, la crise économique, le chômage et l’inflation frappèrent de manière encore plus forte cet oblast rural, où la population cultivait le coton et le tabac. La région était d’ailleurs en dernière position du classement républicain du niveau de vie des habitants. Son faible tissu industriel reposait sur de rares entreprises, telles que le combinat cotonnier Ak Žibek et l’usine de pompes industrielles tous deux situés à Och, ou encore le combinat d’antimoine de Kadamžaj. Pendant les années de

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perestroïka, la part des employés dans l’industrie baissa considérablement. Près de 50 000 personnes de l’oblast d’Och, soit un adulte sur six, n’avaient aucun emploi ; et les trois quarts d’entre eux étaient des jeunes de moins de trente ans (Asankanov, 1996, p. 172). 13 En l’absence de solution de la part des autorités nationales et régionales, la dégradation des conditions de vie des habitants du sud du pays entraîna une déstabilisation des relations interethniques. Le mécontentement croissant des Kirghiz face à leur précarité sociale et économique engendrait une hostilité grandissante vis-à-vis des autres groupes ethniques, notamment des Ouzbeks, qui jouissaient de conditions meilleures. Il s’agissait donc d’un processus de personnification ethnique des tensions socioéconomiques dans l’oblast d’Och, accentuée par l’inefficacité des politiques gouvernementales et l’effet croissant de l’économie de l’ombre. Si les Kirghiz exprimaient leur insatisfaction auprès des administrations locales, régionales et nationales, une partie des Ouzbeks du Kirghizstan espéraient que la RSS ouzbèke voisine les intègrerait dans son territoire ou, du moins, soutiendrait la constitution d’un territoire autonome ouzbek au sein du Kirghizstan3. 14 Les réformes politiques étaient également propices au développement de tensions interethniques. Tous les acquis de la perestroïka – le processus de démocratisation, la transparence, l’élargissement des droits accordés aux RSS, la liberté de parole – favorisaient l’expression ouverte des idées lors de réunions publiques, de manifestations et dans les médias. Cela concernait aussi bien les Kirghiz que les Ouzbeks, les Russes, les Ouïgours et les autres groupes ethniques du Kirghizstan. Cependant, la majorité de la population n’était pas encore prête à assumer sa nouvelle condition d’un point de vue psychologique et moral. La souveraineté du Kirghizstan, idée revendiquée par divers mouvements et organisations socio-politiques, était perçue par une partie des citoyens kirghiz comme la souveraineté du groupe ethnique titulaire de la nation, ce qui impliquait à leurs yeux de privilégier uniquement les Kirghiz dans tous les domaines. Ceci ne pouvait que renforcer les tensions interethniques. 15 Dans l’oblast d’Och, des organisations communautaires contribuèrent, à partir de 1989, à l’exacerbation des tensions entre Kirghiz et Ouzbeks : le NDFK, acronyme russe du Front populaire démocratique du Kirghizstan (Narodno-demokratičeskij Front Kirgizii) et Oš-ajmagy [District d’Och] regroupaient des milliers de jeunes activistes kirghiz. Le NDFK véhiculait l’idée qu’il fallait « calmer les Ouzbeks d’Och trop à leur aise et qui utilisaient les Kirghiz comme main-d’œuvre auxiliaire » (Razzakov, 2011, p. 79). Oš- ajmagy exigeait, pour sa part, la distribution de parcelles aux Kirghiz ne disposant pas d’un logement propre à Och, afin qu’ils puissent y construire une habitation. Quant aux Ouzbeks, leur organisation Adolat [Justice] avait pour principale mission la sauvegarde et le développement de la culture, de la langue et des traditions ouzbèkes. Certains de ses membres exprimaient également des revendications territoriales, réclamant la révision des frontières entre les RSS kirghize et ouzbèke ou la mise en place d’une autonomie ouzbèke au sein de la RSS kirghize. Oš-ajmagy et Adolat développèrent une « image de l’ennemi ». En manipulant l’opinion, elles réussirent à introduire l’idée d’exception nationale dans les consciences des Ouzbeks et des Kirghiz (Èlebaeva & Iordan, 1995, p. 26). 16 L’existence d’aspirations séparatistes parmi les leaders communautaires ouzbeks est attestée par une lettre signée d’un groupe de vingt-trois vétérans de la Grande Guerre patriotique, vétérans du travail et membres du pcus de la ville de Djalalabad dans

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l’oblast d’Och, datée du 2 mars 1990, et adressée au président du Soviet des nationalités du Soviet suprême de l’URSS, Rafik Nišanov, au premier secrétaire du Comité central du PC de la RSS kirghize Absamat Masaliev, aux comités de rédaction de la revue Izvestiâ CK KPSS [Les Nouvelles du Comité central du PCUS] et du journal Sovetskaâ Kirgiziâ [La Kirghizie soviétique] : La population autochtone de la région est de facto constituée d’Ouzbeks (560 000 personnes environ). Ce peuple a un mode de vie, des traditions, des coutumes, une culture et une langue authentiques et séculaires qui lui sont propres. Si, dans l’ensemble de la république, la part des Ouzbeks se limite à trente pour cent, dans la région d’Och, c’est-à-dire dans la zone de peuplement compact, elle atteint plus de cinquante pour cent [...]. Nous sommes fermement convaincus qu’afin de résoudre au mieux les problèmes liés à l’égalité effective des droits entre les nationalités, les Ouzbeks ont besoin d’un nouveau mécanisme de gestion étatique dans le cadre de la RSS kirghize, sous la forme d’une autonomie de la région d’Och au sein de la république. La mise en place d’une république d’Och autonome à l’intérieur de la RSS kirghize nous semble la solution la plus raisonnable aux tensions interethniques et, en même temps, une façon de corriger les erreurs du passé inhérentes à la période où les questions nationales étaient résolues par les méthodes propres au système de commandement administratif sous la direction de Staline lorsqu’il était commissaire du peuple aux nationalités. Ce type d’organisation de l’État permet d’établir démocratiquement une égalité des droits des nationalités. Pour cela, la république est dotée de toutes les possibilités nécessaires. Compte tenu des considérations évoquées, nous nous permettons de porter à votre attention notre demande d’intégrer à l’ordre du jour du Soviet des nationalités du Soviet suprême de l’URSS, la mise en place de la région autonome soviétique socialiste d’Och au sein de la RSS kirghize ainsi que les modifications nécessaires à apporter à la Constitution de l’URSS et de la RSS kirghize. Notre opinion à ce sujet est partagée avec la population de la région, en particulier les habitants des villes d’Och et de Kyzyl-Kiâ, des districts de Suzak, Bazar-Korgon, Leninsk, Aravan, Ala-Buka, Kara-Suu, Uzgen et d’autres. Nous considérons qu’il est plus avisé de résoudre ce problème par le haut, sans attendre une explosion qui, dans les conditions actuelles, n’est pas exclue (Razzakov, 2011, pp. 98-101). 17 Notons néanmoins, l’argument sur la prétendue majorité des Ouzbeks dans la région (Asankanov, 2009, pp. 391-392), soumise à diverses formes d’oppression, s’appuie sur des données qui ne correspondent pas aux résultats du recensement de la population de l’URSS de 1989 indiquant que les Kirghiz représentaient 52,4 % de la population nationale, les Ouzbeks 12,9 %, les Russes 21,5 %, et les autres groupes ethniques 13,2 %. Dans la région d’Och, on comptait alors 59,7 % de Kirghiz, 26,1 % d’Ouzbeks et 6,3 % de Russes (Goskomstat, 1990).

