"Lessons on building democracy after nonviolent revolutions" - Jonathan Pinckney

Why do some nonviolent revolutions end in democracy while others do not?

"A revolution of values: freedom, responsibility and courage in Armenia's Velvet Revolution" - Armine Ishkanian

Armenia's emerging revolution isn't about geopolitics or foreign relations, but values.

25 de abril SEMPRE!

Hoje é dia de muita gente - Salgueiro Maia

Salgueiro Maia

Ficaste na pureza inicial
do gesto que liberta e se desprende.
Havia em ti o símbolo e o sinal
havia em ti o herói que não se rende.

Outros jogaram o jogo viciado
para ti nem poder nem sua regra.
Conquistador do sonho inconquistado
havia em ti o herói que não se integra.

Por isso ficarás como quem vem
dar outro rosto ao rosto da cidade.
Diz-se o teu nome e sais de Santarém
trazendo a espada e a flor da liberdade.

Manuel Alegre

"The (Silent) Revolution of Muslim Women" - Andrés Ortega

Since 2000, 50 million women in predominantly-Muslim countries have entered the labor market.

"This is how the global feminist revolution began" - Sian Morris

Following the #MeToo revelations, journalist and creative writer Sian Norris let her imagination run wild to envision a global feminist revolution. This is her dispatch from a feminist future.

Livro recomendado - "A tragédia de um povo"

Orlando Figes

Alípio de Freitas - uma entrevista

Biografia

Zeca e Alípio

Entrevista:

"Hasta la vitória, siempre!"

Morreu Fidel Castro.

Um homem polémico com uma obra inagualável. Fidel Castro foi o líder da revolução cubana que, em 1959, libertou Cuba do domínio imperialista dos EUA. Um facto histórico que demonstrou que era possível um punhado de jovens revolucionários mudarem o mundo.

A vida de Cuba foi, a partir dessa data, uma amálgama de contradições para os revolucionários:

- como em todas as revoluções, foram cometidos, à época, fuzilamentos e mortes;
- como em todas as revoluções, foram feitos prisioneiros políticos;
- como em todas as revoluções, foram feitas injustiças.

Desde 1960, Cuba passou a ser vítima do embargo dos EUA com o objetivo de derrubar um governo revolucionário diferente de todos. Face a isso, Cuba foi obrigada a ter como aliado principal A União Soviética.

Fidel e Cuba resistiram até hoje e os EUA obrigados a reconhcer hoje, por Barak Obama, que essa foi uma atitude que não resolveu nada. Atacados por Kennedy em 1961, os cubanos não desistiram de contruir uma sociedade diferente.

Mas o regime cubano tem sido um regime contra os direitos humanos. Pessoas presas e assassinadas, partido único, sem liberdade de expressão, milhares de exilados: um regime que não defendo. Talvez o embargo tenha tido uma grande responsabilidade nisto tudo, mas nada desculpa uma ditadura.

Contudo, esta foi e é uma ditadura diferente: um ensino extraordinário, o país mais desenvolvido nos cuidados primários de saúde, uma diminuta percentagem de mortalidade infantil. Um líder amado pelo povo.

Fídel foi um homem corajoso, determinado. Apesar das minhas diferenças, respeito essa determinação e coragem.

Trostky

25 de abril de 1974 - "Fascismo nunca mais!"

Che Guevara foi morto a 08/10/1967

Fiction: Chapter 4.1 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

In early March of 1923, Lev Kamenev, another member of the Politbureau, met with Trotsky in a Moscow restaurant, mostly frequented by English-speaking expatriates, called ‘Oswald’s’ after the Scottish Jacobin and animalist. While taking their orders, their waiter was starstruck upon recognizing Trotsky, who waved off the man’s praise politely. Kamenev went unnoticed but didn’t seem troubled by this. Kamenev was a quiet, bookish revolutionary. Further, Trotsky suspected that, due to political tensions, he did not want this meeting between them to be known by others on the Politbureau.

After the waiter retreated to the kitchen to communicate their order of two vegan pizzas, Kamenev began. “Lenin has severed allpersonal and political ties to Comrade Stalin,” Kamenev said, referring to the Soviet leader who, after his most recent stroke, was confined to a wheelchair. “Apparently, Stalin insulted his wife, Krupskaya.” As Kamenev explained, Lenin had dictated a letter to Krupskaya for Trotsky, in violation of his doctor’s injunction against political work. When Stalin heard this, he confronted Krupskaya, angrily calling her a ‘syphilictic whore,’ among other things.

“I think he’s worried you’re forming some kind of bloc with Lenin,” Kamenev said. “You wouldn’t be up to anything like that, would you?” Trotsky shrugged; Lenin wasn’t much use bundled up in Gorki anyway. Kamenev nodded, and finally the Politbureau members’ pizzas arrived. Kamenev folded a soy-cheese slice in half and took a large bite. “Wow, this is good,” he exclaimed as grease dripped onto his beard. A few days later, Lenin suffered a third stroke which left him bedridden and mute.