18 La lettre fut reproduite par les militants d’Adolat et diffusée dans la population ouzbèke afin de convaincre de nouveaux partisans pour la mise en place d’une région autonome ouzbèke. Cela entraîna une recrudescence des tendances séparatistes parmi la jeunesse ouzbèke, et accentua plus encore la confrontation entre les deux groupes ethniques, car les Kirghiz se méfiaient de l’autonomisation des Ouzbeks, les jeunes considérant ces actes comme un « séparatisme visant à scinder l’unité de l’État kirghiz » (Myrzakmatov, 2011, pp. 6-7).

Le début du conflit (20 avril-3 juin 1990)

19 Les années de perestroïka furent marquées par le flux vers la ville d’Och des jeunes Kirghiz des villages environnants. En ville, les emplois les plus convoités étaient ceux

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liés au commerce – et ce malgré la pénurie des denrées alimentaires et des biens de consommation – mais aussi au secteur de la restauration et des transports publics. Ces niches économiques étaient alors principalement occupées par les Ouzbeks, 71,4 % dans le commerce, 74,7 % dans la restauration et 79 % dans les transports publics. Ce déséquilibre ethnique provoqua au sein de la jeunesse kirghize le sentiment d’une injustice subie sur leur terre natale (Èlebaeva & Iordan, 1995, p. 173) ainsi que le ressentiment à l’égard de la population ouzbèke.

20 À ce phénomène, s’ajoutait la pénurie de logements : la liste d’attente de logements comportait 58 000 personnes dans la région (près d’un sixième de la population) et plus de 12 000 personnes pour la seule ville d’Och, parmi lesquelles une partie importante étaient des familles ouzbèkes (Anonyme, 1990c). L’organisation Oš-ajmagy lança une campagne pour collecter les requêtes des Kirghiz souhaitant obtenir une parcelle individuelle. Le 20 avril 1990, leur nombre s’élevait à 5 000, et le 23 avril, les dirigeants de l’organisation adressèrent au premier secrétaire du Comité central du Pc de l’oblast d’Och, Usen Sydykov, ainsi qu’au président du Comité exécutif de l’oblast, un rendez- vous afin de réfléchir ensemble à une solution pour distribuer les parcelles de terre (Razzakov, 2011, pp. 46-47). En outre, ils demandèrent de l’aide pour enregistrer officiellement Oš-ajmagy, disposer d’un temps de parole dans des émissions de radio et de télévision locales, et d’une rubrique spéciale dans la presse écrite pour relater les activités de leur organisation (Masaliev, 2004, pp. 15-16). La rencontre eut lieu le 17 mai 1990, dans une ambiance tendue : les jeunes Kirghiz menacèrent de s’accaparer des terres si les autorités ne procédaient pas à une distribution avant le 25 mai (ibid., p. 16). 21 Face à l’intransigeance des autorités de l’oblast, qui refusaient de céder à l’ultimatum, les militants d’Oš-ajmagy organisèrent une série de manifestations, dont celle qui eut lieu le 27 mai 1990 sur le territoire du kolkhoze Lénine adjacent à la ville d’Och. Les 5 000 manifestants kirghiz avaient quatre revendications : 1) l’octroi de parcelles constructibles ; 2) la démission du premier vice-président du Soviet suprême de la RSS kirghize, Renat Kulmatov, auquel ils reprochaient son inaction lorsqu’il était premier secrétaire du comité régional du PC de l’oblast d’Och entre 1981 et 1990 ; 3) la réduction de la part des Ouzbeks dans le domaine du commerce et des services à la population à 50 % ; 4) la régulation des migrations intérieures en facilitant l’enregistrement sur le lieu de résidence (propiska) et l’accès à l’emploi et au logement des jeunes Kirghiz (Razzakov, 2011, p. 80). 22 Sous la pression des manifestants, les dirigeants locaux du PC, venus à la hâte, firent la promesse de leur octroyer trente hectares du kolkhoze Lénine. Les manifestants fixèrent la date butoir au lundi 4 juin pour que cette mesure soit mise en œuvre. Mais les habitants du kolkhoze Lénine, tous des Ouzbeks, s’opposèrent à cette décision. Pour éviter un conflit, les autorités firent marche arrière et proposèrent aux militants d’Oš- ajmagy un total de 662 hectares de nouvelles parcelles, soustraites aux kolkhozes de Kalinin, Papan et Keneš. Face à l’opiniâtreté de 200 militants d’Oš-ajmagy qui insistaient pour obtenir les terres promises sur le kolkhoze Lénine, les autorités de l’oblast cédèrent à nouveau au profit des militants kirghiz. Mécontents de cette décision, les Ouzbeks organisèrent à leur tour une manifestation le 30 mai sur le territoire du kolkhoze Lénine. Ils rédigèrent un manifeste destiné aux autorités de l’oblast et de la république en quatre points : 1) la création du territoire autonome d’Och et la reconnaissance de l’ouzbek comme langue d’État ; 2) la création d’un centre culturel ouzbek ; 3) l’ouverture d’une faculté de langue ouzbèke au sein de l’Université

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pédagogique d’Och ; 4) le limogeage du premier secrétaire du comité régional du PC de l’oblast, Usen Sydykov, accusé de protéger exclusivement les intérêts des Kirghiz. 23 Le mécontentement des Ouzbeks était d’autant plus grand que la majorité des cadres dirigeants était des Kirghiz (AŽK KR, d. 01-2, t. 17, l. 237-238). Les autorités se devaient de répondre à ces revendications avant le 4 juin, date butoir fixée par Oš-ajmagy pour l’attribution des parcelles du kolkhoze Lénine. Le ressentiment entre les deux groupes ethniques s’aggrava après l’expulsion de 700 familles kirghizes de leur logement dans les quartiers ouzbeks d’Och (Masaliev, 2004, p. 17).

Le déroulement du conflit (4-9 juin 1990)

24 Le conflit foncier se transforma en une confrontation interethnique. Le 4 juin 1990, les deux communautés antagonistes – 1 500 Kirghiz et 10 000 Ouzbeks – se retrouvèrent sur le territoire du kolkhoze Lénine (Razzakov, 2011, p. 80). Afin d’éviter l’affrontement, plusieurs détachements des forces spéciales de la police, armés de mitraillettes, s’interposèrent. Le président du Conseil des ministres de la RSS kirghize, Apas Džumagulov, le secrétaire chargé de la propagande du Comité central du Pc de la RSS kirghize, Medetkan Šerimkulov et le président du Conseil municipal d’Och, B. Fattaev, intervinrent auprès des manifestants et annoncèrent la construction, sur le terrain contesté, d’un centre culturel kirghiz Kara-Šoro ainsi qu’un immeuble d’une capacité de deux cents appartements dans le but d’accueillir ceux pour qui l’obtention d’un logement était urgente. Les autres se verraient octroyer des parcelles sur trois kolkhozes du district de Kara-Suu, eux aussi contigus à la ville d’Och.

25 Satisfaits de ces mesures, la majorité des Kirghiz se dirigèrent vers les trois kolkhozes pour prendre possession de leurs parcelles mais les autorités ne s’y rendirent pas. Si bien qu’ils revinrent au kolkhoze Lénine pour exprimer à nouveau leurs revendications. Une première tentative de briser le cordon de police en lançant des projectiles et cocktails Molotov entraîna une riposte des policiers et un recul provisoire de la foule. Les appels au calme des autorités furent noyés dans la clameur et les sifflements de la foule. Et lorsque Fattaev informa la foule que presque toutes les exigences du côté ouzbek seraient satisfaites à l’exception de celle de créer une région autonome (Anonyme, 1990c), les Ouzbeks s’attaquèrent, à leur tour, au cordon des forces de l’ordre en scandant le slogan « Autonomie ! ». 26 À 19 h, la confrontation devenait imminente. L’apparition d’un groupe de personnes au croisement du périphérique et de la route menant vers l’aéroport fut interprétée comme l’arrivée d’un renfort aux Ouzbeks depuis la région d’Andijan en Ouzbékistan (Omuraliev, 2010). Afin de conserver le contrôle de la situation, les policiers tiraient en l’air et vers le sol et recevaient en contrepartie des cocktails Molotov, des pierres, des bâtons et toutes sortes de projectiles (Anonyme, 1990c). Quelques balles tuèrent par ricochet plusieurs Ouzbeks. Portant leurs morts en criant « Le sang pour le sang ! », les Ouzbeks se dirigèrent vers la ville en attaquant les Kirghiz sur leur passage, et les Kirghiz firent de même en empruntant un autre itinéraire menant vers la ville (Razzakov, 2011, p. 80). 27 Prises au dépourvu par cette escalade de la violence, les autorités locales furent incapables de stopper la marche meurtrière des jeunes des deux communautés. Le Présidium du Soviet suprême de la RSS kirghize décréta le soir même du 4 juin l’état d’urgence pour la ville d’Och et quelques districts environnants (Anonyme, 1990a). Le

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lendemain, malgré le quadrillage de la ville par des unités militaires, la situation restait préoccupante et des rixes et pogroms étaient perpétrés dans plusieurs quartiers. Des brigades de jeunes venues des districts voisins tentèrent de briser les cordons de police pour entrer en ville. Les entreprises, les commerces et les écoles furent fermés par mesure de précaution (Anonyme, 1990b). Dans la nuit du 6 au 7 juin, des jeunes prirent d’assaut le bâtiment de la Direction régionale des affaires intérieures et un poste de police. Le matin du 7 juin, ce sont des stations-service et le dépôt des transports routiers de la ville qui furent attaqués, entraînant une rupture de l’approvisionnement en eau potable et denrées alimentaires (Anonyme, 1990d). 28 Mais la question des relations avec l’oblast voisin d’Andijan (RSS ouzbèke) devenait préoccupante. Des cordons militaires furent installés afin de bloquer toute intrusion de groupes venus de la république voisine. Une délégation officielle fut envoyée d’Andijan pour tenter de ramener au calme les Ouzbeks d’Och (Anonyme, 1990d) mais le même jour, 15 000 Ouzbeks de l’oblast d’Andijan se regroupèrent pour venir soutenir les Ouzbeks d’Och. Ils tentèrent en vain de désarmer les détachements militaires séparant les des deux oblasts (Anonyme, 1990e). Des personnalités politiques et religieuses de la RSS ouzbèke intervinrent auprès de ces jeunes pour les dissuader de prendre part au conflit d’Och (Knâzev, 2012, p. 24). Des intellectuels des deux camps – le poète kirghiz Tchinguiz Aïtmatov et les écrivains ouzbeks Adyl Âkubov et Pirimkul Kadyrov – s’adressèrent également à la population par la chaîne de télévision d’Och pour les appeler à la sagesse, à la tolérance et à l’unité (Anonyme, 1990e). 29 La diffusion rapide des rumeurs au sujet des événements d’Och entraîna une propagation des violences interethniques dans d’autres régions de l’oblast d’Och, notamment dans les districts de Nookat, Alaj, Leninskij, Bazar-Korgon, Suzak, Kara-Suu et Toktogul et dans les villes de Djalalabad, Taš-Kumyr et Majli-Saj. Par exemple, des chauffeurs de bus arrivant au soir du 4 juin dans le village kirghiz de Kara-Kuldža (district de Sovetskij), situé à 90 km à l’est d’Och, rapportèrent aux habitants ce qu’ils percevaient comme le massacre des Kirghiz par les Ouzbeks d’Och. Cette rumeur provoqua un grand rassemblement au centre du chef-lieu de district dans le but d’aller en découdre avec les Ouzbeks d’Och (Èlebaeva & Iordan, 1995, p. 260). Les 5 et 6 juin, ils tentèrent même à plusieurs reprises de s’emparer du bâtiment du Département du district des affaires intérieures pour récupérer des armes. 30 Le 5 juin, c’est dans la ville d’Uzgen, située à 50 km au nord d’Och et peuplée majoritairement d’Ouzbeks, que les tensions interethniques se propagèrent, après l’arrivée d’un groupe de Kirghiz, armés de couteaux, de barres de fer et d’armes à feu. Dans divers quartiers de la ville et des villages environnants, des maisons furent incendiées, des commerces saccagés et des pogroms perpétrés contre les habitants. Le lendemain, l’entrée de troupes militaires mit un terme provisoire aux affrontements, mais ceux-ci reprirent le jour suivant, entraînant la destruction de 180 habitations (Anonyme, 1990e). Dans le district montagneux d’Alaj, peuplé majoritairement de Kirghiz, une foule surchauffée réunie devant le bâtiment du Comité local du PC exigea des armes, puis tenta en vain de s’emparer du bâtiment du Département du district des affaires intérieures. Des tentatives similaires de prise d’armes furent entreprises dans les districts d’Aravan et de Kara-Suu, peuplés majoritairement d’Ouzbeks. Dans le district de Nookat, à 40 km au sud-ouest d’Och, des provocateurs tentèrent d’attiser l’animosité entre les Kirghiz et les Ouzbeks du district en répandant des rumeurs malveillantes (Anonyme, 1990d). Les tensions se répandirent jusqu’à la capitale