In late April, Stalin was reelected as general secretary of the party at the annual congress of Bolsheviks. Trotsky did not oppose him. A week later, in early May, Trotsky and his assistant were out for a walk through Moscow, as the pair sought to clear their heads, having read reports of mecha readiness all morning. Trotsky pulled the brim of his cap low on his face in the hopes of not being recognized. Glazman struggled to keep up with his superior’s aggressive pace.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t move against Stalin at the conference,” Glazman said, huffing and puffing. “You could have crushed him. People were complaining about a lack of inner-party democracy. You had Lenin’s backing.” Trotsky sighed heavily and kicked a stone down the sidewalk. “I’m not sure if you are aware of this,” he said sarcastically, “but Comrade Lenin can’t get out of bed, let alone speak. He hasn’t been to a Politbureau meeting in some time.”

This wouldn’t suffice for Glazman. But Trotsky had Lenin’s letters on the matter, the stenographer insisted; he could have reproduced them. However Trotsky still felt an unspoken loyalty to the Politbureau that held him back from publicly criticizing its other members. “Glazman, the revolution is in a supremely fragile state with Comrade Lenin ill,” Trotsky said, as they walked past a bakery. “Now’s not the time for division. Plus, everyone seems to suspect that I’m pining for Lenin’s position. And I don’t want to encourage that impression. It’s unseemly.”

Trotsky and Glazman sidestepped past a small mecha that was sprinkling dirt on the still icy sidewalks to provide pedestrians with traction. Trotsky nodded in acknowledgement to the operator, who had paused her work so as not to spray the pair with earth. Glazman seemed to be losing patience with his boss. “But you know Stalin has no such compunction,” the assistant said. “He’s been using his position to sack local and regional secretaries and replace them with those loyal to him. It’s only a matter of time until you are completely isolated.”

In October of 1923, the director of the political police, Felix Dzerzhinsky, spoke before a session of the Politbureau. During the civil war, Dzerzhinsky was infamous for employing machine-gun mecha for the mass execution of counterrevolutionaries. His comrades generally acknowledged the necessity of his work, but found it unsettling. Following a strike wave and calls for greater Soviet democracy, Dzerzhinsky was now asking the Politbureau to order Bolsheviks to report other party members who were hostile to the leadership.

“Look, you want me to quash the discontent?” Dzerzhinsky said. “You want me to arrest those fomenting it? Well, this is the tool I need. I question party members — even the Old Guard — and they refuse to give up any names. They’re sympathetic. I think this is a bigger problem than you’re aware.”

Later, in the Kavalersky building, while his wife and two sons slept in the adjoining rooms, Trotsky began to write a critical response to Dzerzhinsky’s request. That the Politbureau would even have to consider such a draconian measure was a mark of how out of touch the Bolshevik leadership had become with the masses. No doubt others on the Politbureau would point out Trotsky had overturned trade-union leadership in the period of War Communism. But Stalin’s actions were on a completely different scale, and besides, the civil war was over, Trotsky thought, gazing out into the Moscow night.
Por Jon Hochschartner

Fiction: Chapter 3.2 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

The issue of Trotsky’s appointment to vice-premier was raised again at a Politbureau meeting in mid-September of that year. The group met in the Kremlin, outside of which a construction mecha was loudly demolishing a slaughterhouse which had, prior to the revolution, operated on behalf of the inhabitants of the fortified compound. Every so often, the gathering of the Soviet leadership was forced to temporarily pause discussion, as they couldn’t hear each other over the sound of crashing bricks and wood.

Sitting at the head of the table, Stalin smoked a pipe, and flipped through a stack of papers before him. “The next order of business is filling the position of deputy chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars,” he said acidly. “The Politbureau should know that Comrade Lenin telegraphed me — from his sick bed — asking that Trotsky be given this post. So, whatever I or others might think of the choice, I move that we honor Lenin’s request.”

Those seated around the table turned to Trotsky, who was eating a plate of vegan pelmeni. “As I’ve made clear, I can’t take the position,” Trotsky said impatiently. “I’m scheduled soon for a vacation and am swamped with work in preparation for the next congress of the International.” Outside the Kremlin’s walls, the construction mecha sifted through the debris of the former abbattoir.

Stalin struck a match to relight his pipe. “Those are just excuses,” the general secretary said, before dipping the flame onto the packedtobacco. “This isn’t meant to be a temporary appointment. The job will still be here when your vacation and work for the congress is done.” Trotsky glared at Stalin, who, he was sure, knew from the outset Trotsky would not take the position. The general secretary smiled back, as if chummily. Trotsky reiterated that he would not take the post.

Stalin turned to the rest of the Politbureau, trying to hide the pleasure this result gave him. “In that case, I move that the Politbureau officially censure Comrade Trotsky for dereliction of duty,” the general secretary said in a regretful tone. Trotsky gritted his teeth and forced himself to swallow the remainder of the pelmeni in his mouth. “All in favor?” Stalin asked. Everyone present, except for Trotsky, raised their hands. Trotsky fumed.

A week into December of 1922, Trotsky received a telegram from Krupskaya saying that Lenin sought his presence in Gorki. So the next day, Trotsky headed to the outskirts of Moscow where the semi-retired Soviet leader lived. It was a beautiful afternoon. The landscape was buried in snow but the temperature was warm enough that Trotsky stuffed his hat and pleather gloves away in his pockets. When he reached the entrance of the mansion, Krupskaya answered the door. With obvious frustration, she said that, ignoring the advice of his doctors, Lenin was in the nearby forest, harvesting firewood in a lumber mecha.

Following a trail of compacted snow, Trotsky found the machine and its operator half a mile away. Struggling with the mecha’s controls from a pilot seat twenty feet off the ground, Lenin guided the robot’s sawing arm back and forth across the base of a thick balsam poplar. “Comrade Lenin,” Trotsky yelled. It took a few more shouts like this for the Soviet leader to hear him over the sound of the machine. But finally he waved in acknowledgement. Lenin lowered his chair to the ground and shut down the mecha.

After unbuckling himself and standing up, Lenin shook Trotsky’s hand. “It’s good to see you, comrade,” the Soviet leader said. Trotsky asked Lenin about his health and castigated him for not listening to his doctors, before they got down to business. “You know how I feel about the vice-premier position,” Lenin said. “There’s nothing new there. I just hope you might reconsider the offer in light of what I have to say.”

The Soviet leader continued, explaining that he had been following Stalin’s actions through Pravda and accounts provided by visitors to Gorki. Lenin had come to the conclusion that Trotsky was right. The general secretary was amassing too much power and often used it in an unprincipled way. “At this point, I’m prepared to offer whatever help I can in my present condition to root out the bureaucracy,” the Soviet leader said. “I’d like to form an alliance with you on the matter.” Trotsky was surprised by Lenin’s apparently sudden change in perspective, but happy about it. He readily agreed.

A week later, Trotsky was in Vladivostok, which had only been taken by the Red Army in October, inspecting its newly established animal sanctuary, built just outside the city. Trotsky walked the grounds with the facility’s director. “I’d like to see the indoor shelters expanded,” Trotsky said. “The living quarters for the goats in particular seem too small.” At this point, his assistant Glazman interrupted, announcing the news that had arrived by telegram. Lenin had suffered a second stroke.

Por Jon Hochschartner

Fiction: Chapter 3.1 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

On an early-April evening in 1922, Trotsky had settled in for the night at his family’s apartment in the Kavalersky building. His wife Natalia Sedov sat in an armchair, reading a history of Jainism, while their two teenage sons sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a game chess. Trotsky was adding a log to the fire, when there was a knock at the door. “I’ve got it,” Trotsky said pleasantly, before Sedov could get up. At the door was Lenin, who lived with his own wife, Nadezhda Krupskaya, down the hall.

“Comrade, I’m sorry to disturb you,” the Soviet leader said. “Can we talk?” Trotsky nodded, waved reassuringly to his family, and stepped into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, he waited for Lenin to continue. “I’d like to make you deputy chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars,” the Soviet leader said.

Trotsky was not pleased with this idea, as under it he would be one of three vice-premiers. “You want to put me on the same level as Rykov and Tsuropa?” Trotsky asked incredulously, referring to the heads of the Commissar of Supplies and the Supreme Council of National Economy, who he regarded as lesser revolutionaries. “Meanwhile, Comrade Stalin has all the real power as general secretary of the party!” Lenin, realizing that Trotsky’s pride had been wounded, insisted that Trotsky would, despite appearances, be his genuine second in command. “Absolutely not,” Trotsky said, storming back to his apartment. “I won’t take the post.” He slammed the door behind him.

Approximately a month and a half later, Trotsky sat at his desk in the family apartment. He was poring over a progress report of the Soviet sterilization plan for cattle, jotting his own notes in the margins, when Sedov entered the study, holding a telegram. “Have you heard the news?” His wife asked. Trotsky hadn’t; he shook his head. “Lenin suffered a stroke,” Sedov said mournfully. “He’s partially paralyzed on his right side.” Trotsky was dumbstruck.

Trotsky was finally allowed to visit Lenin at the Moscow hospital four days later. Propped up by a pile of pillows, the Soviet leader lay in bed. Krupskaya sat in a nearby chair. She was attempting to dab a small amount of soy yogurt mixed with birch syrup into Lenin’s mouth when Trotsky entered the room. Lenin grimaced in what one must assume was an attempt at a grin while Krupskaya stood to greet Trotsky.