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Frounze, pourtant située à plus de 600 km d’Och. Les 6 et 7 juin, des manifestations estudiantines furent organisées. Dans la nuit du 7 juin, des groupes d’étudiants saccagèrent des boutiques de primeurs, des kiosques à journaux et des voitures (idem). 31 Au total, près de 5 000 Kirghiz et 2 000 Ouzbeks durent quitter leurs habitations et 1 750 Kirghiz et 1 435 Ouzbeks trouvèrent refuge dans des campements provisoires près de la ville d’Uzgen et du village de Myrza-Ake. Le bilan matériel des destructions s’éleva à 85 millions de roubles. Le rapport de la Commission républicaine sur le « Conflit interethnique dans la région d’Och et les mesures pour la stabilisation de la situation », sous la direction de Džumagulov, dénombre à la date du 15 août 1990 un total de 230 morts, dont 161 dans la ville d’Uzgen, 23 dans la ville d’Och, 24 dans le district de Kara- Suu, 11 dans le district Alaj, 8 dans le district de Sovetskij et 3 dans le district d’Aravan. On dénombra 1 371 blessés, parmi lesquels 1 071 furent hospitalisés. La Commission enregistra 573 incendies criminels dont 411 maisons d’habitation, 54 bâtiments publics et 89 véhicules (Masaliev, 2004, pp. 10-11). Il faut noter que les sources non officielles évoquent parfois plusieurs milliers de victimes (par exemple Kenžesariev, 2010). 32 Les tentatives de conciliation furent nombreuses : le 8 juin, une rencontre entre le président du Conseil des ministres, Apas Džumagulov, et des représentants des communautés kirghize et ouzbèke fut organisée pour proposer des solutions pour stopper les massacres, protéger la population et rétablir l’unité et la confiance dans le sud du pays ; elle fut suivie, le 9 juin, par une rencontre bilatérale entre les dirigeants des RSS kirghize et ouzbèke (les présidents des Conseils des ministres, respectivement Apas Džumagulov et Šukurulla Mirsaidov) et des oblasts frontaliers d’Och et d’Andijan (les premiers secrétaires des Comités régionaux du Pc, respectivement Usen Sydykov et Kaûm Halmirzaev). Mirsaidov déclara que le gouvernement de la RSS ouzbèke était catégoriquement opposé aux revendications d’une région autonome ouzbèke au sein de la RSS kirghize (Anonyme, 1990f).

Une typologie des conflits interethniques pour mieux comprendre le conflit de 1990

33 Le conflit de 1990 à Och est l’un des nombreux cas de violences interethniques survenues dans l’Union soviétique finissante. Afin de mieux comprendre la nature de ce conflit, nous pouvons faire appel aux nombreuses tentatives de typologie des conflits de l’espace soviétique. Au début des années quatre-vingt-dix, Pain et Popov proposaient une première typologie : • Les conflits de stéréotypes correspondent au stade où les protagonistes ont une image négative l’un de l’autre, l’image d’un voisin hostile, d’un groupe indésirable, sans pour autant se rendre totalement compte des raisons de leurs différends (par exemple, les relations entre Arméniens et Azéris) ; • Les conflits d’idées correspondent au stade où les protagonistes confrontent leurs revendications, chacun se fondant sur le droit historique de son groupe à avoir son propre État (par exemple, l’Estonie, la Lituanie, la Géorgie, le Tatarstan), ou à avoir un territoire ethnique propre (l’Arménie, l’Ossétie du Nord, l’Ingouchie). • Enfin, les conflits de passage à l’acte correspondent au stade où les protagonistes passent des réunions publiques et manifestations socio-ethniques à des confrontations interethniques ouvertes (Pain & Popov, 1990).

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34 En réalité, Pain et Popov distinguaient les différents stades d’un conflit. Arutûnân, Drobiževa et Susokolova ont établi, pour leur part, une typologie des conflits basée sur les objectifs et le contenu : • Les conflits institutionnels de statut pour l’indépendance des républiques fédérées de l’URSS : la nature de ces conflits n’était pas nécessairement ethno-nationale, mais la composante ethnique y était obligatoirement présente. Depuis l’émergence des mouvements nationaux en Estonie, en Lituanie, en Lettonie, en Moldavie, en Arménie, en Ukraine et en Géorgie, des revendications furent avancées pour concrétiser des intérêts ethno-nationaux. Au fur et à mesure de leur développement, ces mouvements passaient des exigences ethno-nationales à des revendications d’indépendance étatique, sans toutefois abandonner les mobilisations liées à l’ethnicité. La forme principale des conflits de ce type fut institutionnelle. Les décisions des instances législatives d’Estonie, de Lituanie, de Lettonie étaient soutenues par la plupart des nationalités titulaires des républiques soviétiques. Il serait dès lors tout à fait justifié de classer ces conflits institutionnels dans la catégorie des conflits ethno-nationaux transformés en mouvements de lutte pour l’indépendance des républiques. Le même scénario fut valable en Géorgie, en Moldavie et dans d’autres républiques de l’URSS. • Les conflits de statut au sein des républiques fédérées et des territoires autonomes apparaissent dans la lutte pour l’amélioration d’un statut ou l’obtention d’un statut. Ceci fut revendiqué par certaines républiques autonomes, par exemple le Tatarstan, souhaitant accéder au statut de république fédérée. Il fut plus tard question d’une « appartenance par association » du Tatarstan à la Fédération de Russie. • Les conflits ethno-territoriaux désignent les disputes de communautés ethniques relatives à leur droit de vivre sur un territoire donné, de le posséder et de le gérer. Il peut s’agir de la lutte pour le rétablissement d’une autonomie (Allemands de la Volga, Tatars de Crimée), pour une réhabilitation juridique et culturelle (Grecs, Coréens, etc.) ou bien pour le retour sur la terres des ancêtres (Turcs-Meskhètes vers la Géorgie). Dans quelques cas seulement, il existe une dimension territoriale. Ces types de conflits sont en général les plus difficiles à résoudre. • Enfin, les conflits intercommunautaires regroupent par exemple le cas russo-estonien en Estonie, russo-letton en Lettonie et russo-moldave en Moldavie. Ce type de conflit peut revêtir l’apparence d’une simple confrontation intercommunautaire ou bien de manifestations d’opposition de masse. Les conflits intercommunautaires en Estonie et en Lettonie furent liés, d’une part, à des mesures discriminatoires des gouvernements à l’encontre des populations n’appartenant pas au groupe titulaire, ainsi qu’à des actions d’extrémistes nationalistes, et d’autre part, à l’organisation de résistances (Arutûnân, Drobiževa & Susokolova, 1999).

35 Âkov Ètinger propose la typologie la plus détaillée et distingue neuf types principaux de conflits : • Les conflits territoriaux sont souvent liés à la réunification de populations séparées par l’histoire. Leur source est à rechercher dans une confrontation interne, politique, souvent armée entre le gouvernement au pouvoir et un mouvement de libération nationale ou un groupement séparatiste, bénéficiant d’un soutien politique voire militaire d’un État voisin (par exemple, le Haut-Karabagh et l’Ossétie du Sud). • Les conflits liés au droit à l’autodétermination d’une minorité ethnique avec la mise en place d’une entité étatique indépendante (par exemple, l’Abkhazie, la Gagaouzie et la Transnistrie).

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• Les conflits liés au rétablissement des droits territoriaux des peuples déportés (par exemple, le conflit entre Ossètes et Ingouches sur le contrôle du district de Prigorodnyj). • Les conflits liés aux prétentions d’un État sur le territoire d’un autre État. Il s’agit, par exemple, des visées de l’Estonie et de la Lettonie sur certains districts de la région de Pskov, qui furent annexés à ces États lors de leur déclaration d’indépendance en 1920 avant de passer à la RSFSR en 1945. • Les conflits résultant de changements territoriaux arbitraires durant la période soviétique. Il s’agit notamment du statut de la Crimée et des démarcations contestées des États centrasiatiques. • Les conflits liés à des intérêts économiques divergents apparaissent lorsque les tensions nationales cachent en réalité une lutte des élites économiques, étroitement liées aux élites politiques, pour le contrôle des ressources (par exemple, les tensions entre Grozny et Moscou, ou entre Kazan et Moscou). • Les conflits basés sur des facteurs historiques sont déterminés par une longue tradition de lutte de libération nationale envers la métropole. • Les conflits liés à la présence sur le long terme d’un peuple déporté (par exemple, les Turcs- Meskhètes en Ouzbékistan, et les Tchétchènes au Kazakhstan). • Enfin, les conflits pseudo-linguistiques qui, sous l’apparence d’une lutte pour le statut d’une langue, cachent souvent des désaccords profonds entre deux groupes ethniques (par exemple, en Moldavie ou au Kazakhstan) (Ètinger, 1993, p. 89).

36 Un dernier auteur, Mikhail Zelenkov, classe les conflits en fonction, dans un premier temps, de leurs causes et origines : • Les conflits socio-économiques peuvent s’expliquer par le chômage, les retards ou impayés de salaires et d’aides sociales, ne permettant pas à la majorité des citoyens de subvenir à leurs besoins de base. Ils peuvent aussi être dus au monopole d’un groupe ethnique dans un secteur économique donné, ou encore à une lutte pour la redistribution d’une part du produit national au profit des autochtones. • Les conflits culturels et linguistiques peuvent découler de la volonté de protéger, valoriser et développer une langue autochtone, une culture nationale ou les droits d’une minorité ethnique. • Les conflits ethno-territoriaux et de statut apparaissent lorsque les frontières étatiques ou administratives ne recoupent pas les territoires de peuplement d’un groupe ethnique. Une lutte est alors nécessaire pour redéfinir les frontières, élever le statut et renforcer les droits d’un groupe ethnique. • Les conflits séparatistes qualifient la lutte d’un peuple pour fonder son propre État ou se rattacher à sa mère-patrie ou à un État apparenté du point de vue culturel et historique. • Enfin il existe également des conflits interreligieux et interconfessionnels (Zelenkov, 2006, pp. 240-241).

37 Mais Zelenkov distingue également les conflits selon leur forme. Ainsi, les conflits interethniques peuvent être violents et non violents. Et parmi les conflits violents, on peut différencier : • Les guerres régionales, durant plusieurs mois, dans lesquelles les confrontations armées engagent des troupes régulières disposant d’un armement lourd ; • Les confrontations armées éphémères, durant quelques jours et faisant néanmoins des victimes. On appelle ces confrontations des « conflits-révoltes », « conflits-pogroms » ou « conflits d’émotions incontrôlables» ;

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• Les conflits basés sur des manifestations regroupent les réunions publiques, défilés, grèves de la faim et autres actions de désobéissance civile ; • Les conflits idéologiques reposent sur un antagonisme des idées (Zelenkov, 2006, p. 219).