“Thank you for coming, comrade,” Krupskaya said. “I know he wanted to see you. He still can’t speak, but if he really focuses, he can write for short stretches of time.” Trotsky squeezed her hands in a way he intended to express his sympathy and support. Krupskaya offered a pained smile, before turning back to her husband and asking if he needed anything. Lenin shook his head as best he could and Krupskaya left the room.

Trotsky sat down in the chair beside the Soviet leader’s bed. “I’m so sorry this happened,” Trotsky said. Lenin motioned toward the pad and paper on his beside table. Trotsky retrieved these and placed them on the Soviet leader’s lap. So they began the tedious process of communicating. Lenin was in a gloomy mood; he believed his death was near. Half an hour later, Krupskaya returned with a doctor, who asked Trotsky to leave so the Soviet leader might rest.

In July of 1922, Trotsky and his family visited Lenin and Krupskaya in Gorki, a locality situated a few miles outside the city limits of Moscow. Lenin had been released from the hospital on the condition he dramatically curtail his work load. So he’d retreated to a palatial estate in Gorki which had been socialized during the revolution. Krupskaya and Sedov shared drinks in the living room. The children played outside while Lenin, who had recovered most of his faculties, and Trotsky watched from a porch bench.

“I’d still like you to take the vice-premier position,” the Soviet leader said eventually. “It will create a good counterbalance to Comrade Stalin’s power as general secretary, if anything happens to me.” Trotsky sighed in frustration. “Can’t we talk about something else?” Trotsky asked. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. The doctors say you’re not supposed to worry so much about these things now.” But Lenin wouldn’t accept this. The discussion was important, the Soviet leader insisted. “You could use the post to take on the bureaucratic misconduct you are always complaining about,” Lenin said enticingly.

Trotsky snorted. “The problem is the misconduct originates from the general secretary,” he said. “You can’t take it on so long as he’s in charge.” Lenin hushed him, shaking his head. “I wish you wouldn’t let your personal animosity towards Comrade Stalin cloud your judgement,” the Soviet leader said in disappointment. “He’s a vital part of what we’re accomplishing here and I rely on him.”
Por Jon Hochschartner

Fiction: Chapter 2.3 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

In early March of 1921, Trotsky travelled nearby to Kronstadt, a Russian naval fort in the Gulf of Finland. An uprising had broken out there, led by anarchist sailors, who demanded free elections to the Soviets, among other things. The Politbureau had voted to subdue the rebellion with force. After having spent years marshaling his mechas against genuine counterrevolutionaries who sought to reestablish the old order, it felt undeniably strange for Trotsky to prepare militarily against those who had been his comrades just a few years prior. And yet that’s exactly what he did.

He established a makeshift center for military operations in a ramshackle building in Petrograd, about 25 miles from Kronstadt. The building was humming with activity, but Trotsky and Glazman had shut themselves away in a comparatively-quiet office on the second floor, heated by a wood-burning stove. Glazman sat in a chair, smoking his pipe, while Trotsky paced about the room, as was his habit when deep in thought. “Take this down,” Trotsky said to his stenographer. “To the rebels of Kronstadt: surrender immediately or face the full force of the Red Army. In the absence of such a concession, 30,000 loyal Bolsheviks and 500 mecha will flatten your irresponsible uprising prior to the thaw of the ice route to Kronstadt. There will be no further warnings.”

Gritting his pipe between his teeth, Glazman scribbled onto a notepad furiously, trying to keep up with the dictation of his superior. Trotsky paused before his desk and bit into a bitter green apple. “How does the telegram sound?” Trotsky asked, after he finished chewing. Glazman nodded approvingly. “It’s strong and clear,” he said. “I’ll send it out tonight.”

The leaders of the rebellion never responded. So in a few days, Trotsky ordered the Red Army to take the naval fortress. Only light mecha, generally used for scouting expeditions, were deployed, as Trotsky feared the larger, more heavily-armed models would fall through the ice. As it was, the machines involved in the assault were kept well away from the infantry units. That way, if the mecha did break through, they would not take additional men with them.

As the Red Army approached Kronstadt, the rebels showered them with gunfire. Wave after wave of Trotsky’s troops were killed as bullets pierced their flesh and cracked open the ice beneath them. Countless Bolshevik infantrymen drowned. And scores of mecha sank into the watery depths; their operators scrambling to escape the leaden weights dragging them downward. But the Red Army was relentless and had numbers on its side. On March 17, a mecha equipped with a battering ram smashed down the Kronstadt gates. Trotsky’s soldiers poured inside the fortress, slaughtered the remaining rebels, and the mutiny was put to rest.

A few days later, Trotsky participated in a victory parade through the city’s streets. Bundled in a heavy winter coat made of faux fur, Glazman was beside him. The Kronstadt residents, who watched the long stream of Bolshevik soldiers and mecha march past their houses, looked angry and haggard. Trotsky seemed determined not to notice the hostility of the populace. “I wish you wouldn’t wear that mock-Romanov jacket,” Trotsky said to his assistant. “It glamorizes speciesism.” Glazman shrugged.