38 Il faut reconnaître que toute tentative de typologie des conflits interethniques reste une convention, car chaque conflit regroupe plusieurs buts, contenus, formes et expressions. Dès lors, on ne saurait guère distinguer strictement les types de conflit les uns des autres, ni tracer de frontières nettes entre eux.

La nature du conflit de 1990 au sud du Kirghizstan

39 Le conflit de 1990 repose sur plusieurs causes politiques, économiques et sociales : la crise économique qui a entraîné une baisse du niveau de vie de la population, un accroissement du chômage, et une pénurie de denrées alimentaires et de biens de consommation ; l’affaiblissement et la crise du pouvoir central ; la manipulation de l’identité ethnique dans un but politique ; la lutte pour le contrôle des ressources naturelles, notamment, la terre ; de graves erreurs de décision des autorités en matière d’exploitation du sol ; l’inattention des autorités vis-à-vis de la crise du logement ; un déséquilibre dans la gestion des ressources humaines ; des priorités inégales dans le monde du travail ; l’aspiration séparatiste d’une partie de la population ouzbèke ; une inégalité réelle des droits entre les deux principaux groupes ethniques de la région dans les diverses sphères de la vie sociale ; l’absence de réactions opportunes de la part des autorités de l’oblast et de la RSS kirghize pour prévenir une confrontation interethnique ; l’intensification des tendances destructrices comme conséquence d’un laisser-aller en matière du travail éducatif vis-à-vis de la jeunesse.

40 Le conflit interethnique a également été attisé par une série de déclarations irréfléchies et délibérément provocatrices des représentants du pouvoir, du clergé, et des médias. Le rôle du premier secrétaire du Comité régional du PC, Usen Sydykov, a été pour le moins équivoque dans le déclenchement de ce conflit. Comme se le rappelle le général Orozov, directeur adjoint du KGB à l’époque, tout commença par la terre que de jeunes Kirghiz se mirent à réclamer. Sydykov leur dit : « Choisissez-la vous-même ! » Ils choisirent alors un champ dans le voisinage d’un village ouzbek. Les Ouzbeks s’indignèrent : « Nous y faisons paître notre bétail ! » Sydykov répondit aux jeunes Kirghiz : « Pouvez-vous réunir 10 000 personnes ? Réunissez-les et dès lors, vous pourrez vous approprier la terre ! » (Rostovskij, 2010). 41 Le conflit interethnique a pu également naître de l’aspiration de ces divers groupes, nouvellement engagés dans un processus politique, de donner leur propre interprétation des intérêts nationaux de leur communauté (Zdravomyslov, 1997, p. 7). Mais lorsqu’on interprète les causes d’un conflit, il est important de considérer le rôle de l’ethnocratie ainsi que des élites : La question clef pour comprendre les causes de la recrudescence du nationalisme et des conflits ethniques est celle du pouvoir, des aspirations des élites de la société à en prendre part, des liens entre le pouvoir et les récompenses matérielles sous la forme d’accès tant aux ressources qu’aux privilèges (Tiškov, 1997, p. 313). 42 Dans sa résolution « Sur les événements dans la région d’Och en RSS kirghize » du 26 septembre 1990, le Soviet des nationalités du Soviet suprême de l’URSS souligna les causes suivantes du conflit :

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Les événements tragiques dans la région d’Och, liés aux désordres de masse, aux violences, aux actes de vandalisme, ayant mené à de lourdes conséquences, sont le résultat de graves erreurs en matière de politiques nationales et de gestion des ressources humaines, de manquements dans le travail éducatif en direction de la population, de sérieux problèmes économiques et sociaux non traités, de nombreux faits de violation des principes de la justice sociale. Les dirigeants de la région et de la RSS kirghize n’ont pas su tirer la leçon des confrontations interethniques ayant eu précédemment lieu au sein de cette république. Ils ont fait montre d’une insouciance et d’une imprévoyance dans l’évaluation de la situation régionale, ignoré les informations leur parvenant sur la déstabilisation d’éléments nationalistes et du conflit larvé, et n’ont pas entrepris de mesures afin de le prévenir (Soviet suprême, 1990). 43 De fait, toutes ces causes ont engendré de manière continue des rixes ethniques qui, faute d’actions de la part des autorités, finirent par se transformer en un conflit à grande échelle. Durant cette période, les cadres dirigeants du pc kirghiz ne firent aucune déclaration politique sur les événements de 1990 et n’entreprirent aucune mesure pour améliorer la situation dans la sphère économique, du logement ou des relations intercommunautaires. En témoigne un sondage d’opinion conduit en 1995 au sud du Kirghizstan par le Centre kirghiz d’étude du monde et la société de consulting Professional-Manager4. Comme le montre le Tableau 5, à la question « Quelles sont, selon vous, les raisons des tensions interethniques ? », la majorité des personnes interrogées (55,6 %) évoquaient les difficultés économiques, tandis qu’ils étaient presqu’aussi nombreux (53,1 %) à considérer le manque de culture et d’éducation comme un élément déterminant. La part des facteurs culturels augmentait dès lors que l’on y rajoutait l’éducation familiale (35,4 %) ou la présence de personnes nationalistes (31,7 %).

Tableau 5 : Quelles sont, selon vous, les raisons des tensions interethniques ?

Total Och Djalalabad

Le contexte de crise économique 55,6 % 55,4 % 55,8 %

La présence de personnes nationalistes 31,7 % 29,2 % 35,1 %

Le manque de culture et d'éducation 53,1 % 49,2 % 58,1 %

Les provocations dans la presse, les émissions TV, etc. 16,5 % 14,2 % 17,1 %

Le mauvais comportement des membres de mon groupe ethnique 3,1 % 3,7 % 2,3 %

Le mauvais comportement des membres d'autres groupes ethniques 11,7 % 13,4 % 9,6 %

L'éducation familiale 35,4 % 33,6 % 37,8 %

Un sentiment d'infériorité 5,2 % 4,0 % 6,6 %

La politique intérieure du pouvoir en place 15,8 % 15,6 % 15,9 %

Le manque de terres et d'autres ressources 17,5 % 17,6 % 17,3 %

L'absence de travail idéologique 12,4 % 11,1 % 14,1 %

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Le manque de lois répressives efficaces 12,0 % 10,2 % 14,4 %

Autre 0,3 % 0,2 % 0,5 %

Les sondés avaient la possibilité de choisir jusqu’à trois réponses, ce qui explique les totaux supérieurs à 100 %. Source : Bajčerikov & Nišanov, 1996, pp. 298-299

44 Il faut remarquer que si les Kirghiz expliquaient le conflit par la situation économique difficile (55,1 %) et le manque de culture (53,8 %), les Ouzbeks retenaient d’abord le déficit de culture et d’éducation (55,5 %) puis les difficultés économiques (48,9 %). La position des Russes était semblable (respectivement 60,3 % et 56,2 %) (Bajčerikov & Nišanov, 1996, p. 300).