For some blocks, the pair walked silently within the parade formation before Trotsky appeared willing to discuss what was truly on his mind. “So much has changed here since 1917,” Trotsky said, speaking of Kronstadt almost wistfully. “It was a hotbed for the revolution. Every time I came, the sailors gave me a hero’s welcome. And now…” He rambled off. Glazman looked at his superior’s face, which seemed to betray deep, emotional conflict. The stenographer wondered: could Trotsky, the fiery orator, the steely defender of the revolution, be having doubts? It appeared so.

“What does a working-class revolution do when it loses support of the working class?” Trotsky asked pensively, as if speaking only to the cold breeze. “It seems to me that you either give up power and the gains of the revolution, or you hold onto them both tightly and trust the working class will come back around and you’re operating in their best interests. I don’t see another way.” They continued walking in silence until Glazman couldn’t stand it any longer. “But the rebels didn’t want to give up the gains of the revolution,” the stenographer said.

Fitfully, Trotsky adjusted the budenovka hat upon his head. “No, they didn’t,” he conceded. “But do you think the anarchists could run this country? Do you think they could have won the civil war? No one but the Bolsheviks could have held Russia together. Our revolution is the greatest socialist-animalist experiment in history, and we have a duty to see it continues, whatever it takes.” Glazman mulled this over as the parade wound through the streets of Kronstadt. Was Trotsky trying to convince him, Glazman wondered, or himself?

Por Jon Hochschartner

Fiction: Chapter 2.2 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

With that rebuke, Trotsky returned to the position he was in before, seeking a solution to Russia’s economic problems within the confines of War Communism. Perhaps realizing he had been overly harsh in his criticism, Lenin requested Trotsky take over the country’s department of transportation, which, beyond the derailing of Trotsky’s train, was in disastrous shape. Lenin surely meant it as a compliment, despite the extra work it would require from Trotsky, who was already overseeing the civil-war effort.

“However you want to handle this, I’ll support you,” Lenin said in the Kremlin cafeteria, while dipping a vegan grilled cheese sandwich in tomato soup. “You’re my best man.” Ultimately, the methods Trotsky used to fix the railroad system — militarization of the transportation workers — did not spark significant outcry and thus did not require any intervention by the Soviet leader on their behalf. This lack of controversy was no doubt due to the war raging in Poland, which had a silencing effect on potential critics.

In late June of 1920, Trotsky, backed by a contingent of Red Army guards, lambasted the workers of the railway repair shop in Murmansk. “Your laziness is killing our brave comrades on the front!” Trotsky shouted at the assembled crowd of workers on the warehouse floor. “The Poles are on the offensive, because they know our transport system is broken and we can’t get mecha reinforcements where they’re need in time. That changes now.” Trotsky went on to outline a dramatic increase in the workers’ hours and pace. As he wound down his speech, someone pushed to the front of the throng and loudly objected to the plan.

Hoping to get a better look at this interrupting figure, Trotsky pushed his round, wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Who are you, comrade?” The man in question was wearing suspenders; the shirt underneath was covered in grease. He said he was the union representative for the warehouse. “Ah,” Trotsky said, understanding. “Well, thank you for your services. We will appoint a new leader for this repair shop.” Trotsky was prepared to exit the building, but this dismissal of the union figure provoked an audible ripple of displeasure through the crowd.

“Gentlemen,” Trotsky said, turning back to the group. “We are in the midst of a civil war. Capitalists the world over want to crush us like they did the Communards fifty years ago in France. I’m afraid that for Russian workers it will get worse before it gets better. That’s just the terrible reality.” With that, he walked out of the building, his military entourage in tow. Under Trotsky’s tight grip the Soviet railways were soon repaired.

It was in the wake of this success that he exceeded the mandate granted him by Lenin. Speaking before a congress of trade unions, Trotsky admitted — happily it seemed — that he would seek the dismissal of union leaders in any industry who considered the needs of their membership before those of the revolution as a whole. He was quoted saying so in Pravda, and when the story ran Lenin summoned him to his office in the Kremlin.

When Trotsky arrived there the next day, Lenin stood before a beverage cart, stirring coconut-milk creamer into his coffee with a metal spoon. Grigory Zinoviev sat in one of the pair of wooden chairs before Lenin’s desk, eating a warm bublik, fresh from the oven, and slathered with soy-cream cheese. Zinoviev was, among other things, chairman of the Third International. Upon hearing Trotsky enter, both men turned and greeted him genially. Lenin inquired whether he had eaten breakfast, but Trotsky was well aware this was not a social call, and asked the Soviet leader as politely as he could manage to get to the point.