45 Pour définir l’état des relations interethniques dans la région depuis le conflit, une question fut posée sur le retour potentiel des violences (voir Tableau 5). L’analyse des réponses par groupe ethnique révèle les différences de perception de ce risque. Ainsi les Kirghiz estimaient que cela était exclu ou peu probable (38,5 %), qu’il était difficile d’y répondre (34,5 %) et seulement 25,5 % envisageaient qu’un nouveau conflit était tout à fait probable et dans un avenir proche. Les Ouzbeks étaient moins nombreux à hésiter (16,8 % seulement trouvaient difficile d’y répondre) : 50,4 % estimaient qu’un nouveau conflit était probable et dans un avenir proche et seulement 35,8 % que c’était exclu ou peu probable. Les Russes étaient les plus pessimistes puisque 63,0 % s’attendaient à un nouveau conflit contre 15,7 % pour lesquels cela était exclu ou peu probable et 19,2 % incapables de répondre (ibid., p. 305).

Tableau 5 : Selon vous, est-il possible que les événements tragiques, liés au conflit interethnique, se reproduisent à nouveau ?

Total Och Djalalabad

non, ceci est absolument exclu 12,2 % 16,0 % 7,3 %

ceci est peu probable 22,2 % 25,1 % 18,5 %

ceci est tout à fait probable 29,3 % 20,4 % 40,8 %

oui, ceci peut arriver dans un avenir proche 7,5 % 5,1 % 10,7 %

difficile de répondre 27,9 % 32,0 % 22,6 %

Source : Bajčerikov & Nišanov, 1996, pp. 302-303

46 Une question permettait enfin de sonder les solutions pour améliorer les relations entre les groupes ethniques (voir Tableau 6). La majorité des personnes interrogées ont proposé d’abord l’application rigoureuse des normes de la Constitution pour l’égalité des droits de tous les citoyens (69,5 %), puis la possibilité de développer les langues et cultures des différents groupes ethniques (54,4 %) et enfin le besoin que le Président, le gouvernement et le parlement se préoccupent de cette question en permanence (42,8 %). Il est à noter que pour 70,8 % des Ouzbeks, la mesure prioritaire est de développer leur langue et leur culture. Cela traduit le fait que les besoins des Ouzbeks

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en matière culturelle et linguistique restent fondamentalement insatisfaits. Cette préoccupation concerne également 62,3 % des Russes (ibid., p. 286).

Tableau 6 : Que faut-il entreprendre pour améliorer les relations interethniques ?

Total Och Djalalabad

Donner à tous les groupes ethniques la possibilité de développer leur 54,4 % 54,8 % 53,8 % langue et leur culture

Offrir des droits égaux de représentation au sein des structures du 29,9 % 24,3 % 37,1 % pouvoir

Mettre en place des émissions TV et radio dans les langues des 29,9 % 26,2 % 34,6 % différents groupes ethniques

Consolider les relations bienveillantes entre les représentants de 40,4 % 42,5 % 37,6 % différentes religions

Fixer au niveau législatif la primauté des Kirghiz 22,6 % 24,8 % 19,8 %

Fixer au niveau législatif la primauté d'autres groupes ethniques 10,7 % 8,6 % 13,4 %

Établir un contrôle rigoureux de la Constitution pour l'égalité des 69,5 % 65,6 % 74,4 % droits de tous les citoyens quelle que soit leur appartenance ethnique

Attirer l'attention des organisations internationales sur le problème 15,0 % 12,0 % 18,9 %

Le Président, le gouvernement et le parlement doivent se préoccuper 42,8 % 41,8 % 44,0 % de cette question en permanence

Ne rien faire 2,2 % 3,3 % 0,7 %

Source : Bajčerikov & Nišanov, 1996, pp. 284-285

47 Malgré les résultats de cette enquête, il faut déplorer que l’inaction et le laisser-faire des autorités kirghizes sur la question des relations interethniques ont conduit à de nouvelles violences entre les Kirghiz et les Ouzbeks du sud du pays en juin 2010. Une grave crise politique frappait alors le pays, à la suite du renversement du président Bakiev en avril 2010 et la lutte pour le pouvoir qui s’ensuivit entre les différentes factions de l’élite politique. Cette récidive conflictuelle trouva son terreau dans les ressentiments qui existaient entre les deux groupes ethniques et qui n’avaient jamais été résorbés par les dirigeants politiques du pays depuis 1990. La réalité était telle, que les Kirghiz et les Ouzbeks se considéraient mutuellement discriminés et injustement lésés de leurs droits. Cette perception réciproque négative ne cessa de se renforcer pendant les vingt années d’indépendance et constitua un facteur d’escalade des tensions interethniques. De facto, le conflit en juin 2010 faisait écho à celui de juin 1990, puisqu’il fut provoqué par les mêmes causes et aboutit à la même issue tragique.

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Conclusion

48 Les événements tragiques de 1990 au sud du Kirghizstan furent provoqués par un ensemble de facteurs résultant d’une dégradation de la situation socio-économique de la région, d’un manque d’attention des autorités envers cette dégradation et de l’inaction des dirigeants de l’oblast et de la RSS kirghize en matière de prévention des confrontations interethniques. Outre l’affaiblissement du pouvoir de l’État, le conflit était également lié à la montée d’aspirations séparatistes au sein de la communauté ouzbèke, et de tentatives pour changer l’ordre constitutionnel de la république.