Lenin sighed, and in placing his mug on his desk, spilled a touch of coffee on the day’s edition of Pravda. Trotsky couldn’t help but notice the paper was open to an article featuring continued coverage of Trotsky’s comments before the congress of trade unions. “Comrade, the Central Committee is going to have to distance itself from you, because of your statements,” Lenin said, motioning to Pravda. “In the current period, the most important thing is reasserting worker democracy in the labor unions. I’m appointing Zinoviev to head up a commission to see that this is accomplished.”

From his chair, Zinoviev smiled at Trotsky, simultaneously appearing pleased and apologetic. Lenin continued, “Going forward, the Central Committee requires that you not make public comments regarding the relationship of unions to the government. Do you think you can manage that?” Fuming, Trotsky chewed his lip, but nodded eventually. Lenin walked out from behind his desk and clapped him on the back. “You’re a good soldier,” the Soviet leader said. Placing the remainder of his bublik on a platter, Zinoviev rose and formally shook Trotsky’s hand.

Por Jon Hochschartner

Fiction: Chapter 2.1 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

In December of 1919, the Russian economy was grinding to a halt. Conflict with the White Army had destroyed countless railroad tracks and bridges. Under a policy dubbed ‘War Communism,’ requisition squads, typically made up of a few dozen soldiers supported by a mecha or two, scoured the countryside, confiscating the peasantry’s agricultural surplus to feed the Red Army and urban populations. In reaction, peasants by and large stopped producing more crops than their families needed.

It was under these circumstances that Trotsky wrote to the Central Committee, proposing that the civilian workforce be organized on military lines. Lenin supported the idea. But it provoked heated opposition when the pair argued for the change at a conference of Bolshevik trade union leaders the next month. The meeting was held in a large hall on the second floor of the Kremlin. Looking rather uncomfortable, Lenin and Trotsky sat at the head of a long table, around which sat the labor representatives. Along the table were platters of vegan syrniki, beside a bowl of strawberry jam for dipping. The fritters, however, were largely untouched due to the heated nature of the discussion.

Fedor Ugarov, head of the mecha workers union, banged his fist on the table. “Trotsky wants to bring us back to the days of the Tsar, to military-run penal colonies,” Ugarov bellowed. “That’s what the militarization of labor means.” This prompted shouts of agreement. Lenin at least feigned interest in what the union leaders were saying, diligently taking notes on their diatribes. But Trotsky had removed his spectacles, and was rubbing his eyes with a pained expression.

Boris Kozelov, leader of the typographer’s union, was also against the proposal. “The Russian people are sick of war and the demands that come with it,” Kozelov said. “Comrade Trotsky has contributed immeasurably to the Soviet military cause. But he’s the last person who should be making policy for our civilian workforce.”

When it was Trotsky’s turn to speak, he argued the union representatives didn’t know the true danger facing Russia’s economy. “We are on the brink of disaster,” he said. “Was my discipline in the Red Army harsh? Sure. But I did what had to be done to save the revolution. And that’s what I hope to do now.” In the end, however, the conference voted almost unanimously against the proposal for the militarization of labor.

The next morning, Trotsky slumped into a pleather chair in Lenin’s office. He was not accustomed to such a rebuke. But it didn’t appear to have significantly effected Lenin, who asked whether he wanted coffee or tea. Trotsky shook his head. “Chin up, comrade,” the leader of the Soviet government said. “You mentioned the Revolutionary War Council of the Third Army, having completed its duties, doesn’t have the necessary transport to send its troops home at the moment. Why not transform idle units into a labor force? The unions surely won’t object to that.”

This hadn’t occurred to Trotsky. He worked through the implications out loud. “We could use it as a potential jumping-off point for the militarization of the civilian labor force,” he said. Lenin, who seemed to have already reached this conclusion, smiled and raised his coffee mug in a silent toast.

Placed in charge of the effort, in early February, 1920, Trotsky and his staff were aboard a train, en route to the Ural Mountains, where he planned to inspect the labor armies stationed there. It was late in the evening; his assistant Glazman had gone to his quarters to sleep. But Trotsky remained in his study, composing a notice for the train’s newspaper. He was putting the finishing touches on this piece when his makeshift office began to rumble violently. Trotsky could tell something was wrong. Then, with a crash, the car and all of its contents rolled onto its side as the train derailed.

A few minutes later, Trotsky regained consciousness. He was lying in the snow, where he had been thrown clear. The icy storm, which had caused the accident, whipped Trotsky’s face as Glazman shook him awake. It would take nearly ten hours for an agricultural mecha from a nearby village to come to the crash site, place the train back on its tracks, and right those cars which had tipped over. During this time, with the collar of his coat upturned against the bitter cold, Trotsky surveyed the scene gloomily. He wondered whether labor militarization could truly fix Russia’s economic ills.

When he returned to the capital, Trotsky accompanied Lenin on a ceremonial tour of the Soviet Animal Sanctuary of Moscow, as it was the only time that day when the leader of the government was free to speak with him. Inside a heated shelter, Lenin nuzzled in his arms a grey chicken, to whom he cooed. “We need to stop requisitioning the peasants’ surplus,” Trotsky said intently. “Until this crisis has passed, we need to let them sell their crops on the market. They won’t grow them otherwise.”

Lenin laughed, while delicately placing the chicken on the sawdust-covered floor with her counterparts. “You’re a free-trader now?” The Soviet leader asked mockingly. “What’s next? Let the muzhiks return to animal exploitation if it will temporarily earn their favor? Really, I’m surprised at you.” Lenin shook his head in disappointment, before asking one of the sanctuary staff to lead them to the next shelter.

Por Jon Hochschartner

Fiction: Chapter 1.3 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

Ultimately the Soviet leadership voted to continue the offensive into Poland. As Trotsky predicted, the Red mechas marching through Polish towns were widely seen by the populace not as liberators, but as the latest iteration of Russian domination. On a mid-July afternoon, with his assistant Glazman, Trotsky sat in the audience of the second congress of the Third International held in Moscow. Since the previous year, the number of delegates to the event had swelled significantly.

Lenin stood before the assembled gathering, detailing Soviet advances into Poland on a large map. Since the conference hall was crowded and they sat in the back, Trotsky and Glazman could whisper without distracting notice from the presentation. “This is a disaster waiting to happen,” Trotsky said in frustration. “You can’t carry the revolution into another country on the barrel of a mecha’s machine gun.” Shortly after, he was proven correct. Polish forces routed their Russian counterparts in the battle of Warsaw.

It was a decisive victory for the Poles. Perhaps 100,000 Bolshevik soldiers were killed, wounded or captured. Soviet robots were also destroyed or appropriated in large numbers. Nearly twenty years later, it was common to see rusting Red mechas used as farming plows in the Polish countryside. The defeat was particularly frustrating for Trotsky because Lenin had spent decades insisting on the right to Polish independence, even when Marxist-animalists in that country opposed the idea from an internationalist perspective. In short, Lenin should have known better. By October, the Bolsheviks had made peace with Poland.

In February 1921, Trotsky was in the Ural region, supervising the Red Army’s construction of the Soviet Animal Sanctuary of Sverdlovsk. Gun turrets on the militarized mechas were replaced with fork-lift extensions, which were used to transport fencing and assemble barns. After the revolution, domesticated animals of Tsarist Russia were sterilized and placed in sanctuaries to live out their days free from human violence. However, as the civil war progressed, more animals were continually liberated as the White Army ceded territory to the Bolsheviks.

Trotsky stroked the head of a goat peaking her head through temporary fencing. She was such a gentle creature, he thought, before admonishing himself for his speciesist condescension. A Russian winter was hardly the best time to accomplish construction, but there was no other option. These animals needed shelter. Approaching from behind, Glazman interrupted Trotsky’s solitary contemplation. “Have you heard the news?” Trotsky’s stenographer asked.

As Trotsky turned, his eyes narrowed. He hadn’t. “The Red Army has marched into Georgia,” Glazman said. Trotsky was shocked. Nothing but vapor, visible in the cold air, escaped his mouth. Finally, Trotsky spoke, asking to no one in particular, “Has the Politbureau really not learned its lesson from the Polish debacle?” The nearby goat bleated, and he returned to scratching her chin.

“Apparently it’s on the advice of Comrade Stalin,” Glazman continued, not needing to mention Stalin was from Georgia and the Politbureau tended to defer to him on related matters. “He’s of the opinion a Bolshevik uprising with popular support has taken hold in the country.” Trotsky fumed. It was idiotic adventurism; why hadn’t he been consulted? “There’s no way such a rebellion has the backing of the masses in Menshevik Georgia,” Trotsky said. And it didn’t. A large force of Soviet mecha and ground troops took nearly two weeks to reach the Georgian capital of Tiflis, during which time the Red Army suffered substantial losses.

On his train, rattling its way back to Moscow, Trotsky read an account of the taking of Tiflis in Pravda. Eventually, he sighed and put down the day’s edition of paper. “I guess there’s nothing that can be done about it at this point,” Trotsky said glumly to Glazman, who agreed. “I’ll have to walk a fine line in my public statements. I can talk generally about the right of Russia to militarily assist genuine revolutions, but I won’t go into detail about the Georgian case.”

Glazman nodded. “I just can’t afford to make trouble in the Politbureau right now,” Trotsky said, almost apologetically. He looked out the train window, as the snowy countryside rushed past his view. “I should draft a telegram to Lenin though, about the need to treat the Georgians with a light hand,” Trotsky continued, pouring soy creamer into his coffee. “You know, a minimum mecha force in civilian areas and some respect for local leadership structures.”

Glazman stood up, holding onto the back of his chair for balance as the train shook, and grabbed his notebook from the table on which he’d left it. “Do you want me to take notes, sir?” Glazman asked. Trotsky nodded, sipping delicately at his scalding beverage, before he seemed to reconsider. “On the other hand, what’s the point?” Trotsky said, frustrated. “You can’t really put a pleasant face on occupation. The Georgians are going to see us as continuing the Tsar’s oppressive legacy either way.”