49 D’après ces éléments, les événements de 1990 peuvent être qualifiés de conflit socio- économique, de conflit ethno-territorial, de conflit de statut, de conflit séparatiste, ou encore de conflit culturel et linguistique, car tous ces facteurs y ont opéré simultanément. Si l’on tient compte de la nature et des objectifs du conflit, il s’agirait alors d’un conflit ethno-territorial et intercommunautaire. Toutefois, en nous fondant sur la typologie d’Ètinger, l’on voit plus précisément dans le conflit de 1990 une lutte engendrée par l’aspiration de la minorité ouzbèke à réaliser son droit à l’autodétermination par la mise en place d’une structure étatique autonome. Mais il pourrait également résulter des recompositions territoriales arbitraires héritées de la période soviétique, ou encore des débats sur le statut de la langue ouzbèke, révélateurs des dissensions entre les deux principaux groupes ethniques de la région. 50 Les organisations ethno-nationales ouzbèke Adolat et kirghize Oš-ajmagy ne parvinrent pas à dépasser leurs stricts intérêts ethniques pour proposer un moyen d’entente interethnique et de prévention des conflits. Elles adoptèrent, bien au contraire, des positions hostiles aux tentatives des autorités de résoudre pacifiquement les tensions entre les deux groupes. La régulation des conflits d’origine ethnique est d’autant plus difficile qu’il existe des divergences entre les groupes ethniques en matière culturelle (la langue, la religion, le mode de vie), sociale ou politique, sans oublier la possibilité d’ingérence de forces extérieures ayant un intérêt à ce que le conflit se perpétue. 51 Si les relations interethniques restent tendues au Kirghizstan, cela est dû à l’existence de facteurs de déstabilisation qui ont été exacerbées en 1990 mais ont perduré jusqu’à aujourd’hui : il s’agit des difficultés économiques telles que la pauvreté, le chômage, la hausse des prix, les migrations, mais également des blocages socio-politiques, tels que la faiblesse, la corruption et l’inaction des autorités publiques, la faible culture politique de la population et les violations des droits et libertés des citoyens ; enfin, il ne faut pas oublier les éléments socio-psychologiques, tels que le sentiment d’injustice éprouvé par les victimes, en particulier au sein de la population ouzbèke. 52 Une paix durable ne sera envisageable au Kirghizstan qu’au prix d’un réel investissement des dirigeants politiques, d’une diplomatie préventive, de mesures de pacification et d’une politique de reconstruction postconflit. L’adoption d’un programme ambitieux de résolution des dissensions ethniques s’impose. Ce programme devra permettre d’améliorer la situation socio-économique du sud du pays, de créer de nouveaux emplois, de développer des infrastructures, d’élever le niveau de vie de la population, et de satisfaire les besoins culturels et linguistiques des Ouzbeks, notamment en garantissant l’utilisation de la langue ouzbèke dans les lieux de peuplement compact et en y conservant un enseignement en langue ouzbèke dans les écoles.

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BIBLIOGRAPHIE

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Abréviations

CGA PD KR – Central’nyj Gosudarstvennyj Arkhiv Političeskoj dokumentacii Kyrgyzskoj Respubliki [Archive centrale d’État de la documentation politique du Kirghizstan]

AŽK KR – Arkhiv Žogorku Keneša Kyrgyzskoj Respubliki [Archive parlementaire du Kirghizstan]

NOTES

1. Voir sur ce sujet l’article de Kočkunov dans ce même numéro. 2. L’oblast d’Och fut par la suite divisé en trois oblasts distincts : Och, Djalalabad (créé en 1990) et Batken (créé en 1999). 3. Rappelons ici que, dès 1988, le conflit du Haut-Karabagh, province arménienne d’Azerbaïdjan dont les velléités séparatistes étaient soutenues par l’Arménie voisine, avait trouvé un écho auprès des groupes ethniques vivant dans une situation similaire. 4. Le sondage fut réalisé sur un corpus de 1 008 personnes, dont 569 de la région d’Och et 439 de la région de Djalalabad. Les Kirghiz constituèrent 60,3 % de l’ensemble des sondés, les Ouzbeks 13,6 %, les Russes 14,5 %, les Tatars 3,5 % et représentants d’autres groupes 6,3 %.

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RÉSUMÉS

Cet article propose une analyse historiographique du conflit survenu en juin 1990 entre les Kirghiz et les Ouzbeks du sud de la RSS kirghize dans le but de comprendre les origines et le déroulement des événements. En reprenant les différentes typologies proposées pour catégoriser les conflits post-soviétiques, l’auteure s’interroge sur la nature réelle des événements de 1990 dans une logique de déconstruction du simple cadre ethnique.

This article offers a historiographical analysis of the conflict that occurred in June between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks in the South region of the Kyrgyz SSR, with the aim to understand the origins and the course of the events. Drawing on the different typologies developed to classify the numerous conflicts that took place in the post-Soviet space, the author questions the real nature of 1990 events in a logic of deconstruction of the ethnic framing.

В данной статье предлагается историографический анализ конфликта в целях понимания истоков и ходов событий, произошедших в июне 1990 года между кыргызами и узбеками на юге Кыргызской ССР. Автор, затрагивая разные выдвинутые типологии и классификации постсоветских конфликтов, рассматривает реальный характер событий 1990 года в рамках.

INDEX motsclesru межэтнический конфликт, Ош, узбеки, Кыргызская Республика Mots-clés : conflit interethnique, Och, Ouzbeks, Kirghizstan Keywords : interethnic conflict, Osh, Uzbeks, Kyrgyzstan

AUTEURS

ZAJRAŠ GALIEVA

Zajraš Idrisovna Galieva est docteure en histoire et professeure à l’Université nationale G. Balasagyn du Kirghizstan, elle est spécialiste de l’histoire politique du Kirghizstan indépendant et des États de l’Asie centrale. Ses principales publications sont Političeskaâ transformaciâ suverennogo Kyrgyzstana: dinamika i osobennosti [Transformation politique du Kirghizstan indépendant : dynamiques et particularités], Bichkek, 2007 ; Istoriâ gosudarstva iprava KyrgyzskojRespubliki [Histoire de l’État et du droit de la république du Kirghizstan], Bichkek, 2010 ; Central’naâ Aziâ: dinamika social’no-političeskihprocessov [L’Asie centrale : dynamique des processus socio- politiques], Bichkek, 2014. Contact : [email protected]

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