To be continued…if there is enough interest.

Por Jon Hochschartner

Fiction: Chapter 1.2 of “Mecha, Tofu, and Revolution”

Much had changed since the formation of the new International, when one could believe revolution was imminent throughout Europe. Soviet Hungary and Bavaria had been crushed by counter-revolutionary forces. Perhaps the Bolsheviks’ strategy was all wrong, Trotsky thought, as he traced his finger across the map on his desk. “Mikhail,” Trotsky said, clearing his throat, “what if we are faced in the wrong direction? What if the road to a Soviet London and a Soviet Paris is not through the west? Could it be through the east?”

The wheels of Glazman’s mind were turning, like those inside a mecha. “We could exert far more influence in Asia than we might in Europe, at least for now,” the stenographer said cautiously, still mulling it over. But Trotsky had reached his conclusion. The chairman stood up, thumping his fist on the desk in excitement. “Mikhail, take this down!” he said. “I want to dictate a policy recommendation for the Central Committee. We must fundamentally reorient our perspective!”

An hour or so later, Glazman marched a few cars down to the train’s telegraph station. He dropped Trotsky’s missive in the outgoing stack of messages and presumably Trotsky’s memorandum was forwarded to the Central Committee, who ignored it. This did not weigh heavily on Trotsky. His political imagination was constantly firing in so many directions at once that, within a few days, he was onto the next thing and had almost completely forgotten his urgent, foreign-policy recommendation. Events in the west would soon demand the chairman’s attention.

Poland had agreed to an informal ceasefire with the Bolsheviks. But pressured by the French, who saw the interests of carnist-capitalism threatened by the Russian experiment, Poland reneged on the agreement. In early March of 1920, Poland attacked Russia. Hearing the news, Trotsky immediately diverted his military train and returned to Moscow, where he knew Lenin would need him. Trotsky was in such a hurry that a half dozen of the smaller mecha, awaiting repairs, were left in the field to be retrieved later.

The next night, Trotsky paced angrily about Lenin’s Kremlin office, as the head of the Soviet government sat passively behind his desk, listening. “Those bourgeois corpse-munchers!” Trotsky exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. “Did I not say the Poles would betray us?” Lenin nodded as he steepled his hands and sighed. “We have to crush them,” Trotsky said. “We have to hit them so hard, capitalists the world over will not think of such a thing again.” He got no resistance from Lenin. “I agree, comrade,” the Soviet leader said, wearily. “I’m only asking what you need.”

On an early day in June, a few miles from Kiev, Trotsky inspected a brigade of his Red Army that was preparing to assist in the retaking of the Ukranian city from Polish forces. Trotsky walked with the unit’s commander, surveying the 4,000 infantrymen and 200 mecha of various sizes standing before them. The chairman paused before a scouting mecha, approximately 20-feet tall. Craining his neck, Trotsky could see the driver inside the cockpit.

“How are the unit rations, soldier?” Trotsky shouted up. The mustachioed man in the upper innards of the machine was a bit taken aback the chairman was speaking to him, let alone asking his opinion of something. So his response was delayed. “They’re good, sir,” the driver answered. “None of that Romanov chow?” Trotsky continued, referring to the animal flesh served pre-revolution. “No sir,” the driver said proudly. This seemed to please Trotsky and he continued on, stopping occasionally to inquire about diesel and ballistic shipments, as well as buck up those soldiers who needed it.

“We must remember that this is not a nationalist war,” Trotsky shouted, in his eventual address to the whole gathering. “Our enemies are not the Polish people, but the Polish capitalists and landlords.” Thirty minutes later, when he’d finished his speech, Trotsky shook the unit commander’s hand, saluted the assembled troops, and boarded his train to inspect a regiment camped some miles away. In less then a week, the Red Army had retaken Kiev.

By July, there was debate within the Soviet leadership as to whether its army should continue into Poland. Lenin, Trotsky, and Joseph Stalin were eating in an otherwise empty Kremlin dining hall. It was late in the evening. “A few months ago, you told me we must crush the Poles,” Lenin said, putting down his fork, as he spoke to Trotsky. “That’s what a march on Warsaw will do.”

Trotsky, for all his militaristic bluster, did not believe the Red Army should enter Poland. “In 1917, we promised the Poles independence,” Trotsky said, paying no attention to the vegan shashlik on his plate. “Whatever provocations their ruling class engaged in, if we march on Warsaw, the Polish proletariat will think us no better than the Tsar.” Lenin waved his hand at Trotsky in exasperation. He turned toward Stalin, who was shoveling vegan stroganoff into his mouth, spilling a bit on his shirt and dipping his mustache in sauce. “What say you, comrade?” Lenin asked.

To be continued….if there’s enough interest.

Por Jon Hochschartner